Forgetting the Rules: A Second-Chance-Romance Sports Standalone Read online

  Forgetting the Rules

  The Dating Playbook, Book:5

  Mariah Dietz

  Copyright © 2021 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

  Contents

  1. Rose

  2. Ian

  3. Ian

  4. Rose

  5. Ian

  6. Rose

  7. Ian

  8. Rose

  9. Ian

  10. Rose

  11. Ian

  12. Rose

  13. Ian

  14. Rose

  15. Ian

  16. Rose

  17. Ian

  18. Rose

  19. Ian

  20. Rose

  21. Rose

  22. Ian

  23. Rose

  24. Rose

  25. Ian

  26. Rose

  27. Rose

  28. Rose

  29. Rose

  Epilogue

  Want More?

  Stay Connected

  Also by Mariah Dietz

  Excertp from The Weight of Rain

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For every woman brazen enough to be like Rose,

  this one’s for you.

  1

  Rose

  My phone rings three times before I manage to wake up enough to answer it. “Hello?” My voice is gravely and deep with sleep.

  “Wakey, Wakey! Time to get up! Beer. Breakfast. Let’s do it. Get ready!” Chantay’s voice is loud and boisterous.

  I close my eyes and chuckle softly. “When I called to invite you for breakfast and beer, there were also strippers.” It was the ending of a bachelorette party I’d attended for a yoga student of mine that I didn’t know very well but promised a good time. By the time we got there, many were too drunk to sit up after a full night of dancing, drinking, and partying, so I called Chantay and invited her to meet me there since the restaurant had been privately rented out.

  “This time, I was the one up all night on a binger, and I need you, Rose. Plus, I told you I was going to get back at you for waking me up.”

  I lift my phone to see what time it is, and in the process, the romance novel Olivia lent me that I fell asleep reading, tumbles to the floor with a soft thump. “It’s not even six o’clock yet.”

  “It’s close enough, and there are some good as fuck biscuits and gravy calling our name.”

  I rub my eyes. “Can I have like twenty more minutes to sleep?”

  “Nope. I’ll be there in five to get you. Bonus points if you dress trashy so they’ll sit us in the back.”

  “You’re the worst influence,” I tell her.

  “I learned from the best. I’m hanging up now.”

  I set my phone down, and for a moment, I consider staying in bed. It’s Monday, our first day of our senior year of college and I need to be at the school newspaper at ten, allowing prime sleeping time between now and then. But, I have zero doubt that Chantay will make good on her word and be here in a hot minute.

  I roll out of bed and find a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt before setting a world record for brushing my teeth. I slip my feet into my flip-flops, grab my phone with my credit cards already shoved into the sleeve on the back, and quietly make my way across the small apartment to the front door. I take a quick look around to make sure our cat, Juliet, isn’t nearby waiting to make a quick exit, and slip out the door. I quietly lock it behind me and head toward the parking lot right in time to see Chantay drive up.

  “You don’t even look trashy,” she objects as I climb into the front passenger seat.

  “Looking like a hussy takes time, and you only gave me five minutes. Maybe next time, you’ll give me a little more notice.” I click my seat belt in place and take a look at her. Her cherry red lipstick is smeared, and her mascara has left heavy circles beneath her light blue eyes. Her blond hair is a mess with leaves tangled in the strands, and her clothes are rumpled.

  “Did you sleep with Bigfoot last night?” I ask, plucking a pine needle from her hair.

  She smirks. “Don’t be jealous.”

  “I’m trying, but your hair is making it kind of difficult not to be.” I pull out two bits of broken leaves.

  “I’m starving,” she says, putting the car into reverse. “And trust me when I tell you I worked off a lot of calories last night.” She speeds out of the parking lot and comes to an abrupt stop that jolts us both forward at the entrance of the apartment complex.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t go out at all this weekend,” Chantay continues as she grips the steering wheel and leans forward to look both ways before gunning the engine though it’s a red light. She whoops as we make a left turn onto the mostly empty street.

  Five months ago, I might have laughed back when I was more like her. But my addiction to adrenaline and the thrill fueled by parties and late-night romps have started to dissipate. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the change and understand if it’s something I like or even want.

  “I know,” I tell her. “Gabriel said the real estate market is moving fast right now, and there were some new empty buildings downtown.”

  Chantay cuts her eyes to me. “Ah yes, Gabriel, the infamous realtor. If he’s got time to work on the weekend, he’s got time to get laid on the weekend, which is what he should have been doing,” she laughs out. “But really, I know you want to start your own company, but I can’t believe you want to start now. We’re seniors in college. This is our last opportunity to be lazy and unmotivated and sleep with any hot guy we choose.”

  “I’m pretty sure Lacy will always be all three of those,” I tell her, referring to our often third wheel when going out.

  Chantay cackles.

