The Bromance Book Club

One of Bustle’s “21 New Rom-Coms Out in Fall 2019 To Give You Warm And Fuzzy Feelings All Season Long”

Lyssa Kay Adams read her first romance novel at way too young of an age when she swiped one from her grandmother’s stash. After a long journalism career in which she had to write way too many sad endings, she decided to return to the stories that guaranteed a happy ever after. Once described as “funny, adorable, and a wee-bit heartbreaking,” Lyssa’s books feature women who always get the last word, men who aren’t afraid to cry, and dogs. Lots of dogs. Lyssa writes full time from her home in Michigan, where she lives with her sports writer husband, her wickedly funny daughter, and a spoiled Maltese who likes to be rocked to sleep like a baby. When she’s not writing, she’s cooking or driving her daughter around from one sporting event to the next. Or rocking the dog.

### Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

There was a reason Gavin Scott rarely drank.

As in, face-planted on the carpet while reaching for the bottle bad. And too drunk to see in the dark so might as well stay down bad.

Which is why he didn’t get up when his best friend and Nashville Legends teammate, Delray Hicks, pounded on the door to his hotel room, a fourth-floor state of depression that reminded him every minute that he could at least screw up like a champion.

The door swung wide. Del flipped on a blinding overhead light and immediately swore. “Shit. Man down.” He turned and spoke to someone else. “Help me.”

Del and another giant human lumbered toward him until their four massive hands grabbed his shoulders. In an instant, he was upright and leaning against the shitty couch that had come with the room. The ceiling spun, and his head fell back against the cushions.

Gavin sucked on air and managed to lift his head. He blinked twice but then ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I’m drunk.”

Gavin lifted his hand to point at the bottle of craft bourbon on the coffee table. It had been a gift from a local distillery to every member of the team at the end of their season a few weeks ago. Del swore again. “Shit, man. Why not just pour grain alcohol down your throat?”

A third man suddenly walked in, and this time Gavin recognized him. It was one of his teammates, Yan Feliciano. “Como es el?”

How is he? Gavin understood that. Holy shit, he could speak Spanish when he was drunk.

Del shook his head. “He’s about one shot away from listening to Ed Sheeran.”

Gavin hiccupped. “No me gusta Ed Sheeran.”

Yan made a sound of disbelief. “My wife said there was a rumor about them having trouble, but I didn’t believe it.”

Massive hands grabbed him again and hauled him to his feet. They barely touched the floor as Del and Pretty-Sure-It-Was-Mack dragged him to the bathroom. Gavin stumbled to the toilet just as something the color of bad decisions exploded from his mouth. Mack swore with a gag and bolted. Del stayed, even when Gavin grunted like a tenni