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Copyright © 2018 by Maggie Wells
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Eileen Carey/No Fuss Design
Cover image © Dean Mitchell/Getty Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
An Excerpt of Love Game
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
Life is undoubtedly a contact sport, but love is the only game worth playing. This book is dedicated to all those who refuse to be benched. Play hard, play fast, and play for keeps!
Chapter 1
Millie Jensen rapped on the tinted glass sliding door off Ty Ransom’s patio until her knuckles ached, refusing to let up. This time, she added a threat for good measure. “Ty, if you don’t open this door in the next ten seconds, I swear I’ll throw a chair through the glass.”
He couldn’t hear her, of course. The glass was the super-duper insulated kind. The type to not only repel the elements, but also empty threats and spin doctors in the midst of mild coronary failure. She cupped her hands around her face, pressed her nose to the glass, and peered into the gloomy room. The dark, combined with a vaulted ceiling, gave the space a cavernous appearance. Caught in the flickering light of the television, oversized furniture cast hulking shadows on the walls. She peered at the screen. A pair of talking heads yammered at one another. The National Sports Network logo anchored the scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen, but the latest scores were taking a back seat to big-time gossip this night.
She was about to call to him again when she saw the display on his phone light up with the incoming call. “Don’t you answer that!” she shouted through the glass.
He didn’t even check to see who was calling, much less answer. Tyrell Ransom, head coach of Wolcott University’s men’s basketball team, sat sprawled in a massive armchair parked in front of the screen, his long legs akimbo. The hand that held the phone dangled over the arm of the chair. Millie squinted, wishing she’d chosen high-beam night vision as her superpower when she’d clicked through the latest “Choose Your Superpower” internet quiz. The second the call clicked over to voicemail, she turned the meaty side of her fist to the glass and began to pound with all her might.
At last, the shadowy figure stirred.
Millie pounded harder, urging him to hurry up and unfurl his long, lanky frame. He rose from the chair so slowly, she almost shouted again. Instead, she held her breath as he approached. Each step he took was deliberate. His gaze never left her. A part of her—the part she liked to keep tamped down tight, because her impulses tended to get her in trouble—admired the lithe grace of his movements. No doubt this man was an athlete. Once, an elite one. He was still a man in his prime, even though his days in the spotlight were long behind him.
He narrowed those startling amber eyes and peered down at her through the glass door as if she were a specimen on display. Falling back on old habits, she snapped to full military attention before meeting his questioning gaze. Her father had been a master sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps. It took a helluva lot more than one sulky, washed-up basketball giant to intimidate her.
“Open the damn door.” She enunciated each word carefully, making lipreading possible in case her intentions were somehow lost in the shuffle. She’d slipped out of the wedding party she’d helped put together to celebrate her best friend’s recent nuptials to come check on him. She wasn’t about to be turned away.
“Now!” she bellowed when he didn’t move fast enough for her tastes, giving the glass another thump with the side of her fist. The lock snicked, and he lifted the security bar. Before he could do the honors, she grabbed the handle and yanked the door open.
Shooting a disparaging glance at the glass in his hand, she brushed past him. “Yeah, because sitting in the dark getting drunk is always the best course of action.”
“I hadn’t thought about getting drunk,” he mused, letting the door slide shut with a thunk. “Good idea.” With a grace that always surprised her, he turned and walked toward the fully stocked wet bar. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at Kate and Danny’s party thing tonight?”
“It’s still going on. Your absence was noted,” she added pointedly.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t much up for socializing.” He tossed the clear liquid he’d been drinking down the drain, then nodded to the crystal tumblers lined on a shelf. “Can I buy you a drink, Mil?”
She watched as he splashed less than a centimeter of liquid into the bottom of the highball glass he’d been carrying. This time it was amber, not clear. Crap. If he hadn’t been drinking before, he was
