“I like the sound of that,” she says softly, and my heart threatens to kick into overdrive.

  I rein it in. “One more thing. Do you want to sit any place special on Sunday? I can get you tickets with the players’ wives and girlfriends in a suite, which is cool but it’s kind of cliquey. Or I can get you tickets on the fifty-yard line with Trent and Holly and my mom.”

  She inhales deeply. “Gee. I don’t know. Sit with a bunch of women I don’t know, or sit close to the action? I just can’t decide. Okay, if I have to, I’ll be at the fifty-yard line with pompoms.”

  I laugh. “Now that’s a sight I eagerly await.”

  “You have a little quarterback-cheerleader fantasy I need to know about? Because I’ll have you know I don’t have an ounce of cheerleader blood in me.”

  “I know that about you. Trust me. I do.” Violet was never the ponytail and pompoms girl. She was into fashion, indie music, jewelry, and her friends. In high school, I’d run into her tangled up in a group of girls, laughing, listening to their iPods, trading tunes, and looking out for each other. She’d wave and say hello. I’d always give her a hug, wrapping my arms around her, inhaling her hair, enjoying her softness against me. The memory is so visceral.

  Whoa.

  I liked to touch her back then?

  Of course you did, dickhead. She was a babe then, still is, and you like babes. Doesn’t make you the Sherlock of Romance to put that together.

  “Hey, Vi?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Since high school,” I say, firmly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If anyone asks when I first had a crush on you, that’s what I’ll say.”

  “Oh. Is that so?” she asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice. The invitation too. Like she likes this idea.

  “We can’t very well have the same answer, can we? So, since high school sounds about right.”

  When I end the call, I don’t need anyone to tell me what our conversation means. It means she’s coming to my game this weekend, and for a guy like me, there’s something a whole lot of awesome about playing in front of the woman you like.

  16

  The crowd roars. They slam their feet against the stands, pounding out a cheer that thrums through the stadium and echoes across the field.

  It’s third and nine. There’s no breathing room in this game. Two minutes till halftime, and the score is still tied. We’ve traded leads every possession, it seems.

  I take the snap from shotgun as three receivers race downfield. My heart pounds rocket-fast, but my nerves are cool. My brick wall of linemen buy me time, as they’ve done all day, holding off Dallas. I scan for an open target, but McCormick is swarmed by the secondary. Another receiver is flanked too. I find Jones, scrambling to break away from the cornerback.

  “C’mon, man,” I mutter.

  I’m waiting.

  Fucking waiting, ready to throw the second he’s free.

  A big-ass lineman busts through, but the center slams into the guy’s barrel body, protecting me as I launch the ball the instant Jones peels away from the coverage.

  He doubles back, and those beautiful hands are ready. The ball soars, and he pulls it down pristinely, cradling it then carrying it for twelve yards before he runs out of bounds, avoiding a tackle.

  I pump a fist and point downfield. We run, line up for the first down, and we’re all business the rest of the way. I hand off to Harlan, who powers his way around the defense, gaining eight yards, and putting us squarely in field-goal range.

  But hell if I want to go for three right now. I glance to the sidelines, briefly making eye contact with the coach. He gives a nod, and even though that’s his go-to gesture for nearly everything, I know this time it means go for six. A new wide receiver comes in, bringing the play with him.

  After the snap, I’m in the pocket, and I throw easily to an open McCormick, who takes off like a cheetah. The rookie hauls ass twenty-five yards into the motherfucking end zone.

  The crowd erupts.

  My heart jackhammers.

  I run to McCormick, clapping him on the back and congratulating him as we trot to the sidelines.

  “You rock, man.”

  “No, you fucking do,” the rookie says, with the same baby-faced grin that Cam Newton sports.

  “Beautiful,” Greenhaven grunts as I grab some water and Einstein does his job with the extra point.

