by Elise Faber
Block & Tackle
A Sports Romance Anthology
With stories from
Elise Faber, Stephanie Fournet & Kristin Vayden
Blue Tulip Publishing
www.bluetulippublishing.com
Copyright © 2017 ELISE FABER, STEPHANIE FOURNET & KRISTIN VAYDEN
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
BLOCK & TACKLE
A SPORTS ROMANCE ANTHOLOGY
OFFSIDES
Copyright © 2017 ELISE FABER
OFF GUARD
Copyright © 2017 STEPHANIE FOURNET
OFF LIMITS
Copyright © 2017 KRISTIN VAYDEN
ISBN-13: 978-1-946061-11-9
ISBN-10: 1-946061-11-5
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Formatting by Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction
Table of Contents
FRONT MATTER
OFFSIDES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
OFF GUARD
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
EPILOGUE
OFF LIMITS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ALSO FROM BLUE TULIP PUBLISHING
OFFSIDES
by Elise Faber
CHAPTER ONE
IF EVER A time existed for a curse word, this was it.
Becca was five minutes late. Five entire minutes late, and the little screen on the printer was flashing at her with a paper jam.
“Becca! Those files need to be on my desk now.”
Devon Scott. CEO of Prestige Media Group and her boss. Her very demanding boss.
Hence, curse words. Particularly the four-letter one Becca saved for only very special occasions.
The one that began with “f” and ended with a perfectly timed and heartfelt “uck.”
Yeah. The word pretty much summed up her day. No — her week. Heck, if she was already cursing, it might as well sum up her month.
She yanked the tray from the printer, cleared the jam, and shoved it back in. The printer whirred to life, spitting out pages in a flurry.
“Becca!”
“Coming,” she called before dropping her voice and muttering, “Hurry up. Hurry up.”
“Becca. So help me—”
The last page dropped into the tray. She snatched it up, fit it into the proper place of the file, and all but sprinted through the doorway of her boss’s office.
“The printer—” she began.
Devon’s eyes locked with hers, and Becca shivered. Not for the same reason that most people did when they met Mr. Scott. Not because his cool, businesslike expression was attributed to icicles or frozen seawater.
She shivered because of chocolate ice cream.
His eyes conjured thoughts of delicious, rich, melt-on-her-tongue sweetness that made her insides go all squirmy.
And along came that four-letter word again, blaring across her mind.
One winged brow arched, dark brown and perfectly formed. It made a crease on Devon’s forehead, a rainbow of little lines leading up, up, up almost to his hairline.
Which was the precise moment Becca realized she’d said that curse word aloud.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, smacking herself in the face with the manila cardstock in the process and dropping every single paper she’d so painstakingly fought the printer over.
This was not happening. Devon didn’t allow mistakes and… she sighed. She really needed this job.
The phone rang, and Becca lowered the folder, reaching out a hand to grab the receiver.
Devon beat her to it, snatching the phone up and snapping a terse “Hello” into it. But his eyes didn’t leave hers as the conversation went on. They sharpened, holding her in place as effectively as handcuffs—
And oh God. Now her cheeks were burning.
Trust her mind to take her straight on a journey to FSOG.
She bent, hurriedly collecting and ordering the papers before gingerly setting the file on his desk and beginning to back from the room.
Warm fingers on her wrist stopped her.
Becca’s eyes flashed down, and she shivered again. Tanned skin against porcelain. Thick, strong fingers dwarfing hers.
Devon Scott was a former hockey player, and it was easy to see why. He was every inch an athlete.
Every. Inch.
Oh good Lord.
She bit her lip and looked away.
“I need to go,” Devon said into the phone and hung up, hardly waiting a beat before allowing the receiver to drop.
It clattered and fell to the floor, but Becca barely noticed.
Because Devon was walking around the desk, his grip on her wrist tightening when she tried to slip free.
She always forgot how tall he was. Most of the time Devon was sitting behind his desk when they interacted. But like this — he towered over her, her head having to tilt back so she could look at his face — Becca felt very petite indeed.
And for a woman who was nearly six feet, that was unusual.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, calloused fingertips running along the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist.
“Nothing.” She tugged her arm, silently telling him to release her.
He didn’t.
In fact, he leaned closer, bringing his face near hers, trailing the scent of pine and spice and man alongside.
“I said what’s wrong?”
The question made every part of her body go all tingly. Head to toes — and in between — each part heated and perked to attention.
