Junior smirks. “Well, I don’t want to spoil anything, but Ty and I shared a flight back.”

  “Really?”

  “Grant should get a nice surprise of his own in about ten minutes.”

  I smile. “Good.”

  Junior gets that look in his eyes. The one that begs for me to kiss him. He leans in, slowly inching closer to me on the couch.

  “Daddy!”

  He stops and turns toward the hallway, his mouth expanding into an even wider grin.

  Courtney races into the room. Junior opens his arms, easily catching her and flipping her little body around to cradle in his thick arms.

  “Why aren’t you asleep? It’s late,” he teases, tickling her belly.

  “I heard Mommy scream,” she says.

  “Mommy screamed?” he says. “I’m sorry, baby. Daddy has that effect on Mommy sometimes.”

  I slap his arm.

  He lays a kiss on her brow. “Courtney, you need sleep if you’re going to grow up to be beautiful and smart like your mother.”

  He winks at me, firing off sneaky compliments like a champ.

  She nods. “Lack of sleep can impair cognitive ability.”

  Junior blinks at me. I hold in my laugh. “I see Aunt Maggie and Uncle Nate made it to Thanksgiving this year.” He balances Courtney on his knee. “Have you been driving Mommy crazy like I told you to?”

  She beams. “Yes!”

  “What?” I ask, laughing. “Are you two ganging up on me again?”

  Junior holds up a finger. “I told her to do three things every day that Mommy hates while I was gone. What were they?” he asks her.

  Courtney thinks hard. “Clear my plate.”

  He nods. “That’s one.”

  “Brush my teeth.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Pick up my toys.”

  Junior smiles at me. “That’s right. Drives Mommy crazy.”

  My heart swells as he slides her to the floor.

  “Go pick out a book and I’ll come read you back to sleep, all right?”

  “Okay, Daddy!”

  “Dr. Seuss!” he shouts after her. “Not Freud, please.”

  I chuckle. “I don’t know, Junior, I think Seuss might be a touch outside your reading comprehension.”

  “Alyssa Morgan, are you calling me a big dumb jock?”

  “I might be.”

  “Well, in that case—” He tugs me closer to him. “I better scoop up my victory hoe.”

  He kisses me softly. My chest flutters the same way it always does.

  “Is that what you call the mother of your children?” I ask.

  “If the booties fit.”

  I glance down the hallway toward Courtney’s room. “She was perfect while you were gone.”

  “Good,” he says. “You had enough to worry about. Threats of bed rest. Thanksgiving dinner.” A serious expression crosses his eyes. “I wanted to be here.”

  “You’re here now.”

  “And here I will stay until he’s born.”

  “Junior, you have a game next week.”

  He grabs my hand. “They will play without me.”

  I inhale to argue. “Junior—”

  “I will not miss the birth of my son because of a football game,” he says, his voice hard and defiant. “He’s due in two weeks. I’ve already cleared it with the coach. I’m staying.”

  I press my lips together, thankful and proud. “Okay.”

  Junior kisses my cheek and stands up. “I’m going to get her to sleep and then, I will meet you in the bedroom.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask. “What’s gonna happen in there?”

  “First…” he leans over me, “you’re going to lie down on the bed and then…” His lips graze mine. “I’m going to rub your enormous feet.”

  I burst out laughing. “Sounds orgasmic.”

  “Need help standing up?”

  “I can manage it. Probably.”

  He turns away, leaving me to sink into the couch cushions a little more.

  Yet another muscle twitches in my back. I shift to a slightly different position to kill the spasm before it begins.

  “Okay, buddy,” I say to my stomach. “Any day now…”

  I hope for a pain. One quick pulse. One measly contraction that will tell me it’s time.

  All I get is bubbles.

  “Damn.”

  I heave a sigh and rock myself up.

  Junior’s voice drifts down the hall, carrying softly with rhythmic words of childish prose. Courtney giggles with him, her tired voice dimming more and more with each turned page.

  I lean against the wall just outside the doorway, listening as I try to imagine what our son will look like. If he grows into anything resembling his father, it’s safe to assume he’ll be quite the handful.

  And then there are the eyes. Courtney is the spitting image of me except for the eyes. They’re all Junior’s. Right down to the light specks of gray around the brown edges. Being away from him the last two weeks has been a serious challenge for me, but sometimes, at just the right moment, I’d look at my daughter and I’d see Junior looking back at me. I’d fall in love with him all over again.

  Junior enters the hall, moving as silently as possible, and closes her door behind him. He looks up at me and smiles, but his eyes shift with concern.

  “You okay?” he whispers.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Why?”

  “You’re crying.”

  I touch my cheeks and feel the warm moisture trailing down my face. “Oh.” I laugh it off. “Yeah, that happens.”

  Junior wipes them away with his thumbs and tilts my face up to kiss me. There’s desire on his lips, a lingering urge that sends quivers throughout my body. I pull him closer, relaxing away from mommy-mode to serve my womanly needs.

  “I missed my wife,” Junior whispers between kisses.

  I smile. “She missed you.”

