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  GAME ON

  COLLETTE WEST

  Copyright © 2014 Collette West

  All rights reserved.

  Smaswords Edition

  Published in the United States of America.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. They are not to be misconstrued as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  Cover designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Editor: Mickey Reed

  Dedication

  To those who read and write instead of play the game.

  Chapter One

  Jilly

  Man, why did I agree to do this?

  I loosen the knot in my tie and glance mournfully out the limo. Yeah, I'm a pitcher for the New York Kings, but I never travel around the city looking to draw attention to myself. The Queen of Diamonds, a blog that covers the team, put together this 'special night' with all the bells and whistles. It's a popular site with an avid female readership, and Terry Bloom, my general manager, is using every means at his disposal to revamp my surly, brokenhearted image.

  The limo slices through a familiar part of midtown and my heart rate starts to accelerate. For the past month and a half, I've done everything in my power to avoid this part of the city, and now, the limo driver's literally driving right through the heart of Broadway.

  I stab the button to lower the privacy window. "Dude, why are you going through the theater district? The traffic is always backed up around this time. We're gonna get stuck in gridlock."

  "My apologies, Mr. Gillette," he says, pronouncing the soft 'g' in my name like an 'h,' struggling to hide his accent. "I thought this would be the quickest route."

  "Can't you go another way?" I'm trying to keep my anger in check, but it sounds like he's never driven in New York before.

  "Sir, we're wedged between two cabs. I don't think I can—"

  I raise the panel, cutting him off. I shift uncomfortably against the plush, leather seat, not knowing where to look when my scowling face comes into view from five blocks away.

  Shit, it's still up.

  I'm not one to blend in. I'm six foot eight, two hundred twenty-five pounds. I admit that my size is kind of a sore subject for me, something I'm overly sensitive about, something I don't deal all that well with, and seeing myself the size of Godzilla makes me wanna hurl.

  Because I'm shirtless…on a billboard…in Times Square.

  Fuck me.

  The only thing worse than my larger-than-life photo is the blaring headline: Get closer to the closer… Win a date with Bruce "Jilly" Gillette of the New York Kings!

  I don't date, and I absolutely hate being set up. But after weeks of endless promotion that plastered my naked torso all over the city, tonight I'm primed and ready to meet the woman of my dreams.

  Yeah, like that's gonna happen.

  One of the contest sponsors, some Italian designer I've never even heard of, decked me out in a suit fitted so tight that I'll probably never feel my nuts again. I don't understand why this couldn't be a quick 'meet and greet' at the stadium. At least then I could've worn my uniform and felt somewhat comfortable rather than have my junk gift-wrapped like a friggin' Christmas present.

  I pry my phone out of my pants pocket and nearly bust the seam. Grimacing, I scroll through the email Gayle Rader, the Queen herself, sent me with a breakdown of the night's itinerary. I'm to meet up with the winner at Sake, the most exclusive sushi restaurant in all of Manhattan. Problem is: I hate sushi. We played a day game this afternoon, so I'm starving, and little, slimy pieces of fish just aren't going to cut it.

  After that, my dream date and I are supposed to go to the VIP room at the nightclub Rosewood, which is like being invited to sit at the cool kids' table, the kind of place that opens its doors to the beautiful and famous. I've never been, but some of my teammates hang out there, usually the night before an off day when they don't have to make curfew. It's where everybody goes to be seen, and I bet this is the first and only time Terry's hoping one of his players actually makes the gossip columns for being there.

  But this whole night couldn't be more…superficial. I don't even know this girl and I'll probably never see her again, but it irks me that I'm giving the impression that I'm nothing more than some stupid cliché—the party-hearty ballplayer, the rich bastard who flaunts his celebrity status and believes he deserves the best out of life.

  No, I've stayed true to myself. I don't put on some act for the cameras, filling a role the public expects me to play.

  Let Scott Harper be the ladies' man.

  Let Chase Whitfield be the icon.

  Let Brooks Davison be the good ol' American boy.

  I'm fine with being the loner.

  According to the Elias Sports Bureau, I'm the most dominant relief pitcher in all of baseball, yet not many fans feel the need to run out and buy my number twenty-four jersey. I guess I'd rather be successful on the field than liked off of it. A guy's nothing without his integrity, and I intend to keep mine firmly intact.

  I jerk backward as the driver comes to a stop in front of the elaborate topiaries lining the entrance to Sake.

  His voice greets me jovially through the intercom. "We're here, Mr. Gillette."

  I fumble around, trying to locate the corresponding button on the control panel. By the time I find it, my large fingers have a hard time pressing just one since they're all bunched together, but somehow, I manage to answer him. "All right. Give me a minute." I know I'm making a big deal out of nothing just because I'm nervous as hell to meet the girl who's waiting for me inside, expecting me to wow her.

  Maybe I can still bail on this before it's too late. My finger hovers over Gayle's number on my phone while I try to come up with a good excuse to bow out gracefully. I'll tell her that I fell off a trampoline or something. Hey, it worked for a teammate of mine once. She'll understand, right? Yeah…like hell she will. If I leave her hanging, Terry's wrath will descend upon us quicker than one of my cut fastballs.

