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Praise for Alexa Martin

“Martin is an incredible storyteller and has a unique ability to blend fiction with real-life situations in the sports world.”

—New York Times bestselling author La La Anthony

“The kind of book that’s destined to be passed from friend to friend.”

—PopSugar

“An emotional journey with an intoxicating romance.”

—NPR

“A fun and sexy romance novel set in the sports world.”

—Bustle

“If you like steamy romance with a side of sports, this fun, fast-paced novel is for you.”

—HelloGiggles

“The writing is snappy, the pacing is quick, the romance is sublime, and the humor is off the charts. Alexa Martin delivers a stellar love story, and I can’t wait to see what she writes next.”

—USA Today

“Martin scores a touchdown of a debut with Intercepted, a witty rom-com set in the world of professional football players and their wives.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Fast, fun, and absolutely engaging. A smashing debut!”

—New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins

“Alexa Martin’s books are the ultimate reading escape, filled with fabulous characters; witty, dazzling prose; and swoon-worthy romances.”

—New York Times bestselling author Chanel Cleeton

“Alexa Martin is so good at this; I’m so impressed by how nuanced and thoughtful this book is, while still being hilarious and sexy!”

—New York Times bestselling author Jasmine Guillory

“Alexa Martin is an auto-buy author for me. Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes is a celebration of the strength, joy, and complications of female friendships that span our lifetimes. I will read anything Alexa Martin writes!”

—Lyssa Kay Adams, author of Isn’t It Bromantic?

Titles by Alexa Martin

Mom Jeans and Other Mistakes

Better than Fiction

The Playbook Series

Intercepted

Fumbled

Blitzed

Snapped

Dedication

For my grandma. I miss you every day.

CHAPTER 1

I know it’s not the politically correct thing to say, but school is most definitely for fools.

Listen, I get it. I won’t tell the kids, but I already fell victim to the great con. I was a good student—not full-scholarship good, but solid—went to a decent college, majored in something other than art. And where did it get me?

A high-paying job on Wall Street where I laugh at the peons around me complaining about school debt?

Not even close.

It landed me as the owner of a bookstore I most definitely didn’t want to own, pretending to care while this woman drones on and on about the difference between women’s fiction and romance. But, you know, good thing I aced that AP Chemistry exam.

“I’m so glad you’re able to find something you love here.” I pull out one of my many well-rehearsed responses. I hope it will send her on her way so I can do inventory—or pull out my hair—but then she cuts me off and hits me with something no amount of rehearsal could prepare me for.

“And I want you to know . . .” She reaches over and grabs my hand. I fight the urge to yank it back. Physical touch is def not my love language. “I’m just so sorry about Alice, she was always so kind to me.”

My fingers curl into hers, my aversion to touch temporarily forgotten as I seek the comfort I have yet to find since my grandma passed away a year ago.

“Thank you.” I can’t get the two small words out without my voice breaking. Sympathy swims in the woman’s eyes the same way I’m sure unshed tears are swimming in mine.

The woman, whose name I don’t remember, gives my hand one more gentle squeeze before walking away, off to bury her problems in a book with a happily ever after that’s so elusive to actual humans.

Alice Young was the best person I’ve ever known. The best person anyone has known. Every stranger who walked into her little bookstore walked out with more books than they probably wanted—and a new friend. The Book Nook sells books, obviously, but the real draw was getting to come and chat with Gran. She was wise beyond her seventy-two years and had a way of listening that made you feel like your biggest problem was actually just a pebble in your shoe. She made you feel as if you could accomplish anything. In the age of the e-book conglomerates and chain bookstores dominating the market, the Book Nook never struggled.

Until she left it to me.

It’s not that I have self-esteem issues as much as I know my strengths and weaknesses. And my strength is definitely not sitting with a sympathetic ear and listening to other people’s problems. I’ve never been good at it, but I’m especially terrible at it when my own problems seem so big.

Huge.

Gigantic.

Insurmountable.

Because yeah, this isn’t my dream job or anything, but Gran left the bookstore to me. And sure, sales were through the roof the first couple of months after she passed away, with well-wishers coming to show their support. But now that the months have crawled by, people are going back to their lives. Unfortunately for me, that doesn’t include spending money at a store where Alice no longer greets them with her cheerful smile and welcoming ear.

If I don’t figure it out soon, I will lose the only tangible link I have left to my grandma.

