The Offside Arrangement
Автор
Jane Anne
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A forbidden heat. A fake identity. One night that changes everything.
Lacey Whitaker has always lived in the shadow of her twin brother—star soccer player Levi Whitaker, golden boy of the Chicago Kings. As his personal assistant, her life revolves around schedules, sideline seats, and staying invisible. Until one impulsive night, she books a male escort to finally lose her virginity… and ends up in the wrong hotel room.
He wasn’t supposed to be him.
Kaid Jackson—ruthless, gorgeous, and newly appointed head coach of the Kings—never expected the shy redhead who knocked on his door to be anyone other than his usual late-night distraction. When she left before sunrise, he thought she was just another beautiful secret. Until she walked into his team meeting… as his star player’s sister.
Panicked by the truth and caught in a web of lies, Kaid makes a split-second decision: pretend the escort story is real. That he is available for… extracurricular arrangements. Just this once. Just for her. Business only.
But as their scandalous “offside arrangement” deepens, so does the heat—and the danger of being discovered. Especially when the line between coaching and craving starts to blur.
If Levi finds out, careers could be ruined. Hearts could break.
And Kaid might lose the only game he’s ever truly wanted to win.
Chapter 1: Don’t Call Me Baby
LACEY
The lift in the hotel tonight seemed to be taking forever.
Logically, I knew it was moving at the same pace it always did. I’d taken this lift a hundred times over the past two years—ever since my twin brother had been drafted into the Chicago Kings straight out of college and became a semi-famous soccer player. We’d started staying here the night before big home games—a bonding tradition he’d decided was necessary.
I was his personal assistant—begrudgingly, but I needed the money—so I stayed too. My brother was…to put it lightly…an ass. If he even suspected I was sneaking around the hotel this late, he’d bust an artery. Then drag me into some lecture about how I was sabotaging his mental state before a game. I couldn’t blame him entirely for his inflated ego.
Our parents had prayed for a boy. When they got him, they spoiled and enabled him into an overconfident, lazy brat.
I was the surprise twin. The one who trailed behind, tolerated when convenient, useful only when needed. Like when they made me his assistant. Like tonight—forcing me to stay in this hotel when I had a perfectly decent loft twenty minutes away.
At least I’d been given a nice room tonight. Not that I’d be using it.
I was headed for the upper floors. The ones with the expensive rooms. The ones Levi usually stayed in. As I said, I’d been in this lift a lot.
But tonight, the twenty floors between the lobby and my destination felt never-ending. Probably because I was meeting a stranger. A stranger I was paying to fuck me.
I let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a gasp. I was really doing this. I had hired a male escort. I was clearly insane. This was the most ludicrous idea I’d ever had. And in my twenty-four years of ludicrous ideas…that was saying something.
Not just the fact that I was doing it—but that I was doing it here. In the same hotel my overprotective brother was staying in. With the entire Kings roster nearby.
If I didn’t die of embarrassment tonight, Levi would finish the job when he found out.
The lift finally stopped. The shiny doors slid open.
I stepped out onto the thick hallway carpet, trying to keep my legs from trembling. My reflection in the mirror opposite caught my eye. I hesitated, suddenly rooted to the floor.
I wasn’t much to look at. Levi, selfish even in the womb, had taken the athletic gene—and the attractive one.
He was tall and broad, with piercing blue eyes, thick auburn hair, strong features, and a tan that glowed under stadium lights. The fans went crazy for him. I was short, pale, freckled, and ginger-haired. The only thing we shared was our eyes—but mine were so washed out they were practically gray.
I shook myself and forced my legs to move toward room 2013. It didn’t matter what I looked like. I’d made an effort—light makeup, straightened hair, and a soft pink summer dress that hugged my tiny frame and hinted at curves I barely had.
But a male escort wasn’t here to assess my beauty. He didn’t care if I was elegant or sexy. He was being paid. Attraction didn’t factor into the equation.
This was a transaction—pure and simple. That thought gave me the strength to knock.
