Detoured by Love - Michelle Lynn

DETOURED BY LOVE

MICHELLE LYNN

Contents Copyright Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Epilogue Personal Note from the Author

About the Author Acknowledgments Books by Michelle Lynn

Copyright © 2016 by Michelle Lynn All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in whole or in part by any means. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are either fictitious or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com Proofread (First Round): Ultra Editing Co. Proofread (Second Round): Behind the Writer Cover Design: Okay Creations Visit my website at www.michellelynnbooks.com

CHAPTER ONE

CARLY

he sky is dark, and the air is quiet, except for the soft hum of the band playing T at the resort. Nightly walks keep me sane in my job as a corporate travel agent.

After shuffling people off tour buses visiting ruins to swimming with the dolphins or scuba diving, my busy days end at five. Every night, I walk the shoreline of the ocean, letting the coolness of the water rise over my feet. My phone rings in my pocket, and I slowly move off course, away from a couple holding hands. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and trudge through the sand. “Hey, Riley,” I answer. “I’m getting married!” I press my finger against my free ear to hush the echo of crashing waves. My heart flutters out of my chest before it drops dead into its dark dungeon again, but not because my baby sister has decided to promise her love to only one. I couldn’t be happier for her and her now fiancé, Cameron. The problem is, my sister’s upcoming nuptials will put me face-to-face with my ex-fiancé, Dean. Worse, my guess is, Dean will be the best man, which means that I’ll be walking down the aisle with him after all. Why, again, did I meddle in my sister’s life and introduce her to Dean’s best friend, Cameron, all those years ago? Oh, right, I had a sparkling ring on my left hand and believed in the happily-ever-after crap. “That’s great, Riley.” I’m happy for my sister and not even close to upset that she’s embarking on my mom’s and sister Renee’s designated path. Nope, because that ship sailed for me when I left my perfect fiancé at the altar of my childhood church. In the last three years, I haven’t regretted that decision. I mean, who wouldn’t want my life? My job is more like vacation than work. Traveling to exotic islands with all expenses paid isn’t hard. Living two hundred days of the year with my toes wiggling in the sand is easy. Give me a break; no one’s life compares. I have no one to answer to. I have no one who expects things. I have no one to report to. “So, you’ll be my maid of honor?” Her question yanks me back to our conversation, like an anchor to a cruise ship. I was blissfully happy, leisurely sailing along the ocean, by myself.

Maid of honor? “What about Sara? You two have been best friends since preschool.” “Carly, she’s not my sister. Plus, all she cares about is planning the bachelorette party.” Great, so I’ll be drinking out of a penis-shaped cup with a lit-up penis necklace adorning my neck and eating jelly candy–shaped penises. Fun times. “I’m really okay with just being a bridesmaid. What about Renee? She’s done it before.” Renee, my older sister, the one who married young, lives two streets over from my parents and buys my mom’s favorite grocery items when they go on sale. You know, she’s the favorite child. I stop right before I reach the hotel and sit down. My toes dig their way through the small particles of sand. Did I mention I never pay for a pedicure? “You don’t want to do it? Is this because of Dean?” I scoff, my toes reaching the cold and damp layer of sand. “No, that’s not an issue.” “Carly,” she says my name slow, as though I’m going to admit I’d rather cut off my feet than walk down the aisle with Dean. There is a reason I didn’t do it the first time. “I know it’s hard, but I need my sister. Mom’s going to drive me crazy with her anal obsession of daily calendars, spreadsheets, and time-scheduling.” I stare out to the moon reflecting down on the ocean. Seriously, people would kill for my life. “Riley,” I sigh, hesitating longer, hoping she’ll relent and not push me toward standing up in her wedding. “I ran interference for you.” The slight whine that must be built in the DNA of the youngest child rings in my ears. Oh, she’s pulling the big guns. “That’s different.” “Different!” she screeches. “Carly, I had to walk down that aisle, ask the organist to stop playing, and tell everyone that the bride just sped off in the limo without the groom.” She’s got me. My back collapses into the sand. “Fine.” The entire word depletes my energy. “You’re the best. I knew I could count on you. When will you get back to Chicago?” I cup a handful of sand in my palm, letting it slither down my closed fist. This is going to suck. Big time. “Three days.” I hear the claps from her hands. “Great. We need to start planning. Oh, I forgot to tell you the most important thing.” The whine in her voice fading. “What?” “I want a July wedding, like Mom and Dad.”

“Riley, it’s April.” “Why do you think I need you to get back as soon as possible?” Hearing her excitement over the line probably doesn’t compare to seeing her in person. I envision her wide smile and rosy complexion. “You really love him, right?” I ask the question that no one cared to ask me three years ago. “Carly,” she sighs, thinking my question has something to do with Dean. It doesn’t because I did love him. He just didn’t love me enough. “Answer the question. I want to hear it from your lips.” I stand up and brush the sand off my butt. “Yeah.” Her sultry tone confirms what I already knew. She’s found him, her one. Cameron is nothing like Dean, and I have to remember that fact during their whirlwind wedding, especially since I’ll be thrown back into a room with him until July. “You’re going to continue working for your master’s right?” I ask because my mom won’t. “Yeah. Cameron said he’d support us until I graduated. Isn’t he the best?” A better man than his best friend. “Yeah, he is.” I catch a man sitting in the sand ahead of me. His hoodie-covered head faces the ocean with his elbows propped up on his raised knees. “Okay, I gotta go. I have to call Darla, Tina—” “Stay on for just a second more,” I whisper so that the man who I’m fast approaching doesn’t overhear. “Why? Why is your voice shaking?” Riley asks. I shush her through the receiver. “I hate that you travel by yourself so much.” “I’m not by myself.” “You are now. This is what Mom’s talking about, Carly. You have to settle—” “Shh.” I’m behind him, and my eyes watch him for any quick movements. He doesn’t even stir, like he has no idea he’s not alone on this beach. Once I’m a safe distance from him, my eyes fixate on the pier that goes back to the resort. My feet move faster, digging further into the sand to gain momentum. “Okay, go call your friends,” I say. “Carly, what was that?” “Just some guy on the beach. I wanted to make sure someone could call the police if needed.” With every new glow of a resort light in my view, another one of my body’s limbs relaxes. “I worry about you,” she says. “Oh, I’m fine. Go call your friends.”

“You’re safe now?” “Yep.” “Okay, love you. Call me when you get back.” “Congratulations, Riley. I love you, too.” I hang up and glance behind me. The suspecting male is in the same position. I look to the wooden stairs that lead me off the sand and to the resort and then back to the ocean one last time for tonight. How could anyone not love to stare at this every night or to fall asleep to the sound of crashing waves? My job should be on some newspaper article for the best career choice. My barefoot steps on the wooden plank of the stair, and a scream echoes through the ominous air. My mind floods with horrific images, and I instantly glance to where that man was sitting. Did he pass me up for his next victim? Immediately, news images of vacation stories when young girls go missing flood my head. I’d be a worthless witness because I never saw the guy’s face. I mean, a gray sweatshirt isn’t really a clue to catching an abductor. My stomach plummets when I find the spot on the sand empty. I whip around so fast that the tail of my ponytail hits my cheek. The man is sprinting toward a woman who’s waving her hands on the other side of the resort. Wait, that bleach-blonde hair is familiar. My eyes shoot out to the dark water. Two flailing arms are swishing the water back and forth. “Help!” I scream to no one who’s immediately around me. I sprint after the man, my feet sore from the friction of the sand. He strips off his sweatshirt, revealing a back most men would envy. He doesn’t bother slipping out of his sandals and dives into the first wave that combats him. The foreign male swims toward whom I now recognize as my client Mr. Fuller. By the time I reach Mrs. Fuller, I’m heaving for breath. One hand is clasped over her heart, and the other is over her mouth. “Here.” I take one side of her expensive silk blouse to cover her bare breast. She looks down. “Oh my God.” Even though her skin is a golden hue from her extended time in the Caribbean, a pink flushes her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, buttoning up. “What are you sorry for? Loving your husband?” She smiles briefly and turns her attention back to the ocean. The man has his arm around Mr. Fuller’s neck until he reaches the shallow area and can no longer swim. Picking Mr. Fuller up as though he’s a child, no muscle strain whatsoever, the man carries him over, placing him on the sand. “Oh, Kevin!” Mrs. Fuller says, falling to her knees at her husband’s side. Just then, the staff from the hotel rushes out to the beach with cases full of medical supplies. Mr. Fuller coughs a few times, and the resort medical group assists him to roll over to his side.

The man stands idly behind everyone, catching his own breath. My eyes concentrate on the droplets of water dripping off the hard ridges of his muscles. His hair is dark, and it matches the features of his olive skin tone and a scruff that I assume is his vacation growth. Most would collapse into the sand right next to Mr. Fuller, but this man appears unfazed from the exertion his body must have taken from swimming through a current and dragging at least two hundred pounds back with him. As Mrs. Fuller is busy holding her husband’s hand and the medical group is concentrating on checking over Mr. Fuller, my eyes fixate on the man in front of me. This is what I imagine encountering one of the most beautiful people from those special edition magazines would be like. Even his crooked nose suits him better than if it were straight. A dangerous yet safe element surrounds him. My vision awakens thoughts of him exhausting me in bed, only to cuddle me afterward. With that thought, my heart’s rhythm syncs with the fast beat of the steel drums echoing from the resort. My eyes cast further down from his perfect abs, but a deep throat clearing interrupts me. My eyes fly back up to his face. The right side of his lips quirk up in the most egotistical smirk I’ve ever encountered on a man. Again, it fits him though. His confidence is sexy and appealing, and beads of sweat form across my hairline. Straightening my shoulders, I pull the hem of my T-shirt down over my hips. I break the few feet between us, holding my hand out in front of me. “Thank you, sir.” He studies my hand for a moment, wipes his own hand on his drenched shorts, and shakes mine, firm and quick, leaving a few pieces of wet sand on my palm. Nothing too meaningful, except for the zing of electricity up my arm. “Hey.” His gruff and unapproachable voice makes me distance myself from him. Once Mr. Fuller has sat up and appears to be okay, Mrs. Fuller springs to her feet. Rushing over to the man who has yet to give me his name, she tackles him, and he practically falls over— if the man built of bricks could actually collapse, that is. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she gushes. He chuckles. “You’re welcome,” his husky voice says. She steps back, straightening out her blouse that became wet from hugging Mr. Fuller. “Oh my,” she fawns. She glances back to me, widening her eyes. I shoot a smile to appease her, but she bugs them out more, nonverbally saying, Look at this man. I roll my eyes, silently telling her, Yeah, I’ve seen him, but unfortunately, he isn’t as pleasant as he looks. She retracts her hand before it lands on his bicep. “We owe you.” He shakes his head, little beads of water falling from his dark strands onto his shoulders. “No, ma’am. I’m glad your husband is okay.” He smiles, and an amazing mouthful of sparkling white teeth emerges.

My knees weaken. “No, please. He could have drowned,” she continues. Mr. Fuller slowly rises to his feet with the help of two medics. “I wouldn’t go that far, Marci.” She leaves Mr. Lifeguard to help steady her husband. Once she swings her arm through his, he glances over to me and winks. The two of them have been married for forty years. They’re empty nesters, except for their two poodles, Bella and Stella. They are one of those couples who can make critics like me believe in true love. Almost. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Mr. Fuller’s mouth hangs open. He waves off the medics, and they slowly walk back up to the resort. His stunned eyes are set on the man who saved him, as though he’s a kid standing in front of his childhood hero. The guy looks at me from the corner of his eye, and then he studies the sand at his feet. Embarrassed? “Bryant Garrity!” he exclaims. Mrs. Fuller’s face matches Mr. Fuller’s excited tone of voice, as though she knows the man. She sneaks a look my way. I can tell the name gives her no recollection. I shrug, having no idea who the hell Bryant Garrity is. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t recall anyone by that name on this trip. “Yes, sir,” he answers, stepping forward and holding out his strong, large hand. “Holy shit. A Heisman Trophy winner as well as a first-round draft pick and pro-bowl quarterback of the Chicago Knights just saved my life?” “Some might assume I was a bum about to assault you.” He glances over to me, winks his cocky eye, and then gives Mr. Fuller a firm handshake. “No, who would ever think that?” Mrs. Fuller adds. I feel myself shrinking into my body. “You’d be surprised, ma’am.” Again, his damn blue eyes sparkle my way, and suddenly, with the words that came out of his mouth, the tornado of lust that his looks whirled me in moments ago dies a still death. “Please be our guest for dinner tomorrow night,” Mr. Fuller requests. The guy, whom I guess I should refer to by name, Bryant, shakes his head. “Not necessary.” “Please, Bryant, we’d like to thank you for saving—” “His life,” Mrs. Fuller interjects. That low chuckle easily leaves his throat once more. “Um…sure.” Mr. Fuller looks over to me, and soon, all three of their sets of eyes are pinged right in my direction. “Carly, can we make a reservation for a private party on the beach for four?” I eye Bryant, who’s now holding his arms over his chest. I swear, he could

squash a watermelon with those biceps. “Of course, Mr. Fuller. I’ll call first thing in the morning.” I pull out my phone to set a reminder to get that done before the day’s activities tomorrow. “Don’t forget to block time for the dinner in your calendar, too, Carly.” I look up, and Mr. Fuller’s eyebrows are raised in my direction. “What?” “You had help in rescuing me, too,” he continues. Bryant huffs. Asshole. “Oh, not really.” I toss off any compliment of helping. “No objections, Carly. You will not hole yourself up in that hotel room of yours for another night here.” He laughs as my mouth hangs open. It’s like I’m thirteen again, and my mom just told a boy on the phone that I was in the bathroom. I’m fairly sure a professional quarterback never sits alone in his hotel room. “Great.” I lean forward and place my hand on Mr. Fuller’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay, but I’d better get going. Call me if you need anything.” I flip my direction to Bryant. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Garrity. Thank you for your heroic efforts in saving Mr. Fuller.” I’m respectful and polite, right? Bryant holds his hand out in front of me, his eyes squarely on me. “Have a nice night.” He pauses. “Carly,” I bite out my name, not allowing myself to be discouraged that Mr. Fuller said my name no less than three times in the last five minutes. “I’m wondering what your last name is.” The two of our hands are slowly moving up and down. “Lincoln,” I say. He shoots me what I assume is his winning touchdown smile, and damn if my stomach doesn’t feel like a roaring stadium. “Have a nice night, Mrs. Lincoln.” I let go of his hand, and he chuckles again. Seriously, what is wrong with this man? “It’s Miss,” Mrs. Fuller corrects him. I roll my eyes, earning another damn chuckle. Is there nothing this man won’t laugh at? “Oh, here I thought, you holed yourself up in your room because you missed your husband.” “You’ve got it all wrong. Our Carly is as single as they come.” I choke on my own air. Seriously, Mrs. Fuller? He tucks his hands into the wet pockets of his shorts, the shorts currently hanging off those sculpted hips. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Yeah, tomorrow.”

I move to pass him, and my toe hits something hard in the sand, catapulting me forward. Wanting to stop myself, I have no choice but to grab ahold of him. His hands instantly grip mine, and I fall into his strong, muscled arms. Damn him and his mouth-watering body. “I gotcha,” he says softly. For a moment, I stare into his eyes, believing him. Quickly, I straighten my body with his assistance of placing me back on my two feet. “Have a good night,” I mumble, wanting to bend down to pick up the flashlight the medics left behind and chuck it into the ocean. I sidestep him and try to hold up any dignity I have left as I disappear back to the resort.

CHAPTER TWO

BRYANT

myself into position, resting my knee up onto a pillow and dropping a I situate bag of ice on top of the scar that runs vertically down my knee.

Fuck, it hurts. Not my best decision to run through sand and dive into the ocean, but my only other choice would have been to let the man drown. I can see the headline, “Bryant Garrity Stares from Afar While a Man Screams for His Life.” I flick on the television, and ESPN blares through the room. Pressing the channel button, I scroll through to find anything but sports. Fuck Camden Andrews, the Knights new rookie quarterback and his signing bonus. My phone rings next to me, and I check the name. My dad. Fuck me right now. Could my life get any shittier? Picking the phone up and sliding the screen to answer, I release a breath. “Hey, Dad.” “Bryant? Where are you?” Not one drop of concern, only annoyance in his tone. “Hey, Dad—” “I went to your condo, and the doorman told me you’d been gone for a few weeks.” “I went on vacation,” I say. “Where?” “Caribbean.” “How do you ever think you’ll get back to starter by gallivanting around on vacations? Your ass should be in the gym with Fred every damn day.” I can just envision the tip of his finger whitening from the force of being pressed with authority on his mahogany desk. “Fred’s the one who told me to take a vacation.” “He’s wrong.” His powerful voice doesn’t scare me anymore, which I think pisses him off. “Fred doesn’t think so, and he’s calling the shots on my rehab,” I say. My voice is the only calm one in this exchange.

“You’ll never be back by August.” “I listen to Fred.” He huffs, and I flip the channel again, not finding much I want to watch. “I wish you’d told me.” So, he could stop me? “Spur of the moment. Plus, I’m done with the press. They’ve been on my ass, constantly following me everywhere, since I got out of surgery. I just needed a break.” You’d think my truthfulness would help my case with my dad, but nope. “You can’t have the glory and money without the press, son. You know that.” Boy, do I. “Hey, I’m beat. I’ll give you a call later in the week.” “Get down to their gym, and work on strengthening,” he says. I click off the phone. Not going to happen. Fred gave me strict instructions to stay off the knee as much as possible for the next two weeks. The circle of channels brings me back to ESPN, and before I can click again, I read the caption on the bottom. Will Garrity be ready for training camp, or will Andrews nail his spot? Then, I’m back on that field again.

KNIGHTS WERE LEADING by a hefty amount when Hank Floyd tackled me, and I heard the snap before the pain seared through every vein from the hip down. As I lay on the grass, players on their knees circled around me, the trainers ask me a zillion questions. I didn’t have to see their faces through my face mask to confirm that I wasn’t just out for the rest of the game. I might be out for infinity. I sat on the sidelines, watching our backup quarterback, Quinn Sawyer, throw interception after interception. Our score never changed while the numbers on the Cowboys side of the scoreboard continued to climb.

I COULDN’T BLAME our third-string quarterback. He hadn’t gotten any field time unless we had a big lead. Even then, Coach rarely changed me out. When the star quarterback’s dad is a legend in the game, you tend to shy away from taking him out of the game. Where did that leave me? Here, in a hotel room in a resort, alone. THAT SAME DRUM-based music rings through the speakers as I walk through the lobby for another boring day of lying poolside with the mystery book I bought at the airport tucked in my hand. It’s the kind of music that falsifies one’s rhythm. You

know, your hips instantly start moving as you’re standing in place. In your mind, your movements are sexy and suave, like Channing Tatum in Magic Mike, but in reality, you have as much rhythm as Napoleon Dynamite. The scent of chlorine floats through the open foyer, and I’m just about to walk out to the pool area when I collide with a body and a splash of hot liquid. “Shit.” I step back, glaring at the culprit—a damn beautiful one. A Styrofoam cup drops to the floor. “I’m so sorry.” The brunette’s hands cling to my wet shirt. She’s too busy with trying to wipe off the fabric already drenched in mocha latte with her towel that she never looks up. Then, whiskey-on-the-rocks eyes slowly move up my body until she catches on that it’s me. Instead of diverting her vision away like she kept doing last night, our eyes hold one another’s. Her cheeks are flushed with the prettiest of pinks. A loud bang from the breakfast buffet rings out in the air, and we both step back. She bends down and picks up the empty foam cup, and I strip off my T-shirt. Her eyes widen and then study the Spanish-style tiles lining the floor. “I don’t mind you looking,” I say. That flush turns fire-engine red. She shoves her phone back into her purse, holding the coffee-soaked towel and empty cup in her hand. She tries to act like I offended her by squaring her shoulders. Maybe I should remind her, she was the one objectifying me with her eyes. “Don’t be so full of yourself.” She moves to sidestep me, and I purposely lean over so that our bare arms brush together. I hear her sharp intake of breath, but she pretends her body isn’t humming to find out how I would feel buried deep inside her. “We still on for dinner?” I ask. Her running shoes squeak to a stop, and damn, I didn’t notice her ass last night. I don’t get to look long because she turns to face me, and that ass that I could definitely bounce a quarter off of leaves my sight. “With the Fullers? Yes. Seven o’clock at hut number five on the far side of the resort.” She hammers out the directions to me, as though I should nod and continue with my day. Far from it, babe. I imagine those curly strands of hair tucked into the bun would look mighty appealing strewn on a pillow. I smile and shoot her a wink. “I’ll be there.” Her lips barely rise, and she nods, turning around, granting me another eyeful of her ass. I clench my T-shirt in my fist and head out to the pool area. What is it about a woman who plays hard to get?

CHAPTER THREE

CARLY

y sandals tap along the stoned pathway toward the beach. The light wind M rushes up my bare legs under my sundress. Pressing my hands down on the fabric

so that I’m not tonight’s entertainment, I lock my thighs together. Mr. and Mrs. Fuller are late, as usual, so I look behind me, finding Mr. Bryant Garrity walking down the stairs I just descended. Not wanting to make conversation, I quickly slip off my sandals, and as I carry them in my hand, I toe my way through the sand until I reach the plank flooring that sits below the privacy hut. The table for four is set in a colorful hue of coral and green with lit candles circled in the middle. The atmosphere is romantic, and as much as I hate to admit it, it’d be nice to share this with someone special. For a night maybe. Figuring I can go without shoes, I drop my sandals at the edge of the platform and watch the low waves from the dark ocean emerge to shore. There’s something different in the air tonight, but I can’t decipher what it is exactly. A small sliver of sun is disappearing behind the ocean with birds flying about while couples walk hand in hand along the water’s edge. Another whip of wind blows my hair off my neck, and I wrap my chilled arms around myself for warmth. His citrusy, musky cologne alerts me to his presence first. Probably some expensive brand that I’ve never heard of, but damn if it’s not like honey to a bear, and I’m the bear. “So, we meet again,” he says, stopping next to me at the end of the plank. The scent of his cologne intensifies, pouring that honey into buckets. I glance over, and his eyes are solely on me. That damn grin is splashed on his lips. “Don’t worry. I left my weapon in the room.” “And your gray sweatshirt, I see.” Too bad he replaced it with a nice pair of slacks and a polo shirt. The blue in his shirt only causes his aqua eyes to become more vibrant and alluring. He leans close to my ear, and my breathing hiccups quickly. “NFL quarterback by

day, abductor at night.” I square my shoulders, turning my eyes directly at him. “I’m sorry, okay? But what did you expect a woman to assume? It was dark, and you were some random guy sitting alone on a beach, trying to hide your face. That bubbling personality of yours wasn’t exactly exuding when I walked by.” I cross my arms over my chest, and his eyes focus on my pushed-up breasts. “I suppose I see your point.” “Plus, you’re a big guy, and I think you could have handled me pretty easily,” I add. That damn smirk grows. “So, the thought of us together crossed your mind, too?” My face instantly heats. “I meant, you pinning me to the ground.” Once the words leave my mouth, I wish I could grab them back, but he’s too quick. His eyes flash with excitement, and he widens his stance. “What?” I ask out of pure annoyance to the fluster this man brings out of me. “I’m just waiting,” he says with his classic flirtatious tone. “For what?” “To hear how you wish last night would have turned out.” “Ugh. You’re impossible. A typical pro athlete who believes every girl is for your taking.” “I’m just going along with what you’ve been telling me.” “Let’s just get through this dinner. Then, you can go to the pool bar and use your charm to pick up a random girl for the night.” He chuckles that hearty laugh, rolling back on his heels. “You’re one of those then?” He purses his lips and nods, as though he has me all figured out. “One of who?” “The girl who acts like she’d never resort to sleeping with a pro athlete.” “First off, I’m a woman, not a girl.” My arms clamp tighter together, and again, his vision dips to my breasts. “My apologies. You’re definitely a woman.” The side of his lips tip up as he glances down once more. I let my arms fall, and his eyes float back to my eyes. “I’m not playing a game, Mr. Garrity. I assure you, I don’t want you for a night or ever.” He steps closer, and my heartbeat speeds up, but I stand my ground, meeting his eyes and trying everything in my power to be unfazed by his nearness. “Oh, Miss Lincoln, I think you haven’t accepted what you want, but the night’s early.” His finger reaches over, grazing along the back of my upper arm, and goose bumps travel behind his fingertip. I swallow the dryness left in my mouth and step back. His hand falls from my body, and instantly, my skin chills again. “I’m not sure you could be more conceited and arrogant.”

“Don’t confuse my confidence for arrogance. Believe me, even with a bum knee, I could handle you easily, like you said. I’m a pretty determined guy, and not much has stopped me from reaching my goals.” His devious eyes slowly roam down my body, deliberately trying to unnerve me. Although my legs want to press together to relieve the pressure he’s built inside me with only a brush of his fingertip, I stand there, moving my hands to my hips in defiance. “I can’t believe you get women to sleep with you.” I step back one more time, searching past his massive body for Mr. and Mrs. Fuller. Please tell me they aren’t playing matchmaker again, and they’ve deserted me with this asshole. “If you get lonely in your room tonight, I’m in room twenty-five-o-three.” “Don’t worry; you’ll be the lonesome one tonight,” I sneer back. He laughs, tilting his head back slightly, before his eyes glue to mine. “I guess that’ll leave me with a bucket of ice.” “I’m sure, if you run out of lotion, housekeeping will bring you more.” “Dirty mind. I meant, to ice my knee. Since you brought it up, how about, after dinner, we’ll save me some time, and I’ll swing by your room to take your lotion?” “You’re too much. Has anyone ever told you that?” “All the time.” He winks. I wish the current of warmth didn’t hit me right between my legs. I say nothing, not wanting to hand him any more ammunition. Moving to the table, I place my hand on the back of the chair to sit down until Mr. and Mrs. Fuller join us, but he follows, his hand covering mine. My hand slips from under his, and I stand there, allowing him to pull out my chair. The wooden chair slides out, and he patiently waits for me to sit before tucking it under my bottom. His hand brushes the hair away from my neck, and he inhales a scent of me before whispering, “You’re more beautiful, the madder you get. I like it.” My breathing staggers, my body heats, and I despise every aspect of allurement he’s igniting in me. He grants me space, and I take a deep breath while he’s busying himself with sitting down next to me. A waiter walks up and fills our wine glasses with the bottle choice I ordered this morning. “You’re a tad forward.” I pick up my glass and bring it to my lips, eager for the alcohol to hit my veins and make tonight tolerable. “I’m not usually one to shy away when I want something.” “And you want what?” He grabs a beer from the bucket in the middle of the table. I inwardly cheer that I predicted he was a beer drinker, hence the bucket I ordered this morning. “You. Under me. Or on top. Side by side. Standing. What’s your position of choice?” I almost spit the wine out of my mouth, drenching the candles, but I cup my hand over my mouth until I swallow. My giggle disobeys me, and I cannot restrain

my amusement at his expectant eyes. At the same moment, his entire body rumbles with laughter. He tips his beer back and downs a hefty swig. “You should be careful of the assumptions you make about people,” he warns, his smile showing off those perfect teeth. “I can usually read people pretty well,” I counter. “I guess I have you fooled then?” I pick up my wine glass and tip it his way. “You got me good, I’ll admit. I seriously thought I’d have to fight you off for the next two days.” “Well, I might not expect every woman to escort me back to my room, but one thing I said was the truth.” His eyes travel to my breasts and back up to my eyes. “I don’t shy away when I want something.” A low hum rustles in my veins, and I shouldn’t ask the question, but I have to. “And you want what?” “Time will tell.” “Well, look who’s already here.” Mrs. Fuller’s bright, cheery voice rings through the night, interrupting us. Thank God they showed up before I stripped down and begged him to show me exactly what he wanted. THE NEXT DAY at the pool, the sun is soaking in my already tan skin. The Fullers picked a couples-only resort this time, and it’s nice, not having the screams of children ringing around me. On the flip side, it’s a reminder that I’m alone. Not that I want someone, but seeing all the lovey-dovey newlyweds and other couples definitely makes me second-guess my choice of a career. The Fullers always plan the last day as leisure, even for me, so everyone does whatever they want on the trip. Who am I to argue? A relaxing day, poolside, with fruity drinks being delivered to me is at the top of my list. Unfortunately, Bryant Garrity hasn’t gotten out of my head since last night. After he gave up the act of the womanizing I-want-you caveman, he surprised me. Normally, I can figure someone out in five minutes, max. Well, that’s not exactly true. Dean tricked me for years. Besides him though, I’m an ace at knowing someone immediately. But, for the remainder of dinner, Bryant was polite, enjoyable company. What I loved the most was how his cheeks would flush with Mr. Fuller’s compliments. He’d toss them away, as though his impressive career was not sports-history worthy. Yeah, turns out my abductor friend was a Heisman Trophy winner in college, the number one draft pick eight years ago, and has a football legend as a dad. In my Google search upon returning to my hotel room, alone, I found out about his bum knee. The hit had been hard, and seeing him holding his knee, his body

weaving from side to side on the middle of the field while medical staff rushed after him, wasn’t a pretty sight. How have I lived in Chicago and never known of him? His name rang a bell, but I never put two and two together. Who’d ever think you’d find an athlete, alone, at a couples resort? I blindly move my hand over to the table next to me to grab my daiquiri when it lands on a hairy leg. “What the he—” I sit up straighter and push my sunglasses to the top of my head. There’s the man from last night in blue swim trunks with a cocky grin, staring down at me. “Took you a night to work up the courage to touch me.” Situating himself in the lounge chair next to me, he says nothing more as he meticulously lays his towel down before sitting, resting his sunglasses over his crystal-blue eyes, and picking up his book. I check out the title—Truth or Die. “Your reading material doesn’t negate my first impression of you.” I point to the cover of the newest thriller book. He flips it around, and I wonder if he’s truly read one page. “Yeah, I suppose not. Picked it up at the airport before boarding.” He folds a page down and closes the book. “What else is one supposed to do at a beach resort filled with couples?” Our eyes glance to the pool where five different couples are swimming, entwined in each other’s arms. “True.” “No book for you though? Just sitting there, dreaming about me?” If he only knew… “No. I was running late for this trip and forgot my Kindle at home. Plus, sometimes, it’s relaxing to meditate in the sun, letting my mind wander.” I cross my legs, a little insecure about my floral-print bikini. “Wander toward a certain person?” He eyes me, that uptick of his lip in place again. Seriously, I’m about to dip in the pool to cool off. “Maybe that arrogant guy from last night wasn’t off the mark?” “Trust me, he was,” I say. He sits up in his lounge chair, facing me, with his elbows resting on his knees. I see the scar from the surgery but try to mask my noticing. Man, he’s big. I wonder what it would be like to be sheltered in his arms. His body could practically swallow me whole, and that’s saying a lot since I’m not a petite girl. “You leaving already?” I ask. “Would you miss me?” I roll my eyes, and as much as his humor annoys me, it’s enjoyable. I haven’t

had a guy turn me on this much in a long time. “No.” We both know I’m lying. “What do you say we hit the city? I can’t stand another day by the pool, and since you’re leaving tomorrow morning and I’m not one to do touristy things by myself, this is my last chance.” His rambling is cute as he’s making excuses to spend the day with me. “I’d love to.” A wide smile hijacks his whole face, reaching all the way up to his eyes. Did he really think I would decline a date with him? “Yeah?” I guess he did. How does that make him more appealing? “Yeah. I never leave the grounds by myself, and this trip, the Fullers wanted to stay on the premises more than usual.” Here, I’m the one rambling now. “Okay, I’ll meet you down here in ten?” he asks, standing up and holding his hand out for me. The space between the chairs is small, and he fills most of it himself. I stand, trying not to allow our skin to touch. “I won’t burn you,” he jokes. I place my glasses over my eyes before he notices me gawking at his body. He escorts me to the elevators, and I get off at twelve while he stays on. I step off but turn around right away. “Leave your trunks on. I know of a great place to swim.” “Are you trying to get me wet, Miss Lincoln?” The corners of his lips twitch. Damn, how did I miss that one dimple in his right cheek earlier? “Why, Mr. Garrity, maybe you should be more worried about getting me wet?” “I think we both know, that’s already happened.” The doors of the elevator close, and I grip the edge of the planter before my knees truly give out.

