Fumbled
Автор
Lynn Fair
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It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Just one night.
Sydney Hale goes home with a stranger who’s charming, funny, and way too easy to talk to. The chemistry is instant, the sex is unforgettable—and somehow, they end up staying up half the night laughing, talking, and getting to know each other in a way that feels dangerously real.
It scares her.
So the next morning, she does what she always does when things start to matter—she leaves. No goodbye. No explanation. She moves on.
Except he doesn’t.
Carson—which was not the name he told her—can’t stop thinking about the woman who slipped through his fingers. He’s drawn to her in a way that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with connection. He texts. He calls. He shows up. He wants more.
Sydney wants distance.
Then she sees a headline.
A photo. A name she doesn’t recognize—until she does.
Carson Beck. The biggest, hottest quarterback in the NFL. A notorious playboy with a reputation for chewing through women and walking away without a second glance.
The realization hits hard: she didn’t just sleep with a stranger—she slept with him.
Now she’s caught between panic and disbelief. Because the man she spent the night with doesn’t match the one splashed across every sports page. And despite his reputation, Carson is still chasing her like she’s the only woman who exists.
She knows better than to fall for a quarterback who lives under stadium lights and headlines.
But Carson Beck has never wanted anything the way he wants Sydney Hale.
And this time, he refuses to fumble her twice.
Chapter 1: A Jawline with a Warning Label
SYDNEY
The thing no one tells you about moving back in with your dad is how fast your sex life dies.
Not your actual sex life—because let’s be honest, I haven’t had one of those since my last almost-relationship imploded in a glorious trash fire. No, I’m talking about the solo kind. The kind that involves locking the door, lighting a candle I got on clearance at Target, and pretending for five minutes that I’m someone with a life.
Someone who isn’t living in a basement apartment under her dad’s house at twenty-five.
The candle’s flickering. My legs are spread. And my vibrator is currently doing God’s work between my thighs.
I exhale slowly, one hand palming my breast through the soft lace of my bralette while the other works the toy in slow, deliberate circles over my clit. My hips roll up instinctively, chasing that first spike of pleasure, my muscles already starting to tighten with the promise of—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“SYDNEY!”
My whole body seizes like I’ve just been electrocuted.
“You’ve got five minutes!” my dad shouts through the door like we’re still living in the damn nineties and he hasn’t figured out texting yet. “We’re already late!”
Oh. My. God.
The orgasm I was about to have dies a tragic, whimpering death. I rip the vibrator away and flop onto my back, vibrating in all the wrong ways now, body buzzing with heat and irritation.
“COOL,” I yell, aiming my voice toward the ceiling. “LOVE THAT FOR ME.”
I smack the vibrator off and chuck it toward my pillow. It hits with a pathetic thunk. My thighs are slick. My cheeks are flushed. And my entire body is screaming, Why did you stop? like I just committed a crime against nature.
I sit up, panting, wiping the back of my hand across my face. My mascara’s probably smudged. My pulse is still hammering from the almost-release, which—by the way—is so much worse than no pleasure at all.
I glance at the clock. I’m fine on time. I was going to come, take a leisurely shower, maybe even try to wing a fake smoky eye and look hot enough to survive tonight’s gala without dying of boredom.
Instead, I’m flustered, unfulfilled, and now I get to go socialize with a bunch of NFL royalty like I didn’t just try to orgasm in my childhood bed. Flawless execution.
I peel off my underwear, toss them into the hamper, and grab a makeup wipe to do some damage control. My bralette stays—it’s cute, it matches my dress, and I’m too lazy to do straps right now.
My dress is already hanging on the closet door. It’s black, tight, and hits just above the knee—a classic “I have no energy to be interesting tonight” move. I shimmy it on, step into my heels, and pull my curls into place with a few finger twists and a desperate prayer to the humidity gods.
Final step: spray enough perfume to cover any lingering I just tried to get off and failed scent, then take one last look in the mirror. I look fine. Hot, even. Not like a woman whose vibrator just got intercepted by her father’s voice. Yay me.
I grab my suitcase, all packed for the hotel, and head upstairs. By the time I get upstairs, my dad’s already pacing by the front door, his phone in one hand, car keys in the other. He glances up and immediately frowns.
“That what you’re wearing?”
“Nice to see you too, Coach.” I grab my clutch off the table and shoot him a dry smile. “If you’re done judging, I’d love to go get this public humiliation over with.”
He grunts and jerks his head toward the door. “Car’s out front.”
Of course it is. Nothing says fun family bonding like riding to a glitzy black-tie NFL gala with your father-slash-legendary-defensive-coordinator, who treats every event like it’s third down in the red zone.
I shove my suitcase onto the next seat, slide into the SUV and cross my legs, trying not to wince at the fact that I’m still aching with unsatisfied tension. My thighs press together automatically. I shift, then shift again, trying to ignore the heat lingering under my skin.
The car smells like expensive leather and vanilla air freshener. It’s too quiet. I reach for my phone to check absolutely nothing of importance, mostly to distract myself from the fact that I’m still a little turned on and a lot annoyed.
My dad slips in beside me and shuts the door without a word.
“Excited?” I ask, voice dry.
“For the event?”
“No. For the part where I sit silently beside you while a dozen men with necks the size of tree trunks ask if I’m single.”
