I want to believe her, but my phone has been quiet all day. I scan the store quickly, lean in, then whisper, “He’s barely been in touch.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “No biggie. He’s probably distracted playing NBA 2K or working out with the guys. I bet he gets back to you tomorrow after the game. Besides, you know how they are before they play. It’s all game focus, all the time.”

  “True,” I say, but it sounds half-hearted. It feels that way, too.

  My phone buzzes and my heart skips a beat as I fish it eagerly from the back pocket of my jeans with the hope that it’s Jones sending a sexy text, a romantic text, a good news text. Something that says he’s talked to his guys, and he’s ready to tell the world that he’s in love with me. Like I’ve done for him.

  I deflate when I see it’s my dad.

  Dad: Can’t wait to see you at the game tomorrow! Stop by and chat with the old man, will ya?

  Jillian: Count on me. :)

  As I close the message, I wish I felt like I could count on Jones.

  I remind myself to stay cool. There’s no reason to think anything’s changed. He’s busy, he’s playing tomorrow, and tough talks take time. I cling to that as the day goes on with no word.

  26

  JONES

  “I’m a dick.” I wait for an answer that doesn’t come.

  “Come on, buddy. You can tell me. Am I an asshole?”

  From his perch on the couch, Cletus drops one ear and cocks his head. His tail flicks back and forth.

  “Total ass?”

  An excited whimper sounds from his snout as he jumps on my chest. And we have a winner. Total ass, it is.

  But even assholes must take care of their pets. I roughhouse with Cletus, rubbing his belly and pretending to box with him. After he play-growls for a bit, I take him to the yard and run him through the weave poles, then in and out of tunnels on the agility course.

  After twenty minutes, he’s panting hard, but he’s happy. I rub his head and scoop him up in my arms. “You’re a good boy.”

  He rewards my compliment by licking my cheek. “That clearly means you don’t think I’m a dick at all.”

  Another lick.

  “I knew it. I’m not.”

  But winning a dog’s love is easy. A woman’s is much more complex, and I wonder if Jillian thinks I’m an ass, since I’ve been dragging my feet. I should’ve called Ford, should’ve tracked him down this morning, because I sure as hell didn’t do that yesterday. We had a long practice, but that’s just an excuse.

  I chose not to call him.

  Because I’m fucking afraid.

  I’m afraid like I’ve never been afraid before, and there’s no room in my life for fear since tomorrow is game day. I need to be in the zone, and only in the zone.

  Even though the game is at home, we always stay at a hotel the night before, so I head to Trevor’s house to drop off the little dude. Cletus whines with excitement when he sees my brother. “Hey buddy, you want to hang out with your favorite Beckett tonight?” Trevor asks the pooch.

  “I’m still his favorite person.” That came out more defensively than I intended.

  “Just messing with you.” Trevor lifts his chin. “You okay? You look out of sorts. Did you talk to Ford yet?”

  “No,” I spit out.

  Trevor studies my face. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  I shake my head. “No. No. No.”

  He arches an eyebrow. Obviously, that was too much denial.

  I’m not having second thoughts about loving Jillian, but I’m having truckloads of doubt about everything else in my life and how the hell to make it fit.

  Seeing Garrett was a flashing neon sign that I could lose everything I’ve worked so hard for. Is dating Jillian a risk that could send me on the path to putting out feelers? Not directly. But I could lose other things if I’m with her, and I need to get some clarity on how to move forward with her and with football.

  I need to be prepared for a worst-case scenario, but how the hell do I prep for that? Trouble is, I’m shaken to the core, and I don’t know how to put one foot in front of the other after what I learned about Garrett.

  “Just a ton of stuff on my mind,” I mutter. “I’ll call Ford when my head is clear.”

  Trevor claps me on the shoulder. “Good plan. Focus on the game and only the game.”

  “Exactly.”

  I take his advice, because if I let this weigh on me—what to say, how to say it—I’ll risk a fuck-up on the field tomorrow, and I can’t afford mistakes.

  My secret sauce is focus, and in the last twenty-four hours, that skill has been slipping to an alarming degree.

  At the hotel, I check in and shut myself in my room, guiltily grateful that Jillian’s not here tonight. Sometimes she stays at the game hotel, but the manager of PR is on duty tonight. That means I won’t be tempted to find her in her room, because God knows if I did, my remaining focus would be shredded like a credit report.

  But total ass or not, I can’t leave her hanging. When I slide into bed, I tap out a text.

  Jones: Haven’t been able to reach the guys. But I’m thinking of you. I promise.

  I lace up my cleats and adjust my pads. Rolling my shoulders back and forth, I repeat under my breath, “Ready. I’m ready.”

  Harlan grabs his helmet from his locker. “You ready?”

  That’s the question.

  “Always.”

  That’s the only answer.

  He gives me a look. “Are you sure? You’re quieter today than usual. You haven’t busted my chops about a single thing.”

  I could give him shit about being sensitive enough to notice my silence, but I’m in no mood. Instead, I blurt out, “Do you ever think about getting hurt?”

  He tips his forehead in the direction of the stadium. “During a game?”

  I nod.

  “Of course.”

  “What do you do about it?”

