“I can fit you in first thing tomorrow,” said Roberts. “You can play in tomorrow’s game. That is, if I clear you.”

  “Tomorrow,” Charlie repeated. “I need this, you got it? My knee’s fine—I’m fine. I’m getting through physio without breaking a sweat.”

  Roberts sighed quietly. “Okay, I hear you. If what you’re telling me is true, consider it done. But if my exam doesn’t—”

  Charlie hung up the call, ignoring the anxiety rising inside him. Roberts would clear him. He always did. These nerves were just game day nerves, not bad-knee nerves. Definitely not Dylan nerves—people got second opinions all the time. He wasn’t betraying her. This was fine. He was fine.

  Tomorrow, he’d show her, and it would all be okay.

  “No comment,” Charlie spat into the millionth mic shoved in his face. He had never been one to refrain from expressing his opinion to the press, but these sideline reporters were starting to get abrasive, even by his standards.

  The Teamsters were already deep into their first quarter against the Arrows. Every time their offense came off the field, another intrepid reporter got up on his jock, eager for a sound bite concerning him and Dylan. This particular specimen, Patricia, was one he had dealt with plenty of times in his career. She blinked in surprise at his refusal to answer, and Charlie almost took pity on her.

  Almost.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a game to win,” said Charlie. He crowned himself with his helmet, hiding his scowl behind his facemask as he hustled onto the field.

  No matter how much he tried, he could not stop thinking about Dylan. Where she was, how she was doing…if she would ever want to see him again after all of this blew over. Her job meant everything to her, and he’d flung her hard work out the window. Gone behind her back, however he tried to spin it. Charlie knew he had fucked up big time, and his regret only grew as the first quarter flew by.

  He needed to get his head on straight. Hadn’t he gone against Dylan’s orders so he could recommit himself to his career? He wouldn’t be doing that with his head in the clouds.

  “Focus,” he muttered. He just needed to focus. Football was the only aspect of his life that had ever made any sense. He was born for it, trained for it, and hell—he was ready to die for it.

  Or so he had always told himself. The Teamsters were currently ahead fourteen to zero. The crowd was rowdy but supportive. He should have been in his own personal heaven, except his bad knee felt like it was swimming around in its socket, despite the stretching he’d done. Despite the long yards of sports tape holding it in place.

  In the aftermath of their next play, the opposing team called a time-out, and Charlie dropped forward to brace himself on his thighs, trying his best to appear out of breath. The reality was, he felt like someone was twisting a hot knife into his knee.

  Just hold out until half time, he coached himself. You can take it up with Roberts then. You’re Charlie Wild. Everything might seem like it’s spinning out of control, but you’ve got this. You do. When have other peoples’ rules and limitations ever fucking applied to you?

  Like the laws of physics? Dylan’s voice in his head felt almost real. He clenched his fists and ignored her. Charlie Wild didn’t quit.

  A familiar pair of cleats sauntered into his line of sight. It was Bolton, his wide receiver.

  “You hit that?” Bolton asked him with a clap to his back.

  “Hit what?” For a moment, Charlie thought Bolton was referring to something or someone physically on the field. His head was finally in the game—exactly where he wanted it to be.

  But when Bolton pointed out into the bleachers, Charlie’s heart sank before he had even straightened to look.

  Up on the stadium’s screen, broadcast larger than life for all the world to see, was the unmistakably miserable face of Dylan Rose.

  11

  DYLAN

  Dylan shrank back into her seat. The stadium’s Jumbotron had just located her for the third time, and even her baseball cap couldn’t hide her from the eagle-eyed camera operator. The stadium around her jeered and roared. Even the super-fans sandwiching her into her seat took their eyes off the field to crane for a better look at her every time the camera panned her way.

  She ducked behind the now-empty popcorn bucket she had mistakenly thought would help her hide, both from prying eyes and from the sight of Charlie back on the field.