CHAPTER FOUR

BRYANT

arly knows her way around St. Croix as well as I do my condo. I’m used to being C the one in control, but watching her navigate us from taxi to tourist place and back

to taxi is a nice change. She must be killer at her job. “Finally, relax time.” I drop my bag on the rocks, checking out the tide pool area off the ocean that she explained to me on the ride over. “Oh.” She stops, and her hand covers her mouth. Her beautifully manicured nails are painted in a conservative light pink. “How is your knee?” I follow her vision to my knee bearing the scar, and I close my eyes. She knows. Of course, she does. Who doesn’t? “It’s good.” “Are you sure? I’m sorry. I should have taken it easy on you. The hike here was rough, and I wasn’t thinking.” She’s rambling. Although I love watching her frazzled, I step forward and press my finger to her lips. She quiets, and her eyes widen. Her lips are so moist from the recent lick from her tongue. Oh, how I’d like to nibble on that bottom lip. “It’s good. It’s been four months.” Her shoulders fall, and a long stream of breath tickles the skin of my finger. The sweat from the hike here beads along her forehead, making her skin shine. “Good.” Our eyes lock for a moment, and I might be toeing the line. I’m not looking for a relationship, but then again, I haven’t been this intrigued by a woman for a while either. Not wanting her to feel uncomfortable, I step away and slip out of my shoes. “So, we just jump in?” I stand on the rock, watching the waves from the ocean crash on the other side while the tide pool is calm. Earth is never short of amazing. “Be careful. It’s shallow.” Again, her eyes veer to my knee. When I don’t respond, she looks up at me, and the guilt of making us hike over a mile is written all over her face. I hate pity. “Got it.” I slink into the tide pool as a rush of white water splashes from the other side of the rock. “Are you joining me?” I ask her.

She shoots me a fake smile, toeing out of her own shoes and whipping off her shirt. Damn, she’s still wearing that floral bikini where the center of one flower is right where I imagine her nipple lies. My mouth waters, and I swallow the extra saliva it’s producing as I watch her sleek body slip into the tide pool. “It’s warm,” she says as she lets her body sink in fully. “Have you never been here?” I ask, perplexed. “Yeah, but I usually don’t enjoy all the activities with the guests. I’m either planning the lunch or on the phone with transportation, double-checking that the excursion is going smoothly.” “What exactly do you do for the Fullers?” I rest my back on a rock. The spot is like our own little piece of paradise. No one is around but us, and I wouldn’t mind taking advantage of this privacy. I envision her naked body in my arms, her small bikini lying on the rocks behind me. Her delicate hands weave through the water as she walks to the other side of where I’m sitting. “I’m a corporate travel agent. They want to send their employees or clients on a trip, and I host it to make sure everything goes smoothly. The Fullers are my biggest clients but not my only.” “So, you own your own company?” Her eyes veer to the nearby water falling over the ledge from the ocean. “No. I wish. I work for WorkNPlay.” “Sounds awesome, getting to go to all these beautiful places.” “Yeah, I can’t complain.” “There’s always something to complain about.” Her eyes focus on me for a second, and she tilts her head. “What would you have to complain about? Your multimillion-dollar contract or your million-dollar endorsements?” I chuckle. She’s been checking up on me since last night. I like it. “It’s not easy to stay on top.” She nods, her eyes focusing back on the still water. “Yeah, I understand. The sacrifices you make.” “I’ve sacrificed a personal life my entire career.” “Why?” She begins to relax, resting her back on the rocks and submerging most of her body. I wonder if she goes into everything cautious, like she did the tide pool. “Too many women? Don’t want to choose?” she asks. “Don’t you know, it’s like thirty-one flavors for us football players?” “I can only imagine.” “You want to know something?” Her eyes travel over to mine, and maybe it’s because there isn’t a hint of humor in my voice. “There’s only one flavor, and I grew tired of that flavor my rookie year.”

“Oh, poor life, Mr. Gorgeous Football Millionaire.” She flashes me those perfect teeth as amusement lights her eyes. “You think I’m gorgeous?” She splashes water in my direction. “You know you’re gorgeous.” I shrug. I assume I do, but compared to her, I’m an ogre. “Truth?” She nods. “I don’t see where the two can mix. A personal relationship and a career as a professional athlete can’t align at the same time. I made peace with that a long time ago, but now, after my injury, I’m not sure I’m okay with pushing every other facet of life aside.” I watch her neck move as she swallows, and I start tiptoeing near her. “Funny, I have the same philosophy. It’s either career or family. No one can have both—at least, not do both well.” Her body straightens, and her back presses to the rocks as I continue my journey to her. She fidgets with her hands until deciding to tuck them behind her, as though she could dig her way out of the hard rocks to escape me. “So, you aren’t looking for a relationship?” I ask, finally chest-to-chest with her. Damn, her nipples are poking through the thin fabric of the swimsuit. I was right; her hidden nipple is right under the center of the flower. “No. I left that dream a long time ago.” “What about vacation flings?” I whisper as my head descends to her neck. Even with all the sweat from the hike, she still smells amazing. Vanilla and coconut will forever remind me of her in our own carved out piece of paradise. “I leave tomorrow.” “That gives us tonight,” I say. My lips cast the shortest kiss on her shoulder, and her chest rises and falls. “I don’t casually sleep with men.” As her chest rises and falls with deep breaths, her breasts grab my attention. “Good. Me either.” I chuckle into her neck, and my hand finds her hip under the water, pulling her toward me. A small giggle escapes her, and I only want to swallow her enjoyment with my mouth. “I’m serious, Bryant.” “Carly,” I whisper, “I know I’m not alone in this attraction. I see your eyes pinging all over my body, like I’m a buffet of your favorite foods. I’m begging you”—my fingers tighten on her hip, and I kiss the hollow of her neck—“indulge.” Her fingers stroke my abs, and my muscles tense before relaxing under her touch. I lift my head and find her biting her bottom lip as she contemplates my request. “The thought of being another notch on your long list…” My other hand cups her cheek, my thumb brushing back and forth. “You wouldn’t be. I promise.”

She studies my eyes, trying to decipher a truth in them. Doubt continues to swim in her honey-brown hues, and I retract my advance. She’s not ready, and I definitely don’t want her half into this. Just as I move away, she steps forward, but a huge wave crashes over the rock wall, smacking me right in my face, forcefully slamming my body straight into a rock.

CHAPTER FIVE

CARLY

h my God, I’m going to be on the news for hurting Bryant Garrity. Chicago will O hate me, news people will hate me, everyone will hate me.

Bryant is sitting on the edge of the rock, his back red, scratched, and bruised. “I’m so sorry,” I repeat for the hundredth time since we emerged from the water. His head is buried in his hands, and I’m intently watching his back rise and fall with his slow breaths. “Does it hurt?” I ask, my hand reaching toward him. I gently place my palm on the red spot, and he retracts, like he did when I questioned his intentions minutes ago—the reason he wasn’t protected under the waterfall of water but rather became its roadkill. “It fucking kills.” He sits up straighter, wincing with every movement. “But nothing a few painkillers won’t fix.” “What about your knee?” I ask, looking over to inspect it. He moves his leg out of my view and then stands. “FUCK!” he screams. “My knee is fine,” he bites out. Unsure of what to do, I grab my phone to call someone to help us. It’s a mile back to grab a taxi to the hotel. There’s no way he can hike. “I should call medical from the hotel or an ambulance.” I search the numbers I programmed for this trip. “I’ll walk.” He grabs his backpack, secures it to his battered back, and starts walking the way we came. “You can’t.” He whips around, and his eyes are so furious, I’m not sure if I should be frightened or hug him. “I can, and I will. I’m not some child who can’t suck up his injury and needs his mommy’s hugs, Carly.” He spins back around, climbing the makeshift stairs one at a time. Between his grunts and the way he’s barely moving, it’s clear he’s in pain, but he’s too bullheaded to accept help. “And, for fuck’s sake, my knee is fine. Don’t ask,” he calls over his shoulder. I follow behind—not that I could catch him if he fell, but I’m not sure I’m the

best company for him in this moment. Bryant is as slow as my grandmother with her cane by the time we reach a taxi to take us to the hotel. He sprawls out in the back, so I hop in the front with the driver. Everyone knows taxi drivers aren’t exactly great at driving cautious, like they’re transporting Miss Daisy, but Bryant obviously believes he deserves special treatment. “We aren’t vying for first place in the Indy five-hundred!” he yells over the seat. But the driver pays no attention to him. Extra tip for him not treating Mr. NFL Quarterback like the royalty he expects. “Carly,” he pleads, as though I have control over this situation. “Please, sir, can you slow down a little?” I ask more out of my guilt because I caused his injury. The driver glances over, nods, and eases his foot off the accelerator. “That’s what it takes here? A beautiful woman for you to do what I asked?” Bryant’s compliment falls short with his seething voice. “Relax. We’re almost there,” I say over my shoulder, not wanting to have anything to do with him, much less look at him. “Easy for you to say,” he sneers right before another groan leaks from his lips. I whip around, locking eyes with him. He doesn’t shy away and matches my stare down. “What do you expect me to do? I’m doing everything I can. Suck it up. What the hell is wrong with you? You get tackled by three-hundred-pound guys all the time. Be a man!” I scream. One side of his lips quirks up before it disappears into a flat line. Then, instead of his own comeback, he says nothing and glances down to his knee before looking back to me. “I apologize. I just can’t be out this season.” Don’t I feel like the asshole? There goes my heart, pitter-pattering for a guy I met only two days ago. A guy who I’ve been scared of, who has annoyed me. And a guy who has made me truly laugh for the first time in a long time. The taxi driver rolls to a stop in the circular drive in front of the resort, and I toss a few bills his way. Bryant is already sitting up, and he swipes my bills, handing the driver a fifty. “Thanks,” he says. He exits the cab, instantly handing me my money. “I could have gotten it,” I argue. He shakes his head. “Not when you’re with me. Now, can you give me a hand? I’m stiff already.” He holds out his arm, and I quickly tuck myself under to offer him some form of support. A bellhop rushes over to us, taking a spot on his other side. Moans and bellows escape Bryant with each step, and from his depressed eyes while in the taxi, I really hope he won’t be out for the season. The medic is ready for us when we walk in, rushing Bryant into a room. The

bellhop bows and leaves. I’ll have to remember to tip him later. The doctor is asking Bryant questions when I walk in, and his eyes shut and open with painful winces. He catches sight of me in the door and stops, but his chest is heaving. “Hold on, Doc.” Giving me his full attention, he shoots me a smile that can’t even raise the apple of his cheeks. “Thanks, Carly. I got it from here.” Understanding he doesn’t want me in here, I step back. “I’ll just wait outside.” “Nah, I’m good. Go enjoy your last day.” The doctor’s eyes volley back and forth between us during the awkward conversation. “It’s no problem—” “Go, Carly!” He slides to his side, and a scream of pain echoes in the room. “Fuck!” This time, there’s no smirk or a pretend smile when our eyes meet. It’s pure disdain and aggravation. “Call me when you’re done,” I say before shutting the door behind me. BRYANT NEVER CALLED, and before I head to the airport the next morning, the bellhop fills me in when I tip him for his services yesterday. “No need, ma’am. Mr. Garrity tipped me yesterday.” He holds the money out toward me. “Oh, he did?” I push his hand back toward him. He tucks it in his shirt pocket. “Yes, ma’am, when he was leaving for the airport.” My stomach drops. He not only didn’t think to call me, but he also left the country. How can someone pursue someone like he did me and then not even think to say good-bye? “He left?” My voice is shallow. Mr. Fuller smacks my back, and I startle. I have no time to process Bryant’s leaving the resort and how bad his injuries were. “How was your day off?” he asks, a permanent smile on his face. “Good. Thank you.” I nod my head toward him. He waves me off. “During the flight back, I want to run some things by you. Marci is going to switch seats with you. She wants to sleep anyway.” “Okay,” I murmur. I really hope he isn’t going to reprimand me for something— or worse, ask WorkNPlay to fire me. I swear, this trip was one of our best, but then again, the Fullers requested not too many excursions, and I heard some of the Fuller’s employees complaining that we were on resort property too often. They were bored from the lack of excursions. “Relax, Carly.” He squeezes my shoulder and walks over to drop his luggage off at the curb. “She’s so high-strung,” he mumbles to no one.

High-strung? I have to be. It’s my job. The success of his trips depends on me being high-strung, to have each detail down. My long nights are spent searching for the best resorts, best excursions, and best restaurants. Every aspect of my life is my job, and I’ve sacrificed everything to be the best. Not that there’s much to sacrifice. I had a day trip with a gorgeous man whom women drool over on the daily, and look how that ended. So, I might as well just keep on my track because work never makes me feel inadequate. The concierge approaches me. “I’m sorry, Miss Lincoln. The van is running late. I’ve arranged for some breakfast items to be set out for all of you.” I smile and nod. “Thank you.” Luckily, this delay is with the Fullers because, if it were some of my other clients, I’d be hearing an earful right now. My heels click on the marble floor on my way to Mr. Fuller. He’s whispering something in Marci’s ear, and she’s giggling uncontrollably. They’re still cute together after years of marriage. “Excuse me,” I say. Mrs. Fuller straightens, immediately becoming serious. “Carly”—her lips widen —“I heard you left the resort yesterday with America’s favorite quarterback.” She raises her eyebrows up and down. Seriously, gossip runs in St. Croix, too. “He asked me to show him around. It was nothing.” I politely grin and stop this conversation from veering to headlines. “The van is running a little late, but we should make it to the airport with plenty of time. They are going to set out some muffins and juices for us.” Mr. Fuller nods. “Sounds good. Thanks for letting us know, Carly.” I smile and then step away, granting them their privacy. “I’m going to corner you on that plane for details!” Mrs. Fuller yells out toward me. Mr. Fuller chuckles. “Oh, Marci, leave the girl alone.” Yes, leave the girl alone. Luckily, I’m far enough away to not hear what Mrs. Fuller says. As I sit down on the chair, my phone rings. Mom. “Hey, Mom. I’m in St. Croix. I’ll call you when I land,” I answer, ready to hang up. “Carly, did you hear?” She disregards my quick exit. “I did.” “Are you okay?” she asks. “Sweetie, it’s just a quick jaunt down and back up. Maybe a dance,” my dad adds. I hear the newspaper crinkling in the background. “What?” “Standing up with Dean. It will be fast and painless,” he continues.

I should mention now, my family is the typically nosy, overbearing, in-yourbusiness type of family. “It’s fine. I told Riley it was fine.” I pull out the papers from my satchel, making sure I count everyone here to what I noted as who attended. “Maybe you and Dean can rekindle your romance,” my mom says. “He told me I’d have to quit my job. That he wasn’t going to have a wife who traveled around the world and was never home for him.” “Honey, he has a point,” she says. I’m paying international rates for this conversation. No, thanks. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you when I get home.” “Wait, I need to make sure you’re available this weekend. I want to start planning, and we need your connections on some venues. Riley didn’t want to say anything, but she wants to get married at The Drake, and you know how long the list is.” Yes, because that’s where I left Dean. I only got that venue because I had a connection, and now, Riley wants me to walk down the exact aisle where I was supposed to receive my happily ever after. “Mom,” I sigh. This is a nightmare. “What are we to do? It’s been her dream. We have to move on from the past, Carly.” My mom’s the only one who hasn’t moved on. “I saw him at Jewel, and he’s still single.” “Imagine him at a grocery store. How domesticated,” I say. “Let her be,” my dad says. “Although I wouldn’t mind retiring early.” He laughs that goofy dad laugh. I should mention that Dean’s family is old money. He’s a lawyer in his grandfather’s firm, and he will one day run the whole thing himself. He’s thirty, and he has a condo in the city and a house in the suburbs. Established, as every woman would want—as long as she’s ready to smack on an apron and be his maid, chef, and nanny to his children. “I really need to go.” The van pulls up on the curb, and the bellhops begin to load everyone’s luggage. Standing up, I count off the heads as they disappear into the van. “Okay, but Sunday, we’re having brunch over here to discuss our plan of action. I’ll forward you the spreadsheets with dates right now.” Damn her and her library computer classes. “Sunday’s doable,” I agree. “Twenty-one, twenty-two,” I murmur as my pen points in the air. “Safe travels, sweetie,” my dad says. I’m about to hang up the phone once everyone is in the van, and I count myself as fifty-three. “That’s twelve then, Phillip. Put down twelve,” she instructs. I instantly do the math in my head. Me, my parents. Riley and Cameron, Cam’s parents. My older sister, Renee, and her husband, Vinnie, plus two kids.

“Eleven,” I correct her. “No. All of us, Cam’s parents, and Dean, of course.” “Why does he have to be there for the planning? Don’t play matchmaker, Mother,” I warn on deaf ears. “He’s the best man. He has to be a part of the planning. I just added you to the email chain, so make sure you check it when you get on Wi-Fi.” “Mom,” I whine. Maybe a little old-fashioned whining will get me my way. “Love you, sweetie. Call me when you get in, and I’ll see you on Sunday.” Click. Fuck me.

CHAPTER SIX

BRYANT

fter catching the last flight for the day, I rushed over to the stadium this A morning. I’m laid out in the training room on one of Fred’s injured tables—again.

“How the hell did this happen?” Fred asks, pressing into my back, as I’m stretched out on the table. “A wave.” “I send you away on vacation to a beach, and you still manage to hurt yourself?” “Ouch!” I flinch from the pressure on my shoulder blade. “Don’t be a wimp. Your back is bruised, but you’ll be fine in a week. If you had kept your ass in St. Croix, I could actually trust that you’d rest that knee.” I sit up, wrapping the towel around my waist. Fred crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “This wasn’t some kinky shit, right?” He raises his eyebrows. I shake my head. “No. I thought I was safe in a tide pool. Turns out at high tide, not so much.” I slide down and hobble to my bag. “What about the knee? Did you hurt it worse? I imagine, your feet might have dug into the sand.” It’s not hard to miss that Fred’s annoyed with me. I’m probably his worst patient. “It feels better today.” I bend and stretch my leg to show him how strong it is. “Well, you’re still not allowed to train for another week, so enjoy your couch.” He smacks my back before folding himself behind his desk and shuffling papers around. “Come on, Fred. I gotta get back out there; otherwise, I’ll lose my spot. This is my year. I feel it.” “Bryant, you rush this, and you might as well retire.” I run my hand down my face in complete frustration that I’m even in this predicament. Shitty things don’t happen to me. I’ve always thought my mom is looking down on me, and there’s no way she’d let me get the shit beat out of me for eight years without earning one damn ring. “I was at the top of my game, and then this fucking shit happened.” We both stare down at the scar across my knee.

“Risks of the game. Many athletes before you have been where you are, and many after will be, too,” he says so nonchalantly, like it’s something I need to accept. “That’s why I need to work on it,” I argue the fight I consistently do with Fred. He says, Lay off, and I say, Go aggressive. It’s a constant tug-of-war between us. But what does he expect? I’m determined in every aspect of my life. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it from my trackpants, finding a number I don’t recognize. A Chicago number though. “Go ahead, and take it. I have to finish this anyway,” Fred mentions as he places his glasses back on his head. “Can I walk? Or are you worried I might be overexerting myself?” I ask, halfsarcastic, half-jackass. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, a warning in true Fred fashion. “Go take your call. I’ll see you in two weeks, like planned.” The phone continues to rumble in my palm, and wanting to distract myself from my injury, my finger swipes across the screen. “Garrity,” I answer. “Bryant. It’s Keith Fuller. From St. Croix.” I push the double doors open with the phone tucked between my shoulder and ear. “Hey, Keith,” I say, confused as to how he got my number. “Sorry to bother you. We have a mutual friend, and he was willing to give me your phone number.” “Who?” I ask. I’m not really cool with people handing out my phone number. He stutters before finally spitting it out, “Jonathan Monroe. He did our charity a favor last year. I knew you were teammates. I apologize if I’m overstepping—” I release a breath and relax. “No, not at all. I should be the one apologizing for my tone. Some people get my phone number who shouldn’t.” My feet steadily walk out of the stadium to my truck when I spot none other than Jonathan climbing out of our lineman, Kurt Wendle’s, Ferrari. Jonathan’s wide-receiver body sleekly escapes while Kurt’s six-five, three-hundred-ten body struggles. “Excuse me?” Keith questions. I realize, I’m laughing over what he’s been saying. “Sorry, Keith. Nothing funnier than watching two football players climb out of a Ferrari Hot Wheels car.” He laughs, and Jonathan raises his hand in greeting. I nod. “But, if you can afford a Ferrari, why not buy one?” Keith adds. Although I completely disagree, I say nothing. “What can I do for you?” I ask to speed this conversation along before Wendle picks me up and throws me at the fence for laughing at his sorry ass. “We have a charity that’s very dear to our hearts. I was wondering if we could set

up a sports camp for you to put your name on. All money would go to charity.” I’m never one to turn down charity, and Keith and Marci seemed like they were honorable people. “Of course.” “Great. Are you free this week to talk about logistics?” Jonathan and Kurt start rocking my Jeep Wrangler from side to side to spur a rise out of me. “Yeah, my schedule’s pretty open right now.” More than he knows. “How about tomorrow morning at ten?” I’ll just be busy twiddling my thumbs. “Sure. Text me the address.” Kurt hops on the hood, and I swear, the metal dents under the pressure. “Listen, Keith, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up before he can say good-bye. “Get the fuck off!” I scream. Kurt slides down, laughing along with Jonathan. “I heard you were banned.” Jonathan walks over, knocking fists with me. “Yeah, Fred just kicked me out for two weeks.” “I heard you were on some beach, sipping girlie drinks while nailing the ladies.” Kurt’s hand smooths out his blond beard. “Nah, this one is about to go off the market.” Jonathan hits me in the arm. I cock my eyebrow, and Kurt bends over in a fit of laughter. “Why on earth would Mr. All-American sell out, like your sorry ass?” Kurt asks Jonathan. Jonathan, Kurt, and I were all drafted the same year and became best friends immediately. Jonathan married his girl, Monica, our first year, and Kurt won’t let him live it down. “I have to agree with Kurt. I think Monica’s been spiking your smoothies.” I smirk. Jonathan shakes his head, staring up at the sky. “Nope. I feel it, Garrity. This is your year.” He turns to Kurt and cringes. “And you’re going to have a baby mama pop up.” Kurt clutches his heart and pretends to stumble into my truck again. “Did Monica make you go to a psychic again?” I grab Kurt’s Chicago Knights shirt, pulling him back up. “He’s going to give me a heart attack. What would I do with a kid? Worse, I don’t like to share, especially my money.” Kurt shakes a disapproving head at Jonathan, who rolls his eyes. “Why don’t the two of you go work out, so you’ll be ready for me when I return?” I fist-bump each of them. “You sure you don’t want to get a massage while we work our asses off?” Jonathan says to me.

“You know I’d rather be sweating with you,” I murmur. Jonathan rushes over to me while Kurt texts on his phone. “Hey, man, you know I’m just kidding. You’ll be back soon.” He pats my back and shoots me a concerned look. Jonathan has been like a big brother to me since the first day of training camp eight years ago. I turn my back and lean against the door of my truck. “Go. So, you’ll be able to actually catch the ball when I throw it to you.” We each laugh, letting the uncomfortableness between us dissipate. “Hey, Monica wants you over for dinner.” “Sorry, man, I can’t do another setup.” He laughs. “Nah, just the family. Us and Kurt.” “Okay, give me time. I love Mon for trying to encourage me to settle down, but that last girl stalked me on Facebook for a month.” “I promise, no setting up.” “Let’s go, Slippy!” Kurt screams. Jonathan flips him off. Jonathan got nicknamed Slippy his first year out. Too many balls had been slipping out of his hands, but he’s definitely proven that name wrong in the seven years following. Some equate it to skill and practice, but I equate it to Monica. For most guys in the NFL, people worry about players becoming distracted when they meet a new girl, but for Jonathan, I think the opposite happened. He was distracted without the girl. Monica has grounded him in a way that I’ve envied for years. I think Monica knows that, and that explains why she’s always trying to set me up on a damn date. “This Saturday, barbeque at my house.” He backsteps toward Kurt. I wave my good-bye to them. I ARRIVE to the Fullers’ downtown building at nine thirty. I’m early mostly because, after my breakfast, skimming online, and even balancing my checking account, I was bored. Without my morning routine of working out for hours, packing protein in my diet, and running drills, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with myself. Keith Fuller owns a rather large company that designs closets. They not only have designers that customize for you, but they have systems that customers can put together themselves. At least, that’s the gist I got from their website this morning. I enter the corporate building, and there’s their slogan, We make your closets FULLER. A few heads turn my way, and the security guard behind the desk smiles when I approach. “Hello, my name—” The slim-figured security male raises his hand to stop me. “I know who you are, Mr. Garrity. Mr. Fuller is expecting you. Please take the elevator to the sixtieth

floor, and Mr. Fuller’s assistant, Samantha, will be waiting.” He points to the elevator bank to my right. I take the name badge from him and nod. “Thank you.” “My pleasure,” the young guy says. Once I’m a clear distance away, I hear him whispering to the other guard about who I am. I’ve grown used to the whispers and pointing throughout the years, but I wonder what it would be like to go somewhere where no one knew who I was. What it would be like to go back to before I was picked in the first round of the draft and enter a room as a regular guy with a less public profession. Like my dad says, The good comes with the bad. I live a dream most people would love, so I can’t really complain. The bank of six elevators open and close as people shuffle in and out of them. I manage to squeeze into the third on the left, and I press the button for the sixtieth floor. A few more murmurs behind me ask if the other person knows who I am. In the earlier years of my career, I would confirm my identity; in the later years, I’ve decided to keep quiet due to my own need for privacy. I’d rather leave them wondering than to confirm, only for gossip to get around as to why I am where I am. In this case, a whole page would be dedicated to me getting my closets done and how I went to their corporate office and demanded that I have the best designer and wanted to be pushed ahead of everyone else. Asinine bullshit stories. The elevator dings, and I emerge to find a cute, small blonde with red-rimmed glasses waiting for me. Her thumb is rapidly clicking a pen up and down. “Mr. Garrity?” she says in a question form. “Yes. Samantha, I presume.” I approach her, and she smiles, holding her hand out. We exchange pleasantries, and she turns on her Mary Jane black heels for me to follow her down the hall. She breezes by people with a friendly wave, using each name in greeting. They say hello to her and then pause briefly to me. I smile and speak my hellos until we’re stopped at what I assume is her desk. “Give me a moment.” She holds up her finger and knocks softly before entering through the double office doors. Sneaking her head in, she mumbles something and then pushes both doors open. “Mr. Fuller is ready for you,” she says, waiting for me to enter. After I do, she closes both of the doors behind me. Keith Fuller is in jeans and a crisp button-down, typing frantically on his phone. “Sorry, Bryant. Husband duties. One second.” He places his phone on the table and circles out from behind his big desk that overlooks Lake Michigan. “I swear, I couldn’t care less about what our lounge chairs by the pool look like. Am I right?” I shake his outstretched hand. “I would have no idea about that. I buy what’s comfortable.” I make a joke out of my single life.

He nods. “I forgot. You’re unattached. Don’t worry; you’ll find the right one when it’s time.” He holds his arm out to the couch, and I sit down, cracking open the bottle of water placed out for me. His last statement shocks me. Usually, men put me on a pedestal because I don’t have a wife or girlfriend who controls what I want to do whenever I want to do it. Obviously, this means Mr. Fuller enjoys his married life. Nice change of pace from the field I’m in. Besides Jonathan and Monica, I’ve never witnessed a happy couple. “Maybe.” I shrug. He claps his hands and slides back into his black leather chair. “So, Marci and I started the Comfort Climb Foundation a few years ago. It helps children who are orphaned. We organize camps for the children to attend, and we set up counseling if they’ve struggled. The last thing you want is for the children to bottle their emotions.” He reaches over to the table on the side and pulls out a blue envelope packed full of papers. “Here. This is all about our foundation. We’re having a party in a few weeks, and we’d love if you’d join us. Not because we’re having a silent auction”—he winks, and we both fake laugh. I’ve been in this situation often with people who want my money—“but it will give you a chance to see what we’re all about. Some of the older children we’ve helped from the beginning will be in attendance as well.” I open the folder, perusing the information about their charity. I definitely will need to dig into this foundation a little more before I make any promises. “Your foundation sounds like a wonderful cause,” I say, continuing to thumb through the brochures of children smiling at what I assume is a day camp. “It is, and I hope you don’t mind, but after meeting you, I remembered a segment that was conducted when you were drafted. I’m sorry about your mom.” He leans forward and shoots that damn sympathetic tight-lipped half-smile people do when they’ve found out I lost my mom. “Thank you,” I respond, not really wanting to dig into my own childhood obstacles. “Jonathan did the camp two years ago.” He changes the subject. Now that he mentions it, I vaguely remember Jonathan saying something, but we both do so many charity gigs that they start to blend together. “We’d like to set it up in two months. You’ll throw the ball and do some drills, and we’ll have coaches divide the kids into small groups. You’ll take pictures and sign souvenirs. All the money will go to the charity. A few of the local kids will attend for free.” I should do more research on the foundation. I’ve been burned by more than one person using the term charity loosely, and this is a cause I could definitely get more involved in. “We’d love it if you’d consider being the spokesperson for the year.” The year? What kind of time does this guy think I have? A flash of my mom’s face surfaces in my mind, and how hard it was for me to

move on after her death. Forget the research, the thing I love most about my job is helping others. “I’ll do it. You’ll have to coordinate it with my assistant, but I’m in.” “Perfect. We can’t thank you enough, Bryant.” “I’m glad to help.” While we’re shaking hands, Mr. Fuller’s lips widen further. Solidifying my decision and selfishly, I hope I might run into Carly again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CARLY

he Fullers are known for their charity galas. The elite of the city mark off T their already full calendars to attend in order to hold bragging rights. Don’t get me

wrong; the Fullers are tremendously caring people, and the high affluent status of their galas only drives more money toward the charity, but these galas are the biggest and hottest events of the year. To receive one of their invitations, delivered in an elaborate way, proves your status in this city to others. When I received this year’s invitation a week after my return from St. Croix, I knew instantly whom they had asked to be their spokesperson and, more importantly, who had accepted. The small football field invitation with tiny field goals to shoot a triangular paper football through needed no further guesses. The Fullers meant for it to be a clue to those guests who hadn’t had dinner with the three of them on a beach a week prior. It is none other than the ass himself—Mr. Bryant Garrity. As much as I think Bryant’s the biggest egotistical asshole I’ve ever met, the fact that he’s willing to be the spokesperson for the entire charity for a whole year has me questioning my typecast. My obsession with being timely leaves me in a gorgeous room with gold tablecloths and stunning black football statues in the center of twenty pub-height tables. Since the doors to the reception hall are closed until after cocktail hour, I tuck my rhinestone-studded clutch under my arm and head to the bar. Mr. and Mrs. Fuller are busy with greeting everyone at the door, and other than a few people who work for their company, I know no one. Damn my coworker, Lenny, for canceling. My ass, he’s got the flu—more like a sex marathon with Polly from accounting. “What can I get you?” The bartender wipes his strong hands on a towel, taking a break from cutting limes. He’s attractive in that fresh-out-of-college way, that too-young-for-me way. “I’ll just have the house white,” I remark. He smiles, grabbing a glass and filling it. After he places it on the ledge of the bar, I throw a tip in his glass and thank him. This year, they picked the Navy Pier to host the gala. It’s a breathtaking view of

Lake Michigan at sunset. They’ve had the end of the pier blocked off for the private party, so no one uninvited can crash. Leaving the waitstaff making the last-minute touches to the room alone, I sneak through the doors, and immediately, the Chicago wind rushes up my legs, making my gold dress fly up, Marilyn Monroe–style. As I try to cover myself up, the wine glass drops out of my hand, and it shatters on the ground. “Oh God,” I say. The door to my right opens, as I’m crouched down picking up the broken pieces. The shards of glass are piled high in my hand when a waiter bends down to help me. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my eyes focused on his shiny black shoes. “You can never underestimate the wind in Chicago,” I joke. He doesn’t laugh. Okay, no sense of humor. The first thing I notice are his hands, and although I only saw them for a brief two days, I’d never forget them or the feel of them. They’re perfect and imperfect, all in one. I can see where some fingers have been jammed, but it only adds to the strength they portray. My head slowly rises to the man on my right. He’s squatting in his black tuxedo pants, a crisp white shirt, black jacket and tie, such a traditional look that says so much about him. And that damn half-smirk is on those pouty lips. Calm down, I tell myself. “Mr. Garrity,” I say, standing and squaring my shoulders. “Pleasure, Miss Lincoln.” His fingers carefully pick up the glass shards from my palm, and he disposes of them in the nearby trash can. I smooth out my dress with my hands, fidgeting as always in his proximity. He kicks the remaining smaller pieces toward the trash can, and I fixate on that motion until he finishes. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, pulling my vision back to his beautiful face, even with the scar on his chin. His blue eyes continue to saturate me with want. Again, my hands move to the skirt of my dress because my luck is, another gush of wind will give Mr. Quarterback the glimpse of what he missed out on back in St. Croix. “Well, the gold ribbon on the invitation should have clued me in on the color scheme. I guess blending in isn’t a bad thing.” I say, excusing my matching the color schemed party. He stares at me for longer than comfortable, and I nibble on the inside of my cheek. “I mean—” “I imagine, you always stand out,” he says. My heart pitter-patters, like it did in St. Croix. Damn him. “I should get going.” I don’t respond to his comment because I’m unsure if I’d be able to form a coherent sentence.

