Page 42 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

Having never lived with someone, I worry how moving in with Ethan will be.

Awkward? Stifling? Will we crash and burn?

Because, no matter how much I want Ethan, we’ve only physically been together a handful of times.

But he doesn’t give me time to worry. Every night he’s in town and off early, we go out and explore New Orleans—at a jazz

club, where I cajole and entice Ethan to dance, or at a restaurant so good, I’m hard-pressed not to moan with every bite.

I’m a New Yorker at heart, so I’m used to good food. But New Orleans could give New York a run for its money.

We don’t hide being together. And a few pictures of us have popped up, along with speculation about Ethan’s new girlfriend.

But the virgin witch hunt remains. Mainly because Ethan stubbornly refuses to talk about me—even if to confirm or deny a sexual

relationship.

“It’s none of their fucking business,” he grumps.

In public, he’s more restrained and simply says, “Unless it’s about football, no comment.”

Despite that ugliness, I’m happy. There are so many things I come to anticipate and love, namely the look on Ethan’s face

every time he walks through the front door, his expression lit with happiness, his eyes hot with need.

The second he’s home, he’s backing me up against the wall, or bending me over the arm of the couch, fucking me like he’s making

up for years of lost time.

I can’t keep my hands off him either. I catch him doing sit-ups and jump astride his hips before he does another crunch. His

chuckle dies in a strangled groan when I kiss and lick my way over his hard body, tugging his shorts down to pull out that

glorious, thick cock I crave.

Ethan’s often away. It isn’t great. But it doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would.

Because I know that, on the nights he is home, we’ll fall into his massive bed to cuddle under the covers and talk about anything

and everything until a touch or a look triggers the need we have for each other and we come together like a conflagration,

burning hot and bright. Only when we’re completely worn out will we fall asleep.

More importantly, I know I’m loved. And I love him. Having that security in my life is a joy I only now realize I’d been searching

for all along.

I grow inordinately giddy at the sight of Ethan’s big shoes—which include a ridiculous amount of sneakers—lumped together

with mine, of my body washes and hair products crowding out his lone shampoo and soap.

I get to talk to Ethan’s parents, an experience I’d feared would be awkward as fuck, given the circumstances.

But they’re warm, nice, normal. Ethan’s dad thanks me for making his son happy.

Ethan’s mom assures me her son has impeccable taste, so if he likes me, she will too.

I’m left blushing and stammering that, yes, I’d love to meet them when they return to California.

Ethan’s little brother is a slightly tougher judge. He asks me if I like Minecraft.

When I confess to having had an Enderman figurine on my desk in college, I’m deemed cool.

But I fall irrevocably head over heels for Ethan when he takes my hand one sunny morning and asks me to come out to his studio.

I’ve been there before. It’s a bright, airy space. His older work hangs on the walls or sits stacked in the corner. A few

pieces are half-done and on easels, waiting for completion.

Ethan specializes in photorealism. He uses lush colors and goes for close-up studies. Most of his subjects are football related,

though he’s done a few people as well. He’s been working on one of Drew, dressed in his uniform, helmet on the ground, his

hands low on his narrow hips as he looks off in the distance.

“Anna asked me to do that one,” Ethan told me. “It’s going to be a wedding present. Though I seriously think she’ll enjoy

it more than Drew will.”

I think he’s right.

Today he walks me out to the studio, a secretive smile on his lips.

“Have you finished your portrait?” I ask, though I don’t know when he’d have found the time. We’ve been in each other’s pockets

this past month.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why do you look so smug?”

His grin grows. “You’ll see.”

“Tell me.” I tug on his hand.

“No.”

“Tell me, tell me, tell me.” I tug again, wiggling his arm as I smile up at him.

He laughs and swings me up in his arms. “Little pest. So impatient.”

He kisses my nose and carries me up the stairs. The sharp scents of paint and turpentine mix with the warmer scent of pine

and fill my nose as he opens the door.

Ethan sets me down, and I turn around only to gasp, my hand flying to my lips.

The canvases and easels are gone. In their place is a woodworker’s fantasy: circular saws, bandsaws, table saws, routers and

lathes, miters, drills, joiners... Everything I need to make furniture.

“I thought maybe you could get started sooner rather than later,” he says, mirroring my thoughts.

“Oh, yes,” I murmur, walking around, taking it all in.

Worktables, a dust vacuum, stacks of different types of lumber. Emotion grabs me by the throat as I turn back to Ethan, who

leans against the doorway, hands in pockets, a curious, almost anxious expression on his handsome face.

“Where’s your painting stuff?” I croak out.

“Moved it to the guesthouse,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t need all this room, anyway.”

I swallow convulsively. “How—when?”

He pushes off from the doorway. “Found a guy who was retiring. Bought up the whole lot. Had some guys deliver it yesterday.”

He looks around and then back at me. “You like it?”

“Like it?” A laugh gurgles in my throat. “I love it. I love you.”

Without another word, I launch myself at him, and he catches me, holding me secure as I wrap my legs around his waist and

kiss his neck. “Thank you, Ethan. It’s the best surprise ever.”

He kisses the tip of my nose before nipping it. “I love you too. Happy birthday, Cherry.”

His words bring me up short. “How did you know?”

Ethan gives me an exasperated look. “Ivy wouldn’t go to our last division championship game because it was your birthday. That was two years ago today.”

