The sports gossip sites had a field day with the Mercenaries last season. The team served up a buffet of juicy news all year long. Spin the roster like a lazy Susan and grab a drug or sex scandal when it stops.

  A defensive back totaled his Ferrari while coked up. The nose guard trashed a hotel room doing speed. The tight end, Chuck Romano, became a baby daddy for the fourth time and with a fourth woman—a nineteen-year-old cheerleader for the Mercenaries.

  That whole situation was a nightmare for the press office.

  Managing their reputation will be a doozy, so it’s smart the team is battening down the hatches on that regard. Ever since they foolishly traded away Beck Cafferty to lead the San Francisco Renegades, the Mercenaries have been a pothole of problems.

  But the GM—KP Loraine—has zero patience for shenanigans of any sort. In the last few months, she’s let go of the defensive back and the nose guard. She dumped Romano from the roster too, when his contract came due at the end of the season. Probably not the toughest decision since he was coming off a terrible year on the field.

  Still, she cleaned house with a no-bullshit broom, and then made some sharp trades, like nabbing wide receiver Gabe Clements. He’s an NFL veteran, and won a SuperBowl. Plus, in college, Gabe played with Sanders, the Mercenaries QB, so those two guys should be a solid pair leading the team in the huddle.

  I’m nearly finished reading articles and scouting reports that afternoon when Stephen raps on the door and strides into my office.

  “So…something came up,” he says in that unreadable voice. “With the whole…player thing.”

  Well, that could be anything.

  Could be something about the situation he mentioned, could be news that the new receiver is leading a cock-fighting ring.

  I brace myself but put on an I can handle anything face. “What’s the news, boss? I’ll handle it.”

  He sighs. “This one.” He shakes his head. “Man…”

  Spit it out.

  “It’s Sanders,” he continues.

  My stomach drops. Dear God, I hope he didn’t become the next player to land in hot water. “What happened with him?”

  Stephen mimes slicing a knife over his own shoulder. “Labral tear in the shoulder. Needs surgery. Out of commission for twelve weeks.”

  “Ouch,” I say, wincing in sympathy for the pain Sanders must be going through. “That’s terrible. What’s next? The backup is decent enough.”

  “He is, but the GM made a trade a few days ago. Looks like Loraine just wrapped it up this afternoon, so we wanted you to take a look at the two press releases before we head to the event. The new player should be making his debut there.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll get on it now,” I reply. Because there’s clearly no time to lose.

  “Great. I just emailed you the statements. Back in ten?”

  “Of course,” I swivel my chair toward the computer and toggle over to my inbox. This should be an easy-in, easy-out scenario. I seriously doubt the injury statement will require any lawyering, but when you need to fix a bad rep, you can’t cut corners, even on something as simple as a statement about a quarterback requiring surgery.

  Carefully, I read it all. Everything looks good, but one line needs a minor tweak. I make an edit, then flip to the next release.

  The first paragraph makes me blink.

  The words rise up from the page, beating like they’re alive.

  The Mercenaries are thrilled to share that they’ve traded for Drew Adams from the Los Angeles Devil Sharks. The quarterback, who has a top-ten passer rating, will be moving across town to the Mercenaries and will likely start in the first game of the season.

  7

  Spank Me with a Taco

  Drew

  * * *

  When Maddox hit me with the news, it wasn’t the trade that surprised me. My old team had been releasing players left and right during the off-season to reduce payroll. I figured my number would be up soon, and they’d bounce me to Baltimore, Miami, or maybe Seattle. Someplace with a weakness behind the center.

  But a trade where I don’t even have to pack up my things?

  That was a helluva surprise, and some Midas-touch level agenting from Maddox.

  Maybe some of Carter’s football luck is rubbing off on me. The Mercenaries aren’t a bad team. They’ve just been toxic off the field, and that shit has a way of following you into games and messing with your head.

  With the deal finally done, I embrace the change with open arms, and on Thursday, I head to the Mercenaries practice field.

  It’s a tough one, but a damn good one. By the time practice ends, my muscles are drained and I’m sweat-soaked, but I can’t complain. This is how practice should be.

  I walk off the field with Gabe Clements, the team’s new receiver who’s known around the league for his smooth hands, his predatory intensity on the field, and his unwavering devotion to pre-game rituals.

  He claps me on the back. “Nice work, Adams. And thanks for taking my spot as the new guy. It’s been hell with them calling me The New Dude all throughout training camp, but it looks like you just got that nickname.”

  “Happy to take it on.”

  “Excellent, New Dude. Now, let’s show the whole city why they traded for us this year.”

  That’s what I want—a receiver corps that’s focused on the game of football. I offer a fist for knocking. “Let’s do it.”

  He knocks back. “We’re gonna blast out of the tunnel for the first game like we’re fucking cheetahs,” he says. “Cheetahs with hacky sacks.”

