Series: Sydney Smoke Rugby #1
on July 18th, 2016
Genres: Contemporary Romance, Second Chance Romance, Sports
Buy on Amazon
I received this book for free from in exchange for an honest review. This does not affect my opinion of the book or the content of my review.
In this grudge match, the first to scoreÔÇª
When style columnist Matilda Kent accidentally lets slip that she was once involved with the captain of the Sydney Smoke rugby team, she suddenly finds herself elevated to the position sheÔÇÖs always wanted ÔÇô feature writer. The catch? SheÔÇÖs stuck doing a six-part series on her ex. Still, thereÔÇÖs no way she can turn down a promotionÔÇªor the chance to dish the dirt on the guy who so callously broke her heart.
ÔÇªcould win it all!
Tanner Stone wants to be involved in a feature series about as much as he wants to snap an Achilles. But the thought of seeing Tilly again is a bonusÔÇöand has him more worked up than he wants to admit. Only heÔÇÖs not prepared for how different she is ÔÇô all cool and professional. His Tilly is still in there, thoughÔÇªand he still wants her, now more than ever. All he has to do is charm her into giving him a rematch. And this time, winner takes all!
Playing by Her Rules is one of those books that sneak up on you and surprise you with it’s amazing-ness. I’m a lover of sports romanceÔÇöhockey, football, soccer, baseballÔÇö but never before have I read about Rugby, and let me tell you, I’m so very glad I finally did!
This is one of the best second chance romances I have read in a while, and the fact that it was also a sports romance┬áwas just the icing on the cake.
Matilda and┬áTanner were high school sweetheartsÔÇöhe was the jock while she was the nerdy girl not bothering to try to be popular. They were happy, imagining a future together, until one decision made by Tanner ruined it allÔÇöruined Matilda.
Eight years later, Tanner is a famous rugby star and Matilda a successful journalist. And yet, while both are successful, they have never actually gotten over one another. And as fate wants it, Matilda is tasked with writing a six-piece feature story on Tanner the Rugby star. But being near one another again, brings not only old memories back, but also feelings of love, longing, and hurt. Can they find a way back to one another? Or is Tanner too late and the hurt he inflicted too deep?
“I’ve waited eight years for this, and I’m not wasting another minute. this isn’t maybe love or probably love or even definitely love anymore. This is┬áforever┬álove, and I want that to start right here, right now. Today.”
I loved this story. While it’s an old tale, I loved the new interpretation Amy Andrews took with it. Also, Rugby players are HOT! Who knew?
I loved both characters. Matilda was strong, independent, and not afraid to show her hurt and vulnerability to Tanner. Throughout the story, we were able┬áto experience how she grows from someone who was deeply hurt, to someone who can trust again. Naturally, she made some mistakes along the way, but she was never in denial about them, which is a quality I adore with my heroines.
And TannerÔÇöholy hotnessÔÇöas soon as Matilda walked back into his life all bets were off and he needed her back. Sadly, he was unaware just how deeply he hurt her in the past. But I was happy to see how he fought for her and never gave up, even when she pushed him away in a rather cruel way. He was strong and persuasive, and yet he never disregarded or played down the hurt he caused, nor was he afraid to show his vulnerable side. I do love my alphas to show some emotions besides horniness.
I┬áloved this book and cannot wait for more from the boys of Sydney Smoke. The characters were well-developed and lovable. I was right there with each of them, experiencing their emotions due to the superb writing. I just wish┬áPlaying by Her Rules┬áwas longer.
So if you’re in need of a sexy second chance romance, don’t look too far and give┬áPlaying by Her Rules a try. You won’t be disappointed.
~Review by Anja
If Matilda Kent had to write one more story about the latest nipple-baring bustier or test drive the newest crotchless thongs marketed to the ÔÇ£everyday womanÔÇØ for the edification of her style column readers, she was going to strangle her boss with them.
Seriously, who paid a hundred bucks for a scrap of satin and lace that didnÔÇÖt cover all the bits underwear was invented to cover? A tiny string of fake pearls slung across the divide just didnÔÇÖt make up for the lack of fabric in a certain area. And why would someone wear them anyway? On a date maybe. But for work? Or binge watching Netflix? Or cooking a lamb roast?
Or any of those everyday woman things?
