by Hart, Taylor
A Player for Christmas
Book 4 The Last Play Series
Taylor Hart
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Books by Taylor Hart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Last Play, Chapter 1
The Professional Bride, Chapter 1
Other Works by Taylor Hart
Young Adult
About the Author
Copyright
All rights reserved.
© 2015 ArchStone Ink
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. The reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form whether electronic, mechanical or other means, known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written consent of the publisher and/or author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This edition is published by ArchStone Ink LLC.
First eBook Edition: 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the creation of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For a little girl I met on a plane ride—I’ve thought about you, prayed for you, and loved you.
Books by Taylor Hart
Series
The Real Thing
Book 1 On the Run
Book 2 Going Rogue
Book 3 Get You Back
Hidden Falls
Book 1 Happily Ever After
Last Play
Book 1 Last Play
Book 2 The Rookie
Book 3 Just Play
Book 4 A Player for Christmas
Stand Alone Books
A Girl Named Grace
The Secret
Prom Diaries
Part of Boxed Sets
A Christmas in Snow Valley: The Christmas Eve Kiss
Summer in Snow Valley: First Kiss
Note To Readers
I hope you enjoy A Player for Christmas. If you would like to receive a book FREE, The Christmas Eve Kiss, ($3.99 value), sign up for my newsletter HERE. Another benefit of receiving my newsletter (which I send out about once a month) is that you will be notified of the 24-hour discounts on new releases that only newsletter subscribers receive.
Chapter 1
Brooks Stone lay in his Florida pool, lounging on a neon-blue tube, closing his eyes, not thinking about the fact that he had a high ankle sprain. Not thinking about the fact that he’d been out of play for the past two weeks, and that the coaches were saying he might be out for the Christmas game, too. Not thinking about the fact that today was the one-year anniversary of his wife’s death.
In his mind, a black hole of depression loomed just out of reach. He could see it, but he stayed on the edge, not allowing his consciousness to completely fall into darkness.
Stay strong. Stay alert. Best game.
Those words pounded through his mind. They were the same words his high school coach had chanted at him for four years. The same words Brooks had chanted to himself every day since then, through every training session, every practice … through every minute of his wife’s funeral.
Pictures of the car crash from the paper burned into his thoughts, and a stab of sorrow pierced his heart. He thought of getting that call, of being summoned to the hospital, of being told she was dead. He hadn’t even known what to say. He hadn’t told them the truth—that she’d already left him earlier that night. He hadn’t reacted when she’d given him the news and driven off.
He threw himself off the tube and into the pool. Cool water engulfed him. Usually, he found the pool soothing. When he was under the water, there was peace—the world was blocked out, and things slowed down. But peace wasn’t within reach today, or at any time since he’d gotten injured. Everything had changed after that; he couldn’t use football to avoid his feelings any longer.
He sighed and tried to block out the fact that even though his wife hadn’t really wanted him, the anniversary of her death made him wonder what it would be like to take a gulp of water, one after another in succession, until everything went completely numb.
Something from the surface caught his eye. Reluctantly, he pushed himself to the top.
Jake glared at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Of course Jake would come to check up on him today, of all days. To other people it might seem like a nice thing to do, but to Brooks it felt like he was being treated like some mental patient.
Rolling his eyes, Brooks swam to the side of the pool and easily pulled himself out. He grabbed a towel from the chair and quickly patted himself dry. “I assume you can see yourself out, since you saw yourself in.” He shook his head, trying to clear it ... trying to focus on the present, this day, this moment, and let the nightmare of the past year fade.
Rather than let him off the hook, Jake took him by the shoulders and gave him a stiff shake. Jake was about the same height as Brooks, six-three. He was strong and in shape, but he didn’t train for a living. “What are you doing sitting at the bottom of a pool?”
Brooks easily shook him off. “Stop.”
Jake glared at him. “Do I need to commit you to the hospital? Seriously?”
Brooks turned away from him. “I was just taking a breather. That’s all.” He moved toward the house, sliding open the glass door and bounding into the kitchen.
Jake fell into step with him, pushing the door shut behind them. “Right. Sitting at the bottom of the pool is breathing.”
Brooks would not let those words get to him. He had worked like a dog to get his ankle back in game shape, doing physical therapy and taking ice baths twice a day. He had to stay focused. “If you want to be useful, why don’t you confirm with the coaches that I’ll be playing on Christmas day?”
Jake threw up his hands. “We’ve discussed that. They won’t make final decisions until the day before.”
Brooks knew this. It annoyed him, but it was policy. Rather than acknowledge this, he began pulling eggs, ham, and cheese out of the fridge. He had to eat, even if he didn’t really want to. He’d learned that in his line of work, he had to force down the calories to stay strong. “What do you want, Rushton?”