  “Don’t write checks I can’t cash. Don’t make plays that are too risky. Do everything I can to make sure I don’t get in harm’s way.”

  “But what if it happens anyway?”

  “Then you deal with it, man. You just deal with it. Do I want it? Hell no. Do I think about it? Sure. Do I get out there and play as hard as I possibly can because that’s what I signed up for? Yes. Yes, I do.”

  I let out a frustrated groan. “My head is a mess right now.”

  “It’s game-time, man. That’s not a good state to be in.”

  Pushing my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, I try mightily to shove away this awful feeling. If I thought jealousy was bad, it has nothing on sheer dread. “I ran into Garrett Snow. He’s done. Finished. Can’t play anymore.”

  “That sucks,” Harlan says with a sympathetic sigh. “But it happens. It’s a risk we take. You have to find a way to get that out of your head right now.” He grabs my shoulder and squeezes, even though I can’t feel it through the pads. “We have a game to play. Just know I’m your brother-in-arms out there. I have the same worries.”

  Some of the tension in me loosens. Maybe I needed to give voice to these fears to let them go.

  He points to the exit. “When you go through that tunnel, you check them at the door. You leave it all behind because you put everything on the field. That’s our job. Let’s go do it.”

  Offering a fist for knocking, I smack back. “Let’s do it.”

  All I can do is what my father taught me. Give more than 100 percent. Give everything. This is what I’ve done my entire life on the field, and when I’m playing ball, I don’t have to worry about what to say or how to love a woman for the first time in my life. I do love Jillian. I’m madly in love with her.

  But for the next sixty minutes, I have one job, and that job is to move the ball.

  As soon as I run through the tunnel and onto the field, where I’m greeted by the cheers of our fifty thousand hometown fans, I leave everything behind.

  It’s game-time.

  27

  JILLIAN

  “Sushi!” my father declares from his spot at the fifty-yard line. “I still can’t get over the fact that you let them serve sushi here.”

  He gestures dismissively at the aproned guy peddling California rolls in our section while the teams take a time-out in the second quarter for a commercial break.

  “You do know I don’t have any control over what they serve at the stadium?”

  He flubs his lips. “Next thing you know it’ll be barbecued kale.”

  “Dad, you live in California. They serve wine here, too.”

  He scoffs, lifting a cup of beer. “I have my beer, and I’m good to go with my foam finger,” he says, waggling a blue number one on his hand. “And look, I even put a number eighty-six on it for your beau.”

  Beau.

  Is Jones my beau?

  I wish I knew.

  The sound of the fans drumming their feet drowns out my sad, pathetic sigh. I thought we were doing the whole let’s-be-together thing. But so far, we’re doing the same thing we were doing before. Nothing.

  I try to tell myself it’s timing. It’s the weekend. There’s a game. I have to understand that. Hell, I should understand that better than anyone.

  My dad leans in closer, bumping me with his shoulder. “What’s going on with the two of you?”

  It’s like he can read my mind.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as a sob works its way up my throat. “I feel so stupid,” I mutter, and I didn’t plan to say that, but he’s my dad. He’s the one who has comforted me my whole life over bruised knees, bad days at school, and my first teenage heartbreak with a boy named Randall. A flash of fear cuts through me. Is this going to be my newest heartbreak?

  He sets down his beer and wraps his arm around me, foam finger and all. “Why do you feel stupid, honey?”

  Because I’m going to cry.

  Because I want more than two texts.

  Because I want to know if Jones has done the same thing I did. “I put my heart on the line, my job on the line, and I’ve barely heard from him,” I say, my voice breaking. Behind us, a woman waves pom-poms and cheers. “All he said yesterday was ‘I’m thinking of you.’”

  “Give him time.”

  I nod, biting my lip. “It’s just hard.”

  He squeezes my shoulder and drops a kiss to the top of my head. “It’s hard when you love somebody. But sometimes, a man has to figure things out in his own time. Man-time does not equal woman-time.”

  A small laugh escapes me. “Truer words . . .”

  “I wish it did, for your sake, but it doesn’t. You’re a quick thinker and a problem solver. You act. You know your heart and your mind. Some men do, but some men take longer to figure it out. Especially when a man falls for a woman for the first time. It’s like trying to start a car with a leaf. The engine sputters, and warning lights flicker all over the dashboard.”

  I laugh loudly at his insane analogy. “Who has ever tried to start a car with a leaf?”

  “I hope no one, because I don’t think it would work. Maybe it’s like trying to assemble a desk with a spoon.”

  “I love your metaphors. They’re wonderfully awful.”

  “I aim to please.” Patting my knee, he adds, “And don’t lose sight of the fact that you did what you needed to do for you. You did the right thing even without the reward in your pocket. Sometimes, we have to take a chance, even if the odds are we’re going to fall.”

  I want a soft landing, though. But I haven’t been getting one this weekend, and I suppose I’ll have to be okay with it. “You’re right. It’s only been a few days. I’ll wait patiently.”

  “Have faith. Now, let’s watch the game. We don’t want to miss a big play, do we?”

  “No way.”