“Wait.” His fingers graze my skin, heat searing me in their path. I turn back around. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo and rolls back on his heels. He’s nervous? “I’m sorry for how rude I was in St. Croix. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.” I bite back the reply of, It’s been almost a month. “I know it’s been a while. I was busy with training and things.” Can he hear my thoughts? I wave my hand in the air. “Don’t even worry about it. I’m a strong girl.” “I don’t want things to be awkward between us.” With curiosity of his meaning, I tilt my head and peer into those eyes. “Like I said, no big deal. It’s not like we’ll see each other again.” “Don’t you work for the Fullers?” he asks. That smirk that never washes off his lips falters slightly at the corners. “No. I only plan and make travel arrangements for their company.” Guessing this conversation is far from over, I step forward, breaking the distance between us. “So, you didn’t put this whole thing together?” He nods at the doors. My eyes follow, noticing people arriving. “Do you think I’d have matched the tablecloths if I did?” He laughs. “I suppose not. I was hoping I’d see you more.” “So, you could yell at me?” I ask. His shoulders fall. “I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I accepted your apology, and you won’t hear anything from me about it.” He widens his eyes and nods. “Man, are you sure you’re a woman?” I look down at myself in the gold dress, form-fitted around my breasts and flares out from my waist. I’m not bragging, but I’m pretty sure a guy couldn’t look this convincing. “Excuse me?” “No drama. No guilt trip. You’re like no other woman I’ve ever known.” “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad,” I say. His face matches the Captain on the Helm statue I passed while walking into Navy Pier. “Definitely good, Carly.” Our eyes lock for a few minutes as the smell of fish lingers from the lake and seagulls fly above our heads. For a moment, the unpleasant smell is replaced with his musky cologne, and my mind envisions the seagulls are shooting stars. My breathing staggers. In the corner of my eye, I catch his hand about to reach out, and I step forward, inviting his touch. That asshole I pinned him for no longer fits the mold. “Bryant?” A lady’s voice rings out from the concrete steps by the door. His eyes close shut. Our moment ends before it truly started.

I hear the clicking of heels growing closer to us, but I’m struggling to veer my eyes away from him. “Bryant, what are you doing?” a woman’s voice asks. His eyelids pop open, and apologetic blue hues reach mine before we each turn to the woman demanding attention. “Bree,” he says in a tone similar to an exhausted parent with their child. She’s cute with red hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. Her short red dress clings to her perfect hips and thighs, exposing long thin legs that land in a pair of strappy black high heels. Google search any male celebrity, and she’s similar to who’s standing next to him on the red carpet. Her arm weaves through his, and my breathing that lost its pattern straightens back into rhythm. “Who are you?” she asks. It’s not in a bitchy tone, but in a way that questions, Why are you with my man? I hold my hand out to her. “I’m Carly Lincoln.” She daintily holds my hand in hers, shaking it once. “Bree Nichols.” Bryant remains silent during the exchange with his free hand tucked in his pocket. “Nice to meet you.” “You, too,” Bree says, ready to dismiss me. “I’ll leave you guys to your evening.” Once I reach the top of the stairs, I chance a glance over my shoulder, finding Bryant’s eyes on me while Bree is talking to him. Bree and Bryant—how easy to merge their names for the headlines. Thank God I’m not looking for a relationship. Even if I were, I’m definitely not looking for one with a NFL quarterback. I have no time for STDs and baby mamas. But damn if only my girlie parts would agree with my head. MR. FULLER IS one scotch away from obliteration, and Mrs. Fuller has probably drunk a few bottles of wine by herself. I sit down next to Felix Fuller, their oldest son, whose eyes are intently fixated on his parents. “Hey, they’re just having fun.” I knock his arm. A slow smile creeps onto his lips when he sees me. “Yeah, well, now, I’ll have to make sure they get home safely.” “I’ll do it if you’d rather leave.” He holds his hand up to a waiter and requests a vodka tonic with a lime. Then, he turns to me. “You need anything, Carly?” I hold my glass of white wine up in the air. “I’m good,” I say directly to the waiter. He leaves us to get the drink. “So, how’s school going?” Felix is a senior at Loyola and is involved in the art community, much to his

dad’s chagrin. He shrugs. “It’s okay. I graduate this year.” His lips reveal every emotion, except for happiness. “Talk to him,” I urge. Planning the Fullers’ trips for the last eight years has given me the opportunity to witness Felix grow from pimply high school teenager to a man who knows what he wants but feels as though there’s no way he can have it. The problem with highly affluent parents who own companies is, they want to hand the reins over to their children. “You know it will be the same, Carly. He’ll never change.” His eyes veer over to his parents and back to me. “He wants me to start interning this year. Says he can’t put me in management until I spend a few months earning my way.” “What does your mom say?” “She stays out of it.” His shoulders shrug again, showing how hopeless he feels. “I got a showcase,” he whispers. I lean closer to hear him better. “What?” He leans over, his lips whispering in my ear. I smile immediately when he tells me an art gallery has shown interest in his paintings, and they want to showcase him. Reaching my arms around his shoulders, I pull him into me, hugging him. “I’m so proud of you.” He draws back, the corners of his lips peeking up into the smallest of smiles with genuine happiness. Now, if only he could tell his parents, and they could actually accept his life’s choice… A clearing of a man’s throat interrupts our celebration. Felix’s vodka tonic is placed in front of him, and then a fruity frozen drink is placed in front of me. “Oh, I didn’t order this,” I say, sliding the glass back to the waiter. “No, the man did.” He nods his head. I follow the direction right into two stealthy blue eyes. “What is it?” Felix asks the waiter. “Sex on the Beach.” The waiter can’t control his lips to hide a Cheshire Cat smile. I shake my head while Felix chuckles lightly. “You mind telling me why Bryant Garrity, quarterback of the Chicago Knights, is sending you Sex on the Beach?” Felix swivels in his chair. “Because he can’t leave well enough alone,” I say, watching him lead Bree by the hand over to our table. Before I have a chance to tell Felix anything else, Bryant holds his hand out to Felix. “Bryant Garrity,” he introduces himself. Felix eyes me, shaking the monstrous hand. “Felix Fuller,” he says. I swear, Bryant’s shoulders lose their stiffness, and his eyes turn casual, glimpsing over to me.

Did he view Felix as a threat? Bree knocks Bryant with her elbow, and Bryant glances down to her, as though he forgot she was with him. “This is Bree Nichols,” he introduces her to Felix with a nod of his head in her direction. “Do you mind if we join you two?” he asks. I’m about to get up when Felix’s hand lands on my knee to keep me seated. While Bryant and Bree slide out chairs, Felix shakes his head. “Talk to him,” he murmurs, raising his eyebrows, throwing back words I just said to him a few minutes ago. I roll my eyes, and Felix laughs, quickly removing his hand once Bryant’s eyes are back on us. “On behalf of my parents, thank you for agreeing to be the charity face this year.” Felix would make a great asset to his parents’ company, but just because he wants to do art doesn’t mean he can’t still be a big part of this organization. “No problem. It’s a charity dear to my heart.” Bryant gives the line every celebrity does when asked to be the spokesperson for a charity. Complete bullshit. “What exactly is the charity for?” Bree asks. I sigh. Bryant’s eyes find mine, but he shows no sign of any emotion. Felix sits up straighter. “It’s for children who have lost a parent.” “Didn’t you see the video?” I ask. Her face turns red, and she eyes Bryant for a second before biting her bottom lip. “No, I missed that. I must have been in the restroom.” A giggle escapes her mouth. I seriously want to throw my Sex on the Beach in her face. Oh my God, what is wrong with me? Why do I care if she was screwing him in the restroom? “Well”—I slide over a card for the foundation with the website on it—“check it out. The organization is amazing.” I glance to Bryant, and his eyes are stone-cold glued to mine, so I look away. “Hey, I think I’m going to go outside for some air. You want to come, Felix?” I ask. His eyes move to his parents. His dad’s balance falters, but he recovers by grabbing a chair, and his mom laughs hysterically. “Nah, I’d better keep watch.” He shoots me a half-smile. “My offer stands,” I say. His smile widens. “I’ll consider it,” he responds. I bend over to hug him. “Congratulations again,” I whisper in his ear. His arms tighten. “You’re the best, Carly.” After we release one another, he looks over to Bryant. “She’s the best,” he tells him. A tight smile creases Bryant’s lips. “I bet.” “Nice to meet you, Bree.” I hold my hand out, and she shakes it. “Have a good

night, Mr. Garrity.” I wave and turn around before either one of them can really convey their good-byes. A waiter walks by with champagne glasses filled to the rims. Thank God the champagne toast is about to start, signaling an end to the night. “Ma’am.” The waitress stops, holding the tray out for me. I grab a glass and down it quickly before placing my empty glass back on the tray. “Thank you.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My lungs are constricting, and I’m not sure I can handle all the jealous emotions traveling through me. In all the years, I’ve never been jealous. Never. So, why am I with some man who probably prides himself on his conquests? I can just imagine him notching his bedpost every time he kicks a woman out of his house the morning after. I push the double doors open, inhaling the fresh air into my lungs before releasing a stream of breath back out. The moon glows from up above, casting a shimmer of light onto the lake in front of me. I place my arms around myself to warm up from the chill spring air as I stare up at a dark sky full of stars. I try to concentrate on anything but the image of him. If only those eyes wouldn’t appear every time I close my eyelids … “What’s your relationship with him?” Bryant asks. His deep voice pulls me away from the serene scenery. I whip around, and he’s shrugging out of his jacket, leaving him looking delectable as the white shirt hints at the perfectly sculpted body underneath. “What?” “You heard me. Are you screwing him?” he asks while placing the jacket over my shoulders. His tone isn’t accusatory, nor is it kind. I should refuse his jacket and stomp it on the ground in true toddler fashion. But who am I kidding? The fact that he’s as jealous of Felix as I am of Bree eases my heart. “It’s none of your business.” I have no idea why I’m playing this game. He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top button of his dress shirt. I imagine my fingers slowly undoing each button until I unleash the shirt from him completely. “I have to know,” he says. “You’ll miss the final toast,” I say, purposely pushing his buttons. He shakes his head, the gelled waves starting to unravel from the night, and I wonder how silky the strands of his dark hair feel. Is it coarse or smooth? “Restroom, huh? How original,” I sneer. An amused expression crosses his face until his eyes grow serious, and his features quiet. Each one of his hands grabs a lapel of his jacket around my shoulders, and he yanks me toward him. His chest is so hard, his energy is so intense, and his eyes are burning with desire.

“She fucked a waiter in the coatroom. She’s only here, so I have someone on my arm,” he says so softly. I wish my heart didn’t open up. “So?” “So, what?” I can’t fight the smile playing on my lips, and he pulls me closer, his hands dropping the lapels as they slide down to my hips. He brings our bodies flush against each other, allowing me to feel his length. “I told him I’d get his parents home, so he could leave,” I admit. A low growl releases from his throat. “So, you’re single?” he asks. “Yes,” I answer. You’d think I just blew up a hundred balloons from how breathless I am. “Good.” He smashes his lips to mine.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CARLY

ryant’s fingers tighten around my hips, and his tongue licks to part my lips. B My arms wrap around his neck, needing to hold something before my knees give

out. I fiddle with the strands of his hair at the base of his neck, confirming it is soft and silky, like I assumed. He ravishes my lips, sneaking his tongue into my wet mouth, and I meet his rhythm immediately. With his hands’ pressure on my hips, he steps us back until a hard pole stops my movements. Breaking any invisible amount of space between us, all I feel is him— the hard ridges of his chest, his thigh pressing between my legs. Needing to find a release, my center grinds against him. He swallows every moan and groan escaping my mouth as his thigh puts more pressure between my legs. Pressing his lips firmer, he doesn’t hold back his urgency to have me. It’s like he’s a vampire that just got his first taste of blood. My fingers claw and grab at him while my right leg winds around his hip. I need more. It’s been so long. My orgasm is starting to rumble inside me, and I’ll never be able to stop where this is going. He breaks the kiss, his hand skimming up my now-weak frame, until his thumb and forefinger grab ahold of my chin. He tilts my head back, and the cool metal of the pole rubs along my cheek while his lips follow the bend of my neck, traveling to my jaw and my ear. “God,” I mumble, my chest pushing out, my body throwing signals for him to take me here and now. He sucks my earlobe into his mouth, his teeth nibbling on the flesh. “Mr. Garrity.” A deep male voice alerts us that we’re not alone. Bryant releases his hand and steps away from my heated skin. I falter to stand up straight, my hands clinging to the pole, as I come back down from the lust my body was ready to relieve. His eyes turn to the man whose eyes are focused on the dark lake behind us. “Jack,” Bryant says, situating his stance. Unable to meet the man’s eyes, I study a lone seagull perched on the anchor monument as it stares over at us. “Miss Nichols is requesting to go home. Shall I come back for you?” the man

asks. I’m half-tempted to tell Bryant to go because what just happened won’t be going further. Aren’t I always doing that though—letting others off the hook for their bad behavior? “Please go ahead. I’ll get a cab,” he says without hesitation. “But, Mr. Garrity, the press will be—” “It will be fine. Thank you, Jack.” He dismisses his driver. Once the doors to the venue shut, Bryant backs me against the pole, and my heart revs like a starting racecar engine. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” he apologizes. I close my eyes, ashamed of myself. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was a mistake.” I sidestep his large frame to escape. His hand wraps around my upper arm, and he swings me around to face him. “I wasn’t alone in that kiss,” he says, bitterness taking over his sweet tone. “No, you weren’t, but you are here with a date.” I move to slide his jacket off, but his hands plant on my shoulders for me to leave it on. “It’s cold,” he says. I nod, allowing his musky scent to fill my senses again. “First off, I told you, it’s not a date. Second, I think we can take the date theory out the window when she fucked a waiter in the coatroom,” he says. There isn’t even a birdseed of affection in his tone. “True.” “I know I skipped a few steps here, but may I escort you home?” he asks. My damn heart pitter-patters again, and before I truly weigh the repercussions, I’m agreeing. “Sure.” We enter the gala and find the waitstaff taking down the tables. Felix is ushering Mr. and Mrs. Fuller out. The place is vacant, except for the staff and us. Slow and romantic music is playing from the speakers, and Bryant’s warm hand finds mine. At the edge of the dance floor, his feet stop. “Dance with me?” he asks. I nibble on the inside of my cheek, shaking my head. That cocky half-smirk emerges on his delectable face, and disregarding my objection, he starts walking backward, pulling me into his arms. Goose bumps rush up my skin when his fingers skim my neck as he removes his jacket from my shoulders and tosses it on a nearby chair. He brings our conjoined hands between our bodies, and his other arm secures me around my waist. It takes two turns of our bodies swaying together for my head to fall on his shoulder. He circles us around the makeshift dance floor with finesse and ease. Does everything come easy to this man? He softly sings the lyrics of “Endless Love” by Lionel Richie into my ear. I’m doubtful the conveyance of love is meant for me, but nonetheless, with the way he fluidly sings the words, this song has meaning to him.

I’m not sure if it’s the whispering of his breath in my ear, the softness of his hands, or the way my head fits just right under his chin, but to leave his arms would feel like a death sentence. He’s slowly winning me over, the more I spend time with him, and all those reasons in my brain for relationships not working are blurring. For the four minutes the song lasts and I’m in his arms, I allow myself to be completely engulfed in Bryant Garrity, an enigma to stereotypes that I haven’t quite figured out. The song fades, and his hands drop from my body, chilling my skin. “Thank you.” I’ve never heard his voice sound so grateful and appreciative. “Thank you. You sing beautifully,” I half-lie. To my ears, anything that comes out of his mouth is beautiful, but others might believe he should keep his career as a quarterback. Stepping over to the chair, he retrieves his jacket and holds it out for me. After my body is swimming in his coat, he takes the time to roll up the sleeves to my wrists. I resemble a five-year-old dressing in my dad’s clothes. “You seem to know the lyrics well,” I say, not expecting a response. He stops us between two tables and glances over to me. “My parents used to dance to it all the time.” I catch the past tense. Divorced. “Where do your parents live?” He leads me by the hand, out of the venue, as the waitstaff tries to act like they aren’t curious as to why two nutjobs were dancing after the event had ended. “My dad lives back east, and…my mom died when I was in high school.” THE CHARMING SIDE of Mr. Garrity who whisked me around the dance floor disappeared once we entered the taxi. He’s not being rude, but it’s evident that his mind is busy thinking about something other than where he is at this moment. After a quiet trip, the taxi idles outside of my apartment building. “Thank you,” I softly urge since Bryant has to slide out before me. He shakes his head and graces me with a smile, as though the fog that he was lost in has just cleared. “Keep it running,” he says to the driver before he opens the door to exit the taxi. From the concrete sidewalk, he holds his hand out, and I discreetly try not to flash him any private parts. I stop outside my front doors. “Thank you for bringing me home.” Instead of maybe a hug or a polite handshake good night, he pulls my building door open. “Did you think I wouldn’t walk you to the door?” His cockiness and arrogance is reappearing, and although I love knowing he’s as human as I am with feelings he can’t ignore, I prefer this side much more. “It’s really not necessary,” I say. But he ignores me, placing his hand on the small of my back.

On the elevator up to my apartment, he turns my way, and lust isn’t filling his eyes, but sincerity is. “I want to apologize. You must think I’m a complete asshole.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks. With my clutch tightly held in my hands in front of me, I shake my head. “Not at all.” Used to. “I want to explain myself.” “No need.” “Please, Carly,” he says. I nod. “In St. Croix, I was worried when my back hit the rocks. It’s no excuse, but I live for my job, and I have to come back this year to claim the ring that evaded me last season. Still, I felt weak, and I don’t like people to see that side of me. Then again, you keep finding out that I’m not the tough football player who never gets spooked.” My heart cracks as I listen to his confession. This man owes me nothing, yet here he is, laying all his cards out on the table. “It’s really okay, Bryant. I’m sure I’d be the same way.” The elevator dings on the fifteenth floor, and I emerge out with him following me. My footsteps rush toward my door because my willpower is waning, and if I don’t secure myself behind the double locks of my apartment, he’s going to sneak through my barriers. “Then, to demand those answers from questions I had no right asking and to kiss you outside like that, I don’t know what to say, except I’m really not like that.” He shakes his head, embarrassed by his actions. His eyes find mine, and a crooked smile shows his comedic side coming back. “That’s not true. I’ve never been one to share.” I place my hand on his forearm, and he steps closer. “Really, Bryant, don’t worry about it.” I stop outside my door and turn to face him. “Can I take you out?” His voice is low, and his solemn face is shy, like that of an adolescent boy asking a girl out for the first time. “Bryant,” I sigh. I would love nothing more than to grab ahold of his tie and drag him through my apartment door, letting him show me exactly how those Heisman Trophy hands work. His eyes lock with mine, surprised almost that my tone indicates he’s being turned down. “It’s not you; it’s me.” I feverishly shake my head when I repeat the words in my head. “I didn’t know you could get that line before going on a date.” His smile says he’s not completely offended that I’m declining a date. “No, no, no. I think you already know how attracted I am to you. That’s

undeniable, but I just don’t…I don’t see this working between us. We could date, but I travel a lot, and you have your schedule. It just wouldn’t work.” He draws closer, and my back hits the door. “That’s a little forward-thinking, don’t you think? I asked for a date, not a lifetime.” He places his one arm above my head, and his face is mere inches away from mine. I hiccup for a breath. “My career choice doesn’t really mix with a relationship.” I continue with keeping the line I’ve drawn between career and relationship firm since Dean. “Something we have in common,” he softly says. “So, you see my point.” He shakes his head, that cocky smirk clearly out and ready to play. “Can I ask you a question?” The back of my head smacks the door as he cages me with his body. I nod. “Did you enjoy the kiss? The dance? Is your body quivering for me to touch you?” My eyes close briefly as I smell his manly cologne. I should start a diet tomorrow because my willpower in this moment is in full gear. “I told you, the attraction between us is there, but—” He places his finger in front of my lips. “Yes, or no?” “Yes.” “It’s a date, Carly, not a ring. I’ll pick you up on Friday at eight.” “I have a trip until Sunday.” “Then, Sunday, it is.” He bends down, and I stupidly assume he’s going to kiss me. I tilt my head up to meet his lips, but at the last minute, he moves, and his lips brush my cheek. “Sweet dreams…about me.” He winks and then places those hands in the pockets of his slacks. He strolls down the hallway, never turning back around. My keys drop to the ground, and I bend down to pick them up when my neighbor, Mrs. Lipton, creaks open her door. “Oh my, Carly,” she whispers. “Better than my romance novels.” My eyes are probably just as dreamy as hers. “Good night, Mrs. Lipton.” I wave to the elderly lady whose eyeballs are constantly glued to her peephole. She waves her cane through the sliver of the opening of her door and then shuts it. The sound of her locking her five locks rings out in the hall as I fiddle with my keys to reach the security of my apartment. Once I’m safely secure inside, I fall onto my couch, hoping this pitter-patter in my heart isn’t what I think it is.

CHAPTER NINE

BRYANT

Saturday night, and I’m at my buddy, Jonathan’s, house for a barbeque. I t’s Kurt’s with us, and he brought his new girlfriend, who turns out to be his baby

mama. “I told you, psychic.” Jonathan taps the side of his head, escaping the house with three beers tucked between his fingers. He places them down, and my eyes instinctively glance to the girl Kurt brought over to the Monroes’ barbeque. She’s a cute redhead, probably mid-twenties, but nice and polite. Watching her play with Trey and Wes, the Monroe twins, suggests she’ll be a good mother. “Fuck me,” Kurt whispers, eyeing me. “Good luck, man, you’re next. Seriously, the day he made the prediction a baby mama would appear in my life, I got the call,” he says as he places his head in his hands, mumbling. I slap his back. “You’ll be a great daddy.” He glances at me through his fingers and sighs. His eyes veer toward his baby mama. “Damn it.” Monica, Jonathan’s wife, steps out of the sliding door with a tray full of guacamole, salsa, and tortilla chips. “What I find funny is that you brought her with you.” Kurt wastes no time, sliding his chair closer to the table and digging in. Monica is known for her cooking ability. One time, she grilled a steak that literally melted in my mouth. I razz Jonathan about the fact that his wife can outgrill him on a consistent basis. She joins us, claiming the seat next to her husband, and his arm lazily moves behind her while his beer rests in his free hand. “What was I supposed to do? Once the paternity test came back positive, she moved in with me.” I feel bad for Kurt. He looks completely lost in life. He’s lucky this happened during the off-season; otherwise, my ass would have been grass. “Moved in?” Monica screeches. She quickly lowers her voice. “Why? It’s too soon. A quick fuck in a hotel room after the Super Bowl doesn’t exactly equate to a relationship. You need to move her back out.”

Monica has served as my and Kurt’s relationship psychologist for the past eight years. Not that I have relationships, but I won’t deny that she hasn’t kicked girls out of my hotel room before. She used to travel with the team before she and Jonathan were blessed with their twin boys. Kurt’s softens his voice to a whisper. “She has nowhere to go. I had no choice.” In turn, Monica keeps her tone in everyday height. She’d have no problem confronting The Hulk. “You signed how big of a contract last year? Put her up in a hotel. Damn, Kurt, buy her a condo. Living with her is never going to work.” Monica shakes her head. Jonathan, the voice of reason, talks next, “I agree with Monica, bro. Damn, just a few weeks ago, when you guys were here, you left early to go meet up with that other girl.” A mischievous smile crosses Kurt’s lips. “It was her.” His head nods to the girl currently hiding under the swing set, playing tag. “I wasn’t ready to tell you yet.” I sit up in my seat, grabbing a chip. As I dip it into the guac, I turn my attention to Kurt. “So, how long have you known you were expecting?” “Roughly a month. Hell, remember that time I dented your hood?” A thunderous storm rumbles in my veins. “How can I forget? You still owe me five hundred for that.” He laughs. “I’m pretty sure a minute of your time on the field paid that off. Anyway, do you remember me getting a call?” “Vaguely.” “That was the call.” “The congratulations-you’re-a-dad call?” Jonathan asks. As much as Kurt is worried he isn’t ready for fatherhood, the proud smile that crosses his face from Jonathan’s words contradicts his statement. I think he’s happier than he’s letting on. “I’m impressed you kept it a secret for so long,” Monica says. Then, she sits up straighter, looking over Kurt’s shoulders. She smiles a fake but always welcoming grin. “Hey, Rachel.” “Hi,” she says. She sheepishly glances to Kurt before taking the seat next to him. The four of them begin talking about names, the due date, and doctor appointments. Kurt glances over to me with exhausted eyes. Even if I believe he wants a family more than he’s portraying, the true question is, Can he handle it? He’s the epitome of a player who must grow up before he’s ready. It’s a shame really. I pull out my phone, realizing Carly never texted me back this morning. After I got her phone number from Keith Fuller, she’s weakened her fight on the topic of us. She’s on a trip, and I’ve texted her every day to remind her that we have a date. Me: Are you at the pool? Carly: No, on a bus from a shopping excursion. Me: I’ve never asked. Are you a shopper?

Carly: I think everyone is a shopper. You have to shop to eat and cloth yourself. Me: Funny. You know what I mean. Are you one of those girls who will drag me from store to store in complete boredom? Carly: Would that get you to stop texting me? Me: Nah. I can shop with the best of them. My specialty is the lingerie store. Carly: Let me guess. You wait outside the dressing room? Me: Looky there. After a week of texting you, you’ve already figured me out. Carly: More like borderline stalking. Me: Don’t deny it. You love my texts. A chip hits my forehead, and I glance up to find Monica’s eyes pinned my way. Actually, all their eyes are pinned on me. “Who ya texting?” Jonathan asks. My thumb shuts the screen off. “No one.” “Bullshit. That cheesy-ass smile on your face says, you’re a liar,” Monica says, grabbing another chip and throwing it at me. “If it gets serious, I’ll let you know.” Jonathan relaxes in his chair, swinging his arm around his wife’s shoulders, with a cocky grin splashed on his face. “You’ll never find out, Monica. We all know, Garrity doesn’t do serious,” Kurt says. “Neither did you.” Jonathan raises his eyebrows and then squares his vision on me. “Psychic. She might be the one.” He raises his dark eyebrows up a few times and then laughs. I’m not sure if he believes in his own psychic ability or if he just made some lucky predictions about us a month ago, and now, one has already come true. Carly: If I did enjoy you stalking me, I’d never admit it. Gotta go. Back at hotel. After I read Carly’s text, I’m afraid Jonathan’s prediction about me could be right because I shouldn’t be enjoying our flirtatious banter as much as I am. I LAZILY WALK into the kitchen, finding Monica washing the dishes. Jonathan’s putting the boys to bed, and Kurt and Rachel are out back by the fire pit. You’d never guess that three football players would be happy to spend their Saturday night at a small barbeque in the middle of the burbs. “That skirt steak was great,” I say, grabbing the wet dish from her hands and placing it in the dishwasher. “Oh, you come to help when I’m on my last dish,” she jokes. Then, she dries her hands with a dish towel I open their cabinet, grab a dishwasher detergent tablet, and start the machine. Yeah, I’m here a lot. “Tell me about her,” she says. I wish the smile didn’t overtake my face from just thinking about Carly. “It’s nothing yet. I’m still trying to get her to go on a date with me.”

