Page 54 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Dex

The little guesthouse is something out of a fairy tale—pale gray limestone, dramatically peaked roof and those windows that

look like multiple panels of diamonds. All that’s needed is a layer of thick white snow to complete the picture of a magical

cottage in the woods. But it almost never snows around here, even in December. It’s cold out, though, making my breath fog

and wreath around my head.

Classic Christmas music sounds from behind those diamond windows. Bing Crosby. My mother would approve; according to her,

no Christmas celebration would be complete without him.

I sigh, expelling another cloud of fogged breath, and try my best not to glare at the intricately paneled wood front door—another

whimsical touch to this whole cottage vibe. I don’t want to celebrate. I want to read a book, take a hot soak to ease the

pain in my body and then nap. But Gray invited me here. And given that I’ll do pretty much anything for him when he sincerely

wants it, I have no choice. Which means I knock on the damn door.

I do not expect Tinkerbell to open it. For a moment, I stare, feeling like some big awkward-as-all-fuck ogre in the face of this delicately beautiful girl.

Because she can’t be real, can she? Big green eyes that dance with mischief, a sweet oval of a face surrounded by wild hair that glows like gold in this dull winter light.

She’s tiny compared to me, a wisp of a thing.

But oh, so vivid. It’s as if she’s leaching all the color around her and drawing it into herself. By God, she glows.

I want to paint her. Capture all that vibrant loveliness on a canvas so I can look upon it whenever I want. But I know in

an instant that I’d never be able to do her justice.

I want to reach out and touch her. Just to make sure I haven’t taken one too many hard hits and am hallucinating.

I want to say something real and true— Where have you been all my life? What took you so long to get here?

I want to turn around and get the hell out of here, keep going until I reach the relative safety of the opposite coast.

I don’t do any of these things. I just stare.

I swear, she sparkles. Maybe it’s the fact that twinkling strings of fairy lights lace every available edge in the small vestibule.

I can’t be sure. I feel slightly drunk with this girl. It’s disturbing.

“Hey, there, Big Guy,” she says with a voice full of joy and humor. “You want to stand there all night, soaking in my magnificence?”

Is that an option? Because I am down with it.

She tilts her head, an impish smile growing. “Or maybe come inside out of the cold?”

Is it cold? A living furnace has landed in my chest. Waves of heat and want are washing over my body at an alarming rate.

I don’t remember how to breathe. Which is a problem because she asked a question. And I haven’t fucking moved. I might faint.

And wouldn’t that be the absolute cherry on top of the clusterfuck that is me?

“Hello?” She says it playfully, waving her hand as if to snap me out of my frozen state.

Speak, asshole! For the love of football, move your ass and answer her!

“Hey.” It shoots out of my mouth like a blast. I wince, reel it in. “Uh, yeah. Coming in would be good.”

Shit. Did that sound like an innuendo?

Her smile widens, and she steps back, gesturing for me to follow. Warmth and laughter and the melodic notes of “White Christmas”

flow around me. For a sharp second, I feel so utterly alone, so utterly out of place, that I start to turn the other way.

This was a terrible idea. I don’t fit here. I am not lighthearted or sliver-tongued like Gray. I’m not smooth and easygoing

like Drew. I’m not—

“Come on,” the pixie interrupts. “You’re letting in all the cold.”

A small, smooth hand wraps around my wrist, tugging me forward. I step into the hall, but all I can feel is her touch on my

skin. It’s like I’ve been struck by a tuning fork. Seriously, what the hell is going on?

“My, you’re a big one, aren’t you?” She grins, looking fucking delighted. “And I thought Gray was a man mountain. You’re more

like Everest.”

“Uh. Yeah. I guess.” Shit. I have to have more game than this.

She’s patting my forearm. “Let me take your coat. Oh, you brought wine. And a good vintage. None of these yahoos know a good

vintage from bad.”

“I heard that, Tinkerbell!” Gray shouts from somewhere beyond.

Her name is Tinkerbell? No, it can’t be.

“Wasn’t trying to hide it, Grayson!” Her pert nose wrinkles. “I am not, in fact, named Tinkerbell.”

Holy hell. Did I say that out loud? I blink rapidly, begging my brain to start functioning properly, to say anything to this gorgeous girl that isn’t nonsensical.

But she’s still chattering as she sets the bottle of wine on a side table covered with little ceramic Christmas houses, and steps closer to take my coat.

“I’m Fiona, Ivy’s sister. But I usually go by Fi.”

