Playing Hard: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

AVA

One week later

“You have an image problem.” Murray’s voice is calm and modulated — the same way he always sounds when he’s telling my dad something he doesn’t want to hear.

As usual, Dad just looks up at him, eyes narrowing, lips tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Murray sighs a little, before opening his briefcase and pulling out some sheets of paper. From where I sit across the room, I can’t make out much of what’s on them, but I can see some graphs, pie charts, things like that.

Oh, great.
Murray’s clearly been doing some ‘confidential polling’ on my dad’s behalf again. It’s the kind of thing my dad hates: having to be
appealing
. He just thinks he should be able to get up, explain his case, and sit down again. He doesn’t truck with any modern ideas about politicians having to have ‘charisma’ or ‘wow factor’ or whatever else, he says, ‘the kids are calling it these days’.

Which, I guess, is kind of the problem. The special election for the soon-to-be vacated Pennsylvania senate seat is going to be tough, and my dad needs to take every advantage he can get.

Which is why he’s called this unofficial meeting with Murray now — to talk strategy. We’re all sitting in my father’s study after the football game, the afternoon light getting dimmer by the second. My dad likes to have me in on these meetings — even though I really don’t have that much to contribute. And honestly, I’d really rather be in my room, studying. The football game was a nice distraction for a while, and there was that moment with Riley… even though I don’t give a shit about football, much less football players. Sure, I’ve thought about that moment where he picked me up and spun me around as if I weighed nothing at all, the smell of his chest and the strength of his arms… but that was mainly because I was terrified my dad had seen it, or it had been broadcast to the entire stadium on the big screen. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like either had happened. It had been missed in the general mayhem that was occurring all around us.

And I certainly
have
not
thought about the way his skin felt as it pressed against my cheek. I haven’t.

What I
did
do was commit to study three hours a day over the break, and I’ve fallen dangerously behind over the past couple of weeks. And with term starting in a few days, I’m not going to let myself get distracted by any errant thoughts of dumbass football players, or even by my father’s nascent senate run.

Despite my good intentions, even the thought of putting Riley Knox out of my mind is enough to place him firmly front and center again, and before I know it I’m thinking about his smell again, his warmth, the beat of his heart —

Focus.

I blink, looking up as Murray holds out one of his sheets of paper, covered in graphs and pie charts and God knows what else.

“You’re seen as elitist,” Murray says, tapping at one of the graphs. “Out of touch with the common man. No idea about the struggles of daily life. No clue what the issues affecting —”

“I get it, Murray,” my father says tersely. He leans back, running a hand over his face. “Can I help it if I’ve been successful? Christ, isn’t that what the American dream is all about?”

“Usually that involves some measure of working your way up from poverty,” Murray points out. “Not being born into a family with generations of wealth and political power.”

My father’s expression grows ever more sour. “What do you want me to do?”

Murray stands up straight, crossing his arms. “What we need is a story,” he says. “Something to humanize you. Something to show you’re just like everyone else.”

“I
am
like everyone else.”

I can see Dad’s becoming a little hot under the collar. He’s never been great at taking criticism. Thankfully, Murray is one of the few people who has always been fine with standing up to him. It’s just Murray and me in that camp these days — most everyone else is scared stiff. If my dad says jump, most people just ask how high. Being a former Marine colonel and born into one of the most storied families on the east coast will do that for you.

“Not according to my polling,” Murray says smoothly. “People see you as cold, robotic. Distant. Not lovab — ”

“Get to the
point
, Murray.”

Murray waits until my father’s temper subsides a little, as if he’s sizing him up. “I have an idea,” he says. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.” He glances across at me, cocking his head a little. “Do you think we could discuss this alone for a while?”

“Sure. Whatever.” I shrug, getting up and crossing the room. I don’t really need to be here for this — I really should be spending all my free time studying for when term starts in a few months. I’m paranoid about forgetting the stuff I’ll need between now and then. I don’t need to be starting from behind with my masters degree, and I have no illusions about how hard it’ll be. Chemical Engineering at Blaketon University isn’t exactly known to be a cakewalk.

“I won’t be long, sweetheart,” my dad calls after me as I close the door, but I’ve heard that before. I’m used to it by now. As I walk down the hall toward the staircase, I hear my father’s voice, muffled by the solid wood of his study door — “
YOU WANT ME TO
WHAT?
” —  and I briefly regret being ordered out.

But if it’s all that scandalous, I’m sure I’ll be hearing about it soon. Not like my dad doesn’t complain to me about what he calls Murray’s ‘crackpot asshole advice’ on a daily basis anyway. Advice he always ends up taking, crackpot asshole or not.

I’m sure I’ll find out about it sooner or later.

“You want me to
what?
”

It’s almost exactly three hours later that I find myself echoing my dad’s words. I stare at him across the dinner table, carbonara sauce flopping off my fork and spattering onto the dark wood of the table. My dad winces, but it’s obvious he’s not going to say anything right now that might risk me not agreeing to what I’ve now realized is Murray’s latest piece of crackpot asshole advice.

Just for once, my dad is right — it’s both crackpot
and
asshole. 

And my dad is being an asshole too, even thinking about coming here and trying to talk me into it, sweet-talking me, saying we could eat dinner together for once.

He even asked June, out cook, to make spaghetti carbonara.

