Playing the Player- Amy Andrews

Table of Contents
To school teachers and nerd girls.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
If you love sexy romance, one-click these steamy
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Amy Andrews. All rights
reserved, including the right to reproduce,
distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
For information regarding subsidiary rights, please
contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com.
Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
For more information on our titles, visit
www.brazenbooks.com.
Edited by Liz Pelletier
Cover design by Heather Howland
Cover photo by Lindee Robinson Photography,
featuring Travis Bendall
ISBN 978-1-63375-791-2
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition January 2016
To school teachers and nerd girls.
Chapter One
Lincoln Quinn stared at the three aces and two
queens he was holding in his hand. Fuck, he loved
poker.
It fell a close third to rugby and women.
The fact that he was astoundingly good at all
three was worn as a badge of honour. Practise did,
after all, make perfect.
His brow crinkled in a fake display of holy-shit-
this-hand-is-crap. It still worked occasionally.
“You know what this poker game needs?” he
mused out loud to his fellow players, keen to
distract the other guys as they assessed their cards.
Anyone would think they were playing for bloody
sheep stations instead of fake casino chips.
“Chicks,” came five simultaneous replies.
Linc laughed. His teammates from the Sydney
Smoke were well used to his regular refrain.
Tanner Stone, the captain, had declared the game a
chick-free zone a few years back, when they’d all
started playing, and Linc had been bitching about it
ever since.
According to Ryder Davis, country down to his
bootstraps, a couple of blokes called Brooks and
Dunn had sung some song about how much better
life was with a girl in it, and Linc couldn’t agree
more. He sure as hell hoped they’d won some kind
of an award for such genius.
“You know you’re all thinking the same thing,”
Linc goaded good-naturedly.
“I’m thinking I fold,” Tanner said, throwing his
cards onto the table.
Ryder, pulling his Akubra low on his forehead
with one hand, tossed his cards on top of the
others. “Me, too.”
“Me, three,” Dexter Blake said, grimacing at his
hand before slapping it down.
Donovan Bane, half Maori man-mountain who
couldn’t play poker for shit, followed suit. “Me,
four.”
Bodie Webb stared Linc down over the top of
his cards, taking his time. “I’m thinking…” he
murmured eventually. “You’re bluffin’.”
“Oh yeah?” Linc cocked an eyebrow, staring
right back.
To be fair, he couldn’t blame Bodie for being
skeptical. He often bluffed on these poker nights—
it was half the fun. Because one thing Linc
understood well was the theatre of things. Of card
games. And rugby. And women.
And he loved to play.
“Why don’t you put your money where your
mouth is?” he challenged.
“Don’t do it, Spidey,” Dex warned. “He may
look dumb, but Linc Quinn is a fucking shark and
you know it.”
Linc shrugged, unconcerned by Dex’s insult. He
wasn’t a book smart kinda guy. A broken home, an
itinerate childhood, and a mild case of dyslexia
hadn’t been conducive to learning. If it hadn’t been
for rugby, he’d probably be digging ditches
somewhere.
But the school of hard knocks had taught him
about life. And poker.
“I bet a hundred,” Bodie said, flipping a chip
into the centre of the table.
Linc didn’t bother to look at his cards, keeping
his gaze trained on Bodie. “I’ll match it and raise
you five.”
He threw a five-hundred-dollar chip after his
one-hundred-dollar one. They clinked into the
silence around the table.
Bodie tossed in a five and added another five to
the pile. “Raise ya.”
Ryder whistled long and low then took a suck of
his beer. Tanner shook his head and said, “I hope
you’re wearing your spandex Spiderman suit under
those clothes.”
“I bet he’s crapping it if he is,” Donovan added.
Dex laughed, and Linc suppressed a grin as he
matched and raised with two five-hundred-dollar
chips. Bodie fidgeted in his chair. Cleared his
throat.
No superhero was going to get him out of this
fix.
Linc waited patiently as Bodie fidgeted some
more, stroking his fingers back and forth over the
glossy surface of the cards, shaking his head as he
glared at them then at Linc then back at the cards.
Ryder drummed his fingers on the table.
“Must you do that?” Bodie snapped.
“Well, are you playing or are you trying to rub
the titties off the queen?” Ryder griped.
The wait didn’t bother Linc. He could wait all
night. Patience was a big part of strategy. It was an
even bigger part of bluffing.
Not that he needed to bluff with this hand.
“Goddamn it,” Bodie bitched as he glared at
Linc. “You know what your problem is? You just
can’t resist a bet, can you?”
Linc did grin this time. “I have no idea what
you’re talking about.”