I was a few minutes late but still within a reasonable window. So I was shocked when the door swung open, and a man growled at me.
Growled. Like…actually growled. Then huskily said, “You’re late. Get in here and on your knees, baby.”
I froze in place, stunned. The words. The tone. The sheer audacity.
He was tall. Muscled. Wavy black hair. Hazel eyes rimmed with something dangerous. He was also shirtless, towel slung around his neck, revealing sculpted abs. Low-slung sleep pants rode low on his hips, and a tattoo curled over one bicep—some symbol I didn’t recognize.
The scent of clean soap and something innately male hit me like a truck. I gulped through a wave of nerves.
He looked way more dangerous than I expected. Older too—at least mid-to-late thirties.
The service I’d booked an hour ago—with my best friend giggling beside me until she realized I was serious—had promised professionalism. Discretion. A guy near my age. Someone soft-spoken, charming, patient.
This man was none of those things. “Did you hear me, baby?” he asked, eyes dragging over me slowly. “You weren’t what I was expecting…but I can work with it.”
He frowned slightly, like something wasn’t adding up, but shrugged it off.
My voice finally returned. “Don’t call me baby. And I’m not getting on my knees for you.”
He blinked. His smile didn’t quite falter. “Okay. You’re in charge tonight. I get it.”
“I am,” I said, standing straighter. “So move aside.”
Still looking faintly puzzled, he stepped back to let me in. The room was dim. A single lamp lit the corner by the bed. The floor-to-ceiling curtains were open, moonlight bathing the carpet in soft shadow.
I tried to process that this was it. This was the room. The place where I’d lose my virginity. My logical brain accepted it. The rest of me was screaming to turn around and run.
“Can I get you a drink?” the man asked, appearing behind me and sliding a hand under my hair.
I nearly jumped out of my skin—but managed to calmly step forward and turn. “No, thank you,” I said. “I want a clear head for this.”
Still too polite. Too stiff. Relax, Lacey. It’s a drink. Not a roofie.
He smiled faintly, eyes skimming over me again. “How old are you?”
I blinked. That was on the form I’d filled out. “Twenty-four,” I said.
He frowned. Probably wondering why a twenty-four-year-old was still a virgin. Maybe scanning me for flaws.
I didn’t give him the chance. “What’s your name?”
He shrugged and crossed to the side table, sipping something amber and smoky. “Do we really need names tonight, baby?”
I stiffened. “Maybe I would like a drink after all.”
I was ten seconds—and one more “baby”—away from walking out. But I’d come this far. I wasn’t going to bail just because he didn’t match the sophisticated, charming escort I’d imagined.
Maybe the service had sensed how nervous I was. Maybe they thought sending someone…more assertive…would guarantee I followed through. They needn’t have worried. I was doing it.
But I’d be sending a strongly worded email tomorrow. I took the drink from his hand, fingers trembling only slightly. I sipped. It burned—but not too badly. More like honey. It warmed me from the inside, steadied me.
“Better?” he asked, still watching me like I was a puzzle.
“Yes.” I took another sip and said firmly, “Don’t call me baby.”
He tilted his head. “Then what should I call you?”
I hesitated. “You can call me Rose.”
The name felt foreign in my mouth. It was my childhood nickname. One I hated. But it was the name I’d used when booking. It wasn’t really me.
Lacey Whitaker—shy, virginal, borderline OCD—didn’t belong here. But Rose? Rose could.
“Rose,” he repeated, brushing my hair off my shoulder. “I like it. Pretty and delicate. Like you.”
I should’ve told him to stop touching me. Escorts were meant to ask before initiating contact. That was on the form too. Did he follow any rules? I ignored the flutter in my stomach. “What do I call you?”
He leaned closer, lips brushing my ear. “Call me whatever you want, Rose. Just scream it nice and loud when you come underneath me.”
Then his hand slid under my dress, cupping me. His eyes held mine. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
I gulped. This man didn’t just break the rules. He flipped them the finger and smirked while doing it.
