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.

  When we’re done, I check my phone, wishing for a note from Brooke.

  But she offered to cool things for me, for my fucking benefit so I could do the job I’m paid to do. And I took her up on a generous, selfless offer.

  She’s not going to reach out since she did this for me.

  She’s a woman of her word.

  I should be a man who gets his job done.

  I go to bed alone, the same damn way I wake up the next day. I do it all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

  Practice, focus, miss Brooke.

  Then miss her again, and again, and again.

  After practice Thursday morning, I head out to meet my agent for lunch, trying to shake off the hollow feeling chasing me—my guilt too. It’s the day of the press tour. I should be there to show the bloggers and podcasters around. They’ve been good to me. I should be good back to them.

  Maddox waits for me at the Indian food truck. When he heard I didn’t get to try it a few weeks ago, he insisted on taking me out.

  I stride up to Maddox and say hello, focusing on the here and now. I will be present for lunch with my agent. “I am here to repent,” I say, flashing him a smile.

  “Good. The chana masala will make you never ditch this truck again,” he says, then asks if he can order for me.

  “Hell, yes. You always know what to pick,” I say.

  He orders naan, eggplant bharta and the aforementioned chana masala, then we grab a picnic table.

  As we tuck into the tasty dishes, he asks about my mom. “She’s keeping busy with Sophie and Mira, I presume?”

  “She is.” This is one of the things I’ve always loved about Maddox. He cares about me beyond my performance on the field.

  As we eat, we chat about my family, then he says, “And what are you thinking you want to do when your contract is up at the end of the season? Renew?”

  My stomach dips with new nerves. “If they’ll have me.”

  He furrows his brow, clearly surprised I said that. “Pretty sure they’ll have you. I can’t make any promises, but you’re one of the top quarterbacks in the league.” He tilts his head, studies me. “What’s going on, Drew?”

  I’m so used to being the confident guy with him, showing him I belong in the sport, that I’m worthy of the contracts he inks. Usually that’s all I need to be. But my emotions are seeping through the cracks today. I’m still unsure if I made the right choice on Monday morning.

  But I don’t need to burden Maddox with that.

  “Nothing really,” I say, but I can hear the lie in my voice.

  Maddox must too, since he sets down his fork with purpose. “What’s really going on, and how can I help you?”

  I don’t want to be the guy who complains about his lady woes. But I can’t keep it from him, especially since he seems to be figuring it out already.

  “Just woman trouble,” I say, trying to make light of it.

  He looks concerned. “Did something go wrong with Brooke?”

  He knows I was seeing her, since our pics were all over socials.

  I heave a sigh, then let a little more of the truth out. “Yeah. And it’s probably all my fault.” Fuck, that’s a relief to say.

  But I just miss her ridiculously.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  That is the question, but I’ve got zero answers. “I don’t know, Maddox. I thought maybe I was distracted because of her. And I was supposed to do this press tour with the team today. She got me out of it. But it’s not in my nature to back out.”

  “It’s not. That’s not your style. You work hard and you represent,” he says. “But is that what’s eating at you?”

  I scratch my jaw, then shake my head. “Yes, but mostly I just miss her.”

  He gives a soft smile. “And have you talked to Carter about that?”

  I give him a quizzical look. “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s always the one you talk to about your romantic woes. He usually knows what you should do.”

  Maybe I’ve avoided talking to him about Brooke these last few days. For that very reason.

  But I can change that right away.

  25

  Thursday Afternoon Quarterback

  Brooke

  * * *

  Drew and I never went parasailing, but even so, I shift my gaze away from the parasailer floating above the ocean. It reminds me of the day we met.

  I don’t need any reminders of the conversations we had, the way we flirted, or our instant connection.

  I’m at an oceanfront café Thursday afternoon with Cara. I worked from home this morning, and I’ll be heading to the stadium for the tour shortly. But first, lunch. We’re celebrating that Cara just aced one of her key exams.

  “I’ll say it again—I’m seriously proud of you.” I toast with the remains of my iced tea one last time as we wrap up.

  “And I’m amazed by you,” she says.

  I arch a brow in question. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve eaten a full meal and you haven’t mentioned Drew once. You have some serious restraint.”

  I sigh heavily. “There’s no point. There’s nothing to say.”

  Except my heart aches still, and that sucks. The only thing that’s taken my mind away from him is work. I’ve logged twelve hours most days. All the work reminds me that I’m closer to paying off my loans.

  And it’s better to worry about loans than a real fake romance. Or a fake real romance? Or whatever it was.

  I raise my chin, take a hearty sip of the last of my iced tea, and set down the glass. “And on that note, I have to give a tour to the press.”

  “Why are you doing the tour? You’re a lawyer,” she says.

  It’s a damn good question. Originally, Stephen just wanted me to be part of the event because I handled all the deals with the food vendors. But then he wanted me on it because of Drew. Now, I’m leading the dang thing. “Nancy in publicity is out sick for the day, so Stephen asked me to fill in. Plus, he says I’m the best at only saying to the press exactly what he wants said. Yay me.”

  “Well, you’re pretty damn sharp, Miss Legal Eagle. Maybe you should have Nancy’s job,” she says.

  I shudder. “No thanks. Contracts are my speed. But it’s just one tour, so it’ll be fine.”

  I stand to go but Cara grabs my arm, gently pulling me back into my chair. “What if they ask about the two of you?”

  My throat tightens. “I’ll say something…pithy about how football requires focus.”

  Though that sounds horribly canned. Also, it’s a lie. Plenty of athletes can handle romance and work. Plenty of humans can. I’d thought we could.

  But I was wrong.

  “Brooke, his bad game isn’t your fault,” Cara says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You actually believe it’s your fault. You buy into this whole focus blah-blah-blah. But it’s bullshit.”