The way we play or tempt.., p.1
The Way We Play: or Tempting the Kicker,
p.1
THE WAY WE PLAY
TEMPTING THE KICKER
THE BRADFORD BOYS
TIA LOUISE
CONTENTS
The Way We Play
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
The Way We Score
Prologue
The Way We Touch
Chapter 1
Books by Tia Louise
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Way We Play
Copyright © TLM Productions LLC, 2024
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover illustration by Laura Moore, @LCM_designss.
Design by Kari March Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author.
Created with Vellum
THE WAY WE PLAY
He’s a grumpy, retired kicker who says he only breaks things. I’m a thirty-year-old virgin with something he can break (and I don’t mean my heart)…
How does one get to be a thirty-year-old virgin?
In my case, start with being risk-averse and cautious, focused on building your career, then inherit your 12-year-old, special-needs brother. Done!
Zane Bradford appeared at the perfect time.
He takes my brother to equine therapy, he gives me rides to work, and he rescues me when I collapse in the shower. (Yes, he saw me naked.)
He says he only breaks things, but I only see him fixing everything. Heck, his job is as a repair man.
This grumpy, angry god with lean muscles, silky dark hair, and ice blue eyes has taken himself out of the game.
But massage therapy is my job, and I’m ready to play.
Hello, I’m Zane Bradford, and I break things.
Starting with my little sister’s dreams, followed by my football career.
Yes, I’m grumpy and distant; I’m following the script: No attachments; no one gets hurt.
Rachel Wells is ruining everything.
She walks into my workplace and argues with me, talks back, defends herself.
She gives me romance books to “improve my mood,” and insists on massage therapy to ease my pain.
Chronic pain isn’t my problem—she is, with her bright green eyes and sassy attitude.
Then she tells me she’s never been kissed. (What’s wrong with the men in Birmingham?)
The more she tempts me, the more I feel my resolve weakening.
She wants to play, but I’m not going to break.
(THE WAY WE PLAY is a small-town, grumpy-sunshine, sports romance with close proximity, enemies-to-lovers vibes, and a virgin FMC, and an over-protective alpha hero. No cheating. No cliffhanger. No third-act breakup.)
PLAYLIST
“Particle Man” - They Might Be Giants
“Supermodel” - RuPaul
“Square One” - Tom Petty
“Show Me Love” - Robin S
“Mr. Brightside” - The Killers
“HOT TO GO” - Chappell Roan
“Fantasy” - Mariah Carey
“Hot Hot Hot” - Buster Poindexter
“Apple” - Charli xcx
“Fortnight” - Taylor Swift, Post Malone
“Thank U” - Alanis Morissette
“New Attitude” - Patti LaBelle
“Man on the Moon” - Megan Moroney
“Country Girl (Shake it For Me)” - Luke Bryan
“Return to Sender” - Elvis
“All I Want Is You” - U2
“Spice Up Your Life” - Spice Girls
“Birdhouse in Your Soul” - They Might Be Giants
Listen on Spotify Here.
For the book girlies who prefer their Heros tall, dark, broody, and wounded.
And really good in bed.
“Perfect is the enemy of good.” -Voltaire
PROLOGUE
Zane
Twelve years ago
“Think fast!” The football flies at my face, but I catch it before it bounces off my nose.
I level my gaze on my youngest brother Hendrix, who recently turned eighteen. “Don’t do that.”
His blue eyes sparkle, and a grin splits his cheeks. “Or what?”
“I’d hate to have to kick your ass on Thanksgiving day right here in front of those girls.”
A pair of teenage girls have stopped walking to watch us, and he gives them a wink and a wave. “Happy Thanksgiving, ladies!”
The girls laugh and wave, and I suspect they know him from school, where he’s both a senior and the starting running back on the football team. To be fair, everyone knows my brothers and me in this small town, and any time we start playing, people stop to watch.
“Don’t taunt the kicker, dumbass.” My other younger brother Garrett grabs him around the shoulders, attempting a headlock. “What makes you think they’re looking at you? You’re so ugly, the doctor slapped the wrong end.”
Hendrix does a quick twist, escaping our oversized brother’s grip. “Get off me, Sasquatch. You’re so ugly, the cat ran away.”
“The cat did run away.”
“That’s why!”
“Lame.” Garrett shakes his head as Dylan, our baby sister jumps onto his back, which is quite a feat, considering she’s an entire foot shorter than he is.
“I’m on Grizz’s team!” she calls out, riding piggy-back out to the waterfront park a few blocks from our house.
It’s the first time we’ve all been together for the holiday in a few years. Our oldest brother Jack is in Texas now, making a name for himself as the starting quarterback for the Mustangs. Garrett is building his reputation in Tuscaloosa, and I’m headed to Baltimore as the starting kicker.
