“Good. I’m guessing you missed my message this morning because you were busy with your woman?”

  It doesn’t sound like a reprimand. More like a hey, I’m looking out for you. I feel like a jackass, though.

  “Is he still there? I can meet with him now.”

  “He had to take off. Something with his kid. But we’ll reschedule. It happens,” Patrick says.

  But it doesn’t happen to me. I don’t miss meetings. I don’t forget obligations. My mom taught me to show up, and I motherfucking do.

  Maybe I have sex brain.

  “I’ll do better next week. I promise,” I say.

  Patrick claps me on the shoulder. “No worries. Glad you’re into her, man. Just keep your focus.”

  He leaves, and before I take off for work, I send Paul a message apologizing for my no-show and telling him I can’t wait to talk to him about Young Athletes.

  At the stadium, we review the game plan, and I put both the missed meeting and the woman out of my mind. I have tunnel vision the rest of the day and into Sunday morning as we board the plane for the hour-long flight. By the time we hit the Hawks field for kickoff, I’m in the zone.

  We score first. But the Hawks are tough as nails. Their quarterback is fearless in the pocket and lasers in on his receivers on every damn throw.

  The quarterback, Jason McKay, is a steely-eyed missile man, and he connects, matching the score.

  But no biggie. I’ll keep putting my guys ahead.

  Except on the next play, when I take the snap and hunt for an open receiver, I find nada.

  I tuck the ball under my arm, ready to scramble for a few yards, when out of nowhere, a Hawks linebacker slams me to the ground.

  All the air evacuates my lungs.

  My head rings.

  And I wince as my left tackle offers me his hand, tugs me up. “You okay, man?”

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks,” I say to Theo.

  I try to shake off the sack, then I get back in the huddle. But on the next snap, I fire too early and send a pick right into Xavier Walters’ arms. The Hawks cornerback returns it for a touchdown.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter as he celebrates in the end zone.

  I walk off the field, head down. Clements pats my back.

  “I brought a blue hacky sack today,” he says, but I’m not in the mood to play games.

  I shake him off, then when we get possession again, we’re over and out in four. We punt, and I fail to move the ball the rest of the half.

  Somehow, the second half is even worse. I throw another interception on our first drive. On our next possession, I’m sacked, and this might be the worst game of my life.

  I cannot find a rhythm.

  When the game mercifully ends, I feel beaten and bruised.

  I trudge into the locker room, away from the scene of the pummeling. In front of his stall, Rand scrubs a hand over his smooth jaw.

  “This is my fault,” he says. “I was growing a beard, and my girlfriend said it was itchy, so I shaved and look what happened.”

  “Pretty sure it was my shitty throws, not your beard or no beard,” I say.

  Rand shakes his head adamantly. “No, man. You never fuck with a streak. It ruins your luck. And I did. I fucked with the football gods.”

  The conversation nags at me as I shower, as we fly home late that night.

  Maybe you don’t fuck with a streak.

  But not for the reasons he said. Not because of luck, or superstition, or football gods shining in your favor when you grow a beard.

  You don’t fuck with a streak because it ruins your focus.

  Focus in football is everything. The sport isn’t just a physical game—it’s a mental one. Quarterbacks who win need to blot out the world. They need to stay in the zone, and only in the zone.

  Once inside my home, I flick on the TV and force of habit takes me straight to the Sports Network. I crank up the volume. The anchor launches into her football recap and, soon enough, lands on my team.

  “Drew Adams has been playing impeccably, but today the Los Angeles Mercenaries earned their first L of the season in one of the worst games of his career. Let’s dig into what broke their four-and-zero record.”

  Part of me wants to shout, “It was just four games.”

  But another, deeper part of me knows that every goddamn game matters. Muting the TV, I close my eyes, replaying the game from the start.

  Where did I go wrong? The Mercenaries have played like a smooth, well-oiled machine for the last month.

  Until…

  I shudder at the thought.

