Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Read online

  Law #3: Don’t Fall for the Athlete

  Laws of Love Series

  Agnes Canestri

  Contents

  Gift to my Readers

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Author’s note

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  About the Author

  Gift to my Readers

  JOIN MY READER CLUB AND GET THE BONUS MATERIAL OF THIS BOOK AND ANOTHER SWEET READ FOR FREE!

  www.agnescanestri.com/lol3-bonus

  Please note: if you already receive my newsletter, don’t sign-up again. Please retrieve your bonus on your VIP Reader Vault (access at the bottom of my newsletter).

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  Laws of Love Series

  Law #1: Never Bet on Love

  A billionaire. A salsa dancer. And a bet that might mean losing their hearts..

  Go to: mybook.to/lol1

  Law #2: Don’t Play with a Player

  Is there any actual proof that mixing business and pleasure is a bad idea? Asking for a friend…

  Go to: mybook.to/lol2

  Law #3: Don’t Fall for the Athlete

  He broke her heart. She won’t let him do it again...

  Go to: mybook.to/lol3

  Law #4: Don’t Trust the Bad Boy

  She thought she knew what she needed in her life. Can this bad boy show her she might have she been wrong all along?

  Go to: mybook.to/lol4

  Cirella Bay Series

  Big Flames & Small Lies

  She thought nothing unexpected ever happened in Cirella Bay. Oh, how wrong she was…

  Go to: mybook.to/cirella1

  Dark Secrets & Sweet Kisses

  Solving this small local mystery will be all fun and games. That’s if she can keep her heart safe from her sidekick’s —the snarky but handsome detective’s— charms…

  Go to: mybook.to/cirella2

  Gems of Love Series

  Gems of Love BOXSET

  All five books in one collection. The BEST DEAL on the series. Go to: mybook.to/gol-boxset

  Loving the Boss

  It could be her fresh start. If only she can avoid falling for her boss…

  Go to: mybook.to/gol1

  Gambling with the Billionaire

  Love was never on the menu…

  Go to: mybook.to/gol2

  Fake-Dating the Single Dad

  It was the perfect plan. Until their feelings turned all too real….

  Go to: mybook.to/gol3

  Saving the Brother’s Best Friend

  It was only a simple favor between friends. Until it wasn’t…

  Go to: mybook.to/gol4

  Falling for the Undercover Agent

  She was just a job. Until she wasn’t …

  Go to: mybook.to/gol5

  Other Books

  Saving His Heart (Jackson & Hole Firefighters)

  Rule #1: Don’t date a fireman.

  Rule #2: Don’t fall for your best friend.

  Rule #3: Never forget rules one and two

  Go to: mybook.to/saving-his-heart

  A Lesson in Love (Standalone forbidden love story)

  Sometimes what’s forbidden can’t be ignored…

  Go to: mybook.to/alessoninlove

  Chapter 1

  (Wyatt)

  I stare wide-eyed at the name on my phone display. Then, without thinking, my thumb presses the red decline button.

  Not once. Not twice. But three times.

  Then, I turn the whole thing off for good measure.

  My heart races as I shove my mobile back into my sports bag. I curse myself for checking who the caller was. During practice we’re not supposed to get distracted. I should’ve just ignored the darned beeping.

  I forbid my brain from dwelling on it. Whatever it is my father wanted, I couldn’t care less.

  I grab my bottle and squirt the back of my neck with cold water. It drenches the tips of my dark blond hair and steam rises up from under my jersey.

  Heaven bless the NFL regulations prohibiting the use of padding in phase three offseason. If I had to wear shoulder pads with Georgia’s late June weather, the vapor rolling off me would impede my vision.

  I lift my eyes to the field and spot Joe, my best buddy on our team, the Kites. As he waves at me, his dark arm cuts through the air with the velocity of a black panther. Typical Joe. Our running back speaks and gesticulates almost as fast as he races—quicker than a knife fight in a phone booth, as he loves to brag. At the speed of light, his fleshy lips mouth something at me, and I have a hard time understanding what he wants.

  Ah, the pause is over. Okay, then.

  I ditch my bottle on top of my bag, then throw it all beneath one of the benches in our gridiron. I fetch my helmet and amble back to the green grass.

  I pass a defensive coordinator who’s in the face of our linebacker, Greg, telling him to keep “outside contain” if and when the quarterback breaks the pocket.

  “We can’t let him get outside of us. It’s 3rd-and-long!” he exclaims. The “him” the guy’s speaking about is me, of course.

  We’re doing an 11-on-11 as part of our OTAs (organized team activities), and when the coaches picked the team members, I landed on the team opposite to Greg.