  He kisses me harder, pressing my back against the wall. My desire takes over. His touch does to me as it always has, igniting fire where there wasn’t one before.

  I wince as firm pressure shoves from within. “Oh—!”

  Junior eases back, forced away by the life occupying the space between us.

  “Did…” He blinks. “Did he just kick me?”

  I feel my belly. “He most definitely did.”

  “That almost hurt.”

  “How do you think it felt from the inside?”

  He holds up his hands and talks to my stomach. “Okay, buddy. I get it. Hands off Mommy.”

  “He has to sleep, eventually. Maybe a few pages of Dr. Freud will knock him out.”

  “Works on me every time.”

  Another series of flutters dances against my ribs. “He’s kicking again.”

  Junior touches me, his eyes wide with admiration as he traces the movement inside. “Whoa,” he says. “He’s going to make so many field goals with that kick.”

  I shrug. “Or maybe he’ll play soccer.”

  He fires a hard stare at me. “Don’t you even joke about that.” I laugh at him. “Take that back.”

  I head for the bedroom. “I will not.”

  Junior follows me in and closes the door behind us. “Ally, I’m just saying, this kid has quite the legacy to live up to.”

  “Let’s not put so much pressure on him,” I say. “He’s not even born yet.”

  “Son of Junior Morgan. Grandson of Cary Pierce. People will expect it. It’s in his blood.”

  I lie back against the pillows and pull my feet onto the bed. “I say we let him do what he wants.”

  “I agree, but…” He hesitates, smiling softly at the thought. “Admit it. It’d be kinda cool. Third generation pro football badass.”

  “Maybe. But you know what would be even cooler?”

  “What?”

  “If he took after his mother.” I point my thumbs at me and grin. “Eh? Yeah? Theatre kid!”

  “I’m not walking into that trap.”

  He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls the socks off my feet.

  “It’s not a trap,” she says. “It’s a fact. Artistic children rank higher in academics and social skills.”

  “Hey, my social skills were fine.”

  “Getting laid a lot isn’t a social skill.”

  “It should be.” He slides his fingernail along the arch of my foot, sending a tickle up my ankle. I kick him and he laughs. “We had this same argument when Courtney was born.”

  “Yeah, and I won that one, too.”

  “You did not win,” he says, gently massaging between my toes.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to settle again for agreeing that Connor can choose for himself.”

  I pause. “Connor?”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  I sit back, letting the name sink in. “I like it.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Good choice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s about time,” I joke. “Cutting it pretty close, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what you get for letting me name him.”

  “I’ll just do it myself next time.”

  He raises a brow. “Next time?”

  I cringe. “Did I just say next time?”

  “You did. I thought we were done having kids.”

  “We better be.” I stare at my giant stomach. “As soon as this guy comes out, I’m having my vagina fused shut.”

  Junior tilts his head. “Well, you don’t have to go that far. I’m a little attached to your vagina. Sometimes, in more ways than one.”

  I laugh. “Fine. You’ll just have to get snipped.”

  He shrugs. “Okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I expected more pushback than that.”

  “Hey, if the choice is between me getting snipped or you fusing your vagina closed, I’ll suffer through the weekend of icing my junk with a bag of peas.”

  I tilt my head. “How thoughtful.”

  Junior smiles. “That’s me.”

  He slides up the bed and lies beside me, raising his arm to guide me against his chest. His lips graze my head. I feel him smell my hair, as he always does. Then he releases a thick sigh, relaxing.

  “It’s good to be home,” he whispers.

  I cling to him, resting my head on his thick shoulder as he lays a hand on my belly. Connor stirs inside, reacting to his loving touch.

  I smile. “Any day now…”

  I look up at my husband, and he kisses me.

  “He’s going to be perfect,” he says.

  “Promise?”

  Junior draws an X over his chest.

  “Cross my heart.”

  For a glimpse into the Morgan Family’s future, read their Extended Epilogue! Click here.

  FIRST DOWN DARLING

  When I got the teaching assistant job at Chicago North University, I had to agree to two rules:

  1. Follow the syllabus.

  2. Don’t date the undergrads.

  Easy enough. I’m a science nerd with a Graduate thesis to write. My weekend plans don’t exactly include doing keg stands at the Alpha Delta Xi house.

  But when the fastest halfback in college football shows up in the front row of my chemistry class, the rules start to seem... a little more like guidelines to me.

  Hello, John Kirby.

  Farewell, my V-card.

  If anyone finds out about us, I could lose a lot more than my inhibitions.

  But John isn’t like any guy I’ve ever dated. He’s clever. And loyal. And ripped like a sheet.

  I can believe him when he says he’ll never hurt me. Right?

  We broke the rules.

  I never expected him to break my heart, too.

  For Mom

  (Remember that time you got wine drunk and told me about how you had a fling with a football player while you were in grad school?)

  Enjoy. xo

  CHAPTER 1

  JOHN

  September

  “Hike!”

  The center snaps the ball to our quarterback, the great Junior Morgan. He spins to hand it off to me, the even greater John Kirby. I grip hold of that tight pigskin and smile.

  Time to go deep.

