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 Contents

Summary

1. Athena
2. Dash
3. Dash
4. Athena
5. Dash
6. Athena
7. Dash
8. Athena
9. Epilogue - Two Years Later

Follow Me
Also by Matilda Martel
 Summary

Dasher Grant needs to focus on his game---on and off the field.
He’s six months from retirement and trying to go out with a
bang, but an eighteen-year-old upstart is giving him a run for his
money. He needs to keep his eyes on the ball, devote himself to the
game and stop fooling around with his best friend’s baby sister. But
that’s never going to happen.
Athena Swift isn’t a conquest any sane man discards.
The attacking midfielder is one year into his sexual siege with
fading hope of advancing their sordid trysts into the lifetime
commitment he craves. She swears they’re just getting their kicks,
but he knows she’s the one. And he’s never walked away from a
challenge.

Athena Swift traded her youth for Olympic gold. She surrendered
time with loved ones and friends in exchange for Six World
Championships and two Olympic gold medals. At twenty-three, she
walked away to focus on living her best life and winning the man of
her dreams---Dash Grant.
No one owns her heart like her big brother’s best friend---the
Barcelona talisman who’s fast as lightning on the field and hot as sin
in her bed. He’s tall, powerful, utterly gorgeous, and an unrepentant
grump---sheer perfection in her eyes.
Ever since she became his agent, they’ve been doing the
horizontal mambo every chance they get. But there’s a problem---he
won’t stop asking for more.
For years, Dash ran from women who threw themselves at his
feet, and she won’t let that happen to her. She needs to hold firm,
play hard to get, and make him keep up the chase.
She may not know much about the game of love---but she knows
it’s the ultimate contact sport.

May the best athlete win.

