Defining the Rules: A Friends-to-Lovers Sports Romance (The Dating Playbook Book 3) Read online

  Defining the Rules

  The Dating Playbook, Book: 3

  Mariah Dietz

  Contents

  1. Arlo

  2. Olivia

  3. Arlo

  4. Olivia

  5. Arlo

  6. Olivia

  7. Arlo

  8. Olivia

  9. Arlo

  10. Olivia

  11. Arlo

  12. Olivia

  13. Arlo

  14. Arlo

  15. Olivia

  16. Arlo

  17. Arlo

  18. Olivia

  19. Arlo

  20. Olivia

  21. Arlo

  22. Olivia

  23. Arlo

  24. Olivia

  25. Olivia

  26. Arlo

  27. Olivia

  28. Arlo

  29. Olivia

  30. Arlo

  31. Olivia

  32. Arlo

  33. Olivia

  34. Arlo

  35. Arlo

  36. Olivia

  37. Arlo

  38. Olivia

  39. Arlo

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  Stay Connected

  Also by Mariah Dietz

  A Glimpse of Becoming His

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Mariah Dietz

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Learn More About Mariah

  Website: www.mariahdietz.com

  Also sign up for news, updates, and first glimpses with Mariah’s newsletter:

  Sign Up Now

  Also follow Mariah on:

  Amazon

  Bookbub

  Facebook

  Goodreads

  And join Mariah’s readers group on Facebook: The Bossy Babes

  1

  Arlo

  “Ten more,” Dr. P says from the short stool on wheels, her eyes focused on my form while mine focus on the ugly purple scars dotting my knee, promising to ruin my future as the starting running back for Brighton University here in Seattle, Washington.

  “There. How does that feel?” she asks.

  I grin. “Isn’t that the question I should be asking you?”

  Her cheeks flush a deep red. Dr. P is young, but the ring on her left hand confirms she’s either married or engaged—a detail she never talks about, though she’s told me the rest of her life story. “You’re already getting stronger. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

  “You know what I want to hear, Doc. Tell me I’m going to be playing football in the fall.”

  Dr. P winces, her cheeks staining once again, and this time, it’s from discomfort rather than my flirting. I keep insisting she give me some clear understanding of my next steps—if I’ll be able to continue playing football (which my scholarship depends on). But each time I prod, Dr. P becomes a shy mouse and pushes her glasses up a bit higher like it will hide her flushed face, and instead focuses too hard on my next workout, successfully killing my hope a little more each day.

  “Hey. You got it? You need help?” Paxton, my team captain and roommate, asks as I swing the front door open while trying to keep my late lunch from falling.

  I grab the plastic bag of takeout I’d placed between my teeth and hand it to him before gripping my crutches and hobbling into the house. I don’t look to catch his reaction because, like many things, it’s hard to give a shit right now.

  He follows me to the living room, where I clumsily lean my crutches against the wall and fall to a heap on the couch. One crutch slides slowly down the wall and then drops with a bang. Paxton’s stitched brows hint at unease, but like Dr. P, he doesn’t say anything. He pulls the coffee table close and sets my bag of food on top. “You need something to drink?”

  “Only if you’re pouring whiskey.”

  “Fuck, I’ll day drink with you,” he says, disappearing into the kitchen. If I could reach the remote, I’d turn on some sports highlights and wouldn’t waste brainpower on why Paxton’s agreed to drink with me. Unfortunately for both of us, the remote’s across the room.

  A cupboard bangs in the other room, and then another one, followed by a muffled train of curses.

  “You okay in there?”

  Pax appears in the doorway. “We’re out of alcohol.”

  “Out?”

  “Out,” he confirms.

  I’m not surprised. Paxton, our previously straight-laced quarterback, has been struggling with denial and acceptance after a rough fall that included his dad having an affair and his little sister Raegan dating our teammate, as well as roommate, Lincoln.

  “Beer?”

  “Gone.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got tacos. Fuck the beer. You want some? They had a special going.” I dig into the bag.

  “You want a Coke?”

  “The powdered variety or the drink?”

  Pax ignores me, disappearing back into the kitchen where I hear him open the fridge. He returns with a stack of napkins and two chilled cans.

  “Remote,” I say, pointing to where it sits on the TV stand so he’ll grab it before sitting down.

  “How was physical therapy?” he asks.

  “Comparable to getting a blowjob from a girl with the mouth of a piranha.”

  He flinches. “That’s not a mental picture I want.”

  I nod, pushing the tab of my Coke back. “Me either, but it’s becoming my daily fucking routine.”

  “This is just a speed bump,” Pax says, flipping on the TV.

  I raise the reclining portion of the sofa, forcing Paxton to move the table once again. Without it being elevated, my knee starts to swell, and once it starts swelling, I can feel each of my fucking heartbeats like sharp lacerations in my knee.

  “What did you think of the new offensive set?” Pax asks.

