Scoring the Player (6ix Loves Book 2) Read online

  The cottage is perfect for some solitude. Nowhere near Atlanta, my family, or my father’s questions about my career. I love my parents and my sisters—I do—but they’re a lot to take for any length of time, and I’m used to being on my own.

  Since college, I haven’t spent more than a few days a year with my parents, usually only for the holidays. This year, I stayed on after New Year’s for all of January minus the two days to come here.

  The wedding was a welcomed reprieve, and I’ve been counting the days until my return. The family time was more than I’d bargained for.

  I was hounded for not having a girlfriend—apparently, at twenty-eight, I should be settling down, according to my mother. But I also made the mistake of sharing with my father the decision I’d been wrestling with. Bad idea.

  His command to me as I left for the airport still rings in my head, on top of all the other times he echoed something similar over the past month or so.

  “Matthew, there’s no decision to make. You’re not leaving the NFL.”

  Like it’s his career and his decision to make. I snorted and said as much. Dad’s response shocked me and my mother, who gasped at his side, clutching the pearls around her neck.

  “You end your football career and don’t bother coming back to this house. You won’t be welcome.” My father’s rejection still rips at my gut.

  I never anticipated his pro ball career, or the failure of it, would overshadow mine. The expectations of this man are unbearable.

  Sighing, I step into the house and shake off the awful memory of that conversation. In a nutshell, my future comes down to a choice between losing my family or playing a game where my lost passion increases my chances of failure or further injury.

  Fucking wonderful.

  I rub my hands together, grateful it’s warmer in here than outside. But it’s still too cold for my liking. Pip mentioned I’d have to crank the heat and turn on the main water valve.

  On a mission to find the thermostat, I leave my bags at the foot of the staircase and saunter down the hall. A massive fieldstone fireplace in the middle of the great room tempts me to start a fire.

  I’m a southern boy, used to sunshine and long, warm days, but I’m no stranger to the winter. As quarterback for the Fury, we play in all kinds of weather, and New York City gets snow.

  Manhattan has been my home for the past two seasons, and when I first started in the league, I was in Wisconsin for three years, after being drafted right out of college. Now there’s some winter.

  I celebrated when I was traded to the LA Rockets despite how I’d miss the team. The California sun was calling my name.

  Boy, I was a fool.

  My time in LA was spent on the bench. At first, I was to be the quarterback for the Rockets, but a last minute surprise trade added Ty Collins to the roster. If I was a superstar QB, Ty was a supernova.

  I became backup QB, and it didn’t matter that I had been selected to play in the Pro Bowl twice and helped my last team win a Super Bowl.

  In my final year with LA, things changed when Ty’s shoulder injury could no longer be ignored. I finally got to play.

  My last season in LA was my best, even with my elbow injury. I led the Rockets to the playoffs, but we didn’t win the Super Bowl.

  At that point, I was ready to move on. A lot had changed. A fellow teammate who was also my best friend turned out not to be who I thought he was. And Pippa, his then wife, divorced him and left LA. And last, I was up for a trade.

  That’s how I ended up in New York. The Fury is one of the best teams in the league, but I had been on edge, leery about what my time in the Big Apple might look like. Of course, it’s always the risk with a trade for both the player and the team. Will it be a good fit?

  I’ve played two seasons with the Fury. Great seasons for the most part, and now once again, I’m faced with another proverbial fork in the road. Our season was decent, but we didn’t make the playoffs like we did last year.

  As for me, it wasn’t my best season. My body has taken some hits, and I’m not always performing at my best. This elbow injury of mine doesn’t want to settle, sometimes flaring up when I least expect.

  And as if that isn’t enough, something’s missing. This season, I didn’t have the feeling—what I call the magic—when on the field, throwing the ball and encouraging the guys to play well.

  The magic is gone.

  The game feels like a job, which it is, but now more an obligation than a passion. It’s never been that way for me before.

