PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3)

by Daphne Loveling

  PLAYERS

  Springville Rockets: The Complete Series

  Daphne Loveling

  Contents

  Copyright

  About my mailing list

  GETTING THE DOWN

  1. Marinda

  2. Jake

  3. Marinda

  4. Jake

  5. Marinda

  6. Jake

  7. Marinda

  8. Jake

  9. Marinda

  10. Jake

  11. Marinda

  12. Jake

  13. Marinda

  14. Jake

  15. Marinda

  16. Jake

  17. Marinda

  18. Jake

  19. Marinda

  20. Jake

  21. Marinda

  22. Jake

  23. Marinda

  24. Jake

  25. Marinda

  26. Jake

  27. Marinda

  28. Jake

  29. Marinda

  Epilogue

  SNAP COUNT

  1. Ivy

  2. Knox

  3. Ivy

  4. Knox

  5. Ivy

  6. Knox

  7. Ivy

  8. Knox

  9. Ivy

  10. Knox

  11. Ivy

  12. Knox

  13. Ivy

  14. Knox

  15. Ivy

  16. Knox

  17. Ivy

  18. Knox

  19. Ivy

  20. Knox

  21. Ivy

  22. Knox

  23. Ivy

  24. Knox

  25. Ivy

  26. Knox

  27. Ivy

  28. Ivy

  29. Knox

  Epilogue

  ZONE BLITZ

  1. Mason

  2. Anna

  3. Mason

  4. Anna

  5. Mason

  6. Anna

  7. Mason

  8. Anna

  9. Mason

  10. Anna

  11. Mason

  12. Anna

  13. Mason

  14. Anna

  15. Anna

  16. Mason

  17. Anna

  18. Anna

  19. Mason

  20. Anna

  21. Mason

  22. Anna

  23. Anna

  24. Mason

  25. Anna

  26. Mason

  27. Anna

  28. Mason

  29. Anna

  30. Mason

  31. Anna

  32. Mason

  33. Anna

  34. Mason

  35. Mason

  Epilogue

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  About Daphne Loveling

  Books By Daphne Loveling

  Copyright 2018 Daphne Loveling

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  One of my favorite things about writing is the relationships I build with readers. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offerings, and exclusive bonus material to readers who subscribe to my mailing list.

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  GETTING THE DOWN

  A Bad Boy Sports Romance - Springville Rockets Book 1

  1

  Marinda

  “Go ahead,” I groan into the phone. “Just say it.”

  “Me?” comes the innocent-sounding reply from the other end. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Oh, come on, Kate, just get it over with,” I sigh. “I know you’re dying to.”

  “Well,” my best friend begins. “Look, I don’t want to say I told you so. But that’s what you get for dating a guy named Collin.”

  “What?” I laugh in disbelief. “Are you seriously saying that all guys named Collin are jerks?”

  “Not all of them, probably,” she says, a hint of doubt in her voice. “But personally? All the ones I can think of are total douchebags.”

  I shake my head — not that she can see me do it — and laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Kate’s theories about people’s names are something I’m well-acquainted with. She can hold forth for hours on the relative personality traits of Jennys, Chads, Emilys, and Jessicas.

  Luckily for me, she only knows one Marinda.

  “You say that now, Rinn,” she says with conviction, “But if you’d just listen to me, you could avoid this kind of thing in the future. What you need is a nice Dave. Those guys are rock solid.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” I say as the light changes to green. I step off the curb to cross the street.

  “So, what are you going to do for your birthday tonight, now that you and Collin are over?” she asks me.

  I scoff. “Probably nothing different — which is nothing. Collin didn’t even remember it was my birthday. Which at least made it easier to break up with him, I guess.”

  Through the phone, I can almost hear Kate nodding sagely. “That’s the way to look at it. Optimistically.”

  “Yeah. I’m awesome at putting a positive spin on finding out my boyfriend’s been cheating on me,” I snort.

  My eight month-old relationship with Collin Dansie came to an abrupt end this morning, when his cell phone rang while he was in the shower. I was getting dressed at the time, so I went over to the nightstand glanced at the screen so I could go into the bathroom and tell him who had called. The name “Nikki” wasn’t one I recognized, and I hesitated a moment as the phone stopped buzzing. A second later came the text that would show me why I didn’t know who “Nikki” was.

  U comin over 2nite sexy? i cant wait to c u again

  The text was followed shortly by a picture that I’ll never be able to unsee. As I remember it now, I wonder idly what Kate would say about the breast size of girls named Nikki. If the ones I just happened upon were any indication, they are clearly above average, and possibly fake.

