“Hope you’re not too tired to hit the incline,” he jokes back, a clear bite to his tone.

  “Never too tired, brother.” His eyes flicker to mine at my response, his expression temporarily devoid of the macho façade. I call most of my teammates brother, and I decided when I woke up this morning that I was going to set the kind of example this team deserves. Maybe Bryce will prove me wrong and turn out to deserve it too.

  “Alright, let’s get after it,” I say, pulling my sweatshirt off and tossing it on top of my gym bag on the floor. I step up on the center treadmill and pull my right foot up from behind to stretch my quad, Bryce matching me stretch for stretch. We both start with an easy jog, and after a minute of running, I amp up my speed. Again, Bryce matches me, both of us cruising along at a solid eight miles per hour.

  “You feel that burn?” I joke, mostly to show off the fact I have zero trouble talking while running at this speed. I’ve been doing nothing but cardio since my injury. My lungs are ready for the challenge.

  Bryce is panting, though not hard. He glances my way with a smirk and shrugs his shoulder. “It’s all right.”

  “Ha! Liar,” I fire back. It feels good to give him shit the same way I would Whiskey. It feels almost natural. There’s still this underlying tightness in my chest, though, and I’m not sure that will ever go away.

  When his hand moves to raise his incline, I do the same, pressing the plus button every time he does. I usually stop at three, but Bryce pushes us to four, so I do the same. We run in unison, our heavy shoes slapping the rubber mat as it whirls beneath us in perfect sync. After a full two minutes, I notice that my mouth is hanging open, my bottom lip heavy with the rhythm of my pant. That extra percent on the angle might be kicking my ass a little bit.

  “What do you think? One more?” Bryce’s words come out choppy, and I’m glad to hear this isn’t easy for him, but fucking hell!

  No! I do not think one more anything.

  “Sounds good,” I say, because I’m a man, one step away from comparing dick sizes.

  Bryce ratchets his speed up to nine, so I do the same, and it’s not quite a sprint, but it’s a quick stride. The soles of my shoes feel a little like they’re igniting on fire, so instead of concentrating on how much it fucking hurts, I let my mind wander back to this morning and the feel of Peyton’s bare back pressed against my chest. How smooth her shoulders were as I kissed them. The way her nipples hardened under the thin layer of sheets, and how she writhed next to me as my hand brushed over the cotton covering them. The way she tasted when I trailed my tongue down her stomach to her pussy, pushing my tongue inside her and making her come in my mouth—the perfect start to my day.

  Ten minutes pass before I know it, my mental distraction pulling me out of my body while it works to prove that I’m the best athlete in the room. By the time I’m present again, I’ve crossed into my running high, and I could easily go another level, but I can tell Bryce is working hard to stay in his own zone to keep up. Four years ago, I would have pulled the dick move and demoralized him just to prove a petty point. But now? Now, we’re teammates. He called me a mentor of sorts. And goddammit, I’m going to be one.

  We finish out our four miles together, cooling down to a walking speed as our offensive line pours into the room to get in their morning lift. I reach across to my left, holding out a fist as I hit stop on my treadmill, and Bryce pounds his knuckles into mine as he slaps the stop button, too.

  “You think maybe next time I can pick the music?” I joke through ragged breaths.

  “Ha! Fuck, no. This stuff is good shit!” He hops off his treadmill and snags a towel from his gym bag while I stare at him with an open mouth.

  “What?” he says, finally noticing my reaction.

  “Well, you got the shit part right,” I fire back. I point up to the speaker, which is currently playing some forlorn song about a man’s struggle to be sober and win back the love of his estranged family. “I think we need to reassess the qualities of a good hype tune, dude. Cuz this ain’t it.”

  “A-men!” Whiskey says from my other side.

  We both pound fists and Bryce waves us off. The tunes change after a few seconds when Deacon, our center, takes over the speakers with the pre-game playlist he made last season. The room thumps with heavy bass while laughter breaks out across the room, more guys piling in and getting amped to kick off the season.

  I wipe my face off with my towel, then lean toward Bryce, forcing him to meet my gaze and admit I’m right.

