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“Remember that when you come back begging for more.”
I shake my head, knowing here and now is the time to lock up this unfounded attraction for good so it doesn’t see the light of day again.
It’s the only way I’ll survive the rest of the summer here with him.
“Never will I ever.”
To be continued…
* * *
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CE Ricci is an international best-selling author who enjoys plenty of things in her free time, but writing about herself in the third person isn’t one of them. She believes home isn’t a place, but a feeling, and it’s one she gets when she’s chilling lakeside or on hiking trails with her dogs, camera in hand. She’s addicted to all things photography, plants, peaks, puppies, and paperbacks, though not necessarily in that order. Music is her love language, and traveling the country (and world) is the way she chooses to find most of her inspiration for whatever epic love story she will tell next!
CE Ricci is represented by Weaver Literary Agency.
For all subsidiary rights, please contact: [email protected]
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NOT YOUR SWEETHEART
HAYDEN HALL
1
CADEN
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Beckett’s voice boomed from the other side of the locker room. He dropped his helmet on the floor carelessly, drawing attention from several other players. “Do you fucking know what you did out there?”
I winced. Yeah, I fucking know what I did out there. But I wasn’t going to give him an argument when he wanted one. Rising to the bait was not something I enjoyed.
I ripped apart the Velcro straps holding my shoulder pads in place and shrugged them off. The side of my torso was bruised from the maneuver I’d attempted and tragically failed to execute. And that was why Beckett Fucking Partridge was grilling my ass.
Beckett still wore his jersey with a capital C printed on it, like I needed more reminders that he was the captain. And if this was his way of lifting the locker room mood, kill me fucking now. But I was used to Beckett’s outbursts after two years of watching his grubby hands reach for all the influence around here.
“Ha-fucking-ha,” Beckett exclaimed. “You think you can ignore me? After you screwed over the entire team?”
I clenched my jaws, teeth grinding audibly as I tore off my elbow pads.
The other teammates cleared the way for Beckett to pass through the locker room. Nobody would cross paths with the fucker unless their life depended on it. He was loud and rash and obsessed with his position in the hierarchy of our team.
He marched across the room and brought his face inches away from mine, while I stood like a goddamn monolith. The Becketts of this world hardly intimidated me.
“Listen here, you fucking asshole,” Beckett hissed. “I think you owe this team an apology.”
I stared at him for a long while, as if to ask if that was it. Our eyes were level now that Beckett was leaning in, though he was normally a couple inches taller. His square face radiated heat after a hard game, flushed and with a few beads of sweat on his brow. He only lacked his helmet, all the pads still in place as I scanned him.
Then, I looked beyond Beckett, and found a locker room full of people who minded their fucking business. Sneaky glances our way came only out of curiosity if there would be an actual fight; nobody waited for my grand apology.
My gaze returned to Beckett’s cold blue eyes. “Huh?” he demanded.
I could feel the heat of his face on mine when he jerked forward. One careless move and our noses would touch.
“I don’t think so,” I said coolly. I needed to stay strong and steady.
