Play Maker (Bitsberg Knights Duet)

I swallowed a groan at my utter lack of chill. With nervous fingers, I tossed my hair past my shoulders. “I mean, it would be fun. Right? I haven’t been to a football game since…” my voice trailed off as I realized that I had never been to a professional football game. Hell, I even avoided the games in high school. “Well, it’s been a while. I’m sure Rayna would want to go too.”

No, she wouldn’t.

Ross smiled, and I wondered just how transparent I was.

My dad was on to me and handed over the envelope with a knowing smile. “I’m sure she will, honey.”

The bell on the door jingled as Ross pushed it open and a blast of frozen air filled the room. “See you at the game, Shelby. Again, Greg, it was nice to meet you.”

I offered a wave as he slipped out into the night.

My dad barely waited for the door to flap shut before he burst out laughing. “You’re going to a football game?”

I scoffed and went back to the counter. “You’re just jealous.”

His chuckling followed me as I pushed into the kitchen to break down the till. As I sorted through the receipts, I plucked up the one Ross had signed and noticed ink showing through from the other side. I turned it over and saw that Ross had scribbled his phone number along the back.

This could get interesting to say the least.

A soft tap on my bedroom door startled me. “We’re heading out, Shelby.”

I mumbled a reply into my pillow and rolled away from the sound. My parents were off to my dad’s convention. Why my mom felt the need to wake me up when I knew full-well the intimate details of their daily lives and routines was beyond me.

Usually, it was mild irritation, but when it ripped me away from the steamy dream of Ross and me together in the front of his truck, it was downright rude.

When the house was silent again, I squeezed my eyes shut, yearning to get back to where I’d left off, with Ross’s fingers sliding down every curve of my body.

The front door slammed shut and my eyes popped open. “Damn it!”

“Shelby, have you seen Dad’s readers?”

I groaned. “Did he check his freakin’ pocket?”

My mom scoffed. “That’s not funny.”

Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true.

We endearingly referred to my dad as the Absent-Minded Professor around the house. He was brilliant, a high school teacher-turned-principle, held three master’s degrees, but lost his slippers and reading glasses with startling frequency.

“Oops! Got ‘em! Bye, sweetie!”

“Goodbye,” I called out from between gritted teeth.

So much for sleeping in—or enjoying a little alone time before giving up the memory of my wet dream. When the front door slammed shut again, I threw the covers off and swung my legs over the side of my twin-sized bed. “I really need to get my own place,” I mumbled to myself as I slipped into my favorite hooded sweatshirt and tugged on a pair of long socks and pajama bottoms.

It was probably for the best, I decided, padding out of my room. I followed the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee to the kitchen and poured myself a giant mug. After all, Ross had only offered the football tickets because he was a nice guy. Just like the ride home. What kind of guy would he be if he left me stranded at the diner with a foot of snow outside? He’d been raised right and was doing what any gentleman would have done in the same situation.

Right?

I chewed on my lip as I went about making a couple of scrambled eggs for myself. Ross Leverette was out of my league. I dated the nerdy guy in the corner, the kind of guy who would become an accountant or dentist. Quiet guys. Safe guys. I’d never been the type of girl to hang off the arm of some jock. But when Ross’ stormy eyes had wandered to the low scoop of my sweater’s neckline, there was no doubt that he liked what he saw.

I shrugged it all away and returned my attention to my quick and lazy Sunday morning breakfast. Once I piled my plate with buttered toast, eggs, and banana slices, I headed to the couch and nestled into my favorite corner seat. My dad left the morning paper spread open across the ottoman, and a gasp caught in my throat when I saw a half-page spread featuring a large black-and-white photo of Ross Leverette.

For a minute, I considered shoving the stack of papers to the floor. It was hard enough to stop thinking about Ross without him staring at me. But I couldn’t fight the urge to read the article accompanying the picture, so with a heavy sigh, I balanced my plate on the wide arm of the sectional and dragged the paper to my lap.