  Hometown trades aside, I’m not usually surprised. But…hacky sacks? “Google translate please,” I say.

  “New Dude, I’m with a new team. I need a new ritual. I retired my yoyo from last season. I was a hacky sack ace in college.”

  “Along with a Rose Bowl-winning receiver?”

  He arches a brow, clearly impressed with my knowledge. “Multi-talented is my middle name. Anyway, I’m switching to hacky sacks for my new pre-game ritual. You in?”

  I’m not a ritual guy, but if Gabe is, then I’ll go along with it. “I’m in.” I take a beat as we reach the tunnel. “But maybe send me a calendar item so I don’t forget?”

  He growls. “You won’t forget, New Dude.”

  “You’re right. I won’t. Seriously, you can count me in. You, me, we’re a package deal.”

  Gabe cracks a small smile. “Yes, we are,” he says, squaring his shoulders and walking a little taller.

  Good. I want him to know I’ll have his back, and I hope he’ll have mine. That’s how we’ll need to work together on the field—with trust and support.

  “I’ll throw ’em as long as you catch ’em,” I say.

  He holds his arms out wide. “We’ll get along just fine then, New Dude. Because these arms were made to cradle the ball.”

  I like Gabe’s brand of cocky confidence.

  We head indoors, the blast of cool air-conditioning a welcome relief from the heat. I glance around the concrete hallway, still getting used to the look and feel of the facilities.

  But I sure like getting used to it.

  The Mercenaries aren’t perfect by any stretch. This team has plenty of problems. But it’s spending on players rather than cutting them.

  That means we have a real chance to win. Especially if I have anything to say about it.

  And I do.

  After I shower and dress, I take one last look in the mirror. Sharp vest, fine shirt, smooth shave. I look like an athlete who cleans up well.

  Just what Maddox said the team wanted from me when we talked at the café the other day. “You have the stats, the track record, and you’re in the last year of a contract they’re willing to pick up. Plus, you don’t cause trouble off the field,” he’d said.

  “I’m so innocent,” I’d joked.

  With a wink, Maddox patted my shoulder and said, “Only your agent and your priest know the truth.”

  And Carter had quipped, “And I already heard his confession.”

  The team had one other stipulation—no more paddle boarding, surfing or other water sports. Most are low-risk sports, they acknowledged. But they don’t let their players paddle board in the waves. That was a choice the Devil Sharks made. I get that, but I also got the subtext—the Devil Sharks were lazy. They didn’t care. And—no surprise—they didn’t win. The Mercenaries are changing their tune and caring about everything.

  I’m just glad paddle boarding was allowed on the weekend that I got hit in the head.

  I leave the locker room, looking for Stephen. The team’s EVP said he’d meet me here to give me the deets on the event he wants me to attend. I find him quickly—he’s got a Humphrey Bogart cool to him with slicked back gray hair and a chiseled jaw.

  He stands across the hall, his head bent over his phone. When the door shuts with a snick, he lifts his face, slides his phone in his pocket, and strides up to me.

  “Hey, Drew,” he says, parking a hand on my shoulder. His eyes match his hair—they’re almost silvery. “All set for the youth sports fundraiser tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “It’s a cause near and dear.”

  “Great. Really appreciate you doing this so last minute. Almost as much as I appreciate you being on our team.”

  “I’m psyched for the chance,” I say. “I’ve been wanting to do some work with a local charity that supports underprivileged youth sports.”

  “Great. Lots of folks from the organization will be there, so I’ll make sure you meet everyone and that they all know our new quarterback,” he says with a quick smile. “And you’ll smile for the cameras. Get some Instagram posts, make a few comments to the sports sites. You know the drill. I’ll introduce you to the press department and some of the front office people you’ll be working with.”

  “Can’t wait,” I say. This is what I want in a team. A front office that gets behind its players. That supports them. That works with the community.

  “I have to take care of a few things here. But I’ll meet you in the lobby of the hotel. I texted you the address.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The fact that the EVP himself is looking out for me tells me all I need to know about the Mercenaries—they’re ready to take a chance this season at going the distance.

  This is my chance too, and I plan to make the most of being a Mercenary in every single way.

  I also plan to have some good, clean fun tonight after the event. There’s nothing wrong with seeing a woman who saved me from a deadly paddle board oar. Hell, that’s a good-guy story right there. And when we’re done with tacos and ice cream, we’ll go to her place, close the door, and leave the world behind.

  Yup. My luck in football and romance is turning around.

  I catch up on messages in the back of the Lyft on the way to the event. First, I click on a text from my buddy Milo in New York. The fucker sent me a link to a new dating column his girlfriend writes—The Virgin Club Alum, and the article is titled Top Five Signs You’re Doing It Wrong.

  I groan, but hats off to him.

  * * *

  Milo: I’ve learned so much about women from this column, but maybe you need to read it more religiously. I mean, just a thought from the headline. Does seem up your alley.

