by Misty Dietz
by Brynley Bush
“Knox. You’re in.”
I’ve been waiting impatiently on the sidelines for the hastily snapped words from the offensive coordinator, and I stride onto the field in North Carolina with adrenaline coursing through my veins like the Mississippi after a storm in May. I’m always hyped when I play ball—there’s nothing like the rush you get when you go out onto the field and lay everything on the line, pitting yourself physically against a worthy opponent and athlete across from you on the line of scrimmage. The smell of sweat, the roar of the crowd, the familiar feel of the rough leather in my hands, the sense of belonging, of knowing you’re great at what you’re about to do. It’s a powerful aphrodisiac, especially for a scrawny kid who didn’t learn to read until fourth grade.
But this game is different. Technically, it doesn’t count, since it’s the first game of the preseason. But for me, this game is personal. In part because it’s against the North Carolina Knights, the team that drafted me out of college six years ago—and the team that traded me last season. There’s not a player in the NFL who won’t agree that the stakes are higher when you’re playing against your former teammates. Not because you have anything against them necessarily. You just want to show management what they missed out on…what they let go when they traded you.
There’s a little of that, I admit. But this game is about far more than just beating my old team. This game is about beating Mack Jones, the Knight’s star defensive player and my former best friend who betrayed me and almost cost me my career and my future.
Although the mere thought of Mack is enough to get my blood boiling, everything fades away as soon as I line up just behind the line of scrimmage, my mind focused on the game, my body completely in tune with the quarterback to my left. I don’t have to look at Jones to see the hatred in my eyes reflected in his. I’m not the only one with something more riding on this game.
Time freezes as Justin Dial, New Jersey’s quarterback, makes the pre-snap read and calls the play.
“Set. Blue 30. Blue 30. Hut. Hut.”
The center snaps the ball to Justin, and I blaze through the defensive zone before turning to catch the ball at the forty-yard line. Jones sprints from several yards away to meet me at the ball. The ball is just to the left and I graze it with my fingertips. Dammit! The whistle blows, signaling the end of the play, but Jones doesn’t stop. He barrels into me, catching me in the side with his helmet, and I fall. Hard.
Fuck! I have never felt pain like this, like my hip has been ripped from my torso. I’m curled in a ball on the field, trying not to puke my guts out from the pain on national television. I slowly count with my breath while I wait for the team doc, a method of relaxation I learned when I dated a yoga instructor named…Damn. What was her name? Thinking about her distracts me from the pain that’s threatening to pull me under in a wave of black oblivion. She’d had long auburn hair, the tightest little body I’d ever seen, and my god…her flexibility. Shit! She was a dream come true. But what the hell was her name?
A shadow falls over my face and I look up into Mack’s face. His helmet’s off, and to a spectator, it no doubt looks like he’s offering an apology. But his sneer ignites my rage again.
“Always the fall guy, aren’t you, Knox?” he says snidely.
Fuck the pain. Using my arm and every ounce of strength I have, I sweep his feet out from under him. He’s a big guy—there’s a reason his nickname is Mack Truck—and he lands with a thud on his ass on the turf next to me. In less than five seconds I’ve scrambled over to him in an army crawl, ignoring the shooting pain in my pelvis as my fist makes contact with his face. Once for LaKendrick, once for me, and once for Shaylee.
“Dammit, Knox. Stop. He’s not worth it.”
Justin’s pulling me off him, and seconds later the team trainer is leaning over me.
“What the hell were you thinking starting a fight on the field?” he asks, his voice tight.
“I was thinking he’s an asshole.”
And now, a preview of Mya’s brother Cole’s book, now available in print and ebook…
FLIRTING WITH FIRE
by Misty Dietz
Ivy Bradford froze when the dainty woman’s arms came around her with the strength of a village-terrorizing boa constrictor. From the level of excitement radiating from the gorgeous Latina, she had to be her suite mate. The first chance she got, she was texting Monique an I-told-you-so.