She clicked and unclicked her pen absently as she focused on keeping everything below the boardroom table very, very still in the hope those pearls would stay lax and not encroach on areas where it might result in an embarrassing urge to itch. Or possibly orgasm. In the middle of an editorial meeting.
This was not where sheÔÇÖd imagined four years studying English Lit at Stanford would land her.
ÔÇ£Matilda. Must you?ÔÇØ
She stopped clicking the pen and tuned in to the half dozen faces peering at her, including Imelda Herron, her hard-as-nails boss, whoÔÇÖd been in the newspaper business since God was a child.
ÔÇ£Sorry,ÔÇØ she muttered, placing her pen on the table as Imelda continued.
But it was seriously difficult to listen to celebrity names being thrown around for a feature series while concentrating on her almost nonexistent underwear. Normally, she could multi-task her ass off, but the threat of imminent invasion of her lady garden by a foreign object was distracting beyond all reason.
If she was going to be violated, sheÔÇÖd rather it be consensual.
ÔÇ£Him,ÔÇØ somebody toward the end of the table pronounced. ÔÇ£ThatÔÇÖs who IÔÇÖd like to know more about.ÔÇØ
Heads swivelled in the direction of the muted wall-mounted television displaying footage of a football team. The camera zeroed in on Tanner StoneÔÇöor Slick as the media called himÔÇöthe captain of the Sydney Smoke rugby team.
MatildaÔÇÖs pulse spiked. Tanner freaking Stone. A close-up of him shirtless, bending and stretching, his perfect, tight ass in the air, almost made her forget there were pearls in places they had no right to be.
And the fact he was a lying, cheating scumbag whoÔÇÖd stomped on her heart, turned her into a romantic cynic at the tender age of eighteen, and caused her to sabotage every relationship sheÔÇÖd ever had with a man.
He was the reason her grandmother kept bitching at her about the lack of great-grandbabies.
Matilda would have liked to think she was mature enough now to be over him. Sadly, she wasnÔÇÖt that evolved. The wound may have healed, but it wasnÔÇÖt all neat and perfect. It was jagged and messy and if you poked it, it still hurt from time to time.
ÔÇ£I wouldnÔÇÖt mind being rucked by him,ÔÇØ someone muttered.
Matilda glanced around at the general murmur of agreement and tried not to remember how good the man rucked.
He had set a very high standard.
A surge of heat and oestrogen flooded her system at the avalanche of memories. Looking around at the lascivious gazes, she doubted she was the only one experiencing a hot flush.
ÔÇ£He doesnÔÇÖt give interviews,ÔÇØ someone else lamented.
ÔÇ£He might now,ÔÇØ Imelda nodded as the screen split in two.
One side was still unhelpfully focused on a pair of glutes that would have made Michelangelo weep. The other showed Bonner Hayden, a recently disgraced rugby player from another team, dashing to his car through a mob of reporters. HeÔÇÖd gotten drunk and disorderly and exposed himself to a waitress in front of an entire restaurant and about forty camera phones.
It had been the latest in a series of embarrassing incidents for the sport.
The attention in the room switched back to Imelda.
ÔÇ£RugbyÔÇÖs had a bit of an annus horribilis,ÔÇØ she explained. ÔÇ£Their image is pretty crap at the moment. Particularly with women. They might be amenable to a feature series on one of their best and brightestÔÇöthe ÔÇÿman behind the mythÔÇÖ kind of thing.ÔÇØ
The heat coiled and simmered in MatildaÔÇÖs gut now. ÔÇ£HeÔÇÖs hardly squeaky clean,ÔÇØ she objected. Best and brightest? Screw that. ÔÇ£The manÔÇÖs had more barely-dressed women on his arm than Hugh bloody Heffner.ÔÇØ
Matilda didnÔÇÖt watch sport, and she avoided gossip magazines, but she did work on a newspaperÔÇöit was impossible to avoid stories and pictures of the one man it seemed everyone wanted a piece of.