  Greg catches me ogling them and throws me an ‘I can’t wait for this last drill to be over’ glance.

  I give him an understanding nod because he’s my pal, even if he’s temporarily playing my enemy.

  I march farther to my starting spot and squeeze my head into the tight confines of my helmet. Luckily, the sweat from the day’s action has lubricated this often-uncomfortable process. It almost feels like the real deal when I slide it on. There’s even that typical clicking noise in my jaw when the firm ear pads press against my cheeks—a reminder of the hits I banked in a few plays ago.

  Officially, there’s no contact during OTA games.

  Technically, this should mean no risks, either. That’s a joke, though. Even without aiming for bodily encounters, accidents happen. Players run into each other. Knees buckle at sharp angles. That’s why we all use protective headgear.

  Young Jamal, my back-up QB, who plays my opposition in today’s game jogs past me. He flashes me a full-toothed smile, one that’s just a hint too cocky for my taste.

  I clench my teeth.

  The kid is right to brag. He delivered a pretty spectacular touchdown just before the break. I, on the other hand, haven’t done many eye-catching tricks.

  Which is a real sucker.

 
Many believe that OTAs are the watered-down equivalent of spring football in college, but trust me, this isn’t the case in the NFL. You can’t dilute the surrounding talent or the high-pressure stakes involved. OTAs might not be training camp yet, but all practice games are filmed. We review these recordings post-practice, and our coaches use the clues on the tapes to pinpoint which newbie has potential and which veteran is getting to his limit.

  I’m concerned with this latter aspect.

  I peer down at my gloved hands and feel the tendons between each finger stretch and throb. Yeah, my body isn’t the same as it once was. Old nicks, bangs, bumps, and bruises all sort of mesh together in my tissues. I’ve sucked out plenty of marrow from my career, but I’m not done yet.

  I can’t be done. I might not be as fast as I used to be, but I’m still quick enough. And I’m ready to prove it.

  I make a fist, and it tamps down the mild discomfort in my hands. Better.

  A referee comes to the ball’s spot.

  Soon, the whistle signaling the last play cuts through the air.

  Typically, my entire brain switches off at this familiar shrill sound, and I become one with the gridiron. It’s absolutely vital for any player, but even more so for a quarterback, to be 110% in the game. No idling is permitted when you want to win.

  This time, however, I fail to empty my mind. It remains a jostling zoo, in which my worry about approaching the age of doom plays peek-a-boo with entirely foolish considerations about my father’s call.

  “Wyatt, watch out!” my teammate, Leo, screams.

  I catch the ball, but just in time. One second later and it would’ve slipped through my fingers.

  Darn it! I need to stop this mayhem.

  There’s no point in worrying whether the coaches think I’m getting too old. I just need to show them I’ve still got it in me. Similarly, I have no business thinking about my father. And even less about his motivation to emerge on this precise day after years of silence. He’s not part of my life anymore, and I don’t care about him.

  Coaxing my thoughts into submission delays my throw. I lose precious time, and as a consequence, I need to hurry when passing on the ball.

  I don’t take the time to properly plant my foot. I just perform an all-arm launch which, surprise-surprise, turns out inaccurate and weak.

  What an idiot.

  I know that a good throw comes from a solid base. It’s a chain reaction, beginning with a drive off of the back foot, squaring the hips and chest toward where you’re throwing, shifting the weight toward the front foot, and then following through with your arm.

  So why didn’t I frigging do this?

  Given the short time remaining in our game, I don’t get a chance to make up for my mistake. We end up losing by two points.

  A sour taste, like the aftermath of the horrible bender I never had, spreads in my mouth as the end-of-game whistle sounds.

  Most of the players head to the locker room to catch a shower before the tape session starts. Once that finishes, our true summer vacation, three weeks without collective training, will start.

  Still, I can’t feel joy about this freedom as I stroll to collect my bag.

  Why couldn’t I just keep my head leveled? Why?

  It’s not the missed victory that bothers me, so much as the fact that I behaved like a rookie. And now I’ll have to watch this idiotic blooper on TV with the coaches—probably in slow motion too, just to add to the embarrassment.

  I’m almost at the bench when a phrase hits my ears. “Wyatt’s outlived his fame, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  I jerk up and my eyes dart toward the sound.

  The originator of this nasty remark is Rodriguez, a wide receiver, a few years younger than me. He used to play for the Wolves before joining our team last year. He’s talking to Leo.

  I don’t particularly like Rodriguez.

