The Perfect Game: A Complete Sports Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  His grin turns into an all-out smile that brings out a slight dimple in his cheek.

  “Tell me why you’re leaving New York,” he says. “You told your friend on the phone that you might. You don’t like the city?”

  “New York is okay. But why I might be leaving goes along with my shitty day, so I’d rather not talk about it.”

  He raises his second shot. “To new friends and better days.”

  I raise mine. “And to buttery nipples.”

  His eyes go to my chest again and I feel my pulse rate go up. He’s thinking about my boobs. I’m thinking about his … ego.

  He pulls out his wallet and puts enough money on the table to cover the drinks for half the people in the bar. Then he grabs his bag, tucks his folder under his arm, and stands up, offering me his hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  My heart slumps in defeat. It’s not that I wanted to go home with this guy. This guy I don’t even know. But after the day I had, it just felt right to do something wrong. Something dangerous. Something out of character.

  My head feels a bit fuzzy, so I let him help me from the booth, our hands fitting nicely together. I notice he has callouses on his hand and I wonder if he works in construction. Then I look back at the table and the nice chunk of change he left and I think maybe not.

  He drops my hand to open the door and after we walk through, he doesn’t take it again.

  “I’m this way,” I say. “About four blocks over.”

  He again pulls his hat low on his forehead and keeps his head down, like he’s afraid he might run into someone he doesn’t want to.

  The streets are crowded this time of night and we keep bumping into each other. Every time our hands or elbows touch, we look at each other and smile. It’s the oddest thing. I feel more comfortable with him than I did my last boyfriend after weeks of dating.

  A bicyclist comes barreling down the sidewalk and Sawyer grabs my arm, pulling me into an alley to avoid a collision.

  “Jesus, that was close,” he says. “Two close calls in one day is more than enough. First the bus and now this. You are having a bad day.”

  I realize how close we’re standing. So close that I have to look up to see his eyes. I shrug. “I don’t know. I think it ended up pretty well.”

  His hand comes up to trace the outline of my jaw. “Aspen.” He says my name like it’s a prayer. “I can’t do this.”

  I nod and smile. “It’s okay.”

  Before I can turn and back away, he pulls me to him and kisses me. He kisses me softly. Then he kisses me hard. Then I open for him and our tongues meet and mingle as I forget about school, delinquent brothers, and apartment demos. I forget everything, including my own name.

  He pushes me gently against the alley wall, his hands moving up and down my arms and then down to my ass. Oh, God, it feels good to have a man’s hands on me again.

  He breaks our kiss only long enough to utter the words, “I really shouldn’t do this.” Then he resumes his assault of my lips and my neck.

  “Then don’t,” I say, as he’s sucking on a spot beneath my ear.

  “I’m not sure I can help it.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Then don’t.”

  “Where’s your place?” he asks.

  “About twenty steps to the right.”

  He pulls me by my arm, eager to get where we’re going. “Roommate?”

  I shake my head. “He works the overnight shift tonight. One of his last shifts as a paramedic before he goes to firefighter school.”

  We practically run up the two flights of stairs to my third-floor walk-up. I fish through my bag for my keys, pulling out the wet envelope in the process.

  “I really want to know what’s in the envelope,” he says.

  I nod to what is tucked under his arm. “I really want to know what’s in the folder.”

  We laugh. Then we stare at each other, the heat between us becoming palpable. When I open my door, all thoughts of envelopes and folders fall away as everything, including most of our clothes, gets thrown to the floor on our way to my bedroom.

  In my room, we tear each other’s undergarments off in a matter of seconds. Then we appraise each other appreciatively.

  “You look incredible,” he says, his eyes wandering up and down my body.

  “You’re not half bad yourself, Tom Sawyer.”

  He pushes me back onto my bed and climbs over me. “I shouldn’t do this. I’m breaking the rules and it hasn’t even been one day.”

  “Sometimes rules are meant to be broken,” I say. “Unless it hurts someone. Would you be hurting someone?”

  “Just me,” he says.

  I have no idea what he means by that. But in two seconds, I don’t care because his lips are on my breasts. Then my stomach. Then … oh, my.

  I writhe and buck beneath him as he brings me to a quick orgasm, likely fueled by alcohol and abstinence.

  “That was spectacular,” he says, crawling up my body.

  “I think I’d have to agree,” I say before we share a laugh.

  Then I reach over into my nightstand and pull out a condom.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Do this often, do you?”

  “Not in a very long time,” I admit. “But I was a girl scout. I’m always prepared.”

  He takes the square package from me and studies it. Then he reaches into my nightstand to grab another one. “Mind if I use two?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  Watching him roll on the condoms gets me hot all over again. I reach out and touch him, running my hand up and down his length. He wasn’t lying. It is impressive.

  When he can’t stand my hands on him any longer, he climbs on top of me, looking down on me as he positions himself at my entrance. It’s as if he’s asking permission.

  I reach up, grab his head and pull his lips to mine just as he enters me. I groan into his mouth. I groan from the incredible feeling of his taut skin on mine. It’s far different from the feeling of the hard rubber I keep in my night stand. I groan because I haven’t had a man inside me for so long, I didn’t even remember what it felt like until just now. I groan when he slips a hand between us to stroke my clit, building me back up to what I know will be another explosive climax.

