Infraction (Players Game Book 2)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  And Jax? Well, he was the type of guy who had his shit together and on lockdown; he’d see right through my lame attempts at trying to make him feel better.

  “She’s been out of the country. That’s a lot of news to dump on her first week back, man, and my dad wanted her to have that time—Kinsey needs that time, she deserves it.”

  Something about the way he said that made me pause.

  She deserved it?

  Jax’s jaw clenched.

  Silence overtook the room.

  He was still staring at the door with his laser vision like he was waiting for it to open or maybe disappear altogether. “My dad should be fine.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “One more round of chemo,” he said in a hollow voice.

  “How long does that take?” I had a feeling he wanted to talk. And I felt like a bastard for thinking of every excuse in the book to bolt.

  Still staring at the door, Jax gave a noncommittal shrug. “A month, maybe two. We’ll be playing the Pilots again.” He gave me a serious nod and popped his knuckles. “Good quarterback, strong special teams, heard they picked up that dickhead Silva.”

  “Silva can kiss my ass.” I felt my body visibly relax. Football I could talk about. Slowly I made my way toward him then stepped directly in his line of vision. “Besides, he’s only fast when he’s not out partying all hours, and we all know that his discipline is total shit.”

  He nodded, staring through me, toward the door . . . toward his sister. Damn it.

  “God. Football. Family—Kinsey.” He gulped, finally locking eyes with me while a muscle ticked down his neck. “That’s how I deal with shit. They don’t usually mix, man. I have to compartmentalize to concentrate, then I feel like a complete dick for having to do that. I just, I can’t look at the whole picture all at once. It’s the same with plays, I have to look at each possible outcome then back at the whole picture and dissect. And with my dad, that means—”

  “You look at the end.”

  “Yeah.” His voice cracked. “I do.”

  My heart splintered a bit.

  I knew what it was like to lose a parent.

  There were no words in the English language to describe how much life it sucked out of a person—how it still hurt, years later, how you still heard that person’s voice and woke up running into the kitchen only to realize that they weren’t ever coming back.

  I looked away. “I got you, you know that, right?”

  “Yeah, man.” He finally seemed to snap out of it. “I know.”

  “And I’ll take care of Kins, at least that’s one box you don’t have to open, alright?”

  Because I already opened, plundered, plunged, thrust—holy shit on fire, I was going to burn in hell.

  “You deal with what you gotta deal with and I’ll help with the rest.”

  “He broke her heart,” Jax added. “I’m not letting that happen again.”

  “You gonna lock her in her room again?”

  “If I have to.” He was dead serious, poor Kins.

  “I will literally suffocate you in your sleep” came Kinsey’s voice as she sauntered out of the room in spandex shorts tight enough to give me a heart attack and a tank top that left nothing to the imagination. “I’m going to go to the stadium to lift.”

  “The hell you are!” Jax roared.

  Here we go.

  She swiped a few tears. “It’s how I de-stress!” She grabbed her keys. “And we start practice in a week, I need to lose this!”

  She slapped her ass.

  I swear the hardest moment of my life occurred when I looked toward the ceiling rather than in the direction of the sound of her hand hitting spandex, though I probably lost points with God when I replayed the image of me doing the exact same thing until my palm was sore.

  “I can’t go with you.” Jax gritted his teeth. “I have film to go over.”

  And just like that, all eyes fell to me.

  And when I say all, Kinsey glared and silently gave me enough threatening looks to get her point across while Jax pleaded.

  Couldn’t win either way.

  “I should, uh, lift too.”

  “Gee, maybe we can have a bro-sesh and I can spot you.” She rubbed her hands together. “Oh wait, you can lift ten of me. Just let me do my thing, and you can go do what dumb football players do.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?” I took the bait.

  “Look pretty.” She winked at both of us.

  “Jax, she called us pretty.”

  “Don’t fight it.” She jerked the fridge open and grabbed a water bottle. “And if you’re coming to babysit, then I at least get to drive.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your car.” She dropped her keys on the counter and held out her hand. “Come on, give them up, baby. Or wait”—she tapped her chin—“I think I need a better nickname for you . . .” Her eyes looked evil. I didn’t like the look, well, most of me didn’t, other parts were on board, treacherous bastards. “Chicken Waffle.”

  “You can’t call him Chicken Waffle.”

  “I’m not.” She grinned. “He can be the chicken, I get to be the waffle.”

  The door nearly slammed her on the ass on the way out.

  “Better go after her.” Jax sighed. “She’s had five tickets.”

  “That’s not so—”

  “In the last year.”

  I groaned.

  And followed her out.

  Chapter Three

  KINSEY

  I told myself not to look at him directly in the eyes—something about his blue eyes against his mocha skin made girls like me turn to mush and say stupid things like “We should hang out sometime.” When I had no business hanging out with him at all, ever.

  Especially outside of our friend group.

  At least he was a much-needed distraction from the fact that my dad was going in for another treatment tomorrow, and that he was most likely going to be sick all day, and that he didn’t want to see me.

  Because he was so sick, so weak, he thought it would traumatize me.

  It was so unfair.

