Page 55 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Dex

“I can’t believe you’re married.” Johnson takes a swig of his beer and shakes his head.

We’re standing along the gently sloping bank of a placid lagoon. Lights from various torches and the full moon glitter in

the inky waters. Just behind us, the massive wedding tent glows like a white cake. Guests inside are dancing and laughing.

Here, though, huddled in a protective circle around the groom, we toast to his happy day. And nothing, I mean nothing, is

getting Gray down right now. He full-out grins, glowing as bright as the moon.

“Isn’t it fucking great?” he says, throwing his arms in the air like he’s made a touchdown.

I guess, in a way, he has. He’s won that which he most wanted: Ivy.

“It’s just so... grown up,” Johnson grumps.

Rolondo nods, sipping at his champagne. For all the world, he appears to agree with Johnson. Until he speaks. “It’s difficult for Johnson to hang with grown-ups, you see. He has trouble understanding complex situations.”

“Eat shit,” Johnson says with a laugh.

Drew shakes his head. “Boys, boys. Behave yourselves.”

“Our you’ll sic Dad on us?” Rolondo asks, glancing at me and pretending to shudder with fear.

As Team Dad, I lift my water in a mock salute. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Rolondo rolls his eyes. “Man, we graduated. You can’t ground me anymore.”

“Yeah,” chimes in Johnson. “We’re big boys now.”

We all break into laughter, but it settles down with a heavy weight. Jokes aside, this is it for us. We’ll no longer all be

on the same team. We’ve been scattered in the breeze, landing all over the country. I’m going to New Orleans—thankfully with

Rolondo—but the rest of my guys are moving on without me. It’s bittersweet.

A lump rises in my throat, and I struggle to think of something to say. Something with wisdom that will make my guys feel

a little better. It’s expected of me. I’m the one to take care of them. But nothing comes.

The silence grows taut.

Until a high-pitched “whoop” cracks through the night air, making us all jump. We turn as one. Ivy, Anna and a veritable pack

of tipsy girls runs out from the tent with obvious glee. They streak across the lawn in a rainbow of flowing dresses and waving

arms. It’s beautiful yet slightly terrifying.

Ivy spots Gray and comes to a wobbly halt. “You, there!” She points at him, and he grins like the cat who ate the canary.

“Who, me?” Gray asks, touching his chest.

“Yeah, you, Mr. Cupcake. Come dance with me.”

A muffled groan of dread goes through the group of us. But Gray shoulders past, a man on a mission, so fucking happy, it almost

hurts to see.

“Here we go,” Rolondo mutters. It’s well-known how badly Ivy dances. We do our best to ignore that.

Gray and Ivy start their bizarre dance of awkward lurches without waiting for a song. Drew jogs up to Anna, grabs her by the

waist and swings her in a circle. The music turns up—The Black Keys, “Gold on the Ceiling”—and everyone grabs someone to dance

with. I haven’t moved. I’m not much of a dancer. But I watch, humming along to the song, as my friends jump around with carefree

joy.

It lights my own. And then I see her. Everything in me stills: my heart, the blood in my veins, my fucking brain. My own personal

torment, the sweetly sexy pixie—the one and only Fiona Mackenzie—is dancing her way up to me.

She’s wearing a long halter-top sheath dress in a pale fabric that glitters in the torchlight. All the bridesmaids have the

same dress but in silver. Fi, as maid of honor, was the only one in gold. And, frankly, she’s the only one I pay any attention

to. I swear, every time I see this girl, she shines. Her smile is wide but slightly tilted as she skips up to me. Or maybe

the booze is making her tilt. Because the girl is happy buzzing all over me. I don’t mind one bit.

“Dexy!” she shouts over the music, even though it’s quieter here by the lake. “Come dance!”

“Oh, I don’t—”

She yanks me forward with surprising force. I catch her inches before I squish her. Even so, her lithe body falls against

mine. My breath leaves and then rushes back like a fucking engine. I’m panting, liquid heat running like lava through my veins.

Every inch of me comes alive.

I stare down at her, my hand on her small waist, feeling the warmth of her body. She smells of champagne and apples. I want

to dip my head and taste all that fresh sweetness. I want to carry her off into the dark and drink her up. But I am Dex, the

sensible one. So I simply hold her until she gets her balance.

