The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (54 page)

He’s my best friend, and I’m his.

I clap my hands, and the ring on my finger catches the light with a glint. It’s a brilliant round diamond surrounded by a ring of black emerald-cut diamonds on a platinum band. Drew gave it to me last month, asking me to be his forever. And it’s perfect.

But I don’t really need a ring. I just need Drew. The moment he asked me the question, the only answer I wanted to give was yes and how soon?

At first my mom was worried. We were too young. Did I know the divorce rate for pro-athletes? The constant travel and temptation Drew will deal with?

Yeah, I know. And yet I will never treat Drew as a stereotype again. Taking Drew means taking the good, the bad, and the in-between. Just as he takes me.

After the game, when I finally get to him, I fling myself into his arms, and he holds me tight before spinning me around, the high of kicking ass infectious. Our kiss is messy, broken up by giddy laughter—mostly mine.

“I’m so proud of you,” I tell him when he puts me down. “You were awesome.” Already there is talk. And I know his team is going to make him starting quarterback now.

Drew’s grin lights up his face. His touch is tender on my cheek, and then he tells me what I know is his absolute truth, because it’s mine too. “It means nothing without you.”

THANK YOU FOR reading
The Hook Up
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Want a sneak peek of
The Friend Zone
, book 2 in the Game On series? Then turn the page!

Sneak Peek: The Friend Zone

Expected release: Spring 2015

Gray doesn’t make friends with women. He has sex with them. Until Ivy.

The last thing star tight-end Gray Grayson wants to do is drive his agent’s daughter’s bubblegum pink car. But he needs the wheels and she’s studying abroad. Something he explains when she sends him an irate text to let him know exactly how much pain she’ll put him in if he crashes her beloved ride. Before he knows it, Ivy Mackenzie has become his best texting bud. But then Ivy comes home and everything goes haywire. Because the only thing Gray can think of is being with Ivy.

Ivy doesn’t have sex with friends. Especially not with a certain football player. No matter how hot he makes her…

Gray drives Ivy crazy. He’s irreverent, sex on a stick, and completely off limits. Because, Ivy has one golden rule: never get involved with one of her father’s clients. A rule that’s proving harder to keep now that Gray is doing his best to seduce her. Her best friend is fast becoming the most irresistible guy she’s ever met.

Which means Gray is going to have to use all his skills to get himself out of the friend zone and into Ivy’s heart. Game on

(
unedited and totally subject to change
)

MOST PEOPLE HATE the airport. I get that. You’re in a hurry, hauling around luggage, maybe afraid to fly, definitely annoyed by the heinous TSA lines. And yet, for me, there’s an air of excitement to an airport. At least as a traveler. Because either you’re going somewhere or you’ve arrived. For that alone, I’d love the airport. But my absolute favorite spot? The international arrivals gate.

I love those gates. Love watching the people who wait with an almost nervous anticipation for their loved ones to arrive. Love seeing faces light up, people cry out with joy and laughter, or even tears when they spot that special person. Mothers, father, sisters, brothers, lovers… An endless stream of reunions.

When my parents got divorced, I used to drive to the airport and simply sit on one of the cracked pleather chairs and soak it all in. There, at least, I could see the good side of love.

I’m here again, at the arrivals gate. Only this time, I’m the one arriving. And there’s no one here to great me. No dad, no sister. No one but me.

After being in a plane for nearly six hours, my eyes are gritty, my knees ache from being crammed into a too small space, and I probably stink. It’s hard to tell; my fellow travelers kind of stink too, making us one big, moving, bleary-eyed unit of airplane funk. Or we are, until people are picked off one by one as open arms embraced them. I scan the crowd for a familiar face, trying hard not to be disappointed when I don’t see one.

Too soon it becomes obvious that I’ve been forgotten. The crowd thins, and what remains are the people waiting for the next wave of passengers to be cleared through customs.

Clutching the handles of my massive rolling suitcases, I lumber over to an empty seat and make myself comfortable. My phone is out of juice and is a useless black screen.