  I can see him holding back. He bites his lip so hard I can taste blood when he kisses me. And when I orgasm, he shouts out with his own guttural release.

  He collapses down onto me, both of us needing a minute to catch our breath.

  Finally, he rolls to the side. He brushes a piece of sweaty hair off my forehead. “Damn, you are different,” he says.

  “Different? I know it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure sex hasn’t changed since the last time I did it.”

  His abs bounce up and down with his laughter.

  I put my hand on his stomach, feeling the outline of his chiseled physique. Wow, the guy is in pristine shape. I lay my head on his chest and bask in the afterglow, the strong pull of alcohol drawing me under.

  In a haze, the last thing I remember is his strong arm coming around my shoulders to pull me even closer to him.

  Chapter Three

  Sawyer

  I stare at her as the sun comes up and brightens the room. I’m breaking all the rules. Not just the obvious one that will have me traded faster than Rick can tell me to pack my bags.

  I glance at her nightstand. She’s the first woman to provide her own condoms. I never let them provide condoms. It’s rule number one of hookups, and something they warned us about as soon as we got called up to the majors. Girls may try to trap you with a baby, never trust them for birth control.

  Then again, our meeting was random. She doesn’t even know who I am. Not unless she’s a very good actress.

  It was refreshing to have a night with someone who didn’t want to talk about me all night.

  I squint when the sun coming through her window hits my eyes. I never stay past dawn. But I have no desire to leave. No desir
e to walk out that door and never see her again. I’ve never wanted to stay more than I do right now. But I know it’s not an option. Even if this turned out to be it. Even if she’s the one. I know better. Nobody can be the one. Because she’d get hurt. I’d hurt her. Because that’s what I do. I hurt people. I learned from the best.

  I quietly roll out of bed, pick up the condoms from the carpet and flush them. Then I go in search of a glass of water. When I spot my folder on the floor of her living room, the Kansas City contract spilling out of it, I pick it up and study it as I sit down and sink into her couch.

  I fucked up. I shouldn’t have done what I did last night. Maybe Aspen was right. Maybe I’m a sex addict. I couldn’t even keep myself from screwing up on day one. How in the hell am I going to make it an entire season without the organization seeing me for what I really am?

  I look at the floor and see Aspen’s purse where she dropped it last night. I see the envelope lying beside it. Before I can tell myself what an invasion of privacy this is, I’m opening her letter. The paper is now hard and dry and I have to be careful peeling it apart. Some of the ink is smeared, but not so much that I can’t read it.

  I look over at her bedroom door and stare at it in wonder. Why would an acceptance letter into the master’s program at Juilliard be a bad thing?

  I assume, like making it to the majors was my dream, this was hers.

  Then I glance around at my meager surroundings and take in what looks like second-hand furniture in a small two-bedroom apartment that could probably fit into my living room.

  I hear my phone vibrating and quickly retrieve it from my pants that are still in a heap on the living room floor. I see that it’s Danny calling. I really want to answer it, but I don’t. I don’t want to wake Aspen so I send him a text letting him know I’ll call him later.

  Then I get dressed and stand in her doorway. I study her far longer than I should. I have thoughts that I shouldn’t be having. But when Danny’s face pops up on my phone again, this time with a text, I know why I can’t stay. I walk quietly across the apartment and gather my things. Then I collect her clothes, fold them neatly, and put them on her dresser. I pick up the condom wrappers and shove them in my pocket. Then I give Aspen one last look before I walk out her door.

  As I usually do after a night like last, I find a Starbucks. This time, however, I don’t go home. I find myself wandering around the streets of the city, drinking coffee and thinking about the girl I left a short while ago.

  I never think about the girl. Why is this girl getting in my head? Maybe it’s because she seemed so genuine. So sad. So damn real.

  I think of her letter again, knowing it probably comes down to money. A graduate degree from the most exclusive fine arts school in the country can’t come cheaply. I think about how we are so much alike. We both want something we may not be able to have. I want to stay with the Nighthawks. She wants an education she can’t afford.

  Suddenly, it hits me, and before I can talk sense into myself, I’m walking back up the steps of her building. I don’t know the building security code, so I have to wait around until I can sneak in after someone exits.

  I try the door to her apartment, hoping that maybe it’s unlocked and I can just slip back in, pretending I never left. But it doesn’t budge.

  I look at the time. Eight o’clock. I wonder if she’s a late sleeper. We did stay up well past midnight last night.

  I knock on the door lightly. A minute later, I knock again – harder this time. I finally hear something inside her apartment. It sounds like she ran into a table and is cursing about it.

  The door opens a crack and she looks confused when she sees me. She also looks seriously hung over. Her hair is matted down on one side and makeup is smeared down her cheeks. She opens the door a little wider, looking me over from head to toe.

