An all-new second chance, sports romance is out this week from Kendall Hale, part of the Crawford Family Playbook series, and I have an awesome excerpt for you.
Excerpt
The Return Play No One Expected
Present Day
Tuesday evenings after training are usually predictable. By now, the adrenaline from Sunday’s win has faded, leaving me stuck somewhere between exhaustion and routine. Slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder, I step out of the car in front of my building. The high-rise gleams against the gray evening sky, its sleek glass reflecting the muted glow of the city.
As I move toward the entrance, I notice a moving truck parked at the curb. The logo on its side is faded, and the movers unloading boxes look like they’d rather be anywhere else. My eyes narrow.
“Let’s hope this isn’t for my building,” I mutter. The idea of a new neighbor disrupting the peace I’ve carved out in my penthouse doesn’t sit well. And, okay, I know it sounds conceited, but the only unoccupied unit is the one next to mine.
When they left, I was half relieved, half concerned about who would arrive in their place. I even had my agent reach out to the family that owns it and offer to buy it, but they turned him down. Something about spending a few years in Europe to immerse their young kids in other cultures. Once they’re older, they plan on coming back. Listen, I’m not judging their educational style, just sell me the place so I can control my environment. They can buy something new when they’re back, right?
“Evening, Jerry,” I greet the doorman as I reach the revolving doors.
“Good evening, Mr. Crawford,” he replies with his usual polite nod.
As I step into the lobby, I freeze.
Near the elevator stands a woman, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, directing the movers with calm efficiency. Her cream sweater clings in all the right places, her dark jeans molding to her curves. Red hair, tied into a bun with a green scarf, glints like copper fire under the fluorescent lights.
There’s something about her that stops me cold—the tilt of her head, the way she moves with that purposeful sway, the soft press of her lips as she concentrates, like the world around her doesn’t exist. It’s too familiar, too goddamn haunting.
My pulse kicks up, and my cock stirs before my brain catches up. My eyes roam her figure like they’ve been starved for years—and hell, maybe they have. That hair. That fucking red hair. It’s enough to make me feel unhinged.
It can’t be her. It shouldn’t be her.
But then my chest tightens, the memory crashing in hard and fast. She looks like her. My Cami. My fucking Cami.
And there I go again, losing my damn mind, thinking that any redhead who stirs up my blood like this could be her. But this time, it’s different. My body isn’t just reacting—it’s zinging, every nerve on high alert like it’s found its missing piece.
It’s her.
Camille Ashby.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath. “No way. It can’t be her.”
I narrow my gaze, zeroing in on her like a predator catching sight of prey. It’s been years, but there’s no mistaking her. That wild red hair I used to tangle my fingers in. The proud tilt of her chin, the way she carries herself like she owns every inch of the space around her.
And if I got close—really close—I’d find those freckles, wouldn’t I? The ones that used to drive me crazy. I’d trace them with my tongue, one by one, just to hear that soft, breathy sound she made when I kissed her skin. I wonder if she still tastes the same, like honey and temptation.
Her eyes. I know if she turned around and looked at me, they’d still have that same fire, that way of locking on to me like I was her whole damn world.
But that was years ago. We were stupid kids back then, drunk on dreams and each other. She had plans, big ones that didn’t include staying put. And me? I had a career carved out for me before I even knew who the hell I was.
It seems like now, she’s here, and I can feel it in my bones. I can feel the pull, the need . . . it shouldn’t be there, but I feel it.
She turns suddenly, her gaze sweeping the lobby before landing on me. For a moment, her expression remains neutral—a polite smile, the kind you give to a stranger you’ve caught staring. No flicker of recognition.
“Hey,” I greet her, unsure on how this is going to go down.
“Hi,” she says, her voice calm and smooth, with a warmth that hits me straight in the gut. Exactly how I remember it.
“Sorry,” she continues, a small, apologetic smile playing on her lips. “Am I blocking the entire floor? These guys swear they’re the best, though. They’ll have it done before you have to head to . . .” Her eyes flick to the bag slung over my shoulder. “The gym? Or wherever.”
