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  “I am, but I’m not.”

  “You might want to explain that better.”

  “Something happened at the auction. Someone wanted to bid on me,” I say, not giving away Maxine’s name. “And I didn’t want that person to win. So Violet bid, and when the host of the auction saw us on stage, she figured we were together, and I didn’t correct her. I said she was my girlfriend, and we kept it up.”

  He raises an index finger like a professor making a point. “But you go around with her like you are with her. You stopped by the hospital, she kissed you at the game last week, you post those pictures on your feed . . .”

  “You see my Instagram?”

  “I’m aware of what my players post on social media. Are you saying it was all a lie?”

  That word cuts straight through my chest, a sharp knife to my heart. Nothing has felt more true than my feelings for Violet. “I’m saying it started that way. I did it to make my life easier, but then somewhere along the way, I fell in love with her.” I hold up a hand. “I know that doesn’t excuse the fact that it started as a ruse. I’m not trying to make it all okay. The kiss on the field was real. At least to me, it felt real. Going to visit the kids was absolutely real, and to tell the truth, that’s probably when I knew in my heart I was in love with her.” I swallow and push past my fear that I’m upending my chances with the team.

  His lips twitch. “A man doesn’t look at a woman the way you do without it being real.”

  I flash back to the day in his office. To the gift he ordered for his wife. To the way he talks about Emily. This man is still crazy in love with his woman. That must be what he sees in me when I look at Violet, when I talk about Violet.

  “It is real. For me, at least. I have no idea if she feels the same. But I needed you to know the full truth. I want to carry this team. But I want to do it as a leader, not as a liar. And if I ever come to your house for dinner, I don’t want to be the guy who sits down at your table with you and your wife unless all my cards are on the table, too.” I spread my hands in front of me, gesturing to the imaginary table. “These are my cards.”

  He nods, the wheels in his head turning, it seems. “I appreciate you showing them to me.”

  And that’s it. That’s all he says.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to the coaches.”

  I leave, having no clue if I just blew up my future with the Renegades.

  31

  “You did what?”

  I sink into the chair in Jones’s room. “I told him everything.”

  He drags both hands through his dark hair. “What in the actual fuck?”

  “I know, right?”

  “No, I mean what in the actual fuck are your balls made of?”

  I laugh, the first good laugh I’ve had all day.

  He gestures to my crotch. “Are they steel? Are they titanium? Are they some new fucking substance cloned from the DNA of the toughest badasses in the world? Special forces guys and paratroopers and bounty hunters?”

  “Maybe just pure stupidity.”

  Jones shakes his head. “Nope. Not stupidity.” He claps his hand on my shoulder. “You’re a steely-eyed missile-man, and I will follow you into battle.”

  I give him a look like he’s crazy. “You can’t be serious, can you?”

  “Dude, I have motherfucking chills. Look at me.” He holds out his arms, and yup, the hairs stand on end.

  “This is weird. I’m in your hotel room, and you’re showing me the hair on your arms.”

  “Because you’re like a Navy SEAL, man. You march in there, you see the commanding officer, you tell him the whole truth, so help you God. And you leave without him telling you what he thinks. You have the biggest cojones I’ve seen.”

  “You’ve been checking out my cojones, have you? You peek in the showers, right?”

  He gazes heavenward. “Why do I compliment him? Why?”

  I smile. “Thanks, Jones. I needed this. I feel a little insane right now. I texted Ford afterward and told him, and his only reply was Go kick Baltimore’s ass tomorrow, you fucking superstar. I have no clue what that means.”

  Jones furrows his brow. “Do you want me to play text message interpretation with you?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I’m going to do it anyway. It means a cigar is just a cigar. It means go kick Baltimore’s ass tomorrow.”

  I hold up a fist for bumping. “That sounds like a plan.”

  “It’s an excellent plan. It’s precisely what we’re going to do. Because you’re not insane. You’re a field general. You’re the motherfucking quarterback.”

  And that’s what I do the next day against the enemy. I lead the team down the field as fifty thousand raving Baltimore Cougars fans boo us like we’re the Ebola virus.

  And I don’t care.

  I’m all business from the first possession when I take the snap, hand off to Harlan, and we earn a first down.

  From there, I do my goddamn job with blinders on, tuning out the crowd, tuning out the noise, listening only to my head and gut. I call an audible when I see their defense switch from man-to-man to zone coverage. My receivers change routes, and several seconds later, I lob a pass to Jones in his smelly socks, who grabs it fluidly, darts around the safety, and takes that prize another twenty yards.

  The rest of the drive is clockwork. A short pass to McCormick on second down. A handoff to long-haired Harlan, and then the bastard shows off his quicksilver feet, darting, dodging, and taking the ball right into the end zone.

  It’s a beautiful start, and I high-five him.

  Our defense holds them to three, but when we get the ball again, their line nearly mows us down, and we barely get into field position. But we manage, and when Einstein spits out his bubblegum, he sends the ball soaring thirty-seven yards between the goalposts.

  I bump fists with him when he comes off the field, grab some water, and watch the defense. Greenhaven glances my way and gives me a nod.