He sighs. “Just…be nice. Smile. Don’t start anything.”
“I never start anything.”
“You’re wearing combat boots to a gala.”
“They’re heels.”
“They have zippers.”
“They’re fashion-forward.”
He gives me a look that says, You are why I drink and turns back to his phone.
I stare out the window as we pull onto the highway, the city rising up in glass and steel, glowing against the evening sky. The gala’s at some swanky hotel downtown, all crystal chandeliers and sports media. Dad and I will stay the night so he doesn’t have to drive back late. Fantastic—I just love family trips.
The hotel will be full of players and agents and families who pretend not to hate each other for the cameras. It’s a whole world I’ve never felt at home in—even though I was practically raised in it.
I rest my head back and close my eyes. One night. That’s all I have to survive.
Then tomorrow I can come home, pour a glass of wine, and actually finish what I started. Assuming I don’t get propositioned by three linebackers and a retired tight end before the night is over.
***
The red carpet is blinding. Flashbulbs pop like fireworks the second we step out of the SUV, and I instantly regret not wearing sunglasses—and maybe a mask. The last thing I want is to end up in the background of some sports blog under a caption like Coach Hale’s bombshell daughter stuns at NFL gala.
I don’t need that kind of attention. Not tonight. Not ever.
Still, I square my shoulders and walk like I own the damn place, even though I’m here against my will in a dress I’ve already worn twice and heels that were a mistake the second I stepped out of the house.
My dad walks beside me, waving to reporters like he’s a senator up for reelection, while I do my best impression of a well-behaved daughter who hasn’t fantasized about throat-punching half this room.
“Try smiling,” he mutters without looking at me.
I keep my eyes forward. “Try minding your business.”
He huffs, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch like he’s debating whether to argue. He doesn’t. Probably because he knows I’ll win.
Inside the hotel, the lights get warmer, softer—less paparazzi, more chandeliers and overpriced bourbon. The ballroom is massive, filled with a sea of suits, slicked-back hair, cocktail dresses, and spray tans.
There’s a string quartet in the corner trying their best to make people forget this is a glorified league fundraiser. And it’s hot. Not temperature hot—testosterone hot.
Athletes. Everywhere. Tall, built, perfectly groomed men who smell like Armani and money, scanning the room like it’s an auction and they’re ready to bid. I don’t slow down.
My phone buzzes in my clutch just as I snag a glass of champagne from a passing tray. I glance at the screen and instantly relax when I see Emily’s name.
I smirk, thumb flying as I respond. I snap a quick, blurry mirror selfie in the hallway just to shut her up and send it.
The dress is hot—black and strapless, hugging every curve I usually pretend not to notice, paired with ankle-strap stilettos that are currently testing the limits of my will to live. My hair’s curled into soft, glossy waves that fall down my back, and my makeup’s holding up surprisingly well considering I almost died of sexual frustration an hour ago.
I tuck my phone away as my dad reappears, already talking to some retired coach I recognize from the ESPN archives. They both nod at me like I’m a cocktail garnish and not a fully grown adult.
I offer a smile so fake it should be trademarked and drift away, glass in hand. The goal is simple: survive. Sip. Smile. Don’t make a scene. And for the love of God, don’t get cornered by a linebacker.
I’m halfway to the back of the room when I hear a familiar voice. “Sydney Hale. I’ll be damned.”
I turn, slow and controlled, and come face-to-face with Drew Simmons—former linebacker, retired at thirty-three, still built like a freight train. His grin is wide. Too wide.
“Hey, Drew,” I say, plastering on my best social smile. “Didn’t realize you were still in circulation.”
He laughs like I said something cute. “You look just like your dad. Same fire in the eyes.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You keeping all the quarterbacks in line?”
“I don’t talk to quarterbacks.”
His brows lift, amused. “Still got that mouth on you, huh?”
“And you’re still trying it, huh?”
He just chuckles. “Good seeing you, Syd.”
I smile until he’s gone, then promptly grab another champagne flute from the tray nearest me. The first sip is already warm, but it does the job.
I make my way toward a quiet spot near the wall, exhaling slowly as I check my phone again. Nothing new from Emily. Just a few Instagram likes and a notification from ESPN about some player being traded to a rival team. I swipe it away.
And then I feel it. That weird prickle on the back of my neck. Like I’m being watched.
I lift my eyes—and freeze.
Across the ballroom, just past the crowd, there’s a man standing alone near the open bar. He’s tall—taller than anyone in the room by at least a few inches. Broad shoulders. Clean lines. Dark wavy hair that looks like it’s been finger-raked more than styled, and a jawline that should have a warning label.
He’s wearing a tux jacket slung over one shoulder, the black dress shirt underneath rolled to his elbows like he’s halfway between bored and dangerous. His tie’s undone. His stance is relaxed.
But his eyes? Locked on me. Unapologetically.
I blink once. He doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching, like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.
Ballsy. Men usually stare at my chest, then my ass, then maybe my face if I speak. This one? He starts with my eyes. And stays there.
I lift my chin slightly. Challenge accepted.
His mouth curves just a little. The barest ghost of a smirk. Not smug. Not arrogant. Like he knows something I don’t.
I don’t smile back. But I don’t look away either.