On that thought, the bell above the front door rings and I look just in time to see Collette, Vivian, Mona, Ethel, and Beth file through the front door.

Oh shit.

I really need to check my calendar more often.

“Drew!” Mona’s voice bounces off the overstuffed bookshelves. Even at seventy, she strides through the store in her trademark three-inch stilettos, which make my feet wince. Her gray hair has not a strand out of place and her pink-painted lips stand out on her pale, gently wrinkled face, which has aged gracefully over the years. “What are you doing standing over here looking all sad? Is it because you’re wearing those sandals again?”

“The way you come for me every time you see me is still completely unnecessary, Mona.” We live in Colorado: Birkenstocks are not only a completely reasonable footwear choice; it’s practically mandatory for all Denverites to own a pair.

Also, it’s still strange for me to call her Mona instead of Mrs. Fuller, but as I transitioned into adulthood, she insisted that I call her by her first name only. It’s weird, but I acquiesced. Respect your elders and all that jazz.

It is kind of nice to feel like I’m on an even field with them now. Even though they’re a lot older than me, they’re still the coolest people I know.

“Coming for you? I just want you to join us and sit with some old ladies for a little while.”

“Well, if you insist.” I play it cool, but there’s actually not a chance in hell I’d ever pass on the opportunity to listen to them very self-righteously talk shit about every person they know.

I aspire to be just like them when I grow up.

Minus the book club, obvi. Maybe I’ll start a podcast club or something.

She links her arm through mine. Her nearly translucent skin is a stark contrast against my golden-brown skin.

“How’s Mr. Fuller?” I always ask about her husband of almost fifty years when I see her.

“Old and cranky. Happy golfing weather has returned, though not as happy as I am to get him out of the house.” The snide words don’t match the dreamy look that crosses her face whenever his name is mentioned.

I love seeing how happy she still is. My best friend, Elsie, married her high school sweetheart before she could even legally drink—I still tease her relentlessly for her sparkling grape juice toasts—and is blissfully happy with four kids. As for me, however, I’m very much not into the idea of marriage.

I don’t even like myself half the time and you’re telling me it’s a good idea to latch myself on to one other person until death do we freaking part? Or more likely, until they cheat, get bored, or whatever other reason fifty percent of marriages end in divorce.

Yeah. No thank you.

It’s probably a good thing I have no interest in marriage. I’m not fighting off a swarm of potential suitors. Apparently my winning personality isn’t doing it for them.

Their loss.

When we reach the back corner of the bookstore where the Dirty Birds—the name they chose for their book club—meet on the second Wednesday of every month, they’re cackling just like their name would suggest. Copies of whatever romance novel they decided to read this month are sitting on the coffee table and each woman is in her unofficial-official chair. None of the chairs are the same. Gran and I would take weekly trips to the flea market, and she’d treat me to a fancy coffee and pastry before we’d spend hours wandering around, hoping to find the next treasure to grace her store. It took us months before we found all seven chairs that now occupy the nook portion of the Book Nook. I sanded and painted them all a creamy shade of mint while Gran sewed cushions to top them.

Now when I look at the chairs filled with all her friends, laughing and chatting like she imagined, I struggle to remember the joy we had creating them. All I see is the empty seventh seat.

Her seat.

“Did you finally read this month’s book?” Collette, the most crass of the Dirty Birds, narrows her eyes when I sit. Her hair is dyed a bright red that turns a little orange and always clashes with her red lipstick.

“You know I didn’t.” I’ve never participated in a book club and I never will. Once I watched the movie instead but was shamed so intensely for it, I avoided them for a week. The Dirty Birds are vicious.

“You do know you own a bookstore now,” she reminds me, as if I’ve thought of anything else since the lawyers read Gran’s will all those months ago. “You have to read books. You can’t keep this place running if you don’t know the products.”

“Geez, Collette, give the girl a break. She just inherited the place!” Sweet Beth sticks up for me. “Not even you could read all the time when you were working. Just because you’re retired now doesn’t mean she can do whatever you think she should be doing.”

I want to high-five Beth, but I resist when Collette’s knowing glare cuts my way.

“Fine,” she mumbles, leaning back into her seat. “But you’re going to need to start reading something. You can’t own a bookstore and hate books!”

She’s not wrong. This is why I thought Gran was only leaving me her necklace I loved so much.

