Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)

I’m not sure of much in my life, but I am sure of this: in another life, Carter Beckett, superstar hockey captain, dad extraordinaire, obsessed husband, would’ve made an incredible, unstoppable, Academy Award–winning actor.

Adam and Emmett stroll toward me, looking dapper in their three-piece suits. They flash their signature grins to where I’m stationed on the floor of the hallway with my camera, snapping their photos for our Game Day Fits highlight on Instagram.

A throat clears to my right. Adam and Emmett roll their eyes when they spot their captain, one hand braced on the wall, the other tucked in his pants pocket as he gazes at me over his shoulder.

“You wanna get this shot, Len?” he asks as Adam and Emmett walk away, mumbling about how he’s my problem now.

“I’ve already taken your picture,” I remind him. Again. “About twenty-five times.”

“Give the people what they want, am I right?” He swings his head all about, tossing his tame waves into perfect disarray, and pulls his hand from his pocket, circling it over his butt cheek. “What about now?”

I snap the picture, because he’s unfortunately right: the fans go wild for any ridiculous content from their Vipers, and especially their captain. “Is this for Olivia?”

“That’s a good idea, actually. I’ll save it for next week, after Ireland’s birthday party, ’cause she’s gonna be so mad at me.”

I drop my camera. “Why is she gonna be mad at you?”

“Huh?” He drops his hands, looking all over the floor for his words. “What did you—did I—did you see that?” He points at a speck on the floor.

“Carter. Why is Olivia gonna be mad at you?”

Scared green eyes come to mine. He swallows. “No reason.”

I roll my eyes, waving him back to the wall. “For shit’s sake, Carter, you’re lucky I like you. Get back over there and give me your best one.”

He scurries back to the wall, bracing his palm against it, and sinks into a squat. He rubs his butt cheek again—he really seems to like doing that—and pumps his brows before his eyelids hood. “I’m giving you a firsthand look at how I made Ollie fall in love.” He tosses his hair again. “Guard your heart, Lennon. This bad boy’s been known to break them.”

“Beckett!” someone screams, and Carter scrambles off the wall.

“Yes, Coach! Coming, Coach!”

I snicker as he hauls ass down the hall, snapping pictures as more of the team filters into the arena, looking sharp and ready for the game.

Charlie McCarthy, Jaxon’s defense partner, winks at me. “Hey, gorgeous. You goin’ to the bar after the⁠—”

“Fuck off, McCarthy,” a grumpy voice mutters. I don’t have to look up to know it’s Jaxon. The man’s made it his mission to thwart any and all flirting attempts from his teammates. Last week, one of the rookies sat beside me on the plane, wearing a giant grin, and Jaxon stood over him, arms pinned across his chest. He didn’t say a single word, but he didn’t have to. It took approximately five seconds for the look in his eyes to do the talking, and my entertainment for the flight—watching that vein in Jaxon’s neck pulse while he watches me flirt—was over before it could begin.

I smile at Charlie. “You might find me there, handsome.”

There’s a snicker, and I know it’s Garrett. He and Jaxon almost always ride in together, and he takes immense pleasure in watching me irritate his bestie.

I look up, and my heart trips over itself when I spy Jaxon. I left an hour before him, and he was walking around naked after his shower, swinging Magic Mike about. A beautiful sight, but Jesus, there’s something so heart-stopping and fanny-fluttering about this man in a bespoke three-piece suit, a gorgeous, deep shade of burgundy, making the gold and green flecks in his hazel eyes sparkle. He hides all those tattoos and tames those mussed waves I love burying my fingers in, tugging to my favorite spot between my thighs. He pastes on that mask of indifference, pretending like he has zero fucks to give, but then his eyes coast to mine, the corner of his mouth quirks, and when he winks, butterflies take flight in my coochie.

Except right now, because I’ve just called his teammate handsome, his eyes are narrowed on me. Normally, I live for his irritation. Right now, though, I’m having trouble focusing on anything other than how he looks so put together in his suit and how badly I want to find an empty room, get on my knees, and ruin that perfect, composed image.

I swallow down the lust clogged in my throat, and Jaxon smirks, like my thoughts are written all over my face. So I shove my camera in front of my face, snapping a picture of him and Garrett as they stroll by. “Looking cute, boys.”

Garrett stops, pivoting back to me. “Cute? No, Len, cute doesn’t work. Goddammit.” He looks around, then heads to the wall, getting into a position oddly reminiscent of Carter’s just minutes ago. “What about now? Still cute?”

“It sure is something.”

“No, not cute. Not even remotely. The correct answer is powerful. Rugged. Dare I even say”—he squats low, pumping his brows—“sexy.”