I can’t bullshit Monica because she knows everything about me, including my telltale signs when I’m lying. “I like her already.” Her deep dimples show that she’s not serious. I lean against the counter, my eyes finding my bare feet on their wooden floor. I study the wood grain instead of meeting her eyes. “Oh my God, you like her.” She throws the dish towel at me. I lift my head before tossing it back in defeat. “I hate to admit it, but I do.” She slaps the granite countertop and points to me. Then, she rushes over and throws her arms around my neck. “I knew you’d find someone one day, and once you did, she’d make you work for it, but then you’d live happily ever after.” She sways in my arms as I stand as firm as a tree trunk in a storm. “I don’t do relationships, Mon. You know that.” She draws back. “Sit.” She eyes the barstool on the other side of the countertop. “That’s complete crap, Bryant. If you like her, what would stop you?” “The fact that, other than you and Jonathan, relationships in the NFL don’t work.” She points out the doors to the patio, toward Kurt and Rachel. “Those two look cozy.” I laugh, albeit an empty one. “Cozy doesn’t mean happy. Especially in the forever sense.” Pulling a few cups down from the cabinet, she fills them with coffee and grabs the Kahlúa bottle. “There are plenty of relationships that work. I think you’re using that as an excuse, Bry.” She slides a cup my way. I politely decline the Kahlua. I shrug. “She’s fun, but I doubt it will get any further.” Jonathan comes down and wraps his arms around his wife’s middle, kissing her neck. “Kids are asleep, so let’s kick these assholes out of the house, and I’ll put you to bed,” he says. She giggles like a damn schoolgirl, which is hard to imagine on a woman I’m more afraid of than most linemen. “Be polite,” she says. But I stand to my feet. “I should get going anyway.” “I was joking, man. If you want to just chill down here a bit, we’ll be right back.” Monica swats at her husband’s stomach. He bellows out a chuckle. “I’m kidding.” I wave him off. “It’s okay. I have a workout tomorrow morning anyway.” “It’s Sunday, bro,” Jonathan says, walking me to the front door with Monica’s hand in his. “I finally have the okay again. Training camp is in what? Two months?” The wide receiver at the top of his game shrugs and nods. He’d be doing the same if it were his ACL that had torn. “Don’t overdo it too much. I’m looking forward to a rematch on Madden this

year, and I need your ass to be there.” Last year in training camp, Jonathan and I spent most of our off time in front of that gaming station, developing our players. Since he was the one picked to be on the cover of the game last year, it was always his game of choice. Too bad I kicked his ass. “Maybe next year, I’ll get the cover,” I joke. I place my hand out for him, and he shakes it. “After our Super Bowl win, you might get the cover—unless they want to do another one of me.” His wide smile shows he’s joking, but I can’t ignore the pang that I might not make it back to the game, much less lead us to the Super Bowl. I have the drive to lead the Knights, but my body has to cooperate. “The Super Bowl isn’t everything.” Monica raises one eyebrow my way, and I hear her subtle hint. As she lets go of Jonathan’s hand, I step in to hug Monica. “Thanks for everything. One of these days, I’ll repay you guys for all the dinners.” She tightens her arms around me. “She could cook for us,” she whispers. Then, she falls back down to the heels of her feet, trying to hide her smile. “Will you ever stop pushing?” “Never.” Jonathan looks between us. “I think I’m in the dark here.” Monica laughs. “Just a secret between me and your quarterback.” She winks, and I backstep out the door. “See you guys. Tell Kurt and Rachel I said good-bye. I didn’t want to interrupt their romantic moment.” Jonathan shakes his head and rolls his eyes before waving me off. BY THE TIME I’m back at my condo, my phone is burning in my pocket. I really want to text Carly again. Ignoring that urge, I sit on my couch, rest my feet on my coffee table, and turn on the television. After five minutes, I’m bored. When did I become bored with sitting by myself? My phone still hasn’t lit up with a text from her. I should really play hard to get. Fight this a little more than I have been, but damn if I don’t want Carly. If someone had asked me to fill out a questionnaire about my type, Carly maybe would have hit five out of ten things I wanted. After the gala, the way her body fit so perfectly in my arms, she was ten out of ten for me. Fuck, what am I waiting for? Me: I’m picking you up from the airport tomorrow. No objections. Email me your flight info. The three dots appear, and I wait for her response. Carly: Are you always this bossy? Me: Yes.

Carly: What’s the magic word? Me: Please. Carly: Sure. What’s your email? Me: [email protected] Carly: Interesting. Me: Don’t judge. That’s my personal. You’re privileged to have it. Carly: How much do you think I’d get for your personal email? Me: Funny. Carly: There was this purse I saw today… Me: I’ll buy you the purse. Carly: Email sent. See you tomorrow night, Bry. I don’t respond, and a second later, my phone beeps, alerting me to a new email. After I toss my phone on the cushion next to me, my mind wanders, thinking of a million things to do with her and not one of them is claiming her in my bed. That might be a little bit of an exaggeration, but she’s the first woman I’ve wanted to do things with outside of the bedroom in a really long time. Fuck me, I’m screwed.

CHAPTER TEN

CARLY

going through customs when my phone dings in my purse. Knowing exactly I ’m who it is, I ignore it until the kind customs officer hands my passport back to

me. My skin feels gritty, and my clothes are dirty after an unexpected layover that delayed my flight by three hours. Finally, I wheel my suitcase to the next stage of customs, but before I go through the X-ray machine, I pull my phone out. Bryant: I’m the one with the sign and a smile. I roll my eyes in a pretending-to-be-annoyed fashion. This man has been courting me this entire trip with random texts. Every time his name popped up on my phone, I wish it didn’t make me smile like I was just crowned Miss America. Me: Be prepared. I look like shit. Bryant: Impossible. A family of six slows everything down, and since it is so late, they don’t have the manpower to open more lanes. Me: It’s going to be forever. Bryant: I’ll wait a lifetime. Me: Aren’t you a sweet-talker? Bryant: The last romantic male. Me: Ha. I’m not sure how romantic it was when you pushed me against the pole. Bryant: Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it. There’s a time for romance and a time for seduction. Me: And tonight is? Bryant: Ladies’ choice. I laugh, and the businessman behind me glances over. Me: I could use a long bath and a massage tonight. What category does that fall into? Bryant: Depends. Am I invited into the bath? He even includes a winky face emoji. Me: Not yet. Hands to yourself. Bryant: (Sad face emoji.) These hands are magic. (Hands emoji.) Me: And, let me guess, you could get me to orgasm with one finger?

Bryant: Dirty girl. (Shocked face emoji.) You thought it first. (Pointed finger emoji.) I’m shaking my head, my fingers poised to fire another text to him. “Miss!” the customs agent yells. The man behind me taps my shoulder. “Sorry.” I grab my bag. “So sorry.” I hustle over, putting my suitcase on the conveyor. I breeze right through the X-ray machine and push through the double doors to find a sign that says, Miss Carly Lincoln. Bryant has a limo driver hat on with a black suit, like he’s actually my chauffeur. When I walk up to him, he quickly removes my bag from my hand, and we stand in front of one another, not as comfortable as we were in our texts. “Hey,” I say, my eyes stray everywhere but on him. “You look beautiful.” I roll my eyes, and my hand smooths out my bumpy ponytail. “No need to sweet-talk.” “That’s not sweet-talk, but if you want me to sweet-talk—” I hold up my hand in the air, noticing a few heads turning our way. Bryant must notice, too, because he tips the driver cap down over his eyes and swings his arm over my shoulders. Then, we walk out of the doors, right to a limo waiting outside. Bryant hands the hat to the driver while I slide inside. After Bryant joins me in the back and the door is shut, I spot a few people pointing and talking to one another before a boy runs up to the car. His mother is right behind him, trying to grab ahold of him. He knocks on the window before the mom grips his arm to pull him away. “Sorry, hold on.” Bryant rolls the window down. The boy’s eyes widen so big, you’d think he was staring at an alien ship descending to Earth. “Bryant Garrity?” he asks a question he certainly knows the answer to. “No, Jake. I’m so sorry,” his mother says, trying to drag the boy from the curb. Bryant holds his hand in the air. “It’s okay. How old are you, Jake?” The kid stares at Bryant, unable to speak. His mother nudges him, but his mouth is hanging open. “He’s seven,” his mother says. “He wants to be like you when he’s older.” Bryant grabs his ball cap lying in the backseat, picks up a Sharpie from a cup, and signs his name on it before handing it through the window to the little boy. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” the mother says, shaking her head. Bryant doesn’t retract his hand. “I wish I had something else, but this is all I have,” he tells the boy, whose shaky hand tightens ahold of the hat. “Thank you. Say thank you, Jake,” she says. “Thank you,” he mumbles, his eyes still locked on Bryant. “You’re welcome. Enjoy the game, and work hard. That’s all you have to do to be

sitting where I am in twenty years.” Jake’s head bobbles up and down, and his mother smiles. “Thank you again, Mr. Garrity.” She pulls her son from the curb, and Jake follows this time. “Have a great night,” Bryant says. Just as I see another group of people coming, he rolls up the window and instructs the driver to go. He was so sweet to the boy but quickly leaves the others. “I hate leaving fans, but one had a camera.” He shoots me a tight smile. I try not to feel offended that he wouldn’t want a picture with me in it. No, that can’t be the reason, right? Damn my low self-confidence for playing tricks on me. “Oh, yeah, wouldn’t want to be on the front-page news tomorrow,” I joke. He turns to me, and his one hand lands on my cheek. “I like my life to be private —at least, as much as it can be.” I nod, unable to come back with an answer. “Where are we going?” I ask to change the subject to anything but my insecurity that I’m not pretty enough for him. He isn’t the high school jock, and I’m not the nerdy girl in science club. “Well, funny you ask. I had this whole date planned to be the best date, so you couldn’t refuse a second one, but after your message and unexpected layover, I changed plans, and I hope it’s okay.” Have I mentioned how much I love when he goes on and on, as though he’s as nervous as I am? “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “No. I think you’ll like this date much better.” “Okay. So…” “Instead of a five-star restaurant where you get a cupful of food, I thought I’d cook for you. Instead of you sitting in a stiff chair, I thought you’d be on my couch. Instead of continuing to be uncomfortable in your clothes, I thought you’d take a bath in my tub.” “Bryant—” He holds up his hand. “By yourself. You’ll take a bath while I cook dinner, and we’ll eat while we Netflix and chill.” “You do mean, just watch Netflix and eat, right?” “Dirty mind. Why, of course. Unless you wanted to pretend to Netflix and chill.” He bumps his shoulder into me. I wrap my arm around his shoulder, planting a kiss on his cheek. “It sounds amazing.” He presses the button, and the partition comes down. “Forget Alinea. Go to my condo, please.” “Yes, Mr. Garrity,” the driver says. And the partition secludes us again.

THE LIMO PULLS AWAY from the parking garage, and we ride the elevator up his condo building to the eighty-third floor. His strong, callous hand is wrapped around my own the entire ride up. I doubt my decision to come here with him. I’m really testing my willpower. Once the elevator stops, he leads me to his condo and opens the door. “Make yourself at home,” he says, holding the door open, waiting for me to walk through first. The first thing I notice is the view of the city lit up at night. The entire living room is a window, viewing three different directions of the city, including the lake. “It’s beautiful,” I say. I hear him in the kitchen. When I turn around, he’s opening a bottle of white wine with one glass out on the counter. He smiles at me, as though he’s happy that I’m impressed. Who wouldn’t be though? My small one-bedroom in the middle of Lake View is embarrassing after seeing where he lives up close and personal. “It’s home,” he says, pouring a glass of wine. He rounds the countertop, handing me the chilled glass. “Give me a second, okay?” He shrugs off his jacket as he disappears through another set of doors to my right. I sit on the couch, glancing through his magazines, not sure if I should make myself at home just yet. As I thumb through a Men’s Fitness magazine, he reappears with a pair of jeans and a T-shirt replacing the suit. His bare feet stop right in front of me, and he holds his hand out to me. “If I’d known you’d be coming here, I would have gotten bubbles or rose petals. And I have no feminine products, so you’ll have to smell like me.” “Oh, that’s okay.” I let go of his hand and rush over to the door for my bag. “I have my stuff.” “Perfect,” he says. I ignore the elation in my stomach that he doesn’t have a drawer filled with travel-size women’s toiletries for his overnight guests. Again, he takes the suitcase from my hand with one hand and holds my hand with his other. We enter what I’m guessing is his bedroom. A huge king-size bed with a dark gray comforter fills the dark painted room. You’d think he was a vampire if it wasn’t for the floor to ceiling windows. The water is pouring into the tub as he places my suitcase on a nearby chair in the corner. “Make yourself comfortable, and enjoy. I’ll go make some dinner for us.” “You mean, order takeout?” I joke. He shakes his head. Breaking the distance and coming back to me, he grasps the hem of my shirt, pulling me toward him. I willingly go, my hands stopping on his bulging biceps. “There you go, making those assumptions again.” His eyes hold a glint of

amusement as he releases my shirt and glances down at my breasts. “Go take a bath before I eat something else.” His hands land on my hips, and he swivels me around, lightly pushing me toward the bathroom door. A half hour later, I emerge from the serenity of the warm water. Grabbing a towel he left out for me, I wrap it around myself and unzip my bag for lotion. When I open my suitcase, I notice, in the haste of my packing, my lotion has exploded all over my suitcase. I pick up the unused plastic bag the lotion should have been in, and my head falls back in defeat. Life, please give me a break. Each piece of clothing is worse than the others, the further I search. I quickly realize I’m squatting on his bedroom floor, naked, with a towel as my only option. The thought of putting on the clothes I wore today disgusts me with the numerous germs and God knows what else from traveling. I bite the corner of my lip, my eyes lingering to Bryant’s chest of drawers. Too forward? Too soon? I mean, after a few flirting texts and one knee-weakening kiss, no way. Maybe I should ask? But that would mean he’d see me in a towel with nothing underneath. Wearing his clothes has to be the better of two options. I tiptoe over to the drawers, but before I reach them, my eye catches a stack of clothes on the edge of the bed. Oh, boy, I’m in trouble. I WALK out of his bedroom and peek around the corner of the hallway to find Bryant singing along to the radio as he shuffles back and forth between the stove and the cutting board. Crap. I look down at myself in his white boxer briefs and oversized Chicago Knights T-shirt that I tied into a knot behind my back. I am not the seducer this outfit reflects, and if he thinks I am, I’m going to appear to be a tease. The more important question is, Will I turn him down? Oh, I wish my inside voice could go on mute for a few minutes while I navigate this uncharted territory. Oh, how I miss my glass of white wine while watching The Bachelor. Here, I’m with a bachelor whom most would be scheming and backstabbing for, and I’m hiding behind a wall. “You going to join me tonight?” Bryant asks. My entire body floods with heat. I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath, and step into his view. I realize I was so obsessed with my neurotic thoughts that it never occurred to me how Bryant would look as his eyes raked over my body. The wooden spoon droops from his grip as his eyes bug out. His searing vision ignites my already flushed body into flames. “Whoa,” he murmurs, inhaling a breath. I scurry over to the breakfast counter and slide into a chair to hide myself from

his view. His fist on the spoon strengthens back up, and he gathers his emotions, most likely noticing I’m timid. Well, at least he knows I’m not into that whole seduction-catwalk thing. “I figured you had no clean clothes.” He nods to his shirt covering my body. “I didn’t, and to top it off, my lotion exploded over everything. Thank you for the clothes.” His eyes flare slightly. “Seeing you in my clothes, I should be thanking you.” Unable to continue this line of thinking unless I want to be twinsies with the tomato on his counter, I divert and ask, “What are you making?” My hands clasp together in my lap. His head peeks over his shoulder. “Salmon with wild rice.” Before I can catch his eye, he concentrates on the pan, and he adjusts his stance. That little bit of exhilaration flutters in my stomach, knowing I aroused him. “Sounds good.” He turns off the burner of the stove and swivels around, plating the two dishes in front of him. Once they’re ready to go, he digs into a drawer, retrieving two forks. “Sorry, I’m on a restricted diet right now.” “Oh, I’m game for salmon.” I wave off his excuse because, truth is, I need healthy. “Can you come here?” he asks as he holds his arm out for me. I nibble on the inside of my cheek and shake my head. “Please,” he says. I slide out of my chair, rounding the counter. Each step, I’m more terrified than the last, as his eyes hold mine. Even when I reach him, his eyes never falter from my face. His hand reaches forward, cupping my cheek. “Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asks. I lean into the strength of his hand. “No. I just don’t…I mean, this isn’t…I’m a plain Jane.” My cheeks heat once more. He shakes his head. “You definitely are not like any plain Jane I’ve ever met. More like the centerfold of Maxim.” I bite my lip. His free hand cups my other cheek, and he controls my head from a shake to a nod. “Bryant,” I sigh. But, before I can argue further, he smashes his lips to mine. My stomach somersaults when he gently skates his tongue into my mouth, nudging me backward until my back hits the counter. His hands leave my cheeks, grazing a path of goose bumps down my sides, until his fingers dig into my hips, and he props me up onto the counter. While my legs hang from the countertop, his fingers graze my inner thighs, easing them open to make room for him. The taste of dill dims, the longer his tongue mingles with mine. Almost as though he knows words aren’t enough to change my self-esteem, in those two minutes of heaven with his firm lips and urgent tongue, he makes sure I

feel how beautiful I am. Somewhere between our groans and moans, he transforms me from the shy wallflower girl to the head cheerleader whom everyone envies as she walks down the hall in high school. He pours his want for me, and I release a whimper as he slows his lips. That wasn’t a kiss; it was a declaration. “Dinner?” he asks. Damn him and the pitter-patter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CARLY

my eyes open, noticing the dark room. Bryant. The last thing I remember I blink is lying on the couch as he massaged my feet while a movie played on the

television. My leg slides on the soft sheets. Seriously, these must be like one million thread count. They’re so silky, they’re so smooth, they’re so…hairy. “Ah!” I move my leg, trying to escape the sheets that have entwined around my ankle. Catapulting to the floor with a thud, I jump up to my feet, prepared for battle. While my fists are in front of my face, the mound under the covers begins coming toward me, and I walk backward until my back hits the wall. My throat starts closing up, the closer the hairy thing comes to the edge. Just when I’m about to lock myself in the bathroom, a nose and two eyes peek out from the edge of the comforter at the exact time Bryant busts into the room. Seeing it’s a dog and not some non-animal mutant ready to eat my flesh, I relax my shoulders, and Bryant starts laughing hysterically, shutting the door behind him and locking it. Does he have some type of sick sex game he wants to play with me and a dog? He ventures over to the bed, a golden-colored dog escaping from the covers. His face sniffs Bryant’s face as he pets its head. “Laces, meet Carly. Carly meet my dog, Laces,” he does the introductions. I join the two of them on the bed. “Where was he last night?” I ask, my own hand petting the soft fur. Laces grants me all of his attention, putting his butt in Bryant’s face. “Traitor, Laces,” he says, moving around the big dog to the other side of me. The bed dips, and I smell what must be his morning scent with a mix of bacon. “Laces, down.” He snaps his fingers. The dog jumps off the bed and onto the floor, straight into a sitting position. Then, Bryant turns his attention to me, and those glimmering eyes from last night have turned dark and cloudy. “What’s wrong?” I ask, my hand lands on his thigh. To his already jean-covered thigh. I glance at the clock. “I slept until eleven!” I screech. Laces barks. Bryant snaps his fingers, and the dog lies down. “I figured you needed it after the trip,” he says.

At least I wasn’t due to be in the office today. “I guess so. Where did you sleep?” I notice the covers are completely tucked in on the other side of the bed. His blue eyes turn flirtatious. “You don’t remember?” “Bryant, I think I’d know if you were next to me.” “Because you wouldn’t have been able to keep your hands off me.” True. “You wouldn’t have been able to keep your hands off me,” I say. “You’re right about that.” He laughs. “I slept in the guest room.” “Oh, Bryant, why?” He shrugs, and his eyes fall to Laces. “You fell asleep during the movie, and I wanted you in my bed.” I bounce on the comfortable mattress that I might be able to sleep in forever. “Thank you. I had a great night’s sleep.” His forehead falls to mine, and his hand grips the back of my neck. I prepare for another mouth-watering kiss, like the one he gave me last night before dinner. Seriously, the man might be able to make me orgasm strictly by kissing because he’s that talented. “Don’t freak out,” he whispers. I draw back, and he releases his forehead from mine but with his hand still gripping hard. “You don’t tell someone not to freak out, Bryant. That makes them freak out!” My pulse starts racing as I imagine the possible scenarios. He still hasn’t told me where Laces came from. He chuckles before his face transforms to somber. “My dad is here.” Oh. My. God. Bryant’s dad, the retired NFL quarterback, who was just inducted into the Hall of Fame last year, is outside this bedroom, and I’m wearing his son’s clothes. “What’s the plan?” I ask. “Plan?” he questions, like we shouldn’t be in panic mode on how to get me out of here. My eyes frantically shift in the direction of the windows. Not like I would walk out on the ledge of the eighty-third floor. “I know. You distract him, and I’ll sneak out. Or you can take him to lunch, and I’ll lock up when I leave. I’ll gladly just stay in your room until he has somewhere to go.” My hands are moving a mile a minute, and Bryant grabs them and clasps them with his in his lap. “None of that. You can meet my dad.” “May I remind you, I have no clothes?” He eyes a bag on the dresser under the mounted big screen television. “I ran out and grabbed you some things. I hope that’s okay.” If I was embarrassed last night, this might just top my level. I’m unsure of what

Bryant and I are, and he wants me to meet his dad after I slept in his bed. Sure, nothing happened, but his dad won’t think that. “Hey, relax.” He pulls me into his arms for a hug, and that was the wrong move. The minute his musky scent kidnaps every one of my senses, it’s over. I’ll be meeting Mr. Garrity, the pro athlete who will think I’m some one-night fun his son had last night. Great. Just great. I SHOWER AND dress in the clothes Bryant picked up for me. Surprisingly, they fit for the most part. Well, the T-shirt is a little snug, but he could have done that on purpose. The shame was that he actually bought me a bra and underwear—a red lacy bra and underwear. How pathetic am I? I glance down at my suitcase, finding all my clothes missing, and my toiletries bag is sitting by its lonesome. My stomach drops as I suspect he’s washing my clothes somewhere in this condo. Who am I kidding? Bryant Garrity doesn’t wash his clothes like a normal man. He probably sent them out. I honestly think I could shrivel up and die of embarrassment. I emerge with my wet hair braided to the side and some mascara and eyeliner on. I need another one of Bryant’s transforming kisses right about now because I couldn’t be a plainer Jane. The two deep voices talking to one another in the kitchen sound remarkably similar, and my stomach gnaws with a feeling of nausea. I plaster on the fakest smile I can muster and enter the kitchen area with false bravado. “Here she is,” Bryant says, rounding the counter to greet me. He entwines our hands like we’re a couple and he planned a meet-and-greet with his father this morning. “Hello,” I say, raising my other hand in the air in a wave. His dad pulls his head out of the fridge, placing his can of soda down on the counter. I become unnerved as his eyes work over my body. Not in a creepy way, but just this is-this-who-my-son-is-bringing-home way. When he reaches my eyes, he shoots me a tight smile. “Nice to meet you, Miss Lincoln.” He cracks open his soda can without another word or look my way. “Please, call me Carly. It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Garrity.” He doesn’t ask me to call him anything else, but Bryant interrupts, “Call dad Ted.” His dad glances over his shoulder as he grabs a cup from the cabinet. I think a window must be open from the chill in the room. I let Bryant lead me to the breakfast barstool. He pulls it out and slides it back in. Then, he rounds around the counter to the stove. There’s bacon already on the counter along with pancakes, and then he comes over, stirring a small whisk in a saucepan and pouring it into a glass container.

“Did you just make your own maple syrup?” I ask, disbelief in my voice and on my face. He beams a smile at me and then concentrates on his syrup. “Yeah. My mom’s recipe.” He glances to his dad, whose scowl briefly lightens for a moment before returning. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had homemade syrup.” I rise to my knees, and he holds out the whisk for me to lick. From the corner of my eye, I see his dad’s intent stare our way, so I fall back on my bottom. “Don’t be shy. The way you pushed the salmon and dill dip around last night, you have to be starving.” I try to eye his dad and nonverbally communicate with Bryant how uncomfortable this situation is. I know it’s his dad, but I just met the man after making the walk of shame from his bedroom. Bryant, in sync with my telepathic communication, doesn’t push the topic any further, and he places the whisk back in the pan, setting it on the stove. “Dad, you going to eat?” Bryant asks, fixing a plate for himself. Ted grabs the newspaper from the counter and pats his leg. Laces barrels into the room and slides on the hardwood floors. “I’m just going to read the paper with my drink. We got in early this morning.” Ted sits on the couch and turns on the television to a talk show, opening the paper. Laces jumps up, snuggling at his side. I lean in to Bryant. “I don’t think he likes me.” He waves me off, shaking his head. “He’s just grumpy from the travel. Always gets like that.” I sense that Bryant is wrong, but he would know better. But, if I brought Bryant home with me, my parents would be bringing him plate after plate of food and making him feel as comfortable as possible. Then again, if he walked out of my bedroom, they might not be that welcoming. Bryant has a point, and I mentally check that, next time, I’ll make a much better impression. Bryant sets the plate he was preparing in front of me, pouring syrup over the pancakes. I glance at his empty spot with only a bottle of water. “You’re not eating,” I murmur. “I already ate. Plus, remember”—he pats his stomach—“restricted diet.” Suddenly, the mouth-watering pancakes and syrup don’t look as appealing. I glance at the plate and back to Bryant, who’s eyes are fixated on me, waiting for my reaction to his cooking. For a confident man, he sure is insecure about his cooking. He must have asked me about the food ten times last night. I loved it. I was just exhausted. “You don’t want to be the only one eating?” He clues in on my hesitation. “It feels odd,” I say softly to keep his dad from hearing. Bryant grabs a fork, cuts a section of pancakes with syrup dripping off the side, and shoves the forkful into his mouth.

“Your diet,” I say. Chewing for a while, he eventually swallows. “I’ll run an extra five minutes for that.” He smiles, taking the fork and cutting off a smaller size this time. I’m so busy watching his forearms flex as he does such a minute task that I don’t realize he’s waiting for me to open my mouth. Again, my eyes veer to the back of his dad’s head. My lips cover the fork, and holy goodness, butter and sweetness zing over my tongue. I stare down at this pancake concoction of Bryant’s, and I could definitely engulf the entire plate. “Sweet Jesus. When you retire, do you plan on opening a restaurant?” He chuckles, cutting another piece and placing it in front of my mouth. Once I swallow it, I say, “I can feed myself.” One of his shoulders lifts. “I kind of like feeding you,” he whispers. That flippin’ pitter-patter in my heart takes flight. Damn him. Bryant and I spend the next fifteen minutes sharing a too-intimate breakfast with his dad in the next room. I hop off the stool to help Bryant with the dishes, but he hip-checks me. “Go relax. I got this.” I lean with my back to the cabinets, staring up at him. He has light stubble on his cheeks, and I wonder how that would feel between my legs. Makes an already drool-worthy face more gorgeous. I pinch the little amount of skin I can grab ahold of on his arm, and he retracts to the side a few steps. “What was that for?” I giggle at his girlie reaction. The man gets pummeled by three-hundred-pound guys, but one small pinch, and he’s screeching. “Just making sure I didn’t conjure you up in my mind somewhere.” He winks and leans down to my ear. “I’m all human male. Very, very, male.” He shoots a direct zing right between my legs. His lips press to my cheek, and then he eyes the other room with his dad. I want to fight it like a pouting toddler. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. Don’t make me. But I’m twenty-nine and that whole adult behavior thing flickers to mind. The minute my butt sits in the love seat adjacent to the couch, Laces hops onto my lap. “Laces.” Ted snaps his fingers, but Laces doesn’t listen. “It’s okay.” My hands pet their family dog, who settles down next to me, rolling over onto his back. Ted’s eyes stay glued to his newspaper, and finding the television show not very interesting, I clear my throat. This earns me a fold of the paper and a perusal from over his reading glasses.

“I just wanted to say, I’m sorry you met me under these circumstances. I’m a travel agent, and I was hosting a trip. My flight got in late, and Bryant brought me —” He holds his hand up in the air, resulting in his newspaper falling onto his lap. “It’s quite all right, Carly. You’re not the first girl who’s walked out of that bedroom door when I make a surprise visit.” Direct hit in the jugular. “Of course, it was a first that Bryant didn’t emerge with his date.” Second hit—this one in the damn boob. “Well, that should make me look a little better,” I counter. That means we didn’t sleep together, which should be a good thing. “Or more dispensable.” Sucker punch. “Well, I think I’ll just grab my stuff and get going. It was really nice meeting you.” He nods, straightening his newspaper out in front of him, never giving me an acknowledgment. Laces tries to follow me, but Ted snaps his fingers, and this time, he listens, jumping onto the couch next to his master.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BRYANT

he last dish is in the dishwasher, and I turn toward the living room, finding T my dad and Laces. No Carly.

My bare feet pad across my hardwood floor, toward my bedroom. The door is open, and Carly is kneeling on the floor, zipping up her suitcase—a very empty suitcase. “Hey,” I say, leaning on the doorframe. She looks adorable in the yoga pants and T-shirt I bought for her. Good thing Nike is a block away. I thought about jeans, but damn if I wanted to offend her by attempting to figure out her size, especially this early in the game. “Do you know where my clothes are?” she asks, never granting me her eyes. I step into the room, and the door clicks shut behind me. This earns me her attention. I fall to my knees at her side and place my hand on her frantic ones. “What’s going on?” She shakes her head, forcing a smile. “Nothing. I just forgot I have to go into the office. Recap the trip, and turn in my expenses.” In the short time I’ve known her, I’ve figured out when she’s anxious. She tugs lightly on the back of her neck. “Carly,” I say. She stands up to her feet, moving into my bathroom. “Did you wash my clothes? That really wasn’t necessary.” She’s tossing her makeup into a bag as I watch her through the mirror, waiting for her to meet my eyes. “I did. They’ll be back this afternoon.” “You sent them out?” She throws her hands up in the air. “Of course you did. Because you’re Bryant Garrity, and you don’t do your own laundry.” “Actually, I do, but I was unsure if you’d want me to do yours.” The smile spread on my lips cannot turn down. I like her frazzled and edgy. She nods and then goes back to her rant. “Gentleman. Always the gentleman. You bring me here, leave clothes out for me, make me dinner, sleep in another room, wash my ruined clothes. Fucking Prince Charming.”

Her voice is losing that attractive damsel-in-distress tone. She’s disgusted by my chivalry. “Would you rather me be the villain?” I ask her. She whips around with her makeup bag clutched in her fist. “No. It’s just…this is just all”—she peers around, as though I should understand—“too much. You are too much.” I draw back, and she steps forward, but I widen my stance in front of the doorway. “I’m too much? I’ve treated you like a damn princess these past two days. What could I have possibly done wrong?” I cross my arms over my chest, and she glances at my biceps and plops down on the edge of the tub. She appears spent, as though all her energy has been drained. The makeup bag falls to the floor, and she buries her head in her hands. Unwilling to let her be upset, I sink to my knees and urge her to look at me. “What am I missing, Carly?” She looks at me, long and deep. Her whiskey-colored eyes search for something in mine. I allow her the time to find it, but I’m not prepared for her question. “I thought you didn’t do relationships?” she asks. “I don’t.” “We didn’t hook up last night. You actually took care of me, like a boyfriend would with a girlfriend.” I blow out a breath and rise to my feet to sit next to her on the tub. “It’s complicated.” “Believe me, Bryant, I’m this close to getting a promotion, and I don’t want to screw it up with a relationship interference.” She swivels and looks over to me. I’m not sure what we’re doing. Or what I was doing. For the first time, I was doing what I felt instead of what I planned. “I like you, Carly,” I declare, foolishly hoping she says the same. “I like you, too, Bryant. I mean”—her hands move down my body in the air —“you’re perfect. Who wouldn’t?” “But?” “But my boss is about to retire, and I want his position. I’m not sure I have any time for a relationship. Between my sister’s wedding and my traveling, I’ll never be around.” “Good thing you’d be dating me because I’m just as busy. Plus, I’ll be leaving for training camp at the end of July.” Am I really entertaining having a relationship? One where we’ll spend hardly any time together? “You want to date me?” She sounds like it’s the most unbelievable concept. For some reason, that only makes me want to date her more. I run my hands through my hair, stalling. Turning toward her, I hold the warmth of her hands in mine. “I do.”