  While I try to decide what to do, my eyes vacantly travel over the people walking by. Some of them, probably tourists, scope out the limo, wondering who's inside. Others don't even bat an eyelash and keep on going. That's the thing about New York. The longer you're here, the more jaded you become—it's inevitable. The city is relentless, consuming every drop of energy to maintain its frantic pace. Give in or get mowed down.

  That's probably why I don't go out much. I leave everything I have on the field. I give it my all. I don't have time to waste on anything else. If I'm not with the team, I'm either sleeping, eating, or preparing myself for the next time I'll pitch. My social life is nonexistent only because I take my job very seriously. I have a good thing going here with the Kings and I don't want to mess it up.

  I cram m
y phone back into the slit of a pocket. I won't bemoan my fate. I knew what I was signing up for to play for the Kings. Publicity stunts like this come with the territory. New York is the land of hype, and like it or not, I'm officially part of the media juggernaut. I can't expect to be a cog in the wheel of the biggest sports franchise on the planet and not contribute to its marketing racket. I'm nothing but a product for Terry to hawk to the masses, only this time the Queen of Diamonds is conducting the transaction.

  I angle my hulking frame out of the confines of the stretch limo and tug my jacket down before straightening my tie. This is it—the moment of truth. I nod to the doorman as he opens the door, welcoming me to what the New York Times dubs 'the nirvana of culinary experiences.'

  The dude gives me a sly wink. "Good luck, Jilly, my man. I hope she's smokin' hot."

  I just shake my head and grumble for him to fuck off.

  Great. The whole city knows why I'm here. All the people in this joint are going to be scoping out my every move. I'm nervous enough as it is. I don't need all of New York watching to see how I make an ass out of myself in front of a woman I don't even know.

  I clear my throat and step up to the hostess, who looks like some kind of Quentin-Tarantino-inspired geisha fantasy. Talk about over the top. She's wearing a billowy, white kimono with long, exaggerated sleeves. All she needs are two samurai swords and a couple of gallons of fake blood and she'd be all set. But maybe what's throwing me off is that she just so happens to be a redhead with freckles.

  "Welcome to Sake, Mr. Gillette." She clasps her hands together, her kohl-lined green eyes shining up at me. "Your date is waiting for you at the bar."

  She gives me that smug, self-satisfied look that practically shouts, "I know something you don't know!"

  Quickly realizing that I'm not in the mood to chitchat, she does her best to regroup. "Umm okay… Right this way."

  I'll never get used to strangers recognizing me and how I never have to introduce myself to anyone. It's a perversion of the social code. People think they know me even though they don't. It's such an imbalance of power, especially when it comes to going on a blind date. If I'm supposed to be the one with all the influence and clout, then why do I feel so helpless right now? Like this ginger Asian hostess is guiding me toward a torture chamber instead of bringing me to a place where people go to relax and unwind?

  I quickly scan the back of every female head. I can't even imagine the type of woman who would be my fan. Watch her be over fifty, the kind who's eaten one bag of potato chips too many. But so far, none of the candidates seem to fit that description, at least from this angle. Shiny, bouncy ponytail. Good. Straight and sleek. Nice. Curls. Fuck. My hand tightens into a fist.

  Why do curls always have to remind me of the ones I used to run my fingers through?

  But these curls aren't blonde.

  They're not hers.

  I just have to keep telling myself that.

  I exhale sharply. Any one of these women could be my date, even if none of them are…her.

  I swallow hard when the hostess glances around quizzically, placing her hands on the empty seat at the bar. "Mr. Gillette, I'm so sorry. She was just here a moment ago." She pouts, going over to the sushi chef and speaking to him in rapid-fire Japanese.

  Wow. For a white girl, she certainly knows the language. But when he shrugs, my stomach drops. She scolds him, getting right up in his face while doing everything she can to keep her voice to an agitated whisper. The rest of the patrons watch, amused as they nosh on their seaweed wraps or whatever raw delicacy that green stuff is. They stare at me. I stare at them. Awkward doesn't even begin to describe it.

  They can all spare me the drama. I don't need to hear the verdict. The chick got cold feet and left. I get it. I may be huge like a Neanderthal, but it doesn't mean I'm an idiot. I know what's going on here. Newsflash: I've been rejected by yet another female. So what else is new? That's what got me into this mess in the first place—I had to go and make a very public display of throwing my hat in the ring for Sasha Roberts's heart just so she could turn me down flat. I should be used to it by now.

  The hipster couples at the bar ogle me, wondering what I'm going to do now. How is the great Jilly Gillette going to react? They snicker behind their napkins, giving each other knowing looks, feasting on my misfortune. My blood boils. Listening to them laugh at me is like waving a matador's cape in front of an angry bull. I shove my runaway date's vacated stool aside and stomp toward the first exit sign I see. I don't wait around for some lame-ass explanation. I burst through the back door and end up in a cramped alleyway between two brick buildings.

  "Fuck!" I yell as the heavy door slams shut behind me with a bang.