  I can’t decipher what that means, and I decide to stop trying.

  I stop thinking about everything I can’t control. Violet’s feelings. My job situation. Ford’s state of mind. Trent’s potential reaction. Where I’ll be next year. The one thing I can control is what happens on the gridiron, and when we get the ball back, I am in the zone. Namely, the end zone.

  Twice.

  As the team trots to the locker room at halftime, I’m one of the last guys to head inside. I’m keenly aware that someone’s right behind me, and that gruff-voiced someone determines my future.

  “Cooper.”

  It’s Greenhaven. He takes two big strides to catch up, and we walk side by side through the tunnel. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met my wife?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I met Emily at a barbecue thirty years ago, when I’d first started with Phoenix. I wore a team jersey. As I flipped a burger on the grill, she asked if I was a Phoenix fan.”

  I look at him, waiting for him to continue.

  “She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Know what I told her?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I told her I was an assistant coach on the team.”

  I furrow my brow. If memory serves, he wasn’t the assistant coach thirty years ago. Assistant coach is a key position, one he worked his way up to. But that wasn’t how he’d started. “You weren’t, though, right?”

  He shakes his head as we walk, our footsteps echoing. “Not in the least. Know what my job really was?”

  “What was it, sir?”

  “I was the assistant to the coach,” he says with a lopsided grin.

  I dare to let a smile spread on my face, since there’s a world of difference between an assistant coach and the assistant to the coach. “Is that so?”

  “Have I mentioned how pretty she was?”

  “I believe you did.”

  “But she was more than pretty. She stole my heart. I think that’s why Emily f
orgave me when I admitted on our second date that I’d fibbed,” he says as we reach the inside corridor of the stadium. He stops and clasps my upper arm. “I appreciate your candor. And I value it, Cooper.”

  Then he strides into the locker room, where he gives his halftime speech to keep it up, and that’s exactly what we do.

  We’re on fire the rest of the game, scoring a field goal and two more touchdowns. A calm, focused energy fills me with each drive. When the clock ticks to nothing at the end of the fourth quarter, the Renegades erupt with elation because we fucking made it to the playoffs.

  Holy shit.

  That’s when the emotions explode. That’s when exhilaration overwhelms me. We punch the air. We hug it out. We shout and hoot and holler. There’s still so much more work to be done, but for now, I let myself enjoy this moment, even though I can’t believe we pulled this off. Three years of warming the bench, a terrible start to the season, and here in late December on enemy territory, we’re celebrating a wild-card spot and a kickass record.

  Later, when the cameras stop rolling and the cheers die down, there’s one person I want to call first.

  32

  I call my mom.

  Obviously.

  Who else would I call first?

  She’s the reason I’m here. She’s the reason I have a chance at the post-season. She’s done everything for me.

  “Hey, Mom, if I win the Super Bowl, want me to get you another house?”

  She screams in excitement, so loudly I pull the phone from my ear. Then, she laughs. “Just a new Coach handbag and my favorite Chinese food, please. And I knew you’d make it to the post-season, sweetie. I just knew it.”

  “Funny how a lot of people say that, but you actually said that when I was seven,” I say as I make my way toward the stadium exit, pressing the phone closer again.

  “And eight, and nine, and ten, and so on. When will I see you again?”

  “I’m heading back tonight. I can try to stop by tomorrow, but it’s a tight week since we’re the Thursday night game of the week.”

  “You know where to find me, and you also know how to get me tickets on the fifty-yard line for Thursday night, so why don’t I plan on seeing you then?”

  “It’s a date.”

  “Besides, there’s someone you should see first.”

  “Yeah, who’s that?”

  She laughs. “Might it be a pretty little lady who you’ve had your eye on since you were a teenager?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say as I near the exit.

  “Right. Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Incidentally, I always knew there was something real between the two of you.”

  My chest twists when she says that. “You did?”

  “I did,” she says, with a smile in her voice. “I could tell you two liked each other. I could tell at the game last week, and I could tell back in high school.”

  I want to believe every word she’s saying, but I also don’t know if I can.

  “Mom, I’m not sure it’s real for her.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’m serious. I don’t know if she’d get seriously involved with a guy like me.”

  She scoffs. “You mean handsome, talented, rich, kind, and good?”

  I laugh. “More specifically, I meant someone who’s married to football. That’s what Trent said about me last time I saw him. Do you think it’s true?”

  “In many ways, you are, and that’s not a bad thing. What would be bad is not letting her know how much she means to you.”

  I heave a sigh. “Why are you always right?”

  “It’s a gift. It comes with being a mom,” she says with a light laugh.

  I tell her I love her, then I hang up, and open Violet’s contact info.

  Telling Violet how I feel isn’t as simple as it sounds, though. How do I convince her there’s room for both her and this other great love in my life? But more so, how do I even know if she wants to make room for me in her life? Not to mention, what the hell do I say to her brother?

  I’m not sure I have the answers, but maybe the cross-country flight will give me time to sort them out. For now, I want to hear her voice.

  I call her as the security guard opens the door that leads to the lot with our bus. She answers on the second ring. Her voice is a little hoarse. “The time you threw the touchdown pass in the fourth quarter against Baltimore in the game that sealed the wild card. That’s my new favorite play of the season.”

