Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)

This isn’t my week.

Really, the whole year’s been rough.

“It’s only January,” my mom murmurs, blue eyes twinkling with amusement from my phone screen.

“Exactly.” I flop onto the couch in my new living room. “It’s only January. I’ll never survive the rest of the year when it’s already burning in the fiery depths of hell.”

“Right along with Ryne,” my dad mutters from somewhere off-screen.

Mom rolls her eyes. “You two are the biggest drama queens I know. You have plenty of time to turn the year around, Len. You’ll make new friends in Vancouver⁠—”

“Unlikely.”

“—and maybe you’ll meet a⁠—”

“No.”

“For all you know, you might even spark a romance with one of the boys on the t⁠—”

“Nope.”

“But Lennon⁠—”

“Absolutely not, Mom. I’m not dating a hockey player.” Fucking one, maybe.

No. Fucked, past tense.

And holy tits, that was a mistake. A glorious, incredible, magnificent, orgasmic mistake that I’ve been regretting for the last . . . twenty-seven hours, give or take. Basically, since I walked into the Vancouver Vipers’ conference room and came face-to-face with my one-night stand from Cabo, who, as it turns out, is not just ohhh God, yes, Jaxon, please, but Jaxon Riley, star defenseman for the team I’m now—oh fuck, I’m gonna be sick—working for.

Yeah, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? Otherwise, I could’ve happily lived the rest of my life walking around in a dazed bliss, the memory of that one night, Jaxon, his filthy mouth, and a cock that blew my dragon dildo out of the water, nothing more than exactly that: a memory.

Instead, I’m going to need to come to work every day and pretend I’ve never had that man’s face buried between my legs.

Mom frowns, pushing her ashy hair back. She quit dying her roots last year at my dad’s encouragement, and now her sleek blonde bob is streaked with silver. “Why not? I looked up the roster. There’s some cuties over there.”

I press a hand to the headache forming behind my eyes. “I’m here to get away from one horrible relationship, not chase another.” And certainly never, ever tell anyone about the player whose cock I accidentally impaled myself on after one too many colorful drinks.

“Yeah, Len,” my cousin Serena murmurs, brown eyes alight as she smirks at me from the split screen on my phone. “Surely there’s at least one cute player over there that’s caught your eye. Why not let him dick you down good?”

Okay, so I accidentally told Serena about Jaxon. That was mistake number two (Jaxon was number one) because Serena keeps secrets about as well as my ex-fiancé kept himself off Tinder, which is to say not at fucking all.

Shit, Ryne was mistake number one, wasn’t he?

“For fuck’s sake, Rena.” Mom sighs. “I said date, not dick down.”

Dad appears next to Mom. “I’m not a fan of this conversation. Nobody needs to get dicked down.” His mouth dips to my mom’s ear. “Except for you.”

“Ew,” Serena screams while I gag. “TMI, Uncle Trev!”

“And athletes are bad news,” he adds.

“Your son is a professional baseball player,” I remind him. “You’re a retired coach.”

“Coach, not player. And Devin is terrible news.”

Mom arches her brow. “Devin is exactly like you when you were that age.”

He grins, hand over his heart. “Fiercely charming and devilishly handsome. Thank you, I know.”

Mom, Serena, and I roll our eyes in unison.

When Mom’s gaze comes to mine, she’s still frowning. It’s about all I’ve seen from her since she watched me get on the plane to Vancouver a few days ago, like it’s so deeply ingrained. She’s never been a frowner. But her hope for my bleak future has been slowly dying, right along with her smile.

“I want you to find happiness, Lennon. Whatever that looks like. And I would hate to see you avoid relationships forever because one⁠—”

“—piece of motherfucking shit,” Serena and my dad supply, which, coincidentally, is Ryne’s name in my phone.

“—isn’t a real man.”

I tug at the hem of my pajama shorts. “Is Mimi still mad at me?”

“She’s not mad at you, per se . . .”

