Whatever Katie’s been doing to the team, and to me, it’s working. In just a couple of weeks, I feel better, I’m playing stronger, and the hammie strain isn’t bothering me a bit.

  That feels like winning.

  The only thing I wish were different is the time I spend with her. I wish I could see her at night, especially after that picnic lunch. Every night, every hour, every second we spend together seems to tug me deeper into her orbit.

  And I like her orbit a lot.

  Because . . . I like her.

  When we finish and make our way to the exit, an idea takes hold, gripping me. It feels necessary.

  Important.

  And it’s a chance to spend more time with her.

  “Katie, do you like monkey bread?”

  She swings her gaze to me. “The bread that ought to be cake? The bread that’s dessert for breakfast? The bread that’s like a cinnamon roll?”

  I tap her nose. “Show-off.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do like it.”

  I toss out the next question, hoping she also likes what I’m offering. My hope for her yes is more intense than I expected. “Abby wanted to make some, but she’s going to gymnastics with a friend. I thought I would get started, and we could finish when she comes home. Any chance you want to shop for monkey bread supplies with me, and then we can make some with Abby?”

  I just asked a woman to hang with my daughter and me.

  I ought to be terrified. And I’m honestly not sure why I chose now to ask Katie this big question.

  But something about this seems just right.

  This afternoon is all I can give, but maybe it will be enough for now.

  20

  KATIE

  I wasn’t jonesing for this invitation, but now that he’s offered it, there is only one way to RSVP.

  “I would love to shop with you and make monkey bread,” I say, and his suggestion feels worlds better than any night with my ex.

  And it feels just as good as dancing to 80s tunes, shopping with a drag queen, and making eggs with this man.

  Being with Harlan in any little way feels good.

  That’s scary as hell, but wonderful too.

  It’s making me think about timing, and steps, and possibilities.

  About the future, and how to make it happen.

  Risky thoughts I probably shouldn’t entertain, given my past. Given my heartbreak.

  And yet, I am.

  That means there’s monkey bread to make.

  “Let’s hit it, handsome,” I say.

  Harlan shoots me a sexy and sweet smile that melts my heart—and all the rest of me too.

  So much for being only teacher and student with him. His smile just crossed the don’t-break-me line of my heart.

  “And we’re off to the store,” he says.

  And maybe to something unknown.

  How is it possible that grocery shopping can be fun?

  Tell me that, universe.

  I have never enjoyed shopping for food. Food buying is functional.

  But shopping for groceries with Harlan is a blast.

  I grab a box of brown sugar and waggle it. “Confession time—as a kid, did you or did you not sneak spoonfuls of sugar from the pantry?”

  He scoffs. “Obviously. Brown sugar was my gateway drug into sweets.”

  “Right? Same here. Never turned back. I’m convinced brown sugar ignited my lifetime love affair with yummy things.”

  He sweeps the box into the shopping basket. “My words to live by: you can never have enough brown sugar, good tunes, and”—he stops to glance around the bougie gourmet store in Pacific Heights, then lowers his voice—“good sex.”

  Mmm.

  Those words rumble from his lips. They’re about more than the physical. “I like how you added an adjective before sex. It’s important to specify. Because bad sex is not worth having,” I say as we reach the spices, and I grab some cinnamon.

  “You’re a woman after my own heart,” he says, and I want to shout, Yes. Yes, I am.

  But I should slow down, so I zip my lips as he talks.

  “If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right. Football, yoga, parenting,” he says, listing the things that matter to, well, to us. “Friendships, musical taste, baking—pies in particular—and yes, sex.”

  I swear, this man wants the same things I do. Feels the same things. Is this what a real connection is like? Maybe.

  We wander past the frozen goods. “Honestly, there’s no reason to have bad sex,” I say. “If you’re having bad sex, that means you’re not trying. Good sex isn’t magic. You don’t wave a wand and have it. You’ve got to listen to your partner, pay attention, and, most of all, to want it.”

  His eyes lock with mine in the relative seclusion of the freezer aisle, and in his brown irises I see as much want as I feel.

  This conversation is dangerous, but I don’t want to let go of it yet. I like talking about sex with Harlan. I like talking about why the sex is so damn good with him. Because something is happening, and something has always been happening with us. It’s not magic—it’s effort. Good, hard effort that pays off. We vibe in bed because we vibe out of bed.

  We’ve vibed every time we’ve been together.

  That’s why we can’t seem to resist stealing every little moment.

  I’m not sure I want to resist much longer.

  Maybe he doesn’t want to either. “I loved reading your cues, Katie,” he says. “Figuring out your needs, and then delivering. That’s what made it so damn good.”

  In the span of a few seconds, this conversation has shot from our childhood memories to why our intimacy rocks.

  Our intimacy that we’re not having.

  But tell that to my body. The shiver that runs down my chest and settles between my legs feels wildly intimate.

  “You think so?” I ask, a little breathless as I stand next to the butter.

  “Don’t you?” He sounds breathless too.

  “Sometimes, but I also think we read each other’s cues out of bed too. Like the way we interact—that’s part of it. Part of why it’s so good,” I say.