“You’re crazy,” she says. I half-believe her. I haven’t dated someone since college. “About you.” She shakes her head, but the smile that encompasses her entire face is enough to make me say another cheesy line. “Cheese,” she says. I unwrap my hands from her hold and knock my forehead against hers. “I can’t promise anything. I’m not sure how good I’ll be at this dating thing.” “Me either,” she whispers. I bend my head, my lips meeting hers. On the edge of a tub, I kiss a girl, hoping I won’t fuck it up. BY THE TIME I return from dropping Carly off, my dad is waiting in the lobby, ready for dinner. We end up at the famous pizza restaurant my dad insists on eating at during each visit. He’s already on my case before we’re seated in a booth in the back. “You need to take this seriously, Bry.” He picks up the menu, as though he’s actually going to order something different than the sausage and mushroom pan. I throw my head back in exhaustion. “I work out six days a week, my diet is right on point, and I’m working my ass off. What do you want from me?” I slam the menu down on the table as soon as the waitress comes over. She looks me over, her smile growing wider and wider. “I’m Cami. What can I get you?” My dad orders first. “Hey, Cami. I’ll have a ginger and scotch, a personal pan with sausage and mushroom.” She turns to me, jutting out her breasts. Typical response when a girl meets me. “I’ll have a salad with chicken. Light Italian dressing. Club soda with a lime.” I want to smile at my dad and say, See, my diet? She picks up our menus and scurries off, already whispering to another waitress. That waitress glances over her shoulder and then whispers back before Cami disappears. I catch sight of a guy sitting by himself a few booths away. He’s got a pan pizza with a beer in front of him. How I wouldn’t mind being that guy for five minutes. “You don’t need the distraction of a girl.” My dad pulls me back into this bullshit of a conversation. “Aren’t you the same one always telling me how much my mom would be upset that I’m not settling down?” I lean back on the wooden bench, widening both my eyes at him. “That was before you blew your knee. If you want a ring, you just can’t, Bry.” I look around and then down to myself. “Did I just emerge from some time warp where you can dictate what I do?” “She’s only out for herself. I’ve met thousands of versions like her before. Sure, she’s sweet now, but before you know it, she’s pregnant, and you’re in the

courtroom, giving all your money away.” He takes off his reading glasses, folding them up and placing them in the front pocket of his shirt. “You talked to her for what? Not even five minutes. You didn’t like her before you even knew her.” My entire life, my dad has wanted control of my life, and shame on me for letting him have it. Maybe because I felt bad after my mom died and he needed something to do, I allowed him to manage my career and negotiate my salary. It’s worked for us, but I sense we might be coming to blows here if this is how he’s going to be. “Any girl who spends the night isn’t worth your time, Bry.” The heat spikes in my veins. “I don’t want to talk about it, but I’m going to date her. End of story.” Cami sets our drinks down, and I squeeze the lime in, feeling my dad’s eyes burning into my head. The ice jiggles in his glass when he moves to take a sip. “You’ll regret it if you blow this.” “Yeah,” I say, talking about the complete opposite thing my dad is. “Hey!” Kurt walks in, minus his new girlfriend. Grabbing a chair, he sits at the end of our booth, taking up the entire space. My dad instantly holds his hand out to him, a pleasant smile on his face. The smile he should have had for Carly this morning. “Mr. Garrity,” Kurt says, firmly shaking his hand. “Ted,” my dad clarifies. Kurt nods and then looks my way. “Man, you look like shit.” “Well, thank you,” I say, throwing the paper ball of the straw wrapper I made. It catches him in the eye, and he covers it. “Fuck. I need my eyesight to protect your ass,” he says, removing his hand. He’s exceptionally happy today. “Why are you in such a good mood?” I ask. My dad turns in his seat, his sole attention on one of my best friends. “She went back to her parents’ for a week.” He raises his eyes up and down. “Rachel?” He nods. My dad chirps in, “Who’s Rachel?” “Baby mama,” Kurt answers. In this moment, I feel for Rachel. I don’t know if the girl planned on becoming pregnant, but one fact remains true. Kurt didn’t wear anything to stop it from happening, so he’s the asshole who put himself in this position. My dad’s body sulks into the seat. “I’m sorry, man.” In confusion, I hold my hands out in the air. “Shouldn’t we be saying, congratulations? You’re going to be a dad,” I chime in with my two cents. Neither wants to hear it. My dad waves his hand in the air, telling me to be quiet. “She had me going shopping every damn day. I bought her a whole new maternity outfit when she’s barely showing. Then, she stopped outside Tiffany’s. I

finally told her, ‘This isn’t some damn fairy-tale movie. We screwed a night, and now, you’re knocked up.’” I cringe while my dad chuckles lightly. “A bit harsh, bro.” I sip my club soda. “No alcohol on the diet,” he eyes me. I roll my eyes. Like he’s my dietician or something. Cami comes over, and Kurt’s eyes roam her body. She doesn’t seem offended. “Medium pan with sausage, bacon, ham, and every other damn meat you have. And I’ll have a Miller.” I glare at him, jealousy clear in my eyes. “My dietician says I need to gain a few. You know, for the sake of protecting your ass from being pummeled.” This is my relationship with Kurt—him always reminding me that his number one job is to protect me. I fail to inform him that there are others on that line, too. What’s the use? At least he takes his job seriously, and that will hopefully lessen my concussions. “Where are her parents from?” my dad asks. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I contemplate if I really want to pull it out. Not wanting to hear a word from my dad or Kurt about Carly, I opt for the restroom. “Be right back.” I slide out. Kurt immediately takes my spot. Good. The two of them can have some conversation about baby mamas. In the dark hallway outside the restrooms, I pull my phone out, and a smile creases my lips. Carly: So, this boyfriend thing? I lean my shoulder to the wall. Me: A question already? Carly: More a clarification. Me: No, we’re not in the buying-tampons zone yet. Carly: I was going to ask for overnight pads. Too soon? Me: As long as you don’t mind picking me up some jock-itch cream. Carly: I think we can keep the mystery of our toiletries a bit longer. Me: I agree. Carly: Remember when I said my sister is getting married? Me: What day do I mark off on my calendar? Carly: Oh, I like this boyfriend thing. Me: Me, too. Carly: July Fourth? Me: Your sister is planning a Fourth of July wedding? Carly: You probably have plans. Me: I do. Carly: No problem. Me: With you.

Carly: Wait, what? Me: Why would I spend Fourth of July with anyone but my girlfriend? Carly: Oh, so you can go? I chuckle that she’s as clueless as I am. Me: Yes. Black tie or suit? Carly: Suit. Me: Done. Carly: Thank you. Me: My pleasure. Carly: Okay, I’m being harassed for being on the phone. Talk to you later. Me: Can’t wait. How can a knot sit in my stomach after I just had a conversation with her? No way I can miss her already. But, damn, at this rate, I’ll have all our text conversations memorized by tonight. This is a very bad sign.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CARLY

“P

ut your phone down,” my mom demands as she places a plate of sausage and peppers on the table. “You work too much, and this is your sister’s time.” She busies herself behind the stove, preparing another dish to fatten us up. I tuck my phone into my purse, unable to stop my lips from turning up. Damn, Bryant Garrity is bulldozing himself into my psyche. “Who are you texting?” my sister, Riley, whispers in my ear. I shoo her away, grabbing my pen to jot down the wedding notes. This is our fourth meeting since her engagement, and I’m growing tired of seating charts, flowers, and cake-tasting from Aunt Marie, who believes she’s the best baker this side of Lake Michigan. Her exact words are, “I can’t do better than that Cake Boss guy. He’s a genius with the pimping.” “Piping,” I clarify. See? Here we are, having the déjà vu conversation. “Pinping,” she continues to say it wrong. “Piping,” I repeat. Riley pinches my leg under the table. “Ouch,” I whisper. All my family members—including my older sister, Renee—scowl toward me, so I let it rest. “I’m not sure I want an orange flavor,” Riley says politely. I spit my taste into the napkin. My mom discreetly takes the rolled napkin from me as she places another dish of food on the table—baked ziti. Great, my hips were a little narrow anyway. “It tastes great,” Cameron, my sister’s fiancé, compliments Aunt Marie. My sisters and I stare over at him, wondering if he tasted the same atrocity. “I agree, Aunt Marie. With the almond frosting, you have something here,” Dean, my ex-fiancé, chimes in with his two cents that no one really cares about. I’m still unsure of why he’s even here. I sigh, and all their heads veer in my direction. My dad has sympathetic eyes,

Renee’s shaking her head, and Riley is conveying, It will be okay. You’d think with how close my family is that they’d be on my side, but all they see with Dean is that he was the poor sap left at the altar. “I would’ve picked it for my own.” He flashes me a grin. I want to grab ahold of that blond hair and drag him through the house to the front porch where he should be. Aunt Marie isn’t paying attention to what’s going on around her, and she decides to add to my torment. “Carly agreed on that beautiful chocolate raspberry. The guests said it was the best they’ve eaten.” Let me clarify, everyone still ate after I left my own wedding. Yep, “No reason to let all that food go to waste,” were their words. “It was definitely a hit. My grandmother asked you to make it for her birthday this year.” Dean’s eyes keep flashing from her to me, as though he’s waiting for me to fall to my knees and beg him to come back. Little does he know, I have myself an NFL boyfriend. My elbow knocks into Riley’s ribs to get this wedding shit moving, and she holds her side, glaring at me. I nod to the papers in front of us, and she clears her throat. “Let’s talk about table favors,” she says. Renee stands, dodging her son, Matty, who is barreling through the kitchen with his football tucked under his arm, until my brother-in-law, Vinnie, picks him up and swings him over his shoulder. “Tackle!” he says as he tickles him. The little guy wrestles in his dad’s hands. Unable to have enough of my youngest nephew, I stand and kidnap him from his dad’s hold. “Auntie!” he screams as I swing him on my back and run out of the room. “Carly!” my mom yells. I ignore her because I’m done with wedding crap while Dean is in the room. I set Matty down next to his older sister, Tatum, on the couch. A minute later, my mom comes in with Renee on her heels. “I’m coming back. Just needed a breather,” I say before either one of them has a chance to reprimand me. If I had my own choice, I’d leave here, but it’s family obligations. “Dean is still very heartbroken. He was just reliving memories.” My mom touches my forearm in a gentle manner to say, Feel sorry for him. You are the one who broke his heart. “It’s been three years,” I remind them. Each of them blows out a breath, as though it’s an unreasonable expectation of mine that he should have moved on. “Not to mention, I heard he was seeing someone.” I cross my fingers at my side since this is a lie, but I need them to get off my back. “Really?” Renee asks, skeptical since she practically runs the gossip circle in our small part of the city. “Yep.”

“From who?” she asks, baiting me because she knows I’m lying. I shrug, sitting next to Matty and placing him on my lap. Distraction is the key to freeing myself from my sister and mother. “I don’t remember, but I did. Not to mention, does no one think it’s weird that the best man is here for the wedding stuff?” I whisper. They shoot me looks of disgust before turning around and walking to the kitchen. “Who else wonders if they’d rather have me or Dean as part of this family?” I whisper. “You, Auntie,” Matty says. He leans his head back on my shoulder, completely exhausted. “Yeah, Dean is so…” Tatum begins but glances over and stops talking. “Nice.” She smiles really wide. That’s an eleven-year-old for you. “Hey, guys. Can we talk for a second, Carly?” Dean asks. His blond hair is a half-inch too long and dips into his eyes when he doesn’t get a regular haircut. From the lean muscle mass on his body, anyone can tell he still runs. That familiar smile, the one where I knew everything he was thinking, is there, but now, it’s not a clear crystal ball, like it used to be. I pick up Matty and place him on the couch. “Sure.” I stand up and walk toward my parents’ front porch. The porch is supposed to offer privacy, but usually, the family rushes to the windows to observe and decipher the conversation being held like their own silent film showing. Dean opens the door for me, and I step onto the concrete porch, loving the warmer weather that Chicago has been blessed with this week. I’m not home very often, so I’m glad to savor at least one day of the spring weather. My mom’s flower beds are still covered with pillowcases because the weatherman warned of frost tonight. I envision the roses that will grow once spring finally comes, the same rose bushes that Dean would pick from before each date. Dean sits on the porch swing Renee installed after she had Tatum for the sole purpose of soothing her on her crying nights. “Join me?” he asks. I eye the small space next to him. It’s the same space I used to love to nuzzle into his arms as we’d sway together, talking about our future with our kids, our houses, our dreams—until he informed me he would be the only one living his dream. Hesitantly, I sit down, keeping as much distance from him as possible. “I don’t bite,” he says, but his hands remain clasped in his lap. It feels more like we’re two junior highers instead of grown adults who are intimately familiar with each other’s bodies. “I’m bringing someone to the wedding,” he says into the dark sky. Look at that. I wasn’t lying to my mom and Renee.

“Oh, that’s nice.” “Nothing big, but I figure you’d like to prepare yourself.” My head whips around, and my ponytail flings into my face before falling back into place. “Prepare myself?” I ask. The easy smile that’s usually carved into his face falls. “Yeah, I didn’t want you thinking that because we were standing up together…” I choke on my own breath, like a bug just flew in and blocked my airway. “Do I have to remind you that I left you?” I stand, moving toward the white pillar by the stairs with my back turned to him. “Only because you’re so hell-bent on making a career for yourself. Nothing changed with your love for me. The day you ran from me, you still loved me.” I stare up at the stars, wishing they’d calm me before I lost all my patience. Three years, and we’re back to where we were after he returned from our honeymoon. When I turn from the beautiful night sky illuminating the millions of stars overhead, he hasn’t left his spot on the bench. “You’re kidding me, right? My love for you wilted the day you told me to quit my job and that my number one duty as a wife was to cook you dinner and raise your kids. Do you not realize how demented that line of thinking is?” My voice grows louder. The sheer curtains of my parents’ living room shift from someone’s spying. “Why would being my wife be so bad? Why was that not enough for you?” “Um…because, genius, it’s not the nineteen-fifties, and my name isn’t June Cleaver.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “I loved you. You never would have wanted for anything.” He stands up, slowly nearing me, and I’m afraid my balled up fist will rule on its own and pop him in the nose if he comes any closer. “Except my own dreams.” My voice cracks. He senses my weakness, like a drug-sniffing dog. “I thought you wanted a family. What happened to having our house, full of kids, a block from your parents’?” he asks. His two hands rest on my upper arms, and the memories flooding back want me to rush into his arms to let him shelter me like he did five years ago. “It died.” I step back. His hands fall back to his sides, and that unbearable heartache resides in the exact spot it did all those years ago. “Our baby was a girl,” his voice a beat above a whisper. One tear trickles down my cheek, and I shut my eyes to stop myself from feeling anymore. I swipe my finger to dry the trickling of tears. “Dean, it’s over. I’m happy you’ve moved on and that you’re bringing a date to the wedding. I’ve grieved our relationship, and you need to as well.” I square my shoulders and beeline to the front door.

My hand rests on the doorknob when he speaks again, “I’ll always love you.” I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. “Sometimes, love isn’t enough.” The knob turns in my hand, and the door springs open. My mom sees my face and pulls me into the house. I’m not sure if Dean follows because I run up the stairs like I just got grounded. When I shut my bedroom door, my painted figurines jiggle. I fall onto my worn-in mattress. It isn’t until I open my eyes again that I realize, they weren’t my figurines jiggling; they were my dad’s high school trophies. My pink ruffle bedspread is now a dark green. I sit up, and son of a bitch, they turned my bedroom into— “Who the hell’s room is this?” “Your dad’s,” my mom says. She and my two sisters walk in, shutting the door behind them. “What?” “We sleep in separate rooms now. He snores, and I like to read. It’s easier this way.” My parents are the one couple who have always had it together. Even after my mom gave up her dreams of her career in advertising to raise us. Even though my dad hasn’t truly wined and dined her their entire marriage. An anniversary of bowling isn’t exactly romantic in my mind. But still, they’re happy. Right? “Are you getting divorced?” I ask. Renee laughs. My mom shakes her head. “No, sweetheart.” “Then, why?” “I agree with Carly. Why would you sleep in separate bedrooms?” Riley asks, obviously as blind to this fact as I was. I’ve been here the last three weeks, but I guess I’ve only stayed as long as I have had to, and I’ve never ventured upstairs. “It’s purely so that we can have a better night’s sleep. That’s not to say that your dad doesn’t come into my bed—” Riley covers her ears. “Na-na-na…” She keeps up the act of a screaming toddler until Renee pulls her hands away from her ears. “So immature. How do you think you were conceived?” Renee asks Riley. “That’s gross, Renee.” “What?” “That you’re willing to just mentally imagine the two of them,” I finish Riley’s thought process. “Ew, no. But I’m not ignorant to it either.” “Whatever.” Riley shakes her whole body in an exaggerated shiver. “So, you and Dad are happy?” I ask her. “Yes. Most of the time.” Renee laughs again, the only one out of the three of us who understands marriage. She got pregnant with Tatum when she was eighteen. She and Vinnie

moved in here for a short time until they could get on their feet. That’s why the age difference of Tatum and Matty is so far apart. “Are you okay?” my mom asks, patting my thigh. The three women who know me best crawl up onto the bed, and our backs lean against the wall with our legs stretched out in front of us. “I’m fine. Dean just won’t let it go, and then the whole baby thing came up. And…” “He’s just hurting.” My mom excuses his behavior again. “Well, it’s time for him to move the fuck on. I mean, it’s been three years. He didn’t seem too keen on changing his opinions to get me back. Not that I want that.” My anger continues to brew. “Don’t swear,” my mom says. “He’s seeing someone else, Carly.” Riley leans forward, looking past Renee to me. “He said he was bringing a date,” I say. “Dean and I are in the past. There’s no future, but he always wants to talk. So annoying.” “Because you never handle things, Carly. You ignore issues and push them aside,” Renee says next to me, her hand landing on my thigh. “He wants to make sure you have a future.” I laugh. “My career and I have a great future. One with large bank accounts and many vacations. Why would he care? I left him at the altar. Does the man have no shame?” “He loves you,” Riley says. “Riley—” She holds her hand up. “He isn’t in love with you, Carly, but he cares about you. I’m sure a part of you loves him, too. He just wants you to be happy.” Happy? I am happy. Aren’t I? Bryant’s blue eyes and scratchy beard come to my mind, and happiness does flicker in me. He’s making me really happy. But what if he has expectations for me, too? I glance at my mom and my sisters, who are now talking about something I’m not quite following. My guess is, Dean and his new girlfriend. “I’m bringing someone to the wedding,” I blurt out. All their mouths stop as they stare over at me. “Who?” my mom asks. Her smile emerges instantly. She’s practically salivating from the mouth at the possibility that I’ll be settled down with three-point-one kids in five years. “Um…” Stupid, Carly. Stupid. What were you thinking? You have one month before this wedding. You didn’t have to be so forthcoming now. “Who is it?” Riley jumps from the bed to kneel right in front of me. Their three happy faces circle around me, and suddenly, my breathing locks in

my throat. “Bryant Garrity,” I say. A long breath heaves out of me. It’s over. I told them. “The football player?” Renee’s nose crinkles, and she rolls her eyes in the direction of my mom. That all-consuming smile my mom had on a second ago falters. “Oh.” “Holy shit, he is hot. How did you nail that?” Riley blesses me with the only reaction I expected. A hot NFL quarterback whose face adorns magazines and television commercials isn’t good enough for me? Who do Renee and my mom want? Johnny from the garage down the street? “I met him on one of my trips.” My mom slides from the bed, her spot becoming cold from the chill she’s left behind. “Mom?” She opens the door and turns around. “I thought it was someone serious, not some football player looking for a beautiful woman to hold on his arm.” She disappears down the hallway. “Do you love him?” Renee asks, her own butt sliding down the green comforter. “I barely know him.” Her lips straighten, and her smile misses her eyes. “I’d better go get Matty to bed. See you girls at the dress fitting.” She leaves, and Riley hops back up onto the bed, resting her head on my shoulder. “Tell me all about him,” she says. At least there’s one person happy for me in this family. “Where do I begin? He’s not what Mom and Renee are assuming. He’s so different.” My thoughts drift to Bryant last night and this morning. How attentive he was, how concerned. His timid eyes when he told me he wanted to be my boyfriend. “How so?” “He’s just…perfect.” There’s that pitter-patter again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BRYANT

L

ooking into the rearview mirror one more time, I attempt to think of anything but Carly, if only to lessen my cheesy first-date smile. Hell, I’d settle for a classic closed-mouth polite smile, not this wide grin flashing everyone my teeth. I get compliments on my teeth all the time, but we don’t need the I’ve-beenwaiting-all-day-to-pick-you-up smile. Nope, not that one. Carefully opening my door so as not to become roadkill on her busy street, I slide out from my Jeep and step up onto the curb. I’m not even to the door of her apartment building when she steps out. That smile I was trying to fight lifts my cheeks immediately, and I don’t have the energy to control it. She’s a knockout in a cute sundress that hangs an inch or two above the knees, igniting a temptation for my hand to venture up that hemline. Her long brown hair is hanging straight past her jean jacket–covered shoulders. Yeah, I can’t fight that smile. Might as well invite it as the third wheel on our date. “Hey,” she speaks first because I’m too mute to say one word. “You’re gorgeous,” I say, my hand reaching out for hers. Her smile emerges on her lips, but she nibbles on the inside of her cheek. I assume she’s doing the same thing I’m doing right now—fighting our lust. Her bluffing poker face is as bad as mine. “You look great, too.” My fingers entwine with hers, and I guide us to my Jeep. Her hand is lukewarm and soft, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget the smell of her perfume tonight. Once she’s secure in my Jeep, I play Frogger with the traffic of Chicago on a Saturday night until I’m safely in the driver’s seat. “Next time, you can park on the side street.” She points to the more residential area. “You sure you want to commit to a next time?” I ask, eyeing exactly where I’ll be parking for our future dates. “I guess I should play the hard-to-get act, right?” She straightens her back and looks over to me with seriousness in her features. “So, we’ll see how tonight goes.” My eyes zero in on her lean legs as one slides over the other one. My mind floats

to having that smooth skin around my waist. “Here I thought, I already caught you.” I glance over, winking so that she knows I’m joking. Her smile widens further, and that rush of adrenaline pumps in my veins, as I know she’s happy to hear I want her. “Where are we going?” She glances at her apartment and then turns in her seat, granting me all her attention. “I’m going to take you on the most cliché date with the hope that you’ll enjoy it.” Her eyes fixate on me, and she nods. “Cliché can be good.” “How was your day?” I ask, pulling out into traffic. Our conversation keeps up similar to when we talked on the phone this week. We didn’t have any of those teenage you-hang-up-first conversations, but every night, her voice soothed me to sleep. I pull up to the stadium, and I hear her release a deep breath. Damn, I knew I was taking a chance by bringing her here, but it’s the only place I was assured where we’d be safe from the press. “The Chicago Knights Stadium?” she asks. There’s neither enjoyment nor disdain in her voice. Instead, her voice is neutral, how she is most of the time. I’ve come to find out that Carly Lincoln is even-keeled with her emotions—at least when it comes to me. “Have you been?” “When I was younger, about ten or so. It wasn’t exactly what my dad thought it would be.” She giggles. “Riley, my younger sister, was crying because she had a stomachache. I spilled nacho cheese sauce on a big, burly guy in front of me. Renee, my older sister, was flirting with some kid next to us. After that, my dad realized he’d have to wait for son-in-laws to bond over football.” There’s something about her face when she talks about her family. The way her eyes glisten with love and her cheeks form into small apples—it’s beautiful, which doesn’t explain why my gut churns when I see her so happy about people other than myself. Damn, if I don’t want to get in the ring with her family to fight for that same reaction when she talks about me. She lightly shakes her head, pulling herself from the memory that brings her so much joy. “What was growing up as Ted Garrity’s son like?” “Hold that thought.” I turn the key in the ignition and exit my Jeep. Circling the hood to open the door for her, I wonder what she might think of my childhood. It was definitely nothing like hers. I tuck her hand in mine and glance around the stadium to make sure no one spilled the news that I would be bringing a date here. Luckily, Jonathan knew exactly how I could get away with this since he proposed to Monica on the fiftyyard line. The bodyguard opens the fenced door before we meet him, and we’re in the stadium, alone, except for the security detail, for the next two hours.

“Tour?” I ask her. “Sure.” I grip her hand tighter, unable not to touch her, and we start off toward the locker rooms. “Which sister is getting married?” I ask, dodging the question of my childhood for the time being. “Riley, my younger. Renee, my older, has been married since she was eighteen.” She’s granted me more information than I asked, and for some reason, I love the fact that she’s okay with sharing her family. “Do you like the guy?” I ask. Her smile dims in the smallest proportion, but it’s noticeable. “Yeah, I knew him before her.” We’re approaching the locker room doors, but I sense she’s keeping quiet about something. “Please tell me he’s not your ex?” She glances to me from the corner of her eye. Feeling like I’m about to be jealous, I stop us, stepping her back to the black-painted brick wall. Our eyes lock, and her eyes shift anywhere but at my face. “He’s the best friend of my ex,” she says, her eyes focusing over my shoulder. I put my finger under her chin and raise it, so she’s looking at me. “You were going to surprise me on the wedding day?” I’m not really mad, but she doesn’t need to know that. “No. I was going to tell you. It’s complicated. There’s a past, but he—” My finger rests on the outside of her lips, and briefly, I wonder how warm her mouth is. If I slipped my finger between her parted lips, would she twirl her tongue around and suck, or would she find it disgusting? “Are you bringing me to make him jealous?” She shakes her head. My head dipping down, I remove my finger, covering her lips with my own. A peck on the lips is all it takes to calm her back down. “Good.” My hand grazes down her arm until her hand is tucked with mine again, and I lead us to the doors of the locker room. “Don’t you want to know the other stuff?” she asks once we’re a few steps away. “You’ll tell me when you want to,” I say, gripping the handle of the door, opening it for her. She stops before entering, her hand covering my forearm. “Thank you.” I nod, my words catching in my throat when I see her eyes that express her story. I know it won’t be an easy one to hear, but one day, she’ll share. She steps through the door, and her eyes ping from the lockers to the carpeted floor with the Knights logo embossed in the middle. It looks so neat and organized when the players aren’t here. I follow her as she glances at the name on each locker until she reaches mine.

She stops, and I patiently wait while she inspects my belongings. Not that there’s much there, except for my Beats headphones, my uniform, helmet, and hoodies. Nothing personal— “Is this your mom?” she asks. Damn, I forgot. “Yeah.” I reach over her and grab the picture frame that sits on my shelf, handing it over to her. “She’s beautiful.” “Of course she is. Look at me.” For the first time tonight, my smile doesn’t reach my eyes, and she notices. She’s wearing black sandals, and her toes are painted a sexy red. I know this because, currently, I’m watching her feet swivel in my direction. My breath hitches in my throat when she wraps her arms around my stomach and nuzzles into my body. My arms hold her, and the feel of her body with mine would have made losing my mom more bearable at fifteen if Carly had been there to hold me. She would have been the only one who did. “I can’t imagine how hard it was for you.” Her arms tighten. My lips dip down, kissing the top of her head. Whoa, where did that casual touch of affection come from? She draws back, her whiskey-colored eyes swimming with sympathy. “Whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here.” Damn if her heartfelt words mixed with her adoring eyes didn’t brand her name over my heart. She cares enough to let me wait to disclose the one moment in my life that defined me the most. My hands move down her body until our hands are linked, and I step back, pulling her with me. “Let’s get to the good part of this date.” “Oh, but I was imagining all the naked football players who have been here.” She laughs, but I yank her harder until she lands into my chest. “There’s only one naked football player you need to be envisioning.” Her eyes flutter up and down. “Don’t worry; that guy never leaves my mind alone. Always invading with his sexy blue eyes and hot, muscular body.” She swats at my stomach and dodges past me before I can sneak another taste of her lips. “I’m invading your thoughts?” I beg for more information. Maybe I want to double-check that I’m not the only one this invested. She turns around, walking backward. “Oh, not just my thoughts.” She giggles, turns, and barrels through the doors. “Oh my God,” she whispers as she sets off in the direction of the candles. As I’m a few feet behind her, she stops at the edge of the field, and I wait to see the candlelight illuminating around her with the field in the background. “Too cliché to have dinner on the fifty-yard line?” I move to her side, and again, I clasp her hand in mine because it already feels odd not to have her warmth touching me.

“Not at all,” she stutters. She follows my footsteps through the path lit by candlelight, toward the blanket surrounded by more candles, in the middle of the fifty-yard line. “Are we by ourselves?” she whispers, as though someone might be behind us. “Why?” I wiggle my eyebrows up and down. “Do you want to do something else besides eat on the fifty-yard line?” She lightly nudges me with her shoulder, but my steps don’t falter. “No, I was just wondering.” We reach the blanket, and she instantly slips out of her sandals. Those gorgeous, sexy toes tiptoe on the blanket, and she sits down, keeping her legs together. I step out of my shoes and join her on the blanket in front of the huge basket of food I had prepared to be here. As I start pulling out the sandwiches, pasta salads, and fruits, she soaks in the surroundings. “This is really nice, Bryant. Not cliché at all. Not many guys can top this for a date.” She rises up to her knees and leans over the basket, and my hands still on the cold white wine bottle. I have no chance to react before her lips press against mine. It’s short, and my body wants for more, but it’s sweet, just like her. Since it’s the first one she’s initiated, I’m not arguing. “Thank you,” she whispers, drawing back until she can look in my eyes. There’s the difference between Carly and other girls. She’s appreciative, not expectant. Then again, I’ve never done anything like this for any other woman. “Keep kissing me, and the dates will get better and better.” She sits back down, a pink flush covering her cheeks. “There might never be one that tops this.” “Oh, you underestimate me. I could fly us to Paris, we could celebrate your birthday on a private island, we could have a helicopter drop us off on top of the highest mountain—” Her head falls forward in a fit of laughter, and she’s placing her hand up in the air. “Stop.” “Thank God because I was trying to think of the most exotic dates.” She calms herself down as much as possible, and her eyes lock with mine. “Don’t you know, Bryant? It’s the atmosphere that makes a date, a date—your timidness with me, my shyness with you, both of us bubbling with excitement to spend time together.” She waves her hand around the stadium. “Don’t get me wrong; this is awesome, and I love it, but what makes this date the best in my book is you.” “Just me?” “Not just you.” I set the basket aside and prep our plates. “Did I embarrass you?” she asks, helping me dish up the pasta salad onto the plates.

“Why do you ask?” I beg my cheeks not to feel like I’m standing next to a roaring bonfire. “You had no comeback. Usually, you’d follow that up with something flirtatious or at least a joke.” “No one has told me that in a long time. Most people in my life want something from me.” She places her hands on top of mine to stop me from serving her. My eyes move up until they meet hers, and she squeezes my large hands in her small ones. “I’ll never want something from you.” I nod, and I wish I could believe her words, as much as her determined eyes are pleading. There’s only one person who never wanted something from me, and she died. “Thank you,” I say. She releases my hands, and her vision dips back down to the plates. I’m not sure I was convincing, and from her timid behavior, I sense she thinks I’m throwing her a line. Wanting to earn her trust, I tell her something I’ve never talked about to anyone, “She was there to divorce my dad.” I didn’t really lead into the story well. She shakes her head. “I’m sorry?” She thinks she’s missed a piece of information, but she’s listening to me, as if I’d started at the right spot where she wouldn’t have been lost. “My mom…she was in the Twin Towers when they collapsed.” The shudder in her breath comes out before her voice. “I’m so sorry, Bryant.” “I know.” I’m sorry are the first two words everyone says. I know they are, but for a long time, those words would enrage me. “She dropped me off at school that morning. My dad had just been signed to a one-year contract with New York. He was at the tail end of his career and lucky to still be playing. He refused to retire. My mom had threatened to leave him, saying she couldn’t do another year, but he just couldn’t give up his dream. So, he signed, and I guess she decided she would be signing a different contract.” I stretch out my legs, leaning back on my palms. My body might seem at ease, but I feel as though I’m right there, when my mom’s best friend took me out of school. I searched the shelters and put up pictures of her, hoping her friend was wrong and she wasn’t in that building that day. “Do you mind if I come and sit next to you?” she asks. I smile as much as I can muster because she’s too adorable. “Please,” I say, holding my arms out. She crawls around the plates of food and leans her head on my shoulder, her arms around my waist. “I’m really sorry, Bryant. Life can be unfair.” “Not always. Somehow, I ended up on that island and at the same resort as you,” I remind her.