ÔÇ£So? The manÔÇÖs a bit of a playboy. HeÔÇÖs hot, single, and likes pretty girls.ÔÇØ Imelda shrugged. ÔÇ£But thereÔÇÖs never been a whiff of scandal surrounding him, and at the moment, that seems to be a bit of a rarity in the sport. I think the rugby board might be willing to offer up a sacrificial lamb, no matter how reluctant, to restore its image, if we pitched it just right.ÔÇØ
Imelda tapped a finger with a long scarlet nail against her lips for a beat or two before wandering over to the large windows, every eye in the room tracking her path. The offices of the Standard were high in the sky with a one-eighty degree view of central Sydney. Imelda stopped as if she was admiring the sparkling harbour and the white sails of the famous opera house, but Matilda had been around long enough to know that Imelda wasnÔÇÖt seeing any of it. She could hear the cogs in her bossÔÇÖs brain working overtime.
ÔÇ£Sydney SmokeÔÇÖs Playboy Saint,ÔÇØ she said, turning to face them abruptly, looking into the distance as if she could see the headline up in lights somewhere.
Matilda snorted before she could stop herself. ÔÇ£You wouldnÔÇÖt think that if you knew him.ÔÇØ
A saint? Tanner Stone was the anti-Christ.
The rapt focus of the group switched instantly to Matilda, zeroing in on her as if she were roadkill and they were birds of prey. The atmosphere in the room grew predatory.
ÔÇ£Oh, really?ÔÇØ Imelda purred, pushing away from the windows and prowling toward her with all the grace and menace of a jungle cat about to pounce. ÔÇ£Do tell.ÔÇØ
Matilda swallowed. She hated being put on the spot, and sucked at lying. Her ears were hot and no doubt an attractive shade of red, which her pixie haircut would fail to mask. ÔÇ£WeÔÇªsort of dated.ÔÇØ
A collective gasp rang around the room. ÔÇ£It was a long time ago,ÔÇØ she hastened to add. ÔÇ£In high school. But IÔÇÖm here to tell you that Tanner Stone is a world class jerk.ÔÇØ
That seemed to be of little concern to her colleagues, who bombarded her with questions. ÔÇ£What was he like in high school?ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£Was he romantic?ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£How long were you together?ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£Oh my God,ÔÇØ one of the marketing women whispered, ÔÇ£please tell me heÔÇÖs a good kisser. He has to be with that mouth.ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£Oh, screw kissing,ÔÇØ the ruck girl said dismissively. ÔÇ£I want to know if his legendary ball control extends to the bedroom.ÔÇØ
Matilda blinked at the barrage of questions. There was no way in hell she was telling anybody about TannerÔÇÖs ball control. She wanted this day to be over already, and it was only ten a.m. She wanted to go home, take off the ridiculous scrap of fabric and pearls masquerading as underwear, put on her favourite hipsters, and drown herself in a vat of wine.
Imelda held up her hand and everyone magically shushed. Matilda wished that would be an end to it, but she knew her boss too well. Her narrowed, speculative gaze felt like it was probing MatildaÔÇÖs brain with about as much finesse as a cavity search.
ÔÇ£Good.ÔÇØ Imelda nodded and smiled to herself as if sheÔÇÖd come to a decision. ÔÇ£Matilda, youÔÇÖve been wanting to move out of fashion and onto features for some time now. HereÔÇÖs your chance. I want a six-part series on Tanner Stone. The man behind the myth.ÔÇØ
Matilda gaped at her boss. For almost five years now sheÔÇÖd been slogging away at the newspaper. Her impressive academic qualifications hadnÔÇÖt meant squat once sheÔÇÖd gotten her foot in the door, and sheÔÇÖd worked hard to move up the ladder. Landing the style column two years ago had been a bit of a coup for someone of only twenty-four, but it was just a stepping-stone. Feature writer was where she wanted to be.
The jewel in the crown.
Now, it seemed, it was being handed to herÔÇöwith a giant freaking string attached. Suddenly, bustiers and crotchless knickers looked pretty damn good.
ÔÇ£No. No. Hell no.ÔÇØ She shook her head vehemently. She wasnÔÇÖt putting herself in the way of that train wreck again. ÔÇ£You want me to do a feature story? IÔÇÖve got plenty ideas. IÔÇÖve pitched a dozen to you over the last year alone.ÔÇØ
Her colleagues looked at her askance. Nobody ever said no to Imelda. MatildaÔÇÖs pulse hammered madly at her own audacity. But everyone had a line in the sand, and Tanner was hers.