“Dare you to try,” I mutter, immediately transferring one of the photos to my phone, sending it to the girls, then uploading it to the Vipers’ Instagram as a poll, asking people to vote whether their favorite right winger looks A) cute; B) rugged; or C) sexy.

“I don’t even need to see the pictures.” Garrett crouches, wrapping my head in a hug. “You’re the best photographer in the whole world.”

I almost feel bad that option C isn’t going to be the poll winner.

“Go get ready for your game,” I call after him, sorting through tonight’s photos, binning the crappy ones. “And keep your buddy out of the penalty box!” I look up, and Jaxon startles when I catch him standing there, staring at me. “That’s you. You’re the buddy that needs to stay out of the penalty box.”

“Yeah, well . . . I don’t follow directions well.”

“You’re telling me.” Back to my camera I go, and Jaxon doesn’t move. After a minute, I look up, arching a brow. “Bye.”

He jumps, gripping the back of his neck. “Bye.”

I resume my duties as his footsteps fade, taking photos of the rest of the boys as they come through. Two minutes later, Jaxon walks by again, going the opposite way, pausing to look at me over his shoulder. Three minutes after that, he heads back this way. Then a minute later, the man comes sauntering down the hall at the literal pace of a snail, whistling, hands tucked in his pockets.

“Jaxon.”

“Huh?” He whips around so fast, stumbling over his own feet. “Oh. Lennon. Didn’t see you there.”

“Really? Weird, ’cause I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes, and this is the fourth time you’ve walked by me.”

“Well, it’s just . . . I mean . . .” He scratches the back of his head. “Aren’t you gonna take my picture?”

“I did.” I show him the photo of him and Garrett.

“Yeah, but . . . you did individual pictures with everyone else.” He sniffs. “Maybe you wanna put one on Instagram and see what people think of my suit tonight, like you did with Gare.”

“Are you monitoring the Instagram page?”

He looks away. “I always look to see what you post. You’re funny.” Those last two words are a whisper that makes my brows jump.

“What was that?” I touch my ear. “Can you repeat it?”

Narrowed hazel eyes come to mine. “I said you’re annoying.”

“No, you said I’m funny.” I point at his eyes. “And those? The twinkle in those says I’m your best friend, and you can’t imagine your life without me.”

His brows tug so far down, forehead crumpling, and I know I’ve done it. I’ve secured my hate-fuck later tonight. I blow him a kiss, and he rolls his eyes, stomping away.

“Jaxon.” I look at him through my camera lens. “Keep your fists to yourself. Don’t need you complaining all night about another split lip.”

All that irritation fizzles. He grins, a beautiful, lopsided sight. “But your pussy is the perfect balm when you come all over my face.” He winks, and I capture the moment forever.

When he walks away, I stare down at the photo for too long, the way that smile transforms every inch of his face. Without that smile, he’s the broken, closed-off man who thinks he’s not good enough to hang on to all the good that comes his way. With it, he’s the boy in that frame on his bookshelf at home. Full of hope and light and laughter and mischief.

I transfer the photo to my phone and delete it from my camera.

I don’t want to share this smile with anyone else.

“I literally told him not to fight. Right before the game I said, ‘Keep your fists to yourself’.” I shake my head, angrily snapping photos of him as he grips the jersey of Montreal’s centerman and hammers him in the face. “Why doesn’t he listen?”

“But it’s so hot,” Cara argues, shoving a fistful of candy into her mouth before holding the bags out to me. I bypass the Skittles and go for the Milk Duds. I love Skittles, but the night I met Cara, she was eating mixed handfuls of them and M&M’s. Two days later I went into anaphylactic shock. Ever since then, her M&M’s, which may contain nuts, have been replaced with Milk Duds, which are, coincidentally, nut-free. So when she offers me Skittles and Milk Duds, I always choose the Milk Duds. I still wholeheartedly disagree with her mixing chocolate and candy. “I’m such a slut for displays of violence, and I don’t even know why. And when Emmett comes home with a black eye or a split lip?” She whistles. “Bend me over, slap my ass, and fuck the feminist right out of me, you know?”

“And after the game, there’s so much adrenaline running through them still.” Olivia absently traces the shape of her lips with her fingertip. “My favorite is when Carter’s so worked up he can barely talk. I pull his tie off for him, and . . .” She trails off, cheeks splotching with color as her gaze shifts to us. “Well, we use the tie.”

“We all use the tie,” Jennie murmurs, eyes following Garrett on the ice as he yanks the centerman off Jaxon.