Her soft lips touch my cheek. “True.” She picks up a fork, piles it with pasta salad, and places it in front of my lips. “What was she like?” I swallow down the pasta salad. “She was sad.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can get them back. “I mean, at the end.” Or was she always? “Surely, not with you.” “No, not so much with me. For the funeral, I remember going through pictures, and she was smiling and laughing, but her eyes told a different story. It’s not easy to be married to someone who is married to something else.” “What?” She sits up straight. “My dad’s first love was football, and my mom came second. Once his career started sliding, he turned his focus to me. He coached me, pushing me to become greater than himself. That left my mom out of the picture.” Her lips droop down. “Oh, I imagine that was hard.” “Yeah. Although she had a great group of friends, she always tried to plan special trips for just them two, but he never wanted to leave because, if he wasn’t in season, he was training me to be ready for mine. The funny thing is, he retired the year she died.” “To make it easier for you to cope?” “I’m not sure, truthfully. God, I hated him. But he never cared. I called him every name in the book, and he’d just hammer me on drills over and over and over again. I was never enough. Even now, I think he wants the Super Bowl ring more than I do.” “Is that what you’re trying for this year?” she asks. I wonder how many games she’s ever watched. “I try for it every year.” “Well, yeah, of course.” Her eyes wander, meaning she’s embarrassed. I place my thumb and forefinger on her chin, so she looks at me. “My eyes were set on only that until recently,” I admit, swallowing down my insecurity. I’ve ruined our first date by revealing too much information. “Oh, and now?” “Lately, I’ve been really into this cute brunette with the most incredibly sexy eyes.” “I think she’s really into you, too,” she whispers as she shifts her position to rise to her knees. “She’s been waiting all night for you to kiss her.” My hand moves up to cup her cheek, and at the same point she leans into the kiss, I descend my lips. I taste the sweetness of grapes in her mouth. The slow tangling of our tongues expresses that each of us is taking our time in our thirst for one another. Pretty soon, all those doubts that hold me captive from forming a meaningful relationship with someone disappear into a curtain of fog that Carly has stirred. She just might be the one exception.

But can I chance hurting her?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CARLY

he next day, Bryant insists on taking me to breakfast and then escorting me T to the bridal shop. His bravery on trusting me with the details of his mom and the

story of his parents resonates in me, but I’m fearful to share my past with him. “You really want to do this?” I ask Bryant, my hand on the bridal shop’s door. “I promise, I won’t break out in hives. Will you?” He leans in, kissing my forehead, and then he swings the door open himself. I stumble into the shop with Bryant’s hands on my hips. Maybe I can sneak him into the fitting room. But then he’d see me naked, and I’m not sure I’ve done enough sit-ups for that to happen just yet. “Carly?” my mom asks. I remove myself from Bryant’s hold, missing his lips. Bryant holds his hand out to my mom. “You must be Mrs. Lincoln.” My mom glances at his hand and then daintily shakes it, like a nice woman should. “Bryant Garrity, I presume.” “Bryant GARRITY!” Sara, Riley’s best friend, runs smack into him and tightly wraps her arms around his waist, her long blonde hair flying back and forth as they rock left and right. “Sara,” I say, trying to pry her arms from his stomach. Bryant’s terrified eyes stare down at me for a second before he reciprocates the hug. The rest of the bridal party circle around us. Sara eventually releases her grip on my man. “Sorry,” she mumbles as she hides at my sister’s side. “No worries. Happens all the time.” He winks over at me. I scowl a look, expressing that’d better stop now. He chuckles and wraps his arm around my body. “Nothing to be jealous of.” “Yeah, but I don’t want women approaching you like that. Sara’s fine because I’ve known her my entire life, but if you come home one night, smelling—” A bunch of clearing throats rings out, interrupting me and Bryant. His eyes light up with humor. I face the bridal party, and Riley steps forward first. “I’m Riley,” she introduces herself, as cheery as Rainbow Brite.

“The bride,” Bryant confirms. Riley nods. He holds his hand out to her, and she shakes it, calm and polite, unlike Sara. “I don’t mean to intrude. I was just dropping Carly off and thought it’d be rude not to introduce myself.” Riley smiles, her eyes casting to me and then to my mom in a you-have-tolove-him look. Bryant catches on fast, looking over at my mom. “Carly talks about her family so much; it’s nice to put faces with names.” My smile only widens. He’s way too good at this winning-the-parents-over obstacle. From my mom’s wide grin, she’s eating up his words. “Please stay,” she says, hooking her arm through his. “I made some cannoli and zeppole.” “Oh, this is a girl thing.” He looks over his shoulder at me in a save-me plea, but I laugh. “It will be good to have a guy’s opinion,” Riley chimes in, hooking her arm through his other arm. The rest of the wedding party follows them through the sea of white while Renee stays behind. Here comes Psych 101 with Renee. “Yes?” I say without her opening her mouth. “What? I was just going to say, he seems nice.” The two of us follow the path they went, and I wonder what she’s really thinking about because Renee doesn’t usually bite her lip, which I guarantee she’s doing right at this moment. “Spit it out,” I say. She hems and haws. “I’m sorry for last week.” Oh my God, alien invasion. Someone has taken over my sister’s body. Not only does she never apologize, but also, the last person she would ever apologize to is me. “What?” She hip-checks me. “Oh, you heard me.” I wave my hand in front of her face. “Renee, are you in there?” She pushes my hand out of her line of vision. “I’m serious, okay? I just want you to be happy, and I see that you are. I always speak up when I’ve made a mistake.” “Since when?” She hip-checks me again, and I run into a row of dresses in plastic bags. Gripping for anything to stop my fall, I catapult to the ground, right in front of Bryant with a cannolo half-eaten in his mouth. “Whoa, babe.” He sets it down and moves to offer me a hand. “Oh, ridiculous. She insults me and then falls into Prince Charming’s lap. How did you get so lucky?” Renee laughs it off and disappears down the hall to the dressing rooms.

“Go, Carly.” My mom pushes me forward before I’m completely on my feet. “I’m going. Jeez.” I wobble to gain my footing, eventually glancing over my shoulder at Bryant, who’s too enthralled with talking to my mom to notice my departure. I knew she’d love him once she met him. AN HOUR and my tenth bridesmaid dress later, Bryant yawns and stretches, bored out of his mind. The thrill in his eyes, seeing me in dresses, dimmed to indifference five dresses ago when Riley decided on full-length. I’m sitting in the chair next to him, waiting for Riley to start showing us wedding dresses, when he holds a zeppola in my face. “No, thanks,” I say, concentrating on the pictures taken of the dresses on my phone. He leans in, the crispness of his cologne igniting my girl parts. “Please. I’ve eaten, like, ten. You can forget any more dates because I’m going to be training nonstop.” I smile, and then I open my mouth. He shoves it in. “You’re the best girlfriend,” he says, kissing my temple. I chew and swallow it. “I don’t mind taking one for the team.” “Is that so?” His one eyebrow arches, and I playfully shake my head. “How’s your job, Carly?” my mom asks. I look at Renee and back to her. My mom never asks about my job. She actually despises it because it keeps me away too much. And how will I ever find a husband when I’m never home? “Good,” I answer skeptically. “Did you get that promotion?” Again, my eyes slyly look at Renee, who shrugs her shoulders. “Um…my boss hasn’t said he’s retiring just yet. I’ve been in limbo, but I’m hoping it’s by the end of the year.” I give her generic information because she doesn’t truthfully care. “Do you have any trips planned?” she continues. I’m shocked about the curiosity. “I have just one more before the wedding, then one at the end of July, and one in August. Not too many companies plan trips during summertime because of family vacations. It’s nice. I get to sit in my office and research cool places.” I smile when my mom places a cannolo on Bryant’s plate, and he looks at me with wide eyes. I look at Renee, and she speaks, “Ma, Bryant probably can’t have all those sweets.” My mom looks at Renee and then at Bryant. “Yeah? You on a special diet? I figured football players are so big because they eat all the time.” Bryant laughs and places his hand on her hand, retrieving the cannolo back. “I

have to watch it because I injured my knee. The more weight I put on it, the harder it is to fully heal, but it’s not every day that I get homemade cannoli.” She smiles and tosses my sister a look of, I told you so. Renee shoots me a look like, Don’t put me in the middle. I shrug, smiling at Bryant like I’m seven and Prince Charming just slipped on the glass slipper. “So, could you plan a trip for your dad and me?” my mom asks me. I sit up in my chair to get a clear view of her past Bryant. “Yeah!” My excitement shows in my high-pitched tone. “Great. We want to go right after Riley’s wedding for our anniversary.” “I’ll bring some brochures over this week.” “You come, too.” She looks at Bryant. “Phillip, Carly’s dad, would like to meet you.” He looks back at me, questioning if it’s okay. I nod and shrug, saying I’d love for him to join me if he wanted to. “I’m in. It’s off-season, so other than spending some time with your daughter, my schedule is free.” My mom smacks his knee. “What’s your favorite Italian dish?” she asks. Bryant’s vision again shifts to me. “Your choice,” he answers my mom. Renee laughs. “Okay, I’ll make a few choices, and then you can take some home.” Bryant’s mouth is literally hanging open in shock. “Welcome to the family, Bryant. Mom doesn’t know the word diet,” Renee chimes in. My mom balls her napkin, nailing Renee in the nose. “I’ll just do a double workout that day,” he says. “You mean, a triple. You already work out in the morning and at night,” I mention. His arms move to my rib cage, tickling me. I squirm in the chair until Riley walks out with her other bridesmaids carrying her long train. She’s beautiful in her veil and stunning white dress. The epitome of a bride. No frills or sequins or any signs of flash. Just white tulle and silk, turning her into a Barbie bride. “Oh, Riley,” my mom coos, standing, with tears brimming her eyes. It’s the third time I’ve seen her speechless, the other two were mine and Renee’s bridal fittings. Then, it dawns on me. Will she ever experience this with me again? I only open myself up to people a slight bit. My eyes shift to Bryant, whose eyes shift down at me. Maybe it’s seeing my sister in her wedding dress or being in a shop where happily ever afters begin, but a seed plants inside me that I might be able to have this, too.

MONDAY COMES FAST, and after my marathon conversation with Bryant on the phone last night, the coffee shop on the corner is my best friend this morning. Every phone conversation, I learn more about him. He only likes vanilla ice cream, which is absurd. He went to private schools his entire life. When he was younger, he wanted to be a hockey player, but he always knew that his dad would never let that happen. The best piece of information I gained last night was, he’s never bought a woman flowers—unless I count when he was five and would pick flowers out of his mom’s garden to give to her. My tall dark roast fits tight in my hands as I wait for the elevator to reach the floor of WorkNPlay. It’s five blocks from his condo building, and the fact that Bryant is so close lingers in my head. I wonder how many times we might have passed each other without noticing. “Look who’s decided she works here,” Sasha, my coworker, says as I pass her office on the way to my own. “Oh, no, no, no, you are not dodging me today.” Her high heels click behind me until I’m in my office. I set my coffee down and place my laptop bag on the desk. “I’ve taken some days to work from home,” I say, which is an option for me. “That’s not all you’ve been doing,” she insinuates. She welcomes herself by sitting in the leather chair in front of my desk. I sit in my chair behind the desk, sipping my coffee to keep me alert during this conversation. “Okay, I’ll bite. What have I been doing?” I ask her. She cocks her perfectly arched brow at me and digs out her phone. I boot up my computer, not granting her my complete attention, until she slides her phone in front of me. “Are you pregnant?” she asks. “What?” I screech, my voice higher than an adolescent boy’s during puberty. My jaw hangs from my mouth. “No!” I yell. My thumb moves her screen to read the entire article. A knock is at my door, and Marge from Human Resources peeks her head in. “Did you get my messages?” “Oh, she’s busy. I’ll have her call you.” Sasha doesn’t turn around as she holds her hand up to dismiss Marge. Marge disregards Sasha. “Carly, the medical insurance company has called. You need to go in for that test. Everyone else has completed their blood work obligations.” I hold my hand up in the air. “Got it, Marge. I’ll do it today.” “I’ll drive you myself,” she says. I shake my head, all my attention still on the article. “No, no. I promise I’ll go.” “Heard that before,” she mumbles but leaves me alone with Sasha. I drop the phone and stand, walking toward the door. “Is morning sickness already setting in?” Sasha asks. I shut my door. “Tell me you don’t believe it,” I say. “You’ve been MIA lately. What should I believe? Getting knocked up by the

hottest piece of ass in this town is a good reason to disappear. I have to say, I’m surprised with the wedding thing though. I thought they accepted baby mamas in his line of work.” Sasha leans back and props her red stiletto–covered feet on my desk. I push them off, and they thud to the floor. “If I tell you this, you tell no one, hear me?” My pointed finger only entices a massive eye roll on her part. “I’m serious, Sasha.” “Yeah, yeah. Did I tell anyone when you made out with that creepy guy in Accounting at the Christmas party?” “No.” She smiles wide, but I narrow my eyes, judging if I can really trust her. “Come on.” “Okay, I’m knocked up, and he’s agreed to marry me for my parents’ sake.” I fall into my desk chair and type in my password on my computer. “You’re a bitch.” She stands, swiping her phone from my desk. “People who get knocked up don’t look as happy as the two of you in that picture.” She holds it out in front of me, and the headline makes me cringe. Impromptu Wedding for Chicago’s Biggest Star. Who Is the Mystery Baby Mama? My phone rings, and she runs over, but I grab it right before she can see who is calling. “Is that him?” she asks, peering over my desk to catch a glimpse. “Go, Sasha.” I point to the door. She sways her hips, slowly taking her time. “I’ll be eavesdropping next door.” She walks out, shutting the door behind her. I swipe the bar, and Bryant is yelling at someone before I have a chance to say hello. “Bryant?” I question. “Yeah. Sorry about that.” His tone is not the fun and carefree one I’ve received lately. He’s stressed. “Who were you talking to?” “My agent. I’m sorry. I should have been more careful. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m usually so private with these things.” He’s rambles. “It’s okay.” “No, this is what it’s like, Carly. The gossip, the lies—it’s all part of my life. I might be okay with living in a bubble, but you don’t need to. It’s unfair.” He’s not even listening to anything I’ve said. “Bryant…” My voice is low and soothing, and I hope it has an effect on him. “Can I see you?” he asks. I bite my lip. “This is the first time I’ve been in the office in a week. I got away with it last week because I had been on a trip the week before, but…um…” “You know what? Tonight, can you come to my place? Oh, shit. Don’t do that. I see those damn vultures out there now, trying to act like they aren’t scoping my

condo. I’ll come to you.” “Okay. We were supposed to go to my parents’ on Wednesday. Should I cancel?” “No.” He pauses. “Shit. Yeah. Well, let me see if I can get this calmed down by then.” I’ve never heard him so stressed and anxiety-ridden. “What would happen if we told them the truth?” “You want them to know who you are? No. No way. I’d have to hire a bodyguard for you, or I’d have to be with you twenty-four/seven, which wouldn’t be bad—the part with me being with you, not the bodyguard. Bottom line, we need to talk.” “Okay, do you want to come to my office?” “Yeah, is that okay? I don’t want to disturb your workspace, and I know my presence can change that.” I laugh because Bryant is concerned about me—not himself in this situation, but me. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll wear a hat and try to disguise myself.” “I should warn you; my coworkers are heavy into Internet gossip news. They might be expecting you here.” “Carly, I only care what you think?” He phrases his sentence like a question. “Just come here, and we’ll sort this out.” “On my way.” TWENTY MINUTES LATER, there’s a knock on my door. Bryant strolls in, shutting the door behind him. His ball cap rests low over his eyes, and he’s in his trackpants and Tshirt. Like people don’t see a six-foot-three guy who looks oddly similar to Bryant Garrity walking into my office. “Take off your cap,” I say. When he does, the torment that’s wrapped around him shows through his soft blues. Unable to know any other way to ease his pain, I hug him. He kisses my head a few times, his arms tight as a toddler with a security blanket. I draw back, my fingers running through his hair. “What are you so scared of?” I ask. He locks eyes with me. “That you’ll run.” Tears brim my eyes with his confession. Hasn’t Bryant’s honesty always brought out the schoolgirl crush side of me? The one where you believe in happily ever afters and there is such a thing as Prince Charming? “I’m not going anywhere.” He shakes his head. “Carly, you have no idea. It’s only going to get worse. I’ve seen it with my teammates. They’ll cut you down, cut me down. The lies and gossip, they spread. It can tear couples apart. We’re only just starting.” His voice sounds as

defeated as his words. I pull him over to the chairs in front of my desk, and he sits down while I lean against the edge of my desk. “I’m not going to lie. I’m scared of what they’ll say about me. I’m not exactly thrilled with being followed or having pictures taken of me, but for you, it’s worth it.” He looks up at me. Eyes that, just moments ago, swam with defeat are now filled with hope and relief. “I’m not sure I am.” How does a Heisman Trophy winner and star quarterback doubt his worth? I step forward, and his hands grip my hips as his forehead lands on my stomach. My fingers twirl in his hair, enjoying the silky feeling. Am I strong enough? “When I saw the title of that article, my jaw dropped, but it isn’t a deal-breaker. They’ll spread rumors, and we’ll shatter their lies. Simple.” He shakes his head. I pull it back to look into his eyes. “What?” “You’re amazing.” The words are not expressed by either one of us, but this is the first moment when the feeling inside me isn’t just waves of like. No, there’s a tremble under that wave, and it’s gearing up for a hurricane. Something riskier and much more dangerous than like. Something so fragile, you have no choice but to chance it before it disappears, but a warning alarm blares above, saying Be prepared; you might get hurt. Oh, shit, I think I might love him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BRYANT

ithout my usual disguises, I wait outside Carly’s office building, inviting the W assholes to snap pictures of me.

My agent’s voice repeats in my head, “This is what you signed up for. You can’t be the star on the field and not off. No one before you has accomplished that, and no one after you will. If you want her to be a part of your life, you need to own the relationship. Let them get their fill, and they’ll move on to the next juicy story.” My eyes pierce into the guy across the street. He’s been pacing back and forth in front of the drug store for a half hour. He’s trying to get the first picture of us. Carly’s voice rings out in the summer air of Chicago before I see her beautiful brown hair. With her focus on the girl next to her, she doesn’t notice me. The short dark-haired girl stops, and her eyes find me immediately. “I knew it was true!” she yells. Carly’s head whips around, following her friend’s vision. An easy smile crosses her lips, and she breaks the distance to me, as though we’re magnetically connected. “So, are you preggers?” the girl asks Carly in a not so subtle tone. Breaking our eye contact, Carly smacks her arm. “No.” Carly steps into my arms, her head nuzzling my chest, as her friend follows behind. “Hey,” I say softly. She turns her head, staring up at me with that my-hero glimmer in her eyes. “You surprised me.” As I bend down, my lips brush the top of her head, and although I want to do much more than that, I won’t embarrass her with that type of affection in public. The girl clears her throat, and Carly turns out of my arms. “Bryant, this is Sasha. Sasha, this is Bryant,” she introduces us. The girl holds her hand out to me. Tattoos run up and down her right arm. Instead of a pleasant hello, she winks. “Pleasure. You are going to pay child support, right?” she asks. Carly smacks her shoulder again. “SASHA!” “I believe in that whole what’s-mine-is-yours philosophy,” I say.

Her friends brown eyes widen, and she falls forward in a fit of laughter. “Sold.” Her eyes shift to Carly. “Lock him down, and marry him.” I can’t help but want to know Carly’s reaction. She smiles with a small shake of her head. Definitely a possibility. Fuck, did marriage just cross my mind? You’ve known her for a month, Bry. Let this marinate a little. “How about drinks?” I ask. For the first time since she left the building, Carly looks around the sidewalks. The hairs on my neck stand up to attention with the creepy feeling of being watched. The press is closing in. “I’m totally in,” Sasha answers first, sliding her arm through mine and escorting me down the sidewalk. “There’s a tequila place down the street,” I offer. Carly walks along the other side of me, but not too close. While I believe Sasha knows exactly what she’s doing, Carly is more on guard than the pep talk she gave me earlier in her office, which burns this small hole in my stomach because she might not be able to handle being in the public eye, like she claimed. We’re in the bar in minutes, and since we’re here early, we easily find a booth in the back. I wave to Jorge, the owner, behind the bar, and he nudges one of his bartenders to alert him of my presence. Sasha slides in too close to me, and Carly seems to be keeping her distance, which I don’t like. Either Sasha is trying to be in the public eye, or she’s doing her friend a favor and taking the heat. The people who snapped the pictures in the bridal store know Sasha wasn’t the girl who my lips were on. I slide closer to Carly, placing my arm around her shoulders. “Hey you,” I whisper, my lips grazing under her ear. “Do you think they’re watching?” she asks. I realize her eyes are flying all over the bar, as if everyone with a phone is snapping a picture. “I thought we weren’t going to care?” I ask, my body stiffening and sliding away from her. “I don’t want to, but after you left the office, I read the comments.” Her lips dip down. I hoped she’d follow my advice and leave it alone, but I know how hard it is read vulgar comments about yourself. My rookie year, the insults from people who thought they could make better judgment calls and better throws were a killer for my confidence level. Eventually, I realized they couldn’t; otherwise, they’d have been where I was, but it’s a struggle not to listen to the criticism. “I told you not to,” I say. Her head turns to me. Her eyes show she’s offended by my tone. Maybe I sound like a parent speaking to a child. “I tried, but it was too tempting.” Her lips turn into a small pout, and I only want to kiss those doubts from her lips.

“Some of your fans are vicious. I mean, Carly is one hot piece, and they still found faults in her looks. Haters.” Sasha slides closer. I know this is Carly’s friend, but I’d like her to find another booth. Why did I offer drinks? “Excuse us,” I say to Sasha as I nudge Carly out of the booth. An annoyed expression distorts Carly’s face, but she does as I indicated. I grab her hand, pulling her toward the bar. Leaning over to Jorge, keeping Carly’s hand tucked in mine, I ask to use his office, and he nods, like I knew he would. Extra tip tonight. A minute later, I pull her into his office, shut the door, flick the lock, and break the distance between us. Without asking permission or giving her a glimpse of expectation, I smash my lips to hers, my tongue diving into her mouth. The pressure of my body pushes her until she loses her balance against the desk. My hands skim up her body, and I lift her, placing her on top of the desk. Our lips continue to devour one another, each of us unable to quench our thirsts. I pour every ounce of my desire and lust that surfaces when she’s near into the kiss. My hand stretches to the back of her head, and I lightly tug the strands of hair at the base of her neck. She arches back, as though leading me to the path she wants me to take. As my teeth nip along her chin, her one leg swings over my leg, and she grinds her center against my thigh. When I reach her earlobe, I blow a stream of air, and she squirms under my hands. “How do you feel now?” I whisper. “Like you want to bend me over this desk.” Her chest heaves, and I glimpse down to the top buttons of her blouse. The wait to get my hands on her breasts without the restriction of a bra is unbearable. “Good.” I lift her and reluctantly place her feet on the ground. My hands cup her flushed cheeks. “Remember that every time you think you aren’t the most beautiful woman in this universe, got it?” That flush burns deeper, and you’d think she was catwalking down a Victoria’s Secret runway. “Bryant…” My name from her mouth sounds like a plea for me not to stop, so I continue. I bend down, nipping at her neck, and she moans. “Take me home,” she whispers. My lips continue to trail along her neckline and up to her ear. “You want me to take you home?” I ask, praying she’s really asking what I think she is. “No,” she says, dipping her head further back, sticking out her breasts as an invitation to my hands. “Your home.” My hands move down the silk of her shirt to her skirt and mold to her ass, getting a handful of her toned apple ass that I’ve dreamed of touching since that day in St. Croix.

Her fingers twist in my hair as my lips explore the skin I’ve starved myself from, waiting until she is ready. I’ve never courted a woman like I have with Carly, and at the same time, I feel like we’ve barely been on any dates. More than anyone, she’s taken residence in my heart. I close the open-mouthed kiss with one lingering long, gentle kiss. Her step falters slightly, and I grab ahold of her hips, pulling her flush to my side. “Stay close,” I tell her, linking our fingers together. She says nothing, but I don’t need her verbal agreement. Her shoulder against mine is enough. I open the office door, and business people are filling in the empty tables. Jorge nods his head in the direction of Sasha, and I glance over to find her in the booth with people we don’t know. “Do you want to say good-bye?” I ask Carly. She sees what I see, and then Sasha spots us. She points over, as though she’s proving her point that I’m here or that Carly’s dating me. I’m not sure which, but I wouldn’t consider her much of a friend. “No,” Carly says, a foreign bitterness coating her tone. “Do you work with them?” The group is a mixture of guys and girls, each dressed like they work the nineto-five routine. “No.” The one-word answer tells me I never want to be on Carly’s bad side. “Let’s go.” Clamping my hand harder around hers, we leave Sasha to her gossip and exit through the main doors. Immediately, there’s the click of a camera. Carly shelters her body into mine, almost walking behind me, as I drag her to the curb. “Are you pregnant?” a guy asks her. She says nothing. “Bryant, you’re really taking the plunge?” he baits again. A nearby cab stops, and through the windows of the cab, the driver nods that he’s available. I open the door and let Carly step in first, leaning over her with the door open. “I’ll meet you in the parking garage,” I say. Her bewildered eyes almost have me second-guessing my decision. “Trust me.” She nods. I shut the door to the back and lean into the open passenger window to face the driver. All the while, this damn camera guy is snapping away. “Follow my directions, and you’ll be generously compensated,” I say to him. He nods, ready to do what I say. Let’s just hope he keeps his mouth shut. “Drive around for five minutes and then round back to my condo. Drive through the parking garage of Lakeshore Point. Security will be expecting you. I’ll be there.” He nods.

I glance back to Carly. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” She nods but says nothing, her eyes deliberately not turning toward the window. I hate seeing her uncomfortable. My hand hits the top of the taxi, and it pulls off the curb. My stomach churns as I watch the cab drive away with her even though I know I’ll see her soon. My eyes veer to the photographer, but I round the corner of the building to head home. Once he asks me a few questions and I give him no news, mixed with the fact that Carly’s not with me, he eventually turns off my course, like I suspected he might. The bigger problem is, someone will most likely be waiting outside my condo. A few minutes later, I enter my condo building, blinded with flashes as I expected and head for the parking garage. The taxi with Carly pulls up. She practically hops out before it comes to a complete stop. Her eyes frantically move back and forth. I pay the guy two hundred dollars to drive four blocks, but I hope the money will also zip his lips. While I make the transaction, Carly’s biting the inside of her cheek, and when he drives back out, my attention focuses on her. “Kind of a mood killer,” I say. Her small smile confirms I’m right. “You might have to use a little more foreplay,” she jokes, her teeth releasing the flesh of her mouth. I’ve noticed it’s her worried trademark, and I loathe the press for making her use it. I break the distance between us, enveloping her in my arms. “Well then, I’d better start.” My mouth descends, and I lick up the curve of her neck until I take her earlobe in my mouth and nibble. “Good start,” she says, her body swaying into mine. “Take me upstairs.” I’m as anxious, nervous, and horny as a teenage boy, and if I’m going to impress her tonight, I’d better morph myself into the thoroughbred horse she’s expecting.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CARLY

n the way up to Bryant’s condo, the anxiety is stifling. The Bryant from my O office has disappeared, and although my hand is tucked in his, he’s distracted. The

elevator dings, and I hope, once we’re secure in his condo, he’ll relax. He opens the door, holding it for me to step through first, like a true gentleman. I walk in, and the place is spotless. There isn’t even a pair of gym shoes sitting by the door. “Cleaning lady?” I inquire. I finally pull a laugh out of him. “I’m the cleaning lady,” he says. I furrow my brows, questioning. He shakes his head, tossing his keys into the basket by the door. “You know how paranoid I am about people knowing my business. Why would I allow someone in here to dig through my things?” He has a point. “You do know, you might find someone who only cleans your toilets and mirrors and isn’t interested in your unmentionables.” I raise my eyebrows, and he steps toward me. My feet move faster toward the couch. I’m not even sure why I begin running, but he has this devilish gleam in his eyes that says, he’s feeling playful. “You want me to catch you?” he asks. My feet move faster, but the floor must have been waxed because, by the couch, my foot slips, and I catapult into the couch. Bryant jumps over the back of the couch and controls his body enough to only hover over me. His cologne ignites my senses, and my stubbed toe is long forgotten as he lowers his body on top of me. He slides his large form to the side to not put pressure on my body. “I’d like to see your unmentionables.” I roll my eyes in annoyance even though I’m anything but. “You bought them,” I say. He glances down. “Are you wearing the ones I bought?” His eyes gleam with intrigue.

“Why don’t you find out?” A smile is still playing on my lips, but the mood around us has grown serious. Again, his eyes glance down to my aching breasts. With only one roll of his thumb across my nipple, I clench. I bite my bottom lip, and his eyes look into mine, double-checking for permission. His hand fists, and then his fingers splay open. Descending on my blouse, his left hand flicks the first button, and his breathing staggers when he catches a glimpse of my red bra. He licks his lips, undoing the next button, and my blouse begins to open across my breasts. Again, he licks his lips, and his breath hiccups. “So fucking lucky,” he murmurs. His eyes fixate on his hands while they unclothe me. Once he unbuttons the last obstacle, his callous hand lies on my stomach, pushing the fabric off my skin, leaving me exposed to his feverish eyes. If I ever questioned if Bryant found me attractive, I’ve received my answer tonight. There could be flames in his eyes with the way my skin scorches under his examination. He continually needs to moisten his lips. I wait for his eyes to roam back up to mine. When they do, he hesitates for a moment, his fingers grazing my skin, until he takes the cup of my bra and reveals my bare breast. My nipples are peaked and hard, ready to be played with. “Fucking lucky,” he murmurs once more. His head dips, his mouth taking my nipple. A zillion nerve endings fly up in high alert between my legs, and I wiggle under his firm body. My fingers weave through his hair as his jean-clad legs tangle with my bare ones. His other hand reaches over, and with a pull, he yanks down the other cup. His thumb and forefinger pinch my nipple as his tongue twirls around my other nipple in his mouth. He travels between the hollow of my breasts, and my back arches as my want grows and my need of his mouth on me becomes unbearable. With more carnality than before, he devours my other breast. “Bry,” I plea, my fingers tightening around the strands of his hair. A groan ruptures from his throat, and his lips travel up my neck, casting small open-mouthed kisses along his trail. Without waiting, his mouth captures my lips, and his body presses firmer against mine. The soft cotton of his T-shirt is smooth along my bare breasts. Bryant’s hands reach behind my back, and he flicks open my bra with ease. Our lips continue to ravish each other while we both get my bra and shirt off completely. He turns me on my side, his hand drifting down my bare flesh. Pulling on the hem of my skirt, his hand explores up my leg. A desperate need burns inside me. I grab his shirt, pulling and tugging, until his hand leaves mine, and he grabs the neckline, pulling it off. My fingers run along his skin, like raindrops sliding down a window. His stomach retracts, and a huff of startled breath leaves his mouth. “You’re so…” I don’t finish my sentence because my swollen lips need his.