My fingers drift to the pendant always resting on my chest. She still left me the necklace; it’s just that now it feels more like an apology than a gift. Especially since she left me to fight off her son too.

“I’ll figure it out.” I wave off her concern, sounding much less worried than I actually am. “What book are you reading this time?”

Vivian leans forward, the creak of her chair cutting through the quiet chatter. “Last Hope, by Jasper Williams.” Color fills her cheeks as she summarizes the book for me, and I can’t help but wonder exactly how dirty these Dirty Birds are getting. Maybe I should start reading along, given how single I am. “Oh, and it was just so lovely. The way he writes. I’ll never get over it.”

“You’ve read him before, haven’t you?” I recognize the name right away. It’s a popular one in the store; soccer moms and pierced pixies alike request his work weekly. Jasper Williams stands out among the shelves of female romance authors despite the understated covers that grace all his books.

“You’d know that if you’d read the damn books with us.” Collette’s raspy smoker’s voice rises and I bite back my smirk. I didn’t mean to, but getting her worked up is one of my favorite pastimes.

“Maybe next month,” I lie. And by the exaggerated roll of her eyes, she knows I’m full of it.

It’s not that I don’t like stories. Of course I do. I’m human, after all. I just like my stories told to me in a different way. I like visuals. The countless stories photographs can tell. The real-life images where the curve of a mouth can tell more than any book can. The perfectly framed shot of a mountain that allows your imagination to drift to the countless lives that have graced the landscape. Those are the stories I’m drawn to. I love conjuring hope myself, not being force-fed broken promises or lies telling me love is for everyone and I’m right around the corner from a happy ending of my very own.

“Oooorrrr . . .” Ethel drags out the word. My spine snaps straight. I recognize that tone and the meddling that always follows it. “You could read it before this weekend because Jasper Williams has agreed to come to the store. He’s going to join our book club and do a reading.”

I shake my head, trying to understand. “What do you mean? Shouldn’t I know about in-store events?”

“Well, now you know, dear.” Mona reaches for her copy on the table . . . the one with about eight hundred sticky notes popping out from the pages. “It’s Saturday evening. The reading begins at five, followed by a discussion lasting until six or so, but he said he’s flexible. I put it on your calendar. I thought you would’ve seen it by now.”

I grab my phone out of my back pocket and open up my calendar, but nothing is there. I swipe around a little more, trying to see if she entered it somewhere else by mistake.

“It’s not on my calendar.”

“Oh no, not on your phone.” Mona laughs and shakes her head like I’m being silly. “I said your calendar. The one on your desk.”

I barely manage to fight back my groan.

This is just one of the problems that come with inheriting a business from your grandma. Mona and Ethel helped me get organized when I officially took over about nine months ago. And by that, I mean they nagged me about how I did everything and tried to force a day planner on me. For some ridiculous reason, I assumed that once the adjustment phase was over, they would step away completely. I should’ve known better.

“Mona, you know that was Gran’s planner, not mine.” And I avoid it like the freaking plague. I made the mistake of opening it once, and seeing her heavily slanted penmanship covering the pages with plans she would no longer be here for broke me.

“Well, she left you the store and that includes everything in it. Besides”—Mona lifts her chin in the air, looking down her nose at me—“if I don’t put it in there, how am I supposed to schedule things for the Book Nook?”

“Ummm . . . I’m not sure?” Sarcasm is heavy in my voice. “Maybe don’t? Or ask me?”

“Nonsense. It’s going to be amazing. You’ll thank us.” She waves me off like I’m the little girl I was when she met me and not a grown woman trying—and fine, whatever, maybe failing—to run a business. “Now, where should we start? I think that little bit by the lake in chapter two was interesting.”

On that note . . .

I stand up, ignoring the way my chair groans beneath my weight, and make my way to my office in the back to cancel the booty call—I mean the date—I had scheduled for Saturday and add Jasper Williams to my calendar.

A Saturday night spent listening to some old guy mansplain what women want?

Can’t freaking wait.

CHAPTER 2

In movies, when a person gets home after work, we watch them visibly deflate right in front of us. All the stress from the outside world melts away. They rip off their bra and crack open a bottle of wine. The luckiest of them all lounge on a gigantic couch with too many throw pillows as they snuggle up with an extra-fluffy puppy thrilled to finally be back with their human.

That’s not me.

