“You can thank me by showering me with orgasms in January.”

  I growl, holding up a finger to admonish her. “Super Bowl is in February, Katie.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine, I can wait till then.”

  I close the distance, sweep her into my arms, and hug her tight. It’s risky, but so’s chasing a ball the safeties don’t want you to catch. So’s running in a touchdown. Holding Katie close is terribly risky but absolutely necessary.

  When we pull apart, my hands still on her waist, I don’t want to let go. “You feel too good in my arms,” I tell her.

  A breath shudders past her lips. “I sure like being here,” she whispers, all soft and irresistibly sweet, her arms still looped around my neck.

  So damn sweet that I’m not sure I want to resist anymore.

  Can I? Yes. But I don’t want to. “What if I steal a kiss right now?”

  She runs her fingers along the ends of my hair. “Don’t have to steal it,” she murmurs. “You can have it.”

  “It’ll keep me going until the end of the season,” I whisper as I inch closer then drop my lips to hers.

  Her breath hitches as I kiss her the way I want to right now—tender, gentle, but with a promise.

  Like this kiss is sealing our promise for next year.

  It goes to my head in an instant. My mind slides into a Katie-induced euphoria as I explore these lips I’ve missed desperately. As I kiss the corner of her mouth. As I flick my tongue against her bottom lip. She opens for me, a sensual sigh mingling with my own murmurs.

  I’m keenly aware of the ticking clock.

  But I take what I can get for the moment—a little more of this woman I’m falling for. I deepen the kiss, savoring every secret second. It’ll have to sustain me for the next two months, so I let myself get lost in the kiss, and in her, and in my hopes for what’s next.

  Soon, though, it must end.

  I break the kiss.

  Her eyes glimmer. Her lips are swollen. “Wow,” she whispers.

  “Yeah, I’ll say.”

  We let go, and I can’t wait for the calendar to jump to next year. But for now, I check the time. My kiddo will be here soon.

  I’m nervous and excited for the future . . . but mostly, elated.

  Once she enters the living room, Abby views Katie with studious eyes. “So, you’re the yoga lady?”

  “I sure am,” Katie says. “It is a pleasure to meet the little lady of the house.”

  Abby giggles. “Lady of the house. I like that,” she says, setting her backpack by the couch and running to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. “Hey, yoga lady,” she says as we follow her, “do you know what yoga pose pirates like to do?”

  Katie taps her chin like she’s deep in thought. “Could it be . . . the plank?”

  Abby tosses her head back and laughs. “How did you know?”

  Katie beckons Abby with a crook of her finger. “I know all the good yoga jokes.”

  “Ooh, tell me another,” Abby demands, and I park my butt on the stool at the counter and happily watch them.

  Katie bends to six-year-old eye level. “How does a T-Rex feel after practicing yoga?”

  “I don’t know,” Abby says, nearly bouncing with excitement. “Tell me.”

  Katie rubs her knuckles against her lower back. “A little dino . . . sore.”

  “Ohhh. I like that.” Abby wheels around to the counter. “Monkey bread. Can you do a monkey impression like my dad?”

  Katie turns her gaze to me. “I’ve only heard your lion, Harlan. I’d love to hear the monkey. Don’t hold back.”

  I roll my eyes. “You ladies act like you’ve got me cornered. Like you’ve tricked me. Course I can do a monkey. Ooh-ooh, ahh-ahh,” I say, imitating a chimp.

  They clap and cheer.

  “You know what I can do?” Abby asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “I can be a baker. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

  Abby grabs a wooden spoon and gets to work.

  The three of us make monkey bread in the kitchen, listening to Dolly Parton and Adele while Abby tells us about gymnastics and her friend, and Gabriella’s dad’s funny jokes, and how awesome the balance beam is.

  When the bread goes in the oven, Abby stares at the clock. “I don’t know how to wait. It’s going to be so long.” Then she spins around and points at Katie. “Can I paint your nails?”

  “Do you have fuchsia? That’s my favorite color.”

