Page 2 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

Truth? I like men. Scratch that. I love men. I love their strength, their deeper voices, the simple way they come at a problem. I love their loyalty. I love the way

apples bob when they swallow.

And, yeah, I’m talking in generalities. Because I’ve met my share of shitty men.

But on the whole, I am a big fan of the male gender.

Which is why I’m slightly bummed to be man-free at the moment. I had a great boyfriend during college. Jake. He was hot and

easygoing. Maybe too easy. He basically loved everyone. Sure, I was his girlfriend, but if I wasn’t around? No problem. Plenty

of other people to hang with.

He didn’t cheat. He just didn’t really care enough. And after seeing what my sister, Ivy, has with her guy? That kind of all-encompassing, I-have-to-be-with-you devotion? I want more than casual dating. I want to be someone’s necessity, and for them to be mine.

Of course, I’m not going to find that at this tiny little club on a Tuesday night. But I’m not here for the men—most of whom

are clearly on the prowl for a quick hookup.

I’m here for the music. The band has a funky trip-hop sound that I love, and the atmosphere is mellow.

Since busting my ass to finish college and starting a job now plagued by a sneaky, idea-stealing coworker, who I want to kill,

I need mellow.

I slouch down in the bench seat—nestled at a far corner table—drink my Manhattan and enjoy the moment.

I’ve decided I also love San Francisco, which is where I am now, using my vacation time to visit my sister and her husband.

Unfortunately, Ivy and Gray had no desire to come out with me tonight because they have a new baby who wakes up every two

hours. Yeah, not going to say I love the sleeping habits of babies, no matter how cute and awesome said baby is.

I suppress a shudder. My life might be frustrating at the moment, and I might be a tinge lonely, but at least I’m not walking

around sleep-deprived. Instead, I’m listening to a singer crooning about stars, her voice smooth as poured syrup. The cocktail

is smoky-sweet on my tongue and warm in my veins. I’m so relaxed at this point that I almost miss the man sitting to my right.

I really don’t know what prompts me to turn and look his way. Maybe it’s because the set ends and my attention diverts from

the stage. Or maybe I feel his gaze, because it’s on me, steady and unblinking.

Not one to shy away, I stare back and take him in. He’s not my type.

First off, he’s huge, as in built like a brick house, with shoulders so wide I’m fairly certain I could perch on one of them and have room to spare.

He’s slouched in his chair, so I don’t know how tall he is, but I’m thinking he’s at least six foot four or more, which would make him over a foot taller than me.

I hate feeling tiny; I get that enough already without standing next to a super-tall man.

And he has a beard. Not a wild, bushy one, but thick and full, framing the square edge of his jaw. It’s kind of hot. Even

so, I am not into beards. I like smooth skin, dimples—a boyish look.

Nothing is boyish about this dude. He’s a strange mix of lumbersexual and pure, broody male. His hair is pulled into a knot

at the back of his head, samurai-style, which highlights the sharp crests of his cheeks and the blade of his nose.

He might not be my type, but his eyes are gorgeous. I have no idea what color they are, but they’re deep-set beneath strong,

dark brows. And even from here, his thick lashes are visible, almost feminine in their length. God, those eyes are beautiful.

And powerful. I feel his stare between my legs like a slow, hot stroke.

He stares at me like he knows me. Like I should know him too. Weirdly, he is familiar. But my mind is muzzy with one too many cocktails to figure out why.

Apparently, he gets this because the corner of his wide, lush mouth twitches as if I amuse him. Or maybe it’s because I’m

sitting here staring back at him.

He’s a cheeky one, isn’t he? Just as blatant in his appraisal.

I give him The Glare, raising one brow in the same way my dad does when he’s displeased. Having been on the receiving end

of that look, I know it’s effective. On most people. This guy? His amusement grows. Though he only smiles with his eyes and

lifts a brow as if to mock me.

And then it hits me: that quietly amused, slightly contemplative expression; I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen him before. I do know him. He’s Gray’s friend and old college teammate.

As if he reads my thoughts, he gives me a slow nod of hello.

I find myself laughing. At myself. He wasn’t checking me out at all. He was waiting for me to recognize him. My fuzzy brain searches for a name.

Dex . He’s Dex.

I return his nod, inclining my chin.

He rises. Up. Up. Up. Yep. Tall as a tree.

I remember that he now plays center in the NFL. And though a lot of centers sport a big barrel belly, Dex doesn’t. No, he’s

just pure, hard muscle. All of it visible beneath the black tee and faded jeans he’s wearing. All of it moving with the natural

grace of a professional athlete as he strides toward me.

