I scowl. “There are people who don’t like football?”

  She scoffs dismissively. “I’ve heard about their existence. Small little pockets on the outskirts of society.”

  “Seems terribly sad to be such a person.”

  “It’s devastating, Drew,” she says, then she roams her eyes over me, like she’s cataloguing my face, my chest, my arms, my legs. A soft sigh falls from her lips, a hint of frustration in it. “I’m having such a good time that if I don’t catch a Lyft, I’ll be tempted.”

  I love the honesty in her admission. I hate that she’s right.

  “Me too,” I say.

  She orders a ride. I wait with her on the corner, hands in my pockets. Then…what the hell. The night is ending. “I wish I were taking you home,” I say softly, moving a few inches closer.

  “Me too,” she says, sounding as wrapped up in longing as I am.

  “I want that more now than I did this afternoon,” I add.

  Her breath hitches. Even though I want to lift my hand, reach for her face, and cup her cheek, I don’t.

  I’m about to let her go when she meets my gaze, heat flickering in her eyes. “By the way, I would have said yes to spanking.”

  I groan. She’s too sexy. “I would have smacked you exactly the way you wanted it.”

  “I know.”

  A fire ignites in my chest, filling me with lust and desire all from those two words. I know.

  But this kind of talk isn’t part of the game plan anymore.

  The Nissan we’re waiting for arrives, and I reach for the door handle. But before I open it, I grab my phone. Then I enter her number once more—this time under her full name. Brooke Holland, The One and Only. Then I send her a note. Had the best time with you tonight.

  She smiles as she reads it, then replies with Me too.

  I put her in the car and watch her go.

  Like a good guy.

  10

  A Vibe Thing

  Drew

  * * *

  The sun warms my shoulders. The ocean breeze cools my skin. And the goateed barber slides a sharp blade across my jaw. All the barbers here at Armando’s are dressed to the nines in white button-downs, ties, and proper slacks, looking dapper as swing music plays. It’s so retro it’s cool.

  Once I’m done, I’ll have to text Brooke a pic. Bet she’d get a kick out of this whole pop-up beachside barber shop here in Venice.

  Carter was right. The beachside shave is downright luxurious.

  I might start to hum any second.

  But I’m not going to come. “You getting close, buddy?” I ask Carter in the chair next to mine.

  “So close,” he grunts like he’s holding back his personal satisfaction.

  “Behave,” I warn.

  He laughs a little too big.

  “Try to keep still,” his barber tells him, a stern fellow with earplugs and a leather apron.

  “Like I said, behave,” I stage whisper as the owner himself, a goateed guy with steady hands, slides the blade across my jaw one last time then wipes it on a hand towel.

  “Smoothest shave ever,” he says. “What do you think?”

  I pat my cheek. “You’re the da Vinci of barbers, my man.”

  “Thank you. I had lots of practice with my clients in East LA before I opened this shop.” Armando tucks the blade into his leather satchel, right next to combs of all sizes, then grabs a tray with lotions and potions. “Pick your scent.”

  I sit up a little higher and smell the bottles. “This cedar one is nice.”

  “That’s citrus,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Citrus, cedar. They’re both in the C family,” I say.

  “Close enough,” he teases, then pats some aftershave on my face.

  When he’s done, he holds up a hand mirror, and says with a wicked smile, “Go Mercenaries.”

  I shake his hand. “Hell yeah.” I glance around his busy joint. “And I'll be back.”

  Carter’s done a minute later, so I corral him with our barbers and snap a pic, then post it on social. Stephen should be happy with that. The only thing I’m doing wrong is hanging with a rival, so I caption it that way. Hanging with the enemy, kicking it old school.

  We take off, heading to the main drag in Venice to meet Maddox for lunch. He wanted to catch up on some sponsorship deals for both of us. Carter flew down for his mom’s birthday party this weekend, then he’ll head back to San Francisco to go into the final week of practice.

  “How was your date last night?” Carter asks as we pass a weather-worn bungalow, its shutters beaten from the ocean air over the years.

  “It was the best and it was the worst,” I say.

  “Are you Dickens now?”

  “You’ve heard of Dickens?”

  “Yes, asshole. I studied literature in college,” Carter says with a scoff.

  “And they made you study Dickens?”

  “Dude, we were in the same English class.”

  “I tried to block out memories of Dickens.”

  He gazes skyward. “Why do I ask you how anything is? Hell, why do I share nice things with you? Why, universe, why?”

  “That is an excellent question,” I say, then I drop the give-him-hell routine and go for the truth. Carter has always been the easiest to talk to about dating. More so than Patrick or even Milo. Carter just wears his heart on his sleeve, the big teddy bear. “…and it turns out, womp, womp, she works for my team now,” I say, finishing the story of woe.

  He frowns. “Oh, man. That is the worst bad news ever. Almost makes me want to pay for your beer for the rest of time.”