Our mouths collide again, and my legs swing over his hips, as I need something to grind against. He holds my head in his hands, and his mouth moves around my neck, my ear, my lips, and my jaw. The moisture from his mouth is all over me, and I wonder if, when we’re done, I’ll smell like his peppermint breath. “My bed,” he says as he rolls over me to stand. He holds his hand out, and I accept, snatching my bra and blouse from the couch. He takes them from my hand and throws them back down. “You won’t need those.” His classic easy smirk emerges, and I jump into his arms. He grabs ahold of my ass, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His hard length in his jeans brings a thirst for him to my mouth. The trip to his bedroom is a blur while I fiddle with the button and zipper of his jeans. We reach the bedroom, and I lean back, my hand drifting down the front of his jeans. Using my ankles, I push the restrictive clothing down, and it pools around his feet, making him trip. We fall onto the bed and start to laugh. He grinds his length into me, the only barrier being my silk panties and his boxer briefs. I sigh, I moan, I groan. Liking the responses he’s pulling out of me, he circles his hips. “On your knees,” he says, backing away from me. I slide over his silky comforter and get to my knees. There’s something romantic about this dark room with the city lights behind us. He steps out of his jeans and socks and hooks his finger. I crawl over to him, reaching for his cock, but he stops my hand. “Another time.” I look up at him, lick my lips, and travel my finger up the length of him. He shudders a breath but grips my hand harder with his. I love the unnerving effect I spur out of him. He tries to unzip my skirt with one hand, so he can hold my other, but he struggles, and I know he’ll soon have no choice but to remove his grip of my hand. A second later, I’m free to explore him as he unzips my skirt. I tug down the front of his boxer briefs, and his cock springs free in front of me. Everything about this man is perfect. He’s perfect from his gentlemanly manners to his skills on the field and right down to the size of his penis. I wet my lips with my tongue and open my watering mouth. I bend down and my tongue sneaks a taste of the tip before my mouth covers all of him. He growls. With my skirt puddled at my knees, his hand grabs a chunk of my ass and squeezes as I suck him into my mouth. “Jesus,” he says, rocking forward. Both of his hands squeeze my ass cheeks, and he molds them in his hands, manipulating them as the tip of his cock hits the back of my throat. He thrusts into my mouth while his hands clench my ass. Then, his hands leave my ass, and he steps back, his cock popping out of my

mouth. “Laydown,” he says. Again, I’m struck by how perfect this man is. Even with the crooked nose and the slight scar on his chin, he’s perfect, and it’s hard to accept that he’s mine. “Panties?” I ask, innocently asking him for permission. “No.” He digs in his drawer, pulling out a condom. “I’ll take those off.” I quiver with his promise, and my right hand grabs ahold of my breast to ease the ache in my body. His eyes could burn a hole through titanium as he watches me on his bed while I play with myself, waiting for him to take me. “Beautiful,” he whispers, tearing the package of the condom. I intently watch him cover his dick, and my mouth waters. He bends over, his thumb massaging my clit through the silk fabric. His finger slides my panties over, and I gasp from the building of my orgasm. Inserting his finger into me, he coats my pussy with my juices. “One taste,” he says. His fingers hook the sides of my panties, and he glides them down my legs. I watch his tongue skate over his lips as his arms hook under my thighs, and he pulls me toward him. With the feathery touch of his lips on my thighs, my body anticipates and yearns for his tongue, his lips, anything to pleasure me. Teasingly, Bryant torments me by casting open kisses to the inside of my thighs, until I’m bucking off the mattress. The tip of his tongue moves up, until he sucks my clit into his mouth. “Bry,” I plea, knowing I’ll come in a second if he doesn’t stop. He takes my leg and swings it over his shoulder, continuing to manipulate my sensitive flesh. A low growl escapes his throat, spurring my orgasm to build. “Please, I need you,” I beg, wanting to come with him inside me. He stops and looks at me for a second, that devilish grin in place. “You want me, baby?” His finger continues to massage my clit, and I arch my back from the immense sensation. “Yes,” I answer. He unweaves himself from my legs, and his lips travel up my body from my navel to my lips. The tip of his cock pierces my opening, and I spread my legs further to make room for him. His hands brush strands of my hair away from my face, and our eyes lock. He slowly and tenderly enters me, and his eyes close right at the moment his body trembles. He doesn’t move until I start raising my hips. Then, in slow motion, he slides out and again in. He kisses me gently, not so ravenous but sensual and long. Our tongues mingle in a dance, we’re starting to perfect. Our legs are a tangled mess as our warm bodies slide. His rhythm increases, and our kiss closes as we struggle for breath. The harder he pushes into me, the more my orgasm races. Like an ascending elevator, he

stacks the burning of ecstasy in my body until we reach the top of the skyscraper. My fingers clench his shoulder blades, and my body tenses right before I drop down from the eighty-third floor in a spasm of convulsions. He thrusts into me a few more times, gentler than a second ago. “Carly,” he says, stilling inside me. His arms cage my head, and sweat drips from his chest onto mine. His succulent lips say he’s not done with me yet, and it jolts my arousal again. “I’ll be right back,” he says. Every muscle in my body loses their strength as Bryant excuses himself to the bathroom. I roll over onto my stomach and look out at the city lights. Does Chicago look more beautiful from this high up, or is it, I feel more beautiful? The bed dips a second later, and Bryant’s hand moves up my leg to my ass as his lips plant kisses up my back. He slides next to me, his leg swinging over mine. “It’s beautiful,” I say about the scenery. Then, I turn toward him and lay my head on my folded arms. “There’s only one thing more beautiful.” I feel the heat of my cheeks burn with his compliment. I’m not sure I’ll ever grow used to hearing his compliments. “Will you stay?” he asks, a stutter in his voice. I look at him, long and hard. “Will you sleep with me this time?” “For the rest of my life,” he answers. My nose crinkles from the tears burning. I push them back. We’re not there yet, Carly. YOU KNOW when you dream about something, and your expectations don’t match up to the real thing? Bryant Garrity is the real deal. He’s left me on his bed, every limb sore and spent, with the most glorious smile spread on my lips. His lips travel up my legs, and he peeks up from beneath the sheets. “Do you know how hard I get when you scream my name?” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. “Did I leave claw marks?” I ask, my fingernails hurting from gripping him when he masterly used his tongue. He crawls out of bed, and I admire his bare ass as he walks to his bathroom. How did I win over this man? “Light scratches. I’ll take them any day.” He emerges from the bathroom a second later and hops on the bed next to me. “Hungry?” he asks. I nod. He moves to slide from the bed, and I go to join him, but he stops me. “No, no. I’m ordering takeout. I’ll be right back. You relax because I’m far from over with you in this bed.” “There are other parts of your condo,” I remind him. His face lights up. “We’ll get there, but tonight, it’s the bed.” He points to his

bed with the disheveled black sheets twisted and turned in every direction. I hop over on the bed, glancing at my phone on the nightstand. Refusing to let myself see what people have been saying about me dating Bryant, I fight the urge and reach over to turn on the television. The sheet pools at my waist as I stretch to Bryant’s side of the bed for the remote. “Please let me take a picture?” he asks with his iPad in his hands. He holds it up, and for some reason, I actually pose. Snap. “That’s between me and you, Bryant,” I warn. He laughs, tossing it on the bed. He snatches the remote before I can get it and tackles me. “Hmm…I love the smell of you. Have I ever told you that?” “I don’t think you have.” “I do. Since St. Croix. And your cute button nose.” He taps it with his finger. “Your kissable lips.” He briefly kisses me. “Those eyes. Whiskey on the rocks that show me every emotion traveling through that brain of yours.” “You make me feel so beautiful,” I whisper, the flush warming my veins. “You are beautiful. But it’s not just your looks, Carly. You’re so much more.” My cheeks heat, and that pitter-patter in my heart is demanding to be heard, but I silence it for a bit longer. My brain continually tells me I can’t have both; it’s career or family, one or the other. “Thai? Chinese? Pizza?” he asks, his finger scrolling down the iPad. “How about Thai? There’s this great place down the street. They should deliver to you.” I cuddle next to his warm body. I watch his fingers maneuver the menu on the table with the same finesse he does with everything in his life. Does anything come with difficulty to him? “What do you want?” he asks. I click on my choices, and he smiles. He sets the iPad next to his bed, grabbing his phone. He alerts the doorman that a delivery is coming and then slides down the bed, snuggling me up to his body. Ignoring the television, I place my sole attention on him. “How come you’ve never had a girlfriend?” The question has been plaguing me because he seems so effortless with me, and I wonder how come he’s never tried this before. He eyes me for a second and then purses his lips, contemplating his answer. “Truth?” he asks. My gut churns, as I want to know what the truth is. Not a prepared answer. I nod. “Before I got hurt, my eyes were set on one goal.” “The ring?” He nods slowly. “The ring.” His tone sounds like it’s been an unreachable goal. “My dad holds two rings, and if I don’t get at least one while in the NFL, I’ll just feel like I haven’t accomplished anything.” His fingers brush my hair away from my face, and my body calms from his

touch. “When I tore my ACL last season I thought my career was over. I realized I’d sacrificed my whole life for a ring, never giving any relationship my undivided attention. I’d lived and breathed football, but my injury made me second-guess my choices. Not that I still don’t want that ring.” His eyes stay on me, and my pulse speeds up when he links our fingers together over his stomach. “You surprised me though. I never thought I’d meet someone who would make me want something other than a championship.” I smile, and he matches mine. “I’m still scared this won’t work out with us, but I have to tell you, Carly, I really want this to work out.” His grin only widens, like a prisoned man on release day. That damn doubt disappears inside me, and I stare at a man who has won my heart in such a short time. “Me, too.” “Good.” He slides up his two hands, cupping my cheeks. His lips brush along mine, and he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth. Goose bumps travel up my arms from the amount of love this man, who convinced himself he didn’t want a relationship, can give me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BRYANT

“H ey, dinner at my parents’ tonight.” Carly’s high heels click across my

hardwood floor, grabbing her messenger bag, on her way to me. I place her smoothie down on the counter and swoop my arms around her waist. “I promise, no canceling this time.” I kiss her neck, and her body relaxes. “I’ll grab a nice bottle of Frangelico.” Due to the damn vultures, we rescheduled the dinner until the press cooled down with the Internet gossipers, which it has now. Once Carly and I holed ourselves up and didn’t give the press anything to discuss, we quickly became uninteresting. So, other than a few shots of us walking into my condo, they’ve left us alone. Thank God. Having her in the public eye scares the crap out of me. I don’t know how my teammates do this with their girls. “Oh, you’re going for the kiss-up for both my parents. Good move, Garrity.” Her body slides down my chest until her heels hit the floor. She sips the kale smoothie, smiling in appreciation. “Thank you.” “I’m surprised you like it,” I say. I never expected Carly to like my health foods, but she’s slowly adapting to my diet. She’s had an effect on me, too, as sweet treats have been snuck into the house on too many occasions. “You’re having a bad effect on me,” she says. I swipe my keys off the counter, grabbing my own smoothie, and I follow her out my condo door. In the last few weeks, we’ve started a routine, and I’m not sure I remember my life without Carly. “I think it’s a positive effect on you,” I say to her retreating back. “Are you saying, my ass was big?” We file into the elevator, and I smack her backside with my free hand. She yelps. “Bryant,” she sighs, but her cheeks flush pink. I’m hoping that flush is her remembering last night—when I had her bent over my couch with my hands firmly on her ass. I corner her, and she doesn’t try to run away. Instead, she stands there, her brown eyes staring up at me, as she waits for me to kiss her. I wish I had the ability

to tease her, but I’d starve without her. My lips smash to hers. With each of our hands holding our own smoothies, I press my hardening erection into her, and she moans into my mouth. God, I love that sound. Her nipples pebble under her blouse, and I deepen the kiss more, earning another moan of pleasure to leak from her mouth. The elevator dings, but I close the kiss before disgusting my neighbors. When I turn around, I find Mr. Freund with his dachshund. “Good morning, Mr. Freund,” I say. He files into the elevator, his eyes on Carly the entire time. I want to say, I know she’s beautiful, and she’s mine. “My morning doesn’t seem as good as yours,” he says, staying on his own side of the elevator. Carly’s lips cover her straw, and she sips. I love the way she stays close to me. I wrap my arm around Carly’s shoulder. “I am a lucky guy.” Carly leans in more, the scent of her shampoo rising to my nostrils. She brought a new bottle over last week after saying my shampoo was ruining her hair. I will admit that the strands didn’t feel as silky in my fingers. “Uh-huh.” Mr. Freund’s eyes focus in front of him. The three of us ride the elevator down in silence. When we get to the bottom, Carly and I wait for Mr. Freund to exit first, and once she’s in front of me, my right hand grabs a handful of her ass, squeezing it, on the way out. Carly, unable to hold in her response, yelps again, and Mr. Freund turns around, a look of disgust on his wrinkled face. He shakes his head but mumbles, “Young love.” As love leaves his withered lips, Carly’s eyes peer up to me, her pink cheeks telling me she’s embarrassed. Love? As Carly’s smile emerges, the further Mr. Freund gets from us, my heart beats faster. In the middle of my condo lobby with others hustling out to start their day, my eyes fix on Carly, as I realize, for the first time, I love her. That feeling of anything is possible lasts only a second before fear, if we don’t make it, my heart is going to splinter. Fuck, what have I done? WITH A BOTTLE OF HAZELNUT LIQUEUR, Frangelico—which Carly informed me her parents loved—in my hand, I walk up to the small suburban bungalow. I double-check the address since the one to the right and left are identical, except for the awning colors. Carly left work early to go over last-minute wedding details for her sister. The wedding is this weekend, and I’ll be happy when it’s over because Carly has been stressed. Every day, she seems to be falling asleep earlier every night.

My finger moves for the doorbell, and I’m surprised at how nervous I am, but that anxious butterfly feeling in my stomach hasn’t left since I pulled out of my condo parking garage. I’ve met her mom, and after a second, she seemed to fall in love with me, so hopefully, I can work her father over just as fast. The man who answers the door has to be Carly’s father. The mask of annoyance on his face says this will not be a repeat of the easy defeat of her mom. “Mr. Lincoln, I presume.” I hold my hand out to him. He glances at it and then takes my hand. No smile on his thin lips, no welcoming grin on his face. “Phillip,” he says. “Bryant!” Riley screams as she rushes over to the door. She places her hand on her dad’s shoulder in a gentle manner, and he releases my hand. Thank God. I didn’t know it was going to be a who-holds-a-firmer-handshake competition. “Come in, come in. Carly!” she yells. The dad walks down the hall and dodges Carly as she escapes from the left. “Hey, baby,” she says. I’m as thrown off as her dad at the term of endearment. We haven’t gotten to that stage yet, but I like it. When I dropped her off at work this morning, we were still Carly and Bryant. “Hey,” I say. When she wraps her arms around my neck and her body is flush with mine, I relax. This is the best place in the world—with her not an inch away from me. Not wanting to show public affection, we leave our kiss to a short peck on the lips. For the first time in our relationship, she leads me. We head into her kitchen where I hear voices and laughter bellowing. Right before we walk through a doorway, she stops and rises to her tiptoes, and her breath tickles my ear. “Relax. They’ll love you just like I do.” Her voice might calm my nerves, but the word love stirs a shitstorm inside me. I’ve contemplated that four-letter word all day after Mr. Freund put it in my head. I was good with dating Carly, and the fact that she handled the media like a pro only grew my feelings for her. But love? That’s a different level. A level I’ve never been able to handle. With love comes hurt, and I can take my own heartbreak, but I can’t handle Carly’s—which Jonathan reminded me is just another reason why it’s too late, confirming what I’d already known. I love her. She squeezes my hand, and I look down at her eager face. I know she’s excited that I’m meeting her dad. She’s mentioned it every day this past week. Let’s just hope I can make a good impression on him. Her arm pulls me into the room, and it quiets with heads turning my way. Her mom’s face beams from the stove, and her dad’s back is to me at the table. Riley is

on her way back to the table with a plate. At the table, Renee has a boy on her lap with a girl and a man looking at a tablet. Carly has the all-American family. I’m out of my league here. Give me a fivestar restaurant, a speech at a black-tie event, anything but the all-American family. “Okay, I’m going to do some quick introductions,” Carly says, releasing my hand and positioning her hand out in the air. “You know Mom, Riley, and Renee.” They each smile, and I force my own to show I’m not intimidated more by a family than the whole Chargers defensive line. “That’s Riley’s fiancé, Cameron.” The guy with hair that looks like his fingers have been through it all day waves with a smile as cheery as Riley. “That’s Renee’s son, Matty, and her daughter, Tatum, and my brother-in-law, Vinnie.” Each person smiles, but the little guy, Matty, rushes off Renee’s lap, running over to us. Carly bends down to pick him up, but he shakes his head, staring up at me. “You play football?” he asks. I bend down to his level—or as close as I can get. Here’s just the thing I need to break the ice. I want to tell the little guy to let his grandpa know I’m a top player. “I do.” “For the Knights?” “I do.” “You know Jonathan Monroe?” Carly snickers a laugh, and when I look up to her, she’s pursing her lips to keep quiet. “He’s one of my best friends.” He shoves his jersey into my hands. “So, you can get him to sign this?” He scurries back to Renee’s lap, and the entire kitchen roars in laughter. I place the liqueur bottle on the ground and open up the jersey. I shake my head as I stand to my feet. Carly lifts onto her toes to whisper to me, “We’ve been working on him to get it right for twenty minutes.” She places her arm around my neck and pulls my head down until her lips make contact with my cheek. “Sorry, Bryant, just Lincoln humor,” Renee says. Matty looks back at his mom, his eyes scrunched. “So, he’s not going to get me Jonathan Monroe’s autograph?” Renee squeezes him into a tight hug, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll get you more than a signature.” I wink. The kid lights up, and he looks back and forth between me and his mom. “Really?” His eyes are wide, as if I was his favorite player. “Yeah.” Carly bends down and picks up the bottle, pulling it out of the brown paper bag.

She sneaks me a look, saying, Way to go, and places it in front of her dad, who’s yet to pay any attention to me. “Look, Dad. Bryant brought Frangelico for after dinner.” He nods and slides the bottle to the side. “Uh-huh,” he says, his pencil poised on the crossword puzzle. “Phillip.” Carly’s mother uses a voice of authority. He turns around, flashing me a smile that does nothing except send chills up my spine. “Thank you, Bryant.” His tone is similar to a pouty teenager abiding by his parents’ decision. “Don’t mind him.” Carly’s mom rounds the counter with a plateful of food. “No one is ever good enough for his daughters.” She points to the other two men at the table. “Just ask them.” They nod their heads in unison. “Dinner’s ready.” Carly’s mom walks through another doorway. Matty and Tatum hurry to catch up. Everyone grabs a dish and follows the mom. Carly and I are the last ones, and she hands me a bowl of pasta. “I’m pretty sure your dad hates me,” I softy say. She shakes her head. “He’s just worried. You know, football player, reputation. The usual stereotypes.” She flashes me a smile to say, It will all work out. I put trust in her hands since she knows him better than I do. We go into the next room, and I find a huge dining table set with dishes, silverware, and crystal. The Garrity family hasn’t dined like this since my mom passed. Everyone must know their usual seats because there’s no discussion. Carly touches the back of a chair next to her, insinuating that’s where I belong. I release a breath that at least I’m by her. After saying grace, the dishes get passed around the table, everyone filling their plates with the array of pasta, chicken, and sausage. Damn, I’ll be doing an extra workout this time. “When is training camp?” Cameron, Riley’s fiancé, asks. I’m thankful for the reprieve of a topic I could talk about in my sleep. “End of the month.” “You guys go down south, right?” Carly’s dad asks. I clear my throat before answering him, “Yes, sir.” “For how long?” he asks. The accusatory tone isn’t missed in his delivery. “Three weeks, sir, and then we start preseason,” I answer, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “You stay there, correct?” he continues his questions. Carly’s hand reaches under the table, squeezing my thigh. “I do.” “Uh-huh,” he says. He eyes Carly hard before turning his attention back to his

meal. “If you’re interested, I can get you guys into Family Day in August.” I look at Renee and Vinnie. “They do some fun things with the kids.” Then, I look at Matty. “You could meet Jonathan.” His eyes light up. I’m not going to lie; it hurts a little that I’m not Carly’s nephew’s favorite Knight. “Can we, Mommy?” he begs immediately. She calms him by touching his arm. “We’ll see.” Her eyes find me. “Thank you, Bryant. We’ll talk about it, but it sounds like a lot of fun.” “Just let me know. Or Carly. She’ll already be there, so you guys could stay at my house.” Carly’s hand stops the massaging she’s been doing, and I glance over to find her eyes peering up to mine. “I will be where?” she asks in a similar tone as her dad did just minutes ago. “I thought you could come down and stay the weekend with me. I’m in the dorms the first couple of weeks, but I have to stay and do some promotional commercials that last weekend.” She stabs her fork into a sausage. “Oh, okay.” Riley eyes us from next to her, and I see her knock Carly with her elbow. Obviously, I’m missing something, but I’m not about to bring it up with the family present. For the remainder of the night, we discuss the upcoming wedding. Riley appears to be a bride who is relaxed, and Cameron is the one in constant distress with the amount of times his fingers have run through that hair, especially when Riley brings up the topic of his family. Phillip quietly eats his dinner, not adding more than an, “Uh-huh,” or, “Oh,” to the conversation. Carly’s mom never sits down, constantly getting more food or drinks for everyone. Renee ends up taking Matty out of the room when he blows bubbles into his milk for the fifth time and ends up spilling the milk all over his plate. Tatum buries her sausage under her pasta and claims she’s not hungry while Vinnie rolls his eyes in her direction. The all-American family is interesting; that’s for sure. At my house, it was usually me eating at the breakfast bar, my mom standing on the other side, and my dad nowhere around. There was love in my house, but the amount here, even with the undercurrent of annoyance, is alive and overflowing. By the time we hit dessert, Carly’s hand has removed itself from my thigh, and she’s chilling up the room with her cold shoulder toward me. On her way to the kitchen moments ago, she never looked or touched me “Bryant, may we talk?” Phillip stands up, grabs the bottle of Frangelico and two glasses, and points to the living room. Carly stops in the doorway when she sees me following her dad.

“Car!” Renee screams, bumping into her. For the first time in the last half hour, Carly smiles one of her usual heartpounding love ones and my heart pounds. Phillip sits down on the couch, pouring each of us a glass. “I understand that you and Carly have been seeing each other for a while?” He poses it as a question, and I’m unsure why. “We have.” “You can imagine a father’s concern for his daughter dating someone in the public eye, such as yourself.” He sips his drink, so I do the same. “I can, but—” He holds his hand up. “Please, let me finish.” I nod. “I saw the headlines and how they misconstrued what had happened in front of that bridal store. I don’t like hearing people say things about her, especially any untruths.” He sips again, and I do as well. “I have to admit, she seems to like you, and from what I’ve witnessed, you are good to her. I gave one guy a free pass into this family, and he bullshitted his way through. I won’t let another one sneak through. I’m sure Carly’s told you about Dean.” I nod even though it seems it wasn’t nearly enough. “She was happy. She had the guy, the ring, and the big wedding planned. Then, Dean transformed right in front of her eyes. Carly has always had a good sense of character, but love blinds her. I’m going to make damn sure my eyes are wide open this time. I’m sure you can understand this, Bryant.” Acid from the sauce rises up my throat. She was engaged? I rack my brain. Did I miss that conversation? Too enamored by her looks that I wasn’t listening at some point? Man, it’s a sucker-punch, knowing I won’t be the first man who proposes to her. Shit, there goes me thinking about the future again. Knowing I have no control over my emotions and I have to accept that she’s been engaged, I concentrate on winning her father over, so I’ll at least be the last man who proposes to her. “Yes, sir. I promise—” He shakes his head, and damn if the five-ten man in front of me doesn’t command a level of respect. “Please.” He waits, taking another slow sip of his glass. “He changed her, and tonight is the first night I’ve seen my old Carly back. That being said, if you strip her of the belief of love, I’m afraid for my girl. She’s tough and resilient, but if I compare it to you on the field, I can’t see her being bulldozed by linebacker after linebacker until she stumbles, refusing to gain her footing again. So, don’t take my silence for not liking you. Time will tell if I can trust you with her. Actions speak

louder than words.” I place my finished Frangelico glass down on the table and hold my hand out to the man. “We’re on the same page. I want Carly to be happy and safe, and I’ll make sure it happens because…I love her.” Once the three words are out of my mouth, a squeal rings out from the other room.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CARLY

weightless feeling rushes through my muscles, and my back falls to the wall. A Did he just say he loved me? With my hand clasped over my heart to slow the

beating, I relish the moment. Next to me, Riley’s jumping, and her hands are tugging my arms up and down. “Oh my God, Carly. He loves you!” she whispers—after she alerted them of our eavesdropping by squealing. The tears dry on my cheeks after tumbling down from my dad’s words regarding Dean. Bryant pretending that I’ve been straightforward with him about Dean is admirable, especially since he was so honest with me about his past. Here I am, a coward who is struggling to confess that my ex was more than a failed relationship. I regret turning into a chilled bitch at the table earlier when he brought up training camp. He just wanted us to spend time together when he was there, and I was worried he wanted to control me. Bryant peeks his head around the corner, surprising both of us. My body startles, and Riley’s footsteps scatter, leaving Bryant and me at the bottom of my parents’ staircase. His determined steps move until he has me cornered against the wall. “You heard?” he asks. I nod. I bite my lip to stop the smile, but it’s a struggle. He bends down, his teeth pulling on my lower lip until I release it. Slowly, he sucks it into his mouth, and my legs wobble under me. His arms cage me in, and our eyes hold. “I love you, Carly Lincoln,” he says. My knees knock together as I lose my balance. His hand lands firmly on my waist to hold me in place, and tears fall down my cheeks again. His hand leaves my hip, and he cups my cheek, his thumb wiping the tears away. “I wish you had heard it from me first.” I shake my head, my cheek leaning into the strength of his hand. “I love you,” I say. His eyes slowly close for a second while a smile emerges on his face. “I was

hoping you’d say that.” He bends down, his lips gently pressing to mine, and everything around me is perfect. Until he says the next sentence, “I need to know who Dean is.” I nod, but he teases me again with another kiss, not making a dramatic show that I’ve been hiding something. When we walk into the dining room, my family is seated around the table, eating their sorbet and cookies. “Um…we’re going to get going,” I announce with Bryant’s hand in mine. My dad nods, and my mom stands, walking into the kitchen. We say our goodbyes to everyone, and when we’re getting our shoes on, my mom hands me a huge takeout bag of food. “Mom, we have Riley’s wedding this weekend. We’ll never eat all this.” I move to hand it back to her, but she shakes her head and touches Bryant’s arm. “He eats a lot.” Bryant glances at me with an offended look on his face but grabs the bag from my hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln.” He kisses her on the cheek. “Go, go. Text me when you get home,” she says as she shoos us out the door. We’re on the porch, and I turn around to kiss and hug her good-bye. “I’ll be by tomorrow to help with the favors.” “Great. Have a good night, you two.” Bryant walks me to his Jeep and opens the door for me. He places the bag in the back and is on the driver’s side, sitting next to me, within seconds. He waits until we pull on the freeway to start the conversation. My gnawing stomach was hoping he’d wait for…I don’t know…forever. “So, who’s Dean?” he asks. I feel his eyes shift in my direction for a brief second, but I’m too worried to meet his gaze. “The ex-boyfriend I told you about.” “I think you mean, ex-fiancé.” His tone is calm, but I can tell he isn’t happy about finding out I was engaged. “Yeah. We were together for a long time, and I was set to marry him until the night before our wedding.” The details of the event are easy to convey. Dean’s the bad guy in this scenario. At least, he is before you get all of the backstory. “This is the guy you’ll be standing up with next Saturday?” he asks, more annoyance in his voice. “Yeah.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. I don’t have a valid answer as to why I didn’t. The worst part is, there’s hurt mixed in his tone. Here, is the man I just told I loved, and I’ve already hurt him. “I don’t know. I was scared.” My eyes concentrate on my fidgeting hands in my lap.

He reaches over, grabs my hand, and entwines our fingers. “Never be scared to tell me anything.” Since we’re on the highway and he can’t really look my way, I turn to see his face. He glances from the corner of his eye and winks. “I’m serious, Carly. I hate secrets. I hate being surprised. This is new for me, but if I learned anything from my parents, it’s that we have to talk.” “Okay.” I release a breath before laying everything out for him. “Okay, can we wait on the rest until you’re able to have all your attention on me?” He nods. “Yeah. Why don’t we go for a walk by the lake? It’s late enough that no one should bother us.” “Perfect.” As the minutes on his dash turn, my stomach grows more nauseous. What if he views me differently because of what my body has been through? What if he can’t accept my past? He parks the Jeep along the side of the road, and the lake is pitch-black. Taking my hand, he leads us toward the sidewalk that runs along the lake. Usually, I’d be scared to walk here, but with Bryant, I’m never scared, even when I think about the future. That is why I felt comfortable with disclosing my love for him. “So…” he begins since I’m delaying. His hand firms around mine, as though telling me, It’s okay. You can trust me. “My senior year of college, I got pregnant.” I swear, his hand goes limp, but quickly, he’s back, holding it tight. Still, he says nothing. “It…she was Dean’s. He proposed to me right away, which wasn’t absurd; we’d been dating for a year by then, and it seemed like the right thing to do. He had already graduated, and I was due to that spring. I thought I’d make an easy transition to wife and motherhood. We’d buy a house together, have our kids, and live happily ever after.” “Doesn’t seem like you,” he says. I couldn’t love him more for recognizing that fact. If time travel were possible, I’m not sure I’d recognize the person I was back then. “Not now, no, but it was then. I was ready to push my career to the back burner and raise our daughter.” “Well, one thing about it fits you. Sacrificing,” he says, his fist again tightening around mine for a second, giving me the reassurance that it’s okay. “That’s the thing. In my mind, it wasn’t sacrificing. I wanted that life…then.” He says nothing, so I continue, “Well, you haven’t heard the entire story yet.” He stops us and turns me around to face him. His hands taking both of mine, and he stares in my eyes. Again, he nonverbally communicates his affection for me, and I melt into his love. “Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. Pasts are just pasts; they might define the person into who they are, but they don’t tell you who the person

is.” If he wasn’t holding my hands, one would involuntarily cover my heart, and I’d fawn over this man. “Thank you for that.” Without another word of advice, he moves us forward again, his hand in mine. “I got into a car accident when I was in my twentieth week, and when I woke up in the hospital, Dean told me we’d lost the baby…her.” A tear trickles down my cheek as I remember the horror of that hospital room. An indescribable sound escapes his mouth. It’s the same sound I’ve heard many times—the one where they are sympathetic. I appreciate people’s feelings, but I hate the way I feel as though I’m making them sad. “Yeah, it wasn’t the best of times, but Dean and I continued our engagement for three more years. After that, I started to change, pushing my career to the forefront. Dean seemed to be on the same path as me, as far as our relationship, until our rehearsal dinner.” I stop to breathe and form the sentence I want to say in this moment. No matter what, I’ll come off as a bitch. “He was dropping me off at my parents’ house for the night because we were abiding by the tradition that we separate.” “Did you guys live together?” he asks. I look over at him, and there’s no smile on his face. Actually, it’s more of a scowl. “Yeah.” He nods. “Go ahead.” The mood is shifting, and this is exactly what I was afraid of. He’ll see me differently, and I’ll no longer be this exciting girl he just fell in love with. “He said he was looking forward to coming home to me every night.” That feeling of dread still looms around me when I think of that moment—the moment I knew what he really expected. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Bryant says. “I’d be excited for the same.” My heart clenches shut a tiny bit. I stop my footsteps and release my hand from his. Stepping over to the ledge of the lake, I lean on the concrete wall, staring out into blackness. “Did I say something wrong?” Bryant asks, mimicking my stance next to me. “He wanted me to quit my job, Bryant. He thought I’d stay home, have his kids, and prepare dinner for him every night.” My anger shines through my clipped words. “Oh,” he says but doesn’t convey his agreement either way. “That’s not me. So, if you’re thinking that I’m going to leave WorkNPlay and raise your kids, you’re crazy.” I face him, ready to pick a fight. He holds his hands up in defense. “Whoa, Carly. I never said I agreed with him, but I don’t blame him for wanting that either.” My fists ball at my sides. He’s another condescending asshole who thinks he’s Ward Cleaver.

