“Way back when? In the dark ages?” he teases, his eyes alight with self-deprecation.

  “Yes. It was eons ago. Seriously, though, it was shortly after college. They both went to yoga at the gym and told me to try it. Olive, the perv, said it was good for sex. Skyler, who now prays at the altar of eight hours of sleep a night, said it helped her insomnia. So, I went. Reluctantly.”

  “I think you just described half of my team,” he adds.

  But their mixed reactions don’t faze me. “They’ll realize the benefit over time,” I say. I believe in what I do, and I’m confident it’ll help the guys. “And you? Are you reluctant? Skeptical? Totally devoted to the bennies of shavasana and wine forever and ever?”

  His smile catches me off-guard. It’s so magnetic, but it fades quickly. He takes another bite, sets down his sandwich, then sighs. “I’m open to it, but I’m in a different place than some of the young guns, you know?”

  Ah, the age conversation. I figured it was coming with Harlan. I’m aware of the chatter about whether or not this is his last season. “Because you’re thinking more about the future?”

  He nods decisively. “I think a lot about what’s next. Worry about it. Wonder. I love football the way your friend Emerson says you should. The sport is like air to me. I’ve loved football since I was a kid, and it’s hard to imagine not playing.”

  There’s wistfulness in his voice. It’s a sound I rarely hear from him. He’s usually so playful and upbeat. But now and then, he reveals the things that seem to weigh on him. This definitely seems to.

  “But I also really like taking my daughter to school, and teaching her to read, and letting her sneak-polish my toes when I conk out on the couch when her friends are over. I love seeing her as often as I can, and I don’t love spending every weekend from August to December pretty much unavailable. Know what I mean?”

  My heart catches in my throat and thunders there. A man who wants to be there for his kid is so damn appealing. His affection for parenting makes me all kinds of mushy. Makes me think about things I haven’t thought about in ages. “I don’t have kids, but I can imagine.” I say it casually; I’m not opening a kid convo, and I doubt he wants to have one. That’s not what today is about.

  He sighs, his brow knitting. Sounds like he’s gearing up to say something hard. “Did you want to? With your ex?”

  Or maybe that is what today is about. The question of kids pushes me out of my comfort zone, and I answer with another question. “Have kids?” It comes out a little squeaky. “With Silvio?”

  “Yeah. Did you?”

  The intensity of his gaze says he’s genuinely interested. I’m not sure why it matters what I wanted with my ex when he’s so far in the rearview mirror. “We never talked about it,” I answer honestly.

  “Hmm.”

  He leaves it at that, but I don’t drop the subject yet. With time and distance from my ex, I’ve learned more about myself. What I want. What I hope for. And kids are part of that. An unanswered question, but still a part.

  “I suspect that was yet another reason why it didn’t work out with him,” I say. “Looking back, we didn’t have a lot in common. We didn’t talk as much as we should have. I suppose I wasn’t sure how to tell him the truth.”

  “That you don’t want to have kids?” Harlan asks, his voice speckled with nerves.

  A stone wedges in my chest. This is hard to say. I do want kids, if the timing is right, if the relationship is right, if I’m with someone who feels like my forever. But that sounds so fairy tale, so I answer more plainly. “I worry that the opportunity has passed me by. I’m thirty-five. I don’t know if I’ll have the chance.” I glance around the park, not sure what I’m searching for. Maybe just the courage to voice the rest. His vulnerable eyes give me that strength. “I’m still single. So I don’t know if it’ll happen, and that’s the truth.” I hold up my hands in surrender.

  To time.

  “Do you want it to happen?” he asks.

  “If it’s right. The right man. The right relationship. I won’t force it. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that life comes at you on its own terms, in all sorts of unexpected ways. You have to roll with the punches.”

  He takes another bite, nods like he’s absorbing what I said. When he’s done chewing, he says, “That is definitely true. The key is to adapt.”

  “Like you did when your daughter was born,” I say, returning to the center of his world. “It must be hard when you can’t see her as much as you’d like.”