Serena snorts a laugh. “Mimi said if you’re not back for good in time for the family cookout in the spring, she’s dragging you back herself.”

“She’s just upset you’ve run away,” Mom clarifies.

“I didn’t run away! I just needed to get away!”

Serena checks her nails. “Most people call that running.”

“I flew.” I stick my nose in the air. “The two are distinctly different.” I twirl a coil around my finger, watching it slip off and spring back up. “I still don’t want her to be mad at me, though.”

Dad smiles, and like it always does, it transforms his face. All the hard lines melt, softening into the warmth I’ve always felt safe in. Beneath his nearly black facial hair, the dimples in his cheeks pull in, and I swear his brown skin glows, the same as his deep brown eyes. My dad, just like this, has always been one of my favorite safe places.

“She’s not mad at you, sweetheart. She understands. She misses you, that’s all. We all do. But we want you to be happy, here with us or in Vancouver, but definitely not getting dicked down by any athlete.” His expression brightens. “Oh, hey, what about that girlfriend you had in sophomore year? She was nice! Yeah, I liked her.” He points at me with two finger guns, pumping his brows once, and yes, he’s always been embarrassing. “You should look her up.”

I hide my groan behind the palm I drag down my face. “Hillary is happily married with two kids and a third on the way, Dad, but I’m glad she left a lasting impression on you nearly ten years ago.”  Dragging myself off the couch and to my feet, I head to the kitchen to make myself a coffee with the machine Amazon delivered last night. “I’m just going to lay low for a while. Be on my own.”

The three of them exchange a look, one I pretend not to notice.  I haven’t been on my own since . . . well, ever. I had my first kiss at thirteen in Serena’s closet during her fourteenth birthday party and I never looked back. I floated from one relationship to another until Mimi introduced me to Ryne when I was in my junior year in high school, and he was a freshman in college. After high school, I joined him at the University of Georgia, moved into a student house with seven other girls, and when I graduated, Ryne proposed. I said yes because I didn’t think there was any other future for me without him in it, and I moved into the house he stayed in while he was in town for work. Now here I am, twenty-six and without a clue about how to be on my own.

And I hate it.

Both being alone, and that I don’t know how to be.

“Anyway, I’m totally fine.” I shove a coffee pod in the little hole thingie, slam the lid, and panic when I see three sets of flashing lights blinking up at me. I don’t know which one to press, so I jab the middle one, because that seems like the safest bet. The little machine whirs to life, and I smile, proud of myself when it starts making a grinding sound.

“What’s that sound?” Dad asks cautiously.

“I’m making coffee. It’s grinding the beans right now.”

Serena snorts a laugh. “I know you didn’t just say it was grinding the beans. Len, that’s a damn Keurig box on your counter. The beans are already ground!”

“Huh?” The machine squeals like a car in desperate need of new brakes, and when it starts sputtering, shooting spurts of faintly tinted water out at me, I grit my teeth.  “Fuck.”

“Oh my God,” Mom murmurs. “Honey, she doesn’t know how to make coffee.”

“No!” I shove my phone against my chest as I jab another button, then the other, and eventually all three. Water keeps shooting out at me, and the machine is making a furious fizzing sound, like I’ve personally offended it. “Everything’s fine! I gotta—” The water turns brown suddenly, and as it starts spraying in all directions, I shriek. Somehow managing to get a handle on myself, I pull my phone screen back to my face, plastering on a ginormous smile that looks 100 percent genuine, if I were a betting woman. “So, hey, everything’s totally fine over here, but I gotta go. Furniture shopping. Because I’m so excited to be on my own, and I happen to be incredibly excellent at it so far.”

My family blinks at me, and before they can call me on my bullshit, I half-scream, “Okayloveyabye!”

I slam my phone down and yank the cord for the coffee machine from the wall, sagging with relief when the fountain of coffee stops.

My phone pings, and I look down at the email notification from Starbucks.