  My attention returns to the game as the defense forces a punt. I’ll need to head to the press suite shortly, but I stay with my dad for one more play as the Renegades take possession. When there are eight minutes left in the half, Jones makes a spectacular catch. As his hands cradle the ball, my heart flies up my chest. Once he lands safely out of bounds, I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting.

  Waiting for my special signal.

  He raises his arms. I cross my fingers.

  Cooper rushes to him and they smack palms, then race into the next play.

  There is no J, and I don’t have a clue if he even intended to make one before the quarterback high-fived him.

  28

  JONES

  The lead slips through our fingers as the Indianapolis offense attacks with ferocity in the second half.

  Their quarterback marches downfield, earning first down after first down, launching beautiful passes that turn into even more beautiful catches. They pull in front by six.

  With crossed arms, I stare at the action on the field, searching for a way for us to regain the lead. Cooper is by my side, and Coach Greenhaven reviews the upcoming play—his plan of attack for when we get the ball again.

  Once we do, we trot out to the field, ready, absolutely ready. As the noise in the stadium rises to deafening levels, Cooper drops back in the pocket and I cut across the field in a new route the Indy defense hasn’t seen from us before. Cooper’s arm is a gun, and he takes aim.

  My eyes zero in on the ball. All I know is the hunt. Hunt that ball, haul it in, and take it to the end zone. Scan left and right, watch for predators. Dodge this way, dart that way, the target in my crosshairs.

  As the ball soars through the air, I race for it. It’s ten feet away, five feet away. It’s in my hands.

  A surge of energy lights up my chest, powering me like an electric grid. It barrels through my legs, and I race, blinders on, the end zone in sight, my guys blocking for me. At the five-yard line, a touchdown seems a foregone conclusion, but a safety catches up from out of nowhere, slamming into me.

  Clutching the ball like the precious cargo it is, I take another huge step, and one more, until all the air spills from my lungs as he hits hard again.

  My ears ring.

  My bones rattle.

  The collision echoes through my body as I crumple. My knee slams against the grass, then the rest of me smashes to the earth in a crush of limbs.

  The safety’s legs tangle up with mine, and the heavy weight of his body shoves my knee harder against the ground.

  Harder than I’ve felt before.

  Then, everything turns into déjà vu.

  This must be how Garrett felt when he fell.

  29

  JILLIAN

  My heart jams my throat.

  Fear attacks every cell in my body.

  A player’s down. But not just any player. My player.

  I rush to the window of the press suite where I’ve been watching. I press my fingers to the glass, and my veins flood with a primal, wild fear.

  Jones lies on the field, grappling with his right leg.

  “Oh God.” A tear streams down my cheek, and I snap my gaze to the TV screen as the camera zooms in on him. The trainer’s already there—the coach, too. Harlan kneels next to him, offering a hand.

  The shot of his face shows Jones wincing. The pain seems to ricochet through him, and I wish I could take it on for him. My feet are glued to the floor and my eyes to the screen. I can’t look away.

  “We don’t know what happened to Jones Beckett, and whether he can walk it off or not. But that was one tough fall as Collings rammed into him right at the end zone,” the announcer says. “I’ve seen these kind of falls before, and sometimes you get right up, and sometimes you don’t.”

  Shut up, I want to say. He’ll get up.

  To the screen, I mouth, Get up. Please get up.

  Jones rolls to his side, his big, beautiful hands clutching his right knee.

  Harlan slides an arm under him, the trainer on the other side as Jones hobbles off the field with them.

  I run like hell from the suite, down the hall, and to the elevator that’ll take me to the locker room. He’s not even going to the sidelines medical tents. They’re taking him to the locker room, and that means it’s serious.

  “C’mon,” I mutter as I wave my ID tag at the card reader, and I wait and I wait and I wait. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I try to find some information, but that’s stupid. That’s pointless.

  ESPN has no more data than I do.

  This is happening in real time, and I need to get to him.

  30

  JONES

  They say all good things must come to an end. They say anything can happen any given Sunday.

  But I’m not thinking about football as Miles, the trainer, becomes my crutch, taking me to the lower floor of the stadium where the team doctor waits. Harlan stays behind to play.

  This is my biggest fear—a career-ending injury—and as the very real prospect of never playing football again hangs in the balance, a new terror races through me—the horror that I’ve royally fucked up.

  I’m on the cusp of losing it all, watching everything I’ve worked for splinter to pieces, but I’ve forgotten one important thing—to tell my woman I love her before the game started.

  I’m a great and terrible idiot.

  “You doing okay, big guy?” Miles’s arm is under me. Hell, his whole upper frame is under me, since he’s probably all of five foot, nine inches.

  “I’m okay. I didn’t need a cart to go off the field,” I say, since I can walk still. But everything hurts with every step. My muscles are sore. My bones ache. I ran into a truck, and it knocked me to the ground. I tread gingerly, carefully moving one foot in front of the other.

  “You can do it. You’re going to be fine. We can figure this out,” he says, offering encouraging words, since that’s his job.

  I have no idea what we’ll figure out. I have no idea if this is how Garrett felt when he was hit so hard his career ended, but I know one thing—the biggest mistake I made today wasn’t running all-out to the end zone.