There were general snorts of disbelief around
the table. Tanner laughed outright. “You bet on who
was going to be the first to leave One Direction!”
“And your phone has four different betting
apps,” Donovan pointed out.
“You bet on Harper,” Dex griped, “over me
when we played Battlefront last Wednesday night.”
“Dude, she kicked your ass,” Linc said. “She
always kicks your ass.”
“What about that time you bet on that old flea-
bitten nag who hadn’t won a race for two years?”
Ryder demanded.
Linc shrugged. “It won that race, didn’t it?” And
earned him a cool eight hundred bucks. Not bad for
an afternoon’s work.
Bodie threw a thousand on the pile. “All right
then, you prick, I’ll see you. What have you got?”
Linc lay his hand down. “Full house. Aces and
ladies.”
Bodie stared at it in disbelief, throwing his hand
down in disgust as the table erupted in cheers and
wolf whistles.
“Man.” Bodie shook his head as he sucked on
his beer, and Linc grabbed the chips from the
centre of the table. “You ever get injured playing
rugby, you should head to Vegas. You could make a
shitload with that great, big, hairy pair you’ve got.”
Linc just grinned, taking a much-deserved pull of
his own beer. The cold, bitter flavour went down a
treat. “Your deal, dude.”
The next hand was shuffled and dealt.
“Jesus, Spidey.” Donovan shook his head at his
cards. “Just as well you can play rugby. You can’t
deal for shit.”
Bodie, his cards clearly better this time if his
returning humour was any indication, smiled. “I
could have dealt you a royal flush and you’d fuck it
up somehow.”
“Man’s got a point, Dono,” Ryder agreed.
Donovan shrugged good-naturedly. “Only game
that counts is on the pitch.”
“Amen,” Tanner murmured.
Midway through the season the Smoke were in
the top eight, which would put them through to the
semis if they managed to maintain it. If they moved
higher up the leaderboard, they’d have a
commanding foothold. They’d played the previous
three grand finals in a row and won two of them.
Linc spared his hand a cursory glance. A pair of
jacks and a pair of nines. Oh yeah, baby, come to
dada. “So.” He cocked an eyebrow at Dex, who
usually gave him a good run for his money on
poker night but right now was in a race with
Donovan to the bottom.
It didn’t take any kind of book smarts to know
why. “You nervous about Sunday?”
Dex shook his head emphatically. “Nope.”
“You don’t think you kind of rushed into it?”
“Nope.”
“You’ve known her for four months, dude.”
“Yep.” Dex grinned, big and wolfish. Like he’d
won the night, the premiership, and the famed John
Davis rugby medal all at once.
Linc was happy for Dex and Harper, but he
personally didn’t get why any guy with the
celebrity status afforded to sports stars would
settle with one woman when there was so much
lovin’ to spread around.
“You didn’t want to wait ’til the end of the
season to get hitched like Tanner and Matilda?” As
long as Linc lived, he’d never understand that
whole urge to tie yourself down to one woman, but
Matilda’s insistence on a Christmas wedding at
least seemed considered. “Have one of those big
celebrity do’s?”
“Harper didn’t want to wait.” Dex shrugged, his
grin taking up half his face. “What can I say? She
wants me.”
She must. They would be playing their toughest
game of the season the night before, and there was
no plan for a honeymoon, either, with Griffin King,
their hard-as-nails coach, owning their asses for
the season. Hell, there’d hardly be time for a
wedding night, with training bright and early
Monday morning.
Harper was going to be a rugby widow for the
next couple of months, especially if they made it
through to the finals.
“What happens if that pretty face gets all mashed
up during the game Saturday night and you look
like Frankenstein for the pictures?” Ryder asked,
his face hidden by the brim of his hat as he
considered his cards.
“Or you break your leg,” Bodie added helpfully.
“Or worse,” Linc chimed in, huge smile on his
face, “you strain your groin. You’re probably going
to need that thing to perform your husbandly duties
on Sunday night.”
Dex chuckled. “I’m touched that you’re worried
about my duties, but there ain’t nothing that can
keep this groin down.”
There was much hilarity as the guys all drummed
on the table.
“Just sayin’…” Linc shrugged as the hubbub
settled. “I’d be more than happy to step in if you’re
not up to the job.”
Dex snorted. “Over my cold, dead body.”
They all laughed again, but Linc shook his head
as he raised his beer bottle for a toast. “To Dexter
Blake. Another good man bites the dust.”
“He’s getting married, Linc,” Tanner said amidst
the laughter and bottle clinking. “Not facing a
firing squad.”
Linc shuddered. He might as well be. “Yeah, but
why settle for one when there’s so many gorgeous
chicks out there?”