Your next Starbucks visit is on Dad! Dad sent you an eGift card for $200 and said, “Don’t burn your apartment down.”

Oh, thank fuck.

I shoot off a thank you to my dad before changing out of my pajamas and getting on with my day. I don’t have to be at the arena for the game until later this afternoon, which leaves me plenty of time to head to Starbucks, spend the day getting lost in IKEA, and maybe even head back to Starbucks for round two.

Because if I’m going to successfully ignore Jaxon Riley put together IKEA furniture, I need all the caffeine my body can reasonably handle.

And possibly a strong cocktail.

“Surely it’s not considered drinking on the job if they serve alcohol here.”

“I vote no, and I’m always right.”

My wishful thought is muttered aloud, but the blonde five feet to my left still answers. I peek over my shoulder, heat pooling in my cheeks when she winks at me and speaks again.

“Go for it, girlie. Get your drink on.”

“I can’t.” I reluctantly pick my camera back up, aiming it at the ice as the players whip around it, take shots on the goalie, stretch, or goof around. Then I pull my camera back again, just an inch, and look at the blonde. “But it’s almost like they’re inviting me to drink, right?”

“Oh, for sure. Taunting, at the very least.”

“It’s almost rude.”

“So fucking rude.” She discreetly offers me a wine cooler, brows raised.

“Thanks, but I need this job. I’ll have to find another way to make it through.”

She holds her hand up, nodding. “If you change your mind, though.” With a wink, she turns her attention back to the group of girls to her left.

I spend the next several minutes listening to them interact, whispering, laughing together, bickering in that way that tells me they’re not just friends, but family. I’ve never had that type of friendship with anyone who wasn’t actually family, and I didn’t realize how much I craved it until right now. Sororities give you that fake sense of security, of importance, in college. You feel invincible, like you’re surrounded by a force field of friends who would do anything for you. But then you’re torn apart by the silliest, most inconsequential things, like having a crush on the same person, or trying out for the same spot on the cheer team. If you’re lucky enough to make it through college with them still by your side, chances are you’ll never see them again after graduation, instead watching their life unfold over social media and exchanging half-assed promises to get together next time you’re both in town.

Maybe Vancouver is my shot at finding that. Maybe now it’s my turn to find my people, to find friends that turn into family, people that want to stick around forever.

I swallow the eager thoughts and focus on my job: taking pictures of hot hockey players. It isn’t exactly the career I’d envisioned for myself, photographing a semi-violent sport I know nothing about. Once upon a time, I dreamed of photographing the skies. Brilliant sunrises and spectacular meteor showers. Constellations, blood moons, and the Northern Lights. Everything beautiful in this life.

But sometimes, dreams are meant to be dreams, not realities. That’s why I stopped chasing my dream a long time ago.

It’s also why, up until two weeks ago, I was responsible for home staging, photography, and social media for a home design company owned by the wife of one of Ryne’s business partners. A horribly lonely and boring job that left me wanting to put down my camera for good. At least now I actually have a chance to interact with people and make friends.

I follow the view from my camera lens across the ice, heart tripping when I accidentally zero in on Jaxon’s face. He’s chewing a piece of pink bubble gum, laughing with a blond man. It’s a weird scene, Jaxon laughing and smiling. I seem to remember him being a rude, arrogant, broody asshole who only laughed at my expense. But he looks . . . happy here. He reminds me of my brother, the way he changes on the baseball diamond, like he’s finally come home.

And then those hazel eyes peel across the ice, landing on me.

“Oh, shit. Fuck.” The camera slips from my hands, and I swallow a shriek as I dive for it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Cradling my baby in my hands, I slip the strap around my neck for safekeeping, and look back at the ice. My stomach flip-flops when I find the man still watching me, and I twist left to right, looking for something to do, anything to keep me from looking at him while he looks at me. Isn’t he supposed to be busy? Not very committed to his craft, now, is he?