Those parts told Becca to grab two fistfuls of Devon’s white button-down and rip. To pop the row of buttons and bury her face in the broad expanse of his chest.
But she had some pride. And a backbone, for that matter.
So she lifted her chin and said again, “Nothing.”
His hand wove into her hair, scattering the messy ponytail she’d thrown her brown locks into that morning as she’d run out the door behind schedule.
First the coffee shop for Devon’s large latte — she couldn’t abide the stuff. Then the bagel shop for his breakfast. Then rushing across town to open the office by five-thirty.
Her life was about making his easier.
And that was totally fine. She was the disposable half of their working relationship. She knew the score.
Until she didn’t.
> One strong arm snaked around her waist and tugged her flush to his chest. The chest she’d admired for so long, the chest that made her want to lick… and squeeze… and stroke…
She didn’t have a chance.
He kissed her.
His mouth was firm and insistent, his tongue parting her lips to sneak inside, teasing hers until she broke free of her shock and kissed him back.
His hand slid lower and gripped her butt, pulling her somehow closer as he backed her up against his desk and proceeded to kiss the smart right out of her.
Buttons on her blouse came unfastened, his belt unbuckled, her skirt hitched higher, and—
“Becca!”
CHAPTER TWO
BECCA SAT UP and blinked, struggling to comprehend the chaos that was her workstation. Stacks of paper, a rainbow of Post-its, pens, paperclips, and files were strewn across the surface.
Her gut twisted.
She was in the office. She’d fallen asleep at her desk.
It had been a dream.
Acute disappointment swelled within her, even as she chastised herself. Of course it had been a dream.
Devon Scott would never look at her twice. She was a lowly assistant and not even his normal one, since she was just filling in for Clarice, who would be returning from maternity leave in less than a month.
“Becca?”
Chocolate-brown eyes bored into hers. They were liquid and hot, but that was probably just her imagination, considering she’d just been fantasizing about him taking her on his desk.
“I-I’m sor—”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “You’ve got…”
She reached up and — Why was this her life?! — removed the paper from her cheek.
The paper that had a lovely drool spot on it.
Devon rested one hip against her desk. “You don’t have to be here so early, you know.”
“I’m okay. I’m not tired—” She yawned then sighed in defeat. “I just had a late night.”
He studied her for a long moment. “You look exhausted.” His hand rose, and she swallowed hard, watching those tanned fingers come close to her face. Goose bumps prickled on her arms. After her dream, she could almost feel his roughened skin brushing against hers.
Then his hand dropped back to his lap, and the spell broke, the anticipation that had been tightening every nerve of her body gone in an instant.
That buildup and the subsequent letdown were like a balloon popping.
And she was just as disappointed as a kid whose brand new, helium-filled sphere of latex happiness was suddenly gone.
“I’ll sleep better tonight.”
Devon studied her then nodded. “I’ll have Pascal patrol your house tonight.”
Pascal was a bodyguard, Devon’s security detail since he was so recognizable amongst the mainstream public. Shattering records on the ice and dating famous actresses off it would do that to a fella.
And great. Now she sounded like her grandmother.
“Mick hasn’t called again,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Mick was an ex-boyfriend, and the reason — scratch that, reasons — he was an ex were vast. In addition to the whole leaving-the-seat-up situation, playing video games at all hours of the night, not having a job, and moving into her apartment without paying a cent of rent, Mick had been controlling as hell.
She didn’t do controlling. Not anymore.
So she’d changed the locks, neatly packed Mick’s things, and put them in a storage locker before texting him the combination.
Which had gone over as well as she had expected.
But Becca had it covered; she wasn’t a woman who was easily bullied… at least, not any longer.
It was just unfortunate that Devon had overheard Mick threatening her on the phone.
“Pascal will be nearby.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was gone, sweeping into his office and closing the door with a decisive click.
Becca rested her head on her desk, tapped it against the wooden surface. Then again. And perhaps one more time.
Just for good measure.
Heaven save her from stubborn men and impossible bosses.
The intercom beeped, and she reached a hand up to press the answer button. “Yes?” The word may or may not have been slightly muffled given that her face was still resting against her desk.
“I need those files.” A pause. “Preferably minus the drool stains.
CHAPTER THREE
DEVON’S MORNING FLEW by. There were never enough hours in the day to catch up on emails, to return phone calls, to massage athletes’ egos.
But it wasn’t the ever-growing to-do list that was hijacking his thoughts.
No, that distraction came in the form of the five-foot-eleven goddess who’d taken to running his life… with better results than when he did.
