Page 8 of A Game Plan for Love

“I had fun tonight,” she admits, lingering by the passenger door. “Thanks for the save and the meal.”

“Of course.”

I want to say it back—tell her I had fun, that she banished the grief that constantly chokes me—but the words dry on the tip of my tongue.

Her eyes scan my face, and her head tilts, before she turns away. She’s halfway into the building when she spins and yells, “See you at camp!”

The music plays softly in the background as I sit in my car, lingering outside the entrance of her building, watching her disappear into the building. A loud honk breaks me from my stupor, and I put the car in drive.

I have a feeling I’ll be counting down the days until I get to see her again.

CHAPTER 3

Slipping Through My Fingers – ABBA

Addie

Playersswarmthetablelike vultures, behaving like they’ve never been fed in their lives as they fight over smoothies. Tommy, the backup quarterback, hip checks a rookie for the last berry blast smoothie—a crowd favorite—and I give him a look from across the table.

He shrugs. “Last one without strawberries.”

I shoo him away, but I can’t argue with him since he’s highly allergic to the fruit.

Regardless, we can’t tackle rookies for pre-workout drinks, even if it does stroke my ego.

Staff hustle and bustle through the large conference room, completing last-minute tasks as players arrive for training camp. Every time someone enters, my head turns, hoping for a head of dark hair, paired with a cocky smile. And every time it’snotDeclan, my foolish disappointment grows larger.

It’s insane behavior to have spent the last few weeks thinking about him, but when your only source of companionship is a five-year-old who loves stickers, a beat-up record player, and your doodle notebook, you find your mind wandering. Especially when it can wander to men with piercing blue eyes and biceps that seem to bulge in every shirt he owns. I didn’t notice before our impromptu picnic in the park, but after doom-scrolling his social media, it’s now a fact I willneverforget.

His arm muscles consume half of my daily thoughts—I amunwell.

Ben, the head nutritionist, directs hotel staff on where to place the steaming trays of food while I keep the wolves at bay, taming them with smoothies and when that doesn’t suffice, glaring at them until they cower. The food was meant to be served twenty minutes ago, but the kitchen is behind, and we’ve had to scramble.

It wouldn’t be the first day of training camp if there wasn’t a hiccup.

Dozens of containers, full of pasta, chicken breasts, salads, and more, line the tables against the back wall. It’s the culmination of weeks of my time—planning the meals, ensuring the food was ordered, and that each player with dietary restrictions has what they need.

“You’re relieved of smoothie duty,” Ben says, appearing at my side. He’s flushed, his bald head glistening with sweat from running in and out of the kitchen. We place the remaining smoothies at the end of the table, and he returns the industrial blender to the kitchen.

Players fill the room, and my heartbeat skips when a head of dark wavy hair saunters through the doorway. My cheeks heat when his gaze lands on me, and a colossal smile blooms on his face.

Fuck.

Heart-skipping and core-clenching reactions are not appropriate responses to men you work with.

Declan crosses the room, pulling a trolley full of boxes behind him.

Oh my god, is he coming over here?

My question is answered when he skids to a stop right in front of me. I am only a woman, so my eyes drop to his arms, where his t-shirt hugs his muscles gloriously.

I’ve worked with hundreds of players over the years, and I haveneverbeen affected by arm muscles. One kind man feeds me a cheeseburger, and I start daydreaming about him. Is this a new low?

Those bulging muscles flex as he runs his fingers through his hair.

“Hi.”

Good job, Addie. No mention of muscles. A normal greeting.

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