  I dig into the bag, separating the tacos and burritos and the plate of nachos from the bottom, before offering Pax to take his pick. He grabs a taco. “I think Tyler Banks looked a little too comfortable in my position, but aside from that, it seemed like a strong start.”

  “Coach has been riding Tyler because he’d rather you be out there, but I think he would be moved into the starting lineup regardless since Stone is graduating this year. Carson’s the one who’s playing for you right now, and Coach hates him. Once we get you up and dancing again, Carson’s ass will be riding the pine, don’t stress about that. You just have to focus on getting your…” he swallows, his lips teetering with a smile, “…fang-like blowies that sound so … enjoyable, so you can get strong enough to get back out onto the field.” He laughs, unwrapping his taco.

  “What am I walking into?” Lincoln Beckett, nicknamed the president by most, steps through the front door, carrying an armload of groceries.

  “Not a conversation you can join,” Pax announces. “Since you began dating my sister, sex is not a discussion we can have.”

  “Blow jobs aren’t sex,” I tell him. “Candace has clearly been lying to you about many things.”

  Lincoln chuckles. Paxton glares at him.

  “Tell me you picked up booze,” I say to Lincoln.

  He shakes his head. “Are we out again?”

  “It’s al
l right. I have to go out tomorrow. I’ll pick some up.” I scrounge through the mostly empty bag my food had been in, finding crumpled napkins and a tiny hole, but none of the hot sauce I’d asked for. “Son of a bitch,” I say on a sigh.

  “Did you take your meds already?” Pax asks, giving me a confused look. “You already took your food out. It’s over here.” He points at the stack of wrapped food with his taco.

  “They forgot my hot sauce.”

  “I think we’ve got some in the fridge,” Lincoln says, heading toward the kitchen.

  “It’s not as good as this shit.” I sound solemn, which is pretty fucking ridiculous, but this isn’t about some damn hot sauce. For the past four weeks, my luck has been shit. It’s as though I walked under a tunnel of ladders or opened a hundred umbrellas inside because everything that can go wrong has and continues to do so.

  Lincoln reappears with a bottle of chilled hot sauce. “What are you guys watching?”

  “Game tape,” I say. “If you want in, I’ve got extra food. Burritos or tacos, just leave my nachos.” I reach for the plastic-covered tray.

  “I’m actually heading out soon. I’m going to make some dinner to bring to Raegan.”

  Paxton and I both turn, shock likely written across our features.

  “She’s got you whipped, man,” I tell him.

  Pax blinks slowly as if unsure where he stands on this thin line.

  Lincoln laughs, shrugging his shoulders as he shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything. I knew he wouldn’t, in part because Paxton is here, and the situation is still similar to an elephant walking over a frozen pond, and because Lincoln’s not one for sharing his feelings. I could go on, rag on him for all the times he’s stood us up in the past couple of months to be with Rae, but the fact I like them each separately and even more together stops me. I take the hot sauce from him and apply a liberal amount across my nachos as Pax starts yelling at the game, swearing at a fumble. “That shit can’t happen next year,” he says.

  I eat a chip to keep myself from telling him to ease up, but the words fester until I give in. “You remember we went undefeated, right?”

  “But we could have done better. We need to be better. This is going to be the year that defines our futures. If we can go undefeated again, there’s a good chance we’ll get drafted—” Pax stops like his own words just stung him in the ass. His jaw grows slack, and then he closes it.

  “Wait. Did I just witness Paxton Lawson editing himself?” I tease.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, defeat pinching his face. “I know you’re going to be fine. Whenever you meet a challenge, you dive in headfirst, and this will be no different.”

  I nod, shoveling another chip into my mouth. “Damn straight. This shitty time will pass, and then I’ll be out there, dancing circles around those clowns.”

  “Fuck, yes,” Lincoln says, moving closer to bump his fist against mine. “You want to go to the gym with us after practice tomorrow? We can do arms.”

  I start to nod and then stop. “Can’t. I’ve got a date tonight, and I’m hoping to be out all night.”

  “Playing the gimp card?” Lincoln asks. “Babe, I don’t think I can drive. I took a narcotic, and I had a heroic move that left me with a busted ACL, and I’m in dire need of your nursing skills and your mouth.” His impersonation of me has Paxton rolling.

  “That’s not a bad angle to take,” I say, raising a finger. “I’ll have to remember that one, but I have a feeling I won’t need it tomorrow.” I wink to make him snicker and return to my food.

  2

  Olivia

  I reach for my alarm clock, pressing every button I can feel to make it stop beeping. Instead, my fingers graze the volume, making the sound pound in my head. I groan, wiping the sleep from my eyes and grabbing the small alarm clock that Rose installed last night to replace my last one. This one looks old and oddly similar to the clock from my mom’s nightstand, with the faux wood from the eighties look and bulbous buttons. I’m distracted, caught in a time warp as I stare at it, wondering where she found it. I give up on the buttons and simply follow the cord to where it’s plugged in behind my bed and give it a firm tug.