  I didn’t appreciate his foul mouth, giant ego, and arrogant smirk even before he signed with us, but after having played one season together, my dislike of his curse-laden tirades against anyone showing the slightest weakness—strictly behind that person’s back, of course—had grown even more.

  Still, I don’t like to have tensions in my team with anyone, so my normal approach to his icky character is to stay out of his way as much as possible.

  But not today.

  Oh, no. Today he’s got me in just the right mood. If he wants to trash-talk my performance, he’ll have to do it to my face.

  I approach him from behind and pat his shoulder. “You’ve got a problem, Rodriguez?”

  He pivots around and flinches when he sees me, but he recomposes his features immediately when he notices Leo staring at him.

  “No problem, bud,” Rodriguez says with a deprecating smirk. “I was just wondering about your happy feet. Did you gain them with aimed practice, or were you born this way?”

  Bile rises in my throat.

  Rodriguez’s provocation isn’t completely unfounded. I’m not a QB with improper footwork who shuffles his feet around in the pocket, and I never was, but today I didn’t play my best. I’d let my brain get distracted by futile contemplations.

  I shrug. I won’t give this dumb, swaggering peacock of a man the pleasure of seeing his comment hit me. “Everyone can have a bad day. Today was mine.”

  Rodriguez isn’t satisfied with my humble reaction. I can tell by the slight quivering of his lower lip and the irritated brush of a palm on his jersey.

  “Well, my guess is you were born that way,” he says in a slow drawl.

  “Guess what you want,” I murmur and turn to show that, from my side, the conversation is over.

  There’s a hiss behind my back, a mixture of a sullen child’s and a tickled bull’s attitude. Then, in a mocking tone, “I bet your pa thought a quarterback was a refund, and that’s why he accepted you into his house. Hahaha!”

  I freeze mid-movement.

  An emotion, so hot I can barely grasp how it doesn’t burn through my ribcage, licks my bones and spreads to my limbs.

  I try to suppress it, but I can’t. It’s too boiling, too powerful. And it comes from too deep. My fingers roll into fists.

  Before I know it, I’ve already whipped around and yelled, “Repeat that, if you dare!”

  Rodriguez’s brash expression wavers, but he squares his back and repeats his untasteful joke. Or tries to.

  Before he gets further than the word “quarterback,” my knuckles crash against his jaw.

  Crack!

  A startled “what the f—” from Leo.

  Then Rodriguez is stumbling backward, grabbing at his face, while his eyes, bewildered but still obnoxious, flick to my face.

  “You jerk, you almost dislodged a tooth,” he mumbles, spattering rosy-tinted saliva on his white jersey.

  The sight of his blood, more than anything else, snaps me out of whatever demonic possession I was under. I peer down at my hand, still clenched tightly.

  Leo leans over and examines Rodriguez’s chin, then he throws me an accusing glance. “What’s the matter with you, Wyatt? Rodriguez was just teasing you.”

  “It didn’t sound like it,” I mumble sheepishly, still in utter shock over what I’ve done.

  I’ve never biffed anyone in the face on purpose before. At least not since I grew out of the age of school fights. And here I’ve just fed a knuckle sandwich to one of my own teammates.

  Rodriguez pulls himself tall again, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm. The red stripe glistening on his skin as he lowers his arm makes my stomach churn.

  How could I have done this? And why?

  I know our wide receiver’s venomous tongue. So why did I have to seek him out? And why couldn’t I deflect his dirty chaff?

  Rodriguez glares at me, and when I met his gaze, he growls.

  He’s about to launch himself at me to reciprocate my blow. Okay, all the better. I’ll stand and take his punch without protecting myself so we can be even.

  Before Rodriguez
can advance, Coach Williams arrives.

  Rodriguez immediately lowers his arm and starts to spew a bunch of accusations about me at our strength coach, throwing around phrases like “blind rage,” “without reason,” and “went ballistic.”

  I just stand there, listening to him.

  My chest is a tempest of contradicting emotions. I feel shame that I flew off the handle, but it bugs me that Rodriguez is describing me as if I were a seething beast.

  “He provoked me,” I chime in as soon as Rodriguez takes a pause. “I might’ve overreacted a tad, but I’m not a nutcase.”

  Coach Williams must see this, right?

  But as I blink at our strength coach, my stomach tightens.

  Coach Williams and I go way back. He used to train me in college when I was still the Arizona Wildcats’ golden boy. I know his facial expressions and I can see the pure disappointment in his eyes as he gawks at me.

  After a second of silence, he looks away from me, back to Rodriguez. “Go clean yourself up. We’re starting the tape revision soon.”