“The man makes a very good point,” Ryder
agreed.
“Especially,” Linc continued, “when all they
want is a little bit of time with a hot rugby dude.”
“Perfect for a complete man whore such as
yourself,” Dex said derisively.
Linc blasted away the slight hint of sarcasm with
a deliberately goofy grin. “I know, right?”
“That was an insult, dufus,” Donovan said,
shaking his head.
Linc grinned, unperturbed by the besmirching of
his character. “I take man whore as a compliment.”
Who knew how long he’d play rugby at an elite
level? He could injure himself and it could be all
over tomorrow. He was going to take advantage of
whatever came his way as a result whenever it
came his way.
Including any women who were willing to get to
know him carnally.
Dex glanced at Tanner. “Are you going to tell
him or am I?”
Tanner grinned then turned his attention to Linc.
“Listen to me carefully, grasshopper. Finding the
one? Being with the one? Best thing ever. You
should try it.”
Linc blinked at the conviction in his skipper’s
voice and at the goofy looks on both Dex’s and
Tanner’s faces. As a rule, none of the guys got
mushy about shit—unless it had to do with rugby.
They talked about sex. Not love. About chicks and
clubs and booty calls. Not the one.
Linc hadn’t had a role model worth a damn. His
mother had walked out on them when he was he a
kid, and his long-haul father had a string of broken
marriages and a woman in every truck stop.
He’d learned early that sex was about feeling
good. A happiness transaction. And rugby had
given him the means to feel very happy, very often.
He’d be crazy to give that up.
“No thanks.” He shuddered at the thought. “Too
many women, not enough time. Now”—he picked
up his cards—“are we playing poker, or do you
two want to sit and make daisy chains?”
“God.” Dex shook his head sympathetically,
turning his attention back to his cards as well. “Em
is right. You’re going to catch some antibiotic-
resistant cock pox and die a slow and horrible
death.”
The guys cracked up as Linc frowned. Em
Newman. Harper’s bestie. Cute, with bouncy
butterscotch curls and legs that wore the hell out of
a pair of jeans. Linc had always been a leg man.
Thankfully, hers made up for her caustic tongue and
armour-plated panties.
“Firstly, I can assure you I go to great lengths to
ensure that my cock is pox-free.” Multiple groans
of “too much information” slid off his shoulders.
“Secondly…I’m flattered that Harper’s cute”—
man-hating, total pain-in-the-ass—“friend is
talking about my junk.”
Any woman talking about his junk was cause for
celebration. Maybe she wasn’t as immune to him
as she’d made out?
“I wouldn’t be,” Dex dismissed. “I’ve heard the
way those two talk when they get together. I don’t
think anyone’s junk is off limits.”
A couple of the guys clearly paled at the idea.
Not Linc. Those no-holds-barred girly
conversations women indulged in didn’t faze him,
particularly if he was at the centre of it.
In fact, the thought of anything to do with Little
Ms. Cute-and-Curly didn’t faze him at all. Sure,
he’d crashed and burned with her a few times, but
Linc was eternally optimistic when it came to
women.
“So was she just speculating about its state of
poxiness, or was she making more general
enquiries about its”—he grinned “—size and
legendary prowess?”
Dex cocked an eyebrow. “Not surprisingly, I
didn’t really ask her interest in your cock.
Although”—he lifted a shoulder, amusement
colouring his voice—“I could if you’d like me to?
Maybe you could write her a note and I can pass it
to her? Being a teacher and all, she might
appreciate that.”
“Ooh, I like that idea.” Bodie grinned. “How
about this, Linc? ‘Would you like to see Lincoln
Quinn’s legendary cock?’ Then you could draw
two little boxes underneath the question. One for
yes. One for no.”
“You could even put little hearts instead of dots
over the i’s,” Donovan suggested.
“And a glitter pen,” Ryder added, getting in on
the smack talk. “Girls love that kind of shit.”
Linc flipped the bird in their general direction.
“Bite me.”
“It’s okay.” Dex clapped Linc on the shoulder.
“You can ask her in person. On Sunday. At the
wedding.”
Linc snorted derisively. He was all for being
brash, but he was pretty damn sure Harper’s friend
would cut him off at the knees if he opened with
that particular line.
Some women liked dirty right from the get-go.
He didn’t need a high school certificate to tell him
she was not one of them.
According to Dex, she’d been dumped by some
jerk-off a while back and, from what Linc could
see, she was determined to make all men suffer.
She might be cute and have legs that had featured
heavily in his dreams, but life was too short for
women that required convincing.
Even if he was a leg man.