Imelda didnÔÇÖt do or say anything for long moments, her gaze firmly fixed on Matilda. The lifting of one elegantly arched eyebrow broke the screaming tension. ÔÇ£We could, of course, transfer you to obituaries. Hank is always complaining heÔÇÖs understaffed.ÔÇØ
Fuckity, fuckity fuck. Matilda didnÔÇÖt doubt for a moment that Imelda would carry through on the not so subtle warning. She wasnÔÇÖt someone who made idle threats.
So she was screwed, either way.
At least if she submitted to ImeldaÔÇÖs manipulations and delivered a stunning series, she could leapfrog right into the features team. Use it to her advantage.
If she played her cards right. ButÔÇª
Tanner freaking Stone?
She shifted in the chair, desperately trying to think of an escape route, the damn pearls reminding her how far away she was from where she wanted to be.
ÔÇ£He wonÔÇÖt agree to it,ÔÇØ she said, prepared to grab hold of any lifeline.
ÔÇ£You let me worry about that.ÔÇØ
MatildaÔÇÖs sigh was loud and mournful as her shoulders sagged. There was no way out of this but to quit or write about dead people for the rest of her natural life. Neither option was viable with a mortgage the size of hers.
Imelda smiled triumphantly, knowing she had Matilda right where she wanted her. ÔÇ£IÔÇÖll set it up.ÔÇØ
Fuckity, fuckity fuck.
ÔÇ£You know what this poker game needs?ÔÇØ
Tanner Stone looked up from dealing the last card just as Ryder Davis said, ÔÇ£A better dealer?ÔÇØ and threw his hand down in disgust.
ÔÇ£Chicks,ÔÇØ Lincoln Quinn continued as he picked up his hand.
Dexter Blake laughed. ÔÇ£Linc,ÔÇØ he said, ÔÇ£if you had any more chicks, you could start your own egg farm. You need to slow down, man, or youÔÇÖre going to wear that thing out.ÔÇØ
Linc grinned. ÔÇ£Better worn out then neglected, Dex.ÔÇØ
The good-natured insult rolled off DexÔÇÖs shoulders. ÔÇ£ItÔÇÖs called discerning, dickhead. You ought to try it some time.ÔÇØ
Donovan Bane whistled. ÔÇ£Discerning. Look at you go with your big words, Dex.ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£Not all football players are young, dumb, and full of come,ÔÇØ Dex said.
ÔÇ£Just the ones called Linc,ÔÇØ Ryder chimed in, and everyone, including Linc, laughed.
ÔÇ£What exactly do you think these chicks youÔÇÖre always running off at the mouth about would do if they were here, Linc?ÔÇØ Bodie Webb asked as he scrutinised the cards in his hand.
ÔÇ£I donÔÇÖt know.ÔÇØ Linc shrugged. ÔÇ£Look good, smell good. Get our beers. Stroke our egos?ÔÇØ
Dex snorted. ÔÇ£Man, you are young, dumb, and full of come.ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£As if your ego needs any more stroking,ÔÇØ Ryder added. ÔÇ£If it took form and shape right now in front of us, itÔÇÖd be a giant hard-on.ÔÇØ
Tanner laughed. He loved poker night. Cold beer, hot pizza, and talking smack. Nothing like relaxing with his fellow team members, far away from the field and the scrutiny of coaches, team officials, the public, and the bloody media. It was usually just the single guys that made it, but it was team building at its best, and as captain, Tanner took team solidarity seriously.
The Sydney Smoke were tight, both on and off the field. It was what made them so damn formidable.
ÔÇ£Poker nightÔÇÖs dudes only,ÔÇØ he said, staring at three aces and two kings. ÔÇ£Now are we going to play or not?ÔÇØ
TannerÔÇÖs mobile rang, and the whole table groaned.
ÔÇ£Hey,ÔÇØ Donovan bitched. ÔÇ£You make us switch ours off.ÔÇØ
Tanner grinned as he picked up the phone. ÔÇ£ItÔÇÖs good to be king.ÔÇØ The name display flashed Griffin. The other King in his life. ÔÇ£Crap,ÔÇØ he said. ÔÇ£ItÔÇÖs the coach.ÔÇØ
He picked it up instantly. It had to be something reasonably important. Poker nights were sacred, and the coach knew it.