  That’s friendship for you in the face of the universe’s seriously rude sense of humor. “I know, and I really like her. Is it weird to like someone that quickly?” I ask as we turn on Abbot Kinney, passing a trendy men’s clothing shop.

  Carter shoves a hand through his messy hair. “Honestly, I think it’s weird if you don’t. Especially after two dates. And your first date was all day long. I’d hope you knew you liked her after that much time. It’s a vibe thing, you know?”

  I nod, glad he gets it. I had a feeling he’d be the right one to talk to. “Yeah, so it sucks that nothing more can happen.”

  With a hopeful shrug, Carter says, “Maybe in the off-season?”

  “She’ll still work for the team in the off-season,” I point out.

  “True, true. I was trying to find a silver lining.”

  I pat his shoulder. “I appreciate that. But I guess the silver lining is I am going to laser in on football and only football. First game is next weekend. Your sorry ass will be back in San Francisco by then.”

  “Fuck yes. Gotta get started on my plans for a threepeat,” he says, running his fingers through his hair so the sunlight glints off his two rings—his signature move. And hell, I’d do the same if I had even one ring to flash.

  “Asshole,” I mutter, then we reach the Sunlight Café, a new bowl-centric spot with stark white tables and more kale than a garden patch.

  Inside, Maddox orders for us, pays, then sits us down. “When I signed you both, I hardly knew it was a package deal,” he teases.

  “I like to make things easy for you,” Carter says then adopts a too big grin.

  Maddox waggles his phone, showing us his Instagram feed. “Nice shot.”

  “You saw that already?” I ask, kind of amazed.

  “You posted it twenty minutes ago,” Maddox points out.

  “Exactly.”

  Carter shoots me a knowing look. “Our agent tracks us online. We can’t get away with anything.” Then to Maddox, he says, “Just kidding. We don’t want to get away with anything.”

  “Good. I like that. Keep being upstanding gentleman and I’ll keep inking new deals for you both,” he says, then updates me on one of my sponsors before he shifts his attention to my friend. “Speaking of your partnerships, Date Night is quite sweet on you.”

  I kick back as Maddox updates my buddy on his partnership with a dating app.

  When they’re done, Carter says to me in all earnestness, “Drew, when you’re ready again, this app is the real deal. For anything. It’s all about real romance, real connections—either friendship or love. If you want to meet someone to play ping-pong with, you can. Or to yada yada yada.”

  “You mean have a beachside-shave-like experience,” I say in a smoky tone.

  Carter cracks up. “You know it.”

  Maddox turns to me, genuine concern in his dark eyes. “I take it the second date with the woman from last weekend didn’t go well.”

  Carter holds up his hand, like he’s going to hold my beer. “I got this, Drew.” Then to Maddox, he says, “Turns out she works for the Mercenaries.”

  My agent winces. “Forbidden love is a tough one,” he says, sounding wistful.

  Carter tilts his head. “You got a forbidden love story in your past?”

  Maddox shakes his head.

  “Or did you meet a new dude who’s all hot and off-limits?” Carter pushes.

  Maddox just dips his head but smiles slyly. “You’re not getting any of that out of me.”

  He’s notoriously private about his love life. But a man’s choice is a man’s choice.

  Mine is no dating for now.

  My other choice is to send the barber shop pic to Brooke. Once I reach my condo in Santa Monica, I sink onto my couch overlooking the ocean, and I fire it off to her.

  * * *

  Drew: Venice Beach officially has everything now. Sidenote: how cool are we?

  * * *

  Brooke: The coolest. Also, nice shot. You look good.

  * * *

  Good thing I have to get to the field for practice. Otherwise I’d spend the rest of the day texting her.

  Wait. Shit. Is this definitely her now?

  * * *

  Drew: Hold on. How do I know this is you?

  * * *

  Brooke: This pic makes my Surf Angel chest flutter.

  * * *

  Drew: Excellent. Let me do another test. Another word for car.

  * * *

  Brooke: You want a McLaren.

  * * *

  Drew: Boat.

  * * *

  Brooke: Yacht. Like your innuendo.

  * * *

  Drew: One more. Another word for shoe?

  * * *

  Brooke: The heels I wore last night. They were black. You wanted them on your shoulders, around your waist, up in the air. Do you believe it’s me now?

  * * *

  Drew: A picture is worth a thousand words.

  * * *

  Brooke: If you insist.

  * * *

  Thirty seconds later, a pic lands on my phone, shot from the thighs down. She’s wearing a skirt that shows her bare legs, and black heels. Oh Lord have mercy. I want to march over to her office, slam the door, kneel between those creamy thighs, and make her lose her mind with my tongue.

  * * *

  Drew: I’m on my way.

  * * *

  Drew: Just kidding.

  * * *

  Drew: But holy fuck, woman. Your legs should be worshipped. Adored. Kissed. Cherished.