  “Speaking of Lacy, where is she this morning?”

  The question wipes the smile off of Chantay’s face. “She hooked up with Garett Feldon. Again.”

  “Again?”

  “Three times now.”

  My eyebrows lift with shock. “Really?” Lacy has the same aversion to relationships that Chantay and I do, so anything more than a one-and-done comes as a surprise.

  Chantay nods. “Two weeks, and they’ve been inseparable.”

  My thoughts begin to slip to memories I’ve been avoiding for the past couple of months, ones that remind me of things I don’t want to consider.

  “Maybe she’s not throwing in the towel. Maybe she’s just hanging it up for a while.” I shrug. “More power to her, right?”

  Chantay shoots me a silencing stare. She and Lacy are best friends, and often the devils on my shoulder—or maybe I was theirs? Fun is easy with them. Their overly privileged lives have led them to possess little regard for structure or opinion or even normality, which has often allowed an atmosphere perfect for excitement and fun.

  “It won’t last. We aren’t girlfriend material. We were made for good times and better memories.”
She flashes a smile as she repeats her catchphrase.

  “Don’t give her too hard of a time,” I say. “Maybe she just wants to try something else out for a while.”

  Another glare. “Who are you, and what did you do with Rose?”

  I laugh maniacally. “It’s still me. I have rules for myself, but I never try to impose them on others. Some people are happier in relationships.”

  “You mean, Olivia?” Chantay says her name with a note of disdain that makes the muscles in my shoulders constrict and my eyes narrow. Olivia is my best friend and roommate and a topic that makes me feel like a starved and threatened honey badger. She and Chantay aren’t enemies, but they’re an ocean apart from being friends.

  “Like Olivia and the rest of the world who are in relationships. If it works for them and makes them happy, who are we to judge? Everyone deserves happiness, whatever that looks like.”

  “You’re such a hippy.”

  “My mom was the hippy. I’m a flower child. And you love it. Peace and acceptance to all.” I lift both hands and flash a peach symbol, then drop my pointer fingers on both hands.

  Chantay tips her head back and giggles. “I’ve missed you, Rose.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” I think.

  “Also…” She turns in her seat, so her full attention is on me, causing me to glance at the empty road as she continues to drive too fast. “I want to give you a heads up, girlfriend to girlfriend. Lacy isn’t the only one who’s looking to hang up her towel. Apparently, Isla is as well…” She pauses until I meet her powder blue eyes. “This weekend, she was all over Ian Forrest.”

  The mention of his name has thoughts stacking like dominos in my head. And like dominos, I know if one tips, they’ll all fall. Ian Forrest is the middle linebacker at Brighton University, and Roman God reincarnated. At six-foot-three, his broad shoulders make my tall frame feel small and borderline petite. His masculinity is softened by his messy dark hair and confirmed by his stunning and mesmerizing eyes—one a lighter shade of blue with gray accents and the other also blue but with hints of green—that are nearly as unique as the brief couple of months that we spent in an undefined relationship where truths and secrets were our intimacy. He managed to sneak into my life and routine. Then, summer came with news of him leaving to visit his parents abroad for two months. The news was shattering and relieving at the same time and led me to deliver a confusing mess of a non-breakup speech. I told him that I wanted him to have fun while in Italy, how important he had become to me—far more than I admitted to him or even myself—and how our relationship meant too much to potentially end or complicate with dating. In other words, it was a classy and eloquent friend-zone speech that I’ve regretted far more than I ever expected.

  Isla Zimmerman is closest to Chantay. They met last year, and she joined our small circle, a willing participant to our craziest and dumbest ideas.

  I work to look unaffected. Calm. Relaxed. Anything but how I actually feel, which is a confounding mess of jealousy and anger. “That’s good,” I tell her. “Ian’s a good guy.”

  “He has this hot, broody thing going on, doesn’t he?” Chantay asks.

  At one time, I’d considered Ian to be broody as well, but last spring erased that term entirely from all thoughts that pertain to him. He’s quiet, intense, sexy, brilliant, driven, and the kind of alpha that most college guys aren’t mature enough to embody because where they look to prove their strength and power with a punch, Ian does it with control. There’s no bullshit with him—he’s entirely and addictively honest and real.

  “He’s a really good guy,” I say.

  “But you’re okay with her dating him?”

  I nearly wince at the term. “Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Chantay grins, slapping both hands on the steering wheel. “At least you’re still sane. We may have lost two good soldiers, but we have each other.”

  I suck in a breath and release it slowly in an attempt to slow my racing thoughts that are running through the short cycle of last spring when my feelings toward Ian were continuously questioned not only by my closest friends but myself as well.

  We have breakfast inside the old diner. The tables always smell of bleach and sour milk, and the coffee is so weak I can see my spoon as I stir in the creamer, but they serve beer and the best biscuits and gravy, which leaves a lot of room for excuses to be made about everything else.