  I laugh, remembering when we first played boyfriend–girlfriend Jeopardy! “Funny, that’s mine, too,” I say, mouthing a thank you to the security guard. I stop in my tracks when something wet lands on my forehead. Then my cheek. Then my hair. “It’s snowing.”

  “It is?” she asks, with wonder in her voice. We don’t get snow in San Francisco.

  I hold up my palm. “Holy shit. These are some fat flakes. I had no idea it was snowing. Guess that’s what happens when you play under the dome.”

  “By the way, your play under the dome was amazing. My voice is shot from screaming in excitement at the TV,” she says.

  “You sound like a frog. A sexy frog. Speaking of, can I see your sexy frog-ness when I return?”

  “Ribbit,” she says by way of answer.

  “I take it that’s a yes.”

  She croaks out a yes.

  “Good. There’s a lot I have to tell you. Lot of stuff that went down here before the game. Things I learned.”

  “Oh,” she says, her tone suddenly heavy.

  “It’s not bad. But it’s better shared in person.”

  “I understand.”

  I reach the bus. “I’ll let you know when I land. It might be late, though.”

  “I’ll either be awake or asleep,” she deadpans.

  I laugh. “Yes, those would be the two options.”

  As we say goodbye, something seems different in her voice. As if it’s missing some excitement. Some enthusiasm for me. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe I’m reading too much into one short phone call. I tell myself it’ll all be clear when I see her. But as I sink down into a plush seat on the team bus, I find myself wondering if maybe this is more one-sided than I thought. Perhaps it’s been pretend for her all along.

  The snowflakes attack the tarmac, building aggressively into a crazy-ass snowstorm that grounds our flight for the night. We can’t take off on Monday morning, either. By then, the manager of operations is dealing with fifty-three cranky, big-ass players who want to return home because the one thing we like best after winning is our routine.

  Living in limbo in Baltimore on a short week is not routine at all.

  We pass the time practicing, playing ping-pong and video games, and watching game film at the hotel. We finally take off late Monday night, and by the time we land on the West Coast, it’s the middle of the night.

  I text Violet an emoji of a bird landing, and then foolishly hope she’ll reply with come over or I’m waiting on your porch in my birthday suit, but it’s three in the morning and my phone, understandably, is silent. An hour later, I’m home, where my bed and I spend eight hours together before it’s time for a late practice and playoff prep all day Tuesday and into the evening.

  I’m not complaining. This is where I want to be right now in my career.

  But I also want to be someplace else. Someplace clear with her. When I leave the training facility late that night, it’s too late to see her. If I see her now, I won’t get enough rest, and I’ll play like crap. So I don’t ask if she’s free now. I text to ask when I can see her tomorrow. She replies that she has an early afternoon on-site appointment in the city tomorrow with a new client, so she can meet me at my house before.

  Before.

  Why does that word feel so fucking ominous?

  Because it’s not after.

  Because it’s not open-ended. Because it tells me what I need to know. She’s sandwiching me.

  I’m not the end to her day.

&nb
sp; 33

  I open the door, prepared to be tough. Prepared to handle the it’s time to end this speech that she surely plans to hurl in my direction on her pit stop to her appointment.

  But that strategy flies onto the street when I see her. She stands on my porch, a December breeze whipping her dark hair around her face. A black skirt is painted on and her boots are so tall she looks like she can slay dragons in them. A leather jacket completes the sexy-as-a-rock-star look.

  Her lips shine, like she just slicked on gloss.

  For a split second, I read her like I’d do another team. Like she’s the enemy. In those eyes I find determination, hardness, an edge that wasn’t present the last time I saw her.

  But then her gaze wanders, drifts down my body, and maybe she’s inventorying me like I just did to her, taking in my jeans, bare feet, and charcoal-gray Henley shirt.

  When she returns to my eyes, the cool veneer is gone. In hers, I see heat.

  I see a spark.

  I see my girl.

  But neither one of us say anything, and it feels as if we’re facing off. Like something happened when I was out of town. Or maybe something happened when I bolted from her home last week.

  She breaks the silence, raising her chin. “Your hair is a mess. You still need a trim.”

  I run my hands through unruly locks. “I’ll make an appointment. Unless you’re too booked.”

  “I’ll see if I can fit you in.”

  That feels like the operative phrase. Like she’s fucking fitting me into her life. “You’re welcome anytime. Besides, the lease is signed. Woo-hoo!”

  She thrusts her arms in the air in victory, and I smile, then lift her up in celebration. A soft sigh escapes her lips the moment we touch, and that’s all it takes. I carry her inside, shut the door with my foot, and push her up against the back of it. I hear the faint sound of my phone ringing on the couch, but I ignore it.

  Then it happens. All at once. Our lips crash together. We kiss fiercely, like we’re ravenous. Her scent—peaches and cool December air—intoxicates me. It unravels me. All my plans to talk to her, to tell her how I feel, become secondary to the heat of her body. To the feel of her soft, sexy lips. To the way my pulse spikes and my blood heats being this close to her.