Whoa. Cara hardly ever swears. “Tell me what you really think.”

  “You saw the game on Sunday, right?” she asks, a blazing intensity in her eyes.

  “Of course.”

  “And did San Francisco not play its ass off in that game?”

  We are both football daughters. Cara knows the game inside and out like I do. “They were great,” I agree.

  “No one was going to beat them. He’s an idiot if he thinks he lost because of you. The Hawks were relentless. They played a tight, intense game, and they took advantage of every opportunity.”

  Can’t argue there. “But it’s not my place to convince him of that.”

  “I know. But I don’t want you thinking you rattled him. He had a bad game. It happens. Don’t put it on you, and don’t let him put it on you.”

  Cara makes a good argument. One I should share—not to win Drew back, but because it’s true and because it matters.

  Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose. A pro baller knows how to play through life’s ups and downs, the bad times and the good times.

  Drew’s not just any pro baller.

  He’s a damn good one. He needs to have faith in himself. Maybe he needs to know others have faith in him too, even if he has one imperfect game.

  When I see him again, I’ll tell him as much. Only, I have no idea when that’ll be.

  After I go home, change, and head to the stadium, I decide I’m not going to leave this moment to chance.

  26

  The Real Streak

  Drew

  * * *

  Carter can’t stop laughing. He goes on for thirty seconds and once he’s done gasping for breath, he points at me over FaceTime in case I didn’t realize I was the butt of a joke. “I wish I’d recorded that. I’d play it at your wedding.”

  I jerk my head back, staring hard at his face on the screen. “What are you talking about?”

  “That whole thing you just said. I walked away from the best relationship I’ve ever had because I can’t handle being an adult.”

  I groan. “That is not what I said.”

  “But that’s what I heard,” he says, laughing once again.

  I stop pacing around my condo and drop my head into my hand. “Why did Maddox tell me to talk to you? Is he a prankster?”

  Carter scoffs. “Because he knew I’d tell you the cold, hard truth,” he says, turning starkly serious. “You didn’t fuck up a game because you fell in love. It was just a game, man. One that you didn’t happen to win. Don’t throw the woman out with the L.”

  I blink and shake my head like a dog shaking off water. “What did you just say?”

  He repeats the part about the game, but I gesture for him to back it up. “The other part.”

  “Oh,” he says with a laugh. “The part about you being in love? Yeah, that’s why you’re all weird and shit. You’re in love with her, and you freaked out. And you totally can fucking handle football and love. You’re a pro baller, so go out and do it.”

  I take a moment to let the weight of his words sink in. Then I check the time.

  Oh, fuck.

  Then, as I spin into action, I spot a silver charm on my nightstand, and it gives me an idea.

  Traffic sucks.

  “C’mon,” I mutter as I check the clock on the dashboard for the fiftieth time. I’ve got ten more minutes to go one mile.

  It could take an hour, or it could take a few minutes.

  Most likely it will feel like a year.

  But luck shines down on me, and I cover the final mile in eight minutes, pulling into the players’ lot and snagging the first spot I see.

  I grab my phone without checking my messages, without calling Brooke. I don’t want to do this on the phone. I want to see her in person.

  And I want to be a man of my word.

  I said I’d do the tour, and when you say you’re going to do something, you should damn well do it.

  I run to the players’ entrance then downstairs to the corridor that leads to the locker room, where the tour starts. I pick up the pace until I spot a group milling around the door one hundred feet ahead—twenty or so reporters, then Clements, then…

  There she is.

  Wow.

  She looks stunning, and I’m such an idiot for letting her go.

  I don’t slow down.

  I’ve got ten seconds to be on time, and I’m going to fucking be on time for my commitments.

  Especially the one I made to Brooke when I told her I was falling for her. Part and parcel of that is I won’t want to cool off again.

  She spots me, looking at me as if I’m as unexpected as a housecat wandering through the stadium. Her head tilts, her brow furrows, and her face is unreadable. Her poker face is tight, but her brown eyes are full of questions and, I think, hope.

  I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s gorgeous in her black skirt and red blouse, her blonde hair twisted up on her head.

  But it’s her heart that I want most—the heart that wanted to give me space.

  Fuck space.

  I don’t want that anymore.

  I’m about to run past all these reporters when a guy in glasses speaks first, stopping me. “Hey, Drew. We didn’t think you were going to be here.”

  A redheaded woman with freckles goes next. “Are you joining the tour after all, Drew?”

  Then Clements strides forward and gives me a fist bump. “Always showing me up,” he says with a smirk.

  “Thanks for being my backup,” I say, but I’m not in the mood to joke.

  I’ve got eyes for one person and one person only.

  “I’d love to show you all around,” I say to the reporters, my gaze locked on Brooke’s. “But there’s something I have to do first.”

  I walk past them all, and they part, letting me reach her quickly.

  She purses her lips and waits for me.

  I reach into my pocket, take out the charm necklace, and press it into her hand. “I love you. I want you to leave this at my place any time, and I’ll keep finding it and bringing it to you.”

