Infraction (Players Game Book 2) Read online

  “What?” I reached for my seat belt.

  He pressed his hand over mine, holding my hand there. “Something’s wrong.”

  Not a question. A statement.

  “You mean other than my dad having cancer?” I snapped, then hung my head.

  “Kins—”

  “I’m hungry and you’re trapping me in the hot car.” I gulped, the forced smile hurting almost as much as the lump in my throat.

  “Kins—”

  “No.” I licked my lips. “You know, before Vegas, we were friends, right?”

  “Right.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “I’m pretty sure you forced the friendship but whatever.”

  I knew he was teasing, but my armor wasn’t up.

  So, instead of laughter, I felt more tears well in my eyes, threatening to spill onto my cheeks.

  “Shit, Kins.” He unbuckled my seat belt and pressed his hands on either side of my face. “I was joking.”

  I tried to fight his grip but he held tighter.

  It felt so good.

  Too good to be held, to breathe him in and think about nothing except the way he made me feel safe in his arms, when I was so terrified of everything crumbling down around me.

  “Friends,” I whispered. “Maybe when nobody’s watching we can just do that . . . and forget about the in-between.”

  “The in-between being the two times I’ve seen you naked and given you multiple orgasms while you screamed my name and bit my shoulder with your teeth—that in-between.”

  My face heated. “Please.”

  His chest heaved; he sucked in his bottom lip, then released it, and my body responded with alarming need to do the same thing—only with his lip, not mine, to make sure it tasted as good as I remembered. Maybe I needed some form of sick reassurance that despite the chaos around me—Miller’s taste was still the same.

  A safe place.

  That wasn’t really safe at all.

  “Please,” I said it again. I swore I’d never be the victim again when it came to a guy—and yet with Miller I’d let myself be the kicked puppy, the girl he shoved away, the one he took—and discarded so easily.

  Maybe Anderson was right.

  He’d said I was lucky to have a guy like him, that I was useless, trash, a stupid cheerleader.

  No.

  I shoved the thought out of my mind.

  And that reason right there was why I couldn’t do this, not with Miller. I could pretend for cameras, pretend for my brother so he thought I was safe from Anderson’s clutches, but being with Miller in private—no matter how much I craved it, how easy it would be.

  Would kill me.

  It would kill any piece of myself I still had left.

  The strong pieces that Jax gave back to me were constantly at battle with the weak ones Anderson had tried to infuse into my psyche. I refused to let him win.

  “Kins.” Miller’s forehead touched mine. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Pardon?” Awesome. Perfect. What every girl wants to hear. “You never meant to hurt me when you came over to my house, packed my bags, and didn’t as much as look at me while you dropped me off at the freaking airport? You may as well have kicked me out of the country with a pat on the ass, Miller! And I’m not that girl! I don’t sleep around, so don’t sit here all high and mighty in your expensive-ass car, with your heart on your sleeve, and tell me a bullshit line that every single girl in this world hears on a daily basis, when the same guy who screwed them into oblivion the night before suddenly decides he doesn’t want anything but a piece of ass. If that’s what you want—you’re more than welcome to find it elsewhere. Friends. Take it or leave it. And even now I feel like I’m being too generous. We’re doing this so my brother doesn’t lose his mind over my dad, and over the possibility that . . .” I stopped talking. I had to.

  “That he might not recover?” Miller finished like he was questioning me.

  “Just”—I jerked away from him—“play your part, and I’ll play mine, we’ll shake hands when this is all over, and if you kiss me again, ever, without my permission I’ll tell Jax all the other places you kissed without his permission and we’ll see where that leaves you . . . and the team.”

  “And when I tell him you begged for those kisses, what about that?” He leaned in until his mouth was an inch from mine.

  “That leaves you without two friends and a championship.”

  He pulled away so fast I thought his head was going to smack against the driver’s side window. “Friends it is.”

  He held out his hand.

  His eyes met mine, a spark of electricity flared between us, so real, so heavy with meaning, that I gripped his hand. I needed his word. I needed to know he wouldn’t touch me, kiss me, tempt me, make me believe that he was willing to offer what he wasn’t even in possession of since losing Emerson to Sanchez.

  When our fingers touched, I jumped.

  He bit back a curse and dropped my hand so fast it hit the console.

  “This isn’t going to work.” His smile was sad. “Is it?”

  “Hell yes, it will.” I offered an encouraging smile. “You just need to be aggressive, B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E about our friendship and not crossing any lines that have been put there for a purpose.”

  “For the record, Kins, I can do that cheer by heart, and I mean everything, the moves, the clapping. I’m kind of a cheerleading pro.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Why were you really crying . . . friend?” He emphasized the word loudly.

  “I’m sad . . . because my dad could be dying . . . friend.”

  “Then . . .” He sighed. “I guess all that’s left to do is this . . . friend . . .” He got out of the car, walked around the front, opened my door, pulled me to my feet, and wrapped his muscular arms around me. “Hug time.”

  “Every hour?”

  “I wish it was every half hour,” he complained.

  And I laughed.

  Hard.

  So hard that tears started running down my cheeks. “You got my Trolls reference.”

