The Game Plan (Game On #3)

by Kristen Callihan

  “I’ve no right?” His expression is feral now, teeth bared, muscles bulging. “Because I’m calm, sensible Dex? The guy who takes a beating and gets back up without complaint? Well, too fucking bad. I am mad. And I’m sorry if that offends you, but I’m not going to suck this up. Not yet. Not fucking yet, Fiona!”

  I hate the sound of my name on his lips—no longer reverent but a curse. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I whisper.

  His chin tilts up. “I know that. I know you didn’t mean it, but…shit.” He begins to pace, his hands going to his head to pull at his hair, which is no longer there. Agitation makes his steps jerky, his arms restless. “I know. I’m just. Fuck, it. I can’t—” He takes a deep breath and then another.

  I see the moment he totally loses his shit, like a dam that can no longer hold back the flood. He cracks with a long, ragged cry. “Fuck!” He slams the side of his fist against the aged brick wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Every curse punctuated by a punch.

  “Ethan. Calm down—”

  “No!” he shouts over me, his eyes on the wall. A sheen of sweat covers his skin, glistening over his biceps. “No. I’m so fucking sick of always being the rational one! Well, guess what? I’m done.”

  His voice rises with every word, going to full-on bellow. “I’m pissed. At everything. I’m just…fucking pissed, Fi!”

  Noted.

  I bite my lip, tears smarting. This isn’t just about today. It’s everything that’s come before. It’s Ethan never allowing himself to fully let go until now.

  With a guttural cry, he turns, tearing one of his paintings from the wall. It flies through the air, spinning like a pizza box before crashing into the far wall, the frame snapping.

  I can only stand silent as he shouts, his voice filled with pain and rage. He punches the edge of the heavy wooden bookcase that divides the living room and a small reading nook. “Just—motherfucking shit!”

  Books soar across the room as he hurls them in rapid succession.

  I’ve always wondered how it would be for Ethan to totally lose it. Now I know. And it breaks my heart. Because I know his rage right now is pain, a soul deeply hurt that has no other outlet but to burn, hot and violent.

  A sob of frustration rips from his chest, and he braces himself against the bookcase. For a second, I think he’s calmed.

  An ungodly roar tears from him, and his muscles bulge as he pushes against the bookcase, which is bolted to the floor. The whole structure creaks, threatening to topple.

  “Ethan,” I shout. “Careful—”

  But I’m too late. The massive case tips too far and smashes to the floor with such force that the house shakes. I jump back, plastering myself to the wall as broken pottery shards, knickknacks, and books fly everywhere.

  It scares the shit out of me. I know he’d ever hurt me, but the base violence of the act rattles my bones.

  He stands there, his muscles straining, his chest heaving. He blinks rapidly as if to clear his thoughts, but that crazed look is still there.

  “Okay,” I say through a breath. “That’s it.”

  I turn, grabbing my bag and coat off the hook.

  “Fi!” Ethan’s shout blasts over my skin. “You walk out that door—”

  I don’t hear the rest because I’ve already slammed it shut.

  * * *

  Dex

  The red haze that clouds my vision blows away with the slam of the door. For too long, I simply stare at the empty space Fiona used to occupy, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. And then what I’ve done hits me like a blindside tackle. My breath leaves in a whoosh, and I struggle to find it again.

  “Fi!” I stumble forward, tripping over the stupid bookshelf. “Shit. Shit!”

  Hopping over the case and picking my way through the mess slows me down.

  Shit, I’m such an asshole. I had a total mantrum, and now I’ve scared the hell out of her. The expression in her eyes was terrorized. And that’s all on me.

  I wrench open the door and race down the stairs.

  “Fi!” I don’t see her, but she can’t have gone far.

  Outside, rain is coming down in hard sheets. I’m instantly drenched, my vision obscured as water runs into my eyes. I wipe my face, scan the gloomy courtyard. Empty.

  Shouting her name, I run toward the garage. She isn’t there. Isn’t in the studio.