  * * *

  Ha. Like he can pull a fast one on me. I’m the guy who figured out who his new lady was well before he did.

  * * *

  Drew: Bookmarking this to read tonight AFTER my smoking-hot date. Wait. Make that…a tomorrow read.

  * * *

  Then I toggle to Carter’s text.

  * * *

  Carter: Dude. Did you see this new barber shop nearby? They do shaves beachside! I’m flying to town tonight and doing this tomorrow.

  * * *

  Drew: Do you not know how to work a razor yourself? I can set you up with some lessons with a thirteen-year-old who’s offering them to helpless dudes.

  * * *

  Carter: Have you ever had a real shave? By a pro? You will NOT go back to doing it yourself. It’s like sex in self-care form.

  * * *

  Drew: That would be rubbing one out, buddy. It already exists.

  * * *

  Carter: You don’t deserve the grooming equivalent of ejaculation.

  * * *

  Drew: I bet the barber is just dying to have you schedule an appointment now.

  * * *

  Carter: Already scheduled one in your name. Thanks, man.

  * * *

  My friends are such dicks. Fucking love them.

  Then, I shift gears into good-boy mode as I click on today’s text from my mom. She sends me the Daily Double, as she calls it. A pic of the latest antics from my twin sisters.

  * * *

  Mom: Today, Mira and Sophie turned into identical mermaids. Can you tell them apart?

  * * *

  The little sea creatures are wearing fake fishtails with their bathing suits and splashing around in the pool, red hair whipping everywhere. Good-boy mode is so easy to engage with those two cuties and my awesome mom. I reply with my best guess, but I suspect they’ll be tricking everyone, especially their parents, for a long time. They are as identical as twins come.

  I send Mom another note.

  * * *

  Drew: You doing okay? Or are you exhausted? Let me know if you need anything.

  * * *

  Mom: I’ve been exhausted for twenty-eight years, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

  * * *

  My heart squeezes with affection. But at least she’s not working herself to the bone like she was when she was a single mom, raising a kid alone. She handled it all, working late nights, but showing up for every game. My senior year of high school, she met a good dude on the apps, falling hard for a mechanical engineer who dotes on her and their two girls—their oops and we don’t regret it babies.

  After what my dad put her through, leaving her with nothing, she deserves the love and affection she gets from her husband.

  She also deserves this pool that she’s lounging by at her home in Sherman Oaks.

  The pool came from me. Bought it last year for her as a long overdue gift, since she always used to joke that someday she’d lounge by the pool.

  * * *

  Drew: Glad you and the doubles are enjoying the water. I’ll come see you soon, but you’d better bring those mermaids to my first game!

  * * *

  Mom: Trident himself couldn’t keep them away. They love rooting for their big brother.

  * * *

  I close the thread with Mom as the car slows at a light. I check the time, figuring I should be at the hotel in fifteen minutes. Even though the event should be fun, I’m counting down the seconds till after the meet and greet when I get to see Brooke again. I’m stoked to tell her about the trade and then talk about anything besides football.

  Maybe I’ll mention the trade to her in a text, so we won’t have to talk shop over tacos. I’d rather talk sex positions and what makes her tick. My goal tonight? Getting to know her better.

  Then, getting to know her better in bed.

  Oh, shit.

  I haven’t told her I’ll be late.

  I return to my text app, then fire off a new note to her.

  * * *

  Drew: Hey, rock star goddess surf angel. I have to do a work thing this evening, but I should be able to meet you at eight at Tacos Are Life. But I promise the delay will be worth it. I’ll owe you an extra O for my tardiness.

  * * *

  Then, as I wait for her reply, I read our prior notes.

  There’s the one from Sunday when we made plans while we were in her kitchen. Plus, the text I sent this morning.

  * * *

  Drew: Tacos. I can’t stop thinking about tacos.

  * * *

  Her reply was pure Brooke.

  * * *

  IOU: I never stop thinking about tacos.

  * * *

  She even wrote back again this afternoon, adding, Can’t wait to devour tacos—and you.

  Rawr. The woman does like dirty talk. I replied with If I weren’t heading into practice right now, I would tell you all the ways I want to devour you.

  Tell me later, big stud, she’d said.

  There’s time before we reach the hotel in Santa Monica to give her some more of my ideas. While the driver navigates through traffic, I tap out another text.

  But before I hit send, my phone rings with a call from my buddy Patrick, and I answer right away. Bet he has good money news. “Let me guess. You made money turn into more money today.”

  He laughs, then says, “So much you’re going to build a shrine to me for what I did.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s going to be one hundred feet tall, and you will lay gifts at my feet.”

  “Are you dead in this scenario? Are you lying in the shrine? Paint the picture more fully for me. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

  “And maybe I won’t tell you about the sweet deal I just got on a new IPO. For you.”