I sink down to the seat reserved for me and pull out my phone, clicking to the team’s Instagram page. This team has a wild fan base, but a lackluster social media presence, and one of my jobs is to turn that around, a task I’m incredibly excited for. Social media can be a fun place to engage fans, and the photo I posted only forty-five minutes ago of the Vipers’ team captain, Carter Beckett, walking into the arena in a three-piece suit with a pin attached to his lapel that reads “World’s Greatest DILF” is proof of that. The simple picture already has more than three hundred comments and fifty thousand likes. Apparently, the Vipers’ fans love their ostentatious captain.

“You’re Lennon, right?” the grinning blonde to my left asks. She’s stunning, one of those women you see all the time on the arm of a famous athlete, lean, leggy, with spectacularly vivacious blond hair. I can only assume she’s one of the players’ wives, or WAGs, as all wives and girlfriends have been affectionately labeled. Maybe she’s even married to the captain. “The new photographer?”

I hold up my camera and smile. “That’s me.”

Her grin grows impossibly wider, and the longer she stares, the more I wonder if I have something in my teeth. I turn away, discreetly running my tongue over my them, swatting at my boobs, which happen to catch 99 percent of messes on my shirt, even though they’re not that big.

I come up empty, and a quick side glance at the woman tells me she’s still watching me, and still grinning. In fact, it’s so big, it’s borderline terrifying. I’m not even sure it’s her grin, but rather her entire vibe, like she’s always ready to go to war for her people.

“Can I, uh . . . help you?” I finally ask, much squeakier than I’d like.

She relaxes into her seat, pops her feet up on the plexiglass, tosses a handful of—oh gross, are those M&Ms and Skittles?—into her mouth, shares a quick look at her friends, and winks. “We know.”

My brows rise. “You know?”

“We know.”

“You know . . . what?”

Her eyes flick to the ice, and I follow their path to the man currently sinking into a deep lunge. He looks suspiciously like the man who fucked me nearly into a coma a week ago, but I can’t be sure. It may have been a fever dream.

“We know,” she repeats, except this time it’s punctuated by the flick of her brows and the thrust of her tongue against the inside of her cheek.

“I . . . I don’t know what you’re . . . are you . . .”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Care. Put her out of her misery.” The petite brunette at her side leans around her, smiling sympathetically. “We know you rode Jaxon straight into the Mexican sunrise. I’m sorry about Cara. She’s always like this.” She waves. “I’m Olivia. I’m nothing like her, and I’m married to⁠—”

“Ollie! Hey, Ollie, look at me! Princess, look!”

She shuts her eyes, pulling in a deep breath that takes her several seconds to exhale as the team captain waves his arms over his head from the ice, trying to garner her attention. “Carter.”

“Oh, wow. I don’t know why, but I assumed Carter and you”—I point to Cara—“were married.”

Cara and Olivia look at each other, a long moment of silence that drags out so long I desperately want to shove the words back down my throat.

But then they both explode with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Cara cries, swiping beneath a pair of brilliant blue eyes. “You thought⁠—”

“Cara and Carter?” Olivia barely manages.

Another brunette peeks around Olivia, deep dimples pulling in as she cackles. “Lennon, please.”

The woman on the end with a cute blonde-and-pink bob gives me a sympathetic smile, but when she tries to speak, her snickers slip free. “Leave her alone.” She giggles. “She couldn’t have known.”

“Oh, babe.” Cara pulls in a steadying breath, reaching over to pat my hand. “That’s cute. If Carter and I ever dated, the Vipers would need a new captain, because the man would cease to exist on this planet.” A body collides with the plexiglass, and Cara’s eyes warm as she grins at the man pumping his brows at her. “That’s my man. Emmett.”

“And that’s mine,” the woman with the pink hair says, wistful smile directed at the humongous goalie currently watching her from across the ice. Adam Lockwood pulls off his catcher, taps his heart, points at her, and her cheeks turn the same color as her hair. “I’m Rosie,” she tells me.

