The Game (Seattle Strike)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Logan

Six years earlier

A long-haired beauty watches me from across the bar, and it's irritating as hell. She has a casual but feminine look, like she took care of her appearance but couldn't be bothered with going the extra mile. It's hard to tell, but she's probably around my age or so, maybe a year younger. She wears a tank top in her college's colors. I know, because we just defeated their football team on their turf.

Can't say I'm upset about that part. In fact, I'm here to celebrate a season where we remain undefeated. My teammates insisted. As the quarterback, I play a big part in our success. They don't care that I hate crowds, and that being approached by people wanting to ask me about my famous, football-legend of a father is my literal nightmare. Yet here I am, evading questions about Kenneth King and my own future in the game. And being given a dissecting, unwavering stare by Mystery Girl from across the room .

Her hair is a wavy, glossy-brown waterfall. A few tendrils get lost under the hem of her neckline, like they're snaking their way closer to her breasts. It's probably on purpose, but it works. It draws my eyes to her chest. I keep stealing glances at her, because she's nice to look at… and because of the prying intensity in her eyes. I frown. Someone is talking to me but I ignore them. I'm used to people staring, but this is different. Mystery Girl has a bone to pick with me and it irks me.

Despite the temptation, I refuse to march to her and ask for an explanation. I swivel on my barstool and pretend the beer in my hands is fascinating. The smell of cleaner, alcohol, and fried foods reaches my nose, and I scowl at the combination.

Chatter continues around me. A teammate makes fun of me for my grouchy attitude, and one of the girls who's been trying to chat me up asks if I'm worried about the combine.

"It's a big deal, isn't it?" She speaks into my ear. "That's when scouts decide if they want to draft you to a big team. What's your record?"

I set my eyes on my drink and don't let them waver. I've barely tasted it. Beer isn't my favorite, but I can't have anything stronger during the season and I need something to busy my hands with.

"Is your dad going to be there?" The girl leans closer to me, until her breasts are plastered on my arm. "He must be so proud."

"Excuse me." I get off my stool. "I'm going to take a piss."

I walk away. She'll probably decide I'm too rude for her efforts and I'm okay with that. It's not like I blame her for flirting with me by stroking my ego. She's probably been taught this is what guys like me want— often, she'd be correct. Many of my teammates would take her up on her offer. Once in a while, I take up such offers for myself too. All I know is that tits on a platter aren't doing it for me tonight.

The bar is a nondescript college pub and I don't take much note of it. The light has that woody, reddish tone of so many such establishments and it' s packed . Beyond catching those details, I do nothing more than find the restroom at the end of a hall and get busy with my zipper.

A displeased curl pulls at my lips. I hate it when people gas me up and ask about my father in the same breath. I don’t play football to follow in his steps. This sport is something I excel at. I love the way my body feels when I throw the ball, and the speed at which my brain works when I'm reading the field. It may be the result of some genetic predisposition, perhaps, but the blood, sweat, and tears I've put into it are what made it happen.

It goes even further for me. This sport is my future. My college team and I are likely to win this year's championship. The combine comes after and finally, finally I'll make it to the big leagues. My stats suggest I might even be a first round pick. None of that has to do with who gave me half my DNA, or how many rings he has, or whether he really looks like his bronze bust in the Hall of Fame.

The time has finally come to get out of my father's shadow. My rookie year is my opportunity to stand on my own two feet. Proving I can be one of the greats on my own merit.

With some luck, I may even find brotherhood in my teammates for once. As the only child to a distant, quiet mother, and a hard-to-read, too-busy father, I want to build something different for myself— I just need to find the right people. But that's a problem for Future Logan. Present Me needs to focus on the championship.

I clean up and go back to the hallway, balancing the pros and cons of leaving the bar altogether, when I realize Mystery Girl is coming out of the other restroom. She doesn't see me.

"Hey," I say before I realize what I'm doing.

The music isn't too loud here, and she spins on her heels to face me. Her eyes widen when she registers me.

"Are you following me?" I ask.

I know it doesn't make sense, but I gaze at her with a challenge anyway.

She crosses her arms. "Never. "

I hook my thumbs from my jean pockets and gaze down at her. She's not short, but I'm very tall.

"You've been staring," I insist.

"You've been staring right back." She rubs her lips together and watches me carefully.

I raise an eyebrow and let silence stretch between us. Maybe she'll explain herself, or escape, or something else, and I'm curious.

She takes a step closer to me. "You have a pretty face, despite that killer frown."

"Pretty?" I barely hide the jolt of surprise.

I frown. No one has called me that before.

Her head falls to the side. "Don't tell me you take offense at the word? Don't disappoint me so quickly."

People often comment on my looks. The size I inherited from my father, and the eyes I got from my model mother. It's rarely delivered in such a calculating tone.

She takes another step toward me. "Yeah, that's the intense look I was talking about. You don't look very approachable, or even friendly."

She's not the first to point out how I'm usually perceived, but she sounds like she just figured it out.

"Do you know who I am?" My question comes out terse, more out of confusion than anything.