  And yet I couldn’t yell at him, because he was sick.

  I sent him a frustrated text only to get a heart back, like everything was fine in the world, when really he was getting injected with chemicals that were slowly killing off all the good parts inside of him.

  I gritted my teeth.

  “It’s a push start.” Miller’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “You have to push the button, Waffle.”

  I would not laugh.

  Or smile.

  Or give him even a hint that him using my ridiculous made-up name actually made me feel better.

  “Try not to be such a chicken, Chicken.” I put on my seat belt, pressed my foot against the brake, and started the car. A very gorgeous Mercedes-AMG SUV that felt like driving a really heavy tank that somehow still knew how to go fast.

  “Oh, the things I could do to you, baby,” I whispered.

  “The hell?” Miller jerkily put on his seat belt while I took the corner of the parking garage as if we were starring in the new Ocean’s movie.

  “Mmmm . . .” I nodded, running my hands down the wheel as we took another turn and then accelerated out of the garage down the street toward the first green light. I pressed down on the pedal harder. I could have sworn I heard Miller praying.

  “Didn’t know you were Catholic,” I murmured at the next stoplight.

  “Just converted.”

  “God bless you.” I grinned, finally checking him out of the corner of my eye. He was gripping the seat belt buckle with one hand like he was afraid it was going to pop out and holding the car door with the other. “Miller, it’s a tank, you aren’t going to fall out.”

  “With the way you drive, I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said through gritted teeth.

  I rolled my eyes and continued getting lost in my thoughts all the way to the stadium, pulling to a screeching halt in the semi-empty lot
and turning off the engine with a deep sigh. “That was fun.”

  “Fun,” Miller repeated in that deep voice. “Fun is going to the movies, having a drink, happy hour, football, championship games.” He snatched the keys from the middle of the console. “That was The Fast and the Furious without body doubles and stuntmen.”

  I shrugged. “Speed makes me feel better.”

  “Next time we’re walking,” he grunted, slamming the door after him like I was the offending party when he was the one who clearly didn’t believe in the safety of his own vehicle!

  “There won’t be a next time, Chicken.” I shrugged. “I’m more of a solo act. This whole dating thing is only to make sure Anderson Dickhead Harris doesn’t bark up the wrong tree and get his nuts cut off.”

  “Are you the tree in this scenario?” Miller grinned.

  “Don’t get too excited. Wouldn’t want your nuts to get caught in the line of fire too, Miller. You’ve seen my brother throw, he’s very accurate.”

  “That’s funny.” He snorted and slammed his hand against the door when I tried to jerk it open.

  Fine. I’d bite. “What is?”

  “You.”

  “Why am I funny?”

  Why was he so hot?

  Why?

  How was it fair that I gained weight?

  And he gained muscle?

  “You realize it would take one text to Jax.” He held up his phone with his free hand. What the heck did the guy eat for breakfast? The other hand was still pressed against the door, most likely with all 225 pounds of him backing it up. “Or one phone call—and possibly a drunken confession that you seduced me in Vegas—and this would all be over.”

  My eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “I didn’t seduce you.”

  “Didn’t you though?” He tilted his head while a cocky grin spread across his face.

  “I didn’t.” I opened then shut my mouth, only to open it again as fuzzy memories resurfaced. “We both went in for that kiss.”

  He leaned in until our faces were nearly touching. “Hmm, and whose bed were we in, Kins?”

  My mouth went dry. Even the way he said my name was sexy, I could feel the low vibrations of his voice charge the air like electricity.

  “Whose bed?” He cupped his ear with his free hand. “Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t yours . . .”

  “I did not seduce you.” I just had to repeat that, didn’t I? Out loud? Making all of my girly parts relive every single moment of his touch and press replay, pause, then replay, then a heck of a lot of pauses during certain, um, moments. “I was tired, the couch was uncomfortable, you had a bed, and you were passed out from drinking every shot skanks threw at you.”

  “You and Emerson gave me shots,” he said in a deadpan voice.

  Damn it! I forgot about that part.

  Sure, Kins, you remember the sex but not the moments leading up to it? The sober ones where you plied him with alcohol?

  “It doesn’t matter,” I argued. “Jax would still kill you, and he’s going through enough right now and I know you well enough to know you’d do anything for a friend. Besides, Jax would lose focus and you guys wouldn’t make it back to the championships, and all the world would know it’s because you couldn’t keep your cock in your pants!”

  “I’m Chicken, not a rooster.”

  “Really? With that? Right now? That’s what you’re going to go with?”

  He shrugged, “See ya inside, Waffles. Try not to hurt yourself on the elliptical. I think one of the girls left some magazines for you to look at while you get your sweat on.” His eyes heated as his gaze raked me over until it landed on my ass. “Then again, maybe just do some squats. I’d hate for you to lose all those gains.”

  “Look at my ass again, and I’m grabbing whatever pokes me first and snapping it.”

  He barked out a laugh as I shoved past him. Even though I wanted to hide in the shadows, I wanted every reason to inflict violence on the guy for staring. I put a little extra swing in my hips.

  And when I turned around.

  He was covering his eyes.

