Playing To Win: An Elite Athlete Sport Romance Anthology

by Mignon Mykel

  Before he can reply, I turn and bolt for the door, moving as fast as my broken sandal will allow.

  Spoiler alert: it’s slow as hell.

  I make my way up the aisle, the searing heat of his gaze warming my skin, but I don’t look back. Nope, I push through the studio door, ignoring the jangling bell and the murmured whispers. Outside, I pause just long enough to gulp down the cool night air before I head for Dad’s truck, which is parked in the tiny lot at the back of the studio.

  The once-red truck is now solidly rust colored and the key sticks in the lock, but I manage to get the door open and heave myself into the driver’s seat, the cracked leather pressing uncomfortably against the backs of my thighs. There was a time the old heap was my father’s pride and joy. He used to wax the damn thing to such a high shine it hurt to look at it, but that was before. Before my mother left. Before he stopped giving a shit about anything but finding the bottom of a bottle to numb his pain.

  I close my eyes and blow out a breath.

  Just a few more months and I’ll have enough saved up for a car of my own.

  I slide the key into the ignition and give it a quick turn. The truck gives a pathetic whine, but nothing happens. No lights. No radio. No rumbling engine. I try again, praying it will turn over this time.

  Again, nothing happens.

  I try twice more in quick succession, only to get the same infuriating result from the busted-ass truck.

  I slam my fist against the steering wheel, issuing a string of curses that would only be acceptable in the lowest of dive bars. I should know. I’ve dragged my dad out of enough of them over the years.

  Of all the nights, why did it have to be this one?

  I pull out my cell and call my dad. Odds are he’s passed out on the couch, but I have to try. After all, we can’t afford AAA and Beaumont isn’t exactly the land of Uber. The call rings endlessly before going to voice mail and I disconnect, slumping against the headrest in frustration.

  Nothing like taking the shoe leather express with a broken heel.

  The walk is only a few miles. Totally manageable with proper footwear, but of course I don’t have proper freaking footwear. Or anyone I can call for help.

  A sharp knock at the window has my heart leaping into my throat—along with a bloodcurdling scream—as every horror movie I’ve ever watched flashes through my brain and I imagine being chopped to bits in the dilapidated truck.

  But when I look, it’s just Wes and his shit-eating grin.

  Of course it is.

  Good one, Sky. Way to leave a lasting impression.

  Wes stares at me expectantly, so I rally my dignity and roll the window down.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” The words are delivered smooth as honey and while I have no idea what he’s talking about, I have a pretty good idea what he’s thinking about. After all, the sound of his smoky voice has my own body humming with interest.

  “It’s late. How about we cut the games and get to the point?”

  He lifts a brow, seemingly undeterred by my directness, and holds up my painting. “You left this on the easel. I thought you might want to keep it.” He gives me a crooked grin, the fluorescent lights of the parking lot glinting off his teeth. “You know, for posterity.”

  He’s not wrong, though I’m loathe to admit it. Especially after I lectured him like a granny about saving his own painting.

  “Thanks.” I take the canvas and set it carefully on the seat next to me. When I turn back to Wes, he’s studying me thoughtfully. That damn awareness prickles across my skin again and I wrack my brain for a way to get rid of him. The last thing I need is for Wes to watch me go limping down Main Street, because no way in hell am I going to ask him for help. So not happening. Instead I give him a bright smile. “Well, have a good night.”

  “You too, Sky.” He steps back from the truck, but makes no move to leave.

  Just my luck. Wes is one of those guys who waits to make sure the car starts before he leaves a woman alone in a parking lot. A real live gentleman.

  Shit. Who’d have guessed it?

  My palms go clammy on the steering wheel and I’m caught like a deer in the headlights.

  “Car trouble?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the hood of the truck.

  “Little bit.” I sigh and explain the whining sound.

  So much for being an independent woman.

  “Mind if I take a look?” He says it casually, like it’s no big deal. And to him, it’s probably not. But to me? It’s another reminder of my status as a charity case. Every fiber of my being screams at me to decline the offer, but really, what choice do I have?

  I force a smile that feels completely unnatural. “That’d be great, actually.”

  He pops the hood open and instructs me to try starting the engine again. I turn the key and the truck makes the same pathetic whine.

  I hear you, girl. I don’t like this situation any more than you do.

  Wes lopes back to the driver’s side and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Sounds like a dead battery. Let me pull around and try to jump it.”

  A few minutes later, Wes has the truck hooked up to his Jeep and he gives me the go-ahead to try and start the engine again. I close my eyes, say a silent prayer, and twist the key in the ignition. It sputters at first, but then it catches, the ancient beast roaring to life.

  Relief floods my veins and I let out a triumphant whoop before I can stop myself.

  Wes lets it run for a few minutes before he disconnects the jumper cables and reappears at my window. “If it doesn’t start in the morning, you should take it into the shop and see about getting the battery replaced.”

  “Thanks,” I say gratefully, unexpected warmth filling my chest. Who’d have ever thought Wes Kaplan would be my knight in dusty cargo shorts? Not me, that’s for damn sure. “It was really decent of you to help me out.”