  That gives us a welcome seven-point lead at halftime. I take off my helmet, turn to the stands, and my eyes find my family. My mom waves a number-one foam finger, and her boyfriend, Dan, plants a kiss on her cheek. Ford shakes his hips back and forth, calling out something unintelligible that’s clearly a compliment. Next to them, Trent and Holly are hollering happily, arms raised in the air. I give them all a huge thumbs-up.

  My gaze drifts beyond my best friend to his sister, the girl I’ve known for most of my life, who’s smiling up a storm and cheering like this is the best day ever.

  And so far, it’s pretty fucking good.

  I give her a tip of the proverbial cap then a lopsided grin. The smile that returns my way is priceless, like a shot of pure happiness in my body.

  Ford drapes an arm around Violet and says something to her.

  I turn away and head to the locker room with the team.

  17

  Violet: Oh my God. He’s taking me into the lion’s den.

  Holly: Do you have your retractable claws ready to go?

  Violet: No, but he makes it seem like I need them. He says the players’ wives are dying to meet me, and I need to be on my toes.

  Holly: I have no doubt they want to know who’s about to become the new leader of the pack in one fell swoop. That’s probably what they think.

  Violet: Stahp. Just stahp. I’m nobody.

  Holly: Oh, Vi. I love you and all, but if you’re the quarterback’s woman, you’re on track to become everybody.

  Violet: This is crazy.

  Holly: They all know you might become the new Queen Bee.

  Violet: Will they want to dethrone me then? Steal my stinger? Wait, do queen bees have stingers?

  Holly: No, they’re full of eggs that then become larva, so it’s kind of a bad example.

  Violet: Here goes nothing.

  Holly: Just smile and wave . . .

  Holly: It’s been thirty minutes . . . Are you alive? Celine Dion already sang.

  Holly: They’ve taken you. They’re making blood

  sacrifices with you.

  Holly: You’ve left me. You’ve officially left the little people behind, and now you’re eating sushi and canapés and crudités in the players’ wives suite.

  Holly: Incidentally, if they have any yellow tail, bring me one. I love yellow tail.

  Holly: And mini cupcakes.

  Holly: But they probably don’t have that. Unless they’re made of air, and I don’t want an air cupcake. Back to the original plan. Bring me a sushi roll.

  Holly: If I ever see you again.

  Holly: Okay, halftime is nearly over. Celine is done, Lady Gaga made a special appearance, the marching band for all the high schools in the universe performed, and you’re gone.

  Holly: It was fun being friends. Sniff, sniff.

  Violet: The sushi was to die for! I stuffed my bra full of tuna rolls just for you.

  Holly: Bitch.

  Violet: But seriously! They were all so nice. The center’s wife is so sweet. She invited me over. The guard’s wife had her baby with her, and he was totally cute, and I even cuddled and held him. McCormick’s girlfriend from high school was there. She is crazy about him! And the tight end’s fiancée was amazing. Admittedly, I was nearly blinded by her ring. It’s about the size of my head. No lying.

  Holly: I know that’s not a lie. Those ladies have ring bling!

  Violet: Ford made it seem like the lion’s den, but I didn’t feel that way at all.

  Holly: Did they ask about Cooper? Did they give you the relationship third degree?

  Violet: Yes. How long we’ve been together, when I knew I liked him, how we started dating, what I thought of the game. It was easy to answer everything.

  Holly: Because you have the answers ready!

  Violet: I sure do.

  Holly: You always have . . .

  Violet: Yes, I’m aware. Very well aware.

  18

  Rick chews the pink gum, spits it out, and brushes his teeth on the sidelines. Then, the defense holds off Dallas in the third quarter, but their line nearly kills me. I manage a few handoffs and a couple of short passes, but we don’t push past the fifty-yard line.

  Dallas gets possession, and they march downfield with precision. My chest tightens, and I pace along the sidelines, eager to get back in because they seem on the cusp of something big. But we hold them to a field goal chance, and then something beautiful happens. They miss it, the ball going wide past the goalposts. That sends a bolt of energy into the crowd.

