The Ex Effect Read online

  The Ex Effect

  A Washington Wolves Novel

  Karla Sorensen

  © 2018- Karla Sorensen

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Designer-Najla Qamber Design www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Interior Design- Indie Girl Promotions

  Proofreading- Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Other books by Karla Sorensen

  About Karla Sorensen

  For the women out there, just like Ava (and me), who often clutch their big feelings tight to the chest. Find the people who allow you to let those out, the ones who meet your emotions with love and acceptance.

  And to those people in my life- you know who you are. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  Ava

  This might seem difficult to believe, but once you've seen one naked football player, you've seen them all.

  No, really.

  The first time I walked into a locker room—a fresh-faced, pink-cheeked college intern—I was completely and utterly unprepared for the amount of ass I’d be confronted with. And it wasn’t even just the ass or the unabashed way they walked around one thousand percent naked, but the fact that I was standing in the midst of men who made millions of dollars by honing their bodies into flawless machines of muscle and strength.

  Please allow your imagination to wander in the way that that sentence intended.

  Only once did I allow myself a full-on gape at the abs. And pecs. And biceps. And ... everything else. None of them saw my drool or the way my jaw practically came unhinged, thank the holy ghost of Vince Lombardi up in football heaven, because if they'd noticed my reaction that very first time, I never would've made it this far.

  Fast forward six years, and as the public relations manager for the Washington Wolves, I could walk through a locker room of three dozen naked men and not blink.

  "You owe me a Twitter takeover, Robinson," I told our newest wide receiver. When he grinned, lazily toweling off his broad chest, I didn't so much as blink. "You were supposed to start fifteen minutes ago. Where the hell were you? People are asking you questions, and I don't want to lose our audience; otherwise, we'll pop out of the trending searches."

  I got a couple of confused blinks before he finally decided to yank his boxer briefs up his legs.

  "Coach had me run some extra routes." He shrugged, showing me his heavily tattooed back before tugging a T-shirt over his skin. "I can't exactly tell him I'm ready to leave. I'm the new guy."

  It was the off-season, but that didn't mean jack shit as far as the hours we all worked.

  "How long until you're ready to go?"

  "I dunno. Coach wants me to come talk to him after I'm dressed."

  Narrowing my eyes at him, one of my most effective weapons against men who were bigger, stronger, and a hell of a lot more intimidating than my five-six self, I took satisfaction in seeing him shift uncomfortably.

  "Fine," I said after a long silence. "Give me your Twitter log in, and I'll do it."

  "What?" he yelped. "You can't do that, can you?"

  One of the veteran players, Dayvon, strolled past us, winked at me, and smacked Robinson on the back of the head. "She sure can." He chuckled under his breath as Robinson—I couldn't even remember his first name yet—rubbed the spot on his scalp that was probably now bruised from Dayvon's ham-sized fists.

  My voice turned soothing, and I made sure to pat his arm gently. "I promise, I won't check DMs or respond to anything except the takeover hashtag, okay? You can change your password as soon as I'm done."

  His dark eyes were still skeptical, and I exhaled patiently.

  "No DMs?" he said after a beat.

  "No DMs," I assured him. And I meant it. Internal shudder. There was not much I hated about my job, but the accidental viewing of propositions being sent back and forth between single (or not single) players and groupies was definitely at the top of my list.

  Robinson finished buckling his belt and leaned in close. "Robinson4MVP2017. My password."

  I smothered a smile. "Got it. It won't take longer than twenty minutes, I promise. And if you have time to jump on at the end with some more personal stuff, then you can do that."

  "You got it, boss," he answered.

  "Swing by my office if you get done with your meeting early," I called after him as he sauntered through the door.

  My hand slid into the pocket of my dress and found my phone. Everything I wore had pockets because my phone was always, always within reaching distance.

  Like always.

  If the press caught wind of a story and I needed to issue a statement, the worst thing that could happen was for me to be caught sleeping, literally or figuratively, on the job. Thumbs flying over the screen, I logged in as Robinson.

  Ah-ha, Levi. That was his name.

  Quickly, I answered a few of the questions, randomly throwing in some phrases I saw on his Twitter feed so it wasn't glaringly obvious that a twenty-eight-year-old woman was answering each tweet.

  @levirobinson4real: Best part of playing 4 the Wolves so far? #AskAWolfWednesday

  To @cassidycowgirl: Leveling up to my teammates, learning from the best. It's legit around here.

  My surroundings barely registered as I scrolled and typed, paused to check the ding of an incoming email, then tapped out a text response about when I’d have the analytics from the new website.

