Page 69 of Good Girl’s Guide to Love (Guide to Love #4)

linc

We knew today was going to be the hardest game of our season. Not because Milwaukee is that good; I mean, they’re decent, but we were favored in every aspect.

The only thing that we needed to be aware of was that we knew Brad was going to give to his new team the full scouting report on how to stop our offense.

AKA: Me.

The man might as well have given his new team a photocopy of our playbook, that’s how ready they were for us today.

Anytime they could put double coverage on me, they did.

I don’t have a touchdown today and barely have fifty yards receiving.

It’s by far my worst statistical game of the season.

Thank God our coaches are the best in the fucking league, because even though they’ve essentially stopped our offense, our defense has been playing out of their minds.

Rockwell doesn’t have a catch. They’ve limited their offense to only field goals.

Unfortunately, that’s all we’ve been able to do either, which is why the game is tied with a minute left.

“All right boys, I think I can speak for everyone when I say that I want nothing to do with overtime,” Bryce says in the huddle. “Two plays, one touchdown, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Everyone nods in agreement as we lean in to hear the play call. “Five wide. Play action left. Tight end leak. On two.”

The play call shocks me. “Are you sure? They’ve been on my ass all game.”

Bryce shakes his head. “You do what you do. Get open. I’ll do the rest.”

The man is a league and championship game MVP. Like I’d doubt him. “You got it, Cap.”

He repeats the play call again as we break from the huddle, and I line up in my stance.

I do my best to read the defense, hoping they’re going to play me soft so I can find my seam.

They haven’t all game, but teams in this situation usually play to prevent the big play, opting to give up the shorter ones.

All I know is that if they give me an inch, and I can find the route, I’m going to go a fucking mile.

I hold my hand out, signaling to the referee that I’m an eligible receiver and to make sure I’m lined up correctly. My gaze happens to fall on Rockwell, who I’m sure by no coincidence at all is standing in my line of sight.

Prick. I don’t know why the man still think he needs to make my life miserable, but he is.

Joke’s on him. He got traded to a mediocre team and will probably have to take less money next year when his contract expires.

I’m leading the league in receptions for tight ends, have a beautiful woman watching me somewhere in this stadium, and am living a life I never dreamed of.

So he might think he’s getting in my head, but I couldn’t give two shits.

I hear Bryce start his cadence, and I take one more glance at the defense before I take off on the count.

I fake the block that the play calls for before sneaking out to the right.

Like I thought, the defenders are playing to stop the big play, or covering the receivers we had lined up on the opposite side of the field, which leaves me wide open in the flat.

Bryce and I lock eyes, and before I know it, he’s gunning the ball to me.

Catch. Turn. Go.

I knew I could make it a few yards, and just out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the safeties heading toward me. I stop on a dime, juking him out as he whiffs on the tackle. Which is when I realize that I have twenty yards to victory.

And I take off. Twenty yards never seems far in practice. Or doing a warmup. And in reality, it’s not. But when all you can see is the end zone, a victory, but also knowing you have defenders on your ass doing their best to chase you down, it can seem like a mile.

I see out of the corner of my eye teammates flanking behind me, having my back to try to stop any potential defenders from tackling me. I glance out of the corner of my eye, which is when I see Maddox losing his shit on the sideline, and another teammate just pointing to the end zone.

And the second I cross it, not a soul tackling me, I hold up the ball like it’s a fucking trophy.

Because Brad Rockwell be damned, I fucking won.

“Holy shit!” someone yells as Wyatt runs to me and hoists me in the air.

I slap his pads a few times before he puts me down.

There’s still thirty seconds left on the clock, so we have to get off the field before we get a penalty.

But that doesn’t stop me from doing what I’ve done after every touchdown this season, crossing my heart for Ainsley.

“What the hell was that?” Bryce asks as we make our way to the sideline.

“You said two plays. Figured if I could do it in one, why not?”

He laughs and slaps me on the back. “Good game, Kincaid. I know they were on your ass. You overcame. Kept your head down and grinded. That’s how you do it.”

“Thanks, man,” I say as we exchange a handshake. A few more teammates come over and congratulate me, and just as I’m catching my breath, the game clock expires, and the Fury have another win on the season.

8-0.

Fuck yeah.