  “I do,” Abby declares, then runs to her room.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Abby gives Katie a manicure, and I count down the weeks till the end of the season.

  That night, I read Abby four stories, including one about a girl who gets a pony.

  “That girl is so smart. She convinced her daddy to give her a pony,” Abby says, snuggling under the covers.

  “Gee, Abby. Are you trying to tell me something?”

  She flashes a yup grin. “But I’d also take a hedgie, a cat, or a dog.”

  “Named Dolly,” I say, repeating her plans as I drop a kiss onto her forehead.

  “Or Katie. I like Katie.” She yawns, so big it’s the size of a pie.

  “I’ll let her know you plan to name a pet after her.”

  A line creases her forehead. “Is she your new girlfriend? She seems like it.”

  Well, kids know everything, don’t they? “Why do you ask?”

  Another yawn takes over. “I could tell you liked her and she liked you.”

  I ruffle her hair, glad to tell her the truth about this. “I think she will be soon,” I whisper, then I press my finger to my lips. “Secret.”

  “I’ll keep it a secret. Do you think she liked me?”

  “I’m sure she loved you.”

  “Okay,” she says as her eyes flutter closed.

  I leave her room, shut the door, and head downstairs to finish cleaning up. But before I tackle the kitchen, I grab my phone and sink onto the couch, clicking open my text app.

  Harlan: The verdict is in. She loves you.

  Katie: The feeling is mutual. She’s fabulous.

  Harlan: Well, that was easy.

  Katie: Some things are. You’re raising a good kid.

  I return to Katie’s words from the picnic lunch about whether she’d want kids. With the right man. The right relationship. I’d love to talk to her more about that, but via text message hardly seems appropriate. End of season feels like a better time. But I can at least say this . . .

  Harlan: You were great with her.

  Katie: Yeah?

  Harlan: Hell, yeah.

  Katie: It makes me happy to hear you say that. I want to be good to her.

  Damn. This woman is doing all the things to my heart.

  Harlan: She asked if you were my girlfriend.

  Katie: And what did you tell her?

  Harlan: That I hoped you would be soon. Feels close enough to the truth.

  Katie: What’s the truth?

  Harlan: I see you as mine already. I just do. Call me possessive.

  Katie: Possessive :)

  I don’t want to end the conversation just yet, so I spend a little longer texting . . . my girlfriend.

  The kid called it.

  23

  KATIE

  I need to talk to someone.

  I can’t keep this to myself much longer.

  My friends have been my rocks, my gems, my everything.

  I should tell my sister, but I’m not ready yet. Besides, I’m closest with Emerson. She also isn’t my business partner, so that helps.

  That Friday afternoon, after I teach a class to a local financial firm, sub for one of Michelle’s Ouch! I Can’t Reach My Toes—Yoga for Flexibility classes, and visit another teacher’s session, I meet up with Emerson in the Sunset District to “recon” for an upcoming episode of her show. Her word, not mine.

  We trek up a staircase of 163-mosaic covered steps, each one a different design of colorful tiles. It’s a hidden gem in San Francisco, but I’m not sure why we’re here.

  “How exactly does this help you with a food show?” I ask, gesturing to the gleaming steps.

  “Because this new burger place is so off the beaten path, it’s at the top of the steps.”

  I scan the environs. Houses tower up on either side of the staircase. “Um, this is residential. Are they even zoned for a restaurant here?”

  Emerson tuts, patting my shoulder. “You’re so cute. I love your municipal concerns. This is a food truck we’re scoping out. It’s parked here today. Banging Burgers. It’s got all kinds of veggie burgers. I want to eyeball it before I come here officially, and the bonus of exercise ticked another box.”

  Ah, that makes more sense. Emerson loves to prep so she’s not surprised when she shoots an episode. She’s the queen of doing her homework. I bet she was a straight-A student in school.

  As my foot lands on a shimmering light blue tile, I decide now’s as good a time as any to dive into my dilemma. “So, I need your take on something. Remember that night at my house when I said I was ready to date Harlan again?”

