“I still think a tumble in the sheets with a mega-hot athlete would be good for your mental health,” Molly says, finishing off the last of her drink. “It would give you something to focus on other than your work. And our work. And all the other work.”
“Damn straight it would,” says Allie, grinning slyly at me as I mentally wish her a spilled beer all over her jacket during thegame as payback for this can of worms she opened at my expense.
“I mean, they’re not wrong, Jules.” I just gape at Emma. If anyone was going to be on my side here, I figured it would be her. She just smiles and shrugs, looking at me in that way she does, where she knows something about you that you don’t know yet.
“We’re going to the friends and family room after the game,” Hallie reminds us. “I’m sure he’ll be there. And even though you pretend not to remember that dance, I know you do, and I bet he does too. You looked hot the night of the gala and you are totally unforgettable, Jules.”
I groan. “I love you all, but no thank you. I have work and I have you guys, and I have a drawer full of fully charged vibrators. I don’t need to add an NFL quarterback to the mix.”
Chapter Four
Asher
The game is tied.
Sweat pours down my face, my shoulder aches, I’m exhausted, and it’s fourth and long with twenty seconds left in the game and the ball on the fifty-yard line. The game we should be winning. That we would be winning if I hadn’t thrown an interception in the second and fumbled in the third.
I can’t blame anyone but myself. I threw the interception because my shoulder locked up as I started my forward motion on the throw, completely jacking the pass. I fumbled the ball when an unexpected shot of pain in my shoulder made my fingers lose their grip on the football before I even dropped back. I never have two turnovers in a single game. Especially ones that, from the outside, look like stupid rookie-level mistakes. Coach is pissed, and the offensive coordinator looks so angry I’m shocked his head doesn’t just explode all over the sidelines.
Fucking hell. This is not how today was supposed to go. Wewere supposed to cruise to a win and ride our way into the AFC Championship next week, not be trying desperately to avoid overtime on a fourth and long with twenty seconds left in the game.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had shoulder pain during a game. Post-traumatic arthritis is degenerative, and anti-inflammatory injections aren’t foolproof. Pain occasionally bleeds through the numbing effect of the medicine, but I’ve always been able to play through it.
This feels different. It’s never affected my game this way.
I shake my head, shoving that thought away as quickly as it comes.
I force my head back in the game as I huddle up with my offensive line, rolling my shoulder as I duck my head.
“You okay A?” Drew Johnson, my wide receiver and closest friend on the team, has concern written all over his face.
“I’m fine,” I snap, inwardly wincing at the flash of hurt I see on his face.
I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath before looking each of my teammates in the eye. “Fuck field goal range. Drew, it’s to you. We’re taking it to the endzone.” I call the play and break the huddle.
Walking back to take my place behind the offensive line, I scan the stands like I sometimes do when I need a mid-game boost. I draw energy from a crowd, and there is no crowd more energetic than Pittsburgh Renegades football fans during a playoff game. I fucking live for this. For the signs and the painted faces and the fans twirling yellow towels and kids with their hopeful expressions and the love for the city and the game. I want this win for me, but I want it for all of them too.
As I turn back to the line, a flash of long blonde hair in the stands has goosebumps that have nothing to do with thesubzero air temperature racing up my arms. I blink and look again, sure my mind is playing tricks on me. But nope. There she is, standing right in the third row surrounded by her friends. Just like the night of the Kids Play Gala back in July, she commands my entire focus.
Julie Parker.
The gorgeous blonde in the black dress. The ball-busting lawyer who refused to give me her number after an almost kiss on the dance floor. The girl with steel in her voice and a nervous tremor in her hand—a curious juxtaposition that made me want to unravel her on the spot and discover all of her layers. Six months after the gala, I can still remember how she felt against me while we danced. For six months, her sultry voice, cobalt eyes, and honey vanilla scent have invaded my dreams.
She’s laughing with her friends, but almost as if she senses me, she turns her head in my direction. Improbably, our eyes meet. The noise of the stadium drops away as our gazes lock and hold. It must just be a second or two, but it feels like an eternity as electricity hums in my veins. I have never felt this kind of attraction to another person, and as the smile leaves her face, I wonder if she feels it too.
Drew slaps me on the shoulder, and the jolt of pain reminds me where I am and what I need to be doing right now. Julie’s eyes are still on me and, unable to resist, I give her a wink and blow her a kiss. Even with the distance between us, I swear I can see the flush crawl up her face. The sportscasters are going to speculate wildly about who I was blowing that kiss to, and I chuckle, knowing exactly how much she is going to hate that.
She makes me want to throw her off her game. Destabilize her perfectly organized world. But to do that, I’d have to haveher number first. I could find her work number on her firm’s website, but something about her makes me think she would balk at me taking the easy road. A girl like Julie Parker deserves a man who puts in the time to figure her out.
The play clock is winding down, so I push Julie out of my mind for the time being, lining up in shotgun formation, ready to make the long pass downfield to Drew for the touchdown.
“Blue forty-two, blue forty-two. Set, hut!”
The center snaps the ball, and my hand settles into the position that is as familiar to me as breathing. I drop back in the pocket, relying on my linemen for protection as I search for Drew. He is exactly where he’s supposed to be, flying down the middle of the field with his trademark speed, turning back towards me, ready to receive the pass.
With my eyes on Drew and my arm drawn back ready to launch the ball, I don’t see the sack coming until two hundred and fifty pounds of linebacker barrels straight into me. Without any time to control my fall, I land directly on my right shoulder.
The pain steals my breath, and my arm goes limp, the ball coming loose from my hand and rolling away. Before I can react, the other team’s defensive back scoops up the ball and takes the fumble recovery all the way to the end zone. With two seconds left in the game, there is no coming back from this.