  My heart pounds, fear and regret squeezing at my chest. I knew the moment I saw her anguished look that she hadn’t meant to hurt me, hurt us. And still I lost it. I said horrible things, made her afraid. I think of the room I wrecked in front of her and feel sick.

  Bracing my hands on my wet knees, I try to breathe, to think of where she might be. It occurs to me that she might have gone out the front entrance. But the street is dark and empty, except for the lone, hunched vagrant in the distance, picking his way through garbage bins, his shape a black blob beneath the hazy streetlight.

  With a sigh, I sink down to sit on my doorstep, unwilling to go back inside. Rivers of dirty water rush along the gutter. Rain comes down so hard it bounces off the pavement. I sit with my knees up, holding my head in my hands as if it can stop the ache. I sit until I’m soaked to the skin. But I’m not going to move. Not until Fi returns.

  Hell, she might not return. Have I lost her?

  The idea that she might think I don’t want her any more closes my throat.

  “Hey there, fella.” The old homeless man stands in front of me. His tattered overcoat seems to be keeping him fairly dry, though water beads in his gray hair and runs down his ruddy face.

  “Take this.” He hands me what used to be an umbrella, the spines broken and hanging higgledy-piggledy. It wouldn’t protect against a mist, much less this. But it’s his, and he’s offering.

  I blink up at him, shocked and feeling like shit, but find my voice. “That’s okay, man. Can’t get much wetter.”

  He lets out a raspy laugh, tucking the umbrella back into the basket-cart at his side. “Ain’t that the truth.” He nods toward the night sky. “Bad weather will blow past. Always does.”

  I want to laugh until I cry, but I nod and reach into my pocket for my wallet. He sees me and holds up a hand. “No need for that. No need at all. I’m getting on home now.”

  I’ve seen him around and know this is a lie. But pride is a powerful thing, and so I push my wallet back. “Have a good evening, mister.”

  He leaves me to silence and the sound of the rain pattering against the pavement. And I sit back, my head thumping against my front door and close my eyes.

  Pride. I thought I was so fucking humble, above it all. But my pride kept me from going after Fi when I first saw her. It’s kept me from demanding the things I want in life until it was easy. And it had me lashing out when I should have listened.

  Fucking pride.

  “Ethan?”

  My eyes spring open. Fi stands a few feet away, holding a grocery bag in her hands. Illuminated by the gas lantern hanging over our door, her little frame is dwarfed by her big yellow raincoat. I scramble to my feet, my sneakers squeaking on the pavers.

  “Fi.” I take a step forward, my chest heaving. “Cherry, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I know.”

  “All that stupid shit I said, I was just—”

  She takes a step too. “You don’t have to explain. Everyone deserves to howl at the moon at some point. And you’ve had a shitty day. A shitty month, really.”

  We’ve both had a shitty time of it, yet she wasn’t the one who went into Hulk-Smash mode. “I shouldn’t have trashed the room. I scared you.”

  She frowns, and rainwater trickles down her cheeks like tears. “What scares me more is that you believe you need to hide your emotions.”

  My throat works on a noisy swallow, and I have to blink away the rain drops that blind me.

  “What’s really bothering you?” she asks when I don’t speak.

  “I liked it,” I confess in a tight vo
ice, my eyes finding hers. “Allowing myself to let go.” It had relieved a pressure I’d felt building for what seems like forever.

  She gives me a small smile. “It’s okay to get angry or upset, you know. If all this has taught me anything, it’s that we can’t plan life. It just happens. If you hold on too tight, you might break. And I don’t ever want to see you broken, Ethan.”

  I don’t have it in me to explain the stark, gray terror I felt when I realized she was gone. If losing my temper meant losing her, I’d hold onto it as tight as I could. Because without her, I’d be broken anyway. “Being with you. Loving you—You make me feel everything.”

  Another step and she’s within touching distance. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “No. I was numb before you. I want to feel. I just… I don’t want to scare you. I got angry, and you left. I thought….” My breath hitches. “You left.”

  Green eyes stare up at me through clumped, wet lashes. “I needed air. You needed to cool down.”

  “You didn’t let me finish back there. If you leave, I’ll follow. I’ll always follow.”

