Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology

by Adriana Locke

  Lucy: But it’s true.

  Me: Fine. What’s MY twin superpower?

  Lucy: I don’t know. You’re good with small animals, being fake Lucy, and fake breaking up with boys?

  Me: Haha, very funny.

  Lucy: So just tell me this: if you for sure dumped his ass, why is he messaging me??

  Me: Can you not say “dumped his ass”?

  Lucy: Does it bother you when I say dump?

  Me: Kind of.

  Lucy: Why? Don’t tell me you feel bad.

  Lucy: How did the dumping go down?

  Me: We were in the parking lot, talking, and I said dating him wasn’t working out, and then I got in my car and he got in his car.

  Lucy: Did you actually see him get in his car?

  Me: No? Wait, why does that matter? The job was over so I drove away.

  Lucy: You had ONE job Amelia, one. He wants to go out again, so…you tell me what we should do. I don’t like him.

  Me: STOP YELLING AT ME, and stop saying WE. He isn’t my boyfriend.

  Lucy: He wasn’t mine either! And why are you freaking out?

  Lucy: Amelia, tell me the truth—do you like him?

  My fingers hover over the keys, thumbs frozen.

  Me: I think he’s nice.

  Lucy: Nice, LOL. I bet he’d love hearing that. Nice is so boring. HE is boring.

  Me: I don’t think he’s boring.

  Lucy: That’s because YOU’RE boring.

  Me: Give me one more night to break up with him. I’ll do a better job, I promise—although I’M POSITIVE I already did. He even said the words “breaking up”. 100%

  Lucy: Darts. Saturday night. 8:00

  Me: Fine. I’ll be there.

  Lucy: Okay, but can I just say something? Darts are SO WEIRD.

  9

  Amelia

  Why did I agree to this?

  I’ve broken up with this guy once already, in what were the worst five minutes of my life.

  So why did I agree to meet him? Because I, Amelia Constance Ryan, am a glutton for punishment and cannot get Dante Amado out of my damn mind. Is it crazy that he’s all I can think about?

  I’m dying to see him.

  He’s got me longing for things I didn’t know I wanted, and now I completely understand why my sister dates around.

  It’s been fun. And sexy. And a whirlwind.

  Dante is great, and I like who I am when I’m with him.

  It’s true, we didn’t spend that much time laughing, but to say there was no chemistry is a lie.

  I was instantly attracted to someone my sister is dating and I hate it. I’ve never been jealous of her, but I’m jealous now, and I’m an idiot because I walked here, knowing he would be forced to drive me home at the end of this farce.

  Does that make me a terrible human being?

  Or just human?

  He’s easy to find when I walk in, hovering near the door, waiting—for me. Dante straightens to his full height when he sees me. I’m bundled up in my coat because it’s insanely cold out, and he smiles at the sight of it.

  He smiles at the sight of me.

  I blush despite myself, beginning the process of unbuttoning the navy blue wool jacket, the toggles pulling free one by one.

  It slides off like a robe, falls out of my hands and onto the floor.

  Dash and I both bend to grab it at the same time but he beats me to it. We rise slowly, eyes connecting. Faces inches apart.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself.”

  “Thanks for meeting me here.”

  “Uh, sure.” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, nervous about what to expect. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again after I broke up with you.”

  “Did you though?” His smile is pleasant, placating in an almost patronizing way.

  “Are you trying to make me lose my mind? Because I remember our conversation very clearly, and we broke up, so I guess I’m confused about why you want to see me again.”

  Holy shit—what if he’s some roid-rager, or a psycho who’s going to start stalking my sister?

  “I’m not trying to make you think you’re losing your mind. I’m just questioning whether or not it was you that broke up with me.”

  I sigh. Some guys have such fragile egos. “I’m okay with you telling people you’re the one who broke up with me. That’s fine, however you wanna do it.”

  “You’re totally missing my point.” He winks, lips twisting into a grin—a smirk, really—eyes shining with mirth.

  Something about the way he’s observing me makes my stomach take a nosedive, and I actually lay my hand over my abdomen, pressing down to quell my nerves—to no avail.

  Dante begins the short walk between us. Now he’s standing directly in front of me, hands reaching to grasp my wrists, gently stroking with his thumbs. I glance down between our bodies, at our joined hands, then back up again.

  “Dante, we broke up.” I can barely choke out the words.

  His dark gaze coolly assesses me. “Did we?”

  He is going to make me insane.

  Under the circumstances, I absolutely shouldn’t be here tonight, shouldn’t be seeing him again, the many reasons so numerous I can’t resist tallying them up in my mind:

  He was my sister’s boyfriend

  The boyfriend I broke up with for her

  While pretending to be her

  And ended up liking him

  A lot

  With a stupid amount of lust thrown in for good measure

  He makes me crazy

  I can’t stop thinking about him

  God, look at him staring at me

  He was my sister’s boyfriend

  “I reserved us the dartboard in back but we’re going to make this quick.”

  For real, he still wants to go through the motions of playing darts? Is this guy unhinged? I’m his ex-girlfriend!

  “Uh, okay.”