He
knows
I fucking love spaghetti carbonara.

“Ava, honey —” he starts, before I cut him off by clattering my fork down onto my plate.

“No, you don’t need to explain it again, I understood it perfectly well the first time,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “You basically want me to become a prostitute. Is that it? Whore myself out for the sake of your political career.”

“I most certainly do not want you to… do that,” my father says, affronted. Seems like he’s taken Murray’s advice to practice not using cuss words, even in private. “I just want you to spend some time with the boy. Stir up a little interest. You’ll both be at Blaketon anyway. You could get to know him.”

“Dad,” I say flatly, looking at him across the table. “This isn’t just
some boy
we’re talking about here. It’s Riley Knox, in case you’ve forgotten.”

My dad winces again. He can’t possibly not know Riley’s reputation. His reputation for partying, and his reputation for bedding just about every girl he’s ever come into contact with. And doing a shockingly good job of it, too, if rumors are to be believed.

Not that I’ve ever listened to rumors.

But is my dad
really
going to ask me to hang out with him,
pretending
we’ve got some romance going on? A crazy desire to laugh bubbles up in my throat. This is the most ridiculous shit I have ever heard. And it’s coming from
my father
.

The one, extremely faint, silver lining I can see in all of this is that it means Dad definitely didn’t see me cavorting with Riley after the game last week — even though
I
was an unwilling participant in the cavorting. Okay.
Barely
willing. Whatever. But either way, Dad would never have let Riley within a hundred yards of me ever again if he had seen it: in his eyes, no one’s ever been good enough for his little girl. It’s part of the reason I’ve stayed
virgo intacta
this whole time. When boys hear who my dad is, it’s enough to make them run a mile.

I force my mind back to the present. “I mean, he doesn’t exactly have a sterling reputation,” I say, raising an eyebrow in a message I hope my dad receives.

“I realize that,” he says, his voice coming out sounding tight and strained. “I am
not
asking you to actually get involved with him. In fact, that’s the absolute last thing I want. But Murray thinks it might be good for my image if I’m seen to be giving my blessing to a… a courtship between my daughter, and someone of Riley’s… background.”

I sneer a little. “You can say he’s shit poor, Dad, I don’t care. Also, a
courtship?
”

“Ava, language,” he scolds. “And yes. I don’t know. Call it whatever you want. But that’s the general idea.”

Well, now I know we are truly through the looking glass. My dad is asking me to hang around with a boy he’d usually threaten to beat to a pulp for so much as looking at me, and now he’s throwing around Jane Austen words like
courtship
and saying I should enter into one. Surely it’s only a matter of time before he starts rolling me blunts and trying to hotbox my bedroom.

I shake my head. This is insane. There’s no way I’m spending what little free time I have with a prick like Riley Knox. I don’t care how dreamy his smile is, how chiseled his abs, how sweaty and delicious and
hot —

Okay. Stop.

“Anyway,” I say, forcing my mind back to the present. “Even if I agree to this — which I
won’t
— how are you going to make Riley do this? I mean, I get the impression he’s not exactly the
courting
type.”

Just for a moment, my father looks grim, his jaw tightening. If I ever have to wonder why people think he’s cold and robotic, I’m looking at living proof right in front of me.

My father forces himself to smile, but it’s totally without humor. “Murray has said he’ll take care of it,” he says. “Coach Jackson owes him a favor, and —” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Look, I told him I didn’t care to know the details. But Ava, I’m asking you to just consider it. You don’t have to do anything more than spend time with him. Let me make it as clear as I can: I do
not
want anything genuine to happen between the two of you. That is the furthest thing from my mind. I just want a little press. After a few months, you never have to speak to him again. I promise you.”

I clench my fists, looking past my dad and out of the window behind him, into the darkened garden. My mom used to love that garden. I remember planting things with her when I was a kid, before she got sick. No one ever would’ve called my dad cold or robotic if they could’ve seen them together — they’d been sweethearts their whole lives, and even after all these years I can still remember the soft light in my dad’s eyes when he looked at her. He’d never even brought up the subject of remarrying.

I sigh.

I
know
my dad’s not the cold man most people see him as. But since my mom died… I don’t know.

I want to help my dad. But I’m not sure if this is the right way to do it.

No, scratch that — I
know
it’s not the right way to do it.

Right now, though, it’s what my dad is asking me to do. And I’ve always been a dutiful daughter.

Would it really be so bad?
I ask myself. My dad is right — we’ll both be going to Blaketon. All we really have to do is hang out. Even if Riley Knox is the last kind of boy I’d date (
with his carefree grin, his gorgeous blue eyes, his sculpted abs, his tight ass…
), maybe it won’t be all bad. With him playing football and me studying, how much time would we have to spend together, really?

Taking a deep breath, I focus my attention back on my dad, looking him straight in the eye. “All right,” I say, not even believing the words that are about to come out of my mouth, my jaw feeling tight. “I’ll do it.”

My dad starts to smile.

“But I have some conditions,” I continue.

My dad’s smile freezes. “Like what?”

I take a breath. “Number one, I get my own apartment,” I say. “I want some independence. I’ll get a roommate, but I want my own space.”

Dad hesitates, then nods. “Number two?”

I lick my lips. “Number two, no more trying to make me switch my degree. I’m sticking with chemistry. I don’t care if you think business would be better. It’s what I want.”