  * * *

  Drew: And then spread wide open so I can spend the afternoon between them.

  * * *

  Brooke: I will never get any work done now.

  * * *

  Nor will I when she sends me another pic. She’s hiked up her skirt, and I can just make out the edge of her white lacy panties. I groan, then I take care of business.

  A few minutes later, I reply.

  * * *

  Drew: Thought of you the whole time.

  * * *

  Brooke: I’ll think of you tonight in bed.

  * * *

  I can’t stop. I just can’t. When I head to an afternoon practice, I text her some more.

  Carter was right. Sometimes you just know.

  11

  Your Mouth on My Innuendo

  Drew

  * * *

  Resisting becomes a bit easier when the season starts the next week. The first game is at home, and we play like a well-oiled machine. I put the team ahead in the second quarter with a forty-yard pass to Clements, who turns that into an absolutely beautiful touchdown.

  The crowd goes wild, and the sound of their cheers is such a high. When Clements chest-bumps me on the sidelines, we’re both grinning like fools. It’s early in the game, but it feels so damn good.

  “Nice work, man,” I say.

  Gabe does a little dance, flexing his biceps. “Told you I’d get it in the end zone. You get it to me, and I’ll bust my ass to put that ball where it belongs.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say as he kneels and hunts for something under the bench.

  When he pops up, he tosses me a red hacky sack. I catch it easily.

  “Adams, use your foot,” he says, and I hide a smile that he’s graduated me to last name familiarity.

  “I thought that was your pre-game ritual,” I say, pointing out the flaw in his ritual logic.

  “Gotta be flexible. Hasn’t football taught you anything? I just changed the play. Hacky sack is now our in-game ritual too,” he says, then drops the bag toward the ground, kicking it my way with his instep.

  When in Rome…

  I kick it back.

  Maybe he’s right about his rituals. They do seem to keep him one hundred ten percent focused. He nails another catch in the third, and our running back, Rand, drives it home on first down.

  We finish with a twenty-four to fourteen victory, and it’s both a thrill and a relief. After my last year of uncertainty with the Devil Sharks and their payroll slashing, and given the Mercenaries’ hot mess of a season, the tight game play is all anyone could ask for, the coach included.

  “You’re looking good, Adams. Keep it up,” he says, his voice gruff. It’s always gruff—he’s such a coach.

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  After I chat with a sideline reporter, I jog over to the fifty-yard line, beaming when I find my faves in the stands in the seats I snagged for Mom, Mira, Sophie, and Tom.

  “Hey, Mom. What did you think?” I say, asking the question I’ve asked her after every game I’ve played.

  “Loved your focus,” she says as she gives me a big hug.

  “Any tips?” I ask. That’s part of our routine too.

  She laughs. “There was less traffic on the way to this stadium, so my tip is keep playing well so we can keep coming here.”

  “I’ll second that,” Tom says, then drops a kiss to Mom’s forehead. That guy really loves her. It’s so good to see.

  “Also, the popcorn here is really good,” impish Sophie remarks, and I lift her up and onto the field, giving her a big hug.

  “I told them to make it special for you,” I say.

  “I like the pretzels better,” Mira weighs in, not to be outdone.

  I grab her, hoisting her into my other arm. “Because I said the doubles need the best snacks.”

  Sophie raises a doubtful brow. “I don’t think you did that.” She’s all stern and serious.

  I nod, big and long, staring up at her. “Sure did.”

  Then Mira nods toward the field. “Can we play now?”

  “Maybe later. The grounds crew need to do their magic to the field, but I can take you out for ice cream if Mom says yes.”

  They beg her and she gives in, then snaps a pic of me holding them on the edge of the field.

  Then, I take them all out for ice cream.

  Yeah, I’m glad I was traded across town. I am lucky. I don’t want to give this up.

  When I post the shot on social that night, captioning it Celebrating with my faves, it hardly feels like a good-guy routine. I just love these little stinkers.

  The fact that Stephen texts me in the morning to say Great game, and great shot is the icing on the cake.

  And I do like icing in the form of making him happy.

  I’m happy, too, that night when I return home, flop my exhausted body on my couch, and grab the remote to find a movie to watch.

  Right when I’m about to click on my Webflix queue, my phone dings with a text.

  * * *

  Brooke: Nice game!

  * * *

  Not gonna lie. I was hoping she’d say something. Truthfully, I was hoping I’d have seen her at the stadium.

  * * *

  Drew: Thanks! Felt good to win the first game. Now I just need to win, oh, say, sixteen more.

  * * *

  Brooke: Um, hello. How about winning all three or four in the post-season too?

  * * *

  Drew: You and your technicalities.

  * * *

  Brooke: Gotta stay on top of details ☺

  * * *

  Ah, hell. That’s too tempting.

  * * *

  Drew: I know what I’d like to stay on top of.

  * * *

  That earns me an eye-rolling emoticon.