  “I know that. In fact, I’m counting on it. But I’m done running. You’re stuck with me, Big Guy.” She raises her hand a little, showing me the bag she’s holding. “I just thought I’d get you some gumbo. It’s cold and raining, and you love it—”

  I grab hold of her and haul her close, wrapping her up in my arms. My lips find hers, cold and wet but perfect. I slip my tongue into her warm mouth where she tastes of rain and Fi. I cup her cheeks, try to warm her skin, and kiss her until I can’t breathe.

  She leans into me, her raincoat squeaking, her soft breasts plump against my chest. Somehow we’re both apologizing in the kiss, breaking apart and coming back together again and again, soft, deep, finding new angles.

  With every touch of her mouth to mine, the tight knot inside my chest eases. I’ve made a habit of locking up my emotions and hiding them from the world. But this girl—the one who inspired me to sing my ass off on a stage, who brings me gumbo when I’ve shown her my worst—she makes me whole. She helped me find myself.

  Fi is done running, and I am over hiding. It’s as simple as that.

  Our lips drift apart. Rain turns the world into a blur, but my mind is clear. “I love you. I don’t say that enough. Just know that whatever I do, wherever I am, it is a constant refrain in my heart. You color my world, Fi.”

  She smiles up at me, her skin glistening and her eyes bright. Gently she touches my cheek with her free hand. “Ethan, I might not be perfect, but no one will ever love you more than I do.”

  I don’t think I knew how much I needed to hear those words until she says them. I rest my forehead against hers. I’m freezing, but my heart is finally warm again. I snuggle her closer.

  “You are perfect, Cherry. You’re my kind of perfect.”

  “You’re my kind of perfect too, Ethan Dexter.”

  That’s all I’ve ever needed.

  Epilogue

  One year later…

  Fiona

  The house looks perfect. Garlands of evergreen—entwined with twinkling white lights—grace the doorways, window frames, and the big fireplace mantel. Ivory pillar candles are set up in clusters, paired with clove-dotted oranges and sprigs of holly. In the corner by one of the big windows that overlooks the street stands a twelve-foot tree. I kind of love the fact that even Ethan has to pull out the stepladder to decorate the top of it.

  But he does the job with a smile on his face. He hangs little football helmets covered in glitter, deep red crystal cherries, die-cast commercial jet planes, even a blown-glass ornament shaped like the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “Fi sure likes her themes,” Gray observes, helping out too.

  Ethan grins, his concentration on hanging a tiny mic. There’s a flush on his cheeks that I know is from happiness. This year, our tree tells the story of us, and he knows the significance of each and every item I’ve picked.

  “What’s with this one?” Ivy asks, holding up an ornament shaped like a stack of pancakes.

  Ethan glances at it and catches my eye. His brows rise with humor even as his gaze goes hot. My cheeks flush warm in response. We’ve had plenty of pancakes at midnight since our first attempt. After all, a girl needs to keep up her strength.

  “Inside-joke ornament,” Anna guesses, her nose wrinkling. “Quick, put it on the tree and move on before they feel compelled to explain.”

  At her side, Drew kisses the top of her head before saying, “I’m pretty sure Dex would have to be threatened with grievous bodily harm before he talked.”

  I hand Drew a mug of hot cider before giving one to Anna. She isn’t drinking any alcohol: three guesses why. I give them both a big, sweet smile. “I’m happy to tell you all about those pancakes—”

  “No!” the room shouts as a collective whole. Well, all but Ethan who snickers as he hops off the stepladder and comes to me.

  He wraps me in his arms, bringing my back against his hard chest. His breath stirs my hair. “You’re so bad, Cherry.”

  I relax against him. “Suckers. As if I would talk about our midnight lurve.”

  His chuckle is a rumble I feel through my body. With a quick, affectionate kiss to my cheek, he walks off to collect the stepladder and put it away.

  “How’s the shop going, Fi?” Anna asks.

  Last April, I’d picked up my first client in New Orleans, Ethan’s teammate Rolondo Smith.