  The entire world thought she had given Charlie the all-clear to play—in exchange for sex, probably. But she hadn’t, and wouldn’t, for sex or any other reason, if he wasn’t ready. Did he really think he was the first celebrity footballer to go behind her back to try for a second—or third or fourth—opinion that would allow him to play?

  Only problem was, Charlie had succeeded. He was back on the field, in obvious pain. If the fans couldn’t see it already, they would soon enough, when Charlie went down and couldn’t get back up.

  The camera zoomed in on him now, giving Dylan a high-resolution glimpse of his Adonis-like face. He had his helmet off and tucked beneath one burly arm. His blond hair hung in disarray, and he was gazing up into the stands with a distracted look as one of his teammates shouted something to him. Dylan scanned his handsome, flushed countenance, reading his pain in every taut muscle. She had managed to secure this seat by flaunting her newfound celebrity at the box office and was ready to leap up at any moment and storm the field should he so much as wobble.

  But it was her heart that wobbled first when she realized the face on the Jumbotron was trained toward her, in real life. She met his eyes, but she didn’t wave. She didn’t know what to do. She was trapped and helpless, pinned by innumerable pairs of waiting eyes, but his was the only pair that truly mattered.

  How many people were watching at home? How long had the game been stalled while everyone waited for Charlie to put his helmet back on and resume play?

  Another player came up and tapped Charlie’s arm. Charlie shrugged him off, his mouth turning down. He glanced up at the scoreboard, then down at the field, and then Charlie Wild did the unthinkable. He walked off the playing field without looking back.

  A surprised murmur rippled through the stadium. One of the Teamsters’ coaches made to follow Charlie, but he put up a big hand and the man backed off, perplexed.

  He was leaving the field, jumping for the railing and pulling himself up the wall between the field and the stands. More than that, he was coming toward her. Dylan rose to meet him, heart pounding in her chest. She watched him climb the stairs, her gaze switching rapidly back and forth between his face and the knee he was clearly favoring. He was hurting, but before her doctor’s instincts could kick in, Charlie was standing in front of her, eyes locked on hers. Dylan gazed back at him, at his red face and his grass-stained jersey. At his bright blue eyes, clouded with remorse. In that moment, Charlie didn’t appear to remember there was anyone else in the world but her.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  She shifted and tucked a stray piece of hair behind one ear. It was hopeless trying to make herself look presentable now, when she had deliberately dressed herself to blend in. Fat lot of good that did me. It occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, identifying herself to the ticket agent in the box office had blown her disguise.

  “You came to watch the game.” Charlie said.

  Dylan nodded. “I was…”

  “Worried?”

  She nodded again.

  “You should be pissed at me,” he offered. “I went behind your back and got the team doctor to clear me. My knee hurts like a bitch.”

  “I know you did, and I know it does.” Dylan half-smiled, half-grimaced. “Not exactly an original move, Wild. Although credit where credit’s due, you managed to pull it off.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he murmured. Somehow, his words didn’t register as a real rebuff. He almost sounded in awe of the fact that she stood before him. “Even if you were worried about me. You don’t want this kind of publicity.”

  “No. But I want you,” Dylan said. “I mean…I want…your knee…”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His smile stretched the length of a playing field then, but before she could fully comprehend his reaction, Charlie reached up and knocked her cap off. Dylan let out a gasp of surprise the moment before he swooped in, cupping the back of her head and crushing his lips against her own.

  The stadium erupted. The roar of approval from the crowd was deafening, like a summer thunderstorm and an earthquake all rolled into one. Dylan reached up and latched onto Charlie’s neck. He dipped her back, and lights flashed all around them as ecstatic stadium goers snapped photos with their phones. Dylan was grinning from ear to ear by the time Charlie let up on the dramatics and set her back down on her feet. Her face felt hot as a sunburn, but the sensation that accompanied it was indescribable happiness. Her lips tingled with the memory of his kiss—a memory that she would be able to relive over and over again, since it had been captured in high definition for all the world to see.