  Instantly, her bluff vanishes. She smiles like a Jumbotron caught us kissing.

  Which sounds like a damn good idea but I’m not done. “I want football and romance. I was a fool to think we couldn’t make both work. I don’t want any space from you. I want to see you every night, and every morning.”

  But before she can speak, I realize my faux pas. “Oh, shit,” I whisper. “You probably didn’t want me to say all that in public.”

  With her free hand, she grabs the collar of my shirt. “I do. I did. All I want is you.”

  I loop my arms around her neck. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But thank you for giving me another chance.”

  “Drew,” she says, her voice soft and feathery and just for me. “You’ll have bad days at work, and so will I. But we’ll have good days too. We just can’t let the bad days dictate how we feel about each other.”

  I nod, still a little guilty, but that’s okay. I should feel guilty. I fucked up when I freaked out. But I can learn from it. “I know. I believe that. I didn’t think there was room for love and football, but I was wrong.”

  “I want love and football too,” she says.

  “Oh my God, just fucking kiss her,” Clements breaks in with an aggrieved groan.

  The guy with glasses chimes, “Yes, yes, yes!”

  The woman cheers me on too. “Right now.”

  I look at Brooke, asking permission. “Are you sure?”

  She laughs. “Trust me, it’s no hardship to kiss you in public or private. But first, maybe put this on me?”

  She hands me the charm necklace, and I loop it around her neck, clasping it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the phone cameras go wild. Pretty sure they’ve been going wild this whole time.

  Works for me.

  This moment is as real as all the other ones—the Whac-A-Mole game, the walk after the charity event, the kiss on the beach.

  But this one is the start of the real us.

  My heart beats faster as I move in closer. Then my lips are on hers, and I kiss the woman I love.

  But not for long. We have a tour to do.

  When I break the kiss, she’s smiling like she has a secret.

  “What’s that for?” I ask.

  “Oh, I just love you too,” she says. Then she clears her throat, and meets the eyes of the press, who’ve caught all this on camera. “Let me show you the locker room first.”

  Just like that, we give a tour of the stadium together.

  When it’s over, she grabs my hand, pulls me into a stairwell, and kisses me hard. “I can’t believe you showed up here like that.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t show up three days ago. I’m so sorry,” I say, wishing I could have gotten my act together. “And I’ll keep saying that. You deserve to hear it. You deserve everything good in the world, Brooke.”

  Shaking her head, she presses her finger to my lips. “We’re good. No groveling is necessary. I get it.”

  My heart thumps harder. She’s too good to me. “You really do?”

  “Drew, you had a great start to the season. You had all sorts of luck, but it came from talent and hard work. Then you had one rough game. But you blamed yourself when the reality is…it’s just football.”

  That’s what I started realizing the other day in the locker room with my guys. But hearing her say that means a lot to me too. That’s another form of luck—when the person you love completely understands you.

  “Took me a while to figure that out,” I say.

  “You were doing a lot. You’ve taken on a ton of extra responsibilities. It can be overwhelming. Just know I’m here for you. And I know you’ll do great this weekend,” she says, then studies my face. Her eyes are full of question marks. “Didn’t you get my message?”

  She sent me one? Of course she fucking did because she’s awesome. “I didn’t look at my phone. I was in such a rush to get here and see you.” I grab it from my pocket and click on it, reading words she sent a little while ago.

  Streaks never last. It’s the very nature of streaks to end. But I believe in you as an athlete and as a man. You’ve handled this season so far with grace and confidence, and I know you’ll keep doing it.

  My heart thunders. “I don’t deserve you. But I want to deserve you.” Then I kiss her again, reveling in the sweet taste of her lips, the scent of her hair, the feel of her in my arms once more.

  She kisses me back tenderly, as if she’s delighting in this kiss too. Like she’s savoring every second of us coming back together.

  But I’m also getting turned on, so I end it. “I should go, or I might try to hike up your skirt here in the stairwell.”

  She wiggles a brow. Such a naughty woman. “I probably wouldn’t stop you.”

  I groan, wanting that badly. “All the more reason for me to take off. So I can get you off later. When do you finish work?”

  “In a couple of hours.”

  It feels like an eternity. “Can I bury my face between your legs then?”

  She smiles. “Only if you have a soundtrack for me.”

  That evening, I’m in my favorite place. On Brooke’s bed, my hands sliding along her soft thighs as I devour her, making her lose her mind to pleasure.

  She arches and writhes against me, swearing like a dirty woman who loves sex.

  I am having the time of my life.

  I grip her ass as I go down on her, determined to take her over the edge.

  Seconds later, she’s gripping my skull and coming undone with a loud cry.

  I slow my pace, kiss her once more, than wipe a hand across my mouth. When she blinks open her eyes, she looks dazed and blissed out. She takes out her ear buds. Smiles. Sighs. Flops her head back on the pillow. “Wow.”

  “Wow to you,” I say, then press a kiss to her belly.

  She laughs again, then pushes up on her elbows, wicked deeds in her eyes.

  “My turn,” she says, so eager and hungry.