“Fuck,” I mutter, blinking hard before running a hand over my face. I want to wonder why my dad or sister isn’t here, but if I do, I might cry. And I’m not crying here.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Being Sean Mackenzie’s daughter means waiting until clients are appeased, crises are averted, and deals are hammered out in iron-clad contracts. Given that my dad is one of the top sports agents in the country, there’s almost never an empty moment left for me. But you’d think the infamous Big Mac, as the sports world dubs him, would remember to pick me up. Or, at the very least, ask my sister, Fiona, to get me.

They’re just late. They were tied up in traffic. You’ve been gone for a year; they wouldn’t miss your homecoming.

In a minute I’ll get up and search for an outlet to charge the phone, and then call Dad. Right now, I don’t want to move. I’ve sat for hours and I’m suddenly too weak do anything but slump in a chair. Worse, without the phone, I cannot appear busy, as if I’m intentionally sitting on my own. I can’t scroll through my screen, check FaceBook while pretending it’s important business. I can only sit in perfect silence as the world moves past me.

Travelers walk in several distinct paces: brusque, trudging, and harried—the last usually reserved for families. Viewed as a whole, these paces set a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. Maybe that’s why I notice the lone person bobbing along at top speed from far down the massive corridor. A guy. And he’s running.

Idly, I watch him come. He’s easily a head taller than anyone in the airport, which is something in and of itself. Even from this distance, his face hovers above the moving sea of people. Though I can’t distinguish his features, it’s clear that he’s anxious. And he’s fast, weaving around slower moving passengers with an ease that’s impressive for someone so tall.

He’s closer now, close enough to take note of his broad shoulders and wide chest. Close enough to see the glints in his blond hair as he runs past a thick block of sunlight shafting in through the plate glass windows.

All at once, my breath grows fast and my heart rate kicks up. A smile pulls at my face as I rise to my feet. I want to hope, want to believe. But he isn’t looking at me. His gaze, hard and determined, is on the arrivals gate.

God, but he moves like water over stones, smooth, efficient, energetic. People stop and stare as he goes by. How could they not? Perfectly proportioned, massive and muscled, he’s clearly an athlete. And he’s gorgeous. Strong jaw, chiseled features, golden skin, and sun-kissed hair.

He blows right past me, only to stop on a dime at the edge of the cordoned off area of the arrivals gate. For a minute, he scans left and right, his gaze never going far enough to meet mine, then he bends over, bracing his hands on his knees, and curses under his breath. He isn’t winded, but upset. It’s clear. And when he curses again, he pushes himself straight and starts to pace, as if standing still is too much for him.

Muttering and scowling, he stalks a wide circle, bringing his hands behind his neck in aggravation. The move does crazy things to his biceps, bunching them up, making them even bigger.

And all the while, I grin like a fool. I can’t help myself. I’m grinning still when his gaze finally collides with mine.

Distracted as he is, his eyes almost scan past me, but he sort of stutters and then freezes. For a moment we stare at each other. His soft lips parts and his arms slowly lower. Recognition clears the haziness from his blue eyes, and a flush of color rises up his neck.

He takes one step toward me, pauses and tilts his head to peer at me as though trying to make sure. And I smile wider. Seeing me smile has his lips curling, a slow, tentative move.

“Mac?” Although he’s at least twenty feet away, I read my nickname on his lips with ease. And then I’m laughing, a total goofball snorting.

“Gray.”

Even from a distance, he hears me. And then he’s moving, so quick and sure, he’s almost a blur. On the next breath, I’m enveloped by a wall of hot skin and hard muscles. He gathers me in his arms and swings me around like it’s effortless. For the first time in a year I feel delicate and small. He smells of lemons and sunlight and strangely of home. I press my nose into the warm crook of his neck as he laughs and squeezes me tight.

We’ve never touched before now, never even seen each other in person.

His hand engulfs the back of my head as he holds me close. “Holy shit,” he says in a voice that’s both resonant and yet light with happiness. So many things I’ve shared with him, and I’ve never heard his voice until now. “It’s you, Mac. It’s really you.”

And he’s Gray. My friend. The person I’ve communicated with almost non-stop for weeks. And, at this moment, I don’t ever want to leave his arms.

Want to know when
The Friend Zone
releases? Sign up for my newsletter by visiting
http://www.kristencallihan.com
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Other books: The Darkest London Series

In addition to
The Hook Up
, I write dark and sexy historical paranormal/gaslamp romances called
The Darkest London series
. My first book,
FIRELIGHT
, kicks off the series.