  “C’mon.” Charlie wrapped an arm around her shoulders, finally accepting Dylan’s support as they tripped down the steps to the nearest exit together. “The press is going to have a field day with this one. They’re going to want a statement. You’ll get to say I told you so to the whole world.”

  “Can’t think of a better way to spend a football Sunday,” Dylan admitted.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Charlie’s hand slipped from her shoulders to grip the curve of her waist, his fingers brushing the waistband of her jeans. “I can think of a few ways to top it.”

  “Top being the key word in that sentence, I hope.” Dylan lowered her voice to a whisper. “As your doctor—no, as someone who loves you—I don’t want to see you putting any additional strain on your injury this week. Any recreation you plan on getting up to is going to have to involve you lying on your back.”

  The echo of Charlie’s booming laugh followed them all the way out to the awaiting press pool.

  EPILOGUE

  “Still going viral, Smitty?”

  “Still going viral, Charlie.”

  Charlie shifted his cell to the other shoulder as he drove. “Remind me again. Is this normal—for scandalous photos to still be going viral a year later?”

  He was having a bit of fun at his PR guy’s expense. Not that Smitty had anything to complain about. Charlie imagined this was the secret dream of every public relations agent: to represent a client who generated and survived a media storm of this magnitude. A year later, and the Internet and talk shows were still buzzing about the photos of Dylan and him together. Just this past month, the photos had seen a new surge in interest, as young couples the nation over took to their college fifty-yard lines to humorously replicate Charlie and Dylan’s famous moment—always with their clothes on and some clever twist, thankfully putting the punch line ahead of any actual scandal.

  “You almost to the meet and greet? Your teammates are already here,” Smitty complained.

  “Yeah?” Charlie grinned as he pulled through Lockhart Bend’s so-called downtown. “I’m a minute away. Who all made it out today?”

  “On second thought…I’ll see you soon.”

  The line went unexpectedly dead. Charlie would have given his silent phone the finger if he wasn’t too busy concentrating on driving. Did Smitty really just hang up on him? On purpose? Normally he couldn’t get the guy to shut up.

  “Huh. Must be busy,” Charlie muttered under his breath. He turned into the hospital parking lot and saw that Smitty hadn’t been exaggerating—the lot was filling fast, and there were more local children and their parents shuttling in from the nearby elementary school. He found a reserved spot next to Trevor’s truck and claimed it for himself. Trent spotted him doing it from across the lot, and both brothers strolled over, shaking their heads.

  “Don’t blame me if they tow you,” said Trent. “I won’t stop them, you know.”

  “Love you too,” said Charlie. He held out his arms, but Trent dodged his hug. Trevor just rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t look at me.”

  “Seriously,” said Charlie, “I’m glad you guys made it.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it,” said Trevor. “You’ve done great for these kids. Now, go over and say hi to them before they explode. They’re all hopped up on sugar, and you’re half an hour late.”

  “I’m going,” said Charlie, and clapped Trevor on the back. He entered the hospital’s noisy cafeteria from the back—the same door he’d snuck out that night with Dylan, the night they’d both dropped their guard, and their pants soon after.

  “Now this is my kind of meet and greet,” Charlie said as he surveyed the laughter and chaos. The children from Lockhart Bend General’s pediatric ward deserved to indulge in a little bedlam. A cluster of kids rushed over for hugs and overhead lifts. Charlie was pleased to see Nicholas wasn’t among them—he’d had a scare a couple of months back, where he’d gotten sick again—but it had just been mono, and he must have gone home.

  Across the cafeteria, Teamster cheerleaders dressed casually in their day clothes led a group of children through basic exercises and routines. Five of Charlie’s teammates had also made the trip down from Austin to volunteer their time. They lounged behind a long table, autographing free swag and taking photos with the kids and their parents—even a few nurses, Charlie noted. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen most of his offensive line grinning and laughing together over something that wasn’t a successful play or a postgame line of shots.

