But then, it’s not entirely our second night. We spent the meet-and-greet together—chastely—and then walked around together. We’ve texted for weeks.

  But every time I see her, one moment seems to spill into the next. She’s got to be feeling the same pull, despite the risks.

  “By the way,” I say, “you said earlier that I was a man of his word. I’m glad you’re not holding that ghosting against past-me anymore,” I say as I close the dishwasher.

  “Drew,” she says, sounding as if she’s coming clean about something. “Some of my emotions that night weren’t even because of you,” she says, then blows out a breath. “My ex cheated on me with many women. He even messaged me the day I met you, so that was in my head. So when I thought I hadn’t heard from you…it all seemed too good to be true.”

  My heart hurts for her, but I also want to give a piece of my mind to the dumb shit who cheated on her. “He didn’t deserve you,” I bite out. “He doesn’t deserve anyone.”

  “That’s probably true. But I wanted to apologize. I should have…trusted our first night together and tried harder to track you down. Cara even suggested it.”

  I straighten with interest at that last nugget. “She knows about us?”

  “I told her, yeah. But she won’t say anything to Patrick. She knows that guy talk belongs in the sister vault.”

  “Good. I haven’t said anything to him,” I admit, but then I wave off any concerns. “Just because he’d worry, since he’s my finance guy and all. He takes an interest in all my business affairs, so he might worry about…”

  Fuck. I hate saying this out loud.

  “How it would look,” she supplies, her tone heavy. She leans back against the counter, her mood clearly dampened.

  Patrick’s concerns are more than appearances though. If I tell him about Brooke too soon, he’ll worry it’d be college all over again, like when I fell for Marie.

  But the situation with Brooke isn’t the same. Not one bit. “Yes,” I say, but then I try to brighten the mood. “But my buddy Carter knows. I kinda couldn’t keep it from him.”

  “Why’s that?” She sounds delighted, and I’m glad for the one eighty.

  “He’s a giant cinnamon roll,” I say. “He even suggested we date in the off-season,” I say impulsively. I didn’t plan to put that possibility out there tonight, but maybe it’s not the worst idea? Maybe there is a way to pull us off.

  She lifts a curious brow. “He did?”

  “Probably nutty?” I suggest with a light laugh in case I’m coming on too strong. “But maybe not?”

  She exhales hard. “I don’t know. What I do know is Stephen loves the good-guy image you have. He’s been so pleased with your press coverage, your social media. I mean, obviously he’s impressed with your game play, but he likes the whole package. I don’t want to ruin it.”

  My hope deflates. Maybe that was too wild an idea.

  “But,” she adds, like she’s reconsidering it, “it’s something to think about.”

  I smile. I don’t try to hold it back. “Yeah?”

  She reaches for my hand. Clasps tight. “Yeah. Let’s…think about it.”

  I should be focusing on football, but two games into the season and I’m kicking ass. Maybe that’s a sign I can somehow manage…something with Brooke.

  She squeezes my hand, then adds, “I like that you told him, then.”

  “It’s impossible not to. He knows everything. He helped me deal with my last relationship when it imploded,” I say, since we’re having some kind of confessional night.

  “What happened? May I ask?” She lets go of my hand and lifts her wine from the counter to finish the last sip.

  “Of course you can. The last woman I dated was always taking selfies with me at games, and kind of parading me around when we went out. Talking me up for my role on the team. Sort of made me feel like she wasn’t actually into me.” I feel a little foolish as I share the story. But that’s how I felt at the time. “There’s this fine line between are you using me for your business, and do you just enjoy taking selfies? I worried I’d sound like a dick, so I probably stayed with her longer than I should have. And when I finally got out, there was a big scene. She yelled at me in the hallway of my building, and it was just…”

  She frowns in sympathy as she sets the wineglass in the sink. “A hot mess?”

  “Exactly. It happened during the off-season, and I sort of needed to escape for a while. Carter and I took off for New York and hung out with friends there just to get away. That probably sounds ridiculous.”

  She shakes her head, her eyes thoughtful. “Not at all. That makes sense. Sometimes, we just need a break. I get it.” She takes a beat, tilts her head. “Is that another reason why you kept quiet about who you were at first?”

  “Definitely,” I say, glad to be truthful with her. I only like games on the football field—and the good kind in the bedroom. “But I really enjoyed not talking football with you. I like that we can talk about anything.”

  “Me too,” she says.

  The clock on the wall ticks closer to eleven, interrupting us.

  Or maybe giving me an opportunity. “Brooke,” I begin, gearing up to ask to stay.

  Her shoulders tense. Her jaw tightens.

  Oh, shit? Does she think I want to take off? “Honey, it’s not bad,” I say.

  “I didn’t think it was,” she says, then she lifts her fingers to her temple and rubs.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just a tiny start of a headache.”

  “You get headaches? Sophie does. Those are brutal.”

  “Migraines. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

  “What makes it feel better? A hot shower? A massage?”

  “Both?” she says, a little excited.

  I seize the chance to make her feel better. “Then let’s do it.”

  A couple minutes later, we’re under the stream of water in her shower, and I’m rubbing her neck and her shoulders, and she’s murmuring then moaning as I rub.