  But then I say it quietly aloud.

  “Until I stopped focusing on football,” I mutter.

  The second I leveled up with Brooke, my game play fell apart in spectacular fashion.

  Maybe I can’t have romance and football. Maybe I need to choose one or the other.

  No!

  Stop that shit.

  I’m not buying into that.

  That’s ridiculous.

  Instead, I send Brooke a text so she knows I’m thinking of her. Hey honey, I’m zonked. Going to bed. See you tomorrow.

  We meet the next morning for an early coffee on the Promenade before she goes into work. Patrick and Cara join us at an outdoor table at Big Cup Café.

  “Tough loss,” Patrick says with sympathy.

  “I played horribly,” I reply, still sullen.

  “You didn’t seem that focused,” Patrick says without judgment. Just the awareness of someone who’s seen most of my games.

  Brooke tilts her head, listening. “You think that was the issue?” she asks, she’s not quite buying what he’s selling.

  “It reminded me of your senior year,” Patrick says. “When you had a few rough games that October.”

  I blink. Holy shit. Yesterday’s game did feel a lot like those clunkers.

  The painful memories crawl to the surface. Marie was an exchange student at college my senior year. I met her at a party at the start of the semester and was instantly taken. I started spending more time with her, seeing her on the reg.

  “Just…” Patrick starts, then stops.

  “What happened then?” Cara asks.

  Patrick waves a hand, like he’s covering it up. “Just a few bad games.”

  “And what was the reason, sweetie?” Cara asks Patrick, pushing harder for an answer from him.

  Ah, hell. Poor Patrick’s about to get a grilling from his woman. Over me. I need to tell them. Not him.

  “I met someone. I was really into her. And I had a few bad games because she was all I could think about.”

  The confession is full of remembered embarrassment over how I played. Brooke frowns, but then she erases it, her face a tabula rasa.

  “But it’s not the same,” I say quickly.

  Except, what if this situation is the same? What if I can’t balance football and romance?

  “And you missed a meeting the other morning?” Brooke asks, reminding me of yet another fuckup this past week.

  I look away, ashamed over that too. “Yeah, but I rescheduled with Paul, so it’s all good.”

  Patrick clears his throat and points to the interior of the café. “I’m going to grab a coffee.”

  “Me too,” Cara says.

  Once they’re inside, Brooke meets my gaze and says gently, “So there have been other times when you struggled to balance football and dating?”

  I swallow uncomfortably. If I say yes, I’ll sound like I don’t have my shit together. But then, maybe I don’t. I stay quiet.

  “Senior year of college is an important time,” she adds, her tone full of understanding. “With recruiting and the draft and such.”

  “That’s true,” I admit, recalling those terrible early season games and my worries that I was blowing my shot at the pros.

  “And you probably stressed about whether it would affect your chances in the draft,” she says, kind and thoughtful, getting me too well.

  I look away, rubbing a hand along the back of my neck. “Yeah, I did.”

  “And did you break it off with her?” she asks, still soft and caring.

  I wince but mumble a yes.

  “And did your game improve?”

  Grimacing, I bite out a yes again.

  I hate that yes.

  Hate it so fucking much.

  She draws a deep breath then reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Would it help if maybe we took a week off? Or perhaps more? I don’t want this to get you down.”

  No! God, no. Not at all.

  Except…what if I’m terrible at balancing everything? What if I lost my focus? What if I can’t manage it all?

  “I really don’t want to,” I say heavy and resigned because I probably should say yes. “But…”

  She purses her lips. “But maybe it’s for the best?”

  I grimace. Damn, she has more guts than I do.

  More insight too.

  No way can this be the answer. Except the evidence adds up. I thought so last night, but I didn’t want to put the clues together. Now, I don’t know what else to think.

  “Maybe it is best,” I say, wishing that weren’t the answer, but fearing it is. “But what about the media tour?”