  “Come on, Flat-ass—you know how I feel about my animated movies.”

  “Hey! I thought that nickname was gone!”

  “Eh, I missed it.”

  I swatted him on the chest and pulled away. “We should probably get in there before Harley decides my brother needs a smile on his face and ducks under the table to give him a reason to.”

  “She wouldn’t . . .” He frowned. “Would she?”

  “I may have encouraged all sexual advances. You were the one who said he needed to get laid!”

  “Not during dinner!” Miller grabbed my hand and ran.

  I laughed the entire way.

  Like I would ever encourage Harley to do something like that—like any girl would ever need encouragement when it came to Jax.

  For a guy who kept it in his pants, according to the female population he was walking, talking sex.

  Yeah, tonight was going to be interesting.

  Chapter Seven

  MILLER

  On the outside, I was calm.

  On the inside, I was a mess.

  Because I was being faced with another choice, one I was being forced to make.

  Date her. Don’t touch her.

  Protect her. Don’t touch her.

  Spend time with her.

  Fall for her.

  Lust for her.

  Want her.

  Do. Not. Touch. Her.

  I suddenly needed the first preseason game and practices like I needed my next breath of air. The distraction, the pain, the stress would be welcome after spending the last twenty-four hours with a girl I couldn’t have—story of my life—and didn’t deserve. It was the first time since Emerson I felt it.

  That deep—pull.

  The connection that you feel without using words.

  And I wasn’t just confused, but angry as fuck that the one girl who was hands-off was the only one who had managed to pull it out of
me.

  Months ago, I’d slept with her and told her it was just once.

  I’d lied to her.

  I’d lied to myself.

  So I did it again that same night to prove that I had control of the situation, and then I sent her packing to prove that I didn’t need her—or anyone.

  And when she left, all I felt was panic, and a surging anger that she could remove herself from me so easily when I still felt her skin on my skin—when I tasted her in my dreams.

  Shit, I was going to die before this was over with.

  “Did we miss anything?” I pulled out my own chair since Kins had already seated herself. The restaurant was incredibly loud for a high-end burger joint. It was dark enough that I knew we wouldn’t be recognized, at least not by our faces. Our sizes, however, often gave us away.

  Because what else did a few guys who were over six foot five do with their lives other than play football?

  Sanchez gave me a look that said not to bring up the subject, while Em made a cutting motion across her neck.

  “Explain to me again, what a quarterback does, other than throw a stupid ball?” Harley directed the question to Jax.

  “Oh shit,” I said under my breath then elbowed Kins in the ribs.

  She glanced at me and mouthed, “What?”

  “I take it you’re not a football fan?” I reached for a fry, thank God they’d already ordered something, I was starving.

  Harley grinned over at me. “Oh, I love football. I just don’t like offensive players.”

  I choked on my fry while Sanchez murmured a curse under his breath.

  “And in saying that, you do realize”—Jax’s jaw did that scary-as-shit ticking motion—“that every guy at this table is offense?”

  Harley looked around and shrugged. “Look, I’m sure what you guys do is very hard, but the defense is more aggressive to me. Sorry. Plus they’re bigger.” She eyed Jax’s arms and gave him a sheepish smile.

  “There will be blood,” Sanchez said under his breath while Emerson kicked me under the table. What, like I knew how to make things better?

  “Funny, how you’d insult something you know shit about,” Jax said in a way-too-calm voice. “I guess that would kind of be like me showing up at your job and telling you that you were doing it wrong. What is it you said you did?”

  “Athletic gear. I model it. I also teach yoga around the world . . .” She leaned in, until I thought Jax was going to chicken out and back up, but he shocked me when he met her halfway, his face completely void of emotion. “You gonna show up at my job and bend over?”

  Emerson covered her face with her hands. Sanchez let out a low whistle, and I couldn’t peel my eyes from the train wreck.

  Jax didn’t move a muscle, instead he tilted his head and finally smirked. “You know, it’s kind of funny . . .”

  “What?” Harley’s eyes narrowed.

  “How much you don’t know about football, life, men—or probably even your own occupation. Hey, Sanchez—”

  Sanchez cursed. “What?”

  “How many hours a week do you do yoga?”

  I bit down on my lip to keep from laughing.

  I knew he only went to yoga because Emerson made him go, because she was convinced it would help keep him from getting injured again. The guy was afraid to go by himself, so he forced both me and Jax to go with him.

  It took us one week of getting our asses kicked to beg the coach to hire someone full-time to work with the trainer and the team.

  We’d been doing yoga twice a week for the past six months.

  And Jax, well, he’d taken to it like a pro.

  He was the perfectionist of the three of us.

  “Ah.” Sanchez reached for a fry. “I’d say no more than three to four hours a week, nothing crazy.”

  Harley jerked back. “You?”

  “Us.” Jax grinned, reached for a fry, and shoved it in her open mouth. “So maybe think before speaking next time, or just sit there and look pretty, it might gain you more fans.”

  She chomped down on the fry.

  And Jax waved over our waiter. “You guys ready to order?”

  “That went well,” I whispered to Kins.