ÔÇ£Griff?ÔÇØ Tanner said, sliding the phone to his ear, rocking back on the chairÔÇÖs hind legs. ÔÇ£Everything okay?ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£No, everything is not okay,ÔÇØ he growled. ÔÇ£Apparently now IÔÇÖm your publicist as well.ÔÇØ
Griffin King was not known for his tolerance. He was known for being one of the best rugby players the country had ever seen, and then for the being the best damn rugby coach in existence. He was known for being a hard taskmaster. He was known for his singular focus on his team and the game, and he hated anything that distracted or detracted from it.
Fripperies he called them. Griffin King hated the fripperies.
ÔÇ£What do you mean?ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£YouÔÇÖre to make yourself available for a newspaper reporter whoÔÇÖs been granted an all-access pass to training, the locker room, and the games, both here and on the road. ItÔÇÖs a six-part series on youÔÇöthe man behind the myth bullshit.ÔÇØ
TannerÔÇÖs chair thunked onto all fours. ÔÇ£The hell I am.ÔÇØ
Looks were exchanged across the table at TannerÔÇÖs vehement response. Not many people spoke back to Griff. Not even his captain.
ÔÇ£You think I give one single fuck about any of this crap?ÔÇØ Griff bitched in his ear. ÔÇ£You think itÔÇÖs my fault that some players go out on the town full of piss and wind and think their shit doesnÔÇÖt stink? You think I like getting phone calls from a CEO too chickenshit to do his own dirty work and tell you this himself?ÔÇØ
It was also well known that Griff had no tolerance for the suits at the top. ThereÔÇÖd been a few over the last ten years that would have gleefully thrown him out of union. But no sports team gets rid of its most successful coach.
ÔÇ£So, because of Bonner Hayden and a bunch of other fuckwits who canÔÇÖt keep their dicks in their pants and their egos on the leash, I have to kiss up to some journo?ÔÇØ
Tanner knew that rugby needed the media, and he and the team did all that was contractually required of them. But he didnÔÇÖt believe in singling one player out from the others. One man did not make a rugby team. And heÔÇÖd seen too many words twisted in the media over the years to want anything to do with a six-part feature.
ÔÇ£Yep. Suits have decided youÔÇÖre their man. So go do what you have to do, play nice with the journo, and donÔÇÖt fuck it up, for Chrissakes.ÔÇØ
Tanner shook his head. They couldnÔÇÖt be serious. ÔÇ£Look GriffÔÇöÔÇØ
ÔÇ£IÔÇÖm not asking,ÔÇØ the coach interrupted, with a voice that could have frozen a bubbling cauldron. ÔÇ£IÔÇÖm telling you. This is one of those pain-in-the-ass, non-negotiable things you do for the love of the sport and because I fucking asked you to.ÔÇØ
Tanner pulled the phone away slightly as Griff spewed fire and brimstone into his ear. He looked around at five sets of eyes, the owners of which werenÔÇÖt even pretending not to listen.
Fucking perfect. Just what he needed. A journo hanging around asking inane questions about shit that did not matter while he was trying to win rugby matches.
Six frickinÔÇÖ parts.
ÔÇ£Fine,ÔÇØ he snapped, knowing he was up shit creek without a paddle. ÔÇ£Which paper? WhoÔÇÖs the reporter?ÔÇØ
He knew most of the ones that covered the sports desks already. They were okay, by and large. Chuck Nugent was a monumental wanker who knew shit about the intricacies of the game, but he was television-based on account of his apparently pretty face, so at least heÔÇÖd likely be spared that dipshit.
ÔÇ£ItÔÇÖs the Standard. Someone called Matilda Kent.ÔÇØ
Tanner was pleased he was sitting as Griff tossed that particular grenade at him.
No. No frickinÔÇÖ way. His Tilly? His high school sweetheart, the woman heÔÇÖd lost his virginity to? The only woman heÔÇÖd ever had a real relationship with?
The woman heÔÇÖd hurt with possibly the most dickish thing heÔÇÖd ever done in his life?
He knew she was at the Standard. HeÔÇÖd been following her career from afar since she landed back in Sydney straight from Stanford. But she was doing a style columnÔÇöhe knew that because he read it every day. How was she suddenly doing a six-part feature series? On him?
Tanner realised he was listening to the dial tone with no idea when Griff had hung up. He didnÔÇÖt like the way his lungs felt too big for his chest, or the taut bunch of his muscles in his abdomen.
ÔÇ£Fuck.ÔÇØ He threw the phone on the table, picked up his three-quarter full, long-necked beer, and drained it in a half dozen swallows.