  He takes a steadying breath. “It is, but hey, we make it work. I don’t get to see her on weekends during the season, but when I do, we have a blast together.” He flashes me a smile, almost like he needs to slap it on for bravado. “But hey, my weekend job isn’t too shabby. I’m hanging in there at thirty-six.”

  I want to ask him more about Abby.

  About being a dad.

  But he’s returned to football now, and that seems where he wants to stay. Maybe wise for me too, given the way my heart flips when he talks about being a dad.

  So, I keep the conversation in that zone.

  “I’d say you’re doing more than hanging in there.” I tap my temple. “You have all the advantages up here. You have wisdom and insight. You have instincts. As well as moves on the field,” I say. “Hello! Did you see your game last weekend? You had that gorgeous twenty-five-yard catch at the end of the half. And how about the fifty-six-yard catch when you were nearly out of bounds?” I lift my arms high in the air, then stretch to the side, doing my damnedest to imitate his grace and power on the field. “And you grabbed it before it hit the ground, then you spun around and ran into the end zone.” My voice pitches higher, my excitement spilling over as the instant replay flashes before my eyes. “It was glorious, and my friends and I were shouting your name in my living room.”

  I pick up my fork and dive into the salad again.

  Harlan’s eyebrows rise and his brown eyes glimmer with . . . delight.

  Utter delight.

  And pride too, it seems. “You liked that? My play? You cheered hard?”

  “The hardest,” I say emphatically.

  “The hardest, you say?” It comes out a little dirty, a touch suggestive.

  “Yes, you sexy beast. I cheered the hardest.”

  Oops, I objectified him again.

  And he seems to love it, judging from the sly smile gracing those full, gorgeous lips.

  Lips I want to taste desperately.

  Harlan’s eyes never stray from mine. He stares at me darkly. Speaks seductively. “And did your friends want to know why you were cheering so hard?”

  That rumbly voice sends a shiver down my spine. “They know I’m working for the team,” I say, teasing him, playing it coy.

  “That’s the only reason they think you cheered hard?”

  “Fine, fine. They know you’re an orgasm dealer,” I add, with an over-the-top huff and a puff.

  A laugh bursts from him. “That’s what you called me?”

  “That’s what you are,” I say, squaring my shoulders, owning it. “Wait. Am I objectifying you for being spectacular in bed? They also know you’re a sweetie-pie, a funny guy, and a good dad.”

  He waves a hand dismissively “Back it up to spectacular between the sheets.”

  “Ha. Is that all you care about?”

  With utter intensity in his eyes, he nods. “At the moment, yes. I’m into this nickname. A lot.”

  A flush races across my chest. “Well, it’s the truth. I speak the truth. And I also got a wicked thrill watching you use those hands so expertly on the field, knowing what those hands had done to me.” I take a beat, let my eyes drift down his chest. “Your whole body.”

  Oh hell, I’m terrible at not flirting.

  Harlan leans closer across the table. “Do you have any idea how much I want to take you home, toss you on my bed, and make you feel incredible?”

  A pulse beats between my legs. I ache for him.

  So much for arugula’s help.

  “As much as I want you to?” I toss back, since flirting with him is too fun.

  “That much,” he says, then we stare at each other, a lot heated, and all kinds of heady. The air crackles, and I want to forget the rest of the world, screw the day, and spend the afternoon in his bed.

  In his arms.

  But I’ve got to have some self-control.

  Deep breath.

  I take a bite of my salad.

  Trying to let the lettuce do the trick.

  When I set down the fork, he chuckles under his breath.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a chia in your teeth.”

  Saved by the seed.

  19

  HARLAN

  That weekend, Danielle and Jamie bring Abby and her friends to the stadium.

  They watch the game from the owner’s suite, and I wish I could pop up there and see my girl before kickoff.

  But that’s not in the cards.

  The team has rules about no distractions, and the rules work.

  They put us in a football-only mindset.