  She pressed her fingers against her temples and whispered back, “Maybe I should have told her to start with the sex and end with the talking.”

  “There’s always next time.” I winked.

  “Don’t feel bad”—I patted Kins on the leg—“at least he was so pissed at us for inviting her that he completely dropped all his anger about the kiss.”

  Kinsey groaned and slammed her fist against the couch cushion. After dinner, Jax had told her she had the apartment, he was going to their parents’ and he’d see her there in the morning.

  It was his way of saying he needed space.

  I’d dropped her off and then followed her in because she refused to go any farther unless she had backup—apparently she was scared of the dark. I went into every fucking room and turned on each light to make sure someone wasn’t waiting to take her to a foreign country and sell her as a sex slave.

  I’d finished the last room ten minutes ago.

  Ten minutes ago, I should have left.

  Instead, I sat.

  Damn it, why was I torturing myself?

  “He fled his own apartment, Miller. I’d say he’s pretty pissed. Is it so much to ask for him to focus on his own life for a minute? To have fun?”

  “There has to be a story there.” I pulled the remote from her hand and changed the channel. What was with her and that Ballers show? It was offensive, and while completely realistic, just a reminder of how the world viewed us, or maybe how the entire league viewed themselves.

  She tucked her feet up under her butt, which was now covered by the gray sweats she’d changed into while I’d been playing private security detail. “He’s just . . . he functions better when he can compartmentalize things. When he can’t, when areas of his life blur, he gets frustrated. He’s hypersensitive about dating the wrong girl . . . almost as sensitive as he is about finding the right one and not being enough, I think.” She frowned. “Our parents . . . they have a pretty awesome relationship. Honestly,” she said, shrugging one shoulder, “it’s a lot to live up to—and a pretty big dream to follow when you’re not only the leader of America’s team, but their perfect captain, the golden boy, the one who doesn’t mess up, who rarely drinks, who visits hospitals on his days off and wants world peace.” She giggled. “Okay, so maybe he got drunk last year when you guys won, and he’s never said anything about world peace, but you get what I mean, right? You guys have this huge magnifying glass on your lives—I think sometimes, because of that, he’s afraid to live it.”

  Guilt flashed across her face before she added, “But, he made a promise he’d try—a couple of years ago—so he should at least follow through on his promise to date.”

  “And stop locking you in closets before big dances like prom.”

  “Yeah, well, now I have my big bad boyfriend to fight him for me.” She winked and jerked the remote from my hand and flipped it back to Ballers. “So, no monsters?”

  “Only the ones I told to hide out and wait until you were asleep to make themselves known. Hope it’s cool that I told them they could help themselves to some soda.” I grinned down at her. God, she was pretty, with her makeup-free face, shiny dark hair, and full kissable lips.

  I adjusted myself without thinking.

  Only to find her watching me.

  Hell.

  I blew out an exasperated breath, knowing I couldn’t really stand yet, not if I didn’t want her to know—hell, she already knew, it was painfully obvious where my thoughts were headed.

  “Thanks, friend.” She said it again to remind me, maybe to remind us.

  I nodded. “Anytime.”

  “You know . . . since we’re friends, you can stay a bit longer if you want. It doesn’t have to mean anything, just that you’re willing to take guard duty very seriously.�
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  “Nah.” I shook my head. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “Honest moment?”

  “Honest moment,” I repeated.

  “I could never live by myself, I get too freaked out.”

  “And since Jax is gone . . .”

  “How about if we pretend to be roommates with absolutely no sexual past who decide to have a slumber party where no touching takes place?” she pleaded. “I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t plan this. I just, now that I’m faced with you leaving, I’m thinking about all of my escape plans and weapons.”

  “Give me one escape plan, one weapon example, and I’ll stay.” I crossed my arms.

  “You’ll make fun of me.”

  “Probably.”

  She growled, “Fine, so my first escape plan”—she leaped off the couch and ran to the door—“say someone breaks the door down. I’m all the way down the hall, so there’s this weird hiding spot near the hall closet.” She ran down toward the hall closet, I chased after her.

  Kinsey bent over and pulled the screen off one of the vents, then tossed me a flashlight she’d hidden in there along with a prepaid TracFone. “Hold these.”

  “Why the hell do you need a flashlight?”

  “Intruders always turn off the power first.”

  “Shit, I need to talk to Jax about letting you watch TV at night.”

  “HLN is my jam,” she teased and winked.

  “Never say that sentence again.” I pointed the flashlight at her. “Where to?”

  “Here.” She crawled across the floor. “Hurry, get down.”

  I fell to my knees, and they cracked against the hard wood floor. “This is crazy. You know that, right?”

  “Shhh.” She kicked my shoulder with her foot. “This is survival.”

  I grinned; she was cute. Psychotic, but cute.

  “Here it is.” She finally made it to a small bookcase, and next to it, a nook, a cupboard that couldn’t hold half of my body. “I put a lock on it from the inside.”

  “You?” I pointed the flashlight at her. “Put a lock on? By yourself?”

  “So I like Home Depot! What of it?”

  “You’re hearing yourself, right? This entire conversation? Crawling across the floor? Why all the fear?”