It might also be the last time we’re together for a while, since Hendrix got an offer from the University of Southern California and Dylan has auditioned for the American Ballet Company in New York. We’re all just waiting for that acceptance letter in the mail.
Our parents would be proud, and thinking of them looking down on us makes me nostalgic for the days when they’d be here watching us, Mom playfully scolding and laughing.
We lost them almost four years ago, and I always feel it during the big holidays.
“Hendrix, go long!” Jack shouts.
He takes off like a gazelle, and Garrett stands beside me, watching with Dylan on his back.
“He runs the way you dance.” I glance at our baby sister.
Her dark hair is in a high ponytail and her amber eyes sparkle with happiness. She’s always happy when we’re all together. Losing our parents hit us hard, but I know Dylan lost the most when we buried our mom.
Dylan was Mom’s favorite, but ultimately, we all spoiled our only sister. After four failed attempts, Mom finally got her wish of having a little girl, but with Hendrix only eighteen months old, she was pretty overwhelmed.
She handed Dylan to me in the hospital, and it was all hands on deck.
I’d never seen a baby with such big, dark eyes. She was so little, and her expression was so serious. I didn’t know what to do. Mom told me to read to her, and as time passed, it became our thing.
Dylan would sit on my lap and listen so intently. We started with a book about pooping, because Mom said it would help her learn to go potty, then we graduated to books about dancing mice.
When she was four, Dylan announced she was going to be a ballerina just like Angelina, and she started ballet. She was quiet like me, but she worked long and hard to make her dream a reality—just like Jack and Garrett and Hendrix.
I wasn’t like them. I didn’t sleep with my head on a football as my pillow. I didn’t watch every single game all weekend long. I liked the game, but I liked other things, too.
Still, when Dad told me to be a kicker, I said okay. Looking back, I realize Mom probably played a hand in that directive.
Now we’re all poised for success, aided in no small part by the fame of our football-star father. Walking out to the field now, I can still see Mom on the porch laughing and cheering us on.
She loved her sons, even if they were wild animals, and she loved her only daughter, the light of her life.
“How was that?” Hendrix passes the ball to Jack, clear on the other side of the park, and I think of all of us, he was the most obsessed,
“I’m playing, too!” Dylan skips sideways, holding Garrett’s arm.
“You cover Zane, and I’ll take Butt Face over here.” Garrett nods at our brother.
Jack catches the pass easily, and the four of us line up facing each other with Jack a few feet behind Hendrix waiting for the snap.
“You’re so fat, you have your own weather system.” Garrett loves to trash talk on the line.
“You’re so fat…” Hendrix falters, and Garrett straightens waiting.
“What?”
“You’re fat.”
“Bruh, your burn game is embarrassing. We gotta work on it before you leave for LA.”
“Yeah, but my ballgame is strong. Watch me!” Hendrix makes the snap and shoots straight forward like a rocket.
Garrett’s on him, and I cut to the left, getting out of the clump before turning back to where Jack is looking for who’s open. Obviously, it’s me. Garrett is the best lineman I know, and Dylan’s a shrimp.
What I don’t expect is for her to be keeping pace with me, tracking my moves like a real cornerback. Jack makes the pass, and I reach out, swiping it right out of her hands.
“Dang it!” Dylan jumps up and down with the graceful style of a ballerina.
“Way to hustle.” I pass the ball to Jack before patting her shoulder.
“Seven-zero!” Hendrix yells, all fired up. “Nice try, Swan Lake!”
“Don’t be hasslin’ my girl!” Garrett lifts Dylan off her feet in a hug. “That was a good run, Dee!”
We’re back at the line, and this time Jack plays QB for Garrett and Dylan, who takes off running as fast as our younger brother. Hendrix is right on her heels, reaching easily over her head to steal the pass.
She gives him a shove, and he laughs, yelling, “Illegal contact!”
“I was the receiver!” She pushes him again, and he laughs more, running to the center of the field before Garrett stops him.
Dylan’s arms are crossed, and she’s pouty on her way back to the lineup.
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game!” Hendrix does a shuffle step, which makes her sulk more.
“Just because you’re all a foot taller than I am.”
We line up again, and I’m inclined to give Dylan a break, since she’s working so hard. Hendrix knows me too well, and insists I cover Garrett this time.
It’s how we spend the rest of the afternoon. Until the sun slowly makes its way to the horizon, and the chill in the air grows a touch more distinct. It never gets too cold this far south.
More people have stopped to watch us, clapping and cheering as each side runs it in for the score. Everyone in this small town knew our dad, and they know we’re continuing his legacy. I guess it is a little thrill to see us play, even if it’s just for fun.