People usually approach me because they know who I am. They follow a few different scripts— it could be something about my dad, something about my career, my future… The way she watches me isn't all that rare but, even then, it's usually because of who I am and what I can do.

She laughs. "And that was asshole-y. Perfect."

I shake my head. The words come out with snark and a sense of victory that say a lot about where her mind is at. My eyes never leave her, but I'm looking at her anew. Things finally click. She's pissed her team lost and would like to insult me to alleviate the sting .

"I see." I snort. "You're one of those fans."

I make to walk past her, but her next words stop me.

"I'm not a fan," she says. "I don't know who you are."

We face each other again. I'm a man who can assess a field in half a second but, at this moment, I'm baffled.

The hallway is a bit darker than the main room. Old dial-up phones hang nearby on the wall, like they were forgotten from a time when people didn't carry a computer in their pockets. A neon sign shines bright pink on her dark brown hair.

"Bullshit." I squint at her. "You're wearing your team's colors and came to this one bar, where I'm told all players and their fans come to."

She shrugs. "That's true. It's why I came here. I chose this shirt to blend in, but I don't follow football much. College or professional. Not my thing."

She's probably lying, but I don't know how to make sure. Or even if I want to.

"I don't have time for this." I make a second attempt at leaving.

It's her hand on my arm that stops me in my tracks this time.

"Wait!" She releases me.

Her arms rest at her sides now, hands fisted. Despite myself, I gaze at her again.

She lifts her chin, a resolute look in her eyes. "I'm here because I want to get laid."

My lips part in surprise.

She's breathing faster now. "I'm here because you guys leave tomorrow and I want something with no strings attached. Players are known to come here looking for one night stands, and I want one."

I gaze down her body. This close, the tank top she wears isn't particularly racy, but enough flesh fills the neckline to make my fingers flex. My sight travels lower, and her body offers lush fullness everywhere. The kind that could fill my big QB hands. The kind that feels like a challenge, daring me to prove I know how to handle myself around generous territory. A body I might want to manhandle somewhat, to feel fire in my muscles and a hint of safe defiance .

Resistance of my own fuels my words. "And I guess I'm supposed to believe you don't know who I am, but chose me for a mysterious reason, even though you don't seem to think too highly of me."

"It's not a mystery. I assume a guy who frowns as much as you do won't mind me being direct and skipping all pleasantries. That a guy who reads as grumpy from all the way across the bar, is someone who'll be happy to be all wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am with me— consensually."

She studies me with rebellious eyes. Her chin is up in a bold pose. But the way she's chewing on her lips tells me there's more going on underneath it all.

I take a step closer. A mix of scents reach me from her— hair products and other scents. I can't define if they're soap or moisturizer.

My heart beats a little quicker.

"Why?" I frown. "Is there something going on? Something weird?"

"Nothing weird. I'm angry at— people. The way they need so much of me, all the time, and I just—" she shakes her head. "I want to forget. Be young. Free to do whatever I want and not think about anyone else. Just me and you and some casual sex. Then we shake hands and go our own ways."

Probably an ex, then, and I'm the rebound.

I search her eyes. They're a warm, dark brown in this light. Her makeup seems minimal. With unpainted lips, I could kiss her and not taste lipstick, just her.

A one night stand, no fake pleasantries, a mutual understanding that this won't lead anywhere… a body I'd be happy to make mine for a little time… no roles for me to play, pretending this could lead somewhere, or I enjoy the person's company.

I lick my lips. I could get behind it.

"So let me get things straight." I take a step closer to her. "You want to get laid, and think I'm the right candidate because my frown makes you think I'm not the kind to get attached."

She takes a step back. "You're one of the people I wanted to approach, but then I didn't have to choose because you found me here in the hall. But whatever. I can go ask someone else."

She makes to step away, but this time I'm the one holding her back with a hand on her wrist.

She turns to me and backs up closer to the wall. I take another step towards her.

"So you don't know my name?" My cock twitches.

It's a game, one where I'm meant to chase, and I'm into it.

She shakes her head. "I won't tell you mine, either."

I crowd her space until she presses against the wall. My blood rushes south. It seems this— her— is what I want tonight.

I cage her with one hand next to her head, and the other next to her waist. "Before we agree to do this, we should test if we have the chemistry for sex."

She licks her lips. "How do you propose we do that?"

My answer is to lower my head until our mouths are a breath apart.

"Do you want to kiss me?" My voice rasps out of my throat.

Her mouth opens. A single nod tells me what I need to know. I taste her bottom lip.

It's enough to kick my body into gear. The next second, I'm devouring her.

She clutches my shirt in her hands. I plaster my body to hers and nibble on her lip. She rolls her hips against mine. We kiss mindlessly for a while, until I'm fully hard and we're close to dry humping in the hallway.

Someone whoops at us and we come apart.

"Get a room!" someone else screams.

"Fuck off," I say to the onlookers, and pull Mystery Girl by the hand.

"Don't disappoint me," she says, breathless.

We go out of the bar together.