She was blonde, statuesque, had legs for days, and a steel trap of a mind that never seemed to forget anything, appointment, name, conference call, food preference, or otherwise.
But he couldn’t wait for Clarice to come back.
Because he was having a really hard time focusing on anything except attempting to get those gorgeous legs wrapped around his waist, especially when he’d heard the breathy way she’d moaned his name earlier.
Cheeks flushed, hair mussed, Becca had been a tantalizing mix of cute and sexy as hell. He’d been tempted to let her sleep, the circles beneath her eyes blatantly obvious.
Then she’d said his name, and he’d gone hard as a rock. The simmering attraction he’d always struggled to ignore in her presence had boiled to the surface.
Not going to happen. He was her boss… and damn he wouldn’t mind playing secretary with Becca.
And speak of the devil—
“Devon,” her voice chirped through the intercom, “Sam Roberts is here.”
He got to his feet and was through the door in an instant, guilty conscience in full effect.
Boss. He was her boss.
“Hey, Sam. It’s good to see—” he began, his chest going tight when he saw his old friend perched on the corner of Becca’s desk, trademark smile in place. And she was smiling back. Sam could charm the pantyhose off a little old lady and still get her to make him cookies. “Roberts,” he said, ice all up in his tone and not giving a damn.
Sam raised a brow but didn’t move from Becca’s desk.
“As I was saying—” His friend did that smoldering thing that reduced women to puddles of goo. “—I know the best little Italian place, and I’ll pay.”
Becca’s eyes flicked to his, a flash of brilliant blue, the worry in their depths easily visible. “Well, as much as I hate to pass up a free meal, I’ve got a ton of work to catch up on.”
Sam flashed him a knowing look. “Yes, Devon here is a workaholic, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.”
“I don’t mind,” she said and made a shooing motion with her hands. “Now go. Devon’s got a conference call in twenty-three minutes.”
His friend rose from the desk and extended his hand as though to shake Becca’s. But when her palm met his, the bastard lifted it to his mouth and kissed the back.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Becca.”
The blush on her cheeks was as bright as a fire engine and… Devon wanted to be the one to put it there.
Idiot.
Whirling around, he strode into his office, collapsing into his chair and waiting for Sam to shut the door before he dropped his head into his hands.
“What the fuck was that?” Sam asked.
He sat back, thrust a hand through his hair. “That was my new and terrifyingly efficient assistant.”
“Which is not what I was asking, and you know it.” Sam took the seat across from him, crossing his arms and waiting with an expectant expression on his face.
“Dude, it’s nothing,” Devon said and pulled out a file. “Now about this project—”
“Cluck.”
Devon sigh
ed. Here they went.
“You’re so freaking—”
“Cluck.”
“—im—”
“Cluck.”
“—mature.”
“Cluck.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “Becca is hot as hell, and I’d rather have her anywhere than sitting out front of my office, distracting me and the entirety of the male populace at PMG. But I can’t fire her, and Clarice will be back in a month, so I’ve just got to endure it.”
Devon’s heart pounded, the sexual frustration that had been eating him up for the last five months roiling below the surface of his skin.
He needed to get laid.
And not with his secretary.
Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the knock at the door cut him off.
Before Devon could call out in answer, the door opened, and Becca walked in.
She didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. Her body language said it all: raised chin, averted eyes, stiff and slightly slumped shoulders.
She reached across the desk, still not looking at him, and pressed a button on his phone.
The intercom button.
And fuuuuck him.
She turned and walked out of the office, quietly shutting the plank of wood. God, it would have been so much easier if she’d been the type of woman who slammed doors. Who pitched fits and was high drama.
But she wasn’t.
And that was a big part of Devon’s problem.
Because she was so freaking likeable.
He lurched to his feet and started after her when Sam’s voice stopped him. “Slippery slope, bud. Watch out for it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BECCA GRABBED HER purse, a stack of files, and hightailed it out of the office. It was too early for lunch, but she was beyond caring.
Devon wanted her gone.
So she’d disappear.
Three flights of stairs down and she was in the lobby. Twenty-seven strides and she was through the front door. Her car was parked six spots down.
Except her car wasn’t the only thing in the sixth stall.
Mick was alongside her Toyota Corolla, a can of black spray paint in one hand as he wrote something…
Not something, but an obscenity, and it wasn’t the special four-lettered “f” one she used sparingly, but the one that rhymed with a punt, as in football — not that she was opposed to punting the jerk through the goalposts of life.