  We take the field, pumped. I do my job, like I’ve done since I was five. Since I was ten. Since high school. Since college. Since the start of the season. Drive downfield, throwing pass after pass from the pocket, my wall of Mack Trucks protecting me.

  We reach the twenty, and a short pass to Jones sends him running into the end zone to pad our lead. A lead we never look back on.

  When the game ends, the crowd bursts into cheers. Horns blare. Whistles sound. Drums pound. We’re one more game away from the playoffs. So close I can taste it.

  On the field, a local sports reporter thrusts a mic at me, and I give my best “We just played all four quarters and stayed focused” kind of lines. When she walks off to find another player, my eyes drift to the stands, scanning, searching. They land on faces I know well, and the buzzing in my chest is like a note held long on a guitar. It shifts to a faster tempo when I see Violet. She’s waving like a crazy fool, her arms swinging wildly over her head, her chestnut hair blowing in the breeze. When she realizes she’s caught my attention, she freezes, then jumps up and down in excitement. Something is happening. Something is building.

  I follow my instincts, and they tell me to run over to the sides, find a security guy, and ask him to bring her onto the field. A minute later, she’s escorted to me. I wrap her up in a hug and lift her high.

  “You’re all sweaty and dirty,” she says, laughing.

  “That’s because I play hard.”

  “You sure do.”

  “Did you enjoy the game?”

  “Loved it.”

  “Yeah?”

  A smile curves her lips. “Every single second.”

  The noise in the stadium vibrates in my chest, a mixture of cheers, chatter, and fifty thousand feet pounding to the exits. But this conversation feels entirely private. Just for us.

  So does the kiss she gives me next. She brings her mouth to mine, dusts her lips across me, and steals the breath from my lungs. I’m vaguely aware of the pop and flash of cameras capturing this moment. It doesn’t last long, but the kiss feels like it’s for me, not the lens.

  And maybe it’s the way my heart hammers after the victory, or maybe it’s the taste of her lips, but it’s enough for me to bring my mouth to her ear. “Hang out with me tonight.”

  She pulls back and looks up at me. “Yeah?”

  I swallow and nod. “Yeah.”

  She has to know what I mean.

  Ford insists on dinner first, taking the whole crew to a trendy new restaurant in Russian Hill, where he regales us with stories of the deejays the Clippers use on their chartered flights, and the time he took his superstar pitcher for the Yankees shopping at Target after midnight because that was the only time the guy wouldn’t be recognized and the leftie simply wanted to pick out his own towels. “Orange with gray polka dots. Those were some fine towels,” Ford says.

  “When you finish his contract, be sure to get Cooper some pretty new towels at Target at midnight too,” Trent says. “He wants pink with white polka dots.”

  Violet chimes in. “Don’t make fun of polka dots. That sounds like an adorable combination.”

  Ford points at Violet, like he agrees with everything she’s saying. “We should go all out for him, Vi. We will spare no expense. Hand towels, washcloths, bath towels. What do you think?”

  Violet laughs, flicking her hair off her shoulder. “I think Cooper would love pink towels.”

  “Pink, orange, gray. Whatever.” I shake my head as I look at Ford, my voice a touch more serious than usual. “Just don’t talk about the contract like it’s a done deal. We don’t want to jinx it.”

  “Contracts aren’t jinxed, my man. On-field superstitions are all well and good, but contracts are not part of the sphere of jinxing.” Then he lowers his voice. “Besides, don’t you worry. I’m still dancing, and trust me when I say I look good on the dance floor.”

  He raises his arms like he’s got the moves.

  “Just watch out for that overbite when you dance,” I say, giving him shit since his teeth are pressed into his lips.

  “Winning makes you feisty.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I murmur as I steal a glance at Violet across the table. She’s chatting with my mom now.

  Ford yanks me close. “Gotta say, it’s so damn entertaining that she doesn’t like you. She’s pulling it off like a most excellent actress, with the pink polka-dot shit.”

  “Yeah, she is,” I mutter, and then let his comment sink in.