  I sprint to the right, dodging the extended hands of the defensive linemen, each one of them missing me by a wide margin.

  Because I’m John fucking Kirby.

  I throw one foot in front of the other, speeding down the field quicker than anyone else until my toes meet the end zone.

  Touchdown!

  I spike the ball and throw up my hands, listening to the screams and shouts of the crowd as they echo in my head.

  It’s easy to imagine them now. We heard them shake the earth last season when Cary Pierce (yeah, the Cary Pierce — four-time professional football champion, Cary Pierce) nearly coached us to a college football championship. Unfortunately, a little family matter took our star quarterback out of commission and we crumbled to bits under the pressure. But there’s no way I’m going to let that happen again.

  This year, I own this field. I own this season. And I’m bringing home a damn championship.

  I dance in the end zone, shimmying my hips and twerking while the rest of the team watches from sidelines.

  “John!” someone shouts. “It’s just a scrimmage!”

  They laugh at me, but I keep dancing. Sure, the stadium is empty. Yeah, it’s only noon on a Sunday.

  But none of that stops John Kirby from being his best.

  “Life ain’t no scrimmage, boys!” I say, waving my helmet over my head like a cowboy hat. “Make every moment count!”

  Coach Bob shakes his head, but I see that crooked smile on his old face. “Hit the showers, guys. And John…”

  I pause. “Yes, sir?”

  “You do you, son.”

  “Thank you, Coach!”

  I follow them down the ramp, dancing to myself like everyone is watching — because they will be watching.

  Might as well show them what I got.

  “It’s called the trifecta.”

  I walk along the bench in the locker room wearing nothing but a towel and wet skin, speaking to the team while they dry off from their showers.

  “This challenge is for seniors only,” I say, pointing a finger. “Sorry, juniors, your challenge is next year.”

  I’ve been preparing for this for three years. Three years of learning the moves. Three years of studying the art of seduction. Dozens of ladies have come (and come again) and gone. I’ve been slapped. I’ve been teased. I’ve been tested and cleared. All to prepare for this challenge.

  The trifecta has been a staple among athletes at Chicago North University for decades. My father did it. My father’s father did it. Hell, even old man Coach Bob did it when he was an undergraduate.

  “You have until the end of the season to sleep with these three…” I count on my fingers as I list them off. “A freshman, an alumnus, and a teacher.”

  The room erupts with hoots and hollers. They echo back at me through the steam-filled air. I breathe in that satisfying, sinful aroma of manly body spray.

  “Show of hands, boys,” I say, raising mine. “Who’s in?”

  I wait, scanning the room, expecting a little more than… crickets.

  “Oh, come on, guys!” I point at Junior’s handsome mug. “Morgan, you’re in, right?”

  “Uh…” He slides his deodorant under his armpit. “No.”

  My finger goes limp. “Why the fuck not?”

  “I don’t think my fiancée would approve,” he says, running a comb through his short, dark hair. “I’ll sit this one out.”

  I roll my eyes. I almost forgot how off-the-market Junior Morgan was. Last year, he was a fucking sex god. He even had a damn sex van, lovingly dubbed the Junior-mobile. Then, he went all domestic on us. Oh, well.

  More ladies for me.

  “Fisher.” I point at Ty and his trimmed black hair peeks out from behind his open locker door. “Fisher. Come on.”

  “No,” he says. “I’ll pass.”

  I deflate. “You know, you’ve become super boring since you started kissing men, dude.”

  He winks at me. “Duly noted, Johnny.”

  “Don’t call me Johnny. Only girls can call me that.” I hop down from the bench. “No one else is in? It’s just gonna be me?”

  I take in the team’s faces. Each man looks away as I pass them by. They’re all too jaded or too scared or too taken to face the trifecta. I don’t get it. I really don’t. College isn’t about finding your true love and settling down. College is a numbers game and during your senior year, that number is three.

  “I’ll accept the challenge.”

  I spin around to the voice. I grit my teeth the second I realize where it came from.

  Douglas Floyd. The cornerback.

  My nemesis.

  He’s got that sinister look about him, leaning against the far lockers with his arms crossed over his bare chest as if he’s just been waiting there all day to deliver that line at just the right moment.

  I’ve lost track of how many times this guy has cockblocked me since freshman year. Just when I’m about to seal the deal with some lucky gal, Douglas Floyd swooped in with his blond hair and blue eyes like goddamn Prince Charming on his valiant steed. He’s been training for the trifecta for as long and as hard as I have, and this year, he’s pulled out all the stops.

  He definitely upped his protein intake over the summer. His biceps weren’t as jacked last season. I spot several brand-new tattoos scattered along his torso next to his Alpha Delta Xi tattoo. Little symbols that mean absolutely nothing, but that makes them the perfect conversational bait for unsuspecting mates.

  “Oh, hey…” she giggles, “what’s this one mean?”

  And last, but not least, his damn hair. He’s sporting a man bun. A motherfucking man bun. Trendy son-of-a-bitch must have started growing it months ago.

  I throw on a smile and walk over to him. “Douglas! My man!”

  He shrugs his wide shoulders. “Doesn’t seem like it’ll be too difficult.”