She smiles outright. “I love you, Ty.”
I lean my forehead against hers, brushing my fingers along her impossibly soft skin, feeling her words in every part of me as she holds my soul in her hands. “I love you. I love you more than anything. More than everything.”
Not Ready to Say Good-Bye to the football team of Brighton University?
Did you know that Lincoln and Arlo have their own books?
Start with Bending the Rules:
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Pre-Order Forgetting the Rules, Rose’s book which will be releasing early January 28, 2021!
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If you love New Adult Romance, please check out The Weight of Rain, a new adult sports Romance.
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Also by Mariah Dietz
The Dating Playbook Series
Bending the Rules
Breaking the Rules
Defining the Rules
His Series:
Becoming His
Losing Her
Finding Me
The Weight of Rain Duet
The Weight of Rain
The Effects of Falling
The Haven Point Series
Curveball
Exception
The Fallback
Tangled in Tinsel, A Christmas Novella
A Glimpse of Bending the Rules
Chapter 1
I never considered myself much of a rule breaker. I wasn’t a follower. I wasn’t a leader. I was just me, Raegan, queen of naps, lover of sweatpants, and obsessive reader, working to acquire my dream job as a cetologist so I can study whales and dolphins outside of college. And volleying between pretending the man of my dreams will one day realize how perfect we are together and trying to convince myself I’m over him—that is, until I hear his name again.
Everyone has one. A name that makes them pause when heard. A combination of vowels and consonants strung together to create an entire web of memories and thoughts. For me, those letters spelled Lincoln Beckett. And like trying to convince myself that the three-year crush I’ve been harboring for him is over, I try to pretend the name doesn’t cast a spell over me. That I can hear his name and not work to listen to what news follows. After all, thinking about Lincoln is the very worst of bad ideas.
Why?
Simply put, there are at least ten rules against dating your brother’s best friend, beginning with the very fact that he’s your brother’s best friend. Secondly, he’s guaranteed to know way too much about your life, your family, and your brother’s illustrious decisions. The only thing that might be worse would be dating your best friend’s brother—thankfully for me, my best friend’s brother is eleven.
Therefore, universal laws, fate, karma, sibling code, and every other fictional or otherwise belief ought to ensure my brother’s best friend look okay-ish at worst and troll-ish at best. This was my experience for the first sixteen years of my life. My brother, Paxton, is three years older than me, and his childhood best friend, Caleb, has a red Brillo Pad for hair, two-million freckles, and is so painfully awkward it’s endearing. I have no problem wearing a bikini or a facial mask in front of him. If I burp or trip over my own feet, it’s not a problem. If I pig out on ice cream, I simply ask him if he’d like a bowl.
Then, Paxton started at Brighton University in Seattle, Washington, where our dad is the Dean of Business, and he was quickly deemed a God because of his skills on the football field as the quarterback.
And my world went to hell.
Fate stuck her big, ugly middle finger up and has been saluting me with it since. Maybe it’s because I lied to my mom about the dent in the back of her car that actually did happen when I’d borrowed it and illegally drove my best friend, Poppy, to the mall. Maybe it was because I'd pierced my naval when I was thirteen after paying a stranger twenty bucks to sign the release form. Or, maybe it was because fate had taken it easy on me for the first sixteen years of my life and decided I hadn’t shown enough appreciation. And the day Paxton brought Lincoln over for dinner, fate waved her ‘fuck you, Raegan’ flag so high you could see it across the Pacific.
Lincoln Beckett, AKA the President, was not a scrawny gamer like Caleb. Rather, he was tall, and his broad shoulders only enunciated this fact. His biceps were corded, and his dark hair was mussed and perfectly imperfect in the sexiest way possible. And to make matters worse, he was smart, armed with a quick smile and sharp wit that made his brown eyes shine with humor. Seeing him had me forgetting I’d been crushing on senior Michael Porter for three months—hell, it had me forgetting my own name.
I was screwed.
To add injury to insult, the day Pax brought Lincoln over, I’d begun my period, and my skin was breaking out. I’d already switched my contacts for glasses, my face was scrubbed clean, and I was wearing baggy sweats to complete my homeless appearance. Had it been Caleb, I wouldn’t have even blinked, but the sight of Lincoln standing in the kitchen where I was helping mom finish dinner had me wishing I had an invisibility cloak or at least an excuse to leave.
Paxton moved out a month later, and though he returned home frequently for hot meals and laundry, Lincoln only came by a few times, leaving me to lust after him mostly by memory and occasionally seeing him when I’d stop by the house the two of them rented along with Caleb and Arlo, another teammate who I’d also be fine by Pax being best friends with.
This year, I’m a freshman at Brighton and gone are the days of me fantasizing about Lincoln Beckett, the starting wide receiver and highly acclaimed football player with a killer smile. The man who’s so frequently on the news that he’s amassed zillions
