Time Out: A Holiday Sports Romance Read online

  Amanda Heartley

  Published by Heartley Publishing

  © 2016 Amanda Heartley

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Amanda Heartley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Contents

  Time Out

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  More from Amanda!

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Coming soon, my next release!

  If you want an email reminder about my next sinfully sexy story...

  Click here to subscribe!

  More from Amanda!

  Dirty Wicked Lust - A Stepbrother Romance

  Runway Encounter Box Set - A South Beach Romance

  Destiny Undone Series Collection - A Billionaire Romance

  Fueled Obsession Box Set - A Bad Boy Romance

  Oceans Apart Box Set - A British Billionaire Romance

  Southern Heat Box Set - An Erotic Romance

  One

  Avery

  “Did you… did you just scream, Avery Shoemaker?”

  I blushed, looking at my roommate, Missy Sinclair. “Who, me?” I teased, sitting back down in the bleachers—much to the relief of the fans seated behind me.

  “Yes,” Missy teased, all decked out in her brown and orange Worthington Wildcats colors. “You, my bookworm roommate, who I literally had to drag here tonight, just… screamed! At a football game, of all things!”

  “We all just screamed,” I said, trying not to stare at the sexy quarterback as he sauntered off the field—all six-foot-one of him. “Maybe you have me confused with someone else.”

  Missy leaned closer, following my gaze to the bench just off the sidelines. “And maybe you should take your eyes off Craig Robinson.”

  “Who?” I said, having never heard the name before that night.

  Missy peered back at me incredulously. “Craig Robinson,” she said softly as if someone might hear. “You know? The quarterback whose ass you’ve been checking out since we got here!”

  “I have not!” I lied. “I just, I mean… he’s so athletic.”

  “And handsome,” Missy reminded me, nodding with emphasis as he whipped off his helmet to reveal chocolate brown curls beneath, wet with sweat, but no less enthralling. His dark brown mane framed a handsome, chiseled face, covered with a day or two of soft, fine stubble. “And never more so than when you can see his face, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said defensively. “I’m just here for the field goals.”

  “Touchdowns!” Missy said, having coached me through the first quarter on the difference between the two. But who could concentrate with Craig Robinson’s ass staring me right in the face all night?

  It was Missy’s fault, of course. Having flirted mercilessly with Brett, our cute enough across-the-hall neighbor. Since we’d moved into off-campus housing earlier that semester, she’d ramped up her efforts once she found out poor Brett was one of the towel boys for the football team. Her efforts—which mainly consisted of sauntering down to the laundry room three times a week in her bathrobe whenever she heard Brett fiddling with his door key across the hall—had finally paid off with seats directly on the 50-yard line, and so close to the player’s bench, I could see the dimples in Craig’s ass. Uhh…. cheeks!

  “If I’d known there was such eye candy in football uniforms before,” I murmured, watching Craig as he huddled with several coaches about the touchdown he’d just scored, “I would have bought season tickets.”

  “With what?” she huffed, squirming in her seat next to me as she waited for the next beer vendor to walk by. “Your good looks?”

  “I guess you’re right,” I sighed, lamenting the life of a poor college sophomore who made just over minimum wage working part-time at the campus bookstore. “But still…”

  My voice trailed off as Craig sank onto the bench, alone for one moment after all the adulation. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow, his profile exquisite as the defense took the field and the crowd prepared for another round of play.

  I could have cared less. I hadn’t wanted to come to the game in the first place, had never had even the least bit of interest in football—or any other sport, for that matter—but Missy had been so insistent and at last, it had paid off.

  I’d never been one for love at first sight, but suddenly, I understood ‘lust’ at first sight! Sitting there, admiring his every curve, bulge, and dimple, I couldn’t understand why I was so attracted to Craig, when I’d never felt so powerfully for a guy so suddenly before.

  Maybe it was the fact that ever since I’d arrived at Worthington College, I’d been less than successful in the sex department. Sure, there had been that hot weekend hookup with the long, lean swimmer I’d met at freshman orientation, but come Monday morning he’d wanted nothing more to do with me.

  And yes, there had been that embarrassing fling with my older manager at the bookstore, but he’d been transferred shortly after and like the swimmer, he’d never returned any of my texts or calls once he started at his new store across town. So, it had been months since I’d seen a man naked, and years since I’d seen a man as handsome as Craig Robinson, period.

  No wonder I couldn’t help drooling. “Oh shoot,” I said as Craig stood abruptly and put on his helmet.

  “What?” asked Missy, downing her third beer of the evening.

  “Craig’s leaving!”

  She laughed. “It’s the offense’s turn back on the field,” she’d reminded me. “He’ll be back on the bench when the defense takes over in another few plays, don’t worry.”

