The Hook Up (Game On Book 1)

by Kristen Callihan

  The ball feels so good in my hand that I want to clutch it to my chest like it’s a baby. “You going long?” I ask.

  “You gonna throw down?”

  My arm tightens with the need to let the ball fly. “Like a hammer.” Some of my cockiness leaves as I glance back at the stadium. “But not here.”

  “We’ll go to the park.” Gray moves to the passenger side of the pickup.

  “Not in the glamour mobile?” I say as we both get in the truck.

  He looks disgruntled as hell, but he’s smiling. “You owe me big for that car, you know.”

  I do. I owe him for more than he’ll ever know.

  “Anna’s making bourbon pecan pies. I told her to bake four.” And she’d called me a pig, as if that would be some kind of deterrent. “I’ll give you two of them.”

  Gray grins wide. “That’s a start.”

  THE CAR ENGINE ticks as we sit in front of the brick townhouse. Neither of us moves to open a car door. Drew takes a slow breath. His profile is to me as he stares out of the window. “Last night,” he says, “I had a nightmare. I was in the house, trying to find you. But you were gone. Your stuff was gone. Like you’d never been there.”

  His mouth quirks bitterly. “Suddenly, I’m tearing through campus trying to find you, when I realize that I’m running. My leg is perfect, there’s no pain. Coach appears and he tells me it was all a dream. The bad sack, my leg getting trashed. It never happened.”

  I turn toward him in my seat, and he swallows hard.

  “Then I see you. You’re with Mr. Yuck, and you just look at me like I’m scum.”

  Shit. I reach for his hand, and his warm fingers link with mine. He gives me a little squeeze of reassurance, like I’m the one who needs comfort. He’s gone silent, just looking down at our hands, his so much bigger than mine that all you can see of me are my pale fingers threaded through his darker ones.

  “You should know,” I say, “I left Mr. Yuck at the bar. He never stood a chance. I was in love with you.”

  A sad smile plays on Drew’s lips, but it grows into one of satisfaction. He pulls our linked hands onto his thigh and his thumb glides over mine. “Well, in the spirit of sharing and honesty, I hung around all those girls to make you jealous.”

  My eyes flick up. He has the grace to look sheepish. “It was shitty, I know.” His expression grows somber. “But I never touched them.”

  But then his lashes sweep down, hiding his eyes. “One of them kissed me, and—” he shakes his head, “I couldn’t stand it. You don’t know how much that pissed me off at the time,” he says with a wry laugh.

  “I bet,” I say sourly, but I’m not really pissed, and he knows me enough to get that. Because he’s smiling at me now. The smile turns tender, and his thumb continues to stroke mine.

  “The thing is, when I saw you in the dream, walking away from me like we never were and never would be…” He goes pale. “It tore me in half, Anna.”

  “Drew, no…” I cup his cheek with my free hand.

  He leans into it a little as he keeps talking. “I felt so empty. Even when I woke up. Like I’d never experience happiness again.”

  “I’m here,” I say softly. “I’m here.” I hate that he’s felt that sinking empty pain again.

  “That’s the point, baby,” he answers. “Ending my college football career the way I did? Facing the fact that eventually an injury might end everything one day? Yeah, it’s doing a number on me. It scares the shit out of me. Football made me what I am. But I’ll have to deal with it regardless. No one plays ball forever. And at the end of the day, when the game is over?” His golden eyes hold mine. “I’d rather have no football and feel whole with you than play and feel empty and at sea like before.”

  “Drew.” I wrap my arms around his neck and hug him hard. And he hugs me back, his breath warm against my cheek as he nuzzles it, breathing me in like he always does.

  I press my lips against his temple. “You’re wrong about one thing. Football doesn’t make you. You make football.”

  He grunts in wry disagreement, and I shake my head, brushing my lips over his ear. “Anyone can pick up a ball and throw it. But you? You turn the act into something magical. Something wonderful.”