  I keep it up for as long as she needs. Until she says, “I think you scared it away. Maybe you do have superpowers.”

  “Traffic cowers in the presence of your orgasms and migraines hide in the face of my hands,” I say as she turns off the shower, and we step out.

  “I’m glad I don’t have to take a migraine pill. They make me dizzy and a little out of it,” she says, but then she yawns while drying off.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” I say wrapping a towel around my waist.

  “Sleep with me.” She sounds more vulnerable than she has before.

  She’s such a strong, tough woman, but she’s showing me tender sides tonight.

  I want more of them.

  “I will,” I say, and curl up under the covers with her.

  In the morning, I’m still thinking about the off-season, wishing it were sooner.

  Wondering what we can pull off.

  16

  MY BIGGEST FAN

  Drew

  That weekend we hit the road again, but actually it’s the highway across town to play the Devil Sharks.

  Before the game, I wonder if playing on my old turf will throw me off. Turns out, the answer is no. They’re a shell of a team, and we win by a delightfully embarrassing amount.

  The Mercenaries are now three for three. This doesn’t feel like luck. It feels like talent and hard work paying off.

  Brooke and I text every day and talk too, so much that I can’t stop thinking about February.

  So much that on Wednesday morning, after I lace up my sneakers and I hit the beach as the sun rises, I call Carter. He’s the one person I need to talk to.

  My buddy answers on FaceTime with a big yawn and a close-up of his pie hole. “Dude, you woke me up,” he grumbles, sounding like he just got out of bed.

  “Dude, I know you’re at the gym.”

  With a scowl, he pulls back the angle, and I see he’s climbing the StairMaster. “Fine, fine. You know I’m an early bird. Anyway, I won’t give you tips on the Las Vegas Pioneers. We kicked their ass last weekend because we are the best team in the league. But hey, good luck when you face them.”

  “Thanks,” I say drily as I run along the water. But I dodge the trash talk, cutting to the chase. “Listen, you said something about the off-season and dating the woman I met then. Were you serious? Do you think it’s a good idea?”

  His expression turns deadly serious, his eyes like lasers. “Yeah, I was. But you didn’t think it’d work. Did you change your tune?”

  “Yes,” I say, but that feels like a huge commitment and instantly I hedge my bets. “I mean, I think so.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Which one is it, buddy?”

  I swallow, trying to sort out the feelings that are getting more tangled the longer I spend time with Brooke. “I’m thinking about it. If it’ll work with her. What I need to do to make it work.”

  “If I learned anything from what Jason and Beck went through,” he says, referring to his team’s quarterback, who fell for the rival quarterback in San Francisco, “it’s that you need to figure out what you’re willing to gamble to get what you want.”

  That’s the big question. What do I stand to gain? What do I stand to lose? And what do I want? But I think I already know the answer to the last one. “And what if the answer is her? I want her.”

  “Damn, you really like her,” he says with a whistle.

  “I do. It hasn’t even been that long.”

  “When you know, you know,” he says then we end the call.

  But will others accept the possibility of an us so easily? Will Patrick, given what he knows about my past relationships? Will Stephen? Will my new team? I’ve only been with the Mercenaries a few weeks. I don’t want to rock the boat when I have this big chance to show what I’m made of.

  I’m also not sure if she’d want to give us a shot, whatever us might be. Last week, she was noncommittal. She said being together in the off-season was something to think about. But maybe she needs to know I’m serious, that even though we started with a one-night stand, I’m so ready for more than that.

  But for the rest of the week I need to focus on the Mercenaries, from the charity appearance Stephen planned for me at a local library to an interview with a sports blog.

  And, of course, what happens on the field.

  My team deserves my full attention. And that’s what I give it, even as Carter’s advice repeats in my mind.

  When I run onto the field that Sunday, I savor the smell of the grass, the thunder of the crowd, and the rush of adrenaline pumping through my blood. In the huddle, I’m all business, and the Mercenaries are crisp.

  We strike fast when I throw a twenty-yarder to Clements. He gives it a good home in his welcoming arms, then rushes for twenty more yards before he scrambles out of bounds.

  Like that, we set a relentless pace, driving downfield until our running back puts us in the end zone.

  Look at that. Two minutes into the game, and we’ve got seven points on the board. I rip off my helmet when I reach the sidelines, high-fiving Clements, then Rand, our running back.

  Clements darts under the bench for his hacky sack, and then points at Rand. “You in or out? Adams and I have this thing—”

  Rand scoffs. “I know. I’m fucking in.”

  The three of us kick the hacky sack during the commercial timeout, but game play resumes, and we give our attention to our brothers on D. We root on the defense as they force a fourth down from the Las Vegas Pioneers. Then we’re back on offense, and we put the ball in the end zone once again.

  By halftime, we’re up by twenty-one points, and Coach fights off a smile as he tells us to keep it up. Which we do, winning the game.

  “Talk about a fucking streak,” Clements shouts when I enter the locker room after the game.

  I hold my arms out wide. “All I do is throw ’em. You’re the one who catches ’em.” I point to the guys on D. “And you all are an impenetrable wall.”