  Coach, the commentators, critics, and fans alike all sensed it, and they even talked about how something about me was off. Dad rejected all of this, laughing in my face when I tried to explain any of this to him.

  And no matter how hard I’ve tried to resurrect the drive—nothing. And to make things trickier, as much as I like New York and could be content to stay with the team, there are rumors I might be traded.

  Once the rumblings hit me, I realized I had to figure out my shit. I either play another season, with the possibility of being traded in mid-March, or retire. So, at the end of this month, I have arranged a meeting with my agent and the team management. Another thing my father couldn’t understand.

  “Why give them the right to scrutinize you? If a trade isn’t on the table, a meeting only makes them think twice. Matthew, it’s plain stupid. Call it off.”

  The irony is he taught me to face things head-on, take responsibility, and yet, as I try to do that very thing, he buries his head in the sand.

  My phone vibrates and I welcome the distraction from my depressing thoughts. The text is from a delivery company saying they are five minutes out. I had my assistant arrange for groceries and snacks for my stay.

  For the next hour I unpack the food, and now the fridge and cupboards are fully stocked. Then upstairs, I have my pick of rooms. Of the four, one is a mini-gym with weights, a treadmill, and punching bag. This is important because daily training and exercising my elbow are critical.

  Where to settle is an easy choice and I take the master bedroom. A California king is in the middle of the room, and the en suite is huge, with slate tiles, a walk-in shower with dual shower heads, a large clawfoot tub, and a dry sauna.

  With the sudden urge to sweat, I throw on a T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes, but I’m stopped by a knock at the front door.

  “Surprise!” My personal assistant and good friend, Britney, beams up at me when I open the door.

  She thrusts a four pack of The Alchemist Heady Topper IPA at me—my favorite India Pale Ale. My gratitude is overrun with suspicion. She usually gifts it to me when buttering me up. What has she done now? Or what does she want?

  “Brit, what are you doing here?” I stay in the doorway, and I’m a big guy. My position is deliberate. I’m not giving her an inch to slip past me.

  “Hello to you too. That isn’t any way to greet me.” She throws herself at my chest and one arm snakes around her middle for a quick, obligatory hug. “I’m here to keep you company. I couldn’t bear the thought of you up here all alone.”

  She makes it sound like I’m lost in the Alaskan wilderness in the dead of winter with no food, water, or shelter. This woman.

  “Um, that’s the point—to be alone.” I arch a brow and she pushes my arm, squeezing into the house. Her suitcase is still on the doorstep. “Oh, don’t worry about your stuff. I’ve got it.”

  My sarcasm is lost on her. The world revolves around Brit—or that’s how she sees things—and as much as I love her, her oblivion to others can be trying at the best of times.

  “Aw, thanks.” She looks around and my jaw clenches, ready to stop her if she so much as takes a step up the stairs.

  “Britney, you didn’t answer my question.” The door closes behind me.

  “What? She removes her layers of outdoor clothing, dropping everything at her feet.

  Without invitation or permission, she ambles farther into the house.

  “Hey.” I step i
n front of her, pointing behind her to the discarded clothing in a heap on the floor.

  She harumphs, brushing her long blonde hair off one shoulder before narrowing her gaze at me. “You don’t need to be a grump.”

  Britney’s a childhood friend—my younger sister Savannah’s best friend—and since we’re like siblings, she knows how to get under my skin. My gut tells me she plans on staying here with me, and that’s not a good idea.

  With long, drawn-out exhales, she hangs each item of clothing on the coat rack.

  “Why aren’t you in New York? I thought you were hanging with Kai?”

  She flinches at my mention of her boyfriend’s name. Kai Waters is a teammate, defensive lineman for the Fury.

  Sniffing, she walks past me toward the kitchen. “I don’t want to talk about him. We had a fight.”

  Once again, at her back, I follow, trying to quell my desire to tell her to leave. I could play this another way and we wouldn’t have to get into it.