  He shudders, a sigh escaping him. The sound is equal parts sadness and relief. I hold him tighter, kiss his jaw. “It’s you, baby. Your light. Your joy. Your soul. You bring that to everything you touch. To the game, your friends, me. It won’t end with football, I promise.”

  “Anna.” He drags me across the armrest and into his lap to bury his face in the crook of my neck. “I love you so much. It’s like my life truly started when you walked into it. I want what my parents had, Anna. I want it with you and only you.” He strokes my hair, his breath a burst of heat against my skin. “I’m going in there today to get my shit together for me and for us.”

  “Drew,” I kiss his cheek, his mouth, his nose, slowly softly, and he lets me, closing his eyes as if each touch is a balm. Cupping his jaw with my hands, I press my forehead to his. “You are the best man I’ve ever known. You helped me become the person I’ve always wanted to be. You’re everything, Drew.” My breath leaves in a shudder of frustration. “I don’t even know how to tell you how much you mean to me.”

  He smiles as he kisses me, a gentle easy kiss, as if he’s finally breathing free. “Just be with me and I’ll know. Just be with me.”

  How could I not? He is part of me now. “Always.”

  Two Years Later…

  IT’S SUNDAY NIGHT and I’m bathed in brilliant white light. The air is crisp and fills my lungs with a sweet burn as I take in the scents of fried food, beer, and human sweat. Electricity buzzes around me, created by the joy and cheers of eighty thousand people. This is high theater. It’s human drama, and we’re all riveted to the twenty-two men on the emerald green field.

  But my attention is drawn only to one. His helmet obscures his face but he’s still gorgeous to me. Tall and strong. He is poetry and grace in motion. He owns the ball. He throws and it listens.

  And I’m so excited I barely can keep still.

  “Keep bouncing around like that,” says a voice in my ear, “and you’ll fall out of your seat.”

  Gray laughs as he says it, and I can’t help but grin. He’s flown in from San Francisco, where he was drafted to play, to be here.

  “He’s blowing it up, Gray.”

  “Yeah, he is,” Gray says with his own grin.

  Two years of working towards this moment. Rehab, the fear of not getting signed, then trying to fit in as a rookie, and tonight Drew finally gets his chance to start, filling in for the team’s injured starting quarterback. As if he’s been waiting for it, he explodes out of the gate. He’s born for this, and his team knows it. They respond to his confidence, playing with precision and verve. Already they’re up three touchdowns against the better team.

  And though he’d once insisted it was okay if he never played again, I know what this means to him. Tears blur my vision as I scream his name, my voice lost among the many.

  “Everything is going to change,” Gray warns me, though he doesn’t really look worried.

  “I know.” It will be more. More press. More pressure.

  But we’ll weather it. We still can’t keep our hands off each other. Do we fight sometimes? Of course. Drew has his dark days and I have mine. I barely saw him when I began to intern at a cable production company on a whim. I’m now an associate producer for a cooking show. It’s something I’d never envisioned for myself but love with a passion.

  Our stress levels rose to a pitch during the days before the draft. Would he go quickly like some thought? Or languish in the third, fourth, or fifth rounds as Drew secretly feared? When he was the fourth pick in the first round—to New York, thank God—we celebrated for an entire week.

  But it full-out sucked living in New York City those first few months before his draft. Because I refused to let Drew dip too far into his savings, we could on
ly afford a walkup in the Lower East Side. I can’t even think about the number of roaches Drew smashed without shuddering. We both cried a little in relief when we finally bought our apartment in Chelsea. But the dark days are few. We have more fun than anything else.

  He’s my best friend, and I’m his.

  I clap my hands, and the ring on my finger catches the light with a glint. It’s a brilliant round diamond surrounded by a ring of black emerald-cut diamonds on a platinum band. Drew gave it to me last month, asking me to be his forever. And it’s perfect.

  But I don’t really need a ring. I just need Drew. The moment he asked me the question, the only answer I wanted to give was yes and how soon?

  At first my mom was worried. We were too young. Did I know the divorce rate for pro-athletes? The constant travel and temptation Drew will deal with?

