Diesel (EBOOK)

Dive into this sweet and sexy sports romance series (all standalones) about 8 different NFL football hotties on The New York Nighthawks. You will laugh. You will swoon. You will wish you had one of your very own to play with!

Olivia

Warm, morning sunlight pours through my new living room window calling undue attention to the layer of fine dust settled around the room. It’s obvious that my newly rented and very small Manhattan apartment needs a serious cleaning (and some decent furniture as well), but other than that—it’s perfect. 

I have been a boarder at a house with three strangers for months, and so that’s why I’m super excited that I now have a place to call my own. Flaws and all.

“If I have to lift another box, I’m going to require another bottle of wine as payment.”

“You’ve already had one bottle,” I say.

“Like I said, I’m going to need another.”

“Friends don’t charge friends for favors,” I retort.

“Says who?”

“Only alcoholics will work for liquor,” I jest.

“Again I repeat, says who?”

It may not be obvious because of all of the complaining that she’s done while helping me move in today, but I know that my friend Kira is ecstatic that I’ve moved to New York City for my new job. She was one of the first girlfriends I made in college, and although we live very different lives now, there hasn’t been a week that’s gone by where we haven’t kept in touch through either a phone call or email. Always supporting each other in our personal and professional lives.

“Just two more boxes and we’re done.”

“When are you feeding me?”

“I’ll order something now.” I chuckle. “What do you want?”

Kira plops herself down on my floor and starts rifling through one of my boxes marked office. Inside it is mostly photo albums and assorted business books that I’ve used throughout my career so far as a sports publicist.

“Wine.”

“Very funny.”

“We have to toast to your new job. It’s good luck.”

“Fine, I’ll get us some more Pinot, but what about food?”

“Okay, okay. I’m easy like a Sunday morning. Let’s just go with pizza. You know how I like it—pineapples and ham.”

“First of all, yuck, and second of all, you can get that anytime.”

“I can’t get New York pizza in Georgia.”

“Let’s order something else. How about Thai food?”

“What in the ham sandwich? I don’t even know what Thai food is.”

“Cuisine from the country of Thailand, idiot. Never mind, I’ll order you the lime chicken. You’re going to love it.”

“You get some hotshot new job working publicity for the Nighthawks and now you order shit like lime chicken? Those two things don’t even sound like they go together. Lime and chicken.” Kira pulls out my high school yearbook. “Ooh, look what we have here!”

“Put that back in the box,” I demand.

“No can do. I need a good laugh.”

She leafs through the pages. 

“Wow, you look exactly the same in all three of these pages. Sweats, sad looking bangs, and a scowl on your face.”

“Be quiet—I’d love to see your high school yearbook.”

“Ooh, look at this one of Mason.” She laughs boisterously. “His face is covered in pie. Where was this?”

“Our town has a Harvest Festival every year right before the high school’s big homecoming game.”

“Harvest Festival? That sounds so small-town.”

Kira is from Atlanta.

“Yeah it is, but it’s a great time though. That picture is from the pie throwing booth. He practically had a line around the corner.”

I stare at the picture for a moment too long and start to feel a sharp twinge behind one of my ribs. 

It’s a blaring red flag.

“Seriously, could you just help me unpack my stuff in the kitchen first,” I say curtly. “I can unpack the books another day. They’re not that important.”

Kira’s eyes pop up to meet mine.

“I thought you were over Mason?”

“I am,” I say looking away from her.

“You aren’t,” she states in a voice full of astonishment. “You’ve been lying your ass off to me these last few years.”

“What are you talking about?” I try blowing her off.

“You are a sports publicist. Correction, an NFL publicist. How can you possibly still be affected by me mentioning Mason when you see or hear something about him on the news damn near every day?”

This is my first time working for the NFL. Since graduation, I’ve been a sports publicist at the college level only. It has enabled me to maintain a safe distance from Mason and anything going on with him in his world, but I wasn’t going to allow our past to interfere with my forward momentum. So, I accepted this New York job, believing that I’ve grown and moved on and that he doesn’t matter as much anymore. 

Yet it’s hitting me right at this very moment that I may have been fooling myself. Turning the channel when they start showing his game highlights. Conveniently hanging up with my mom when she brings up his name or his parents’ names. Not looking at any old high school or college photos I have packed away on my phone because he’s just about in every single one I’ve ever taken. 

It’s crystal clear to me now. I’ve been purposely avoiding Mason for five years. That’s not a sign of a woman who’s truly moved on. That’s just a sign of someone in a massive amount of denial.

“I’m not affected,” I lie.

Kira glares at me for a moment, obviously seeing right through the transparency of my lie; then places the yearbook back in the box and starts playing around with the wires behind my flat screen.

“Did you turn the cable on?” she asks in an effort to change the subject.

“Yeah—they said all I have to do is connect the cable wire and I should be ready to rock and roll.”

“Go ahead and order the weird lime chicken thing, and I’ll get it up and running. What do you want to watch?”

“Anything.”

“I’ll find a movie or something. I know that a lot of horror flicks are on this time of year. You want to go old school and watch The Shining?”

“Oh hell no,” I say as I scroll through the apps on my cell phone. “That’s the scariest movie ever made.”

“Uh-uh, it was The Exorcist.”

One thing I’ve learned about living in New York City is that you can order almost anything you want and have it delivered. Between fresh food delivery services and Amazon, I could probably hide inside of my apartment for a year without ever having to step out to buy anything. I order two lime chicken platters, two bottles of wine, and one bottle of pain reliever to quash the raging headache I feel coming on. 

I can’t stop thinking about the yearbook. 

I can’t stop thinking about the festival.

I can’t stop thinking about him. 

Every single picture in that yearbook holds a tender memory. I can look at each one and remember what was going on in my life when a particular photo was taken and most likely connect it to a memory that includes him. 

Superstar wide receiver.

Childhood friend.

First love.

A man who I haven’t spoken to in five years and probably will never speak to again.

Mason Bridgewater.

Kira and I both sit on the floor and lean our backs against my one tattered sofa. It slides across the wood floor as we lean back.

“You’re going to need to put this thing against a wall.”

“The picture on the television is distorted.”

“Ugh, I’ll fix that. You just push the couch back.”

We both rise to our feet. Kira goes over to check the settings of my television, and I begin to push the sofa back against the only bare wall available in my living room. She changes the channel a couple of times to test her handiwork and then settles on a sports network. 

“Turn that off,” I say abruptly. “I thought we were watching a movie.”

“Relax, I’m just tweaking the contrast and brightness of the picture.”

But it’s too late. On the screen, in living color, is a breaking news segment of the very man I’ve been trying to forget. 

“Uh-oh,” Kira says looking at me. “You’re up shit’s creek now. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I practically whisper in shock.

What I’ve just heard has totally rocked my entire world.