  One simple phone call and a car would drive her to the airport. But I can’t do it, even if I want peace and quiet. Britney is family.

  Yes, she works for me and may not be the best personal assistant there ever was, but she was my friend first. And Savannah would kill me for not taking care of her.

  I had a fantastic assistant when I first started in the NFL, then Brit fell on hard times. Her boyfriend dumped her and got engaged within months of their breakup. The girl was a wreck and needed out of Atlanta.

  Savvy called when her friend needed a job, looking to me to fix things, and I can’t say no to my sisters. It didn’t help when Britney then called, in tears and begging for help.

  What could I do? I couldn’t turn a blind eye to her plight despite the grief her living and working with me would bring.

  I was fortunate. My family was well-off and respected, and I was living my dream in the NFL. Britney wasn’t so lucky.

  Her family was fine but selfish much like she can be. Let’s just say she had good teachers. How could I leave her behind? Not help her out when she needed it? And really, how bad could it be?

  I was wrong. Britney at my side has been a nightmare. Tons of drama even when I made it clear the team was off-limits. And I let the team think she was with me, but Britney had other plans.

  Since becoming my assistant, she’s dated five of my teammates. Five. Three with the Rockets and the others with the Fury. Kai is her second in New York, and fortunately, the first guy, her ex, got traded.

  To her credit, Britney’s been with Kai the longest, coming up on eight months now. But they fight. All. The. Time.

  And I mean her no disrespect, but come on, the girl doesn’t know when to stop. She can’t handle the jersey chasers even if her guy is faithful. Inevitably, her relationships end in a lot of tears, screaming, and heartache.

  “Are you mad at me for showing up?” She pouts, opening the fridge.

  “Not mad, but I don’t get why you’re here. You knew I needed this time to myself.”

  “I missed you. The holidays weren’t the same without you.”

  “You weren’t home for the holidays.”

  Atlanta is our home, but she was in Manhattan with Kai with no intention of setting foot in Georgia for Christmas or any other time. Her family and her ex are there and it’s too painful.

  As for spending time with me over Christmas and New Year’s, I wasn’t even a consideration, not that I mind. We see enough of each other the rest of the year.

  “Matty, please don’t send me home.” She puts the yogurt container and spoon on the counter before coming to stand in front of me.

  My heart pangs at her insinuation. I would never send her home, and as if sensing she has me where she wants me, she grabs my hands, looking up at me with unshed tears in her eyes.

  “Kai broke it off. We’re done. I can’t be alone right now. Can I please stay? I need my best friend.”

  3

  CLAIRE

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Claire.” Dr. Song’s aggravated tone stings. “This is very disappointing news.”

  The director of the residency program examines me like I’m on the operating table, cutting into me with every one of her frowns. My insides churn. What does she want—for me to agree with her? I do.

  I didn’t sleep last night, replaying my freak-out and dreading this conversation. If I was to clear my head, I needed time off, and Dr. Song is the only one who can grant me the leave.

  “A break in the program isn’t advisable.” She purses her lips, obviously against my request.

  “I know.”

  This is where I should withdraw the ask and tell her how important medicine and my career are to me. This is all I’ve ever wanted. To be a doctor. It’s my life’s calling, and up until yesterday that goal was unshakable.

  Like any doctor worth their salt, stress comes with the territory, and I easily rolled with the punches. I should impress upon her that yesterday was an anomaly, a regrettable mishap, and I won’t step away from the program.

  But my unwavering confidence, what I have come to count on and a cornerstone of being a doctor, is cowering in the corner. I can’t reassure her I’m okay. It would be a lie.

  There’s no doubt I’d have another panic attack if I returned to work today, and as much as I wish to pretend nothing happened, I can’t. Yesterday was terrifying, humiliating, and frustrating.

  She must take my silence for insolence because her glare hardens if that’s possible. “Don’t think your outstanding academic record will allow you to abuse the program.”