  By the time Collin was out of the shower, I’d already put all the stuff he’d left in my apartment over the course of our relationship into a plastic bag I’d fished out of the trash. The bag had been used to double-wrap some fish I’d bought the night before. I figured with his questionable housekeeping and laundry habits, by the time he bothered to take his stuff out of it, his whole apartment would smell like rotting seafood. As soon as he came out of the bathroom, I handed him the bag, his clothes, and his phone, which still sported the picture of Nikki’s alarmingly large boobs.

  Now, an hour later, I’m rushing to make it to work on time after a blowout of epic proportions that I ended by literally pushing Collin half-clothed out the door. I’m angry and upset, yes. But truth be told, we’d recently started talking about moving in together, and the thought of it had been making me feel more sick to my stomach than excited. More than anything, I feel like I’ve dodged a huge bullet by finding out that Collin was a cheating asshole now — before breaking up with him would have involved dealing with a broken apartment lease and figuring out whose stuff was whose.

  As I hur
ry down the sidewalk to my office, I’m just hoping that the pileup of paperwork I’ll be facing this morning will manage to keep my mind off the eight months I’ve just wasted with Collin the douchebag.

  “I can’t believe that loser didn’t even remember your birthday,” Kate is saying in disgust. “On the bright side, that means you can come out with me tonight! Let’s get all tarted up and I’ll take you out on the hunt for a rebound guy.”

  I groan. “Ugh, Kate, hooking up with some stranger is the last thing I want to do right now.”

  But Kate is undeterred. “Come on. You know that the best way to get over someone…”

  “Is to get under someone,” I finish for her. Kate’s philosophy on breakups runs completely counter to mine. “Gross. The last thing I want to do is replace one jerk with another. Give me some time to build up my resilience before going back out into the cesspool that is the dating world, okay?”

  “Who said anything about dating?” she replies cheerfully. “I’m talking about fucking.”

  “Your delicate phrasing is astonishing.”

  “Pssh,” she replies. “Whatever. Anyway, you’re coming out with me tonight. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  Sighing, I relent. I definitely don’t want a hookup, but I also don’t really relish the thought of spending the evening at home by myself on my birthday. “Okay. But just a girls’ night. No trying to set me up with every guy you see.”

  “Scouts honor,” Kate says solemnly.

  “You were never a scout,” I point out.

  “Whatever,” she says again.

  I’ve arrived at the headquarters of the Give A Wish Foundation. “I just got to work,” I tell her as I push through the doors. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Call me when you get home tonight,” Kate says. “I’ll pick you up at your place. And wear something slutty.”

  The Give A Wish Foundation is a non-profit charitable organization that grants the wishes of children with life-threatening medical conditions. As interim director, my job is to make sure we are operating well and in accordance with our mission, and to answer to the board of directors — chaired and hand-picked by my boss, Rose Fowler, who founded Give A Wish. I’ve been working at the foundation for four and a half years, ever since I first graduated from college. I’ve steadily moved up the ranks, finally landing in my present position when the former director, Candace Lampert, took maternity leave after the birth of her first child, then decided to step down permanently. It’s exhausting work, with long hours, but it’s rewarding. If it weren’t for Rose’s unpredictable micromanaging, the job would be almost perfect.

  My day at the foundation passes mostly like any other day since I took over as interim director of Give A Wish. A couple of my colleagues bring in cupcakes for the office to celebrate my birthday, making me realize again what a crappy boyfriend Collin was, even above and beyond his cheating. A few of us even go out for lunch to one of my favorite little sandwich places in the neighborhood.

  I stay at the office a little later than usual to catch up on some paperwork that needed to be done before the end of the month. When I finally manage to get home at around seven-thirty, I text Kate, who immediately texts me back and tells me we’re going to Centro and to be ready at ten.

  Centro is one of the most popular nightclubs in Springville. It’s a local hotspot where the up-and-coming like to meet, to rub elbows and drop names. The occasional celebrity sighting at Centro gives it an air of exclusivity that makes the trendy twenty-something crowd of the city come back again and again. Given its popularity, getting into the club on a weekend is next to impossible unless you’re rich, beautiful, or both. But since today is a Wednesday, Kate is certain we’ll get in, and even though the prospect of a long wait in line doesn’t appeal to me at all, she’s so excited to take me there that I finally give in.

