Grey grunts. “But there’s the playbook.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Women are off-limits for the duration of our probation,” I grind out as if each word is painful to say. As if I don’t want it to be true.
Wolf kicks his feet onto a table and crosses then uncrosses and then crosses them again as if the reminder makes him restless.
Declan fidgets with a loose string on his ridiculous ensemble—big companies and designers offer us endorsements and all kinds of swag and gear. Declan takes it to the next level by accepting designer clothing that more closely resembles an outfit a toddler would wear if given free rein in their parents’ closet than articles of clothing with price tags in the four-figure range. Grey just stares at his hands.
Odd.
I clear my throat. “Remember the playbook rules?” I repeat as much to myself as to the others. Had it not been for the cotton candy between Pippa and me, the kids, the sudden rain, and later, an internal slap on the cheek to get my head together when we stood outside her apartment, we would’ve kissed. I could’ve ruined everything. But the tingles on my skin at the memory tell their own story.
“Women are off-limits—they’re our coaches,” I stammer.
“So you’ve mentioned,” Declan grumbles.
“The only coach I answer to is Hammer,” Wolf says.
Wolf had been adamant that he wasn’t going to listen to some etiquette trainer, but then came the coach and commissioner’s ultimatum.
“The commish sent us here. Like it or not, he has more of a say in our career than Hammer does. So for the next month, these women are our coaches.” I say as if giving myself a pep talk.
“You sure you can’t have a word with the ‘ole commish? Weren’t he and your grandfather, ‘ole Cap, best friends?” Wolf asks.
“More like enemies.” I haven’t uttered a word about the deceit and scandal that recently came to light, with my grandfather’s name written all over it. I can’t. I won’t.
“I’m stuck on the fact that our coaches are women. Attractive ones.” Declan’s smirk is roguish.
“Guys, we’ve had this conversation.”
“Yeah, the coaches are hot,” Wolf says.
“You’ve mentioned? Don’t you mean your coach?” Declan teases.
“Dude, if one of us screws up. We’re all out.” I shift uncomfortably, having come so close to doing just that.
“You’re the one who was just telling us that you’d rekindled things with an old flame,” Wolf exclaims, sitting upright.
“Let’s see. The rules were, no kissing, no dating, eyes up, hands off, no falling in love.” Declan counts them off on his fingers.
Wolf gazes at me for a long, uncomfortable moment as if he just notices something now. He has a reputation as a player, a jock, or whatever, but the guy sees everything with those unsettling copper eyes of his. “Uh, oh. Boston, we have a problem.”
“Isn’t the expression Houston?” Declan asks.
“We’re the Boston Bruisers,” Grey says, reminding us all that he’s there. Sometimes he’s more like a beastly ghost than a man. I can’t blame him—the guy has been through a lot.
“Right,” Declan says. “What’s the problem?”
Wolf leans in as though evaluating his prey. “His problem is Pippa.”
“My parents want me to marry her. So technically, I’m not breaking playbook rules.”
“But do you want to marry her?” Wolf’s voice is low, measured.
“Yes, but there are three problems. The playbook, until probation is over. Her brother is my best friend and we all know about bro code.”
“And the last one?”
“I just told you. She benched me.”