  “I’m not—”

  “If need be, you’ll be cut. There are many in line behind you. Eager to be here.” Her face twists into a troubling distortion of her usually serene features. “You’ve got one week. And Dr. Raine, if there’s another incident, we’ll need to discuss your options.”

  “Understood.” She’s already marching away, done with me when I call out, “Thank you, Dr. Song.”

  A rush of air releases from my lungs and I can’t find it in me to care if I’ve screwed things up beyond repair. She’s given me a week off. Seven days.

  I dash through the hospital to the parking lot. Around every corner, I hold my breath, fearing I might run into someone from the program.

  Two ballsy keeners—the loudest mouths in the program—texted me last night, demanding all the deets. While it’s hard to decipher tone of voice through text, their blatant interest was carelessly veiled by faux concern. I deleted both messages without so much as a polite “none of your business” response.

  Once inside the warmth of my car, I check the weather app. There was fresh snowfall last night, but most of the roads should be cleared by now, and there isn’t a snowflake in sight.

  A quick calculation of how fast I can safely drive to my sister’s cottage puts me there in a little under three hours. I pad the time to account for potential traffic.

  Goodbye, hospital. Goodbye, Toronto.

  Pippa’s place is perfect to gather my thoughts. My sister and her husband live in New York, but I have a key to their cottage and Drew’s condo as do my parents just in case of anything.

  No one will look for me there. My brothers, Finn and Tom, don’t call all that often, waiting for me to make the first move. I speak to my parents about once, sometimes twice, a week. Again, I’m usually the one to make the call.

  None of them need to know about yesterday until I’m ready to tell them. My insides recoil. That’s another inevitable conversation.

  Cool blue eyes, like water, stare at me from the rearview mirror. I hardly recognize myself, the uncertainty and fear evident in them. Who am I? Disgusted with myself, I slide on my sunglasses and put the car into drive.

  As predicted, at a little after the lunch hour, I’m parking the car outside the snow-blanketed cottage. Less than a month ago, this place was filled with marital bliss, and my heart swells, happy Drew and Pippa found their way back to one another.

  I can’
t think of a better place for their vows. The cottage is a coveted vacation spot for both their families. In the summer, everything is vibrant green, hot, and sunny, and the lake is breathtaking. A slice of heaven.

  And in the winter, in some ways, it is even more so. White and pristine. The silence is heavy and deafening in a peaceful, almost weighted, kind of solitude. Just what I need.

  Before getting out, I call the number I know as well as my own.

  “Hey, Claire-bear. How’s my girl?” The rough, easygoing cadence of my father’s voice is a balm to the tattered edges of my wilting soul.

  “Dad. I’m good.” I brush away an errant tear. What is with me? “I’m surprised you’re still at home.”

  “Yeah, I was on my way out when Sin’s phone rang. I kind of overslept.” He chuckles sounding like a teenager caught sneaking in way after curfew. “We had a bit of a mess last night.”

  “Oh no. I hope everything’s okay.”

  “Yeah, fine now.” My father, Colin Raine, manages a popular bar in the city. “A couple of yahoos got into it. Had to break up a fight. A real mess. Things were broken. Cops were called.”

  “Dad, are you okay?” I’ve never cared for the possible mayhem that can occur when you mix alcohol and people. He’s more than likely downplaying the incident. “Did anyone get hurt?”

  “One guy got stitches. It’s fine. Listen, Claire-bear, I’ve got to go. Come over for dinner. I miss you. Let me get your mom.”

  A smile lands on my lips. Only weeks ago their home was overrun with family, but that’s my dad. Family means everything to him.

  “Okay, Dad. Talk soon.”

  He yells for Mom and soon her melodic voice fills the line. “This is a lovely surprise. How are you?”

  “Hi, Mom. I’m good. Is Dad okay? He told me about last night.”

  “Yes, he’s fine. Not even a scratch.”