Nice Guys Don't Win (The Boys #2) by Micalea Smeltzer



Blurb





Nice Guys Don’t Win





When I agreed to be his roommate, I had no way of knowing that Cole Anderson was one of my father’s star players.

Having transferred to Aldridge University for my junior year, I wasn’t familiar with anyone on campus.

If there’s one rule I’ve always been supposed to follow it’s don’t date a basketball player.

Cole is different, though, and I don’t want to stay away.

But when he finds out I’m the coach’s daughter I might not have any say in the matter.





© Copyright 2021 Micalea Smeltzer

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Design © Emily Wittig Designs

Cover Photo © Regina Wamba

Editing: KBM Editing

Formatting: Micalea Smeltzer





1





Cole





I think I’m going to commit murder.

“What do you mean you can’t live with me? I already signed the lease. I can’t back out now. Fuck, man, I can only afford this place with you paying half the rent.”

Teddy, one of my good friends, scratches the back of his head giving me a sheepish smile. “Yeah, well, you see. My parents were going to be paying for it, not me, and I kinda fucked up and they’re cutting me off. Apparently, they think I’ll be less of a headache and pain in their ass if I have to live on campus. Something about not partying and fucking everything that moves. Like are they kidding, that’s worse on campus, but when I tried to tell them that they thought I was just bullshitting them.”

I stand frozen, taking in his long-winded explanation. I don’t care about his excuses, all that matters is I’m moving into my new place today and I can’t afford it without him.

What the fuck am I going to do?

“Teddy.” His name comes out as a growl, and he must realize I’m this close to sucker punching him because he shuts up. For a second at least, then he’s back to running his mouth. It’s the only thing he’s good at besides baseball.

“Look, man, I’m sorry. Believe me. I don’t like dropping this on you now.”

And by now, he means when I’m unloading my shit from the back of my old pickup truck. The run-down black Chevy has seen better days—like back in the 80s. Teddy’s Porsche 911 Turbo in a cobalt blue looks extremely out of place beside it.

“Please tell me you have a goddamn plan in place and a replacement for your sorry ass.”

“Um…” He rubs the side of his head. “No.”

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

“Shit, man. I said I was sorry. Look I’ll help you find a replacement. I doubt they’ll be half as charming, and definitely nowhere near as good looking but I’ll do what I can.” He messes with his shaggy brown hair, clearly nervous and probably still expecting me to punch him.

I should but hitting him would only make me feel better temporarily and that’s not my style anyway.

“I don’t need your help. You’ve already helped enough.”

And by helped, I mean he’s tossed me over a cliff and to the jagged rocks beneath.

I know, I fucking know I could go to my friend Mascen and he’d make sure my costs are covered, but he’s the sole reason I want out on my own so I’m not about to ask him for a fucking favor. Especially one I doubt I’ll ever be able to pay back.

Hefting a box from the back of my pickup, I carry it into the apartment. Teddy, my new Golden Retriever apparently, follows dutifully behind me still muttering about how sorry he is. He doesn’t even make himself useful and carry a box. Typical.

“You don’t understand, I’m walking a fine line with my parents. One more screw up and I’m done, they’re cutting me off for good—like no inheritance forever. If they’re demanding I stay in the dorms, that’s what I’m doing.”

I whip around on the stairs, nearly knocking him down them with the box. My bad—not really. He steadies himself with a hand on the railing.