  “You throw one and I’ll throw one, then we can leave.”

  My eyes narrow doubtfully. “You brought me here to shoot one dart? Is this some kind of ploy to get back together? Because it’s not going to work.”

  Dante busies himself by opening the container of darts, laying two on the table. “I have no intention of getting back together with Lucy.”

  I cross my arms, slightly irritated he’s going through so much effort to win my sister back. “Do you do this with all your ex-girlfriends?”

  “I don’t have any.” He laughs, picking up a dart from the table and handing it to me then grabbing one for himself. “And we both know you’re not my ex-girlfriend.”

  “Uh, okay…”

  He gestures for me to step up to throw. “Ladies first.”

  I’m so confused that I actually move forward without arguing, glancing back to study him before facing the board, the long heavy metal dart weighted in my fingers.

  What the heck is going on?

  Closing one eye to concentrate, I instinctively bite down on my tongue. The dart releases from trembling fingers, heading straight for the red outer double ring. Sticks in and hangs there proudly.

  My hand is still shaking when I lower my hand, stepping off the duct tape on the floor so Dash can take his turn.

  “Looks like someone isn’t as calm and collected as they thought they were.” His mouth isn’t smiling but his eyes certainly are, palms rolling a black dart between them, eyeing the board shrewdly. He points the dart at me.

  “If I get a bull’s-eye with this, you spend the rest of the night with me, and I get to kiss you.”

  “Are you insane?”

  He ignores my question, asking one of his own. “Do we have a deal?”

  The odds of him actually hitting the target dead center, on the first try, without warming up, are slim, so I nod my head in acquiescence. Plus, if he makes the shot, I’ll finally know what it’s like to have those lips on mine, even if it’s just once. I deserve it.

  “Yes, we have a deal.”

&
nbsp; “Shake on it?”

  I stare down at the large hand he extends, that calloused palm and the rough pads of his fingers. Glide my hand across his flesh, shivering when our skin connects.

  It’s positively electric.

  We both shiver.

  I give him a limp shake, eager to free myself from his grasp, tucking my hand away for safekeeping, the tingling sensation lingering far too long to be comfortable.

  Far too long to be forgettable.

  Dante steps in front of the dartboard, plucks my small silver arrow off, sets it aside, stands on the marker taped to the floor. Focuses on the target against the wall, homing in on that red, round center, leaning with one leg kicked behind him dramatically. His strong arm draws out the action of tossing the tiny missile.

  My expressive eyes get wider when the dart lands the bull’s-eye, heart damn near having palpitations when his heels pivot and he shrugs his shoulders as if to say, Golly gee, look what I did!

  “Did you just hustle me?”

  His shrug is easy. “Beginner’s luck?”

  “Liar.”

  Dante laughs. “You should talk.”

  We’re staring at one another as if in a showdown, unwilling to bend.

  This is getting awkward. “Maybe we should leave?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Can you hold on one second?” Removing his cell from the back pocket of his jeans, he taps open the camera. Positions it so I’m in the background of his selfie. Clicks.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking a picture so we can always remember this moment.”

  It’s official: Dante is crazy.

  He plucks his dart from the board, setting it in the box on the table. Grabs my jacket off the nearby chair then clasps my hand, tugging me through the crowded bar, past the throng, until we’re shoving through the front door.

  We stand under the fluorescent light on the side of the brick building. It cast an unflattering, eerie glow.

  I glance around, creeped out by the stark surroundings, wanting to leave, to go anywhere but here.

  “Where should we go?”

  Dante stuffs his hands into his pockets, shoulders slouching. “I hate asking you this, but would you mind coming back to my place? There won’t be any distractions and we need to be alone.”

  “You want me to come to your place…to talk.”

  “Unless you’re more comfortable at your place? I just think wherever we go, it needs to be just us.” Dante shifts on his heels, shooting me a pointed look. “Don’t you have shit you want to confess?”

  Confess? Why is he putting it like that?

  He thinks I’m my twin, my goofy, carefree sister, who by all accounts doesn’t have a care in the world, who dates two, three guys at once, letting me do her dirty work for her.

  Falling for her latest conquest is not my idea of a good time.

  I’m a fool for standing here, a damn fool for coming.

  “Let me get this straight: you want me to come back to your place even though I broke up with you? What are you, a glutton for punishment?” I let the sarcasm slip.

  “I know I’m an idiot. I’ve done some really stupid shit in my life and chasing you just might top the list, but I like you, so yeah, I guess you could say I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  My nostrils flare, jealously flaring up. “You don’t even know me.”

  “You’re right, I don’t.” His head tilts to the side. “Whose fault is that?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve been lying to me—but guess what? I like you anyway.”

  My mouth gapes open, and I struggle for words. “I…”

  We’re under the glowing neon sign of Mad Dog Jacks, still standing under the bright, fluorescent light, arguing, it would seem.

  “What would m-make you think I’ve been lying?”

  “Let’s not do this here.” His shoulders rise and fall casually.

  “Just say what you came here to say,” I press. Then add, “Please,” for good measure, practically begging.

  His chin goes up. “What’s your name?”

  “M-My what?”

