“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.

  “Night, Brooke,” I say.

  But when I end the call, I’m not tired. I’m amped up with thoughts of her, and us, and our deal.

  The deal I need to make good on. I pace in front of the window, staring at the dark sky, thinking.

  What makes Brooke tick in bed? Dirty words. They’re guaranteed to get her out of her head.

  That gives me an idea.

  What I need is a sex hack.

  17

  The Proof Is in the Whac-A-Mole

  Drew

  * * *

  Silas taunts me ferociously on Tuesday at the High Score Arcade in Santa Monica. “Prepare to lose once again, Drew!”

  The seventh grade baseball player I’ve been battling in Whac-A-Mole is a tough competitor.

  “Don’t count me out yet.” I lift the mallet and send a wooden mole into oblivion.

  “Nope. You can’t catch up,” Silas says fiercely as I chase the vicious little moles in the game.

  The tenacious kid has soundly whipped my ass in every game of Whac-A-Mole tonight. His baseball team was a rag tag bunch of middle schoolers with old equipment playing on overgrown fields until the Mercenaries helped out through Every Kid, an organization that helps fund sports for underprivileged youth.

  As my round ends in another loss, I lift my hand. “Silas, you are the king of Whac-A-Mole,” I say, knocking fists with the young warrior. “Feel free to brag to all your teammates that you kicked my butt at Whac-A-Mole. Can you do that, my man?”

  He beams. “I can do that. Can you win again this weekend against the San Francisco Hawks?”

  I laugh, then clap him on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best.”

  He heads off to join his buddies, and I return to the arcade game for a quick solo round.

  As I clobber a mole, someone says in a pretty and familiar voice, “Careful. I hear we might ban Whac-A-Mole next.”

  Slamming the padded hammer down on the wooden weasel, I answer with a grin. “The GM runs a tight ship,” I say as the next mole submits to my speed with the hammer.

  “But Skee-Ball is still safe,” Brooke says.

  “Whew. I was worried,” I say, then sneak a glance at her.

  Damn. Brooke is so pretty. Her tight red dress hits above her knees, and she looks good enough to eat.

  All I want to do is kiss her. Go home with her. Take her out to breakfast and make her mine.

  And just like that, I know tonight’s the night to tell her.

  A dopey grin spreads on my face. The moles pop up and I don’t bother to hit them.

  “I thought you were a Whac-A-Mole pro,” she teases as she eyes the game board.

  “I was.” I dart my gaze around the arcade and drop my voice. “Then you walked over, looking like all my dirty dreams.” But she’s so much more than my bedroom fantasies. Gazing into her pretty brown eyes, I add, “And my daydreams.”

  Her breath catches. “Same for you,” she whispers.

  My body says kiss her. My heart says to do that too.

  The way I feel for her can’t be wrong. It blots out everything—the game, the rules, the team’s image. It erases all the reasons I need to be cautious.

  I inch toward her, and her eyes widen to saucer size. I freeze as she raises her chin, and mouths, “Smile for the camera.”

  In a split second, I turn and flash a grin at the photographer. Brooke smiles too, and the guy gives us a thumbs-up before he heads off to another group.

  “Whew,” she says. “That was close. I’m pretty sure you were trying to kiss me.”

  She doesn’t sound mad.

  She sounds…enchanted.

  “I shouldn’t have. But honey,” I say, meeting her soft gaze, “I’ve got it bad for you.”

  Her smile is radiant, full of passion and possibility. “Drew,” she says softly.

  “And I really want to find a way for us.”

  “A way to what?” she asks, that cautious side of her in full swing.

  “You and me,” I mouth.

  “You do want that?” she asks, hopeful.

  “I do.” I’m about to dive in, right there, and discuss what it’ll take—when Stephen swoops in and shakes my hand. “Great night. Great event. Couldn’t be more pleased. You?”

  I nod. “Everything is fantastic.”

  The older man glances from Brooke to me and back. Something inquisitive passes through his eyes, and I feel a flurry of nerves, like when I can’t find a receiver and I’m about to get sacked.

  Maybe I was getting ahead of myself with my feelings’ confession.

  But Stephen’s tone is relaxed as he says, “There’s a soccer player who’s keen for a round of Skee-Ball with the quarterback. She’s eight and very competitive.”

  “It is on,” I say, then head to the Skee-Ball games.

  A serious blonde in a soccer jersey hands me a ball. “You go first,” Phoebe says with a tone loaded with gravitas.

  “Nope. Ladies first,” I say, and with a small smile, Phoebe agrees, taking the ball.

  “I’ve been practicing. I go after soccer games. If I don’t become a pro soccer player, I’m going to play Skee-Ball.”

  “Those are some excellent goals,” I say.

  We play a few rounds, and I do my best to keep it fair. But it’s hard to check my competitive nature at the door.

  Then, I play a round with Brooke, and I clobber her. That’s kind of weirdly satisfying. But afterward, she gestures to the exit. “I have a late call with a supplier I need to take from home. But it was good to see you,” she says, and briefly a look passes between us—one that says it was so good to see you tonight.

  When she leaves, I watch her go longer than I should. As my gaze lingers, Stephen returns to me with the head of Every Kid.

  We chat for a while about some of the work his organization has done to expand sports access, and when we’re done, Stephen pulls me aside.

  “We have a press tour coming up to show some of the bloggers and podcasters around the stadium—those who don’t usually come in person to cover the games. We’re showcasing the new food booths, do a tour, then some photos. Any chance you’d want to join in? It’d be great to see you there,” he says, ending on an upbeat tone.

  My calendar is getting full, but I should be able to fit in a tour and some pics. Besides, it’s the right thing to do, especially with the way the Mercenaries are treating me.

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  I play a few more rounds with the kids, and soon, the stars are winking in the sky.

  When the event winds down, I find my phone blinking with a note.

  * * *

  Brooke: Want to come over? I made this.

  * * *

  There’s a mouthwatering photo of chicken and cauliflower drizzled in cheese, with brussels sprouts on the side, and I want to lick the phone.

  * * *

  Drew: Your food porn worked. The answer is yes. But where’s the pic of your legs?

  * * *

  Brooke: I knew the food porn would be enough to lure you here.

  * * *

  Drew: You were wrong. I’m coming for you. But also, the food.

  * * *

  Brooke: I was right.

  * * *

  I grab a Lyft and go, ready to try my sex hack and perhaps devise a romance one too.

  18

  His Sex Hack

  Brooke

  * * *

  My call was over in all of five minutes, so I used the unexpected free time to whip up a quick dish, then Rachel stopped by on her way home from work.

  She lives a few blocks away, and I’ve caught her up on all the man things in my life.

  Now, she cinches a necklace at the back of my neck. “There,” she says as I let my hair fall and then spin around to face her in the kitchen. “So cute. Do you like it, Brooke?”