I toss my purse onto my entryway table in my too-quiet apartment. The distressed turquoise piece needs to be refinished, but all the equipment I needed was at Gran’s house, and Dad sold the house . . . and everything inside it . . . months ago. I look around for a moment and consider putting my purse back on and getting the heck out of Dodge.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to make my home my sanctuary.

Quite the opposite, actually.

My credit card bills can vouch for the number of candles and pillows I’ve purchased since moving into this place. I’ve taken up new hobbies, cluttering my space with an overabundance of yarn or calligraphy pens, hoping they would fix everything.

It hasn’t worked yet.

The framed prints of photos I’ve taken over the years used to bring me joy. The photo of beautiful red rocks set against the stormy gray sky still hangs on my wall beside the shot of Lake San Cristobal surrounded by green-covered mountains and the bright blue sky reflecting off the water—that one won me an award. The black-and-white print of miles and miles of snow-covered trees in the frame Gran gave me for my birthday was the first time I was paid for my work. The large canvas off to the side, of the ice-covered lake with the fire-hued sunset peeking through the mountains, was featured in a national travel magazine.

But now when I see these pictures, these visual representations of my true, authentic self, I don’t envision more adventures to be had or goals to reach. I fight back the memories of looking through my camera and feeling the world fall from beneath my feet as I framed the perfect shot. Now all I feel is a familiar twinge in my chest, a constant reminder of all the things I lost when Gran left.

Another dream forgotten.

And that’s okay.

Not everyone can live their biggest dreams. Not everyone can feel at ease.

Maybe it’s the constant edge of wondering what next? that keeps me going, and I just need to get used to it.

Or maybe I should get a cat like my mom has been pushing me to do since she moved back to her tiny hometown in the Smoky Mountains after I graduated college. I’ve been fighting her on it, but maybe she’s onto something.

Maybe a skittish, mildly detached creature is the perfect remedy to all my problems.

Unfortunately, before I can sit down to plan a day to go to the animal shelter and find the answer to my loneliness, there’s a knock on my door. Part of me wants to hide and pretend not to be home, but considering the only person who ever shows up on my doorstep unannounced is George from across the hall, who watches me through the peephole—which is only slightly creepy once you get to know him—there’s no point.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m not one of those people who rips her bra off straightaway after all.

I swing the door open, plastering a smile on my face to greet my neighbor and whatever puzzle he’s brought by this time. But it falls off instantly, because of fucking course I’m met not with a jigsaw treat, but instead, the last face I ever expected to see.

Ever.

My mouth falls open and I struggle to come up with words other than fuck no or why me, God? or something else that properly expresses my feelings. When in reality, I should’ve slammed the door in her face and broken out the tequila hiding in the back of my pantry. Because while I wait for the right words to come, my sister shoulders her way past me, right into my apartment.

Again I ask, why me???

“Oh my goodness!” Daisy looks around my eclectic apartment (by lack of direction, not an actual design) with wide eyes and a wider smile. “Your place is so cute!”

“Um, thanks.” I lock the door behind me and try to unscramble my brain. “Come in, I guess.”

“Oh!” Daisy spins around and shows me a bag I didn’t notice her holding. “I brought food. You like Thai, right?”

I want to lie and say no.

I want to say anything to get her out of my apartment as fast as possible, but I am actually very hungry. Plus, Thai is my favorite, and even if it wasn’t, it sure as hell beats the Velveeta shells and cheese I was going to eat for dinner.

I guess spending an evening with her will be fine. It’s not her fault that her presence causes my anxiety to spike and the insecurity constantly lingering beneath the surface to claw at my skin.

Also, if I kick out my dad’s favorite child, I will no doubt hear from him ASAP. A quiet evening with her should keep him off my case for a while. Anything is worth that.

“I love Thai.” I point to the dining table I’ve only eaten at once before. “You can take it out while I grab plates.”

“I hope your plates are big, I got a ton of food,” Daisy’s perpetually sunny voice says.

Five years my junior, Daisy couldn’t be more different than me. And not only because of the blue eyes, blond hair, verging on six feet tall, physical stuff either. She’s rainbows, sunshine, glitter, and green juice. She was a cheerleader in high school and I’m pretty sure her superlative was “Most Likely to Achieve World Peace” or some bullshit like that. Whereas I love thunderstorms, I hate glitter with a fiery passion, and my senior year, I was quite literally voted “Most Likely to Leave and Never Come Back.”

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