Page 32 of Playing Rucking Hard

“I don’t see how that makes us lucky. Still seems like alucky youproblem.“ My green-eyed monster refuses to be silenced.

“The whole thing is about repairing my reputation. Right now, they are my biggest risk.” He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “Think about it, they are only dating me for the fame. How better to get their fifteen minutes than to make up some bullshit story. Give me time and the Mavericks will seeweare my reputation rehab.”

“Us? Me?”

“We know each other, and I trust you not to put some bullshit story about me out there. We’ll go through the right channels, get permission, and fake date in public.”

“And the other women?”

“There will be no other women,” he says adamantly. “My cock’s been on hiatus since that first night.” He chuckles, “See how I called it ourfirst nightand notour only night? Come on, it’s perfect.”

“But if I lose my job …”

“I know,” he says, his voice softer now. “I don’t have all the answers, but I want you to trust me. We’ll start by saying we didn’t want people to know we knew each other because of the non-fraternization rules.”

“I was a last-minute replacement for the team, and my job offer came with a non-disclosure clause. I couldn’t tell you I was joining the cheer squad until the club made it official.”

“Right.” He nods, and I get a tinge of hope—this could work. “There’s no easy way to advise the club of pre-existing friendships or acquaintances. We can spin it to management asjust good friendsand let the press run with whatever stories they want.”

I shake my head, trying to clear the swirling emotions. He makes it sound so easy, so logical. But it can’t be that simple, surely?

“Emma,” he says, his voice low and steady again, taking my hand and rubbing my palm in rhythmical circles until my panic subsides. “We don’t have to decide everything about us right now. Let’s start small. Coffee, like this. Or meeting somewhere quiet to talk. That’s it. No pressure, no expectations. Just two friends catching up.”

I chew on my lip, processing what seems too good to be true. The rational part of me screams to run, to walk away, and never look back. But the other part—the part that remembers the way he looked at me last night, the way he kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him grounded—it wants to believe him.

“I don’t understand. Do you want to be friends? Because I don’t think I can do the friends with benefits thing.” It’s not the right time to tell him about my life’s complications. Not that Sage is acomplication, but she is an importantconsideration. I can’t introduce someone into her life who won’t stick around. I refuse to allow her to trust Dylan if I can’t trust him to be there when things turn to shit.

“Em, I don’t date. I’ve never dated. I don’t know how to date one woman.” Dylan refuses to release my fingers when I try to pull them away. “But I want to learn with you. This thing between us is more than friends, but I get that there are risks ifwe start dating and it doesn’t work out. I don’t want to impact your career, and I don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

“Okay,” I whisper, barely able to hear myself over the pounding of my heart. “But we keep it small. Quiet. And if it starts feeling like too much …”

“You call the shots,” he says quickly, his smile tentative, as if he knows I’ll agree to anything.Yeah, I probably will, unless it hurts my sister.“No pressure. Just coffee.”

Am I doing this?“That’s a shame,” I say with a flirt, twirling my fingers until my nails scratch his palm. “I kinda liked the kisses.”

“Oh, Emma, Emma, Emma, I want to do more than just kiss you.”

I’m going to hell. I’m stepping off the cliff of sensible decisions and entering an abyss that will only end in hell. “When and where?”

Twenty minutes later, I exit a cab clutching a plastic bag holding my Southern Mavericks gym bag with a change of clothes. On the ride, I ordered pizza for Sage and texted to explain my friend and I are going out for dinner. That gives me four to five hours with Dylan. Dylan Fleski. My Mr Next Ex …Dylan.Okay, if my heart doesn’t stop thundering in my chest, I’ll end up in the ER instead of his bed.

The bright hotel lights shimmer, and I rush to the entrance before I can change my mind. I’m crossing so many boundaries. At Dylan’s suggestion, my hair is tucked under my jacket, I’m wearing his baseball cap, and cheap, colored frames to alter my face.

“Good afternoon, miss,” the valet says, opening the heavy door. Does he realize I’m here for a dirty fuck? Blushing, Imanage a polite nod before walking into the cool, polished lobby.

Dylan booked this room.Dylan.I don’t want to think about how much it cost, or how many bills I could pay with the sort of money that Dylan can throw away on a whim.

Dylan, who doesn’t wait for the right time on the field to make a play, refused to wait another hour to get me alone.Who didn’t want to risk people seeing me go back to his apartment.Who am I kidding? I can still feel his first kiss, and his last. I want more, and if I’m going to hell, why wait?Fake fake dating in public, fucking in private. What can go wrong?

I feel like heading towards the reception desk is heading towards the gallows as nervous butterflies twist in my stomach. This isn’t like last time. This isn’t an impulsive night after hours of drinking and laughing, when we were anonymous with no names and no tomorrows. This feels like a considered and deliberate decision. If it all falls apart, I’m not going to be able to shrug and say we got caught up in the moment.

After checking in with surprising ease, I ride the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. Is it too late to back out? If the elevator breaks down, how am I going to explain being stuck for hours? But I can’t abort and go home. Sage will look at me with questions and I won’t have the answers.

Seriously, Em, pull yourself together, I say to myselfConsenting adults have sex. You’re not the first couple to book a hotel room to have sex, and you won’t be the last. Deal with it. Enjoy it. Enjoy him.

The elevator doesn’t break down, denying me an excuse to change my mind. I check and recheck the room number before heading down corridors to room 1507. In the books, I’d fumble and drop the key card, but I’m gripping it too hard for it to fall anywhere. The green light blinks, and I push the door open. I’m ready to earn my way to hell.

The room is beautiful, of course. Dylan’s credit card wouldn’t settle for anything less. A plush king-size bed dominates the space, flanked by sleek nightstands and tasteful artwork of Australian natives. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal views of adjoining hotel windows. Stunning room in a crowded city, I sigh.No one is going to be watching. Even if they do, they won’t recognize me.

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