  This is hardly the place for this talk. But we’ve never been in the right place at the right time. Why should today be any different? Maybe I’m learning to embrace the moments with Harlan, to take them as they come.

  When they come.

  Even if I try to halt them with a pump of the business-minded brakes here or there, the moments don’t stop.

  They keep happening, from seizing the night at the wedding seven years ago, to making the most of my anti-wedding night this past summer, to our yoga sessions, to lunch . . . to today.

  He inches closer, latching onto my words. “I do think the way we are together is why the sex has been so damn good,” he says, and I am buzzing. “But everything with us is so good.”

  My entire body hums with arousal and longing.

  With need.

  With hope that I can somehow rewrite the future. That I can discover an opening to what I want where I’m not hurting the people I work with. Where I’m not behaving like my mother in business.

  I need to find that way.

  And I need to find it soon.

  I’m not even technically involved with this man, but it sure seems like I am.

  Here goes the next thing—putting my feelings out there, taking the steps to let him know. I should be cautious about those things, but I can’t be bothered right now. “I can’t believe I’m saying this by the nine-dollar eggs, but I was really looking forward to seeing you again. To all of it. To everything.”

  If I’m going to look for a way forward with him, it should start with speaking from the heart. So, I do. “I was looking forward to dinner and ice cream and foosball and sex, and also just . . . getting to know you more. I still am. I look forward to getting to know you more each day because I like everything I’ve already gotten to know,” I say, reaching for the side of the cold case like I need to hold on or I’ll stumble.

  But I’m pretty sure I’ve already fallen.

  21

  HARLAN

  My head is spinning.

  I feel woozy too, almost like I’ve been knocked hard out of bounds.

  But I like this feeling. It’s new and different, but it’s all good. And I want more of it. “I was looking forward to spending more time with you,” I say softly. “I wanted all of it. The sex and the dates and just . . . you. I still do. I like you so much.”

  My heart slams against my rib cage. I’m dangerously close to dropping this red basket on the floor, shoving her against the yogurt and eggs, and kissing the breath out of her, no matter what it brings.

  For all our flirting, all our teasing, all of this red-hot sizzle, she’s onto something—the reason our first kiss went to my head. Hell, I can still remember how it felt to taste her lips for the first time.

  Spectacular.

  I like this woman.

  I like her so damn much.

  The last few weeks have fueled those feelings. The time with her not kissing, not touching, and not fucking has only fanned the flames.

  Even though I can’t touch her, I can use my words like she just did. “Katie Madigan, I’m so into you, it’s kind of crazy.”

  Her smile is one I want to remember for a long time. Here, by the organic eggs in the grocery store a few blocks from my home, she smiles like I’ve made her happy.

  Just happy.

  And isn’t that what a man should aim to do for the woman he wants? Treat her right and make her feel good? It’s that simple.

  But whatever is happening between us isn’t simple. It’s complicated by downward dogs and deals with the team. A tryst would be risky, but much more for her than me. Whether I finish football now or in a few years, I’m at the end of my days. I’ve achieved the greatest highs in the game. Her career trajectory is rising, shooting higher every day.

  I’d just be another jock who messed around with a trainer, a teacher, a woman stretching him. Though not the way I want to cap off a career, I’d be forgiven in a heartbeat.

  She’d be the woman who slept with a client, and I don’t want that for her.

  So she has to stay off-limits, and I have to stay hands off.

  She sighs wistfully. “So now what?”

  That’s a good question.

  I drag my hand along the back of my neck then shoot her a rueful grin. “Want to go prep the monkey bread supplies?”

  “I do,” she says.

  We check out and head to my place. As we head up the steps, I’m keenly aware this isn’t the first time Katie has stepped into my home. The first was on her non-wedding night, when I brought her here to sleep with her.

  But now she’s stepping inside playing a different role in my life.

  A colleague of sorts? A teacher? A partner?

  None of those terms feel right.

  She’s coming into my home as a friend. Yes! That’s why I invited her over today. Katie’s a friend at the moment, and that’s why it feels like the perfect time for her to meet my daughter.

  Bags in my hand, I unlock the door and hold it open for her. “After you,” I say in my best Southern gentleman voice.

  “Why, thank you, sir,” she says in her Texas twang.

  Once the door closes, we head straight for the kitchen.

  “Tunes?” I ask as I unload the groceries.

  “If it’s Ed Sheeran, Dolly Parton, and Adele, we’re golden.”

  I chuckle. “How about I throw in some Frank Sinatra and Eric Clapton, and we can call it a day?”

  She lifts the sugar from the bag, shakes her hips, and gives me an approving hum. “We’ll get along just fine, sir,” she says, still playing with the accent.

  “Darling, we always have.” I hit shuffle on some tunes, and Ed Sheeran’s tones fill my home, making Katie happy, judging from the twinkle in her eyes. Then I drop the accent and say something that’s a little bit hard. “Hey, Katie.”

  “Yeah?”

  I square my shoulders. “I don’t introduce women to my daughter. It’s just not something I’ve done.” I swallow roughly as I lay the truth on the line like she did in the store.