  On the field, Cooper is unflappable in the pocket, marching the team closer and closer to the end zone with every play it seems, trading off throwing to his favorite targets—Jones and me.

  The two of us combine for three touchdowns when the game ends with a win for the Renegades.

  I yank off my helmet after the clock runs out and knock fists with my bud. “Good game, and don’t forget I had one hundred one receiving yards to your ninety-nine.”

  Jones rolls his eyes. “Hope those two extra yards keep you warm at night.”

  And . . . he has a fair point.

  But the most important point is this—we’ve only lost two games this season, and we’re in playoff contention again.

  Something that makes the owner very happy.

  Once I’ve showered and talked to the press, I head to Wilder Blaine’s suite.

  The billionaire team owner waits at the door, wearing his custom suit and game-winning grin. “Excellent work, Taylor,” he says.

  “Thank you, sir. And that is a most excellent suit.”

  He laughs politely, his green eyes glinting, then claps me on the shoulder. “I know our GM is looking forward to talking to your agent.”

  Ohhhh.

  That’s a sign if ever I heard one.

  “That’s great,” I say, buoyed by his words, since it’s not often the owner himself makes it clear he wants you.

  “And your family is welcome anytime in my suite,” he says.

  It’s a great offer.

  Truly it is. “I appreciate that, Mister Blaine.”

  “And we appreciate you,” he adds, punctuating his praise.

  I make a mental note to pass on his words to my agent, since I’m pretty sure they’re a guaranteed offer in free agency.

  But I’ll do that tomorrow, because once I head inside, my favorite person rams into me. “I saw your catch. Also, Simone Biles did the coolest thing ever and you need to see that too,” Abby tells me.

  We watch gymnastics on Danielle’s iPad, Abby in my lap, until it’s time to go.

  On the way to school one day next week, we pass Fog City Bakery. The shop catches Abby in its tractor-beam scents of sugary sweetness and pillowy bread.

  A sign on the glass beckons, and she moves trance-like to it. “Mun-kee,” she reads, sounding out the word. “Monkey bread!”

  I clap a few times. “Well done.”

  She tugs on my shirtsleeve. “That’s what smells so good. Can we get some?”

  “Before school?”

  She stares at me like she can’t believe I’d question her request. “Why not? It looks yummy and smells good.”

  I peer through the doorway at the shelf of treats, zeroing in on the cinnamon-y, caramel-y pastry calling our names. My stomach rumbles. “It does look tasty, but you just had breakfast. How about we make monkey bread this afternoon?”

  Her smile spreads across the city. “Deal.” We resume our pace. “But, Daddy, do you know how to make monkey bread?”

  I roll my eyes. “I know how to research recipes and buy ingredients.”

  She pats my arm. “You’re so smart.”

  “So are you.”

  When we reach the school, a dark-haired dynamo whirls into Abby from out of nowhere, smash-hugging my kid. “You should come to my gymnastics class today,” the kid declares when she lets go.

  My girl beams. “Sure, Gabriella!”

  “It’s after school. My dad is taking me. Can you come with me?”

  Abby swivels around. “Can I go? She said her class is doing balance beam, and I really love doing the beam. Please, please, please.”

  And the monkey bread afternoon falls by the wayside. “Of course, little bear. But I bet you don’t have a leotard, so why don’t I drop one off for you after my yoga session?”

  She snickers, then turns to Gabriella. “I call him Daddy Yoga, like Baby Yoda from The Mandalorian,” she whispers to Gabriella.

  The little brunette giggles.

  “Bring leotard I will,” I say in my best Yoda voice.

  Both girls laugh, but then Abby smacks her forehead. “I have a leotard! There’s one in my bag from my last class. And we can make monkey bread when I get home.”

  “Seems you have the whole afternoon planned.”

  Abby smiles proudly. “I do.”

  Gabriella looks up at me and presses her hands together. “Mister Taylor, next time I come over, can I paint your toes again?”

