GIVEAWAY and EXCERPT: Off Chance by Sawyer Bennett
Published on October 21, 2013 Genres: Contemporary, Romance
He is seeking absolution.
Flynn Caldwell has a hero complex and it’s one of the reasons he joined the New York City Fire Department. He has spent his entire professional career trying to atone for that one person he failed to save. Because, if he can do that, then perhaps he can be worthy of love again.
She is seeking escape.
Rowan Page’s life is nothing short of a disaster. Always immersed in trouble, she has only herself to depend on. She’s determined to pull herself out of this mess and make something of her life, despite the hard years she has lived on the streets of New York.
Together, they have the chance to become complete.
Flynn and Rowan’s worlds exist miles apart, but when a chance meeting brings them together, neither of them can deny the instant pull that connects them to each other. What starts as a tiny spark eventually flares into a fire so hot, it refuses to be extinguished.
Both are willing to jump feet first into the flames to see where it takes them, despite the risk of being burned.
EXCERPT FROM OFF CHANCE
After silently watching for a few minutes, I ask, “Okay, here’s a question for you… what’s that yellow line on the field?”
Fil doesn’t answer me so I poke her in the ribs. “Teach me, Yoda.”
She looks at me with frustration and then looks back at the TV. “That splits the field in half.”
“Liar,” I hear from the doorway and I turn to see Flynn there with a plate of pie in his hand.
Fil turns around and looks guilty for just a second, then her face splits into a grin. “Busted.”
“Wait… that line doesn’t split the field in half?” I ask, because that made damn good sense to me.
Chuckling, Flynn walks in and comes over to the couch. “Scoot down,” he says.
I try to move to the left, but Fil is ignoring me in favor of the football game. I jab her in the ribs again, she moves over a quarter of an inch, and I move along with her. It gives enough room for Flynn to jam his body in between the end of the couch and me, and the heat of his leg against mine sends my pulse dancing.
He takes the last bite of pie and sets the plate down on the coffee table. After he swallows, he says, “Okay… the yellow line represents the first down marker. You do understand the concept of downs, right?”
“Sort of,” I tell him. “Not really. And what’s the blue line?”
“That’s the line of scrimmage,” Flynn says and, before he can explain further, Fil lets out a curse. “I can’t believe he got sacked. The offensive line sucks.”
“What’s a sack?” I ask.
Flynn chuckles. “Slow down there, Speedy. One question at a time.”
He takes my hand and turns it palm up. “Here’s the easiest way to understand it. See these two lines running parallel on your palm?”
I glance down and his fingertip traces two of my lifelines, which do indeed run exactly parallel across my hand. The feel of his skin against mine causes me to shiver slightly and I’m mesmerized by the movement.
“Yeah,” I say and it feels like it comes out in a croak.
“So, this line right here is the line of scrimmage. It’s where the offensive line starts and the quarterback will be roughly in the middle of the line.” Flynn traces the line of scrimmage on my palm and then taps the area where the quarterback would stand.
“And this here,” he says, as he runs his finger across the other line. “This is the first down line. This is the distance, which is ten yards, that the offensive line has to get the ball to be able to advance further. They have four tries to get there… and those are called downs.”
I want to know more, not because I give a shit about football but because I want Flynn to keep holding my hand and tracking patterns on my skin. Which is decidedly not within the purview of a regular friendship.
“And a sack?” I remind him.
He pushes his index finger into my palm and holds it there. “When the quarterback starts the play at the line of scrimmage, he will most times step backward to get some distance from the defensive players that are coming toward him. If at any time they get him behind this line,” and here he pauses to drag his finger across my palm, “that is called a sack. Understand?”
“Yes,” I say but really, no. I don’t remember a damn thing he just told me and could care less. I am, though, trying to think of other questions to ask so he can teach me more palm football.
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