Undisputed Player Preview
SNIPPET FROM UNDISPUTED PLAYER
Jax
When those eyes flicked up and met mine for just a second, I felt something fundamental shift in my world, like tectonic plates realigning to create a new landscape I didn’t recognize.
The world, my world, just… stopped. The noise faded, the room shrank, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I was the one caught staring.
She looked away almost immediately, her expression shuttered, but the damage was done. My pulse kicked up, wild and hot and inexplicably running through my veins.
I’d seen beautiful women before, hell, I’d had them. All shapes, all colors, all flavors of desperate and eager. But this was different. This was a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart.
I wanted to know everything about her. I wanted to know what made her smile, what made her scowl, what she sounded like when she laughed. I wanted to know why she looked so tired, why her hands were so steady, why she moved like she was always ready to run.
“Avery,” she said, her voice quiet and melodic, with an undercurrent of authority that made my niece immediately straighten her posture. “Indoor voice, remember?”
“Sorry, Ms. Estelle!” Avery stage-whispered, not looking remotely apologetic.
Ms. Estelle. The name emblazoned itself in my mind. I wanted to taste it on my tongue, to see if saying it would somehow bring me closer to understanding this woman who had, in the space of seconds, become the most fascinating creature I’d ever encountered.
Estelle set her papers down and crouched to help the boy with his backpack. Her voice was low, tired, like she didn’t use it for small talk. It sent a shiver down my spine. I’d never seen beauty like this, unpolished, so unaware, so unconscious of its power.
I cleared my throat, feeling off-balance, and extended my hand. “Jax Easton,” I said, dialing up the smile that graced magazine covers and melted panties across continents.
She straightened, wiping her palms on her jeans before touching her fingers to mine. “Estelle Moore.”
Her hands were slender but purposeful, nails trimmed and practical, devoid of the flashy manicures that adorned the fingers of women I typically entertained.
Her grip was cool, her touch light, as if she was already halfway gone.
She straightened, her movements careful, graceful despite what seemed like bone-deep exhaustion.
Estelle Moore. The name rolled through my mind, fitting her perfectly, elegant and timeless, like a fallen star. I waited for the flicker of recognition, the widening of eyes, the subtle shift in body language that always happened when people realized who I was, but it didn't come.
Either she genuinely didn't know, which seemed unlikely given my face was plastered across half the billboards in the city, or she didn't care. Both possibilities were foreign concepts .
She knew who I was. She had to, given she knew Avery. But she didn’t fawn, didn’t flirt, didn’t do anything but meet my gaze with polite, practiced indifference. It was like being doused in ice water, and I found myself wanting, needing, to break through that reserve, to see what was underneath.
Affection softened her features when she looked at the children. The transformation was stunning, her entire face lit from within, tiredness falling away, revealing a beauty so raw and genuine I ached to touch her.
Avery was still talking, but I barely heard her.
All I could think about was Estelle, her name, the way it sounded, the way she hadn’t even tried to impress me.
I was used to being wanted, to being the answer to every question.
But she looked at me like I was just another problem to solve, another rich asshole with nothing real to offer.
She finished gathering her things, her focus never wavering, and I realized I was still watching her like a starving man at a feast. I tried to recover, to flash her another charming smile, but she just nodded, thanked me for coming, and turned away.
No invitation, no lingering glance, no hint of interest.
I stood there, heart pounding, feeling twelve kinds of foolish. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why did I care? Why did I want her to look at me again, to see me, to acknowledge that I was different? I’d never felt this kind of hunger before, not for a woman, not for anything.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from her, the graceful line of her neck, the curve of her waist beneath the fitted jacket, the way she moved like someone trying not to disturb the air around her. I was desperate to prolong the interaction.
“Ms. Estelle,” I called, the formality feeling strange on my lips.
She paused, turning slightly, one eyebrow arched in question. The look was both challenging and dismissive, as if she’d already categorized me and found me unworthy of further consideration.
That eyebrow, that small gesture of skepticism, was sexier than any come-hither stare I’d received in VIP rooms and hotel suites .
“Do you need help carrying anything?” I gestured vaguely at the classroom, aware of how lame the offer sounded even as the words left my mouth. What the actual fuck was I on right now?
The corner of her mouth quirked upward, not quite a smile, but close. “I've got it, thanks. Have a good weekend, Mr. Easton.”
And then she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of citrus and something I couldn't place.
I stood there, staring at the empty doorway like an idiot, trying to process what had just happened. Or rather, what hadn't happened. She hadn't flirted. Hadn't fallen to her knees. Hadn't given me that look women always gave me, the one that said they were already imagining how I'd look naked.
As we walked to the car, Avery chattered about her day, but my mind kept circling back to Estelle Moore.
She was beautiful, yes, but not in the manufactured way I was accustomed to.
No fillers plumping her lips, no implants straining against designer fabric.
Her beauty was natural and perfect. Sharp and soft at the same time, pulling me in like I wasn’t the womanizer of the fucking century.
And then she'd dismissed me. Me. Jax fucking Easton. Boxing legend. Billionaire. The fucking Easton heir . The man whose bed had a revolving door of models, actresses, and trust fund heirs. She'd looked at me like I was just another parent picking up their kid, not worth a second glance.
Whoever that kid was to her, as long as she didn’t have a husband, I could breathe. Well, even if she did… That wouldn’t be an issue.
As these thoughts drifted through me, I realized that nothing in my life, no fight, no victory, no woman, had ever hit me this hard.
Estelle Moore had walked into my world and, with a single fleeting glance, turned it upside down.
And I knew, with a certainty that was equal parts thrilling and terrifying, that I wouldn’t rest until she was mine.