  “¿Cuál es tu nombre?” What’s your name?

  My heart—oh my God, my heart is beating, thumping so wildly inside my chest I actually raise my arm, resting my hand upon it like I’m about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I press down, breathing heavily in and out…in and out, grasping to get control of my voice before I speak.

  “Wh-What do you mean?” Playing dumb: one more thing Lucy and I have in common, although she’s always been better at it than I am.

  “You’re such a terrible actress.”

  I say nothing; I couldn’t possibly.

  Dante’s hands come out of his pockets so he can throw them in the air, frustration tangible, intense. “Would you just tell me! Tell me the truth. I’ve been really patient here, putting up with this twin bullshit.” He blows out a puff of air, trying to remain calm. “I know you’re pretending to be Lucy.”

  I feel my eyes go as wide as saucers.

  “Anyone with half a fucking brain can tell you’re not her, and I’ve been going out of my fucking mind.” His hands gesture around his head like his brain is exploding as he continues his rant. “Trying to figure out what to fucking do about this—pardon my French—because Jesus, I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me crazy that you won’t even say your name. Can’t you understand that?”

  My head nods slowly.

  “Can you please just be honest about who you are and put me out of my goddamn misery? I swear, I don’t even give a shit that you lied.” He pauses. “Well, I do, but I won’t be a dick about it. I’ll get over it. I’ve done nothing but dwell on this the past few days, so can you do me a favor and just be honest?”

  My breath is coming as hard and fast as his stream of words, steam rising from my mouth against the freezing pre-winter air. The tip of my nose is cold too, and probably getting red as we stand out here, gawking at each other.

  Those large hands of his get stuffed back into the pockets of his jeans, and he watches me expectantly. “Now it’s your turn to say something.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Let’s start with this: do you even give the slightest shit about me?”

  I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.

  “Yes.” My shoulders sag. “Yes I care.”

  He’s closer now, arms at his side. “¿Cuál es tu nombre?” What’s your name?

  “Yo me llamo,” I begin, voice cracking. “Amelia.”

  My name is Amelia.

  “Amelia,” he repeats back, my name a revelation. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “How…” I swallow hard. “How long have you known?”

  He falters briefly, choosing his words. “I knew something wasn’t right almost from the minute I saw you. There were a few things that stuck out that I couldn’t make sense of, then you smiled and I saw this.” He takes his finger and touches the spot below my lip, the one he wanted to touch while we danced at the concert, only this time when his finger presses into it, I’m able to enjoy it. “And your laugh is different.”

  It’s true. My laugh is different, lower and less chipper, not as flamboyant or brash as Lucy’s tends to be, mostly because she likes drawing attention to herself.

  “I have no idea what to say. We didn’t switch places to be malicious. I was trying to help my sister, and this is a first.”

  “What’s a first?”

  “We’ve never been busted.”

  “I didn’t bring you here to bust you for lying. I brought you here because I like you. I told your sister on the phone that I—”

  “Wait, you talked to my sister? She knows?”

  “Of course she does. I had to make sure she wasn’t going to be all fucking pissed when I pursued you.”

  “Pursue me?”

  “I said I was going to date the shit out of you, remember?”

/>   “Yes.” How could I forget? “What did Lucy say when you talked to her?”

  “She’s the one who helped me get you here.” He rakes a mammoth paw through his dark, silky hair. “After you broke up with me, I stood in that goddamn parking lot staring after you, wondering what the fuck had gone wrong, adding everything up in my head. A few things you’d said didn’t make sense, so I went to Lucy’s Instagram feed.”

  My nod of understanding is slow. “And found our pictures.”

  He nods as well. “Yeah. That’s when I called her—from the parking lot, I might add—to see if she’d care if I wanted to date you, not her. She basically tripped over herself trying to unload me.” He laughs. “She really does not like me.”

  “But you don’t like her.”

  “Not at all—I like you.”

  Swoon!

  Nothing this romantic has ever happened to me before, ever, never in my life, and I doubt it will again.

  “I’m thinking we should get out of here. I’m freezing my ass off.”

  “I’d like that.” I close the space between us, letting my hands brush up his chest. “You know what else I’d like? Kissing you.”

  He dips his head a few inches so our mouths are a breath apart. “Is that so?”

  “I feel like we’ve waited forever, don’t you?”

  “It’s really only been a week, Amelia.”

  God it sounds so good hearing him say my name.

  Mine.

  “Only one of the best and worst weeks of my life.”

  “Sometimes the anticipation is the best part of playing the game, don’t you think? The expectation, the tension leading up to the big play.”

  “Is that what you think this was? A game?” I’m trying to be flirtatious, but I don’t think it’s going very well; he scrunches up his nose.

  “No. I don’t think either of you were skilled enough to keep it going that long. You seriously suck at method acting.” He grabs my hand, and I feel butterflies. He kisses my forehead.

  Ugh.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  I go, willingly.

  “Your friends aren’t going to think this is crazy, right?”

  We’re outside on the large front porch of the baseball house, about to go inside. Dante’s left hand is poised to pull the screen door open, foot propped on the threshold, his right hand gripping mine.