That’s all it takes. A few words, one look, and I know.
It’s her.
Camille.
The woman who once made my world spin. The woman I loved so hard, I couldn’t keep her. And the woman I’ve spent every day since trying—and failing—not to think about.
“No worries,” I manage, though my throat feels tight. “Just moving in or helping a friend?”
“Moving in.” She nods, her focus shifting back to the movers. “First day. The movers were late, of course, but they’ve been great. So far.”
“Welcome to the city,” I say, my voice dipping into something smoother, almost instinctive. “If you need tips—best fries, where to grab coffee, anything—I’m right next door.”
Her brow furrows, her lips parting slightly in confusion. “Okay, thank you,” she replies cautiously, like she’s not sure if I’m weird or just overly friendly.
“We can catch up—”
She cuts me off, tilting her head. “I’m going to stop you right there. Why are you being so . . . friendly? Did you see me on social media or something? Got the wrong idea, buddy? Because I’m not here to make friends.”
“No, it’s not—social media?” I blink, confused.
Her lips purse. “Oh. So . . . are you the marketing guy Liz mentioned lived in the same building? Sorry, creeps tend to be over friendly sometimes.”
“What?” I step closer, my gaze locking onto hers, refusing to let this moment slip away. “Camille, it’s me. Killion. Killion Crawford.”
She tilts her head, her expression blank, like I’m just another stranger in her way. “Did we meet at one of those branding workshops? Sorry, I’m terrible with names—and faces. Give me a textbook and I’ll memorize it. People . . . it’s hard.”
Her words hit harder than they should, a punch right to the chest. My jaw tightens as I take another step, closing the distance between us. “No. You don’t get to play I never met you,” I say, looking at her intensely. The same way I did when I was about to fuck her. “I’m Killion. The guy you dated during your freshman year of college. The one who—”
Stop, my brain screams, but the memories crash over me like a tidal wave, dragging me under. The way her skin felt under my hands, soft and warm, her breath hitching when I kissed that spot behind her ear. The way she whispered my name like it was her favorite secret as I showed her just how good we could be together. The way she’d pull me closer in the middle of the night, her body molding to mine like we were made to fit.
She was my first everything in all the ways that matter. The first girl I made laugh so hard she cried. The first girl who trusted me with every part of herself—body, mind, soul. And yeah, the first girl I taught how to touch herself, to really touch herself, until she came undone beneath me. I thought I had time to figure out how to keep her, but I was wrong, and I fucking blew it.
I swallow hard, the ache of losing her burning in my chest like it just happened yesterday. I want to grab her, kiss her, make her remember me—not the quarterback or the guy who left, but the boy who was hers before the rest of the world got in the way.
Her eyes widen for a second, the tiniest crack in her composure, before she lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh. That fucking Killion,” she says, her tone cutting, dripping with sarcasm. “Well, then. Walk away, Crawford. You and I have nothing to say to each other.”
Her words are ice, but the fire in her eyes tells a different story. There’s still something there, buried deep, beneath the anger and hurt. I know it because I feel it too—like a live wire humming between us, ready to spark at the slightest touch.
“Cam—” I start, but she holds up a hand, silencing me.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare,” she says, her voice low and firm, but there’s a faint tremor that tells me I’ve shaken her. “I hope you got everything you wanted in life, Killion. Now, leave me the fuck alone.”
She turns back to the movers, her fingers gripping the clipboard so tightly her knuckles pale. Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t look at me again. Not even a glance.
I stand there, frozen, watching her bark instructions to the movers like she’s in control, like I didn’t just rip open a wound she thought was long healed. She’s more beautiful now than she was at eighteen, with the same fire, the same determination. But there’s a wall around her I never had to fight before, and I don’t know if I can climb it.
All I know is that I still want to. Even after all these years, after all the mistakes, I still want her.
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Crawford Family Playbook - Recommended Reading Order
(standalone stories with interconnected characters)
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