“Oh, no, Adam,” Rosie says, so fucking half-assed it’s ridiculous, watching as Adam skates to the red line, mouth moving quickly before he bumps into the other goalie. She clasps her hands together, eyes alight as she inches closer to the plexiglass. “Please, no fighting . . .”

“Y’all are a bunch of puck bunnies.” I laugh, as if my nipples aren’t sharp enough to cut the very ice Jaxon’s shoving this douche around on.

Four sets of eyes come to me.

“What?”

“Lennon, you’re a puck bunny,” Jennie says as if it’s common knowledge.

“Me? A puck bunny? That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even watch hockey before—fucking nail him, Jaxon! Yes! Atta boy! Jesus, I wanna suck his c—” I clamp my mouth shut, slowly lowering my camera. “Holy tits. I’m a fucking puck bunny.”

Cara kicks her feet up on the glass, sipping her wine cooler. “Welcome to the crew. We’re lifers.”

I laugh, but for the first time, something . . . hurts. It’s a hollow, empty feeling, and I place my hand over the ache in my chest. They’re lifers. They just said it. I’m . . . not.

I’m the photographer. The girl he fucked in Cabo, and now his roommate. But one day, I won’t be. And one day, there will be someone else.

I’m temporary. And I don’t think I’ve realized that until this moment.

I’m quiet as Jaxon takes his five-minute penalty, as the game carries on, tensions running high on the ice and off. I snap picture after picture of my favorite boys, and when Carter passes the puck back to Jaxon, when he fires up, slapping the puck across the ice and right above the goalie’s shoulder, my chest fills with pride as the boys pile on top of him. He wears the brightest, proudest grin as he stops in front of me, knocking on the glass.

“Did you get that, Len?”

“No,” I lie, unable to contain my grin as I snap a close-up of his smiling face.

“Don’t worry.” He dips his sweat-drenched face, playful smirk in place when he winks at me. “I’ll fuck it into you later.”

“Jesus Christ,” Olivia murmurs.

Rosie fans her face. “Yup. Yup, I’m so glad Connor’s at a sleepover tonight.”

Jennie runs her fingers down her braid, toying with the crimson velvet ribbon tied in a bow. “I knew there was a reason I wore this tonight.”

Yeah, I’m not even gonna lie: my panties are straight-up wet. It’s just . . . too much. The ego, the arrogance, the violence, the goal, the pride, and the filthy fucking mouth. A girl can only handle so much, and my line in the sand was washed away a long time ago.

“This team is a bunch of dicks,” I mutter, watching as they pull every shit-ass behavior imaginable every time the refs’ backs are turned, jabbing, hooking, yanking their sticks through our players’ legs, trying to knock them on their ass.

The play moves into Montreal’s end, and Jaxon sets himself up along the boards, waiting at the blue line. The refs are focused on the puck, deep in the corner, when one of the wingers lifts his elbow, jamming it against Jaxon’s helmet. With his stick, he shoves the player off him right as the puck soars by him. He takes off after it like his ass is on fire, the centerman he nailed in the face earlier hot on his heels. The second he cradles the puck on the blade of his stick, the centerman hooks his own stick around Jaxon’s ankle, yanking.

The crowd gasps as Jaxon flies forward, and when his head collides with the boards, everyone jumps to their feet, screaming.

When he sprawls across the ice, totally motionless, the arena goes silent, save for the sound of my camera clattering to the ground.

“Would you stop looking at me like that?”

“Like what? I’m not looking at you any way. How am I looking at you?” I grip the steering wheel tight in my hands. “I’m not looking at you any way.”

Jaxon’s eyes come to mine, tired and unimpressed beneath the glowing red traffic light. “You’re looking at me like I almost died.”

“Well, if the shoe fits.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Whatever you say.” I tap the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change. “You almost died tonight, Jaxon!”

He groans, scrubbing his hands down his face. “It’s a concussion. A little one.”

“Your second one this season, apparently.”

He pins his arms over his chest. “You’re not allowed in the locker room postgame anymore.”

This was only my first time in there. I don’t love the idea of invading their space when they’re wandering around in any form of nakedness. But did I use my position as the head photographer as an excuse to charge in there and check on Jaxon? Yes, yes I did. The way his eyes shot to me when I walked into the back room, where they had him up on an exam table, told me he didn’t want me there. Or, more accurately, he didn’t want me to hear what the doctor had to say.

Which was to stop putting a target on his back, because his brain was struggling to keep up, to snap back after one too many blows this year, and the year before that, and the year before that.

“It comes with the territory, Lennon,” he mutters into the darkness as we crawl closer to home. “I’m an enforcer. Fighting is what I do.” He sighs. “It’s all I’m good for.”

“That’s complete bullshit, Jaxon. You can defend your net and your team without risking your brain.”