With one goal separating us, our youngest siblings won’t stop until we have a clear winner. Garrett manages to keep Hendrix at bay long enough for Dylan to complete a pass and run it in, and she does a little pirouette in the end zone.
“Excessive celebration—call it back!” Hendrix yells, and Dylan flips him the bird, which makes everyone laugh.
“Looks like y’all need one more player to even things out.” Dylan’s dance partner Craig runs onto the field.
“It’s my boy, Cray!” Garrett immediately grabs him in a bear hug. “Get out here, so we can win this thing!”
I don’t bother pointing out Jack, Hendrix, and I make two and a half pro players versus their one college athlete and two dancers.
“We call Jack!” Hendrix yells, and our oldest brother shakes his head, looking down.
“Pretty sure that was always the plan, Einstein,” Garrett quips.
“Last play,” Jack calls. “It’s sudden-death overtime.”
As the oldest, Jack slid easily into Dad’s role. He has both the patience and the natural leadership qualities that make him a good team captain.
While I tend to be more of a loner, Jack steps up and checks on everybody, makes sure we’re all okay and gives us advice if we need it.
Hanging back, I watch our small clan laughing and rough-housing as they approach the line, and I think we’ve made it. I think we’re going to be okay.
Just goes to show what I know.
We line up for the snap, and Hendrix and Dylan are practically nose to nose. “Don’t go soft on me, Zane.”
I shake my head at his ferocity. “It’s only a game.”
The snap is made, and Jack falls back, his eyes scanning Garret hulking over Hendrix and Dylan skipping around me.
Craig makes a beeline for him, and he’s forced to throw it. My eyes are on the brown pigskin spiraling like a bullet straight to me. It’s a perfect pass, and I seem to be wide open. Dylan’s not in my sights as I reach for the ball.
It’s higher than I expected, forcing me to jump. Hendrix yells, but I’ve got it. The only problem is I’m a kicker, not a runner, and I’m not used to calculating how fast I’m moving. As I’m flying through the air, I realize I’m going to hit the ground hard. Shit.
Clutching the ball to my chest, my muscles tense as I brace for impact. It all happens so fast, yet so slow at the same time. I feel her small body under mine. My chest seizes, and I try to twist away from her.
It’s too late, and all my weight comes down hard on my little sister. Throwing out my arm, I try to fight my velocity, but at six-two, I can’t stop it. She screams, and I lose the ball, doing everything I can not to hurt her.
We hit and bounce, and I hear the crunch of bone. Another scream, and I know without looking I’ve broken something that can’t be fixed.
I’m on my feet fast when we stop moving, but Dylan doesn’t get up. She rolls to the side, holding her leg, her foot bent unnaturally.
Her cries echo in my ears, and it’s not just the physical pain. This injury changes everything, but not only for Dylan.
It’s the first in a series of breaks that will change my life.
1
Zane
“Give me your hand, and I’ll help you.” I place my hand over Benji Maxwell’s small one and guide the plastic brush in smooth circles along the horse’s side.
We repeat the process gently, moving the brush slowly along the shiny, chocolate-brown coat, over powerful muscles until the tension eases from the boy’s shoulders.
His brow is furrowed, and his eyes are focused on our motion. I’ll give him a few more strokes, then I’ll let him do it by himself.
The old thoroughbred blows air through his nostrils, and his large head hangs over the door of the stall. It’s early morning at Second Chance Stables on the outskirts of Newhope, Alabama, and dust hangs in a beam of sunlight streaming through the door. It’s warm for the first day of November.
“You’re a natural with these kids, Zane.” The owner Gloria Fruit stops at the door, cupping her arm around the horse’s neck. “I wouldn’t object if you decided to hang around here full time.”
She’s dressed in knee-length shorteralls and a black tank, and her mousey brown hair is in a ponytail under a tattered baseball cap.
Beat-up, dusty work boots complete her outfit, and her dark eyes crinkle at the corners with her smile. I’ve never seen Gloria dressed up or wearing makeup as long as I’ve known her.
“Look, Ms. Fruit.” Benji’s voice is focused. “I’m doing it.”
He doesn’t get too excited, but the last time I was here, he held his palm under Shiloh’s velvety nose. When his mother saw him looking into the horse’s huge eyes, she started to cry.
I cleared my throat and did my best not to draw attention to them. I’m not licensed in equine therapy, but I help Gloria with her students if they arrive before she does.
“You are doing it, Benji.” Gloria’s voice is low and encouraging. “That’s very good.”
The horse lifts his head, exhaling a playful snort, and I move my hand to the boy’s shoulder.
“He’s nodding because he likes it,” she laughs.
Gloria is at least fifteen years older than me, and she opened this ranch on the outskirts of town while I was still in college.
