The Neighbor Playbook (The Love Playbook #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Dominic

The first alarm doesn’t wake me. Neither does the second.

It’s the third one labeled “LAST CHANCE, IDIOT” that finally jolts me awake with its blaring siren.

I stare at the ceiling of my new apartment for approximately five seconds before reality hits.

First practice. New team. Los Angeles Comets. Today.

“Shoot!” I kick off my tangled sheets and practically leap to the bathroom.

Seven minutes.

That’s how long I have before I need to be out the door. Seven minutes to shower, dress, grab breakfast, and remember how to breathe.

Not that I’m anxious or anything.

The shower water hasn’t even warmed up when I step in, shooting ice-cold needles on my skin. I grit my teeth and power through it. There’s no time to wait for a luxury like hot water. I jump out, towel off, and throw on some red basketball shorts and a gray Comets shirt.

I pull out a protein shake from the fridge and a few hard-boiled eggs. The gym bag I packed meticulously last night waits for me by the front door, which means I have exactly one minute to spare to load up on protein. Small victory.

Maybe this morning won’t be a complete disaster, after all.

I grab my water bottle, toss it into my bag, and take one final look. Phone. Wallet. I pat my pockets. All good.

As I finally make it out the front door, I pause. Something feels off. I run through my mental checklist again.

Phone. Wallet. Water. Shoes…

Keys.

Where are my keys?

I frantically pat my pockets again, checking my shorts, jacket, even the small front pocket of my gym bag where I sometimes stash them. Nothing.

My eyes dart to the kitchen counter. Not there. Coffee table? Nope.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, scanning the apartment.

The clock on the microwave reads 8:42. Practice starts at 9:30, and the facility is at least a thirty-minute drive without traffic, which, from what I’ve gathered in my three days in LA, doesn’t exist.

A flash of silver catches my eye from beneath a stack of mail on the dining room table. Bingo.

I set my gym bag and water bottle down outside my apartment door, just for a second, and dash back inside to grab my keys.

As I snatch them up, I catch sight of the time again.

8:43. I’m going to be cutting it close, but if I hit all green lights and disregard any speed limit signs, I might still make it on time.

I freeze in my doorway, keys clutched in my hand, as I take in the scene before me: a small chocolate-colored dog, some kind of terrier mix, with its leg hiked up, happily relieving itself all over my gym bag.

“Hey!” I shout, lunging forward. “Get away from there!”

The dog startles, cutting its stream short but not before giving my bag one last generous spray. It backs up, tail between its legs, then darts down the hallway.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, staring at my now-soaked gym bag.

I kneel to assess the damage. The yellow liquid has soaked through the side pocket, where I’d carefully placed my basketball shoes last night—the ones from my sponsor that I specifically set aside because all my other Nikes are packed away somewhere in the sea of boxes currently stacked in my bedroom closet.

A distant “Cocoa! Cocoa, come back here!” echoes from down the hallway, followed by the sound of running footsteps.

I stand, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel a headache forming at my temples. 8:46. Now I’m definitely going to be late.

Here’s to warming the bench.

A woman appears at the end of the hallway, slightly out of breath, her platinum blonde hair falling in messy waves around her shoulders.

She’s wearing pink pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that reads “NAMASTAY IN BED.” The dog—Cocoa, presumably—trots happily to her side, looking entirely too pleased with itself.

“There you are, you little escape artist!” she coos, bending down to scoop up the dog. She notices me standing in my doorway and waves cheerfully. “Morning, neighbor!”

My eye twitches. “Your dog,” I say, my voice dangerously low, “just peed all over my gym bag.”

She blinks at me, then at the bag, then back at me. “Oh.” A pause. “Are you sure?”

Am I sure? Is she serious?

“Yes, I’m sure,” I deadpan. “I watched it happen.”

She approaches, the dog now cradled in her arms like a baby.

Up close, I can see the woman is pretty in that effortless LA kind of way, with sun-kissed skin, bright eyes, the kind of face that probably gets her free drinks at bars.

Right now, though, all I can focus on is the fact that her untrained pet has potentially ruined my first impression with the Comets.

“Cocoa,” she says, looking down at the dog with mock sternness that quickly dissolves into baby talk. “Did you tinkle on the nice man’s bag? That wasn’t very nice, was it? No, it wasn’t.”

I check the time again. 8:48.

“Look,” I say, struggling to keep my tone civil, “I’m already running late for my first practice with a new team. I don’t have time to—”

“Wait, you’re that new basketball player?” She perks up, her eyes widening. “The shooting guard from Alabama who just got traded to the Comets? I thought you looked familiar!”

I blink. I wasn’t aware anyone in this building would recognize me.

“Dominic Neelson,” I introduce myself automatically, then immediately regret it as she shifts the dog to extend her hand.

“Nicole Farrarah,” she replies with a bright smile. “I live right across the hall from you, in apartment 1403. Sorry about your bag. Cocoa’s a rescue, and he’s still in training. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

Cocoa licks her face in response.

I shake Nicole’s hand briefly, trying not to notice how soft her skin is. “Great. Look, Nicole from 1403, I really need to go, and now I need to figure out what to do about my shoes.”

I crouch down again to examine my high-tops. They’re soaked through. The smell is unmistakable.

“Oh, those don’t look too bad,” Nicole says, peering over my shoulder. “Just a little damp. They’ll dry out in no time!”

I look up at her, incredulous. “These are basketball shoes. I can’t play in wet shoes.”

“Well, you’re in the NBA. Surely you have another pair you can wear…”

I check the time again. 8:51. “These were my only accessible shoes. The rest are still packed away.”