  But he wasn’t—not even close. Just after the center hiked the ball to him, Craig reared back to throw a pass and was pummeled by no less than three massive linemen, each outweighing him by a good hundred pounds. I stood on my feet immediately and for once, wasn’t alone. The collective gasp let out by the entire stadium could be heard for miles as we stood, ha
nds cupped to our mouths, waiting to see if Craig was actually under there!

  The entire Worthington Wildcats bench stood as well, peering past the sidelines as referees blew whistles and waved flags, and coaches rushed the field as the massive linemen finally stumbled to their feet. Craig lay on the field, obscured by the presence of so many players and coaches as they bent to tend to him.

  I stood, hand still over my mouth, along with the concerned crowd as we waited breathlessly for some type of movement on the field. At last, a smattering of applause could be heard as Craig rose and aided by a coach on either side, limped from the field. The applause grew until, at last, poor, handsome, limping Craig received a standing ovation.

  Two

  Craig

  “Can’t I just get a quick ride home first?”

  Coach Laughlin looked at me as if I’d just made a joke about his mother. “Craig,” he huffed, jowls trembling with anxiety. “I can’t leave mid-game, you know that.”

  I nodded, more than understanding. I didn’t want to leave early, either. It was just that I didn’t want to brave the crowds if I had to wait until after the game, either. I could already picture the faces of the fans, half-filled with pity, half-filled with scorn, as if I should just fucking play hurt—no matter the consequences—or the pain.

  “Just hang out for the second half,” Coach said, already halfway toward the locker room door. “And you’ll have half the players begging to take you out for a get-well beer after the game.”

  I nodded as I watched him go, the locker room empty and messy in his wake. The team doctor had made it clear I’d broken nothing in the pileup of defensive linemen who’d pounded me into the field so mercilessly, but that I’d be banged up and bruised for the rest of the week. That, and the sprained tendon that was currently throbbing deep inside the tissue of my left calf. Now, knowing I wouldn’t play the rest of the game, I just wanted to go and drown my sorrows alone, in my room at the campus sports dorm—as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

  I swiveled left on top of the padded training bench and swung my legs off, wincing at the searing pain in my left calf, but grateful for the industrial strength Ben Gay that Doc Thompson had applied liberally up and down the back of my leg.

  After a try or two on the crutches he’d handed me just before returning to the field, I was able to hobble over to the showers and using the wall to support myself, I stripped off my uniform and stepped carefully inside, the hot water doing wonders for both my body and soul. After, I dressed quickly and the roar of the crowd outside the cavernous locker room made me feel regretful about my decision to leave the stadium while the game was still in progress.

  Sure, I could have stayed and toughed it out on the sidelines, cheering my team on as they battled it out with our rivals, the Statestown Stallions, for the right to play in the District Championships the following week.

  My teammates headed back out to the field to win or lose on their own while I lingered in the locker room, my leg throbbing and stinging as I struggled to deal with the guilt of letting them down.

  I caught a glance of myself in the mirror on the way out of the locker room, fresh-faced, hair slicked back, in the same gray Worthington Wildcats T-shirt I’d worn to the stadium earlier that night, never imagining how my football season would end. Fearing the mean looks, mumbled whispers and pitying back pats of curious fans outside, I rifled through the Lost & Found box in Coach’s office until I found an oversized hoodie, ball cap and sunglasses before hobbling, incognito, from the locker room.

  The long hallway leading from the team locker room was empty, making me wonder if I’d overestimated my own popularity as the crowd remained in the stands, watching our team struggle on without me. I shrugged and with a crutch under each armpit, limped down the long, tube-like entrance, festooned with handmade “Good Luck” and “Go Team” banners hanging on the walls. Each one reminded me of how little I mattered in the scheme of things, making me more eager to leave the stadium as quickly as I could.

  I emerged from the tube, squinting at the bright lights of the stadium and headed east, in the opposite direction of the playing field and hobbled, step-by-step, toward my room high above the sports dorm just off campus. It was a longer trek than I’d imagined, my leg throbbing with each step and the distance didn’t appear to grow any shorter, no matter how much I walked.

  Or in this case, limped.

  I heard a scooter behind me as I walked along the sidewalk back toward campus. It slowed down, and eventually passed me. It was a gnarly old thing, sputtering and belching white exhaust into the cool fall air as it slowed once more and jerked to a stop.

  “Are you okay?” I asked the blazing hot brunette who turned back to look at me. Her hair shimmered beneath an overhead streetlight and a soft autumn-colored sweater hugged a tight, curvaceous body that could only be described as full. Despite the throbbing in my leg, I felt another kind of throbbing, powerful and totally unexpected in my pants. Our eyes lingered on one another’s, mine shrouded slightly by the hood covering my head, until she blinked, seeming to make a decision.

