Fair Play

by Fox, Cathryn

  Fair Play

  Cathryn Fox

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. Ella

  2. Landon

  3. Ella

  4. Landon

  5. Ella

  6. Landon

  7. Ella

  8. Landon

  9. Ella

  10. Landon

  11. Ella

  12. Landon

  13. Ella

  14. Landon

  15. Ella

  16. Landon

  17. Ella

  18. Landon

  19. Ella

  20. Landon

  21. Ella

  22. Landon

  23. Ella

  24. Landon

  25. Ella

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Enemy Down

  Also by Cathryn Fox

  About Cathryn

  Copyright

  Fair Play

  Copyright 2021 by Cathryn Fox

  Published by Cathryn Fox

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  ISBN 978-1-989374-31-3

  ISBN Print 978-1-989374-30-6

  1

  Ella

  “What does this button do?”

  I smack my best friend’s hand away from the football’s team brand new camcorder, and give her the evil eye. She knows better than to play with it, which makes the shocked looked on her face all the more amusing. But the fact is, I’ve been entrusted with the very expensive device to record the Falcons’ first home game. Since I can’t afford to replace it, I can’t let my friend go around poking at every shiny knob and possibly breaking something.

  “What?” Peyton says, blinking dark lashes over big innocent eyes. “I’m just asking a question.”

  “No. You’re pushing buttons you shouldn’t be pushing. Now sit there before I send you to the bleachers with everyone else.” I point to the bench to the left of us and raise a warning brow.

  She gives a light laugh, brushing off my threat. “You’d never do that. You love me too much.” She’s right. I wouldn’t. Peyton and I have been best friends since kindergarten, and for the last three years we’ve been college roommates choosing apartment-style living over a sorority house. She’s here for a degree in social work, and I’m here because I want to be a filmmaker. Yeah, working in Hollywood, behind the scenes, has been my dream since childhood.

  Beside me, Peyton gives a very big, very happy sigh and takes in the football field from our perch—only the best, first class seating for the camera woman. “I do love the perks of being your best friend,” she says as she admires the football players warming up. A few are so close we could practically reach out and touch them if we wanted to. I don’t.

  “I really can’t understand the fascination,” I murmur. “A bunch of guys in tight pants chasing a ball.”

  She crosses her arms, and waggles her brows at me. “What’s it called again when a player passes the goal line with the ball in his hand?”

  “Winning,” I say, giving her a look that suggests she might be dense, but when she breaks out laughing, I crack a smile. Yeah, I get it. I’m the one who’s dense. It’s true, I know nothing about football, but I need this fourth-year credit to complete my cinematic arts degree and really, do I need to understand the game to record it for the team to analyze later? That would be a big fat no. I hope.

  “Well, at least you know how this thing works,” Peyton says, once again scoping out the buttons on my camcorder. “How about this knob? What does it do?”

  “Peyton, cut it out.” I slap her hand again and laugh at her childish antics. How we remained friends all these years when we’re so different is a mystery. But we love each other like sisters. Sisters? Wait, that’s not right at all. I’m an identical twin and my sister Ivy and I go together like hotdogs and Ferris wheels. Peyton and I, however, no matter how different, we just work.

  I stare at her. “Don’t you have football players to drool over?” Unlike me, she knows every player, and doesn’t hold the same kind of grudge against them as I do.

  I adjust my ballcap to shade the sun from my eyes as I glance out at the football field. I catch sight of my sister Ivy as she kicks one leg out and flirts with one of the players, trailing her finger over his chest. Blonde and bubbly. That’s Ivy. We were raised by the same two parents, yet we’re so different, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a cheerleading outfit that barely covered my ass. That’s her business though, and I don’t judge or interfere in her life, just like she doesn’t interfere in mine.

  I’d like to think when push comes to shove, she’d be there for me, just like I’d be there for her. At least, I think she’d be there for me. We might not hang out, but we love one another and have each other’s best interests at heart. Of that I’m certain. It’s funny really. Ever since we were young, we fell into certain roles. The extrovert and the introvert, the outgoing one and the quiet one. I always stood in the shadows and let her have the limelight. Pretty Ivy, the theater student who lights up a room with her smile and flamboyance when she enters. Which of course, makes me the introverted smart, quiet one. We both easily fell into those roles and have yet to stray.

  Peyton gives a low, slow whistle. “I don’t know what you have against tight pants. Look at all those cute butts and luscious muscles. Talk about slurpalicious.” She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Don’t you want one little nibble, one taste?”