  “All part of my master plan,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “What master plan?”

  “To convince you I’m not a total asshole.” That damnable smirk curves his lips and I find myself smiling in return. Because apparently endorphins are still crowding my brain at the realization I won’t have to hoof it home. “Is it working, Sky?”

  “Not even a little,” I lie, ignoring the way my pulse flutters when he says my name.

  “I don’t mind putting in the work.” Wes shrugs and leans close, a predator stalking his prey. “Victory’s always sweeter when you have to earn it. Will you be at Station 13 tomorrow night?”

  This is a dangerous game we’re playing. One that can’t possibly end well. The smart move would be to avoid Wes and pretend this whole bizarre night never happened. Problem is, I can’t deny the thrill that races up my spine at the prospect of seeing him again. “I guess you’ll have to show up to find out.”

  With that, I put the truck in gear and pull out. Like Gram always said, leave them wanting more.

  Wes

  Nothing says stalker like showing up thirty minutes early to get a table with a view of the door. Yeah, I’m that guy, but fuck it. If Sky’s coming tonight, I don’t want her sitting by some tool with a fauxhawk.

  She belongs with me.

  Just for tonight.

  Restless energy courses through my veins as I scan the bar, wondering for the eight millionth time if Sky will show. Maybe she was screwing with me last night. There are five Indie Week events tonight—I checked the schedule—but a guy can hope, right?

  I drum my fingers against my thighs, doing my best to look chill as I scan the taproom.

  Station 13 used to be a firehouse, but a few years back the fire station moved to the edge of town—less disruptive—and a couple of locals turned the place into a craft brewery. It’s my first time seeing the place and I have to admit I’m impressed. With its exposed beams, distressed brick walls, and a long list of aptly named firehouse brews on tap, it has as much character as any of the trendy breweries in Boulder.

 
The place is packed, but I’m not interested in what’s going on at the bar or in the group of women that keep looking my way from a few tables over. There’s only one woman I’m interested in talking to, so it’s a relief when the server finally arrives with a flight of craft beers and a much needed distraction. She quickly runs through the names and descriptions before moving on to another table. I immediately grab the Truckie and take a long sip. Training kicked my ass today, so I figure I deserve a night off.

  Hell, I might even go wild and order a fat, juicy burger.

  The beer is a full-flavored pale ale and it goes down easily. Too easily judging by my half-empty glass. I set it on the table and roll it between my palms, my gaze drifting back to the door.

  That’s when I see her.

  Sky.

  My heart begins to race, the same way it does when I’m faced with a new route, and any doubt I had about last night’s attraction being an aberration is immediately erased. She’s wearing a fitted blue dress the same shade as her eyes and her hair falls in loose waves, framing her heart-shaped face. She looks incredible and I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

  My gut twists when a couple of guys at the bar turn to stare appreciatively.

  Oh, hell no.

  Oblivious to the attention she’s generating, Sky scans the taproom, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in that sexy way of hers. Then her eyes lock on mine and all is right with the world. I smile—not the annoying smirk that gets her riled up, but a genuine, big-ass smile I couldn’t suppress if I wanted to—and stand to greet her.

  The assholes at the bar turn back to the baseball game and smug satisfaction settles over me. Sky approaches cautiously, weaving between tightly packed tables. I take the opportunity to look my fill, admiring her curves and the confidence with which she carries herself.

  While I’ve been off working the climbing circuit, Sky has grown up. Gone is the girl I remember—the one determined to blend into the scenery—and in her place stands a self-assured woman who’s grown into her larger-than-life opinions.

  “Finally decided to put me out of my misery?” I tease as she approaches the table, back straight, chin held high.

  “Possibly.” She scans the room one more time, like she’s looking for a better option, but she’s not fooling anyone. When she turns back to me, she’s grinning. “Is this seat taken?”

  “Nah,” I say, easing back onto my stool and gesturing for her to have a seat. “No one wanted deadweight on their trivia team.”

  It’s a bald-faced lie. The truth is, I flashed a stony glare at anyone who looked my way, making it clear I wanted to be left alone. I’m not usually such an ass, but no way in hell was I getting saddled with some rando if there was any chance Sky was going to show.

  “Yeah, well, I hear trivia night is a big draw. Apparently the Station 13 team has only been beaten twice since they opened.” Her eyes light up, but I can’t tell if it’s a side effect of the company or the prospect of competition. With Sky, it could be either. “If you beat them, you get your picture on the wall above the bar and a free tour of the brewery.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m pretty sure our Indie Week pass includes a tour of the brewery.”

  Sky rolls her eyes. “I think you’re missing the point.”

  I smirk and take a sip of my beer. “Nah. I’m reading your über-competitive vibe loud and clear.”

  Just then, the server appears to take Sky’s order. The beer flight was included as part of the event, but she declines it.

  “I’ll just have an iced tea with lemon,” she says. “You can give my flight to one of the other patrons.”

  “You sure?” the server asks, looking skeptical.

  “Yes,” Sky says firmly. “I don’t drink.”