ONE
Athena
 SUNDAY, EARLY MORNING- PARIS

NO ONE EXPECTED me to win gold. Americans don't win gold in

pair skating. Do you know the last time an American stood on that
medal stand? It was 1988---ten years before I was born, and that
team won bronze. Four years earlier, Americans won silver, which
was the first time we'd medaled in twenty years.
American pair skaters never win gold---but I did. Days before my
eighteenth birthday, I stood on a podium with the stars and stripes
overhead, tears in my eyes and a loudspeaker blaring the national
anthem. My partner, Jordan, and I nailed our compulsories. We
brought the stadium to its knees with not one, not two, but three
triple jumps. It nearly killed me but hot damn, did it work. Jordan
and I shocked the world, broke records, and made history.
And then we did it again four years later.
Nobody writes me off. The more people said I couldn't do it, the
more I wanted it. It cost me my childhood, time with family, and the
everyday life I still crave, but we made our country proud and got a
ticker-tape parade on our return.
So, how the hell do you follow something like that?
You don't. You sneak away like Greta Garbo and let people
remember you the way you were. I've devoted my life to my sport
and sacrificed more than I care to mention. Was it worth it?
Everyone expects me to say yes, so I'll say yes. But honestly, that
remains to be seen. I'll know it's worth it when I get what I truly
want in life---and medals have nothing to do with that.
I want Dasher Grant, my brother's best friend. I need him, love
him, worship every hair on his ripped, furry body, and I'll do
whatever it takes to make him fall in love with me.
I sound crazy. Of course, I sound insane. I'm madly in love,
obsessed, and downright consumed night and day by a man who
hasn't decided once and for all what we mean to one another.
He claims to love me---he never tires from saying it. And I want
to believe him. My life would be so much simpler if I could take him
at his word. But something keeps me from surrendering my heart for
good.
"Why do you look pissed?" Dash returns to my bedroom with a
steaming cup of tea and places it on my nightstand. I shake my
head, unsure of what to say, then point to the window. "It looks like
rain. Did the forecast say anything about rain?"
He frowns with suspicion, then struts bare ass around the front
of the bed, making my mouth water with every bounce of his erect
sex. I'm a sucker for his naked body. It's art in its purest form---like
Michaelangelo's David with heftier equipment. I release an audible
sigh and wait for him to crawl back under the covers.
"Why do you lie? You know I can tell when you're lying." He curls
me into his arms and bundles the blanket around us. There's a chill
in the air, but I'm not sure if it's the weather or me.
This weekend has gone all wrong. I was supposed to hold out. I
promised myself I'd withhold sex until Dash pleaded his case with a
solid chain of events for our future. No more empty promises. But
just as I expected, I caved within the first hour. It's hard to be firm
with someone like him. Players like Dasher Grant know how to peel
the panties right off your legs with nothing more than a smoldering
look. In my case, I typically hand them over as soon as he says
hello.
"You don't always know when I'm lying. Stop exaggerating." I
mutter and wiggle free from his tight grasp. "Loosen that gorilla grip,
mister. I'd like a sip of tea."
He doubles down, holding me tighter and sinking his teeth into
my shoulder until I squeal for mercy. Surely, he's frustrated with my
indecision, but it's hard for me to sympathize when he drives me up
the freaking wall.
"Are you implying you regularly lie, little girl?" He pinches my
side and makes me spill chamomile tea down my chin. I brush him
away, rolling my eyes in full view, hoping he knows how ridiculous
he can be.
"I'd never lie to you, Dasher. I only meant hypothetically." Every
word leaves me wrestling with my conscience. My stomach rumbles,
partly because he's kept me up half the night and partly because I
hate being dishonest. For someone who has spent her whole life
surrounded by sports, I genuinely detest games. I wish we could be
honest and forthcoming. You don't know what I'd give to come clean
and point out he's not offering me anything concrete. But it needs to
come from him. I won't bully him into something he doesn't offer
freely.
Dash thinks he's trying his best. He's under the misguided
impression he's spent the last year wooing me and disarming me
with mind-shattering orgasms in hopes of sealing the deal with
nothing more than platitudes. But that won't do. Abstract musings
are for losers, and I'm not a loser. I won't take a chance by giving in
too soon. There's too much at stake---our future, our children, and a
lifetime of blissful happiness that only he can bring.
He assumes we happened spontaneously. He thinks I woke up
one day and succumbed to his charms. Not a chance. Like a spider
weaving an intricate web, I set these plans in motion long before he
pestered me for a date. And until that moment, I wasn't sure if my
amateur moves would work on a man like Dash.
But where there's a will, there's a way.
I may be inexperienced at love, but that doesn't mean I won't
consult experts. Two years ago, I picked up Dr. Veronica
Rickman's How to Catch a Player after a competition in Montreal. It
opened my eyes to all my past mistakes and sent me on the road to
Dasherland.
It's my bible. Without it, I never would have learned the subtle
art of seduction. When steps one, two, and three worked like a
charm, I read and reviewed every passage, soaking up morsels of
dating tips meant to entice the commitment-phobic bachelor.
I've prepared for years to become Mrs. Dasher Grant, and I'm
closer than I've ever been. Jordan thinks that makes me
unimaginative and shiftless, but I stand by my new ambitions.
My mother strapped me into my first pair of ice skates at the age
of three, and two years later, I won my first competition. From ages
six to twenty-two, I practiced four hours every day and devoted my
life to winning two Olympic gold medals. Let's just say I've done
enough. I'm allowed to fantasize about a simple life with the only
man I've ever loved without being made to feel like an old-fashioned
slug.
I always knew I'd retire young. Instead of planning a pro career,
I studied business and marketing, then made connections with one
of the largest sports talent agencies in Europe. It let me stay on the
sidelines of sports, supporting myself by doing something I love and
helped make Dasher see me as more than his best friend's kid sister.
Last year, I became his agent, and what we evolved from that
mutually beneficial relationship.
But I need more. I need Dash to put his damn foot down and
fight for us. According to Chapter Eleven, Dash needs to reach his
boiling point, followed by a breaking point and then a moment of
clarity.
He needs to confront me with a clear statement of intent---no
suggesting I move to Spain or wishy-washy bullshit about being
together. I mean, what's together? What does that even mean? Will
we split the rent, get matching tattoos or walk down the aisle?
I can't relinquish my upper hand until I get what I want. If he'd
moved to Paris years ago, things might have fallen into place just
after I made this city my home. He's had a year to rectify the matter
and never brings it up. I pretend not to care if he lives in Paris or
Barcelona, but that's a lie. Deep down, the slight festers like a
wound that won't heal. I'll never get back that time, and the longer
he drags this out, the more he infuriates me.
"Athena! Why are you ignoring me?" Dash wrenches the teacup
out of my hands then buries his face in my cleavage. "Am I doing
something wrong?" He knows he's not. He's such a glutton for
praise. He just wants me to confirm his suspicions he's perfect.
"I'm thinking about work. And have you ever considered the
possibility I'm not in the mood?" I lift my hips to push him off me
and feel the stab of his cock on my thigh. My legs tremble. Muscle
memory ensures me that only good things come from a jab like
that.
He lifts his narrowed gaze, and his soft blue eyes quickly uncover
my blatant lie. "Not in the mood?" he chuckles, "We'll see about
that."
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