Jake crossed his arms, standing beside the kitchen barstools. “Dude, I think you should go to someone. Get some help.”
Brooks ignored him, systematically grabbing a pan, spraying it with coconut oil, and cracking eggs. “I get help—at the gym.”
“You mean all that sparring you’ve taken up this past year?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
Jake snorted. “Yeah, like that’s what you need for your image.”
Brooks snorted back. “I don’t care about my image.” He wished he were in the
ring at the gym right now.
“The only thing that keeps me putting up with you is the fact that you have the most touchdown receptions and receiving yards in the league.”
Brooks rolled his eyes. “No one asked you to come over, remember?”
Jake cleared his throat. “Brooks, look. Are you okay? Are you …?”
“I’m fine,” Brooks said in a normal tone. “I’m cooking an omelet. I was just thinking at the bottom of the pool.” Yes, thinking. He knew what it looked like, thinking at the bottom of the pool. He wasn’t stupid, but he couldn’t get into this.
Jake let out a long sigh. “Today’s the day, right?”
Still ignoring him, Brooks retrieved a spatula and began coaxing the eggs from the outside, pushing them until the outer layer hardened. He liked to baby the eggs. He didn’t like the outside of the omelet burned. There was a process, and he liked it done right. That’s why he liked to do it himself.
Amber hadn’t liked omelets. She’d preferred scrambled eggs. He shut his eyes for a brief second, trying to push those memories out of his brain. He wondered, again, how he could still hurt this much from her rejection.
“Brooks.”
Flashing open his eyes, he finished the omelet and turned off the heat, turning to Jake. “What?”
“Did you hear what I just asked you?”
Not wanting to tell the truth, but not seeing any way around it, Brooks turned back to the eggs, pushing them around some more. “No. What?”
Jake laughed. “I have no idea why Dumont and Young even want to worry about you.”
“What?” Hearing the names Dumont and Young put Brooks a bit off center. He grabbed a fork and took a big bite, loving the way the food melted in his mouth, and guessed he’d missed something else his agent was trying to tell him.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?” Jake asked.
Brooks moved to the barstool next to him, not caring that he was still dripping wet. Amber would have cared about that. She hated when he ate right out of the pool. Brooks had spent far too many days thinking about that and wondering if it should matter to him. Was he disrespecting her memory by doing it? Should he even care about her memory?
“Brooks.” Jake’s voice was patient.
Jerked out of his thoughts again, Brooks finally met his eyes. “You want me to hash over the fact that my wife’s dead?”
Jake let him recover from his outburst, then surprised him by putting a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. “I’m sorry, man.”
Sincerity. Brooks could handle anything except that. He shrugged. “Why are you here, and why are you talking about Dumont and Young?”
“Since you technically can’t be part of practice this week, Dumont wants you to go to Salt Lake and help him out.”
“What?” Brooks’ voice had a hard edge.
“They started a charity organization called Starlight Christmas. They work with Primary Children’s Hospital and try to grant wishes to terminal patients.”
Brooks stood. “I’ll write a check. How much?”
“No.” Jake stood, too. He cleared his throat and took a breath. “It seems there’s a girl. She’s nine. Her name is Callie. She’s been saying that her wish is to meet you. That’s what she wants for Christmas.”
Taken aback, Brooks put his hand to his chest. “Some little girl wants me for Christmas?”
Jake’s lip went up into a half grin. “Pathetic, right?”
His heart spiked with adrenaline. Not knowing what to do, but needing to do something, he picked up his dishes and took them to the sink. “Why would she want that? She could have Disneyland or …” Or what? He had no idea what else a nine-year-old girl would want.
“She says you’ve always been her favorite. Apparently, she knows everything about you, has every statistic memorized, can recall which game you did what in. She even has a poster of you in her hospital room.”
“She’s nine?” He started the water in the sink, bending to get the dish soap. It was easy to keep his house clean, because he only bought the basics. He could move out at any time. He didn’t know how to live any other way; growing up, he had always been the visitor, always ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Plus, with Jake here, it was easier to stay in motion. Keep moving. It was when he stopped moving that his mind went back to dangerous waters.
“Correct.”
He scrubbed his dishes, stacking them. He didn’t like that some nine-year-old kid worshipped him. If she only knew how wrong that was. No one should care that much about him. He wasn’t worth it. He thought of himself, less than fifteen minutes ago, thinking about taking his own life. No, it would be better if this little girl didn’t meet him. Then she could die happily believing he was everything she thought he was. A lie was sometimes better than the truth.