  The high spirits continue as I shower and dress. When I leave the locker room, Stephen’s waiting for me in the corridor. “Stop making us look so smart for trading for you,” he deadpans.

  “Sorry, not sorry,” I say.

  He sighs contentedly. “Exactly.” Then he shifts to business. “Tavarez called me over the weekend. Young Athletes has a fundraiser in a couple of weeks. Don’t want to wear you out, but your name has come up as an emcee for the auction of sports memorabilia. Think about it. I know you’re busy and—”

  “I’m there,” I say, cutting in with my yes.

  “Stop making my job so easy,” he says with a smile.

  “Seriously, I’m happy to do it. And I got your message about the game night for the Every Kid organization on Tuesday. You can’t keep me away from Skee-Ball.”

  “Terrific. I’ll be there, and Brooke will stop by too,” he says. “And we’ve got a dinner Wednesday night—the three of us. To discuss all these upcoming events.”

  I hide a private grin at the bonus chances to see her this week and head to the exit to find Mom and the doubles. As I walk, though, a nagging voice dogs my heels.

  You don’t want to sneak a chance to see her. You want to see her for real.

  But is she ready for that too? Is she even ready to talk about it? Or is it too soon to try to pull that off?

  I grab my phone to fire off a text to Brooke, just to see if she enjoyed the game. And maybe to let her know I’m thinking about her. But I stop when I see Mom, Tom and the twins waiting for me at the door. I tuck my phone away. Now’s not the time to be thinking about my secret affairs.

  I try to stay in the moment as I take the family out for a late dinner at a trendy diner a few miles away.

  “All right, got any game tips?” I ask Mom after we order.

  “You’re four for four. What could I possibly have to say?” she asks as Sophie grabs a pack of sugar.

  “You must have something,” I push.

  “Don’t throw a pick,” Sophie says, as if she’s parroting someone. She’s mainly busy setting a sugar packet on the end of her spoon.

  Tom tsks, setting a gentle hand on hers. “Don’t fling sugar. Not unless you’re sure you can land it in a cup of water.”

  Sophie giggles.

  Wide-eyed, I watch the exchange and then stare at Mom. “Were you praying against interceptions again?”

  “What? I have my rituals too. I pray you won’t throw picks.”

  “Don’t get sacked. Don’t get sacked,” Mira says, with a devilish glint in her eyes, parroting Mom too.

  Mom hides her face in her hand for a moment, then looks up, admitting, “Fine, the jig is up. I pray for good plays. And I pray against bad plays.”

  Reaching across the table, I ruffle her hair. “You’re the cutest worrier,” I say just as Tom snaps a pic of the moment.

  “Sending to you now,” he says to me. “It’s so sweet. You should post that.”

  I love my mom, and I’m not posting it for cred. I’m posting it because she’s the reason I can play ball for a living.

  I caption it My first coach and my biggest fan.

  I’ve relied on Mom for advice my whole life. When we’re done eating, I let Tom and my sisters walk ahead of us, hanging back to snag a minute with her. “Need your advice, Mom.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “There’s this woman,” I begin. I tell her most of the story—the PG version, that is. “So…what should I do?”

  With a thoughtful smile, she says, “Well, have you told her how you feel? That might be a good way to start.”

  I stop walking. Stare at her.

  Damn.

  She’s right.

  She’s so stinking right.

  Maybe Brooke was noncommittal because I haven’t put my heart on the line. Now that I’ve realized that, I want to tell her right now. Run to her house. Wake her up if she’s sleeping.

  Okay, maybe tonight isn’t the time to do it. But I at least want to chat with her. To hear her voice. To keep sharing our days with each other.

  When I get home, I click open my texts and find a message from her there waiting.

  Brooke: You melted all the hearts in Los Angeles tonight with that post of you and your mom. And mine a little more.

  I’d been looking for a sign. This seems crystal clear. I take a deep breath, open my emotions a little more.

  Drew: Yours is the one I want.

  Screw texts. I call her.

  “Hey, honey,” I say when she answers. That term of endearment feels different, as if it has new weight and meaning. “I hear you’re going to the game night this week.”

  “Your sources are correct.”

  I stare out the window at the Pacific, a fuzzy warmth in my chest. “Then in our parallel universe, it should be a date.”

  Maybe somehow in the real world too.

  “It definitely should be,” she says, but her tone sounds a little distant.

  “You okay?”

  “Getting a migraine. So I took a pill. I’ll probably fall asleep while we’re talking,” she says, apologetic.

  “I might put you to sleep even without a headache,” I tease.

  “Very doubtful.”

  “You want me to let you go?”

  “No. I like hearing from you.” She yawns now, sleepy.

  “I won’t keep you long. Were you in the suite tonight?”

  “I was. I enjoyed every second of it,” she says. “How was time with your mom after?”

  “It was great. Wish you could have had dinner with us.”

  “That would have been nice,” she says with a soft sigh.

  “Maybe someday,” I say with hope.

  “Yeah?” Her pitch rises too.

  I’m this close to saying I’m falling for you. But with her starting to fade, now isn’t the time. “I should let you sleep.”

  “Night, Drew,” she says.