An all-new, banter-filled football romance—featuring a sharp-tongued young vet who ends up living next door to an infuriatingly charming football star who just won’t stay on his side of the fence—is out this week from Kendall Hale, and I have an excerpt for you.
Excerpt
Olivia
When It Doesn’t Fit . . . Pivot?
Moving during the summer should be illegal—or at least come with one of those yellow warning tags: Proceed with caution. Excessive sweating and immediate regret await.
I brace my knee against the doorframe, gripping the couch like it personally insulted my entire family. “Come on, you stubborn—” I grunt, throwing my whole body into the fight. The couch does not budge. Not even an inch.
Defeated, I drop my forehead onto the fabric, muttering into the cushions, “This is how it ends. Crushed under mid-century modern and my hopes for a fresh start.”
Behind me, Aspen—my older sister, the self-appointed moving consultant, and reigning champion of ‘moral support over manual labor’—lets out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s not going to fit like that. Turn it.”
“I am turning it.”
“No, you’re aggressively shoving it like you’re trying to establish dominance. That’s not the same thing.” She tsks a couple of times. “This isn’t a puppy that has to be on the examining table against their will.”
Like I would do that with one of my clients. What does she think I do when I’m at my practice? Wrestling animals to submission?
I step back, dragging the couch onto the porch and glaring at the furniture wedged halfway into my new house, the architectural equivalent of a middle finger. “Maybe if I had some actual help . . .”
“Are you implying I’m not helping?” Aspen scoffs, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder like she’s in a shampoo commercial. “Excuse me, but I am helping. With moral support, I already carried the boxes into the kitchen. You think they grew legs and made themselves at home?”
The sound I make is somewhere between a whimper and a threat. What’s the point of having an older sister if she refuses to help with anything? Instead of Aspen, I could’ve used an actual mover or a forklift.
Just as I prepare to launch one final, all-or-nothing shove, something large, fast, and very much alive barrels into my legs, causing my balance to vanish. The doorframe meets my back with a thunk.
I yelp, catching myself just in time to see a rust-colored blur streak into my empty living room—long legs, sleek body, and tongue lolling out as if she just won the lottery.
A dog.
A big, beautiful dog.
A big, beautiful dog is now happily settling into my kitchen, sniffing my moving boxes as if she’s conducting a very thorough, albeit unauthorized, inspection.
“Seriously, Sarah? What part of heel did you not get, sweetheart?”
The voice is deep. Warm. Unfairly attractive.
I turn, and—oh.
Oh.
There’s a man in my doorway. A very shirtless, very sweaty, very unfairly attractive man.
He’s tall and built like someone who makes a living using his body. He’s probably running shirtless just to remind the world that some people have abs. I, of course, immediately hate him on principle. People who go for shirtless jogs in broad daylight must have ulterior motives—likely nefarious ones.
He leans against my doorframe as if this is the most normal way to interact with strangers, an easy grin on his face, cocky in a manner that shouldn’t be this charming but definitely is.
“Hey, new neighbor,” he says as if we’re old friends catching up rather than strangers in a home invasion meet-cute situation.
I blink. My brain stalls.
He pulls his shirt from where it was tucked into his shorts—why was it there? Who does that?—and instead of putting it on like a civilized human, he uses it to wipe the sweat off his forehead. The movement emphasizes his broad shoulders, tanned skin, and the sheen of sweat gliding down his collarbone like a scene straight out of some very sexy action movie starring Chris Evans if he were a very tall redhead.
“Hey, have you seen my pup?”
I clear my throat, willing my brain to reboot. “You mean the big red blur that just broke into my house?”
“That would be the one.” His grin widens, and—oh no. It’s the smirk of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing and can already tell I’m at least somewhat interested. Which I’m definitely not.
He tilts his head, looking past me. “Looks like she likes your place. Congrats. You’ve been chosen.”
I turn. The dog has flopped onto my kitchen floor, sprawled out dramatically like a queen claiming her throne.
Aspen, who has been alarmingly silent throughout this interaction, finally regains the ability to articulate words.