“Ohhh.” Nicole nods sagely. “Right. Recent move problems. Been there. I lived out of suitcases for, like, a month when I first moved in.”

I stand, running a hand through my hair.

“But if it helps, Cocoa is on a special diet. His pee probably doesn’t smell nearly as bad as regular dogs.”

“It doesn’t help. Not even a little bit.” I huff and head back inside my apartment, leaving Nicole standing in the doorway.

Sighing, I make my way to the closet, hoping against hope that there might be another pair of my sponsor’s basketball shoes tucked away in the chaos of boxes.

As I swing open the closet doors, my heart sinks.

Towering stacks of cardboard filled with who knows what stare back at me, mocking my predicament.

There’s no way I’ll find another pair in this mess.

“Wow, you really haven’t unpacked much, huh?” Nicole’s voice startles me, and I turn to see her leaning against my bedroom doorframe, Cocoa still cradled in her arms, tail wagging like he didn’t just commit a mortal sin on my gym bag.

Seriously? Who does this woman think she is, waltzing into my apartment like this?

“Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” I grunt. “And now I’ve got to deal with dog pee.”

“I’m really sorry, Dom,” she continues. “Can I call you Dom?”

“I mean, my friends call me Dom, but you’re not my—”

“Great, Dom it is, then.” She smiles. “Again, I’m so sorry. Cocoa just gets really excited when he sees something that isn’t a potted succulent … I haven’t quite figured out how to fix it.”

“Basic obedience would be a good place to start.” I head to the kitchen sink and toss my shoes in, grabbing the sponge.

She gives me a look, eyes flickering from my shoes to my face. “Cocoa only turned four last month. He’s just a baby, you know.”

“Four years old is not a baby. In dog years, that’s a full-blown adult.”

“Mmm…” She purses her lips, looking back at me with ocean-blue eyes. “But isn’t thirty the new twenty? So, if we translate this to dog years … deduct ten technical years … he’s only eighteen. No one has their life together at that age anymore.”

“Not an excuse,” I drawl, scrubbing at the shoes, trying to ignore the smell. “Just … please keep your dog on a leash from now on. Even when you’re inside the building. I would appreciate it.”

She presses a hand to her chest, feigning offense. “Cocoa is a free spirit. He rejects your indoor patriarchal leash system.”

“I’m pretty sure what he rejects is boundaries,” I mutter. “Just like his owner.”

Nicole just shrugs, and it’s infuriating how nonchalant she is, standing in my apartment as if this is all perfectly normal.

I jiggle the trainers in front of her, wringing out a little extra fluid for effect. “Keep. Your. Dog. On. A. Leash.”

Nicole salutes me. “Sir, yes, sir!”

I shake my head as Nicole finally exits my apartment. “This is bad. So, so bad.” I stare out the window at the LA skyline as I continue scrubbing. It’s all palm trees and pastel smog in this city … and everything about this place feels suffocating.

It feels like I’m living on a foreign planet.

I miss small-town streets. The kind where the loudest thing outside your window is a cicada or a pickup rumbling past.

And Braum’s French fries.

Even Alabama felt calmer than this. Not home—never Texas—but quieter. Slower. A college town vibe where people nodded at you and then went on with their day.

I eye the time and pick up my pace, digging the blue sponge into the material of my shoes. I work hard and fast, and then do my best to dry them off, catching another whiff of dog urine. Is it still coming from my shoes? Or is the smell just stuck in my nose?

Maybe the dry air will fix it.

I grit my teeth as I throw them back into my bag and head out to the elevator.

When I make it to the bottom, the elevator doors open, and I stride out, only to almost flatten a group of giggling kids and their parents. “Sorry,” I mutter, jerking my practice bag upward so I don’t take out any small children.

That would just make this morning so much worse.

One of the littlest kids points at me and whispers, way louder than necessary, “Mama, he smells like the dog park!”

Thanks, kid.

I hang my head, my face feeling like it’s on fire.

Please don’t recognize me as the new pick from Alabama. Please.

The last thing I need is a reputation for smelling like a dog.

I break into a jog as I make it to the parking garage. If any of my friends back home could see me now, they’d be laughing their heads off. Maybe I would be laughing, too.

But right now? This feels like my worst nightmare.

My truck is wedged between a Porsche Macan and some custom-wrapped Range Rover.

I squeeze out of my parking space with millimeters to spare, accidentally laying on the horn as the Porsche beside me threatens to amputate my fender.

I barely make it out of the parking garage without having a mini heart attack.

I glance down at my white knuckles.

Give me an Alabama back road. Or a Texas highway. Anything but this.

I am not cut out for this city.

Someone flips me off as I whip out into traffic, and I cringe. I’m pretty sure LA drivers operate on a shared delusion of immortality. On the surface, everyone’s chill and juice-cleansed and yoga-toned, but put them behind a wheel and it’s Mad Max with Priuses.

And here I am in a Texas-sized truck.

My heart throbs with homesickness, and there’s a part of me that wants to hop on the interstate and not take my foot off the gas until I’m back in the South. Maybe I’m not cut out for this city. Maybe I belong where the trucks are bigger and the people are nicer…

And my nerves are much, much smaller.

I take a deep breath and am instantly reminded of my shoes.

Please let this practice go okay… Please.

I might be all bristle on the outside, but inside, I’m shaking in my boots. This isn’t Alabama, where a slow start didn’t cost you everything. Here, one bad stretch can bench you, trade you, or worse … erase you.

And I’m starting it with urine-soaked shoes.

That can’t be a good omen.