  I hated that I was disappointed.

  Almost as much as I hated that he actually had self-control when all I really wanted to do since his scent enveloped me in the car was call a truce then make out like teenagers.

  “See, Miller? That’s teamwork right there!” I called back, nearly running into a closed door before sprinting into the workout room and dropping my stuff on the first bench I saw.

  My breathing was labored.

  And I couldn’t decide what was worse, the fact that I was that attracted to him, or the fact that in those few brief moments I’d forgotten all about my dad’s sickness on top of all the reasons I’d stayed away from football players to begin with.

  Lights were on.

  Loud techno was pumping.

  But I didn’t see anyone else in the room, which left me and Miller.

  Alone.

  Which basically meant my babysitter was going to either have to lift, or be bored out of his mind while I did everything but hit up the cardio machines.

  “You sure you can lift that?” Miller’s voice sounded behind me while I loaded one of the bars with a ten on each side.

  “You sure you can count that high?” I countered, shoving the collar on each end. The barbell was sixty-five pounds, hardly my max for cleans.

  I did a few Russian deadlifts to stretch my hamstrings, and was disappointed when I didn’t notice Miller anywhere.

  Great, the babysitter had all but abandoned me.

  An annoying inner voice reminded me that I’d basically asked him to, but still.

  I gave my head a shake and did a set of eight cleans.

  “Your form is shit.” Miller suddenly appeared in the mirror behind me holding a water bottle, and I almost dropped the bar on my feet. “Your pull is way too fast from the floor.”

  “Do you mind?” I snapped.

  “No. But you should. And your back is going to hurt like hell tomorrow, right along with the biceps you keep using rather than a good shrug with your shoulders, but if you don’t want my help . . .” He popped the top off the bottle and sat down on the bench next to me. “I’ll shut up.”

  I started my next set.

  Painfully aware that he was watching me.

  I slowed my pull and shrugged harder.

  When I finished, Miller was clapping. “Was that so hard?”

  “Actually, it was easy.” I winked.

  “Waffles, was that a moment? Are we possibly . . .” He paused. “Bro lifting right now?”

  “Maybe one day we’ll be swole mates.” I started my next set to his laughter as he walked over to the bench and started warming up.

  I’d be lying if I said my eyes didn’t have this annoying habit of constantly checking to make sure the bar hadn’t hit him in the teeth.

  What? He had nice teeth.

  Pecs.

  Skin.

  Focus.

  I took a deep breath and pushed thoughts of Miller away. All that mattered was getting my aggression out—in a safe manner that wouldn’t have me using Miller as a stress reliever.

  And Dad.

  Dad mattered.

  We spent the next hour working out in silence.

  And when Miller was finished, he not only brought me a towel but handed me a chilled water bottle and then his keys.

  “Don’t kill us,” he joked. “I really do want another ring.”

  “That impressed with my lifting skills?” I teased, snatching the keys out of his hand.

  “Nope.” He let me walk ahead of him. “But I just spent the last hour watching your ass in spandex . . . I think a little congrats are in order—though I’ll have to stop calling you Flat-ass in my head.”

  Most girls would probably be offended.

  Instead, I walked a little lighter on my feet as I skipped out of the building and made my way to his car.

  But my happy attitude was severely short-lived.
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  Because just when I was feeling better about the horrible way the day started, Anderson Dickhead Harris waltzed toward me.

  “Kinsey.” He eyed me up and down, slowly, not casually, but like he knew what I looked like without clothes on and wanted to make sure I was aware that was exactly what he was thinking about.

  I sucked in a breath.

  Then felt a steel arm wrap around me.

  I exhaled.

  I held on.

  I shouldn’t have.

  In all the moves I should have made that day—I should have run away from the temptation—I knew it in my body, in the way a sense of foreboding washed over me.

  But my heart?

  It had other plans.

  It was too weak to run.

  Stay.

  So I did.

  Hold on.

  I did that too.

  Cling.

  A sense of calm washed over me.

  Chapter Four

  MILLER

  He was six feet two inches and around two hundred pounds and one of the biggest asses I’d ever met in my entire life.

  I didn’t care if he shit golden footballs and came with a promise of winning every single championship from here on out—I’d still hate him, I’d still want to remove his head from his body and hand it to the kicker with instructions to let it soar.

  “Miller.” He always nodded, never shook my hand, never once used any sort of acknowledgment that showed he had good manners. Just a head nod, a quick clip of my name, and football talk.

  It was either football.

  Or girls.

  Mainly the one girl that he just couldn’t shut up about, the girl that got away. Funny, since she seemed to have found herself in my arms . . . and my bed. Bastard.

  The very girl that I was trying not to squeeze to death. The same one who, if her shaking was any indication, wanted to crawl up me like a tree and hide.

  Hell.

  “Where’s Jax?” The combination of his blue baseball hat with his brown eyes made him look like a spoiled little golden boy. The truth? He was a walking, talking douche who needed to get put in his place—I still had no clue what Kinsey ever saw in him other than the fact that he was a manipulative little shit, and she’d been trying to piss off Jax a few years ago because she was tired of being on such a short leash.