Pathetic. That’s what he was. “No.”
Jake didn’t say anything.
Brooks perfunctorily finished all the dishes, drained the sink, and rinsed it. Then, reluctantly, he looked back around.
Jake’s eyes were hooded, and he was grimacing. “You’re really saying no.”
“Really.” Brooks pushed past him and headed to the winding staircase that had been the sole reason his wife had wanted to buy this house. She’d loved it, telling him she could see the passel of kids running up and down the stairs. Clearly, that would never happen.
“Brooks, wait!”
Brooks stumbled, barely keeping himself from falling, but he stopped.
“Think about it. Dumont wants you in Salt Lake tomorrow, and he’ll introduce you to the girl. Then he’ll fly back here, so he can be at practice.”
“And I’ll just stay there?”
“She wants you to take her to dinner.”
“I told you my answer.” Jake remained firm, thinking that he would skip his shower and go straight to his weight room. He needed to pound out some bench presses—now.
“Dumont isn’t making it optional.”
“What?” He whirled back around, not understanding.
Jake lifted and lowered a shoulder, looking resigned. “Dumont told me you’d better come, or he’ll request you don’t play Christmas day.”
Chapter 2
Waiting for Dumont to pick him up outside of the Salt Lake City airport, Brooks tugged the strings on his hoodie to prevent the frigid air from getting in. Why was it so stinking cold here?
Utah had never been a vacation destination on his bucket list; he hated the cold. He wasn’t prejudiced against Utah, but he hated any place that made him wear pants instead of his customary gym shorts.
He wouldn’t count the times his wife had told him he needed to change his style if he ever wanted to impress people. He’d told her he’d given up on impressing people. Foster kids never had the luxury of cool clothes or pretty moms to come to parent days. His whole life had been about accomplishments, not looks.
Now, he was standing in the freezing cold almost by force. At first, he’d thought he wouldn’t do it. Dumont couldn’t bench him. He wasn’t a coach. He didn’t have the power to make those decisions.
But after many laps in the pool, he’d finally concluded that the actual coach could make those decisions, and Dumont had the ear of the coach and the owners. That gave Dumont power. More power than he should have.
Even now, the thought of it made Brooks clench his fist and want to punch a hole in something. He’d never liked someone telling him what to do. Granted, he’d had to figure out how to curb that trait in order to be successful, but he’d spent a lot of years scrapping it out on the playground. In fact, it’d been this fighter quality in him that had earned him his first invite to play on a competitive team by one of his neighbors. His neighbor had noticed how fast he was in the kid games. It was ultimately this neighbor that changed his life.
A red Chevy Silverado pulled up to the curb, and a window rolled down. Sam Dumont sat at the steering wheel, smiling smugly. “Welcome to Utah.”
At the sight o
f his face, Brooks’s anger slightly dissipated. He actually did like the man. Coming on the team this year, Dumont had taken them to the top. Well, possibly, depending on the next two games. He’d earned them more wins than they’d ever had before he set his cleats on Miami sod. Brooks couldn’t deny that.
After picking up his travel bag, Brooks opened the front passenger door. The blast of warmth felt good. Better than good. He grunted and hiked himself up into the seat, not wanting to start an all-out fight at the moment, yet unwilling to pretend he hadn’t been blackmailed into this.
“Colder than you thought?” Sam turned down the Tiffany Chance song that was playing on the radio.
Closing the door, Brooks nodded and buckled his seat belt. “A bit.”
Sam let out a light laugh as he pulled away from the terminal. “Yeah, I can tell by your athletic shorts that you did a lot to prepare for the weather.” There weren’t that many cars, not compared to the Tampa airport, and Sam roared down the road. Snow was falling, but Sam didn’t seem worried about it.
“Nice truck.” Brooks tried to make conversation that wouldn’t end up in a fistfight.
Tapping the front dash, Sam grinned. “Never had a reason for four-wheel drive before, but living in the mountains gives me one.”
“Huh.” Brooks thought of the article he’d recently read about how Sam and his soon-to-be wife, Tiffany, were building a home less than a mile down the road from Roman, so their families could be together during off-season. “That’s nice,” he said sarcastically.
Turning the radio off, Sam grinned. “Let’s just get this out. You’re not happy about being here.”
One of the things Brooks liked best about Dumont was that he didn’t deal in niceties for very long. He liked to get straight to the point, which Brooks could deal with a lot better than pulled punches. “You’re right. I don’t want to be here. But you had Jake tell me you were pretty much going to bench me if I didn’t come. I had to leave Florida because of some pet project you have? That’s bull.” There. He’d said it.