  “Okay, I see your point. But don’t bag on country just cuz you don’t understand it. Maybe you just need to join me on my next trip to Fort Worth to see my dad. Visit a real bar, listen to some real music.” It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned his dad to me. First time he’s ever brought up family, period. Rather than react with the surprise I feel, I give a nod in a show of consideration.

  “Yeah, that might be cool.”

  Would it be cool? How well do I want to know this guy?

  “I’m gonna take a two-minute cold one before we hit the field,” Bryce says, gesturing his thumb over his shoulder toward the showers. I nod and wait for him to turn the corner out of view before I address Whiskey’s hard stare that I swear is burning a hole in my temple.

  Whiskey has been telling me for weeks to go at this thing with Bryce as if we’re old friends, to just pretend the bad blood was never there. It’s what he’s done, though I could make the argument that he’s simply practicing avoidance. But he may have something with the whole more bees with honey idea.

  “I’m trying it your way, okay? I don’t want to hear it, and no, I’m not going to say you were right. Just . . . let it be, and we’ll see if this works out.” I roll my eyes, but my gaze sticks to him. The fucker chuckles, and even though he doesn’t say it out loud, he’s sure as hell thinking it loud enough.

  “I was right” is all over his face.

  Maybe Whiskey’s maturing, too, because he manages to keep it to a smug grin, not even adding commentary when we get out to the field and Bryce and I are tossing the ball for warm-ups.

  After warmups and team stretching, we break off into our position groups. The two freshmen recruits—who will be redshirting this year—set up a few obstacles and targets for the rest of us. Shad Owens—the guy who was my number two last year as a sophomore—eyes Bryce just over his shoulder. As anxious as this situation makes me feel, it must be eating away at Shad. He was in line to take the reins from me next season, having gotten time on the field for some key running plays last year. But now, nothing is certain. Hell, I’m not certain at this point, and a year ago, I was part of the Heisman conversation.

  “Owens, come here,” I say, drawing him out of his mental spiral, at least I hope that’s what I’m about to do.

  Bryce follows my gaze and steps out to make room for Shad in our three-man circle. The dude is trying, and damn if it doesn’t feel sincere.

  “You wanna run the drills first, show Bryce how it’s done?” I’m trying to set Shad up with some confidence, remind him that he’s still got seniority on this squad even if Bryce is bigger, older . . . better.

  “Sure,” Shad says, his response clipped. He steps between us and takes a ball from one of the freshmen, tossing it in his hands a few times before dropping back and running through the various routes.

  Bryce watches intently, though he and I both know he can do this drill in his sleep.

  “He’s on edge about you. You get it,” I say as we both look on and avoid eye contact.

  “That’s the game. I’ve been on edge since my Pop Warner days ended.” Bryce chuckles.

  I join in, laughing at the way I used to run the football every damn play. Scoring a dozen touchdowns all on my own, I was forced to learn how to be a real quarterback.

  “That was cool of you, by the way,” Bryce says. I glance at him, and he nods toward Shad as our teammate talks with our quarterback coach.

  “People need to feel important. They need to know they have value. And everyone out here does—in the game or not. Every single person has a role out here that impacts our result as a team.” I sit with my own words, a little surprised at how much I believe them. Part of it is my dad’s morals that I’ve carried with me, but also, I’ve learned a lot about leadership under Coach Byers. It’s strange to see lessons stick.

  Bryce’s hand lands on my back for a second, and the weight of it knocks me forward a half step. He huffs out a short laugh, looking at me with a crooked grin and squinted eyes. It feels kind of rehearsed.

  “See, I knew I’d get better just being around you,” he says, patting his hand on my spine once more before jogging toward Shad and Coach to take the ball and run through the drills.

  Shad nods and smiles at him, uttering, “Let’s see what you can do, transfer,” as he steps into place next to me. We both look on while Bryce talks through a few things with Coach.

  “I get what you did there, Wyatt. I appreciate it, but you should keep your guard up. There’s something about that guy. He feels off somehow. Too . . . nice. Nobody’s that nice.”

