Forging Legacy

My hot one-night-stand just became my professor…

I don't do relationships, but when a gorgeous bartender presses her chest in my face on New Year's Eve, I take it as a sign that maybe I should bend my rules. 

I’ve been under so much pressure lately, between my agent and my soccer prospects and my abusive biological father trying to extort money I don’t even have.

What better way to distract myself from the pressures of going pro than to get under a woman whose curves could make a venus statue jealous? Fern is everything a man could ask for: unbearably sexy, brilliantly smart, and oh-so-responsive in bed.

That unforgettable night is the best bad decision I've ever made. That is until she shows up as the TA in my math class. Suddenly, our forbidden connection could jeopardize both of our futures.

When a vengeful reporter exposes my secret relationship with Fern and threatens her academic career, I'll do anything to protect her - even if it means giving up everything I've worked for.

To have a shot at happily ever after with the woman I love, I have to confront my painful past head-on and fight like hell to forge my own path. Can I break free from the shadows that haunt me and build a new life with Fern by my side? One thing's for sure - I've never wanted anything more.

Wyatt

I have zero desire to drive my cousins to a crowded bar just to be their designated driver when they close the place down. 

I have even less desire to deal with their nagging and whining, so I guess I’m showering and putting on some sort of decent clothing to leave the apartment. A rotating cast of my cousins has lived in this three-bedroom apartment for years as we worked our way through Pittsburgh University— where most of us are varsity athletes. 

Which means when we get a night off from our nutrition plan, we make up for lost time. Or … they do, anyway. I don’t like losing control like that. I don’t want to do something I’ll regret. Something I can’t undo.

“Yo, Wyatt! You curling your hair or what? We’re missing happy hour.” My cousin Odin pounds a fist on my bedroom door. I can hear Stellen and Gunnar grumbling behind him in the living room. I glance in the mirror and smooth a hand back through my dark hair. I cram a baseball cap down low, hoping it’s enough to keep people from recognizing me. I really hate crowds.

With a sigh, I flick off the lights and pull the door open in a carefully timed maneuver that sets Odin off balance. I don’t move to catch him as he stumbles into my room; we all laugh as he curses me from the floor. “You guys ready to go or what?” I ask, grabbing the keys to my Range Rover and striding toward the door.

Stellen argues his way into the front seat and turns on both his seat warmer and mine. It’s New Year’s Eve and cold as balls outside. Most of the students are still away for break, but half the sports teams have matches. We’re going out with guys from the football and ice hockey teams. Which tends to mean there will be tons of girls looking to get lucky, rattling off our stats, and asking for damn autographs on bar napkins. 

Did I mention I hate all this? 

“Are you wearing perfume?” Odin leans front and sniffs my neck. 

I swat him away. “Knock it off, man. It’s called soap. I showered.”

“Gunny, doesn’t Wyatt smell like he’s wearing a little something?” Soon all three of my cousins are sniffing me, sniffing themselves. 

I try to ignore all of it and look for a parking spot near the bar. Something must be going right between me and karma because someone pulls out of a space a few doors down. All four of us cheer as I put on my blinker, hoping the scent analysis is finished. 

Odin pulls out his shirt collar. He is, of course, not wearing a coat. He’s like his dad, my Uncle Ty—a furnace. 

Odin bucked all sorts of Stag family traditions and started playing football. 

My mom and dad are deep into the world of pro soccer; Uncle Ty dad was a legendary pro hockey player. Stellen’s dad, my Uncle Tim, always preferred to boss everyone around—he’s a sports lawyer who manages all their contracts. 

Odin rubs his palms together and waits for the traffic to pass so he can open his door. “All right, men. Let the good times roll. I’ve got exactly twelve more hours to exercise my liver before I start training for the combine.”

I chuckle. At least my coach gives us New Year’s Day off, but then I’m a senior and I’ve got a different path to going pro in my sport. I’m more focused on working with my agent to get signed somewhere far from Pittsburgh. I need to get the hell away from the specter of my biological father.

My cousins walk ahead of me and into the bar, where a loud chorus of cheers erupts from the crowd of fellow athletes and sports fans. If I time things just right, I can slide in at the tail end of the ruckus and find a seat at the bar.

This is exactly what I do, tugging my hat down a bit lower and pulling my Aunt Emma’s latest book from my jacket pocket to read. A bartender asks me what I’m having, and I grunt out a request for a soda. Aunt Emma wrote a significant nonfiction bestseller about sexism and the patriarchy in the world of professional soccer. My cousin’s girlfriend, Cara, is part of the book because she got grabbed and kissed on international television by some jerk in the Soccer USA office. 

I’m racing my way through a chapter about his eventual jail time when liquid splashes down on my pages. I snap my gaze up, looking to see who spilled a drink on my book. I find my face an inch away from the most fantastic set of breasts I’ve seen in ages. 

The soft, rounded globes nearly press against my nose as their owner leans past me to hand drinks to customers who, I realize, are pressing against me from behind. I glance around and the line at the bar is at least three deep. The bartender doesn’t seem frazzled, though. She and her rack move methodically, stretching and leaning to pour drinks, handing them to the waiting customers. Her fingers fly over the buttons on the register without her needing to look and she stuffs cash tips into the pitcher behind the bar as she mixes up soda with cheap liquor.

I decide not to say anything about a little ginger ale splashing on my book. I sip at the soda and stare at her, mesmerized. She’s got curves for days—round hips in tight jeans, a gently rounded stomach beneath the previously-noticed incredible chest, which is highlighted by a tight black tank. I recognize her, but she looks different today somehow. 

I don’t go out much, but when I do, my family drags me to this place, and there isn’t much turnover with the staff. All the athletes tip really well in exchange for adjusted drink strength as needed: strong when we’re winning. Light on the liquor pours when we’re losing. The staff here takes good care of all of us and, more than once, has distracted annoying fans who get a little too personal. I should remember her.

She catches me staring and winks at me as she pulls on two taps at once, perfectly pouring a pair of beers she then serves to another wave of patrons. I could watch her all night, but I realize that’s creepy. 

I try to focus on my book … but I already know the ending of that story. Cara is doing amazing. The US office got all new management, and every soccer team in the country, from the pro level down to the tiniest kid league, received new training and funds to support players of all genders.

What I don’t know is this bartender's name, her story, or whether she’d ever consider letting me get a closer look at her incredible body. 

Eventually, the crowd at the bar starts to thin a bit, and I manage to read an entire page of my book since she’s out of sight. But then I feel her presence across the wood from me, and she leans forward, her hair blocking the light so I can’t read. I look up to meet her gaze. 

“Can I ask you something?”

I blink at her, unable to think of anything smart to say in return. You know, like “sure” or “of course…” Words, Wyatt. Come on, man…

Eventually, she puts me out of my misery, refilling my soda with barely a glance. “Why are you sitting alone at a bar, reading a book, on New Year’s Eve?”