Her hands run up my collar, and I go white-hot, sweat breaking out along the small of my back. The touch isn’t suggestive

or personal, but my body doesn’t know that. All it knows is that it wants her hands everywhere. Skin to skin, slow and soft.

God Almighty.

I suck in a breath and almost dislodge her. She stumbles a bit. Instantly, my hand shoots out to steady her, finding the small

of her slim back. She’s warm and firm, and my knees go a bit weak.

I’ve never, never , reacted like this to anyone. It sets me so off-balance that, for a moment, I’m the one holding on to her to keep steady.

Fi laughs a little, tilting her head back to smile up at me. So fucking pretty.

“Sorry,” she says. “I may have had a bit too much wine already. Didn’t think I was at the stumbling stage, though.”

“You’re good.” You’re perfect. “I’m... ah... I’m Ethan. Ethan Dexter.”

She’s still leaning against me, clearly comfortable with driving me out of my mind. “Dex! The boys have been talking about

you.”

Dex. Somehow the name everyone calls me feels like a letdown coming from her lips. I want to hear her say my real name. I want

to hear her cry out Ethan while I— Nope, do not think it. Not now, when I’m already in danger of making it damn obvious how much she’s affecting me.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what,” I say.

She outright grins. “You’re Papa Bear.”

With that, she gives my beard a tug—one I feel straight down to my balls—and steps unfortunately away. “For once, the boys

don’t seem to be overexaggerating. You’re definitely a Papa Bear.”

“I promise, I wouldn’t put you out for stealing my porridge.”

“Ha!” She slaps my chest with good-natured cheer. “Cute.”

I’d been completely serious.

Her smile turns a little devious. “But would you kick me out of your bed for stealing it?”

Why? Why is she tormenting me? Not going to lie—I kind of like it.

Heart pounding, I give her the only answer I can. “I guess you’ll have to try my bed out and see.”

Laughter peals like bells. It’s clear she thinks I’m joking. And, really, that’s for the best. But frustration itches along

my skin all the same.

“You’re cute, Dex.”

Cute?

I know I’m frowning. I can feel it pulling at my mouth. Cute?

She doesn’t notice. She pats my chest like I’m a kid, then turns on one little heel and strides toward the living room, leaving

me to rub the spot she hit. She’d given me no more than a light tap, something I’d barely feel ordinarily. But it aches, deep

inside, just as surely as if she’d stabbed me right through the heart.

I’m still rubbing it when Gray pops his head around the corner and frowns.

“What the hell are you doing just standing there, Dexter?”

“What? Nothing.” I scowl. “Please don’t tell me you’re cutting the potatoes with that knife.”

He’s holding an enormous carving knife in his massive paw like he’s about to star in a slasher film. We had a plan for dinner: I’d do the potatoes; he’d do the meatballs.

“What’s wrong with this knife?”

“Everything. It’s the wrong size, and you’ll hack the shit out of the potatoes with it. You have no finesse, Grayson.”

“We’ve been over this, Dexy. I’m the smoothest dude you know.”

“Sure. Like a baby’s ass.”

Gray wiggles his brow. “Jealous, Papa Bear?”

Crap. He heard all that?

Grinning wide and deviously, Gray nods as if to answer my unspoken question, then cocks his head toward the living room. “Fi’s

pretty cute, isn’t she? You gonna give her a sample of your special porridge, Papa?”

I simply point at him, raising my brow. It’s enough to have his smile slipping.

“You’re no fun.”

“So I’ve been told.” Usually, I’m okay with that. But I have a bad feeling Fiona is all about fun. I have serious doubts that

I’m her type.

Those doubts are confirmed when Gray leads me into the living room and I spot her on the couch, sitting next to some pretty

boy who has his arm around her shoulders. To my mortification, an actual growl rumbles in my chest. Gray hears it and smothers

a laugh with a cough; he wants to live, so he knows not to be too obvious.

It doesn’t matter, though. Fiona Mackenzie is unavailable. For the best, honestly. A hot knot of something wrong settles behind

my ribs. She’d expect something I wouldn’t be able to give her—experience. I’d humiliate myself with my utter lack of it.

I try my best to pack it all away, ignore her as much as I can.

But my gaze goes back to her again and again.

And when her eyes catch mine halfway through dinner, a smile spreading across her sweet face, I know the truth.

I’m cooked. I’ve found the girl of my dreams. She’s the one.

I know it with the same bone-deep certainty I feel about football.

I’ve found her. But I’m not in the position to make a play.

I put Fiona out of my mind and focus on football. Easier said than done.