  I arch a brow. “Were you the culprit who made them pink and blue last time?”

  A deep, belly laugh comes from nearby, and I turn to the source of it—a guy in glasses with a thick beard. “She does drive-by pedicures when dads fall asleep.” The man extends a hand. “I’m Arturo. Gabriella’s dad. Good to meet you.”

  As the girls scurry off to the playground before the bell rings, Arturo gestures to them. “Gabriella said she wanted Abby to come to gymnastics today. Is that cool with you? It’s kind of last minute, but I’ll take the girls.”

  “Absolutely. I appreciate you doing that,” I tell him. “Let me know where to pick her up?”

  He waves me off. “Nah. S’all good. I can drop her off when they’re done.”

  “Works for me,” I say, with a smile. “You’re a full-service dad.”

  Arturo smiles. “That’s me. I’m a stay-at-home dad,” he says, looking supremely satisfied with that.

  “Good on you,” I reply, and I mean it.

  He glances around like he’s checking for eavesdroppers. When he finishes his sweep, he says, “Also, that catch the other week in Seattle. Epic, man. Epic.” He holds up a hand for a combo high-five, fist bump.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re killing it this year. Don’t retire. We need you around for a long time. And don’t you dare sign with anyone else in the off-season. Hey, how about a deal?” He points at my chest. “If you re-up, I’ll always take the girls to gymnastics. I’ve got an extra booster seat in my car.”

  “You should be my agent. I like that deal,” I tell the guy, then thank him again for ferrying the kids around, and we exchange numbers before I skedaddle.

  But honestly, his situation doesn’t sound too bad either. He seems pretty happy doing what he likes.

  I make my way to the gym, join the guys for a workout, and shoot the breeze. But my thoughts aren’t entirely on the here and now.

  They’re on the future—a year ahead and a couple of hours from now when I meet Katie at her studio.

  I’ve seen her five times since our cancelled date—from the classes to the private sessions—and each time I want to see her again a little bit more.

  Seeing her is terrific and tempting at the same damn time.

  I resist because the last thing I need this year is a whiff of a scandal. But, even more so, I don’t want to bring that on Katie.

  The Renegade and the Yoga Instructor—Caught Downward Doggie Style. Yeah, that’s not how I want to cap off my career—by putting a black mark on hers.

  But also, I want more than doggie style with Katie.

  More than sex.

  I just like her.

  A whole helluva lot.

  And I sure wish we didn’t have the worst timing in the world, because all I want is to take her out and treat her well.

  Katie circles me as I lie on my back near the wall, my legs going up it and forming an L.

  For the record, I hate this pose.

  It’s hell on the hammies.

  “Shimmy your booty,” Katie tells me. “A little more. Just a smidge closer to the wall.”

  The waterfall pose is fuck-all hard. As I wiggle my butt closer to the wall, she laughs, tugs my legs up, then bends to adjust my butt.

  Nice.

  This is just so damn nice . . .

  I mean . . . distracting.

  This is crazy distracting.

  But I wouldn’t change a thing as I indulge in the view of her. “I like hands-on yoga instruction. I’m gonna keep this up,” I say, shamelessly staring at her fantastic chest.

  While she stares at my . . . toes.

  She flicks her fingernail against the big one. “Too cute.”

  “Happens to me once a week. I’ll take a catnap when Abby has friends over, and they conduct pedicure ambushes.”

  “The pastels are fetching,” she teases.

  I wiggle my toes. “Why, thank you. Does it turn you on?”

  She leans over me, a little closer. “So much.”

  A groan rumbles out of me, unbidden. Everything she does gets me going. Hell, just the view of her chest fires me up. Her tits in that sports bra are so damn tantalizing. The tease of them, the peek at her flesh.

  I want them, dammit, but I can’t have them.

  Or her.

  I whimper.

  She tilts her head. “You okay?”

  I clear my throat and sweep away the dirty thoughts. “I’m all good,” I say, and home in on the poses.