  Someone cleared their throat.

  My eyes snapped up, and I saw three defensive players strolling out of the shower. Two had towels frozen around their waists, and one was stark-ass naked. My eyes never even considered dropping. That was how hardcore I was now.

  "Sorry guys, gotta get the work done where you can, right?"

  I gave them a brisk smile and wiggled my fingers in a wave as I walked out, phone still clutched in my other hand. There was an open conference room across from the locker room, so I yanked out a chair with the toe of my bright pink heel and sat indelicately.

  Once I was down, I stretched my feet and groaned. The shoes were hot AF, boosting my average height by a solid four inches, but sweet merciful heaven, I wanted to die by the end of the day from how they made my feet feel.

  After allowing myself sixty seconds to breathe and stretch, I f
lew through the tweets as best I could, only taking the time to reply more than once on a couple of threads. Fourteen new DMs came in while I did my stint as Levi Robinson, but gross, I wasn't touching those with a ten-foot pole.

  When I felt comfortable logging out and letting Levi handle the rest, my phone started vibrating in my hand.

  "Oh goody," I muttered under my breath when I saw my mom's name flash ominously across the screen.

  I knew why she was calling. Oh, as sure as Tom Brady would be a first round hall of fame pick upon his retirement, I knew why the woman who birthed me was calling. Casting my eyes up to the ceiling, I sighed heavily. Dramatically. That gust of air came from somewhere down in the depths of my very soul.

  "Hello, Mother," I said.

  She sniffed. "I expected it to go to voicemail."

  I rubbed my lips together before answering. "Nope. You caught me at a good time. What can I do for you?"

  No, How are you? How's Dad? There was none of that in our phone calls. Abigail Baker always called for a reason. That purpose would be revealed quickly, with little emotion, though it would be loaded with subtext no matter how I answered.

  "You haven't sent in your RSVP."

  If there was a prize for being right, like a car or a big paper check that could never be cashed, I just won. Sitting on my desk was the ridiculous invitation for my older sister, Ashley's, ridiculous vow renewal for her ninth anniversary.

  That’s right. Nine years. Not ten. Because Ashley couldn’t do things the way everyone else did them.

  The heavy paper with rose-gold engraved letters probably cost more than my rent each month, but the golden child would always, always get what she wanted.

  "I figured my attendance was a given, Mother. Sister of the bride and all." Well, hey! Listen to me, being all calm and shit. Make no mistake. My parents and my sister gave zero shits about me as long as I never, ever in a thousand years eclipsed Ashley. In my job or my looks or my relationships (snort) or anything. They didn't care if I attended the vow renewal, but it would look bad if I wasn’t there. Aunts and uncles would notice.

  "It's bad manners not to RSVP."

  I saluted with two fingers, wishing desperately she could see it. "I bought a beautiful dress already. You have nothing to worry about."

  "It better not be white," she snapped. "Mail it in by next week, Ava."

  Click.

  My two-finger salute became a one-finger salute aimed straight at the now disconnected phone. For a split second, I grinned as I imagined arriving at the ceremony wearing a pristine white dress. Ashley's smooth alabaster skin would probably melt off.

  Alas, my dress was a deep navy with pockets and complemented my dark brown hair and olive skin tone. I'll look hot, don't you worry about that, I thought just as my phone rang again. Oh, hallelujah. No family members this time, though. Just my boss.

  "Hey, Reggie, what's up?" I glanced out the doorway when a few players walked down the hall. "I'm still here if you need to see me."

  I heard some papers shuffling and imagined him at his always messy desk. "No, no, that's fine. I just shot you an email. We'll need to set up some press about an acquisition we just made on defense."

  I leaned over the table and grabbed a Wolves notepad and pen that someone had left behind. "Hit me."

  "Matthew Hawkins."

  The pen clattered to the table, and I felt the air rip violently from my lungs. "Wh-what?"

  "Yeah, I know." Over the racing of my mind, I could hear his voice pitch upward, just like it did when he knew we were about to get great press for something. "I couldn't believe Cameron got him to come out of retirement for a two-year contract. But with Rickson injured, we couldn't leave that hole in the roster. Matthew signed this morning. Real hush-hush."

  "Matthew Hawkins," I repeated unsteadily.

  "I know." The smile in his voice made me pinch my eyes shut. "You can handle this, right? The press will be humping our legs faster than we can get the press release out."

  With a shaky hand, I brushed my hair out of my face. "Yeah, of course." I nodded even though he couldn't see me. "Of course, I can handle it."

  "Good. I'll send him down to your office tomorrow morning after we meet with the front office."