  I give her a playful shove to move her away from the camcorder. “No. No nibbles. No tastes.” I’m a virgin with no plans to change that anytime soon, and as my best friend, she damn well knows it. I take up position behind the camera, and look at the world through my beloved lens. I exhale a contented breath. This is where I belong. This is where I feel most at home.

  Okay, yeah, so it’s true. I’m the world’s biggest nerd. Do I care? Nope. Not one little bit. I’m happy to stand in the shadow and view the world through my camcorder lens. As I do, I catch sight of Ivy again as she shakes her ass for the boys on the field. Truth be told, I actually hate football players. Back in high school, they bullied my friend Jacob until he ended up taking his own life. Terrible hazing went on at our school. The bullying was torturous and cruel, and no matter how hard Peyton and I tried to help Jacob, get him help, the bullying continued, and actually increased the more we tried to stop it. A stab of pain sears my heart at the painful memory, and I suck in air to bre
athe through it. I know I shouldn’t lump all jocks into one category, shouldn’t label them all as egotistical bullies, but a single player has yet to prove me wrong. Arrogant assholes. What more can I say?

  I check my watch, as my stomach growls. “Hungry much?” Peyton says. “Maybe you’d like a nibble after all?”

  “Really, Peyton. Did you just meet me?” I tease and reach into my backpack and grab a granola bar, all the while trying to cleanse my brain of football players and their tight asses—one player in particular. Peyton holds her hand out, and I place a bar in her palm. Granola bars and juice boxes on the go. The life of a busy fourth year student—or that of a toddler.

  She tears into her wrapper and looks me in the eye. Her brow is furrowed as she examines me like I’m a bug under a microscope—a new kind of species no one can figure out. “You really don’t find any of those guys attractive?”

  “Nope, not a single one of them.” A little white lie never hurt anything, right? “I prefer brains over brawn.”

  “That’s a pretty blanket statement don’t you think? I bet a lot of them are smart.” Peyton doesn’t hold the same grudge as I do. She figured it was a few bad apples on our high school football team who persecuted Jacob until his suicide, not every jock in the world. I don’t forgive as easily. Maybe it’s the social worker in her. She sees the world through a different lens, and that’s her right.

  “Yeah, probably.” I shrug. She’s right, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to hold it against her if she wants to date a player.

  She grins. “What about Landon Brooks?”

  A chunk of granola lodges in my throat and I try not to react, try not to let my eyes bulge out of my brain as I choke. Reacting will only fuel her ridiculous fantasy that Landon and I would be good together. She’s wrong, a million times over. A trillion, even.

  I snatch a juice box from my backpack, rip the straw open and jab the foil opening. After a big sip, I roll my eyes. “Oh, Please, Landon’s ego is as big as—”

  “His cock?”

  Ohmigod.

  My granola bar jumps back into my throat and I take another huge sip. In my calmest voice, I stare at her and say, “That is not what I was going to say. I mean, come on. I have no idea how big his…his thing is, and I don’t want to know.”

  “His thing.” She laughs. “Oh, come on, Ella. You can say cock. I know you’ve watched porn before. We’ve watched it together, for God’s sake. We all have fantasies, and that’s normal.”

  Flustered, I say, “Okay, fine. His cock. That’s the last time you’re going to hear that word on my lips, and the last time I’m going to think about it.” It’s possible that’s a lie. I might actually think of it tonight—when I watch porn.

  “His cock is going nowhere near your lips then?”

  I plant one hand on my hip and glare at her as she teases and twists my words. “How many ways do you need me to say it, Peyton?”

  She braces her hands on the bench behind her and leans back, lifting her face to the sun. “I can tell you like him.”

  “I do not like him.”

  “What do you have against him anyway?”

  Oh, other than the fact that he’s living rent free in my head, nothing. “He’s an asshole, and wait, why did you say his ego was as big as his cock. How do you know that?”

  She gives me a slow grin that says she knows me too well. “Ah, look at that, you are thinking about his thing again.” She wags her dark brows. “You know, they just don’t call him Torpedo because he’s lightning fast, on the field. It’s because he has a big—”

  “Stop,” I say. I take a fast breath. Do not think about Landon’s torpedo. I’m two seconds from demoting her to the bleachers, when she sits up straight, her mouth gaping. “What?” I ask, my blood draining to my toes even though I have no idea what’s going on. I only know that look on her face and it’s bad. So very, very bad. She looks past my shoulder and points her finger.

  “Uh...”

  Ohmigod. I mouth the words, “He’s behind me, isn’t he?”

  As she gives a slow nod, I spin around. Landon is adjusting his helmet as his gaze moves over my face. He’s not smirking, or showing any sign that he overheard us. Thank God!