  “Drew,” she says, her voice soft but her tone firm. “Maybe you’re doing too much. You say yes to everything. You do all these charity events, which is amazing. You do all these interviews. But perhaps you’re spreading yourself too thin. I can talk to Stephen, and we can find someone else. Another player. Maybe Clements.”

  My shoulders relax, and I hate that I want that so much. But I do. That would be a load off.

  “You wouldn’t mind?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I’ll take care of it. You just focus on football.”

  “And next week?” I’m hopeful I can see her again, but is that even fair to ask? Does that make me a fair-weather boyfriend?

  No, I can’t ask her to date again next week. I need to get my shit together before I can fully commit.

  “Focus on this week,” she says, echoing my thoughts, more caring than I deserve. “That’s all you should concentrate on.”

  It sounds like a good plan. But it also sounds like we just put our romance on ice.

  23

  HIS BAD LUCK CHARM

  Brooke

  When I walk down the hall in the office an hour later, I get the sense that my co-workers are whispering about me again.

  But not for long, since Felipe says out loud, “Did you make him feel better this morning?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, stopping at his desk.

  “Well, there was that cute pic of you two having coffee a little while ago. You were holding his hand,” he says, like Drew and I are the height of adorbs. He pops up from his desk, phone in hand, and swings it my way. A social media feed from MercenaryFanGirl features a shot of me holding Drew’s hand this morning.

  The back of my neck prickles. We were seen an hour ago while we were, for all intents and purposes, breaking up.

  Only this fan has no clue what really went down.

  My stomach churns with the utter wrongness of the caption. QB’s GF comforts him after yesterday’s tough loss.

  Yeah, some comfort I gave. More like I freed him from his obligation.

  I was his albatross. His bad luck charm.

  “Thanks for sharing,” I say blandly to Felipe, then stare at my shoes as I walk to my office, hoping to avoid any more run-ins.

  But when I pass Abby, she catches my attention with a “Psst,” then asks, “How is he doing after yesterday?”

  My throat tightens as I choke out, “Fine.”

  My door is ten feet away. If I can just make it past the moat of hungry co-workers who dine on gossip…

  I’m almost past the threshold, when a familiar voice slithers up my spine.

  “Morning, Brooke. I have a horchata.”

  Screw horchatas.

  I spin to face him and slap on a grin. “Thanks. But I just had a coffee.”

  Stephen frowns. “Too bad. Maybe I’ll drink it.” He follows me into my office, taking a hearty swallow from one cup. “Damn, this is one fine drink.”

  Well, maybe the latte was for him all along.

  “Anyway, I wanted to get this as a thanks,” he says, then shakes his head but in obvious approval. “You’re nailing this dating thing.” With his free hand, he sketches air quotes.

  Probably because he doesn’t want to say “fake dating” out loud.

  Only it was never fake. And I’m a little tired of acting like maybe it was.

  I’m tired of the charade.

  And after this morning’s heartbreak, I don’t want to fake a thing anymore. Especially since I’ll have to tell him in three seconds that it’s over. I was hoping I’d have some more time to break the bad news.

  “I’m glad to hear, but the thing is—”

  “The Mercenaries are such a fan-favorite now, thanks to Drew. Sure, the sports news hammered the team yesterday with the loss to the Hawks, but social media is trending with how cute you are together. The fans are loving the two of you.”

  I can’t deal with this anymore.

  I close the door, meet his eyes, and say, “I hate to tell you this…”

  After the botched job I did untelling him I was dating Drew, I’ve got to do it right now. “He’s not coming to the press tour this week. He’s got a lot on his plate, Stephen. He needs to focus on football. So we won’t attend as a couple.”

  Stephen is rarely rattled.

  But he’s not simply rattled. He’s speechless. His mouth hangs open unceremoniously. “You won’t?”

  “We won’t.” I swallow the stones in my throat, wishing I didn’t have to say this. “And I don’t know if we’ll be able to attend any others.”