  Yeah, I know. And yet I will never treat Drew as a stereotype again. Taking Drew means taking the good, the bad, and the in-between. Just as he takes me.

  After the game, when I finally get to him, I fling myself into his arms, and he holds me tight before spinning me around, the high of kicking ass infectious. Our kiss is messy, broken up by giddy laughter—mostly mine.

  “I’m so proud of you,” I tell him when he puts me down. “You were awesome.” Already there is talk. And I know his team is going to make him starting quarterback now.

  Drew’s grin lights up his face. His touch is tender on my cheek, and then he tells me what I know is his absolute truth, because it’s mine too. “It means nothing without you.”

  THANK YOU FOR reading The Hook Up! I hope you enjoyed it!

  Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail by visiting my website http://www.kristencallihan.com, or follow me on Twitter @kris10callihan, or like my Facebook page.

  Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative or somewhere in between. To review it on Goodreads.

  Want a sneak peek of The Friend Zone, book 2 in the Game On series? Then turn the page!

  Sneak Peek: The Friend Zone

  Expected release: Spring 2015

  Gray doesn’t make friends with women. He has sex with them. Until Ivy.

  The last thing star tight-end Gray Grayson wants to do is drive his agent’s daughter’s bubblegum pink car. But he needs the wheels and she’s studying abroad. Something he explains when she sends him an irate text to let him know exactly how much pain she’ll put him in if he crashes her beloved ride. Before he knows it, Ivy Mackenzie has become his best texting bud. But then Ivy comes home and everything goes haywire. Because the only thing Gray can think of is being with Ivy.

  Ivy doesn’t have sex with friends. Especially not with a certain football player. No matter how hot he makes her…

  Gray drives Ivy crazy. He’s irreverent, sex on a stick, and completely off limits. Because, Ivy has one golden rule: never get involved with one of her father’s clients. A rule that’s proving harder to keep now that Gray is doing his best to seduce her. Her best friend is fast becoming the most irresistible guy she’s ever met.

  Which means Gray is going to have to use all his skills to get himself out of the friend zone and into Ivy’s heart. Game on

  (unedited and totally subject to change)

  MOST PEOPLE HATE the airport. I get that. You’re in a hurry, hauling around luggage, maybe afraid to fly, definitely annoyed by the heinous TSA lines. And yet, for me, there’s an air of excitement to an airport. At least as a traveler. Because either you’re going somewhere or you’ve arrived. For that alone, I’d love the airport. But my absolute favorite spot? The international arrivals gate.

  I love those gates. Love watching the people who wait with an almost nervous anticipation for their loved ones to arrive. Love seeing faces light up, people cry out with joy and laughter, or even tears when they spot that special person. Mothers, father, sisters, brothers, lovers… An endless stream of reunions.

  When my parents got divorced, I used to drive to the airport and simply sit on one of the cracked pleather chairs and soak it all in. There, at least, I could see the good side of love.

  I’m here again, at the arrivals gate. Only this time, I’m the one arriving. And there’s no one here to great me. No dad, no sister. No one but me.

  After being in a plane for nearly six hours, my eyes are gritty, my knees ache from being crammed into a too small space, and I probably stink. It’s hard to tell; my fellow travelers kind of stink too, making us one big, moving, bleary-eyed unit of airplane funk. Or we are, until people are picked off one by one as open arms embraced them. I scan the crowd for a familiar face, trying hard not to be disappointed when I don’t see one.

  Too soon it becomes obvious that I’ve been forgotten. The crowd thins, and what remains are the people waiting for the next wave of passengers to be cleared through customs.

  Clutching the handles of my massive rolling suitcases, I lumber over to an empty seat and make myself comfortable. My phone is out of juice and is a useless black screen.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, blinking hard before running a hand over my face. I want to wonder why my dad or sister isn’t here, but if I do, I might cry. And I’m not crying here.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Being Sean Mackenzie’s daughter means waiting until clients are appeased, crises are averted, and deals are hammered out in iron-clad contracts. Given that my dad is one of the top sports agents in the country, there’s almost never an empty moment left for me. But you’d think the infamous Big Mac, as the sports world dubs him, would remember to pick me up. Or, at the very least, ask my sister, Fiona, to get me.