  “Why are you wearing the same clothes as last night? And, uh … how did you know where I live?” She pulls her robe tightly around her. Then she rolls her eyes. “Oh, right, you walked me home, didn’t you? I’m so embarrassed. I don’t normally get that drunk.” She looks at her hands and fists and unfists her fingers like they hurt. “It must have been the new stuff I took for my hands. Thanks for getting me home safely. I was obviously out of it. So, why are you here?”

  She doesn’t remember last night?

  “Do you normally get shit-faced drunk with strange men and then let them walk you home?” I ask, not feeling in the least like bursting her bubble and telling her she slept with me.

  “No, I don’t. I had a bad day. One of the worst I’ve ever had.” She holds the door open and backs away. “Sorry, I guess since you were nice enough to make sure I made it home last night, the least I can do is offer you a cup of coffee.”

  I watch her as she works in the kitchen, stopping to check her appearance in the mirror and then apologizing to me for how bad she looks before she runs off to the bathroom.

  I stare down at the letter that still sits on the floor of her living room. I pick it up and turn it over and over in my hands.

  When she emerges from her room, I see she’s ditched the robe in favor of yoga pants and a tank top. I wonder if she even thought twice about waking up in the nude. How could she not know? Then I think of the condoms that I flushed and the wrappers I shoved in my pocket. Can she really not tell she had sex last night? Don’t girls usually have a feeling?

  She pours two cups of coffee and then comes over and sits on the couch opposite the chair I’m occupying. She eyes the envelope on the table, probably wondering if I read it.

  “I have a proposition for you,” I say.

  She belts out a laugh. “If I didn’t sleep with you when I was drunk, I’m sure as heck not going to do it now, when I feel like I could vomit at any second.”

  “That’s not my proposition.” Then I cock my head sideways and study her. “Well, I don’t know, maybe it is.”

  “Huh?” She takes a sip of her coffee. “You’re going to have to be more clear. My head is still a bit fuzzy.” Then she eyes me up and down and her face pinks up. “Wait, did we … uh, did we make out in an alley last night?”

  “We might have.”

  Her head drops into her hands. “Oh, my God. I’ve hit an all-time low. That isn’t me, Sawyer. I don’t go making out in alleys with guys I just met.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell her. “You’re a good kisser. So, about that proposition. I’d like to hire you, Aspen.”

  She sits up straight and defensively pulls a pillow onto her lap. “Come again?”

  “I’d like to hire you to be my girlfriend.”

  Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “You what?”

  “For appearances’ sake, I need to be seen with a girlfriend.” I shake my head because I hear what I sound like and I’m going about this all wrong. “I’ll pay you for it.”

  “Like a whore?”

  “No, not like a whore. I just need certain people to think I’m in a relationship.” I run my hands through my hair “I – I can’t have a girlfriend. But I need one.”

  “Certain people. A woman?”

  “No. It’s not like that.”

  “Was last night at the bar an audition?” she asks abhorrently.

  “God, no. I didn’t even think of asking you this until just now.”

  “Get out,” she says.

  “Come on, Aspen. We had fun last night. We get along great. I need a girlfriend and you need the money.”

  She throws the pillow off her lap and stands up. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  I nod to the envelope on the table. “I saw the letter. I’m sure grad school will be expensive. Would half-a-million cover it?”

  Her jaw drops. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not anyone I want to know.”

  She eyes me warily as she skirts around the couch like she thinks I’ll pounce on her and keep her from getting away. I put up my hands in surrender, letting her know she’s safe.

  She backs
into the kitchen. “I’d like you to leave. Right now.”

  I pull my folder out of my duffle bag. “Here, you can read mine, too. It’s only fair.”

  She backs away. “I don’t give a shit who you are or what’s in that folder.” She points to the door. “Please, just go.”

  “Aspen.”

  She holds her phone up for me to see. “Do I need to call the police?”

  “No. I’m going.” I put my duffle bag over my shoulder and walk to the door. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything. Last night was incredible – one of the best nights I can remember. I think you’re a great girl. I’m really sorry, Aspen.”

  I walk through the door, closing it behind me. I stand in the hallway and think of what a stupid idiot I am. Then I hear a thump and realize she must have hit the door. I wonder if she’s leaning against it. Maybe she’s sliding her back down the door until her butt hits the floor. Maybe she’s looking at me through the peephole. I look directly into it and put on my best apologetic face. “I’m sorry,” I say to the door.

  Then I walk away.

  ~ ~ ~

  “You okay, Speed Limit?” Brady asks, walking back to the clubhouse after our practice.

  I don’t even roll my eyes anymore at the nickname my grandfather gave me when I was drafted by the Hawks and assigned #55 because my favorite number was taken. I stopped trying long ago to get them to quit using it. It was useless. Anytime someone gets a nickname around here, it sticks like white on rice.

  “Yeah.”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Game starts in two hours,” he says. “You gonna have your focus by then?”

  “I said I’m good.”

  Brady pats me on the shoulder and nods to our manager who has been sneering at me all day. I swear he’s waiting for me to mess up just so he can rub it in my face. “Don’t let Rick get to you. Everything will blow over soon enough. Just keep your nose down.”

  “I wish it were that easy.”

  Brady cocks his head, studying me. “What did you do?”