  “Huh,” I breathe out, pulling the corner of my mouth in tight, not sure whether I wish Shad got more out of my lesson or that I got more out of his.

  My eyes snap back to the field at the sound of the whistle, so I bite my tongue and decide to let things be for now with Shad. At some point, I’ll relay the same thoughts I did to Bryce a minute ago, to reassure him that no matter what, he has a place here—that he’s vital.

  Just then, Bryce drops back and spins as if he’s broken a tackle, rushing to his right about ten yards before slinging the ball right on target. His moves are crisp, his feet sure. He seems taller now, and the power in his arm feels light years ahead of everyone else out here. The applause from a few of the receivers looking on, as well as from our quarterback coach, elevates what just happened a little more. And when I glance to my left, meeting Shad’s I told you so face, I put my guard back up—just like he said.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to tag along, do our famous third-wheel thing? I could turn around, be there in thirty.”

  Wyatt’s pretty transparent sometimes, even over the phone. He saw me before Tasha and I left for our girls’ night, and I think he’s a little worried about my outfit, though he’d never say anything about it. I kind of like the way he bites his tongue when I dress sexy and he doesn’t want to share. I wore my mom’s white cotton eyelet sundress with her boots tonight, maybe wanting to channel a little of her strength as I reassure my best friend that everything will be okay.

  “I’m sure you would cut through the desert to get here in fifteen, but we’ll be fine. I promise. Besides, you know Whiskey will show up at Catwalk eventually. He always does.”

  I promised Tasha one last hurrah before I move to Wyatt’s on Sunday, and since this is the last free Friday I’ll have for a while, I gave it to her. I hate that I’m missing dinner with Wyatt and his mom for her birthday, but he assured me she’d understand. I think she’s probably looking forward to spending a night out with her son, one-on-one. As much as they love Wyatt, my parents secretly love when I show up back at home solo.

  “Yeah, I’ve already sent Whiskey the rules,” Wyatt says.

  His voice is a little loud, and there’s a lull in the music playing in the rideshare car Tasha and I are in. Her head snaps to me a second before she rips the phone from my hand.

  “Wyatt James Stone, you do not get to give us rules. You’re lucky I’m letting you live after stealing my best friend from me for our senior year of college. So help me, boy, if you tamper with our girls’ night, I will⁠—”

  “Cut you,” I say in sync with her, a grin on my face. It’s her favorite threat, though it’s all talk. At least, I think it’s all talk?

  She tosses my phone back in my lap, and I lift it to my ear, still laughing.

  “I’m glad you find your psycho bestie amusing,” Wyatt says, a hint of worry in his voice.

  “You know she loves you,” I reassure him, cupping the phone to try to block out the sound of Tasha saying, “Ehhh, do I?”

  “Well, I love you, and that’s really all I give a shit about. So, just be safe, okay?”

  I glance out my window, leaning away from Tasha for a bit of semi-privacy. Catwalk is an enormous country bar outside Tucson, and it’s basically where every frat boy and jock from the university goes to usher in the weekend. The bouncers do a good job of keeping the peace, mostly, but sometimes youth and alcohol mix for bad decisions. While Whiskey sometimes makes a few of his own, his are more of the fighting-for-someone’s-honor variety. Probably not a bad guy to have looking out for us.

  “I promise. I love you, too.”

  I end the call and tuck my phone into my small leather crossbody bag before meeting Tasha’s stare.

  “Ugh, could you two be any cheesier?” she teases. I slip my arm through hers and snuggle in close, hugging my tough-act bestie.

  “You know you’re happy for me, deep inside. You are. I can tell.” I poke at her cheek with my fingertip. It dimples with the smile she can’t hold back, and she lets out a soft laugh.

  “Fine, yes. I’m happy for you. But I’m still sad for me. It’s going to take a lot of drinks to get over being sad about you moving out. Expensive drinks.”

  “Ha, nothing but the best for you.”

  Our ride pulls up to the curb outside Catwalk, and the line has already started to form. Tasha dated one of the security guys last year, and he still has a thing for her, so she gets us to the front of the line easily, and we slip inside seconds after the ID checkers slap bright orange wristbands on us.