  There's an audible gasp before a voice issues out of the darkness next to me. "Jilly?"

  No way. It can't be.

  My heart leaps like it just heard the sweetest sound in the whole wide world.

  "Hailey…?" I blink, trying to clear my head as the only girl who could ever be described as my dream date steps into a small patch of light emanating from the street. I drink her in, unable to take my eyes off her.

  Hailey Halpert checks every one of my boxes when it comes to beauty: a tiny, delicate body I want to protect with everything in me; a head of luscious, blond curls I love to twirl around my fingers; full, pouty lips I'm kind of obsessed with.

  But her beauty is more than skin-deep. There's so much going on behind those big, blue eyes. Her warm, inviting smile never fails to draw me in. She's the kind of girl worth risking it all for. One look is all that it takes to leave me spellbound.

  Now I know without a doubt that Sasha Roberts was nothing more than a rebound. My heart still rests in the palm of Hailey Halpert's hand—every broken piece of it.

  Shit. I can't let this happen. I can't…but oh, do I want to.

  "So let me get this straight… You're my date?" My question comes out more like a snarl, and she takes a tentative step back, making me want to kick myself for not being able to control my emotions.

  "Guilty as charged," she giggles nervously, no doubt thinking that I'm mad at her when I'm not—at least, not now. I'm just terrified of her. That's all.

  Note to Sake doorman: Yeah, my date's smokin' hot. In fact, she's downright gorgeous.

  I can't show how overjoyed I am to see her again. I have to hold my cards close to the vest or it's all over. I can't let her see how much she hurt me when she completely dropped out of my life.

  "Jilly, I'm sorry I chickened out in there and stood you up. If I had known it'd set you off, I would've stayed. I didn't mean to upset you," she says so softly that I barely hear her. I want to tell her that I'm not upset, but she keeps talking, twisting her hands in front of her. "That's why I left, actually. I thought surprising you in front of a room full of people wasn't exactly the best idea in the world. We were supposed to arrive at Sake together in the same limo, but then the Queen of Diamonds told me your schedule changed and that I should meet you here instead, but I couldn't quiet that voice inside my head that had second thoughts about blindsiding you in public."

  Her full lips turn up in an apologetic smile. If I weren't so damn unsure of myself, I'd smile back. I suck at interpreting signals like this, the ones girls expect you to pick up on, but I don't. I can't concentrate. The situation's too highly charged. I don't want to misconstrue things and screw everything up.

  I clench my jaw and stare down at her. What the hell is she doing here anyway? How did she of all people win this contest? Is this some kind of setup? Did the Queen of Diamonds track her down on purpose or something? What kind of game is Hailey playing? She should know by now that that's not how I operate. I don't know what her deal is, but I'm not biting. I'm not about to make a move on her, if that's what she thinks. I already tried doing that once and look where it got me.

  "Yeah, well. I'm leaving, so I guess I'll see you around." I try to brush past her, but my shoulders are too broad to fit through the narrow gap. I'm stu
ck, and I have to get out of here before I friggin' lose it. I can't let her see how much she's affecting me.

  "If this whole contest was to make you appear more approachable, then it's failing miserably." She turns sideways so there's no way I can get by her. I tilt my head, warning her to back off. "Bruce, why don't we try this again, huh?" A shiver runs through me when she calls me by my first name—something hardly anyone does anymore. "Socializing isn't your favorite activity. I get it. It's not mine either…but maybe it can be, just for tonight."

  "If you wanted to socialize, why'd you turn tail and run? Why did you make me look like a fool in there, Hailey?" I ask, unable to stop myself from looking at her now that she's this close.

  She knows how ill at ease I am in social settings. But I take heart in the fact that Hailey's never going to pretend to be someone she's not, and she doesn't want me to either. My gut is telling me that this isn't some act. She's still the same Hailey, urging me to let down my guard and trust her again.

  And maybe I can—at least for a few hours.

  "When the Queen of Diamonds notified me that I won, I thought I could handle seeing you again, I really did. But sitting in there, waiting for you to appear, I got scared." She ducks her head sheepishly. "What were the odds of me actually winning, right? On a whim, I pulled out my phone and entered the contest when I was on the subway. I saw your sad eyes looking down on me from the poster above the door and I could tell they'd put you up to this. Your whole demeanor screamed, 'Somebody get me outta here!'" She laughs to ease the tension. "I knew it was probably a bad idea, but I guess I was trying to save you from having to go on a date with someone who it'd be hard for you to talk to."

  "Oh, c'mon. I'm not that bad," I mutter, scuffing the toe of my shoe against the wall, too embarrassed to meet her gaze. She just admitted that she was worried about me, and not only that—she put herself out there for me. I don't know how I feel about that.

  "No, your picture was hot. The tats. The muscles. The brooding look. But after what went down between you and America's Sweetheart, I could tell your heart just wasn't in it." She nudges my elbow with her arm in a friendly gesture. "I figured some higher-up on the team must've wanted to put a good spin on what happens when a great guy like you goes all in…and still doesn't get the girl."