  I want her to know that this thing between us is becoming much more for me.

  More than I expected.

  More than it’s supposed to.

  It’s turning into something that feels a little inevitable.

  She receives my words like a beautiful pass, catching them with a smile and warm eyes. “I’m excited to meet Abby. She sounds amazing. And I’m glad you want me to meet her,” she says in a kind, inviting tone that underlines, black Sharpie style, why I like her so much.

  She’s open and honest and caring and fun.

  “She is amazing, and so are you,” I say, and it feels like a weight off my shoulders. I’m glad I put that out there.

  Maybe we’re a lot inevitable, Katie and me.

  My hands twitch. The desire to touch her, to pull her into my arms, rockets higher in me. I’m eager for all the next things with her.

  Is there any way to have them?

  I keep my hands to myself as I measure the sugar and butter.

  Sure, we have terrible timing, but the timing doesn’t always have to be bad, does it? Her contract with the team can’t last forever.

  Maybe dating is like a recipe. Maybe it’s monkey bread. It takes time for all the ingredients to come together just right.

  As I pour the sugar into a bowl, I stop and hit end on the song. Turn to meet her gaze. “Katie, I have this idea. Call me crazy.”

  “Crazy,” she says playfully.

  I step closer to her. “What if . . .”

  She laughs softly, clearly liking things so far. “What if . . .?”

  I go for it, run like hell with a brand-new plan. “What if we agree to date at the end of the season when your classes with the team end? I know it’s a couple of months away, but I’m not seeing anyone else and I’m not going to see anyone else. You’re the woman I want, and these last few weeks have only solidified that more. I don’t want to let you get away. I want to lock you up as my date,” I say, putting that out there and hoping she likes the plan too. I sure do. It feels like the only answer to the what can we do question.

  Her smile is radiant. Her hand flies to her chest, and her eyes well up with something like . . . joy.

  “I want that, Harlan. I do. Truly, I do.” But her smile disappears in a heartbeat, replaced by resignation. “The trouble is the team has already said it plans to renew the contract.”

  22

  HARLAN

  I’m sadder than the time we lost the championship game five years ago.

  I thought I’d erased that awful memory, but it comes roaring back right now. I felt like shit the day we lost by a field goal to Baltimore, erasing our Super Bowl chances.

  Now, I feel worse.

  I should be able to fix this. My job is to find openings. It’s to solve problems on the field. It’s to dodge two-hundred-fifty-pound obstacles in the form of linebackers and quicksilver tight ends champing at the bit to slam me to the ground.

  I can move like a cheetah on the gridiron, spinning and whirling away from threats. But I can’t get out of the way of a problem like this.

  “That is . . . awful but awesome,” I say like I’m chewing on sand.

  “Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “You took the words out of my mouth.”

  I can’t even make a joke. “Well, I get it. You’re a great teacher. Hell, you’ve helped me. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart and my hamstring.”

  The smile that curves her lips is both tender and wistful. “I’m very glad it’s working. That makes me . . . professionally happy.”

  “But personally?”

  She takes a beat and moves the mixing bowl with the sugar in it a few inches away, then the brown sugar bowl. They don’t need moving.

  Letting go of the bowl, she turns to me, strength in her blue eyes. “But personally, I want everything you said. And I feel like I should be terrified because of what happened last summer . . . but I’m not.” She blows out a breath of obvious relief. “Whew. I kind of can’t believe I just said that, because for the last few weeks I was so dang worried. Worried about taking my time, going slowly, doing everything differently. Making sure I wasn’t caught up. But everything with you feels right, and I want what’s next. I want to pursue a relationship with you. But that’s not what worries me.”

  My heart beats faster. Never has a relationship sounded so good as it does on her lips. I want a relationship with her more than I want to win my next game.

  And I really like winning games.

  Trouble is, her thoughts are unfinished.

  “But what does worry you?”

  “I don’t want to hurt people,” she explains. “I don’t want to do in business what my mother did in love. I don’t want to go behind anyone’s back and hurt them through my actions.”

  Why is integrity so damn sexy? Oh, because it fucking is. “I understand,” I say, my heart sinking once more, up and down like a yo-yo.

  Katie nibbles on the corner of her lips, then takes a deep breath. Like she’s fortifying herself. “But what if I work to find a replacement? I would search through our roster of teachers and talk to Zachary—he’s our business dev guy—and also Olive. And tell them at the end of the season, I need to step back. I’ll say the Renegades can’t have me next year.”

  And it’s happy yo-yo land.

  Excitement buzzes through my veins. “So the Renegades can’t have you, but I can?” I ask, all flirty again.

  She grins, then giggles too. “I like this plan. I’ll make it work. I’ll figure it out.”

  “I fucking love it,” I say. “Let’s do it. Whenever it works for you, I’m by your side. Know that, okay?”

  She nods, her eyes a little shiny. “That’s kind of amazing.”

  “I mean it, Katie. You call the shots here. I’ll just be waiting to kiss you on the field whenever you’re ready. I know our timing has been all wrong, but let’s make this our time, once and for all. And thank you. I know this falls on you, when to do this, how to do this, so thank you.”