  Her words land like a rockslide and suddenly I feel like the biggest asshole on the planet. How could I have forgotten Sky’s father has a drinking problem? The whole town knows about it. Hell, it’s no wonder she doesn’t drink.

  And I invited her to hang out in a damn bar.

  The waitress sidles off to get Sky’s drink and we both watch her go. It’s not an awkward silence exactly. How could it be with the loud hum of conversation and indie rock filling the taproom?

  Still, it doesn’t sit right with me.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, wiping my palms on my thighs. “If I’d realized you don’t drink, I wouldn’t have asked you to meet me here tonight. I wasn’t thinking—”

  “It’s fine,” she says, cutting me off before I can say something that will embarrass us both. But the thing is, now that I’m looking more closely, it’s clear she’s uncomfortable. There’s a tiny worry line between her eyebrows and though she’s smiling, there’s a hard set to her jaw that wasn’t there before.

  And it’s all my fault.

  So lighten the mood, asshole.

  “If you’re sure,” I say, giving her a crooked grin. “But I hear there’s a basket weaving class at Studio 550 tonight. We could always go check it out. I mean, there’s no prize or anything, but it could be cool.”

  Sky snorts. “Hard pass. Besides, I’m here for the trivia, not the alcohol.”

  “Obviously.” I nod my head like this makes perfect sense, because for Sky, it does. She’s one of the most competitive people I’ve ever known. And I totally dig that about her. After all, why compete if you’re not playing to win? “The thing is, I’m not so sure I want to be on your team. It seems like a lot of pressure. I mean, are there like deathly consequences if I fail you? Are you going to run me off the road later with that tank you call a truck?”

  “Scared?” she challenges, arching a brow.

  “Little bit,” I reply, pinching my fingers together for good measure.

  “No worries.” Calling my bluff, she hops off her stool and levels me with cool blue eyes. “I’m sure I can find another partner.” She glances toward the bar where the two dudes who were checking her out earlier are still watching the game. So much for being oblivious to their attention. “Or two.”

  My gut twists at the prospect and my hand shoots out automatically, capturing her slender wrist. “On second thought, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

  Not by a long shot.

  Skylar

  Wes moves so fast, there’s no time to react. One moment I’m turning on my heel, challenge delivered, the next I’m ensnared by his firm grip. His touch is like a brand. Flames race up my arm and in the space of a breath, my entire body is engulfed. My skin is hot and tight and prickling with need. I’ve never felt anything like it and for an instant, I forget everything. Beaumont. Indie Week. All the reasons I shouldn’t be flirting with my boss’s son.

  Hell, I practically forget my own name.

  “Sky.”

  At the sound of Wes’s voice, I snap back to myself. I blink slowly and stare down at his hand. Wes’s fingers are curled possessively around my wrist and while the feminist in me says I should resent the uninvited touch, my only thought is more.

  Wes releases me and the sharp sting of disappointment pierces my chest at the loss of contact.

  What would it be like to have that calloused hand really touch my body?

  It doesn’t matter because you’re never going to find out.

  Right. I’m not here to socialize. I’m here for Indie Week. To impress Maggie Kaplan—which definitely won’t happen if she finds out I’ve been flirting with her son.

  “Lucky me,” I say, hopping back onto my stool and turning to him with mock concern. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I mean, I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities with my über-competitive vibe.”

  “Oh, I’m up for it.” He smirks and leans in close. He smells like pine trees and sunshine and chalk. It’s surprisingly familiar and oddly comforting. Wes may have filled out, but beneath the hard angles and lean muscle is the same boy I grew up with. “And for the record, there’s nothing delicate about me.”

  Don’t I know it. />
  A slow flush spreads over my cheeks. Shit. Did he see me checking him out earlier?

  Fortunately, the server returns with my drink and I’m saved from responding.

  I take a sip of the tea and lick my lips, which Wes seems to find utterly fascinating.

  Good to know.

  “So, what have you been up to these last five years?” I ask, steering the conversation back to safer ground.

  Wes lifts his beer, taking his time as if considering his answer. “I did a few semesters at CU, but school wasn’t a good fit for me, so I withdrew.”

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, right? But as soon as the words are out, I realize I sound like an ass.

  Patronizing much?

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.” Wes shakes his head, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “Not all of us are meant to be scholars. Leaving CU to pursue a career as a professional climber was the best decision I ever made.”

  I try—and fail—to keep a neutral expression, but the thing is, I can’t imagine Maggie Kaplan accepting her son’s decision to drop out. She’s all about appearances. And impossible standards. Basically the exact opposite of my own father.

  “My parents were disappointed at first,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “They thought I just wanted to blow off school and spend my time climbing, which was true, but they didn’t understand my passion for the sport. Needless to say, they came around when I signed with Team Paxl.”

  My brows knit in confusion. “So you’re a professional climber? That’s a thing?”

  He laughs—a deep, throaty rumble that speaks directly to my ovaries—and bumps his shoulder against mine. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m actually pretty decent.” He sips his beer and adds, “I made the US team for the Summer Games.”