The last of Ivy’s anxiety evaporated as the woman’s infectious laughter triggered her own, and she returned the surprising affection until the petite, dark-haired tornado pulled away to clap her hands with squawks of happiness. Ivy tried not to stare at the arresting man frowning by her bedroom door. The man was tall with coal-black hair and olive-skin, all Bronte-brooding and not quite civilized.
And frankly, impossible to ignore.
Some people just had that sort of presence. This guy possessed tsunami-level waves of it.
Ivy tore her gaze away from the man’s intense scrutiny to smile at the woman. “You haven’t told me your name!”
“Sorry! I’m Mya Castillo.” Her quick, intimate look at the man by the door made Ivy’s heart squeeze with a flare of longing. These two obviously shared a communication frequency forged over time.
Husband? Ivy didn’t see a wedding ring on either of them. Must be her boyfriend. “Nice to meet you, Mya. I hope you aren’t camera shy.” Ivy held up her mini video camera. “I’ll be documenting the week for my fourth graders. It started with my oh-so-cultured bed jumping. I hope to get more sophisticated by tomorrow when I hit the trails.”
“Oh my God, you’re perfect for each other!” Mya bounced up and down as her boyfriend clenched his teeth and the assistant manager looked like the cat that ate the canary.
Ivy tried to keep her smile in place, but her cheeks wobbled. “What?”
“Oh chica, as much as I would love to spend the week with you, your suite mate winner is mi hermano, Cole.”
Brother?
Mya’s continued chatter melted into white noise in the background as Mr. Dark and Dangerous raised gorgeous hazel eyes to hers. Intelligence, pain, and all-out warning projected from his gaze.
Good grief, he totally didn’t want to be here.
She could see his and Mya’s resemblance now. The insider looks they shared made sense, too, though as an only child, Ivy could only dream about that kind of connection.
Cole turned to Conway. “Mya will have my week.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Mya chased after his broad back.
Conway folded his hands calmly in front of his perfectly fitted sport coat. “Castle Alainn owners Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald choose the monthly winners based on the submitted video essays and biographies. I understand that your sister entered you without your full understanding of the contest subtleties, Mr. Castillo, but either you stay as the authentic prize winner, or unfortunately, everyone—including Ms. Bradford—will have to return home post haste.”
Cole sent a look to Mya that promised reckoning.
Mya beamed back.
Oh Jesus, his sister had tricked him.
Fix the discord. Ivy’s gaze fell upon a brochure for the Oktoberfest events going on in the resort village this week. She took a deep breath, then smiled at Cole, hoping the quivering edges of her lips weren’t too noticeable. “I was really looking forward to this week, so I’ll make you a deal.” She walked to the antique secretary, picked up the brochure, and pointed to the cover. “I bet I can beat you at the brat eating contest. It starts…” she opened to the schedule, “in forty minutes. If I win, you stay and help me document a week of outdoor adventures for my fourth graders. If you win, I will pack up my things and move to a different room at my own expense.” She stuck her hand out. “Deal?”
“That’s not a fair contest!” Mya exclaimed.
As Cole approached, the sudden amused warmth in his brownish-gold and green eyes made Ivy’s throat dry up. He placed a large, rough palm against hers,
his fingers firm and assertive. “Deal.”
Find more information and buy links for Flirting with Fire as well as Misty's other books here.
About the Author
Misty Dietz
Misty’s love affair with words started in middle school with moody stories in exotic locations. In college, her boy-angst erupted in disturbing reams of poetry. After grad school, the writing went into hibernation until she found her own happily-ever-after with a linear man who is the long-suffering counter-balance to her zig-zagging ways. Now, she spends her days writing sexy, adrenaline-fueled stories, enjoying family and friends, and praying her children don’t come home with math homework.
Find her online at www.MistyDietz.com, or if you’re a social media addict like her, stop by her Facebook page or say hey on Twitter @MistyDietz.
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