Nobody said anything while he drank. But Linc liked the sound of his voice too much to let the silence continue once the bottle hit the table.
ÔÇ£You get caught on camera with your dick out, too?ÔÇØ he asked.
Bodie cuffed Linc across the back of the head as he said, ÔÇ£You okay, cap? You look kind of pale?ÔÇØ
Dex glanced at him. He was calm and collected as usualÔÇöoff field. On field, the big guy had perfected a menacing look specifically designed to make his opponents piss their pants. ÔÇ£Problem?ÔÇØ
Oh, yeah. Big problem.
ÔÇ£Suits want me to co-operate with a journo for a six-part feature series. The man behind the myth kinda thing.ÔÇØ
Dex whistled. ÔÇ£Fun. Not.ÔÇØ
About as much fun as a root canal.
ÔÇ£WhoÔÇÖs the journo?ÔÇØ Ryder asked.
Tanner picked at the label on his beer bottle. ÔÇ£Matilda Kent.ÔÇØ
It took less than five seconds for realisation to dawn around the table. ÔÇ£Hey,ÔÇØ Linc said. ÔÇ£IsnÔÇÖt she that chick you read in the paper every day? The fashion chick?ÔÇØ
Fuck. It had to be Linc. ÔÇ£SheÔÇÖs a style columnist.ÔÇØ
Linc laughed and everyone else grinned. ÔÇ£Sorry there, Slick. IÔÇÖm not up on all the jargon.ÔÇØ
Tanner had tried to convince his teammates, when theyÔÇÖd sprung him last year with the fashion pages, that he only did it because he liked to dress slick. They hadnÔÇÖt been convinced but had thought it was hilarious enough to start calling him Slick.
Unfortunately, it had stuck and been adopted by the public and media alike. Something about the alliteration of Slick and Stone had obviously appealed.
Lucky for him, people outside the team assumed it was because of how slippery he was on the field or how slick he was with the ladies. But, no, it was from following his high school sweetheartÔÇÖs writing career.
He sure as hell didnÔÇÖt want that one going public.
ÔÇ£ThatÔÇÖs because youÔÇÖre a walking fashion disaster,ÔÇØ Tanner quipped.
ÔÇ£So whatÔÇÖs the problem?ÔÇØ Ryder asked. ÔÇ£SheÔÇÖs a chick who writes a style column. Make up some shit, bamboozle her with your famous charm, and send her on her way.ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£The problem isÔÇªÔÇØ Tanner figured it was best to come clean with the guys about his relationship with Matilda. It was bound to come out, and heÔÇÖd never hear the bloody end of it. ÔÇ£We used to go out. In high school.ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£Ah,ÔÇØ Dex grinned. ÔÇ£Now it all makes sense.ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£Oh, come on, cap. It was high school,ÔÇØ Ryder said dismissively. ÔÇ£How bad can it be? I swear youÔÇÖre the only person I know who can dump a chick and still have them talk about how sweet you are all over social media.ÔÇØ
Tanner shook his head. ÔÇ£Not this one. I cheated on this one.ÔÇØ Or at least sheÔÇÖd thought he had, anyway.
Donovan winced. ÔÇ£Ouch.ÔÇØ
Bodie also winced. ÔÇ£Sucks to be you.ÔÇØ
ÔÇ£Dead meat.ÔÇØ Linc grinned. ÔÇ£I call shotgun on your apartment, though. This is one cool setup.ÔÇØ
TannerÔÇÖs apartment was situated on Finger Wharf, right on the harbour at Woolloomooloo. A century ago, wool was exported from the timber-pile wharf. A lot had changed.
ÔÇ£Shotgun his four wheel drive,ÔÇØ Donovan said.
ÔÇ£Shotgun his locker,ÔÇØ Bodie jumped in.
ÔÇ£Bullshit, thatÔÇÖs mine,ÔÇØ Dex said.
ÔÇ£I called shotgun first,ÔÇØ Bodie protested.
ÔÇ£You canÔÇÖt handle his locker,ÔÇØ Dex countered.
If heÔÇÖd been in a better mood, Tanner would have laughed at them squabbling over his stuff like a pack of seagulls. But right now, all he could think about was a cute ponytail and a pair of adorable horn-rimmed glasses.
WhyÔÇÖd it have to be Tilly?