“Fiona Mackenzie.” His voice is low, steady and kind.

I don’t know why I think kind , but it sticks in my head and relaxes me in a way I ordinarily wouldn’t if some guy I barely knew approached me when I was

on my own in a club.

“Hi, Dex. Sorry it took me a minute. I’m usually quicker than that.” I nod at the chair in front of me. “Care to join me?”

He glances at my nearly empty glass. “Want another drink first?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” If only to have something to do with my hands. Because, while he doesn’t threaten me, he has a presence that’s

potent.

My stomach tightens when he leans close as if he might embrace me, his massive frame shadowing the small table. But he merely

sticks his nose to my glass and takes a sniff. With a nod, he straightens and turns toward the bar.

I do not admire his ass as he walks away. Okay, maybe a little. Because damn . He returns soon enough, another Manhattan in one hand, a bottled water in the other. A memory hits me—of how he usually

drinks water, almost never any liquor.

Before he can sit, a girl comes up to our table, her eyes pleading.

“Are you using this chair?” She puts a hand on the only chair at the table. The other side is pulled up against the bench seat I’m using that runs along the wall. Technically, Dex could sit next to me.

We all are clearly aware of this. The girl looks between us as if to drive this point home. It would be petulant for me to

say yes. So I shake my head. And she whisks it away before I can change my mind.

That amused look doesn’t leave Dex as he settles next to me, his thigh close enough to mine that I feel his body heat. Not

that I think he’s doing this on purpose—he’s just that big, and the space is just that small.

Smiling a bit, I take a sip of my drink. “You knew I was drinking a Manhattan based on smell alone?”

Dex sets his water on the table, calling attention to the tattoo sleeves he has on both arms. “My uncle owns a bar. I helped

out over the years.” He glances at my glass. “That and the cherry gave it away.”

And it’s like my brain turns off, because I pull that cherry out of my drink and put it between my lips to suck it. Like some

damn porn star. His gaze snaps to my mouth, and his eyes narrow.

Damn, but I feel it again. That slow, hot stroke between my legs. This guy makes me wet with just one look.

Flushed, and cursing myself an idiot for putting on a display, I yank the stem from the cherry and eat the fruit with brisk

efficiency before taking a hasty sip of my cocktail. “So, Dex,” I say quickly—as if I didn’t just try to call attention to

my mouth. “It’s been a while.”

He blinks, his gaze dragging from my lips to my eyes. “Ethan.”

“What?”

“My name,” he says. “It’s Ethan.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Ethan Dexter.”

“Ah.” I take another sip. “So I’m not allowed to call you Dex? That only apply to friends or something?”

He doesn’t laugh or fidget, just keeps his gaze steady on my face. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. You can call me Dex, if you like.”

Before I can ask him why he’d insisted on Ethan if that’s the case, he speaks again. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”

Gray and Ivy’s wedding. Now that was a drunken blur. Good times.

Truly, I don’t drink often. But when I do... Ahem. Which is why I try to avoid reaching the point of maximum craziness.

Memories of the wedding are a strain, but hazy edges of them remind me that I danced with Gray’s boys—Dex included. Ivy danced

too, which is always a show. My sister, who I love more than anyone on Earth, is a horrible, scary dancer. So mainly I’d concentrated

on helping Gray run interference, making sure she didn’t accidentally clock anyone on the head while she convulsed— danced .

“I remember you mostly holding one of the walls up all night,” I tell Dex now.

He’d danced a few songs, sure, then had taken a bottled water and leaned against the wall to watch the rest of us.

He grips his current bottled water. It’s too dark to see what his tattoos are, but I can tell they’re colorful, vintage-looking.

And he has more of them than he did a year ago.

“Sometimes it’s more fun to watch.” His gaze doesn’t move from my face, but it feels like it does. My breasts swell heavy

against my bra, more so when he continues. “You ripped your dress off and flung it in a tree.”

A flush works over my cheeks. It was a tropical resort. And I’d wanted to swim.

Everyone did. I lean forward. “Are you saying you liked watching me strip, Ethan Dexter?”

His chuckle is a gentle rumble. “I’m saying it was memorable.” He glances down, those long lashes hiding his eyes. “And entertaining.”

“I aim to please.” Crossing one leg over the other, I study him. I’m enjoying myself, which is a surprise because I never

pegged Dex as much of a talker. “What are you doing in San Francisco? I don’t recall you playing for Gray’s team.”