I run out onto the field with my teammates for the post-game handshakes. Luckily this isn’t college where we all have to line up and tell everyone good game, meaning I don’t need to face Rockwell. However, he apparently missed me because he’s in my face just as I get to midfield.

“You held on that last play,” he digs, which all I can do is laugh.

“You know I fucking didn’t. Then again, you didn’t get flagged for shoving Maddox in the second quarter, so who knows what you think should be called on the field.”

Sometimes I wish I could still hit people, because I want to punch the smarmy smile off of his smug face. “Oh, I missed you Kincaid. Though, I do get to keep up with your antics in the news. How’s Ainsley, by the way? She realize she can do better than you yet?”

I clench my fist at my side do my best to calm my breathing. “Talk about me all you want Rockwell. I don’t care. But you keep my girl’s name out of your fucking mouth.”

“Or what?” he says with a laugh. “You going to punch me? Going to fuck up your contract for some woman?”

“For her? I would. In a fucking heartbeat.”

I feel hands pulling me away, and fuck, I gave Rockwell too much. The smile on his face now looks like a damn comic strip villain.

“Come on,” Wyatt’s words bring me back from wondering what actually constitutes as a punch. “He’s not worth it.”

I know he isn’t. But the look he’s giving me now is more sinister than ever. Sure, his favorite pastime was to mess with my head. Try and get me to throw a punch. But now? Now I feel like I inadvertently upped the stakes.

And he’s going to take full advantage.

“Back to where it all started!”

I laugh, and roll my eyes a little, as Maddox brings over a bucket of beers, as well as a club soda and cranberry for Ainsley. “All right, what are we going to sing?”

“I’m not singing a damn thing,” I say as I put my arm around Ainsley as we sit on one of the couches in the VIP area the karaoke bar has made permanent for us. Apparently Maddox is a regular here. “I’m here to observe and to hang out, so none of y’all give me shit.”

It’s not a normal thing for us to go out and celebrate after a win.

Usually we’re tired, sore, and just want to collapse into bed.

But today was a big win. A hard-fought one.

And frankly, after a run-in with Rockwell, I could use a beer.

So Wyatt, Maddox, myself, and a few other guys decided to go out and celebrate.

But of course, I was only coming if Ainsley could come.

Because yes. I’m a fucking simp for my girl, and I don’t give a shit who knows it. It doesn’t hurt that she’s wearing a dress that has patches of my jersey sewn into it. And she’s paired it with cowboy boots and a bow in her hair that makes her look like the innocent girl everyone thinks she is.

Except I know she isn’t.

“Ainsley?” Maddox says, tilting his head to the stage. “Do we get a repeat performance?”

“Absolutely not,” she says. “That was a one-night-only thing.”

“Oh come on, you were great,” Maddox says. “What would it take for you to sing again?”

She thinks about it for a second. “Win it all. Then I’ll sing whatever you pick.”

“Fuck yeah!” Maddox yells as they shake on it. “You got yourself a keeper there, Kincaid.”

“Don’t I know it.” I kiss her temple as we sit back and listen to three members of our defensive line sing an iconic boy band song. They’re terrible, but the song is too good to not sing when at karaoke.

We’re listening to the performance when my eyes start gazing around the bar.

People watching is always phenomenal in Nashville.

Being a Sunday, there are a ton of people wearing Fury gear.

A fair amount of Milwaukee fans, too, because we always get a host of out-of-town fans who want to visit Nashville and also see their favorite team in one trip. And…what the fuck…

“Am I going crazy, or is that Katie and Dipshit? Together?”

Ainsley sits straight up and looks to wear I’m pointing.

And yup, there they are, sitting close together at a high-top table near the bar.

She seems to be looking very interested in whatever he’s talking about while he’s trying his best to pretend to be interesting.

At least, that’s what I’m going to assume, having known both of them.

“Okay, that’s freaking weird,” Ainsley says. “Can it be a coincidence that they met on a dating app and they pick this bar out of all the bars in Nashville to go for their date?”

“I believe in coincidences, but not one like that,” I say. My spidey-senses are tingling. I don’t know what’s going on there, but it’s nothing good.

“Hey,” she says, holding my chin in her fingers. “Ignore them. I’m going to try to. I’ve missed going out like this. Which I never thought I’d say. So let’s try and not have them ruin our night.”