Fi smiles up at me, her blond hair wild about her face. “Come on, then. I love this song!”

Now, I don’t want to dance. I hate the lack of control, the spectacle of it. I’m more for the shadows. But she’s looking at

me so earnestly, a plea in her green eyes. I can’t say no.

I let the music take me, and I start to move. Unfortunately, as soon as I do, she wiggles free and dances too. Not that I

mind the dancing part; I’d rather have done it holding on to her. But watching is just fine. More than fine.

Fiona’s built on a small scale, but her butt is more than a handful, and her breasts—I can’t look at those without wanting

a suck. I focus on her eyes. She dances around me, then leans close. I can’t help it; I snag her in, whirl her around. She

tosses her head back and laughs. So damn pretty. It’s all I can do not to bend down and kiss the creamy arc of her neck.

Our eyes meet, and hers go wide. I don’t know what’s going on in that head of hers. We’ve barely spoken in all the time I’ve

known her. She looks a little startled, her pink lips parting.

I’ll kiss it and make it better. I promise.

“Dex?” Her voice is soft and about as steady as my knees are at the moment.

“Yep.”

She sways into me, a gentle sigh of movement. I go hard as baked brick. Fi blinks up at me, her gaze dazed. “I think I really

did have too much to drink this time.”

It sounds so forlorn, I want to hug her close, tell her everything is going to be okay. I can’t do that. Not now. Someday,

maybe. But, despite my best effort, a confession breaks free. “I think you’re perfect.”

“You do?” A smile wobbles on her rosy lips.

She won’t remember this. I can see it in her eyes. It hurts to know.

I swallow hard. “Yeah. I really do.”

The song changes to something slow and lazy. Fiona keeps staring at me as though startled. I don’t know what to say. My hand tightens on her lower back, and she sucks in a breath.

“Fi—”

“I’m so hot!” she announces suddenly.

I concur. But I don’t think she means it that way.

“Soo hot!” A flush works over her neck.

Frowning, I’m about to offer to get her some ice water. Then she’s away, twirling free. I let her go because she isn’t mine.

I have no hold on her.

Smiling, I watch her dance in the moonlight. She shimmies her hips, sways her arms. Her antics have drawn attention. More

than a few of my teammates are watching now, cheering her on. It’s good-natured admiration, but still, the frown on my face

grows. I find myself crossing my arms over my chest and shooting some of them warning glares. Fi is not to be messed with.

It doesn’t help when she suddenly stops and yells again, “I’m so hot!”

Someone—someone whose ass I will kick just as soon as I find out who—shouts out, “You sure are, honey!”

She blows a kiss in the direction of the crowd, and without warning, she completely destroys me: her hand goes to her side

and pulls down her zipper.

By the ghost of Walter Payton, no, she is not stripping. Only she is. Another shimmy and her dress puddles at her feet. My body tightens to the point of pain. I swear to

all that’s holy, my fucking heart just stops.

She is perfect. Utterly perfect. Smooth skin, perky tits, narrow waist, wide hips.

And wearing nothing more than a strapless green bra and matching tiny panties.

I hurt, literally hurt, with need.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Marshall, a defensive end, shouts. “Take it all off, baby!”

A good sidearm shove from me has him tumbling into the lagoon, tuxedo and all. No remorse there. He should have better defensive

muscle memory than that. The colossal splash he makes turns the attention away from Fiona—thank Christ. People laugh as Marshall

struggles to get up, cursing a blue streak at me. I don’t bother addressing that; dumbass had it coming. I’m stuck on Fi.

She giggles, then keeps dancing. I want to cover her up, take her away. But she’s so joyful, so free. I can’t do anything

more than stand there, stunned. There’s movement around her—bridesmaids stripping down as well, a show of comradery, I guess.

They surround Fiona, laughing and dancing. Then, as one, they run for the lagoon. It’s chaos of the drunk and disorderly.

Ivy and Gray laugh, holding on to each other before turning their backs on the show and slow dancing alone. I take it all

in, then I watch my girl, making sure she isn’t hurt or doesn’t drown, because she’s too drunk to be unguarded. And she is my girl. I know this now. I can’t avoid this forever. Now I need to sit back and do what I do best: assess the situation,

figure out how, when and where I can make my play. Because I know I will make that play. One day. Game on.