  She whips her gaze to me as we walk, those curious green eyes already sparkling with questions. “The date that never happened, right? You said he became a client when you started teaching the Renegades. I’ve seen the pics on the team’s Instagram.” The Renegades social media shared photos of me teaching the guys, which looked great shared on Sassy’s Insta feed. “Did that change?”

  I answer her honestly. “Yes.”

  She freezes mid-step. “Whoa.” She thaws, setting her foot down. “Are you seeing him?”

  That’s a good question.

  “Sort of?” I say, my voice pitching up.

  “How is it a sort of?” Her voice hits the stratosphere.

  “We’re not really seeing each other, but we made a plan to see each other.” Finally, I just rip off the Band-Aid. “Ah, hell. I like him so much, Emerson. And everything with him is so good. It’s driving me crazy, but in a good way. But you said you regretted missing signs with my ex, and I’d feel like the worst friend if I didn’t tell you about Harlan. And I know you’d want to know.”

  My words spill out in a messy heap on these incredibly beautiful, Instagrammable steps. Emerson is clearly ready to bombard me with questions, but a pack of tourists—judging from the Nikons and I Love San Francisco sweatshirts—are fast closing in on us.

  She tips her forehead to the top, and we trudge up the rest of the way, duck down the street, and stop in front of a pale-yellow house. “Start at the beginning,” my friend instructs.

  I tell her everything, starting with the first one-on-one session and finishing with baking with Harlan and his daughter.

  “Monkey bread and manicures!” She grabs the sides of her face. “That’s too cute. I die!”

  “I know, right?” I clasp a hand to my heart. “His daughter is amazing. Such a strong, bright, fun girl. And she likes me too.”

  “Obviously. You’re super likable. And clearly, he’s crazy for you if he’s introducing you to his kid. That’s a big step.”

  It felt huge to me too. Meaningful, bringing Harlan and me even closer. “I really like him. Falling-hard like. Falling-in-love like.”

  “Oh, babes,” she says softly, nodding sagely. “I can tell.”

  I grab her hand, squeeze it. “What do I do?”

  “I wish I could say oh my God, he’s amazing, but I don’t know a thing about him,” she says with a helpless shrug. “But I know you. If you’re going to do this, you’ll only feel right about it if you do what you said. Find the replacement for the classes, talk to Olive and Zachary, and just be open and honest. You’re not like your mother, but if you go into a relationship feeling like her, I worry you’ll beat yourself up. I’d hate for that to happen.”

  My throat tightens with emotion. “You’re right. I checked out two classes today, and some others yesterday. And the receptionist at my main studio is amazing, helping me search for options, coming up with lists of who to check out in the Bay Area. And I’m determined to do this right,” I say, squaring my shoulders.

  She drapes an arm around me. “Good. Then you will. Now, you want to check out this Banging Burger food truck?”

  “Yes, but do the burgers make you want to bang? Or do they make you want to bang Nolan?”

  Her eyes pop. “Hush. Do not mention him.”

  I press my finger to my lips. “I won’t mention the total hottie who you work with. The guy with the piercing eyes and delish muscles and great smile. The one you were looking at like you wanted to lick sriracha off him. I know you love sriracha.”

  She crinkles her nose. “Now who’s adorable and gross at the same time?”

  I point two thumbs at myself. “This woman.”

  “You know yourself so well.”

  “Also, is it hard to resist him?” I tease.

  She shoots me a don’t you dare go there look. “I’m supporting you in your resistance plans. You ought to do the same for me with Nolan. I bet you, too, are battling temptation every time you see Harlan.”

  “Oh, I am. I definitely am.”

  But I won’t let temptation win.

  24

  HARLAN

  Time takes on a glacial quality.

  Every day is an X on the calendar. Every night, I wait for the dawn to come.

  I see Katie at the stadium, and it’s wickedly thrilling having our little secret, more so than it was before. I take these little hits of Katie-time to pass the days.