“Jennie,” the other brunette says to me with a dazzling, dimpled smile. “The better Beckett sibling, and—oh, fuck.” Her eyes snap to the ice as a new song starts, pumped extra loud across the arena, and she leaps from her seat. “Garrett, for shit’s sake, you have to shake your ass! Your ass!” She points to hers, giving it a wiggle for good measure. Then she sighs, collapses back in her seat, and gestures haphazardly toward the ice. “I belong to the one who can’t dance. God, he’s hopeless, but I’m so in love with him.”

I turn toward the ice, finding the four men lined up in front of the net. Carter is tugging on number 69’s arm, trying to get him to join in, and I’m trying to place the nostalgic tune as the boys dance along to the words.

“Is this the ‘Cha Cha Slide’?”

“Yup.” Cara shoves another handful of candy into her mouth. “Jaxon always does this, puts on this big show like he doesn’t want to join. He’s being really difficult about it right now, though, isn’t he? Maybe he’s embarrassed because you’re watching.”

I look for the man, but I can’t find him. Carter’s still pulling on number 69’s⁠—

Sighing, I drag a hand down my face. “Of course Jaxon’s number sixty-nine.”

“I knew it!” Cara screeches. “Jaxon’s the sixty-nine king, isn’t he? That man looks like his only dream in this life is to go out suffocated by a pussy sitting on his face.”

“Care!” Olivia glares at her friend, but the shock that should be there seems to be missing from her expression. “This is a family-friendly event! There are children here!” She settles back into her seat. “Besides, Carter’s the sixty-nine king.”

“Uh, I hate to break it to you guys.” Rosie holds a finger up. “But Adam’s definitely the sixty-nine king.”

The girls erupt with hoots and hollers, and I stifle my laughter. It’s not until they’re completely silent that I realize they’re watching me.

“So?” Jennie asks expectantly.

“So . . . what?”

“Does Jaxon live up to his number or what?”

“Oh. Um . . . I don’t know, we didn’t really, um . . .” I bury my burning face behind my camera, documenting this horrifying choreographic rendition of the Cha Cha Slide. Jaxon’s still not dancing, just standing there with his grumpy arms across his grumpy chest. “Yes.”

And I swear, their squeals rival the rest of the fans’.

As it turns out, pussy isn’t the only thing Jaxon Riley has an immense appetite for.

By the time we’re down to the final five minutes of the game, it’s clear Jaxon also has a penchant for extreme shit-talking, and getting a little physical with the other team. His teammates drag him away from most altercations before they can turn into something more, but judging by the roar of the crowd every time he gets in someone’s face, followed by the resounding sighs when a fight is avoided, I’d say these fans enjoy his aggressive attitude problem.

I . . . don’t blame them. That aggressive attitude problem led to the most mind-blowing sex I’ve ever had. Sometimes I swear I can still feel his fingers wrapped around my hips. As it is, I’m still trying to pretend the hollow feeling left in my vagina after Jaxon went and carved out a home for his cock for one night has always been there. It’s irritating, and what’s more irritating is how hot his attitude on the ice is making me.

Through my camera, I follow his warpath as he tears down the ice, matching the forward from the other team stride for stride. He spins around, so effortless, like a beautiful Olympic figure skater, not a 250-pound brick house of a man, and I’m mesmerized, watching his hips sway as he skates backward, blocking the path of his opponent. The forward on the red team makes to slip by him, and Jaxon throws his shoulder into his side, knocking him off his path. He grabs the puck, fires it off the boards, and Emmett Brodie receives it, barreling toward the opposing net.

“Yes, Emmy!” Cara shrieks, leaping to her feet, slamming her palms on the glass. “Go, baby! Do it for the blow job!” She winks at me. “I’m gonna blow him even if he misses.”