  My ears ring in the silence, and my mood is somewhere between the feeling you get when turning on the radio only to discover your favorite song is ending and having to scrub a stainless-steel pan after someone made scrambled eggs with cheese and didn’t soak it.

  I place the offending alarm clock back on my nightstand and reach for my black Brighton U hoodie from the back of my desk chair. I pull it over my tank top and tug on a pair of socks before trudging to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My eyes are puffy, and my hair’s a mess, so I turn my attention to the multiple products littering my bathroom counter, trying to recall if I bought all these nail polishes or if Rose did. I head out to the living room and kitchen combo that I share with my roommate and sometimes—excluding this morning—best friend Rose. We need to vacuum, and we should probably take down the Christmas lights that we hung after Thanksgiving break since tomorrow is the first of February.

  My thoughts cease at the sight of a dark-haired stranger seated at our dining room table. His eyes are gray, curtained with a heavy fringe of dark eyelashes, watching as I come to a stop. Humor dances in his expression and the ghost of a smirk touches his lips. He looks like the smirking type, too, loaded with innuendos and smiles that girls—other girls—likely find endearing. But I know his type. I know it because my best friend Rose has invited enough guys like him to our apartment. He’s trouble. And it’s not just the pirate smirk or the dark, mussed hair that clues me in. It’s the way he’s sitting at the table that gives him away, his broad shoulders leaning back against the chair, one arm draped across the top. Long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. Fingers drumming against his massive thigh as he continues to stare at me like somehow, I’m the one intruding on his space and not the other way around. He’s all confidence and smirk and muscle, and that spells trouble.

  I glance from him to Rose’s door, and then back again. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she’s not the breakfast and snuggle type.”

  His eyes crinkle at the edges, warming like he’s amused. “What?”

  “Rose,” I explain, pointing toward her room. “Her motto isn’t a joke. One and done.” I repeat the words she clarifies with each guy before bringing them back or going home with them. “You’re wasting your time. She’s not looking for a relationship.” I pull open the fridge to grab the milk and carry it over to the cabinet to get a bowl.

  “You think I slept with Rose?” His voice is deep and smooth, filled with bravado like I knew it would be.

  I turn to look at him, hearing the smile in his voice. He’s grinning at me, his eyes dropping to my favorite pair of pajama shorts, which are too tight and too short to wear in public, but are the best for sleeping in so I don’t get too warm. It’s then I notice that his gray eyes are the same shade as the Seattle skyline. I cut my gaze before contemplating if his lips are really that round and beautiful—because lips aren’t beautiful, they’re lips, and I’m tired and cranky, and it’s too early to have this discussion. It’s barely after six. I need some breakfast and coffee, and then I need to get to class since it is my unfortunate luck that my professor is poker friends with my father.

  “I don’t care what you guys did or didn’t do,” I tell him, reaching for the fruit-flavored Cheerios.

  “If we’d done what you’re insinuating we did last night, believe me, she wouldn’t be avoiding me.”

  I turn to frown at him before I can think better of it, catching his bright smile and the strong planes of his jaw, peppered with a five-o’clock shadow—the perfect kind like you see on the giant posters in the mall, rather than the poky and scarce variety that much of the male student body wears. I turn just as fast, reaching for a spoon.

  “What’s your name? And where are you from?” he asks.

  “It’s not important,” I tell him, letting m
y cereal sit while I get the coffee started.

  “I think it is.”

  I glance up, caught off guard by his teasing and flirtatious manner. Maybe it’s because it’s so early or because I stayed up too late—I’d pledged to only read one chapter of my new romance novel, and somehow one turned into six. But most likely, it’s because he slept with my best friend last night and is looking at me like I’m a second course.

  I return my attention to the coffeepot, and like my alarm clock this morning, it suddenly seems to have grown too many buttons, and nothing makes sense as I try to focus on my task. “Look,” I say, stabbing the ‘start’ button with satisfaction. “That whole one-and-done rule means you’re supposed to leave, not stick around and make terrible attempts at flirting with her roommate. Rose won’t be jealous or impressed. It also means that I’ll never see you again, so trust me when I say my name’s not important.” I shovel a few spoonfuls of cereal into my mouth, making a point to avoid looking at him as I sift through a pile of mail.

  “Are you always this cranky? Or are you not a morning person?” he asks.

  “This is me being cheerful,” I deadpan.

  He laughs, and the sound is like the engine of an expensive car, so smooth and effortless, I nearly steal another glance. Instead, I quickly shovel in a few more bites of cereal and grab my favorite commuter cup from the dishwasher. It’s old and chipped near the mouthpiece from when it had fallen from the top of my car a couple of years ago, but it gets the job done. I pull the coffeepot out before it’s finished percolating, making it hiss as a drop hits the warmer. I fill the contents of the pot into my cup before returning it.