  When yoga class wraps up one Tuesday in November, Coach Greenhaven strides in, surveys the lot of us in triangle pose. “Excellent. We’ll have to rename you the Pretzels when we host New York this weekend.”

  There’s a collective groan from the Renegades.

  At the end of class, I leave as Katie straightens up. The coach stops me at the door. His gray eyes laser in on me, and he clears his throat. “Harlan.”

  I straighten, reflexively. The coach has that effect. “Yes, sir?” I ask, hoping he hasn’t gotten wind of my plans with Katie. But then, how could he? No one knows. We don’t go out in public. We’re cautious.

  Unless those rumors about phones listening in on your conversations are true. You never know with modern technology.

  He claps my shoulder. “You’re looking good this season. I keep telling that to the GM,” he says.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say, grateful as always for the compliment.

  “GM agrees completely,” he says, and the message is loud and clear—we want you to stay.

  “Thank you,” I say, relieved that’s the focus of our talk. Even though I don’t have anything more to tell him.

  “Hope you will,” he adds.

  “Thank you.” It’s all I can say, my head nodding like I’m a bobblehead of myself. And I’ve seen those bobbleheads in the team store. Not my best look.

  Later that afternoon, she texts me. I’m in a Lyft heading to meet my agent, so I write back right away.

  Katie: Is it hard for you when the coach says stuff like that?

  Harlan: How can you tell?

  Katie: You never answer.

  Harlan: Ha, you’re astute.

  Katie: You just say thank you. Nothing more.

  Harlan: I don’t know what else to say.

  Katie: You’re really torn, aren’t you?

  Harlan: I am. Completely.

  It feels good to tell her, to unburden myself of some of these thoughts, so I keep going.

  Harlan: I don’t want to give up the game, but I also don’t know what makes sense for life beyond football.

  Katie: You could open a foosball and ice cream shop.

  I laugh as I type.

  Harlan: I’ll mention that to my agent. I’m heading to see her now. She asked if I was going to open a pie shop like my mom. What do you see me doing?

  Katie: Whatever makes you happy :)

  Harlan: Good answer.

  When I reach my agent’s office, I don’t know that I’m any closer to deciding, but I feel better after talking to Katie.

  Harlan: I’ll see you tomorrow for our session. I promise I won’t steal any more kisses.

  She sends me a sad face.

  “Beat you,” Jason calls out from one hundred feet in front of me the next morning.

  “I let you beat me,” I shout as we make our way down the winding hills at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge, headed toward Crissy Field by the bay.

  He slows to a walk, and I catch up with him, having finished our four-mile sunrise run.

  “So, you let me beat you? That’s how you’re spinning this?” he fires back.

  “Kiddo, I give it all on the field, so I don’t need to beat your young ass on a weekday jog.”

  His brow knits. “Dammit. You have a good point there.”

  “I usually do.”

  We pass early morning exercisers spread out on the fields—boot campers doing burpees, serene groups of older men and woman swaying through tai chi moves, and then a pack of fit twenty-somethings just . . . shaking their hips.

  What the hell are they doing?

  I peer more closely as the attendees bend and pick up hula hoops from the grass. “Ah, a hula hoop class,” I say, then tilt my head when one of the gals in the class drops a quick kiss onto her neighbor’s cheek.

  “Looks like a workout date too,” Jason adds as we walk past them.

  “Speaking of, how was yours from the other week? Anything come of it?”

  He shrugs. “We went out a couple times, but I dunno. There wasn’t a spark. Not the kind I want. Know what I mean?”

  I picture Katie and our yoga sessions. The fire that flames between us. I chuckle knowingly. “I do know what you mean. Very much so.”

  Jason turns to face me. “Spoken from experience?”

  I don’t need to blab. I’ve got to protect my woman. But Jason’s a cool guy, and he doesn’t know Katie. He plays for the other team, so he’s not her yoga student. “Yeah, the woman I was supposed to go out with a couple weeks ago. Didn’t quite happen, but it’s still awesome.” Even without naming her, that feels good to admit.