  They’re just late. They were tied up in traffic. You’ve been gone for a year; they wouldn’t miss your homecoming.

  In a minute I’ll get up and search for an outlet to charge the phone, and then call Dad. Right now, I don’t want to move. I’ve sat for hours and I’m suddenly too weak do anything but slump in a chair. Worse, without the phone, I cannot appear busy, as if I’m intentionally sitting on my own. I can’t scroll through my screen, check FaceBook while pretending it’s important business. I can only sit in perfect silence as the world moves past me.

  Travelers walk in several distinct paces: brusque, trudging, and harried—the last usually reserved for families. Viewed as a whole, these paces set a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. Maybe that’s why I notice the lone person bobbing along at top speed from far down the massive corridor. A guy. And he’s running.

  Idly, I watch him come. He’s easily a head taller than anyone in the airport, which is something in and of itself. Even from this distance, his face hovers above the moving sea of people. Though I can’t distinguish his features, it’s clear that he’s anxious. And he’s fast, weaving around slower moving passengers with an ease that’s impressive for someone so tall.

  He’s closer now, close enough to take note of his broad shoulders and wide chest. Close enough to see the glints in his blond hair as he runs past a thick block of sunlight shafting in through the plate glass windows.

  All at once, my breath grows fast and my heart rate kicks up. A smile pulls at my face as I rise to my feet. I want to hope, want to believe. But he isn’t looking at me. His gaze, hard and determined, is on the arrivals gate.

  God, but he moves like water over stones, smooth, efficient, energetic. People stop and stare as he goes by. How could they not? Perfectly proportioned, massive and muscled, he’s clearly an athlete. And he’s gorgeous. Strong jaw, chiseled features, golden skin, and sun-kissed hair.

  He blows right past me, only to stop on a dime at the edge of the cordoned off area of the arrivals gate. For a minute, he scans left and right, his gaze never going far enough to meet mine, then he bends over, bracing his hands on his knees, and curses under his breath. He isn’t winded, but upset. It’s clear. And when he curses again, he pushes himself straight and starts to pace, as if standing still is too much for him.

  Muttering and
scowling, he stalks a wide circle, bringing his hands behind his neck in aggravation. The move does crazy things to his biceps, bunching them up, making them even bigger.

  And all the while, I grin like a fool. I can’t help myself. I’m grinning still when his gaze finally collides with mine.

  Distracted as he is, his eyes almost scan past me, but he sort of stutters and then freezes. For a moment we stare at each other. His soft lips parts and his arms slowly lower. Recognition clears the haziness from his blue eyes, and a flush of color rises up his neck.

  He takes one step toward me, pauses and tilts his head to peer at me as though trying to make sure. And I smile wider. Seeing me smile has his lips curling, a slow, tentative move.

  “Mac?” Although he’s at least twenty feet away, I read my nickname on his lips with ease. And then I’m laughing, a total goofball snorting.

  “Gray.”

  Even from a distance, he hears me. And then he’s moving, so quick and sure, he’s almost a blur. On the next breath, I’m enveloped by a wall of hot skin and hard muscles. He gathers me in his arms and swings me around like it’s effortless. For the first time in a year I feel delicate and small. He smells of lemons and sunlight and strangely of home. I press my nose into the warm crook of his neck as he laughs and squeezes me tight.

  We’ve never touched before now, never even seen each other in person.

  His hand engulfs the back of my head as he holds me close. “Holy shit,” he says in a voice that’s both resonant and yet light with happiness. So many things I’ve shared with him, and I’ve never heard his voice until now. “It’s you, Mac. It’s really you.”

  And he’s Gray. My friend. The person I’ve communicated with almost non-stop for weeks. And, at this moment, I don’t ever want to leave his arms.