  Is he right? Have I misread Violet since the kiss at the fountain in Sausalito when I felt the vibe between us shift? From the texts to the phone calls to the last kiss, I sure thought we were moving toward something more. Am I wrong? She agreed to hang out later, but maybe she only wanted to hang out here.

  My chest tightens, and unease seeps into my bones during the rest of the meal. As we finish dessert, I replay the conversations I’ve had with her lately, trying to find the true meaning. Friends or maybe something more? More, or just friends like we’ve always been?

  When the meal mercifully ends, Ford continues playing cruise director of my personal life when he says, “Hey, Vi, since I drove our boy to the restaurant, why don’t you take him home?”

  I know what he’s up to. Violet valeted her car, and Ford figures someone will snap a pic or post a tweet about us waiting for the car together at the new eatery.

  But he’s also given me an excuse to leave with her without her brother thinking I’m up to something. I’m not technically up to something. I simply don’t want the night with her to end, and I’ll find out soon if she feels the same way, or if Ford is right.

  Ford heads out first, grabs my bag from his car, and hands it to me. As I take the bag, I wince, my shoulder tight from the game.

  The valet does a double take when Violet asks for her car. I tip my chin. “Hey, man.” The guy beams and races to find her vehicle.

  I grab a twenty from my wallet and tip him well when he returns. Then I settle into the passenger seat as Violet drives. When she turns on Fillmore, I roll my shoulder back, trying to loosen the muscles.

  “You okay?”

  “Just sore.”

  When we reach my home, she doesn’t pull to the curb and say have a good night. She pulls into the slim driveway, and I grin as I reach into my bag to grab the garage opener. I hit the button. Anticipation threads through me as the door rises. She pulls into the garage, and I want to punch the air because the night isn’t ending.

  “You didn’t want to park at my house the other night,” I say.

  She swallows. “It was easier not to then.”

  “Is it easier to park here now?”

  “I’m not sure if it’s easier, or simply what I’m doing.”

  And I’ll take that as a good sign. I’ll take that as the sign that Ford was wrong tonight.

  I tell myself to just let the night unfold. We go inside, and I drop my bag in the hallway, heading straight for the freezer in my kitchen. I grab an ice pack and wrap it around my shoulder.

  “Does it hurt a lot?” she asks.

  “Standard war wound.”

  She gives me a look. “Seriously. Are you injured? Are you being the big tough guy who doesn’t let on that he’s hurt then plays through the pain?”

  I scoff. “No. I’m not injured. This is just normal soreness. This is how I usually feel after a game.”

  “Gee, I wonder why. Could it be throwing thirty-yard passes with regularity while linemen try to mow you down wears on the body?”

  I smile. “But it’s nothing a beer and an ice pack won’t cure. Do you want a white wine?”

  She says yes, so I grab a bottle I think she’ll like, then a glass. As I unscrew the cork our eyes meet. Hers glitter with something—anticipation, maybe? I don’t know what’s happening, but I also know exactly what’s happening.

  Something.

  That’s what my gut tells me. That’s what my instincts say. And those are the tools I rely on when I’m in the zone. I let them guide me now.

  Something’s been crackling between us for the last week, ever since she won me. Since I visited her salon, invited her to the game, and texted. Since she sent that photo.

  As she leans her hip against my island kitchen counter, looking like she belongs here, wearing her number sixteen jersey with a smudge of dirt streaked across it from when I hugged her after the game, my mind narrows in on one thing—her body.

  How she reacts to the way I stare at her. How her lips part. How her cheeks grow pinker.

  “You’re almost in the playoffs,” she says, her voice wobbling more than usual, as if she’s a bit nervous.

  “Almost being the operative word.” I crack open a beer, hand her the wine, and toast. “To almosts,” I say, my voice echoing in my quiet home.

  “To almosts,” she replies, and the air between us crackles and hums.

  I turn on some music on my phone, and even though I’m tempted to crank up my favorite rock anthems, I find something that better sets the tone. Then I want to smack myself for going for mood music.