“My brain’s fine.”

“You thought the Spice Girls were on tour!”

“So I forgot what year it was for, like, two seconds. I knew who you were the second you walked into the room.” He hops out of the car the second I squeeze into a parking space, and when I get out, he leans over the roof. “My annoying-ass roommate who I regrettably enjoy living with.”

“I knew it.” I slam the door, chasing after him. “You love me. I’m your best friend.”

“I tolerate you. But Mimi’s famous recipes and the way you soak my face when you come all over it? Yes, those things I love.”

“A win is a win!” I whoop a fist through the air, making to follow him into the elevator. He bars his arm across the entrance, stopping me. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing? The group is heading to the bar.”

“Okay, but you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll stay home with you.”

“You’ll go out and have fun.”

“No, but⁠—”

“Lennon.” He grips my shoulders. “I’m fine.”

My eyes roam his face, from the bruise beneath his left eye to the crack in the corner of his mouth. He’s tired and beaten up, and I don’t feel right leaving him. My heart protests the distance I haven’t even put between us yet. “You promise?”

“I promise.” He turns me around, patting my ass. “Go have a frozen pink drink for me, and when you come home, I’ll fuck you until you’re the one who thinks the Spice Girls are still on tour.”

I snicker, spinning back around, pressing my lips to his before I can think twice about it. “I won’t be late,” I tell him, dashing back to the car. “And I promise we won’t have any fun at all without you and everyone’s going to miss you so much and we’re all just going to be talking about how incredible and brave and resilient you are.” Pulling open my door, I pause to glance back at him. He’s not listening.

No, he’s standing there, eyes on the ground, fingers pressed to his parted lips.

For a moment, I think I’ve fucked up. I almost call out an apology, say I’m sorry if I overstepped, if I scared him.

But then, right before the elevator doors slide closed, he smiles.

And, fuck, it’s a dangerous smile. It roots in my brain, growing like a weed, until it’s all I can see, all I can think about. It’s why I make it to the bar only to spend fifteen minutes in my car, staring down at my phone, watching in real time as Jaxon goes through my Instagram profile, liking every single one of my posts. There’s only one photo of Ryne that somehow slipped through the cracks on my mass delete, four years deep, and when Jaxon gets there, he leaves a thumbs down emoji. Then he sends me a screenshot of the post, along with Len, this guy’s a fucking tool, delete this before I delete his face, which doesn’t even make sense, but I delete it anyway.

It doesn’t get better when I drag myself into the bar. When the guys recount Jaxon’s fight tonight, his goal, all the ways he’s defended his team. When the girls talk about how much he’s changed since he arrived a year and a half ago, and especially in the last two months.

But what kills me is when Carter posts a picture of the nine of us in our giant booth, and Jaxon comments ten seconds later, looks fun.

Period. Looks fun, period.

The tiny, inconsequential punctuation mark does me in, and I call it a night, kicking it home to Jaxon.

The scene at home, it’s . . . it’s a cry for help.

The six-foot-five tattooed enforcer with the busted lip and black eye is in nothing but his underwear, sprawled out on the couch in the dark, eating ice cream from the container while the cat sleeps next to him, a Disney movie playing on the TV.

I approach slowly and cautiously, as you would a scared, caged animal.

“Hey, big guy,” I murmur. “Watching Toy Story?”

“Three,” he whispers, sniffling.

“What?”

“I’m watching Toy Story Three,” he snaps, voice cracking.

I pause, head tilting, then slowly sidestep around the couch so I can see him . . . and the tears sliding silently down his face. “Um . . .”

“Shut up!” He swipes frantically at his face. “It’s emotional!” He gestures at the screen, where a teenage Andy is giving his childhood toys to a little girl. “He doesn’t want to give up Woody, but he knows Woody deserves to be played with. And he’s-he’s-he’s . . . he’s saying all these really nice things about Woody, and Woody really needs to hear them.”

My gaze slides back to the TV. When Andy and the little girl start playing with his toys, a choked sob cracks from my left.

Jaxon buries his face in his hands. “That’s the last time Andy and Woody will ever play together!”

“Right. Um . . .” I scratch my nose. Seeing him like this is . . . painful. And also? Kind of hot. Don’t ask me why. I’m all sorts of fucked up, and now I’m also, somehow, all sorts of turned on. “Would a blow job help you feel better?”

His crying ceases immediately. He lifts his head from his hands, red-rimmed eyes coming to mine. He sniffles, scrubbing his forearm across his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, it would.”

Jaxon stands, drops his boxers, fists his cock, and flicks his head to the spot at his feet.

“Come on, honey. I always feel better when you’re on your knees.”