  Parking the rickety scooter with an even ricketier kickstand, she sauntered back to me, all tits, ass and kissable full lips. She wasn’t the standard blonde bimbo I was used to, drunk and sloppy at some random frat party—nor did she look particularly interested in me other than as a loser limping home on the street.

  “I think the question is…are you… okay?” she asked, her voice breathy, making me throb even more in my tightie-whities.

  “Sure,” I said, shrugging quietly in the silken darkness. “Why?”

  She smirked. “Well, you’re the one limping, and those crutches—hey, aren’t you?”

  I blushed without nodding. “I saw you get hit,” she said, peering down at my leg. “It was so loud, I almost felt it up in the stands.”

  “You’re leaving the game?” I asked, peering back toward the stadium so that my hood slid slightly away from my face. “Before it’s over?”

  She shrugged, the clingy sweater sliding over soft, full breasts that looked refreshingly natural. “I’m not much into football,” she confessed. “I only went because my roommate had free tickets and… you’re frowning.”

  I chuckled. “Who? Me?”

  Her smile was dazzling, lighting up precious dimples beneath her sparkling eyes. “Yes, frowning at me. You’re mad I don’t like your sport of choice?”

  “Not at all,” I sighed, shifting my weight on the crutches. “Sometimes, like on a night like tonight, I’m not much of a fan of it myself.”

  “No?” she asked. “How come?”

  I winced, slightly. “I just… this wasn’t the way my season was supposed to end, you know?”

  She shook her head slightly. “That’s why you’re limping home before the game is over, too?”

  I chuckled. “I guess so…” I let my voice trail off, like a question mark, and she quickly got the hint.

  “Avery,” she said, jutting out a hand even though mine were holding onto the crutches that were holding me up. “Avery Shoemaker.”

  “Craig,” I said, leaning on my good leg to shake her hand. “Craig Robinson—”

  I caught myself, stumbling slightly, and Avery reached out a hand to steady my shoulder. Squeezing it gently, but lingeringly, her eyes looked concerned as she said, “Oh my God, we got to talking and I forgot the reason why I came back here in the first place. Can I… can I give you a lift?”

  Winking, and nodding toward her bike, I said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Three

  Avery

  “You must be used to wearing one of these, right?”

  I felt stupid offering Craig Robinson—the Craig Robinson—something as silly as a scooter helmet, but he didn’t seem offended in the least.

  “Safety first,” he teased, sliding it over his delicious dark curls as his soft hazel eyes peered out from beneath the small visor.

  I’d already stopped the scooter even
before I recognized him, having passed the struggling football star and then feeling a sense of guilt at leaving him alone in his obvious predicament. I probably shouldn’t have—my mom would have been mortified if she’d known I’d asked a random stranger if he needed a lift—but he looked like he needed help, hobbling along on his crutches beneath the streetlights.

  I mean, I had to go back… right?

  So, imagine my surprise when walking back to him, I recognized Craig’s handsome face beneath the oversized hoodie. Now, amazingly, he was seated on the back of my crappy scooter, his crutches strapped to the back, and his long, athletic legs spread wide as he made room for me.

  I straddled the seat in front of him, feeling the insides of his thighs on mine as I struggled to keep my ass a safe distance from him on the tiny motorbike.

  Yeah, that was an impossible feat.

  “Where to?” I asked, turning abruptly, his face so close to mine I could see the pebbly scruff on his chiseled face in finer detail.

  He blushed, averting his eyes before peering back at me. Jesus, but he was gorgeous! “Well, you’ll probably think it’s silly, but…”

  “Sillier than that helmet on your head?” I teased, watching him grin adorably.

  “Almost,” he said. “It’s just that, I kind of have this tradition after every big game…”

  I snorted. “So you want me to take you to the nearest sorority house then?” I teased, gunning the engine in a fit of irrational jealousy and the scooter lurched forward. Surprised, Craig instinctively grabbed for something to hold on to. Fortunately, it was me.

  His hands were large and strong, though gentle, clinging to me as I puttered forward in a cloud of belching exhaust fumes. I couldn’t help but notice the thrill that rushed through my body at the slightest touch, powerful and hot as I squirmed a little on the seat. It had been so long since any man had touched me, let alone so tenderly. How could I not melt into a desperate puddle of wanton desire when a guy like Craig Robinson did it?

  “Not quite,” he murmured, leaning closer as we sped along the sidewalk leading away from the stadium. As powerfully as I’d reacted to his touch, his breath felt warm and soft across my cheek and made me swoon even more. To say nothing of those beautiful lips dancing dangerously close to my ear lobe. “There’s this little ice cream parlor across from campus…”