Santa’s Mistletoe Playbook

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

T RINITY

Defender Dylan Mountforth was a ladies man in every sense. He knew instinctively—or by an excess of practice—how to woo a woman double his age at ten feet. Even his niece cuddled his leg and refused to release him, so he walked with her attached and managed to hold a running commentary about life at Rippton U in California versus a Minnesota winter at Blackstone.

At a distance, his brand of flirting was contagious. Grins followed him—us—everywhere as we pushed through the crowds that thickened as fresh snow dusted every head over populating Blackstone’s campus for our last family day of the season.

Not that a crowd deterred Dylan’s efforts. Up close, his effect was devastating.

He grinned easily down at me, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand where his larger one engulfed mine. “How do you take your coffee? I wanna replace the one I,uh–” He waved a hand down my front that trailed the sticky stuff.

I smell like a coffee cart.

Why was I allowing a man I just met to manhandle me across the markets Blackstone set up as a family day? I hadn’t seen the place so packed since last orientation week, and I had no intention of letting Dylan Mountforth bribe his way into my heart with gingerbread spiced treats.

“Just as it comes. I might go wash up,” I said softly. And run. Far away.

Dark eyes narrowed on me. “You’re coming back, right?”

“And you are too smart for the beefy defender from Rippton U.” I poked his side with an accidentally well aimed finger that made it through the layers he wore, increasing his size incrementally.

“ Oof .” He backed up a step, relinquishing my hand. “Play fair.”

“Nope. Bye!” I dashed off to the nearest building with a line around the outside to wear off the weird nervous energy that bled from him to me.

You are not falling for a Rippton U manwhore.

I mean, he was just replacing the coffee we both wore. And I wasn’t going back to get it from him anyway.

“Stupid, stupid,” I muttered to myself, tapping my foot as the line for the ladies bathroom slowly inched along.

Five minutes later I glanced over my shoulder for the tenth time as snowflakes piled higher along my nose.

“Come on,” I groused, tapping my foot.

The woman in front of me cast a sympathetic glance over her shoulder. “Try the men’s if you’re in need, love.”

I bit my lip. I mean, it was only to wash my hands and hide for a second, right? Decision made, I nodded brusquely. “Good advice.”

I dashed into the men’s amenities, not looking to see if anyone was at the urinal–house rules and all–and scrubbed my jacket and hands. Clean, I dashed back outside and nearly wore my next coffee.

“Hell, girl. Slow down,” Dylan the Dopey Defender—okay, fine, Dylan the Sexy and Annoying Defender—murmured.

He raised a double stack of spiced gingerbread lattes above shoulder height just in time to prevent me from barrelling straight through them.

I did, however, pull myself up on a patch of ice I swore wasn’t there a few moments before. My feet skidded out from under me a second time in an hour. Gravity released its hold, and my already bruised rump prepared to hit the deck again.

A hard, warm surface as wide as a snowboard scooped me up and walked us away from the amenities, lifting me as though I weighed as much as a snowflake.

Dark eyes sparkled at me, cheeky superhero style. Dylan’s shit eating grin matched his expression. I wiggled in his hold, but he shook his head.

“Don’t move like that just yet, Trin,” he whispered huskily as I slid along his body.

“Like what?’ I glanced down between us where my hips joined against his waist, and the breath left my chest. “You randy damn defender. Get off me,” I grumbled, unable to put a full sentence together under the heat in his gaze.

“Mmm, someone’s been watching the other team play.” The inferno in his eyes backed off a touch as his ego engaged his favorite topic.

I shoved at his chest, needing fresh air to think straight, but he held me and our coffees with no issue, despite my wiggling. “You’re hard not to spot when you’re all over the end of the field when our team plays,” I retorted, then closed my eyes. “Nope, not feeding your ego any more. Scratch that.”

“No can do, lacrosse fangirl. Or are you more than just a fan?” His gaze roamed over me in a split second discovery tour, and his brow dipped. “Wait. Trinity. Trinity…Westwood? You cover sports for Blackstone. Journo studies, right?”

“Communications major. Yes, I often feature athletes. I like getting inside your heads and finding out how you manage to get up at five in the morning and train like hell when they should be hungover and snoring instead of studying like any other human.”

“Blackstone trains at five?” Dylan’s dark gaze shifted. “Thanks for that little tidbit, reporter girl.”

“What happened to oh, Trin ?” I cooed, lacing my tone with a Dylan level dose of sarcasm. “You can put me down now, big boy.”

