The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love #2) Read Online Lauren Blakely

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Erotic, Romance, Sports, Virgin Tags Authors: Series: Rules of Love Series by Lauren Blakely

Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love #2)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Lauren Blakely

Book Information:

A sexy standalone forbidden sports romance from #1 'New York Times' Best-seller Lauren Blakely!
The woman I want is as off-limits as they come.
I had an excuse two years ago when I met her on campus. She interviewed me for a story on major league baseball's rising stars, and we shared a hot, passionate night that ended far too soon, and without a mention of who her father was.
Now I know the innocent but sexy woman I can’t stop thinking about is the coach's daughter.
That means her dad is the guy who determines if I bat fourth in the starting lineup in every game, or ride the bench.
All the more reason to resist alluring, confident, brainy Reese every time I run into the reporter-turned-sports publicist.
That ought to be easy enough, until the time she confesses she's still carrying her V card, and she’s been wanting me to cash it in since the day we met.
Staying away from her is going to be harder than resisting a fastball down the middle.
Especially since I'm pretty sure she's the one who got away, and letting her slip through my fingers again would be a rookie mistake.
Books in Series:

Rules of Love Series by Lauren Blakely

Books by Author:

Lauren Blakely

His Prologue

* * *

I’m the guy with a plan.

I know what my days look like, what my nights have in store.

I have a road map for every practice, an agenda for every game, and a strategy for every at bat. I know dates of each home stand and out-of-town series of the season and can tell you where we’re playing in July and what’s on the schedule for September.

When it comes to sports, I leave nothing to chance. I’m the guy who does the research, who hits the hay by eleven, gets up at six, and logs four miles while the sun is rising.

It’s made me who I am today, and I’m pretty damn happy about that.

Games, seasons, championships—those are won with determination, discipline, and heart, for sure.

But never without a plan.

Dating is kind of like that too. It’s good to know where you’re going for dinner, or how to get to your seats at a concert, or who serves the best cocktails in town. Why wing it and worry when, with a little bit of homework, you can show up confident of a good evening?

The way I see it, preparation is about respect. Respect for the game, respect for the woman, and respect for yourself.

My father instilled that philosophy, my mother reinforced it, and so far, that principle has served me well in every aspect of my life.

Nearly every aspect.

There’s one glaring exception.


Not the kind that adheres to rules and gives predictable results, the kind you can study in a lab and shows you what to expect in life. I mean the other kind, which doesn’t repeat patterns or generate statistics to analyze. The kind that defies your careful plans and laughs at any strategy.

That chemistry doesn’t give a flying fuck about schedules. It happens when you have something else entirely on your agenda.

At least, it did the day I met Reese.

I got up that morning with one goal. But then I met her, ditched my plans for the afternoon, and spent it with her instead. When I kissed her at the edge of campus, beneath the twilit sky, under a canopy of trees, the night felt young and possible.

Even though we weren’t. We were worlds apart, absolutely impossible.

That’s how she became my what-if girl.

Not the one who got away, or the one where I fucked up a good thing. We were never a thing to fuck up. We only had one day—hell, less than that.

It was one afternoon. One moment that stays lodged in my mind.

What if I met her at a different time, a different place? What if our paths hadn’t crossed going in opposite directions?

Even almost two years later, I still sometimes wondered what she was doing, where she was, and what the odds were I’d ever meet her again.

Then, incredibly, I do.

And I learn there’s a bigger obstacle between us.

So I have to plan to keep her in the “what-if” category.

Then, Reese reveals a deliciously dirty secret, and all my plans where she’s concerned fall apart in filthy, spectacular style.

Her Prologue

* * *

I didn’t go to the party looking for that guy. The one I couldn’t forget. The one whose kisses ruined me for all other kisses.

I went there for work, to make some contacts. See some new people, forge connections and all that.

Most of all, to do some good, since that’s kind of my thing—why I do what I do.

But then I spotted that guy. Watching, observing, listening. There’s a curve to his lips and an intensity in his dark-green eyes, mixed with some of the vulnerability he showed me that day.

A day I’ve longed to recapture.

Except days aren’t driver’s tests—you can’t retake them. They aren’t video games where you can play again from the save point.

But some guys deserve a retake, are worth a do-over.

That’s certainly the case with Holden Kingsley, the guy who showed me exactly what a knee-weakening, bone-melting kiss could be like. Should be like.

The night I meet him again, I want to think we’re getting a fresh start. That we get a magical do-over, maybe with better timing, a different outcome.

Maybe that guy doesn’t have to be simply a fantastic memory.

He can be my present. We can give in to the lust and the longing, the rabid desire that electrifies us both when we’re together.

We can explore the intense connection, the irresistible pull his heart has on me.

I have big plans for Holden Kingsley. Indeed, I do.

At least, I did.

But there’s more than bad timing standing between us now, and I don’t know if any strategy will be enough to keep us together.


Nearly Two Years Ago



This is the biggest score ever.

So big, so good, so cool that I could squeal.

But I don’t.

Squealing would draw good-natured shaming from my girlfriends, and no one wants their picture taken with a sign saying, “I turn into Minnie Mouse at good news.” Certainly not more than once.