  Rolondo had me redecorate his condo and then his beach house in Florida. When he found out I’d planned to open my own business, he offered to back me financially. And while Ethan had insisted that he wanted to help me with funds, I finally made him realize that I needed to do this without my boyfriend’s help. In October, I opened a furniture-design shop on Royal St.

  “Really well,” I tell Anna now. “I’m at the point where I need to hire an assistant.”

  “More like two,” Ethan says. “So my girl can spend more time in her workshop.”

  I love that he knows how cathartic it is for me to spend time working on my pieces, and how much attention he pays to my work.

  “This is true,” I say to Anna. “Definitely two assistants.”

  I’m still working with Jackson and Hal, selling furniture to their New York clients, who pay top dollar. To say business is booming is an understatement.

  When Ivy goes to check on Leo, who is napping in the bedroom, Drew and Ethan help me set the table. Anna and Gray fuss in the kitchen. Apparently they’re picking up an argument they started this morning about brining versus basting the turkey.

  Gray had argued with a complicated mathematical defense, complete with statistics and water-retention ratios, that had our eyes glazing over. Though he’d gotten his way in choosing the method of cooking—mainly because no one could stand hearing him talk nerd any longer—he and Anna are back at it again. Because Anna still thinks brining is better.

  Ethan ends the argument by pointing out that the damn bird is done and could we please just eat it now?

  “You’ll see,” Gray promises as he carries out a golden brown turkey worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. “Simple butter basting produces a superior tasting bird.”

  “A dry bird,” Anna retorts.

  Despite their bickering, we’re all looking forward to our meal as we sit down at the table—one of the first pieces created in my new workshop. Made of reclaimed cypress wood, it’s wide and long enough to seat twelve. With six of us here, we have room to spread out, which is good since the table is laden with food.

  Football players eat. A lot. But I’m not complaining. Especially when I have Ethan’s big, strong body to play with on a daily basis.

  I watch him as he leans over to light the candles. He’s dressed in jeans and a dusky blue button-down that hugs his broad chest. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the colorful tats on his forearms. Those arms can toss around tractor tires without breaking a sweat and hold me as gently as if I’m
made of blown glass.

  A beard—not as full as it used to be but no less sexy—shadows his jaw. His hair is growing out too, still super short on the sides and sticking up in thick, dark brown spikes at the top.

  He’s so damn hot, he leaves me breathless every time I look at him. I honestly don’t know how I didn’t jump on him at that first Christmas party.

  Catching my gaze, he winks and sits at my side. One hand slips under the table to settle warmly on my knee while the other lifts his wine glass high.

  At his salute, we all pick up our glasses.

  “So then,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

  Even though it’s technically Christmas Eve, we all toast.

  Gray sets his glass down. “Shouldn’t Fi be saying, ‘And God bless us, every one’?”

  “Are you implying I’m Tiny Tim in this scenario, dickface?”

  “Dickface?” Gray gives an expression of mock outrage. “If I didn’t happen to have an awesome dick, I might be offended.”

  “So you’re saying you’re on board with your face resembling your dick?” Drew asks with a laugh.

  “I’m saying that if my face has to resemble a dick, it might as well be the stunning sight that is my own,” Gray retorts with a waggle of his brows.

  I lean in. “If you want to talk about stunning dicks—”

  “No!” everyone shouts again.

  I shrug and hide my smile as I take a sip of wine.

  “I’m so glad sausage is on the menu,” Ethan deadpans before slicing into his banger. Drew and Gray wince, but Anna, Ivy, and I laugh.

  Happiness is infectious and fills me with warmth. I’m no longer that restless girl I’d been for so long. I’d finally found my place. I give Ethan’s shoulder a kiss, and he winks at me as if he knows exactly how I feel.

  * * *

  Much later, it’s just me and Ethan, kneeling on our big bed, the golden glow of lamplight casting shadows over his bold features. With infinite tenderness, he cradles the sides of my neck as he slowly peppers my face with kisses. His soft lips and prickly beard send little tickles along my skin, and I sigh, leaning into his touch.