“So, uh.” She glances at me, then at the guy, then back to me. So. Fucking. Hot, she mouths before clearing her throat and feigning casual interest. “I’m Aspen. This is Olivia. You live around here?”
“No,” I say immediately. “Don’t make friends with strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger,” Mr. Hot Abs replies smoothly. “I’m your next-door neighbor, Olivia.”
My name slips from his tongue like a tease, as if he’s already decided we’re going to be on a first-name basis.
I cross my arms. “Your dog broke into my house.”
“Technically,” he counters, his eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement, “you left your door open. So, really, she just . . . walked in. Uninvited, sure. But can you blame her? It’s hot as fuck out.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you saying it’s my fault your dog trespassed?”
“I’m saying,” he states, flashing another overly perfect grin, “perhaps you should take it as a compliment. Sarah doesn’t trust just anyone.”
I glance back at the so-called escape artist, who is currently lounging in my kitchen as if she has lived here her whole life. Her tail wags.
I exhale. “Sarah?” Seriously, who names their dog Sarah? It’s a too-person-like name. I get Sadie, Luna—it’s the most popular dog name in my other practice—maybe even Penny. Sarah . . . it’s odd. He’s strange, even when he’s hot. Too hot.
He nods. “Yes, Sarah. My Vizsla. Escape artist. Professional napper. Stealer of hearts.”
My gaze drifts back to him. The sweat. The grin. The way his voice lingers just enough to make it feel intentional.
I fold my arms. “And you are?”
“Lucian,” he says, offering his hand like we’re in some formal business exchange. I don’t take it. His smirk deepens like he enjoys my resistance. “Lucian Crawford.”
Crawford. The last name tugs at something in the back of my mind, like a word stuck on the tip of my tongue. I shake his hand. “I’m Olivia.”
Aspen squints at him, head tilting in curiosity. “Lucian Crawford?” She taps her chin. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
He shrugs. “Maybe?” It’s a very trying-to-look-cool yet arrogant shrug as if he expects her—or me—to fall at his feet and say something like, “It’s you. I never thought this moment would ever come.” In his dreams.
Aspen taps her chin, deep in thought. Maybe, just maybe, she does know him. She believes she knows everything and everyone since she travels around the world, learning about history, life, and… she’s some kind of filmmaker who has won awards for her documentaries. Yet, I still don’t fully understand what she actually does for a living.
And then, like a lightbulb moment, she gasps, grabbing my arm with the strength of a woman about to deliver the biggest revelation of the century.
“Oh my God,” she sing-songs. “You’re Luc Crawford.”
His grin stretches wider, like this is the reaction he’s used to getting. Like he’s some big deal, and my sister is about to drool all over him.
“You’re one of Leif’s younger brothers,” Aspen announces. “You look different. Did you get a haircut or something?”
And just like that, I watch his ego deflate in real time.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
“Umm, yeah, that’d be me.” He clears his throat, his bravado slipping slightly. “So . . . I take it you’re a hockey fan, then?”
I scrunch my nose. “What does hockey have to do with anything?”
Also, when did my sister become friends with a guy like this? And why does she look so smug about it?
She shakes her head. “Nope. I don’t like sports. I’m Hailey’s friend. Leif’s fiancée We met when your niece Luna was born.”
Oh, that makes a lot more sense. I do know Hailey, but I haven’t met Luna. I’ve seen her in pictures. Does that count? She’s an adorable baby girl. Aspen is trying to fight her way into being a godmother, but the father’s sister seems to be a lot more headstrong than Aspen. I must meet this woman because no one can be more than my sister in anything.
His gaze flicks to her, something clicking into place. “Right. I remember now. You and Scottie are fighting for the title of the best aunt in the world. Hail is helping you edit or produce or something, right?”
“And you catch a ball, run with it, or something, right?” Aspen deadpans, as if his job is merely a side hustle.
Lucian’s eyes gleam with amusement. “That’s the rumor. People prefer to call it football.”
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Crawford Family Playbook - Recommended Reading Order
(standalone stories with interconnected characters)
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