  “One day, we’ll be able to go to a bar that doesn’t look like we paid for premium fair rides,” I say to her, tugging on her orange band.

  “Girl, that’s because we’ll be old and there to play bingo,” she says. We both laugh and link our hands as we march our way to the bar for our first round, which I buy.

  With drinks in our hands, we make our way to the edge of the dance floor, taking it easy until we finish our first drink and discard the glasses to really let loose. The music heats up, and so do our moves. I spin so my back is to Tasha as we both sway our hips and bend our knees. Tasha’s hands find my hips, and it doesn’t take long for our dancing to attract attention. When a tall blond guy wearing a black button down that’s open halfway down his chest works his way to our sides, I jut my chin over my shoulder to Tasha.

  “I’m taken, but she’s single,” I say, good at my wing-woman duties.

  “Well, all right then,” the guy says, holding out his hand for Tasha to dance with him. I nod when she looks at me for permission, and lean into her ear so she can hear me.

  “I’ll get us shots and wait over there.” I nod toward the long table to our right.

  I leave my friend with open-shirt guy. I sized him up as he was approaching. No ring, and expensive shoes. He might be one of the younger professors, or maybe just a young professional out with the boys after work. I spot his friends at the bar cheering him on. I’ll keep an eye on her, especially if she doesn’t join me when this song is done.

  I buy us a round of shots and carry them to the side table, recognizing the wide shoulders and famous plaid shirt of my bodyguard for the night. I tap Whiskey’s arm with my finger while I balance my drinks in my other palm. He jumps and spins like a kid startled at a haunted house.

  “Wow, and you’re here to protect me,” I joke.

  He leans back and lets out a bellowing laugh before taking my drinks and setting them on the table. He promptly sweeps me into his warm bear hug, spinning me around once, and marking me as taken for the night. I know his moves, and they’re sweet.

  “Tell me the truth, how much did my boyfriend pay you to be here tonight.” I lift a brow.

  He grabs the handle of his beer mug and hums with thought, taking a drink before answering.

  “Let’s just say I can drink here for free all weekend.” He winks and takes one more chug before setting his mug back down.

  His gaze quickly darts over my shoulder, and there’s a little flicker to his eyes. I follow his stare to Tasha as she makes her way toward us through the throbbing crowd of twenty-somethings. I smirk to myself but keep my teasing in check. It’s enough that I’ve gotten Tasha to sign off on Whiskey being her roommate. I don’t need to push the matchmaking beyond that.

  “She looks good, huh?” Maybe a little push.

  “Always does,” Whiskey says, filling his lungs and widening his chest about a second before Tasha steps up to my other side.

  “That guy was a tool,” she says, picking up our shots and handing one to me. We clink glasses, then tip them back to drink.

  “He seemed sweet.” I know full well that’s a bullshit statement. I let him cut in because he seemed safe.

  “Here, you can call him to talk about your portfolio,” she says, handing me a business card with his details. Whiskey snags the card from my hand.

  “Joshua M. Turner, Jr. Accountant,” he reads. He tosses the card onto the floor with a flick of his hand, then grabs his beer.

  “Fucking junior. Not even a full accountant,” he utters over the rim of his mug before gulping down the rest of his beer. Tasha snorts out a laugh, and once again, I smirk to myself.

  I buy another round, and after a few minutes of rest, Tasha and I make our way back out to the floor. This time, we stick together, and I rebuff the two guys that try to edge their way into our space. After nearly a half-hour straight of dancing, my neck and chest are beaded with sweat. Tasha’s pulled her hair up with a clip, but I don’t have a tie with me, so I resort to twisting my hair in my right hand and holding it on top of my head while I close my eyes and rock to the music.

  “Sweet ass.”

  I don’t recognize the voice at my ear, and when I drop my hair and take a step forward, I’m held against a strange body.

  “Hey!” I shout toward Tasha, who’s moved a few bodies away from me with the crowd. My voice is instantly swallowed up by the music.