  And there was Dylan by the end of the table, conversing animatedly with Smitty. Her hair tumbled in gorgeous, free-flowing waves past her shoulders. The sleeves of her flannel shirt were rolled up, revealing her tanned, toned arms. She was such a sensual vision of a woman that even a casual show of skin drove him crazy. Her dark denim jeans looked painted onto her shapely legs and tight backside. Even Smitty had pushed back his omnipresent shades to his retreating hairline. His arms were crossed to emphasize his biceps, a posture Charlie wouldn’t have believed he was capable of if he wasn’t seeing it play out now for himself. Was he seriously flirting with Charlie’s girl? He would have laughed, if it wasn’t for a sudden need surging up inside him—the need to be at her side. It wasn’t jealousy this time, but the need to protect her, not because she needed it, but because she deserved it, someone to look out for her no matter what.

  “Is this who you hung up on your favorite client for?” Charlie enjoyed the way his question boomed above their exchange. He enjoyed it even more when Smitty nearly leapt out of his hand-tooled leather boots. “Can’t say I blame you,” Charlie admitted as he draped an arm across Dylan’s shoulders.

  Dylan rolled her eyes. “You’re late.”

  “Fashionably?” Charlie suggested.

  “Trust me—none of these kids or their caretakers care about your so-called fashion. Speaking of which, is that really a pink camo bowtie I’m looking at? Which kitschy ESPN anchor dressed you for this meet and greet?”

  “I’m staying out of this one.” Smitty—the man who had bought him the bowtie—flipped his shades down and was soon absorbed by a nearby group of cheerleaders. Traitor, Charlie thought, even as he pulled Dylan in close. Oh, well. At least now he had his foxy girlfriend all to himself.

  “Easy, tiger,” Dylan warned, halfheartedly fending him off as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Let’s save it for after the meet and greet, shall we?” Her lush mouth, so tantalizingly within reach of his own, quirked in barely suppressed amusement. There were still days when she struggled with her accidental fame, he knew, but she was adapting to it better than Charlie had ever expected she would. Despite attending the occasional out-of-town fundraiser on his arm, she had somehow managed to keep her life in Lockhart Bend under the radar—and help keep him out of trouble as a result.

  “What were you and Smitty talking about?” he asked casually as Dylan, still hooked beneath his arm, directed him over to his signing station.

  “The future. Your future,” she corrected. “Grab a seat, champ. Don’t think I didn’t see you deadlifting kids.”

  “I wasn’t deadlifting them,” he protested. “I was just, y’know…”

  Dylan cocked an eyebrow.

  “Okay, so I was. But you said it yourself, I’m in better shape now than I’ve ever been.” He would have loved to continue to argue the point, but a long line had formed at the autograph table. He sat down and got started, pulling the first card toward him.

  “Who should I make this out to?”

  “Your number one fan,” said a big man with a shiny bald head. “Or Doug, whichever.”

  Charlie scribbled his autograph and drew a smiley face beside it. To Doug, he added. My number one fan.

  “But not really,” whispered Dylan. “I’m your number one, and don’t you forget it.” She squeezed his knee under the table, an affectionate gesture, but Charlie knew it meant more. His knee had healed up now, but she still liked to check it. Still liked to assure herself that her man was all good.

  Now that they were officially together, Dylan’s fretting felt like kingly treatment. Charlie still found himself second-guessing whether or not he deserved it. Still, he would take it as long as she’d give it, and in return, he’d dedicate his life to her happiness.

  He caught her arm when she went to get up.

  “Hey. Where are you going?”

  “Thought I’d get you a water.”

  “I’m good,” he said, and pulled her in closer. It was all he could do to resist pulling her into his lap. He knew how well she fit against him now, and it seemed unfair his complementary piece should exist apart from him.

  “I like taking care of you,” she said. “And you deserve it. You’ve done so much to take care of these kids. This hospital has a bright future, in no small part thanks to you.”