  She is my woman. My perfect match.

  “I like the sound of that.” But first I bring her close, kiss her cheek, then say, “You’re the streak I don’t want to break.”

  Epilogue

  Any Tips for Me?

  Drew

  * * *

  Brooke comes to my game that weekend.

  That’s not surprising. She’s been to all my home games. But this time, she sits on the fifty-yard line with Patrick and Cara. When I run out to the field, I wave to her.

  She waves back then points to her jersey. Number Eight.

  I love it, I mouth, then add, I love you.

  Then, I play ball. In between possessions, Gabe and I kick the hacky sack, keeping up his ritual.

  And by the end of the game, we’ve returned to our ritual—winning.

  As victory flashes on the scoreboard, I high-five the guys. Last weekend is behind me. I don’t have to be perfect all the time. I just have to try my best.

  These guys know I do that. I play hard for them, for the fans, and for the whole city.

  But also for the woman I love.

  After I chat with a sideline reporter, I run over to Brooke, kiss her, then pull her into my arms on the field.

  “I told you so,” I say with a smile.

  Rolling her eyes, she laughs. “Yes, Drew. You sure did.”

  I pepper her with more kisses, so damn glad she’s here and that I can kiss her freely at last in front of anyone and everyone.

  But there’s someone I want her to meet.

  My family heads into the café first, and I let the door close behind them. I reach for Brooke’s hand, squeeze it. “I’m pretty excited for you to meet my mom,” I say.

  “News flash—me too.”

  We walk in together. When I find my mom at a table, I smile and Mom waves back, then stands up.

  “Mom, I want to introduce you to my girlfriend,” I say.

  “The one you were wrong about when you didn’t think you could have love and football?” she asks innocently.

  That sounds awfully familiar.

  “Mom! Are you reading the gossip about us?” I ask. That’s exactly what I said to Brooke before the stadium tour.

  She rolls her eyes. “Sweetheart, everyone knows.” She extends a hand to Brooke. “Thank you for putting up with him.”

  My girlfriend laughs. “It’s truly my pleasure.”

  When Mom looks away to check on my sisters, Brooke winks at me and whispers, “It is my pleasure.”

  Then, before we sit, I tug her back and whisper, “I’m spanking you later for that.”

  “I should hope so,” she says.

  Over dinner, I ask my mom if she has any game tips for me.

  “Yes.” Mom looks to Brooke, smiles sagely. “Don’t let her go.”

  I don’t plan to.

  Another Epilogue

  All of the Above

  Brooke

  * * *

  Springtime

  * * *

  The sun warms my shoulders as I turn the pages in my new book.

  It’s a perfect day to bask on the beach and enjoy the ocean breeze. When I finish a chapter in the new Rhys Locke spy novel, I set down the book and gaze out at the water as boarders ride the waves.

  “Your paddle boarding days are well and truly over,” I say to Drew, a little sad for him.

  But it’s hard to stay sad when life is so good.

  Including days like this. He’s by my side, reading too, and he sets down his book. “Oh, well. At least I was able to hit the waves when it mattered.”

  I rub the back of his head with affection, picturing that fateful and wonderful day before the season started. “Back when I could save you.”

  He leans in closer, nuzzling my neck. “A dude in distress needs his damsel. Or really, his lifeguard surf angel nurse rock star goddess,” he says.

  There will be no more saving because paddle boarding is off-limits for Drew for a long time now.

  As in, the next five years. After he finished the season with a 13–5 record and took the team to the championship series, the Mercenaries signed him to a five-year contract with a no-trade clause. His agent is quite a dealmaker, and Drew took Maddox and me out for a fantastic dinner in Venice Beach a few months ago to celebrate. Then, Maddox told us that he’s leaving to join a new agency and he wants to take Drew with him.

  Drew’s answer was pure Drew—you’re not getting rid of me, buddy.

  “Good. I don’t want to get rid of you,” he’d said.

  I’m not surprised. Maddox takes good care of my guy, and I appreciate all he does. He’s become a friend too, and we often share reading recs and hit the bookstore in Venice together, since he lives here too. I can’t wait to hear what happens when he starts his new gig, and if it opens new doors for him.

  Maybe even to love.

  Or perhaps I just have romance on my mind.

  And happy endings, since the Mercenaries love Drew, just like the fans do.

  But not as much as I do.

  He might belong to the team, and he might belong to the city, but in the morning, and then later at the end of the night, Drew belongs to me. You might even say we have two-a-days. He moved in with me a few months ago, and when he comes home from practice, we cook together. Or we talk. Or we fuck.

  Sometimes, we do all of the above.

  Who am I kidding? Most nights, we do all of the above.

  Tonight, though, we’re going to the pier to play some games. It’s kind of our thing—Skee-Ball and Whac-A-Mole and movies. And talking endlessly about all of them.

  We pack up as the sun fades, then after I shower and change, we head to Santa Monica.

  Out on the pier, as the moon rises in the spring sky, I take him on in a game of Whac-A-Mole. “I will reign victorious,” I shout.