“Big boy, huh?” His lips curled up, and he drew me closer so I could feel the level of big first hand. “Oh, Trin.”

Something wicked flickered behind his eyes, something I wanted to do a little discovery on myself.

“Yeah,” I breathed, fluttering my lashes.“You have something I want.”

His eyes widened for a second before I swiped the top coffee and finally wriggled free of his grasp. Dylan fumbled his cup. It took both hands and a crouched position that showed off his thick thighs beneath his jeans for him to catch it.

“Tada!” he announced grandly from his lowered pose.

A rogue snowball hit me in the face he would have blocked with his broad shoulders a half second before.

“Terrific,” I muttered, swiping ice from my eyes.

“Shit. Lemme help.” Dylan swallowed what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

I peered at him through a kaleidoscope of mangled ice flakes. “Don’t you dare laugh at me.”

“Not gonna say a word,” he promised, crossing his heart and making the sloppiest scout salute I’d ever seen.

“You were never a scout, were you?” I sighed, brushing my jacket. More ice trickled down my back. “EEEEeee!” I screeched, standing still as Dylan’s hand dived down the back of my jacket. “What are you doing?”

“Catching this chunker.” Dylan’s fingers hit my spine at the same time as the ice, about halfway down my back, contacting bare skin. He fished out the offending iceball that was no conglomerate of cute snowflakes from inside my clothing and tossed it at our feet. “That thing coulda knocked you out.” He grinned down at me, swiping a melting drop of snow from my face. “You okay?”

I wanted to swoon, damn it.

Time and a place, Westwood.

“I promise a snowball won’t break me, defender boy.”

“I thought I was big boy,” he pouted.

A laugh bubbled out of me. “You are ridiculous.” I took a sip of my latte and hummed my appreciation.

“But sexy.”

I choked on the deliciousness and his ability to flirt without mercy. “Ridiculous.”

“And…” he waggled his eyebrows.

“A joker. Player.” Plenty of other words came to mind. “Do you take anything seriously?” I leaned back, poking his stomach. Rock hard abs beneath his jacket and shirt nearly broke my finger. “Apart from beefing up.”

“I take my heart very seriously. And making my girl come.”

What started as a mocking tone twisted into something much more sensual in a matter of seconds. Even he looked surprised at the shift, but it didn't prevent the heat from wreathing his eyes in a darkness I could almost taste.

I blinked at him as a group of female students I didn’t recognize who were hanging off to one side of us took a sudden interest in the big man with his arm still wrapped around me. Again .

And I hadn’t protested enough.

I wound my way out of his grasp and he let me. I clenched my teeth, irritation winding its way along my spine right to the place that flushed both hot and cold in the middle of my back at the memory of his touch there.

“Well, Dylan the Defender. It was good to meet you in person. I’m sure you’ll make a cute side article or bottom of the fourth page article, or something…” I deliberately let the insult trail off and meet a cold, snowy death.

His gaze froze me. “So, not worthy of a kiss under the mistletoe or the front page, huh?”

I smirked, though my stomach swooped. “Nope.” I popped the ‘p’ softly for the hell of it, knowing I was poking the not so proverbial bear–the man had enough hair on his head that I suspected he was covered in the stuff.

“Mmm.” His chest rumbled so deeply I could almost feel it. “What a pity. It was nice to meet you, reporter girl.”

My heart clenched. That’s it? I honestly expected to have to fight more to earn my freedom from his clutching arms. Maybe he doesn’t like pushy girls who fight back . But I could have sworn I saw interest in his eyes, and he hadn’t been keen to let me go, though he did ignore the fangirls in lieu of farewelling me.

Or maybe I was desperately reading way too much into his manwhore attitude. At this rate, I'd end up just another notch on his bedpost.

So why does this hurt?

It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t matter a whit. But for some dumbass reason, it did.

Stupid, stupid.

“Sure.” I clenched my coffee and waggled the recyclable cup a little. “Thanks for the replacement. And for sweeping me off my feet.” My tight grin grew at the thought of the article I really would write about him…and the headline.

“Cool. So, I’ll wiggle my butt at you for the next home game.” His face lost all its humor, like this stung for him as much as it did me.

So many shades of stupid.

The manwhore player would pick up the next girl—or ex—who came across his path.

No, it was time to go.

I didn't bother to fix my broken smile as I held his gaze. “Merry Christmas, Dylan.”

I turned my back swiftly on him so I couldn’t see his mouth move, but I sure as hell felt those three little words all the way to my zero-g floating stomach.

“Merry Christmas, Trin.”