  When she drops me off back at home, I find Olivia and her boyfriend, Arlo, on our couch.

  “You’re up early,” Olivia says. “Everything okay?”

  I nod as I round the counter into our tiny kitchen, seeking some fresh coffee. “I went to breakfast with Chantay.”

  “You went out for breakfast, and you’re already getting more coffee?” Arlo asks.

  “We had beer,” I tell him, feeling a slight buzz from the alcohol. “I’m going to take a shower and get ready to head to the paper.”

  “Beer?” Olivia’s disappointment is only slightly masked by her surprise. “For breakfast?”

  “It’s a long story.” It’s easier to say that than explain that I only drank half a glass and feel a little buzzed because I haven’t drunk anything in months.

  “Do you have anything this afternoon?” she asks, her full attention on me now. “You want to hang out?”

  “Yes! I recently read a review for a new Cantonese restaurant I really want to try. We could do lunch or dinner since I only have the paper today.

  “That sounds great. How about you go with us to the park cleanup, and I’ll treat you to some dim sum.”

  I freeze with my coffee mug midair, still too far from my mouth. They’ve been trying to get me to participate in this volunteering obligation that Arlo is tied to as part of Brighton’s football team for weeks, but the idea of hanging out with a bunch of pre-teens and scrubbing at graffiti has had me doling out excuses. “How about we meet at seven, and I’ll text you the name of the restaurant.”

  “Come on, Rose. We need you. We’re short a volunteer, and it’s just for a couple of hours.” Olivia’s voice is hopeful, laying on the first layer of guilt.

  “I wish I could, but I can’t. I’m allergic to kids,” I tell her.

  Olivia’s expression falls, passing from disappointment to disgruntled, adding the second layer of guilt.

  “I just had beer for breakfast, and I forget to feed myself some days. There’s no way I should be allowed around kids. Especially not as a role model.”

  “She never said role model,” Arlo says.

  “What he means is you’re not giving yourself enough credit.” She gives him an intentional side-eye. “You’d make a great role model.”

  “Exactly. And you’d be doing me a real solid,” Arlo says. “Rae Rae and Poppy will be there,” he says this like it matters, and surprisingly, it kind of does. Raegan Lawson is dating Lincoln Beckett, AKA, The President, one of Arlo’s teammates, and Poppy Anderson is her best friend. Over the summer, we’ve developed a friendship, one that I like far more than I’d expected to. “And some news crews will be there. Hell, I might even be able to get your yoga classes mentioned.”

  Olivia’s eyes lock onto mine. “Some of these kids don’t have parents or any kind of support. We’re just going to clean up a park with them and hang out a little.” She stares at me, looking right past my often salty exterior, and lays the final layer of guilt.

  I take a sip of my coffee, burning my tongue. “I’m also ordering barbecue pork buns.”

  She smirks. “Deal.”

  I head into my bathroom, losing myself for a few minutes in the steam of the shower and allowing my past to sneak up on me. Happiness and adventure have always been my true north. Some call me outgoing, others call me an extrovert, but the rest probably think I’m just too much, but I’ve always danced to the beat of my own drum. Then five years ago, my world came crashing to a halt. I went from attending parties and sneaking beer to being a gold medalist in worrying, with almost everyone be
ing none the wiser. Seemingly overnight, it felt like few knew me and less understood me.

  That year and the one following, loneliness consumed me—day, night, it didn’t matter. I was adrift at sea with no shore in sight. But two things saved me: words and my best friend, Olivia.

  Words have always made sense to me. I grew up as a voracious reader, getting lost in the pages of stories that took me on grand adventures, epic romances, and making me believe in lands where anything seemed possible. Growing up, I didn’t want to be Lois Lane or Mary Jane Watson with wide eyes and a shock-filled expression as I waited to be saved. No, I wanted to wear the cape and the crown—I wanted to be the one who helped and saved others.

  I had it all planned out. I was going to graduate high school, take a year off before college, and join an organization where I could make a real difference. I wanted to get my hands dirty and see the impact of my hard work, not just attend fancy events for the latest trending charity and write checks—like my dad.

  I wanted to be in the throngs of what was wrong and help fix it, and I was ready.

  Then, with one diagnosis, I wasn’t.

  It was the end of October during my senior year of high school. My only concerns were which costume I would wear to the Halloween party and if my counselor would allow me to start classes after lunch period since I’d already earned so many credits. My simple and easy life blew up with my mom’s uterine cancer diagnosis. That’s when my worrying began. Actually, if you ask my old therapist, she’d tell you my anxiety started as a child, persisted through my teen years, and generally revolved around concerns about fitting in and doing as well as my older sister, Anna, who has exceeded in everything.