  Spiky bubbles of hysterical laughter crawled up my throat. If I'd had chocolate in my pocket, I would've shoved it into my mouth for the fake calm it could bring me. "Mmmhmm. Sounds good."

  "The email has his full bio. Let me know if you need anything else before you reach out to the press."

  I almost laughed out loud.

  I knew Matthew's bio.

  I could rattle off his stats as far back as college. More than just his height (six five), the position he played (defensive end), or the number of sacks he'd had (seventy-nine, just in the NFL), I knew he was obsessed with peanut butter, he hated beer, he was allergic to dogs but never admitted it because he wanted one so badly, and he’d seen the movie Rudy at least fifty times.

  "Thanks, Reggie," I said instead.

  I knew so much about Matthew Hawkins that the press never would.

  How he never treated me like the five-year tagalong to my perfectly shiny, angelically beautiful, and horribly selfish sister. How he didn't even treat me differently when, after four years of dating and six months of being engaged, she cheated on him with another man.

  Oh, I knew Matthew Hawkins all right.

  My sister's ex-fiancé, and the man I'd had a ridiculous crush on in high school, simply because he'd been nice to me.

  And now he was going to be one of the men in the locker room across the hall.

  Chapter Two

  Matthew

  Living in Seattle was weird.

  Not that I could properly judge whether I liked living in a city after less than forty-eight hours, but it felt like my brain hadn't followed my body yet.

  Sitting on the plush carpet in my massive, unfurnished master suite, I bounced a tennis ball from the floor to the wall and back, staring out at the lights of the Seattle skyline just beyond the sprawling balcony outside the glass sliders.

  Everything inside the walls was pristine and empty, save for the moving boxes that I hadn't started unpacking yet. It was quiet except for the thud, bounce, thud, bounce of the ball, an uneven cadence that was as soothing now as when I'd started doing it in my tiny dorm room in college. The mindless bounce, thud, catch, throw motion helped me think.

  "What am I doing here?" I said out loud. No one answered. I could've called one of my two brothers, but they were already worried about why I was doing this. My parents too.

  One of the boxes labeled fragile by the movers held priceless memorabilia from my eleven years in the NFL. All with the same team. We'd set records as a team, and I'd set records on my own. The awards I’d won were all carefully wrapped inside that box along with signed jerseys from my idols and teammates. Just not the award.

  The trophy everyone wanted.

  Which was the reason I was here. In a city only familiar from the short trips during away games over the years.

  Thud, bounce, thud, bounce.

  Even sitting on the floor of my bedroom, I had a perfect view of the Space Needle. The spherical top and long, curving base looked like someone dropped it there from a foreign planet as an homage to some strange deity. All around it, blocks of lights set in tall buildings looked squat and simple in comparison.

  But once the sun came up, I'd see the jagged edge of the mountains behind it, a sure indicator I was not in Kansas anymore.

  Or Louisiana, but that didn't have the same ring to it.

  I wasn't used to staring at mountains when I woke up or glittering skylines—unless I was traveling. And even then, I had a horrible tendency to overlook it because I was so focused on whatever game I was getting ready to play.

  In the quiet, I knew I should explore and get to know this place I'd call home for the next two years. But instead, I snapped my wrist one last time and then caught the ball when it came back at me.
Planting my hand on the California king mattress sitting on the floor, I stood with a small groan.

  "Careful, old man," I muttered. If I made too many sounds like that, stemming from a slight twinge that I still felt after my back surgery to fix a herniated disc, Coach Klein and the rest of the Washington Wolves would have no problem buying me out of my contract and moving on to someone younger and faster, who hadn't had back surgery or dislocated elbows or broken arms.

  Pushing those thoughts out of my head with both hands, I took a deep breath and ripped open the first box. After my third trip into the closet, folding and stacking the shirts on the long row of white shelves, I heard my phone ring from where I'd left it on the kitchen counter.

  Jogging toward the sound, I snagged the call just before my voicemail picked up.

  "Hey, Mom," I said as I punched the button to put her on speaker.

  "Hey, sweetie. Are you all settled in?"

  I looked around my apartment and lied straight through my teeth. "Yup."

  She was quiet for a second, and I braced myself. Hurricane Eileen was about to make landfall.

  "Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

  No. I closed my eyes before I answered.

  "I wasn't ready to be done, Mom." That was the truth. When I thought about what I wanted to do in my life without football, I couldn't see anything. The future was some foggy, undefinable thing without the practice schedule or games to study for, prepare for, and push my body to the brink for. "And I couldn't keep playing there."