“You remember that from two years ago?”

“You think I’ve forgotten a single thing about you?” With a sigh, he leans his forehead against mine. “What I want to know

is why you didn’t tell me it was your birthday.”

My gaze skitters away as I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m just not used to waving my own flag about stuff like that.”

With a firm but gentle grip, he turns my face back to meet his. I find it totally hot that he can hold me up with one arm.

His expression is soft. “You don’t have to wave your own flag anymore, Fi. That’s my job now. My privilege.”

My lips wobble on a smile. “Okay.”

He kisses me, lips to lips, then pulls back. “My birthday is June second, by the way.”

I laugh and wrap my arms around his neck, bringing myself closer. “Duly noted. Expect furniture. Maybe a console for that

monolith you call a TV.”

Ethan gives my ass a squeeze, looking smug once again. “Sounds perfect.”

Perfect. For the first time in my life, everything is perfect.

Dex

Arizona is... fucking dry. I suck down Gatorade as I get into the elevator and push the button for my floor, my suite.

Yeah, I upgraded to a suite with the hope that Fi would come with me. But she informed me last night that she was “riding

the crimson wave” and there was no way she would be traveling. It took me a moment to figure out what a crimson wave was,

then I promptly blocked the image from my mind. Or tried to. Some things can’t be unimagined, unfortunately.

And yet, I love that she was comfortable enough to tell me so bluntly.

I love having bras hanging to dry in my laundry closet, the multiple bottles of shampoo, conditioners and body wash—sweet Jesus, girls have a lot of fucking body washes—cluttering up my shower.

Hell, I even love the boxes of tampons invading the sink cabinet.

And I don’t give a shit if that makes me weird. Because all of it affirms that Fi is living with me. That she’s claimed my

home and me.

So when she looked at me yesterday with pained eyes, I manned up, asked for a list of what she needed and went to buy her

brownies, Midol and, yes, more tampons and pads—what the fuck wings are I don’t really want to know.

I did it without one word of complaint, and then I left for my game, a man content.

Now I’m going to sleep and looking forward to getting back home. For the first time in what feels like forever, I think of

my town house as home, and ain’t that a beautiful thing?

I’m smiling as I pull out my phone and check my messages while the elevator takes me up to my floor.

CherryBomb: I ended up working on a piece today. Tired now so I’m going to sleep. Good game, baby. You were great! See you soon. XOXO

I still can’t believe she watches my games. Fi has never hidden her dislike of football. Now she not only watches, but she

sleeps in my jersey—when I don’t strip it off her.

I let myself into my room and am greeted with light instead of darkness. Did the maids turn on the lights? For some reason,

the little hairs at the back of my neck rise.

I hear a noise, and I realize I’m not alone.

Instantly, every muscle tenses, my senses going on high alert. Then I see the bra on the floor. Lacy and pale purple, it lays like a heap of discarded flower petals, and my heart stops. I’ve seen a bra like that before.

Fi? Is she here? Was she trying to surprise me? I set my phone down on the table and move across the room toward the bedroom

door. A tiny pair of underwear dangles from the doorknob.

I cross the small living room in two steps, a smile blooming. The smile dies a swift death when I reach the bedroom.

“What the fuck?” My shout echoes through the suite.

The naked girl in my bed winces but puts on a brave face. “Hey there. I... ah...”

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

I’m trying real hard not to shout again or lose my shit; I’m a big dude, and there’s a very naked chick alone with me. I’m

aware of her vulnerability and her sheer stupidity, even if she isn’t. I could be into beating women for all she knows.

I’m also aware that she could spin this any way she wanted. Suddenly, I’m afraid of her. Of what she represents.

I back up, my shoulders hitting the wall. “You need to get out. Now.”

The girl rises to her knees, her tits pointing straight at me. The sight does nothing but send a rush of frustrated outrage

through my chest.

“But Dex, honey, it’s okay. I want to be here! I want to help you.”

I laugh without humor. “I don’t think you’re getting it. I don’t want you here, and the only way you can help is to get dressed

and go.”

“I’ll split the money with you,” she says, parting her thighs.

I look over her head. “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that earning money on your back will eventually eat at your

soul.”

“Are you calling me a whore?” she screeches.

Oh, I want to laugh. I really do. Only I want to punch the wall more. I take a breath and relax my fists. “Out. Before I call the police.”

I hear her huff, and she launches off the bed, gathering her clothes. “Are you gay? Is that it?”

And there it is, the cheap shot. I don’t even answer. When she stomps past, I look down. Thankfully, she’s dressed—if you

call the band of pink spandex that barely stretches over her ass a dress. “Come anywhere near me again, and I will call the

cops.”

Her face flushes red. “I wouldn’t fuck you now if you begged me on your knees, asshole.”

Right. That’s why she’s hovering in front of me, her eyes wild and desperate. I gesture to the door, and she snarls again

before rushing off. The slam of the suite door tells me I’m alone.

I want to sink into my bed and sleep. But I’m not touching it now. Instead, I reach for the hotel phone and prepare to hand

security their ass.

It isn’t until I’m in a new suite—comped after profuse apologies from the management—and crawling under fresh sheets, ready

to drift off, that my eyes snap open with dread as I realize something. The little witch stole my phone.