  Since going to clubs isn’t something I do very often, the choices of club-wear in my closet are pretty limited. But I know we have a better chance of them letting us in if we dress the part, so I figure I’m better off making an effort. I end up choosing my favorite little black dress, one that comes down just past mid-thigh and doesn’t show off so much cleavage that I feel self-conscious. I pair it with my favorite pair of flat, dressy sandals with a jeweled T-strap. They’re cute, they don’t kill my feet, and they’re comfortable enough to dance in. Grabbing a tiny sequined purse with spaghetti straps, I transfer my drivers license, phone, credit card and lipstick to it. By the time Kate texts me just before nine, I’m just finishing doing my makeup. I brush my dark, straight black hair until it’s glossy, deciding to wear it down instead of trying to work it into a complicated style.

  Outside my apartment building, I wave to the Red Jetta that’s just pulling up for me at the curb. “Hey,” I greet my friend as I open the passenger door and climb in.

  “Rinnie!” Kate cries. “Happy damn birthday, girl!” As she envelopes me in a big hug, a waft of her favorite perfume assaults my nostrils.

  Kate breaks the hug and reaches into her bag. “Here’s your present! Now let’s get going!” She hands me a small white jewelry box, about the size for a bracelet or a small watch. I open it, and inside is a cache of condoms.

  “You have to use one tonight,” she laughs. “At least one.”

  I groan. “Kate, I am not going to pick up some guy at the club.”

  Kate pouts. “Then why are we going?” She tosses her red curls impatiently.

  “Look. Can we just go and have a good time, and not think about guys? Just promise me you won’t be foisting every hot male in the club on me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I promise,” she says, in a tone that means she has no intention of keeping her word.

  Even on a Wednesday, Centro is packed enough that we have to wait in line outside for a while. The bouncers at the entrance are checking for IDs, but also to make sure that only people worthy of Centro’s rarefied air get in. Luckily for us, women usually manage to make the cut, and ten minutes later, we’re inside the doors.

  Kate leans toward me, yelling over the music. “Drinks are on me. What do you want?”

  I decide on a champagne drink — more to celebrate dumping Collin than to mark my birthday — and tell her to order me a bellini. I stand off to the side, watching her head to the bar in her tight, blue sequined dress, then take a moment to scan the crowd. The A-listers of Springville, and people who wanted to be mistaken for A-listers, laugh and preen self-consciously, their gestures showing that they know or hope they’re being watched. This whole thing is so not my scene. I’m already kind of regretting letting Kate drag me here, but I resolve to try to have fun and ignore all the conspicuous displays of attention-whoring going on around me.

  Kate comes back with our drinks and hands me a champagne flute. “To the birthday girl,” she cries. “Twenty-six is gonna be an epic year!”

  “I’d settle for keeping my job and not getting cheated on,” I call back. We clink our glasses together and drink.

  “Well, you can’t get cheated on with a hookup,” Kate winks. She looks around the room. “There’s a couple of guys over there by the bar who aren’t bad,” she says, nodding her head. I glance over toward where she’s looking. Two well-dressed guys are talking animatedly to each other, beers in their hands. They’re both good-looking in a really studied way, their hairstyles so perfectly coiffed that it makes me think their bathrooms probably boast more styling products than mine.

  “Eh,” I shrug. “I think I’ll take a pass.”

  “Oh, come on, Rinn!” she urges. “They’re both alone, they’re hot, and they look like they’d buy us drinks. Let’s at least go flirt with them for a while.”

  I’m about to open my mouth to respond when a loud shout from the other side of the room makes me turn my head. A group of six large, muscular guys are holding court just outside the VIP section. They’re dressed casually, in jeans and T-shirts, and clearly don’t give a damn about the dress code of the club. Surrounded
by a gaggle of gorgeous but overly made-up girls, two of them are engaged in some sort of arm-wrestling competition. As I watch, a bearded guy with short, dark hair triumphantly smashes the hand of his opponent down on the table, knocking a cluster of empty beer bottles to the floor. The others in the group go wild, high-fiving each other and fist-pumping as the girls giggle and clutch at the winner’s biceps.

  “God,” I say to Kate, wrinkling my nose. “They’re acting like they’re at a dive bar.”

  She’s right. They’re acting like assholes who don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about them. Even so, I can’t quite turn away from the bearded guy. He carries himself with the masculine grace of a guy who is completely at ease in his body — someone aware and completely in control of his muscular power. Even in faded jeans and a dark T-shirt, it’s obvious that he’s pure muscle, with wide, ripped shoulders that taper sharply in a V toward a tight, hard stomach. My stomach does a little butterfly flip as I imagine what it would feel like to slowly slide the T-shirt up and run my fingers over the skin covering his rock-solid abs. In a sort of daze, I wonder how far down his low-slung jeans would hang on his waist, and whether I’d manage to get the slightest glimpse of his treasure trail…