The Wrong Game (Love of the Game, #1)

by Kandi Steiner

Part of me felt sick, like I’d made a mistake, but I was willing to recognize that that was the part of me that still believed in love. She was small, and weak, and beaten and bruised, but she was there. And that part of me was sad that I’d blown off such a sexy, funny, amazing guy. But, the larger part of me, the new me, was happy and relieved. Now that Zach and I had established a friendship, now that I knew he would no longer be pulling any tricks out of his hat to try to get another date with me, I could focus on the original plan.

I tossed my hands up. “Oh, my God. You know what I mean. Stop playing dumb. I—” “YOU FIRST,” Belle said, cutting me off as she poked me hard in the chest.

“What if I get hurt again?” I asked her, something stinging the back of my eyes. I knew it couldn’t be tears. I hadn’t cried since the day of Carlo’s funeral, and even then, those tears hadn’t felt like mine. “I can’t… I don’t know if I could ever come back from that again.” Belle ran her thumb over my knuckles. “If he hurts you, then you do exactly what you did last time. You pick yourself up, dust that shit off, and keep walking. You stand a little straighter and you learn.”

“Hi,” I breathed. Zach smirked. “Hi?” Swallowing, I extended a shaking hand toward him. “I’m Gemma Mancini. And I am really, really stupid.”

“No,” he commanded, and his fingers inched their way up, rolling over my nipples once more. I moaned, head falling back against his shoulder. “Hold onto that wine glass,” he said, dragging his tongue over the back of my neck. “And don’t you spill a fucking drop.”

“Bend,” Zach commanded, and he pressed the small of my back down as the other hand hooked at my hip, showing me how he wanted me. I leaned forward, cheek hitting the glass as I tilted my ass out, legs still straight, back arched. “Good girl,”

“You spilled the wine,” he said, running his hands up my thighs and spanking my ass again as he stood. “Now, it’s my turn.”

I growled, rolling until she was under me, wrists pinned to the pillows as she laughed. “Stop talking about other guys before I lose my damn mind again.” “Make me,” she challenged, one brow arching. And so I did.

“Now,” she said, holding her hands up. “Really throw it. I promise, you’re not going to break me.” I just stood there, gaping, blinking more than necessary before I finally blurted out, “Marry me.”

“You’re kidding,” she said, face flat. “A cheerleader uniform.” “You love football,” I defended. “Yeah, I love football. In what world does that mean I also love cheerleading?” “You cheer for the Bears, and you’re a chick.” I shrugged. “It’s kind of like you’re already one. I just thought you could dress the part.” I paused. “Mainly, for me.” She scoffed, mouth popping open, but she couldn’t fight back her smile as she threw the little skirt at me. “Pig.” “I even got it in the Bears colors for you!” “I’m not wearing that,” she said, pointing to the skirt laying on the kitchen island where it’d bounced off me now. She didn’t even pull the top of the outfit from the box. A laugh shot out of me, and I circled the island, taking the seat next to her and yanking her barstool until our legs threaded together. “I can’t believe you don’t like your gift.” I pouted. “That wasn’t a gift for me,” she said, crossing her arms. “That was a gift for you. And I’m sorry to say that, even on your birthday, I’m not wearing that.”

“You got me stationery.” “I did.” I let out a breath, hoping the idea wasn’t stupid instead of romantic, which was what I’d been going for. “One for your lists, one for your plans, and one for whatever you want it to be. And I saw you had a few of those kind of pens around, I figured they were your favorite.” “They are,” she said, still staring at the gift. “I hate typing. I love the feel of pen and paper, of having a physical document to hold.” I swallowed. “Well, there you go. I just… I felt like when you first told me about this part of you, you were ashamed, or embarrassed. But, just know you shouldn’t be. Because it’s part of what makes you the most unique and amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

“I have to check this off,” she said, wiggling out of my grip. I was too weak to hold her there, though I tried. “Right now?” “Right now.” She opened her birthday box again, pulling out the notebook labeled LISTS and scrawling a slow, purposeful checkmark next to what I’d written with her new pen. I swore she lit up in a way I’d never seen before, checking off that damn list like it was her life’s purpose. And I loved watching her little ass shake under that skirt while she did it.

Was I his girl? I mean, we were clearly only seeing each other, and we’d turned our back on the games we’d played that first month we’d known each other. But, was I his? Was he mine? Why my brain picked that exact moment to remind me that we’d never talked about it was beyond me. But it was like standing behind a curtain that had slipped, and I saw everything outside. I tried righting the curtain, but I couldn’t. Now that I’d thought about it, now that my brain had latched on, I couldn’t let it go. I hadn’t been thinking about it. But, we never set any guidelines, we never decided what we are and what we aren’t. Now, I’m here meeting his younger brother — someone important to him. And that little asshole part of my brain that needed control, that needed boundaries and explicit direction, took over everything.

“I like to curse. I stopped apologizing for it and started embracing it at the age of fourteen. Something I learned maybe well before I was supposed to is that trying to be what other people think you should be is a waste of time. Life is too short to be or do or say anything other than exactly what you want. And in the end, no one’s judgment matters, because it’s your life you’re living.” Micah’s shoulders lifted again. “Not theirs.”

“Thank you. I know it was a little out of nowhere and a little crazy but…” “It’s not crazy,” he corrected. “And you don’t have to thank me. Any time you feel like that, you just call me, okay? Anytime. I’m always here to talk. Always.” Always. I liked the way that word sounded. Even if I didn’t trust it yet.

It wasn’t addressed to me. I knew I shouldn’t read it. But I opened it, anyway. My Beautiful Brielle, There are no words I can say to comfort you in this time. If you are reading this letter, it means I’ve passed away, that I have left this physical Earth and you behind to live in it. And for that, I am truly sorry. But what I want you to know more than anything is that I love you.

GASP WHAT AN DICK

Everything was fine. That’s what I told myself as I bruised my knees, bent on the kitchen floor scrubbing the bottom of my oven. The fumes from the cleaner somehow brought me comfort, and I sang along to the music blasting from my speaker. It was Sunday, and I’d spent all day at Soldier Field. We got another win. We were well on our way to the playoffs. Everything was fine.

And the damn spot I was trying to get wouldn’t come up. What even was it? Baked pizza cheese? Something from the tenant before me? I scrubbed at it harder and harder, my arms aching, hair falling in my face. But it wouldn’t come up. Nothing would make it budge. I growled, throwing the Brillo pad and plopping down on my butt as my chest heaved, and I stared at that spot, my eyes blurring. “It won’t come off,” I said, voice breaking as I gestured to the dark, mysterious smudge on my otherwise spotless oven. “I can’t get it off.”

“Hey,” she said, voice low. “I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, it’s going to be okay. One step at a time, that’s what my mom always told me.” She shrugged. “Even when it was hard to hear, it always seemed to ring true.”