  “Hey,” he says and my stupid ovaries quiver as my gaze lands on his brutally handsome face. He’s not typically handsome, with a square jaw, perfect skin, perfect features. No. He’s a bit harder, his face scarred from fights, and football. It only makes him hotter.

  “Hey,” I squeak out.

  He smiles at me, then looks past my shoulder to Peyton when she clears her throat. “Hey, Peyton.”

  “Landon,” Peyton says. “Looking good out there.”

  He turns his attention back to me. “Coach wants to know if you’ve got this thing all figured out.” He gestures with a nod to the camcorder and I try not to react to his sexy Texas accent. “You know how to work all these buttons?”

  “Yes, I do,” I say, and while I get that he has no idea how to use the camcorder, there are plenty of buttons this guy knows how to press. Yes, I’m talking about the buttons between a girl’s legs and the ones on the end of each breast. I’ve heard the rumors, and have zero intentions of ever finding out if they’re true. I’d have a better chance of landing an assistant director position with Spielberg right out of college than this guy has of landing a position between my sheets. Not that he wants that, but chances of either of them happening: zero.

  His gaze rakes over me, and my goddamn legs nearly give out as those dark eyes ignite my blood from simmer to inferno. What the hell is wrong with me? I do not like football players. I do not like Landon.

  Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, Ella.

  “Wait, am I seeing double,” he asks, and looks from me to Ivy and back to me again.

  “Ivy is my twin,” I say with an exaggerated sigh, and steal a fast glance at her across the field. As if feeling my eyes on her, her head lifts, and she stares at me. I can’t see her expression from where I’m standing. I can only imagine she’s in shock to see me talking with Landon. Not because I don’t associate with football players, but because a nerd like me would never be worthy of his attention. She has nothing to worry about. He’s all hers.

  Have at him, sis.

  “How come I’ve never seen you around before?” He shifts from one foot to the other, and I become acutely aware of his height, and of the way his muscles fill out his uniform. Does he even need all that padding? The fresh scent of soap, fabric softener, and something uniquely Landon fills my senses. It’s not a bad scent. Nope, not bad at all. Which really sucks.

  “I hang in different circles,” I tell him and like the nerd I am, I snort, and tap the camcorder. “Cinematography.”

  “Oh yeah?” Dark eyes leave mine to steal a quick glance at the camcorder, and for a second he almost seems truly interested. “You’re one of those audio/visual students?”

  I nod and resist the urge to roll my eyes, because honestly, the fact that he doesn’t know what my major is called isn’t his fault. I don’t know a thing about football, and I kind of get the sense he’s trying to be nice, although for the life of me I can’t figure out why. I’m pretty sure he’s not trying to lure me to the locker room so the team can beat the crap out of me, like those boys in high school did to Jacob.

  “You mean nerds?” I ask, with a raised brow, and Peyton kicks my ankle. I whimper, but don’t take my eyes off Landon. God, he’s so alluring, his face brutally interesting, I’m not sure I can.

  Something passes over his dark eyes. A hint of sadness? I’m not sure why I suddenly feel like I’ve bruised him somehow. Jeez, I’d never purposely hurt anyone, whether I liked them or not.

  “I never said that. I just mean…” He shrugs one of those broad shoulders and it’s all I can do to keep my gaze from dropping…from admiring all his muscles. “You, uh, you like movies, huh?”

  “Yes. I like movies,” I respond, and resist the urge to walk through the door h
e just opened. Once someone brings up movies, I could go on and on about films, rambling about what I like, what I don’t like, but I don’t want to bore him to death. He has a game to play, women to impress.

  He rubs a scar beneath his eye, and it flares red. “Seen anything good lately?”

  How did he get that? Football, or something else? “Yes,” I say again, and he smiles.

  “Any recommendations?”

  Porn.

  What. The. Hell.

  Get yourself together, girl!!

  “Depends on what you like.” I say, trying for casual when my stupid brain is conjuring up all kinds of unwanted images. Landon on top of me, underneath me…

  “You should come to the party tonight.” He gestures to the field with a nod. “I’ll show you what I like.”

  Holy shit, no. He is definitely barking up the wrong tree here. I am not one of his groupies, bunnies, cleat chasers, or whatever the hell they call women who sleep with footballers. Wait! My brain takes a moment to catch up, alerting me that the guy everyone calls torpedo—and not just because he’s lightning fast—invited me to a party. Did I just enter the twilight zone or something? I think I might have heard him wrong.

  “I’m busy,” I say.

  This time his smile is cocky, full of brazen confidence, and I get it. I really do. I get why women hand their panties over. “Come on, you can’t be too busy to celebrate our win?”

  “Pretty sure of yourself,” I say in a bored voice, even though there’s a storm going on inside me.