I chuckle, and Emmett sends the puck soaring. The arena erupts as the puck finds a home in the back of the net, and my finger goes trigger-happy as the boys dogpile on top of Emmett. Cara’s still shrieking, the fiercest WAG I’ve ever seen, so I snap her picture, too, because she deserves her own post on the Vipers’ Instagram page tonight.

On the way back to center ice, Jaxon and the forward he stole the puck from get tangled up in a dance of some sort, exchanging words that have both of them grinning from ear to ear. Despite the smiles, something tells me there’s nothing pleasant about what they’re saying. Jaxon dips his face, whispering something to the other man, wiping the smile from his face, the one on Jaxon’s growing as he skates away.

“Just wait,” the man calls after him. It’s nearly impossible to hear over the crowd and music, but I manage to make out the words. “It’s only a matter of time till you’re gone from here too. Nobody ever keeps you.”

Jaxon’s body goes rigid as he comes to a stop, and my heart patters in my chest at the dark look that storms through his expression, like a mask sliding into place. He spins back to the man, and the two of them toss their gloves to the ice at the same time, the roar of the crowd blocking out the pounding in my ears. My blood runs hot as Jaxon grips the neck of his opponent’s jersey, and when he flings his fist forward, nailing him square in the jaw, I’m horrified by how turned on I am. I accidentally take one picture, then two. Three, and suddenly I have ten pictures of Jaxon, sweat-soaked hair slapping against his forehead after his helmet goes tumbling to the ice, hazel eyes sparked and determined as he wrestles with a man who looks every bit as angry.

The officials pry them apart, shoving them both toward the penalty boxes. I snap a photo of Jaxon as he scoops his helmet and gloves off the ice, tucks his stick under his arm while the tip of his tongue flicks over the bloodstained split in the center of his lower lip. Dark eyes flip to mine, and I drop the camera and my gaze to my lap, swallowing the heady feeling brewing low in my belly.

“Does he always do that?” I ask, watching on the jumbotron as he climbs into the penalty box, dousing his face with water while someone tends to his bloodied lip.

“Fight? Isn’t he amazing at it?” Cara watches me for a moment, a curious look in her eyes that turns to mischief when she smiles. “Hey, what are you doing after the game?”

“Me? Getting wine-drunk and attempting IKEA furniture assembly.”

Olivia laughs. “The only way to assemble it.”

“You should come out with us,” Cara says. “Ollie and Rosie are kid-free tonight. Come get wine-drunk with us. If you can hold off a couple of days, we can come over and help.”

I blink, watching as the other three nod. My insides spark like fireworks, lighting at the chance for connection, for friends in an otherwise lonely world. “Really?”

“We could enlist the guys to do it while we go get brunch,” Olivia says, “but this could be a nice bonding experience.”

“And guys suck at assembling IKEA furniture,” Jennie adds. “They skip the instructions because, ‘I think I know how to put together a simple coffee table’,” she says in a deep voice, punctuating it with an eye roll. “Spoiler alert: Garrett and Carter put five holes in the coffee table. Five.”

“Adam follows the instructions,” Rosie says proudly. “Actually, he built Connor’s learning stool, and he’s been designing a tree house for the backyard⁠—”

“She nailed the only one of the boys with humility and life skills, is what Rosie is trying to say,” Cara finishes for her. “C’mon, Lennon. Come have some drinks.”

My gaze flicks to Jaxon, his eyes moving between me and the girls with what looks suspiciously like fear. “I kinda planned on never seeing Jaxon again.”

Cara snorts. “Do you have a Plan B?”

“Pretend I don’t recognize him.”

“Perfect.” She tosses her feet up on the plexiglass, shoveling candy into her mouth. “Sometimes, when we really piss him off, he gets this little tic in his jaw. It makes this vein in his neck pop, and I always have the urge to poke it.”

Another handful of candy, a devious smile, and a coy wave at the man watching us from across the ice. “Let’s see if we can make that vein explode tonight.”