“You’re right,” Dex commiserated. “You’re not
exactly her favourite person. I don’t know what the
hell you did, but she really doesn’t like you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Linc protested. He’d
flirted with her, sure, but that was just his natural
state of being around a woman he found attractive.
Most women appreciated it.
“She’s just annoyed because she’s sworn off
men, but deep down, she really, really wants to
jump me. Abstinence…” Linc shook his head,
giving the word the amount of contempt it
deserved. “It’s just not good for a person, I tell
ya.”
“I don’t believe it.” Bodie shook his head and
clutched his chest in faux horror. “A woman who
doesn’t want Lincoln Quinn. Not possible.”
Linc hadn’t believed it, either. The night they’d
first met, Em had been Harper’s plus-one at a
charity function. He’d asked her to dance. She’d
told him she’d rather drink poison.
Man, he’d been so damn hot for her that night.
Linc shrugged nonchalantly. One day she’d be
ready to break her self-imposed celibacy, and he’d
be there. “Oh, she wants me, all right.”
And that wasn’t false bravado. He’d seen her
probably half a dozen times in the last few months
and every time their eyes met, he’d felt this weird
electric charge between them.
She’d felt it, too.
He could tell by the slight widening of her eyes
and the sudden frizz of static in her mop of tight
curls.
Bodie narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”
Speculation gleamed in his clear gaze, and Linc got
an itch up his spine. “Fancy a little wager?”
Linc was just about to open his mouth to reject
any suggestion of betting on him scoring with
Harper’s bestie when Ryder, who’d been rocking
on his chair, thunked it down on all fours. He
pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, tipped
back his hat, and said, “I’m in.”
“Me, too,” Tanner said, sitting up straighter.
Donovan nodded. “And me.”
“What’s the bet?” Dex asked.
“Hold up, guys.” It was good for Linc’s ego that
none of them doubted he could do it, but it didn’t
feel right to be betting on something like this.
“How soon Linc can convince abstinent-chick to
do the wild thing,” Bodie said, ignoring Linc.
“I’ve seen Linc talk a Sunday school teacher into
his bed in under two hours,” Ryder said, slapping a
crisp green hundred-dollar note on the table. “I say
he’ll get the job done the night of the wedding.”
“I give him two months,” Tanner said, his
hundred joining the other.
“Two months?” Linc’s discomfort over this
whole thing was trumped by his affront. This was a
crazy-ass idea, but if he really put his mind to it he
sure as shit could convince Cute-and-Curly to give
it up for him way sooner than sixty bloody days.
“Dude…that is an insult.”
Tanner snorted. “You forget, man, I saw how she
blew you off at that charity event.”
“I’m going to split the difference,” Donovan
said, fishing around in his wallet, tossing another
green note down. “One month.”
“You in, Dex?” Bodie asked as his hundred
joined the pile.
“I’m pretty sure Harper would kick my ass for
this frat boy crap, so I’m out.” He held up his hand
at the barrage of chicken noises. “But I am rooting
for you, Linc.” He clapped him on the back. “Good
luck. You’re going to need it.”
Linc was pretty sure Cute-and-Curly would kick
him in the balls for this “frat boy crap”—and he’d
deserve it, too—but that nice pile of hundreds
along with Tanner’s two month prediction was
stirring his competitive streak.
It was sure as hell tempting.
As tempting as a pair of shapely legs and bouncy
butterscotch curls.
His teammates stared at him expectantly. Screw
it. He reached into his back pocket and grabbed his
wallet. He threw a crisp hundred-dollar note on
top of the pile.
“You’re on.”
Chapter Two
Em Newman was just drunk enough to take the
edge off her lust. Which was kind of crazy
considering she’d only had three glasses of
champagne. Of course, after the migraine pills
she’d taken a few hours ago, it might as well have
been half a bottle of peach schnapps—her breakup
booze of choice.
The problem was alcohol usually took the edge
off her inhibitions as well. Which was a dangerous
position to be in at a wedding where seventy-five
percent of the guests were hot, buff rugby players
in suits. Even more dangerous given that one of
those guys was Lincoln Quinn.
And damned if he didn’t look good enough to
eat. Or at least lick a little.
Weddings were pretty much always a guaranteed
way to get laid if you were single and up for it.
And normally all this testosterone would have had
her fallopian tubes in a total tizz. But she wasn’t
that girl anymore. Or she was trying not to be,
anyway.
She was Zen. She was centred. She was woman,
goddamn it.
Her body was a freaking temple.
And the Lincoln Quinns of the world were not
allowed in. Not anymore. Em had turned over a
new leaf. Clinging like a limpet to any guy who’d
love h...