  My voice cracks. It’s full of potholes I didn’t see coming.

  “Did you fake break up?” he asks, even more confused.

  My shoulders shake. Tears prick the back of my eyes. Stupid tears. Foolish emotions. “Honestly, it was real. We were together for real, Stephen. And now we’re not.”

  And there’s nothing fake about the hurt in my heart right now.

  24

  RINSE, LATHER, REPEAT

  Drew

  Maddox would tell me not to listen, but on the drive to the stadium I stick my finger in the flame and tune in to Pigskin Jimbo, a nationally syndicated sports talk host.

  There’s nothing quite as sobering as a raspy-voiced dude lambasting you in front of millions of listeners for every single play.

  “One of the sloppiest games I’ve ever watched. I watched it through my fingers, horror-movie style,” he barks. “What do you think? Let’s hear from our callers.”

  When the first caller starts with, “What is up with Adams? Is his new girl distracting him?” I stab the off button.

  “It’s not her fault,” I mutter to the unknown caller. “It’s mine.”

  And I hope my teammates aren’t as disappointed in me as I am. But they have every right to be.

  When I walk through the corridor of the practice facility, my heart feels heavy. My feet do too. I dread heading into the locker room.

  I let these guys down yesterday, so when I tug open the door, I brace myself for their disappointment.

  “Hey, Adams,” Rand calls out, patting his stubbly cheek. “Check it out. No shave.”

  Clements tips his chin my way and lobs a yellow hacky sack at me.

  I catch it easily. “New one?”

  “Fuck yes. We’re gonna start a new streak. Isn’t that right?”

  Rand nods enthusiastically. “Starting now.”

  The running back points at me. “My game was off yesterday, bro. I should have caught a couple of those throws. But today? Today, I woke up early and did yoga. Nama-fucking-ste. I’ve got peace about the game yesterday, and now we’re gonna concentrate on fucking up Dallas this weekend on our turf.”

  Holy shit. What did I do to deserve a team like this? Their attitudes are everything. I fight off a grin so I don’t look too happy about losing, but I’m ecstatic that they aren’t blaming me. It was a tough loss all around.

  But I still want them to know how seriously I take my job. I clear my throat. “Thanks, guys. I’ve been beating myself up. I know I played badly yesterday, and I’m sorry I let you down, but I’m ready to put it behind us and kick ass.”

  Clements scoffs. “Dude, it was one bad game. We were all off.”

  “We all have them,” Rand echoes. “It’s a new day.”

  It is, and I’ve got a new attitude—all football, all the time.

  When we head to the video room to watch clips from yesterday, Coach pats me on the shoulder. “Let’s find our focus again, men,” he says.

  Then, he breaks down each key play, pointing out what went wrong.

  Not enough coverage.

  Snap took too long.

  No one was open.

  Missed a tackle.

  The Hawks’ defense is tight.

  Their QB was on fire.

  Coach isn’t cold, just clinical. With each assessment, I shed a little bit more weight off my shoulders. I didn’t play great, but the other team sure did. It wasn’t my best game, but it wasn’t any of our best games.

  When he hits end on the video, he points to the field. “Time for drills. We’ve got a game to win on Sunday.”

  I smack palms with my guys then trot out to practice, ready to leave the Hawks game behind me.

  I need to put everything behind me, and out of my head.

  Even this empty ache in my heart.

  An ache that intensifies when I go home that night alone.

  Instantly, I miss her all over again. I wish I were seeing her tonight. Making dinner with her. Talking in her kitchen. Curling up with her in her bed.

  But I don’t reach out. I hit the hay early.

  On Tuesday morning, I peel off my best time running in a while, but I feel out of sorts all day. Even after an excellent practice. Even though the team looks damn good.

  That night I go home alone again—of course—but my condo feels emptier than it ever has before. I text Carter and shoot the breeze with him for a while, then we play a few rounds of basketball on my Xbox.