“Well, you fell in love with the wrong girl then.” I cross my arms over my chest. His head tips back, laughing. “I thought you were a woman?” He throws that damn line from the dinner in St. Croix back at me. Humor is his go-to moodbreaker. I narrow my eyes. “You know what I mean.” He chuckles again and steps closer, unhooking my arms from around myself. He steps into my space, navigating my arms around his stomach, and he takes me in his arms and kisses my forehead. “I’d never expect you to quit your job. I’m not Dean.” He reminds me of the fact I already know. “You expected me to come down for training camp.” He nods, a glimmer of a smile creasing his lips. “Oh, that was the reason for the silent treatment, huh?” I look up into his eyes that show no sign of being upset. If anything, his amusement is back. “I can’t be with someone who wants to control my future.” “Then, you have no worries. If you can’t come to spring training, it’s fine. I just wanted to experience it with you.” He kisses my forehead again, and my eyes close, committing him to memory. “But…” he says. And that enjoyment halts before it can truly calm my heart. I swallow and look back up at him. “I want you to always talk to me. I’m not perfect, Carly, and when it comes to you, I’ve somehow forgotten how to share, so please don’t run or hide from me when you’re upset. Be straight. I’m a big boy, and I can handle it.” I nod and move into his embrace further, loving the warmth his body gives me each time. “I love you, Carly, and I want you to be happy,” he whispers. I cling to his body, gripping his shirt. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through.” “I know,” I mumble into his shirt that has the scent of his fabric softener and cologne. “My season doesn’t exactly leave our calendar open either. We have demanding jobs, but if we stick together, we’ll be fine.” I tip my head up, in awe by this man. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m not a pounding-chest alpha gorilla.” He bends down, and his lips press to mine. His lips are gentle and eager and enjoyable, all rolled into one. By the time he closes the kiss, I’m breathless, and I’ve forgotten the heartbreak I experienced three years ago. “I need you home,” he says, linking his fingers with mine and leading me toward his Jeep. I laugh, and his face goes serious for a moment. “What?” I ask, concerned he’s second-guessing our relationship because of my

past. “I’m just wondering, have all your firsts been taken?” The sheepish look on his face pitter-patters my heart. “Everything with you is a first for me.” He smiles and tightens his hand around mine. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BRYANT

“I

think I need to call the Psychic Network,” Jonathan says, tipping a beer to his lips, “in case I don’t make it in the league.” I walk out of my bedroom, straightening my tie. “Good to have it as an option in case of injury.” He laughs and slides my own beer across the counter to me. “So, you aren’t fighting your love for her anymore?” He leans forward, his hands clasping his beer between them. “I could purposely lie, but you’d know, right? The whole psychic thing.” His teeth brighten the room with how big his smile is. “Well, first Kurt’s baby mama surfaces and now you’re in love. I don’t think I need to plead my case.” “Don’t gloat.” He stands up straight, raising his hands in the air. “I think it’s a good thing, but you have other problems because Mon wants to meet her.” His eyebrows move up and down. “I’m not sure if I want Monica in her ear just yet.” I sit on my breakfast stool, checking my watch. Good, I have an hour before I’m due to meet Carly at the rehearsal dinner. “She’ll only say good things.” He shoots me a smile to say, You know as well as I do, that’s not true, but she’s my wife, and I’d better stick up for her. I glance around the room. “I don’t see her. Go ahead and be truthful.” He chuckles. “My wife is the best, and I’m sticking to that.” “I would expect nothing else.” I take a swig of my beer and place the bottle back down on the counter. “All kidding aside, she’s been so busy with work and this wedding. How about we go to dinner next weekend?” “Perfect. We’ll get a babysitter and have an adult night,” he says. I’m excited for Carly to meet my friends because they’re my family. My eyes study the label, and since the other night when Carly poured her heart out to me, I’ve been dreading her walking down the aisle with Dean. I’m not usually the possessive type, but he’s shared more with Carly than I have. For the first time since junior high, I wonder if I’m not enough. “What’s going on?” Jonathan nudges his head in the air.

I pick at the label on the beer bottle. “Carly’s standing up with her ex at the wedding.” I don’t want to go into details because that was her life and her story to share, but Jonathan is my best friend, and I’m hoping he can calm me before I go apeshit crazy when I see the two of them talking. “Ouch,” he says, his eyes staying fixed on mine. “How long ago did they break up?” “Three years, I think.” The label comes off the bottle, and I continue to pick at the gluey residue. “What are you worried about then?” I shrug. I’m not even sure. Carly’s given me no reason to be jealous. If anything, it’s the opposite, considering how angry she was about Dean wanting her to quit her job. “Something is bugging you,” he continues to pry. But I can’t tell him about the pregnancy or the miscarriage. Everything I tell him gets to Monica, and I could see her saying something to Carly. Nice and sympathetic, but I’m not taking that chance. “You know I’ve never had a serious relationship.” “Actually, I thought you had one a long time ago, and it ended badly. That’s why, all these years, you’ve been so hell-bent on staying clear of one.” I nod. I can see his line of thinking. “Nope. Never let myself feel, but Carly, she’s just weaseled in and has taken residence in my heart without any fight from me.” I push my fingers through my hair. “How the hell did this happen?” “Whoa.” He presses his hands down in the air to calm my rising voice. “I’m setting myself up, aren’t I?” I ask, standing up and tossing my beer bottle in the trash can. “You’re living,” he counters. My mom’s face flickers to my mind. I promised myself, when she died, that I’d never take a day for granted. And what have I been doing? Exactly that. I have been so fixed on becoming a Super Bowl champ that I’ve stopped living. I nod. He slaps me on the shoulder. “Calm down, and enjoy this time. You haven’t told me, but I know you love her. And trust me, the best time is when you first find it. Not that I don’t love where Monica and I are now, but those early days, we thought our love was enough.” “But it wasn’t?” Watching my parents’ marriage dwindle to a partnership of raising me as the love got sucked out year after year, I know a little of what he’s saying. Then again, I can tell Monica and Jonathan have a love much deeper than my parents did. “You have to work on it, but the rewards, man, the rewards are tenfold. When we’re on the road, I can’t wait to get home. And when I open that door—whether Monica is screaming at the boys, or they’re quiet and watching a movie, or if the boys are running circles around the house, firing Nerf guns at one another, or

they’re tucked in bed—I still have that same feeling.” I grab my keys from the table. “What feeling?” He purses his lips, thinking for a moment. “Peace. It’s peace, man.” “When did you become so philosophical?” I ask, tucking my wallet into my pocket. “I guess when the psychic ability emerged.” We both laugh. Again, his hand lands on my shoulder. “You’ve fought your feelings your entire life. Don’t fight this, Bry.” I nod, hoping like hell I can do what he says, but that doubt in my head is more fear than anything. Fear she’ll still struggle with my schedule or the media or the gossip. I have no other choice but to give her the benefit of the doubt. Like her dad said, “Actions speak louder than words.” CHICAGO TRAFFIC on a Friday night is the usual chaotic mess. How did I not assume I’d be stuck in traffic, getting out of the city? By the time I walk into the restaurant and navigate to the small private room in the back, Carly’s saying her speech. Not wanting to interrupt, I sneak through the door and lean my back against it. She’s laughing at a story about the first time she introduced Riley and Cameron. She mentions Dean, and Riley and Cameron turn to the guy next to Cameron. Must be the ex. He’s a lanky guy, like a runner-type. His eyes light up with amusement as he looks over to Carly, and my gut twists. Then, he stands, and I see he’s probably over six feet with blond hair and blue eyes. He’s the exact opposite of me. He’s dressed in a suit but no tie. He leans forward to add in his version of the first meeting of the blessed couple. Carly’s hand lands on his back as the two laugh, and the room roars in their own amusement to the story. After the story is over, Carly wishes them her love, and Riley stands and hugs her tight while Cameron and Dean share a man style hug. Then, she and Cameron switch spots and hug the others. Before they each go to their own seats, Carly and Dean are awkwardly face-to-face behind the bride and groom. Their arms move forward and then retract, unsure of what to do. They eventually give a light hug to one another, and that twisting in my gut grows tighter. Riley spots me first, waving, which alerts the entire room to turn. Carly is about to sit down when Riley knocks an elbow into her hip. After Carly gives a death glare to her sister, our eyes meet, and all that jealousy that consumed me moments ago fades. A slow smile raises her lips, and she breaks from the table to come toward me. Ignoring the whispers with my name, I move to meet her in the middle of the far-right side, hoping we’ll get some privacy.

We’re steps away from one another, and my arms are itching to have her in them when a short blonde stops in front of me. I look down to find a toothy smile. “Are you Bryant Garrity?” she asks. I watch her eyes roam my body. “I am.” I hold my hand out. “Nice to meet you.” She ignores my outstretched hand and steps into my arms. Carly stops a few feet from me, scowling at the girl’s back. Sensing Carly’s unhappiness, I step back to gain my personal space, which I prefer anyway, but I figured I wasn’t going to be standoffish in front of her family. “I’m your biggest fan. You probably don’t know this, but I went to college with you. We had French History together junior year.” Carly continues to keep her distance. Not hearing anyone else talking, I turn to the room to find pairs of eyes aimed toward me. I hate that I can never have a typical life. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t remember. It’s great to meet you.” I smile, rolling back on my heels, waiting for her to excuse herself. “Yeah. I think you were dating some girl then. I remember seeing you waiting for her after class.” Is this chick serious? “Well, my junior year of college was a long time ago,” I mention. I hold my hand out for Carly. “If you’ll excuse me.” Carly slides past the girl and nuzzles into my arms. “You made it,” she says, inching up on her toes to give me a kiss. When our lips meet, my body calms from the scene that unfolded moments ago with Dean. The room claps, and Carly falls down on her heels, burying her head in my jacket. I give my classic wave that says, How are you doing? Go back to your business. “Sorry I’m late.” “Friday night traffic.” She understands and takes ahold of my hand, leading me back to where she came from. I spot the empty seat next to hers, and she pats the top of the chair as she passes it to get to her own. “Hey, man,” Cameron says, holding his hand out to me. I say my hellos to everyone, and I catch Dean’s eyes checking me out. With Carly ignoring her manners for the moment, I don’t sit down. I go over to Dean and hold my hand out. “Dean?” I ask. He falters back before placing his fake smile on his face. “Yes. Nice to meet you, Bryant.” He shakes my hand, not nearly as firm as he should. Or I have the situation wrong, and he doesn’t want her back. The girl that blocked my entrance walks up and clears her throat to Dean. He glances back and then stands up. I back up to give him space, and I knock right into Carly. She’s staring up at me, as though I’m going to holler to not touch my girl. I sidestep, bringing her to my side.

“Bryant, this is my date, Nina,” he introduces the girl who thinks she knows everything about me from reading online articles. I wonder if she even attended Northwestern. Then again, it’s a big campus, and I did take French History to fulfill my major. “We met,” I say, keeping my one arm around Carly and my other hand tucked into my pocket. “Pleasure to meet you, Nina.” I nod, and she smiles. An uncomfortable silence occupies the space until the clinking of glasses brings our attention to the bride and groom. We all take our assigned seats at the table, and I’m placing my napkin on my lap when Matty runs up to me. “Bryant,” he says, tugging on my suit jacket sleeve. “Hey, Matty.” “Did you see Jonathan Monroe?” he asks. Carly laughs next to me. “Matty, you do realize that Bryant is a pretty popular football player for the Knights, right?” she asks. He steps aside to look her in the eye. “Not as big as Jonathan Monroe.” His face is so serious. I can’t help but laugh. Digging into my pocket, the rectangular cardboard pokes my palm. “As a matter of fact, I saw him right before I came here, and he told me he can’t wait to meet you.” His eyes widen. “And he wanted to make sure I gave this to you.” I pull out the signed rookie card. His lips turn down. “This?” he questions as he glances back down. “You don’t like it?” I ask. Carly leans forward. Vinnie snatches it from his son’s hands. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.” The table nods their agreement. “Mine.” Matty grabs it back from his dad’s hands. “The kid’s holding his college tuition in his hand, and he doesn’t even know it,” Vinnie says, leaning back in his chair and putting his arm around Renee. “Share the wealth, Bryant.” The table laughs, and although I took what Vinnie said seriously for a second, the relaxing feel of the table tells me that he really doesn’t expect money from me. None of Carly’s family does. In fact, nobody, except for Nina, has approached me. It’s an odd anomaly I’m not used to. I’m always hesitant to go to private parties because I hate the attention that turns to me from where it should be focused. For the rest of the night, I enjoy the company of Carly’s friends and family. It’s going smoothly until I’m exiting the restroom right before the end of the evening, and I run into Dean. Coincidence? I think not. “Hey, Bryant,” he says. I slide past the door, hoping he isn’t going to start a conversation about how he still loves her and crap.

“Hey, Dean.” “Can we talk?” he asks, tilting his head to the outside patio. “Sure.” I follow his lead and go out the double doors to one of the many patio tables that, my guess is, just closed down due to the night coming to an end. He takes a seat, and I follow him, sitting in my own chair. “So, I was wondering, how serious are you and Carly?” he asks. Did I miss the fact that he’s an ex-boyfriend? Not her dad or even a brother. Hell, Vinnie and Cameron have more of a right to ask me this question. “I don’t think that’s a question you need an answer to.” I lean back, resting my ankle on my knee. “I’ve loved Carly for most of my adult life.” He studies the wrought iron table and then peers back up to me. “I’ll always love her.” His solemn eyes bring a pain to my heart that I assume I would bear if Carly weren’t in my life. She’s definitely a catch that shouldn’t be tossed back, but it wasn’t Dean’s choice to lose her. She left him, and I suppose that’s my biggest fear when putting all my faith into a relationship with Carly—her running. “I love her,” I say honestly. He nods anxiously a few times, as though he didn’t think those were the words I was about to say. He must have thought, like everyone else does, that I was using her for sex. “Oh,” he says. His head nods like a bobblehead, absorbing the information. “I guess I assumed—” “You assumed wrong,” I answer his unasked question to if I was in this for some fun and that was all. In the beginning maybe but not now. “Okay. Well, that’s good then because she seems to really like you. She seems happy.” I think he’s convincing himself more than me. “Not seems. Is.” I try to keep up with the tough-guy act, saying, Don’t try to steal my girl; otherwise, I’ll pummel you. But I sense that Dean is close to the Lincoln family, and if we’re going to be around each other, I want us to be on the same page. So, I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Listen, Dean, Carly told me.” His eyes flash surprise until I see him heave for another breath. “She did?” “Yeah. Did you also assume she was hiding things from me?” “No. She usually doesn’t talk about the baby. It wasn’t easy. Then, three years later, I lost her.” He picks up his head, staring me right in the eye. “For her, if you’re what makes her happy, I hope it works out between the two of you. But I worry for you because Carly has a hard time keeping her apples in more than one barrel, if you get what I mean.” “I’m afraid I don’t.”

He shakes his head. “I just mean, she won’t sacrifice her career for a family.” “That’s the difference between us, Dean. I’d be perfectly happy with following her around the world.” “Some of us don’t have that luxury. Are you even sure she would want that? Since we lost our baby, she’s needed space—her own apartment, her own money. Eventually, she needed her own life.” He stands up, tucking his chair back under the table. “From one man to another, I wish you luck, but you’re bound to get hurt because Carly isn’t one to settle.” I stand myself, towering over him by at least three inches. “That’s another difference between us. I’d never make her choose. She can have me and her career.” He shoots me a disbelieving grin. “I guess time will tell on that.” He walks away, and I don’t stop him because this conversation would continue to go round and round. He’ll eventually see that Carly isn’t going to run from me. I just wish my heart were completely sure of that fact.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CARLY

he wedding was flawless. The sun shone bright in the sky on the daisies in T bloom as my sister and Cameron said, “I do,” to one another with their own vows.

I’m sitting at a table on the outskirt of the dance floor, observing how happy my sister is in the arms of the one she loves. Cam dips her, and she giggles until he seals her happiness with a kiss. Renee and Vinnie are dancing nearby with Matty in Vinnie’s arms, and Tatum is mixed in the middle. Even my parents are lovingly holding one another on the dance floor. I swallow down the fear that I’m the odd duck. My eyes search the room until they lock with Bryant at the bar, talking to some guy I don’t know. He winks, and my belly ignites with flutter. He raises his hand at his hip, discreetly telling me one more minute, and I nod. I glance to my family and back to Bryant, thinking of my wish of becoming the new Vice President of WorkNPlay. My need for independence seems senseless tonight with the twinkling lights looming overhead. The hope that love can conquer lingers around me, and hell if Bryant hasn’t made me a believer. As of late, I’ve felt more alive in Bryant’s arms than I do in that office. Maybe I can have a career and a marriage—at least with Bryant. “Hey, beautiful,” he whispers in my ear. I hear the sliding of a chair behind me as he brings it to my back, his legs straddling my own chair, his arms finding their usual spot around my waist. “Hey, handsome.” My head falls back, granting him my neck to kiss. “How about I sneak you off to the coatroom?” he asks, his one hand ducking under the tablecloth to search under my dress. “Oh, what an original thought,” I joke. My skin burns as his fingers move up my flesh. “Well, I could do you right on this table, but I didn’t figure you for the publicdisplay-of-affection type.” His hand skims my skin, gently nudging my legs to open. The hot breath streaming out of his mouth hits the back of my neck, and my muscles weaken. “Fucking me on a table in the middle of my sister’s reception and kissing me aren’t exactly filed under the same PDA folder.”

His wet lips hit my skin, and my neck bends, my head suddenly too heavy to hold up. Bryant takes full advantage as his hand explores past the top of my stockings, and his tongue discreetly licks up to my ear. “Someone is going to snap a picture,” I say. Bryant’s fingers graze the elastic band of my panties. “When we get up to our room, you’re modeling this garter belt for me,” he whispers. “And I will be the one removing it from your body.” We’re staying at the hotel tonight, so we can both enjoy the wedding. I would love to escape this reception now for a fleeting moment with him, but Riley hasn’t thrown the garter. On the outside of my dress, my hand stops his, and he chuckles into my ear. “I’ll never make it through the night.” “I have to know how wet you are,” he softly says. “Bryant,” I warn because I see Aunt Marie walking over. Her eyes are set on us, and I slide my lower half further under the table, but all I accomplish is giving Bryant more access. “Just relax,” he teases. I squirm, but he slides my panties over. “Aunt Marie,” I say in a high-pitched tone, as though I just got shocked. “What did you think about the cake?” she asks, taking a seat across from me. I calm slightly when I see her thick-rimmed glasses. The woman can’t see her wine glass, let alone where Bryant’s hand is. “Delicious,” Bryant says as he plunges his finger inside me. My heart races with lust and worry. Is this why people love public sex? There’s something naughty about the possibility of being caught. “I know Riley didn’t like the orange, so I put that in the groom’s cake. Did you try that?” she continues her line of questioning about cake flavors. Another finger, and my breasts jut out because they’re aching to be touched. “I haven’t made it over there yet,” I answer. Bryant’s thumb massages my clit, and I squeeze my trembling thighs together, needing him to stop before I orgasm in front of my elderly aunt, who only wants to talk about her baking skills. “I also made the cookies with anise. Do you like anise, Bryant?” she asks. I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes to push the tingling from between my legs at bay. “Not usually, but the cookies tasted great. In fact, I can think of only one sweetness that’s tastier,” he says. My head turns sharply to him, and that cocky grin rises. “Oh, really? May I ask what? I’m always trying to improve my skills.” Aunt Marie takes the bait. I know where Bryant is going with this. I narrow my eyes in warning, but he chuckles at my efforts, digging his fingers further, and my shoulders lose the fight.

“It’s not a cookie. It’s a natural-made cream.” His thumb moves faster and faster, and his fingers dig into me so deep until he arches them perfectly to zoom into the end zone, scoring a touchdown. My entire body squirms, and my legs spread wider under the table, my ass sinking down the chair. I inhale a deep breath, and Bryant slowly removes his hand and positions my dress back over my legs. “Oh, that’s interesting,” Aunt Marie says, busy pouring another glass of wine. I stare at Bryant in bliss and annoyance that he just got me off in front of my aunt. My eyes widen with a don’t-do-it warning when his hand slides up from the table, and he brings his finger to his mouth. “Don’t do it,” I murmur. But his grin says, I can’t not. He puts his finger into his mouth and sucks my juices off. My vision is glued to his actions as he dips his finger into the filling of the cake and holds it out to me. “You want a taste, baby?” he asks. I shake my head, but he pushes it forward. “I insist.” I shake my head and roll my eyes, pushing his wrist back his way. He inserts his finger further into his mouth. This time, his eyes close as he sucks it off. “So good,” he says. “You should use a fork, Bryant,” Aunt Marie comments. I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, it tastes so much better this way.” He winks at me. “What’s wrong, Carly?” Aunt Marie says, tipping back her wine glass. “You look flushed.” I straighten and move my eyes off Bryant. “Just hot, I suppose. If you’ll excuse me,” I say, standing up from the table, glancing down to double-check that I’m covered. “I should join her,” Bryant says. He waits for me to walk first. “You two are so sweet together,” she mumbles as her eyes focus on the dance floor. She’s one wine glass away from passing out. “I miss your uncle…” Leaving my aunt, I beeline it outside, waving to everyone as I pass by. Bryant’s hand is on the small of my back until I reach the doors to the patio. It’s sweltering hot, so there’s no one with us. I don’t stop until I’m against the balcony ledge. A laugh bursts out of me, and Bryant cages me in, his erection noticeably grinding into me. “I can’t believe you did that,” I say. His lips kiss my shoulder. “You were too wet not to. My intentions were to tease you, but I couldn’t stop.” I swivel around and kiss him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

My hand skates down his shirt and cups the bulge in his slacks. He retracts, backing up a step, but I grip harder, not letting him get away. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says. I cock my head to the side. “I think I know what I’m doing.” My eyes zoom in on his, and he shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.” He tries to escape my hold, but we both know, if he wanted to get himself out of this predicament, he could. “I was going to say, you had no complaints the other night.” I search the balcony. Dark and so hot that no one else would want to come out here. There’s a hidden corner that might be perfect and not cliché, like the coatroom. God knows how many girls he’s probably screwed in one. “Come.” I remove my hand from his dick to escort him to the area I spotted. We reach the spot, and his firm hand twists me until my back scratches the brick wall. “Whoa, I’m in control,” I whine. He pulls my hands above my head. His lips descend to my neck, and it’s not the summer heat that my body is warming from. I let him have his way because I’m enjoying it too much to stop him. I shift my wrists, and he actually lets them go, unlike the other night when he wouldn’t let me use my hands. I grab his waist and push him against the wall. Leaning in close, I block the view in case anyone comes out, and I massage his length through the fabric of his pants. “Carly,” he tries to warn me, like I did with him. At least he won’t be getting off in front of hundreds of people. “Shh…” I stream air in his ear. My fingers manipulate his belt, and his chest shudders. The jingle of his belt falling to the sides echoes through the night air, but I continue on my mission, unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks. My hand slips in his pants, and a welcoming hard cock pulses under my palm. “So ready,” I tease him, stroking up and down. “This is way too public,” he says. “Coatroom was a better option.” He might be arguing, but he has a free hand to stop me if he wished. “I like this place.” I harden my pressure, and he sucks in a gulp of air, holding it in his lungs. “I guess I should quit fighting my payback.” He gives in, and I sink to my knees. “Carly,” he bites out, like his dick didn’t twitch with the thought. I glance around the corner to see that no one’s out on the balcony or coming. It’s hot enough inside, let alone out here. I look up at him through my eyelashes, my hands sliding his boxers down. “Just relax, Bryant,” I tell him what he told me. My mouth covers the tip of his cock, and his fingers immediately plunge into my hair-sprayed perfect curls. Minutes later, Bryant is softly groaning, and his hips are rocking. The longer I go, the more he relaxes.

“Shit, Car,” he growls. I look up to find him biting his lip, his eyes closed. There’s something about being able to turn him on that spurs my movements faster. I want to make sure this is the best damn blow job he’s ever received and that he’ll never forget it was me who gave it to him. He’s close. I feel him growing in my mouth and hand. His fingers are gripping harder, and then the laughter of people floats out of the banquet hall. Wanting him to finish, I don’t slow my movements, and the nerves of my hands are sore. “Oh, this balcony is so big,” I hear my mom talking to someone. Her voice is closer than it should be. “Shit.” He grabs my arms and springs me to my feet. “It is. Does it connect to the other room?” someone else asks. Bryant’s shooting me a death glare while I can’t stop laughing—a nervous habit I never quite grew out of. “It must. Do you hear that laughing?” My mom’s voice grows closer, spurring more giggles out of me. Bryant turns his back to the opening, zipping up his pants, and I hear his belt buckle fasten just as my mom and her friend Viv round the corner. They startle back in surprise, and Bryant’s back is still turned. It’s too dark to see if his cheeks are red, but I imagine they are. “Carly!” my mom screeches. She looks me up and down, a not-too-pleasant look on her face. “Hi, Mom,” I say way too enthusiastically to seem genuine. Bryant eyes me, like they can’t see him there, so I grab his arm and swing him around. “We were just getting some air.” I make the excuse before she’s forced to ask me what we’re doing. “Air?” Viv asks. “It’s, like, ninety-five degrees.” Her eyes veer to my mom, and they share a detective look. “The fireworks are about to start,” my mom says, thankfully ignoring an awkward conversation. “Oh, great. We’ll join the others.” I grab Bryant’s hand and slide past them. “Carly?” my mom calls out. I turn to grant her my attention while Bryant struggles to maintain eye contact. “Yeah, Mom?” “Fix your hair,” she says, raising her eyebrows at me. I nod, and Viv laughs. Everyone is facing away from me, so I sneak through the other door to fix my hair before the fireworks begin. Bryant follows. He hasn’t said one word since we got caught. I stop right before I go into the restroom, and he shakes his head. “I’m not sure my heart has ever beat that fast.”

Under the lights in the hallway, I notice his flushed cheeks and his intake of long, deep breaths. He sits on the bench, and I can’t help but laugh. “We could have stayed hidden if it wasn’t for your laugh.” He smiles. I join him on the bench and tap his leg. “Nervous habit. Sorry you didn’t get to finish. I owe you.” “Oh, you’ll have your chance.” He winks. I lay my head on his shoulder. “I should go fix my hair.” “Nah, you look beautiful.” His lips brush my forehead, and he stands up, holding his hand out to me. “What?” “Come, I want to catch the fireworks. This is our first Fourth of July together.” He drags me forward, and I follow him out the doors. Bringing me in front of him, he wraps his arms around my waist, and I lean my head on his shoulder, watching beautiful fireworks light up the sky, like Bryant has with my heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BRYANT

eing summoned to the field from Fred when Carly is naked and warm in my B bed isn’t exactly my idea of a great Monday morning. We spent most of yesterday

recouping from the long week of wedding events for Riley and Cameron. Unfortunately, Carly slept way too much for me to have my way with her. “What is so urgent?” I ask when Fred walks into the training room with his eyes on his phone. “You missed two sessions last week; that’s what.” His clipboard drops on his desk with a bang, and he sits down on the bench in front of me. “I get that you’re in love or whatever this shit is, but if you don’t spend more time here, you won’t be starting.” My heart clenches with the thought of not being the player who leads his team out to the field. “Listen, Bryant, no one wants you to find a life outside of football more than me. You aren’t the kind of guy who gets off on a bunch of chicks waiting for him after game day, so I never understood why you couldn’t be with anyone seriously. But Coach doesn’t like the newspapers. This is our year, and we need you to get us there.” “Aren’t you the one who told me to take it easy?” I argue. Deep down though, I know I’ve been slacking, but staying in bed with Carly is so much more appealing than getting up with the sun for my runs and workouts. He tilts his head, shooting me the displeased father look. He stands and retrieves a paper from his desk, tossing it to the floor. The article in the Sports section says, Did the City Lose Bryant Garrity to Carly Lincoln? I hate being in the public eye, but I hate seeing Carly’s name in black and white more. “It’s bullshit. Tons of players have both,” I say. “We both know that, but the city isn’t used to sharing you.” I stand to my feet, unable to look at the headline anymore. I’ve lived and breathed this sport my whole life. My dad pushed me, yes, but I want that ring, a claim to being the quarterback of a winning Super Bowl team, just as bad. My mind

floats through my time with Carly—the dinners, the late nights of making love, the missed workouts, the junk food, and the five pounds of gut I’ve gained. I knew this was coming, and if I’m going to claim I can have both, I’d better get my ass to work. “Point made.” I hop on the treadmill to run, and Fred nods, knowing he’s made his point. My phone vibrates on the bench I just left, but I ignore it, remembering I have priorities to attend to. THREE HOURS LATER, my muscles ache, and my shirt is drenched. But my knee held up during the stress, and that’s all that matters. It was nice to clear my head and be alone since no one from the team came in. With training camp approaching, the players have been spending their last days with their families. My bag is swung over my shoulder, and I’m walking out of the gym when Coach Seaver calls out to me. “Can I see you for a moment, Bryant?” he asks. My head falls back because Fred made the point. I don’t need a lecture from Coach, too. “Sure thing, Coach,” I say, spinning on my heels to head to his office. Once I’m seated in a chair, Coach sits in his, his fingers touching, as he pauses for an uncomfortable minute. I wonder what exactly he’s struggling to tell me. “Your dad called,” he says. My blood boils from my father continually prying into my life. “Yeah?” I play dumb. Coach sits up straighter, his chair wheeling under the desk. “He’s concerned.” His eyes are on the same paper Fred just showed me hours ago. “I am, too.” My hands fly up in the air. “Jesus Christ, am I not allowed to have a personal life?” Coach Seaver pins his eyes on me. “You’re distracted, Bryant. A new relationship will do that to anyone. I’m not saying I’m against it.” “Like my father?” I pose it like a question, but I don’t need to. My dad needs to mind his own fucking business. “The media, you know how it is. Now”—he calms his voice, which oddly brings my blood pressure down—“you’ve given your whole self to this business, sacrificing a personal life all these years. Is this a bad time to start a new relationship? Frankly, yes, but I’m not here to be some demanding jackass, telling you to break it off. Fred told me he talked to you, and that’s good enough for me.” I nod. “Thanks, Coach.” “That being said, enjoy these next three weeks because, once training camp starts, you’re mine.” He eyes me to make sure I understand. I nod. “Yes, Coach.” Seeming appeased, he stands, and I do the same. He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it.

“Your dad isn’t happy about Carly Lincoln, and you should handle that. I don’t need shit messing up your mind during this season.” I nod, knowing the conversation with my dad is long overdue. ONCE I’M in my Jeep, I dial my dad’s number, anger heating up my veins. When will he ever get out of my business? He wants to ride me about my training, my diet, my work ethic, fine, but not Carly. “Hello?” a woman’s Southern voice answers. I grab the phone from my drink console to check that I dialed the right number. There, it reads, Dad, so no misdialing on my part. I clear my throat. “Hi. Is Ted there?” “Well, sweetie, is this his son?” she asks. This looming feeling of dread hangs in the air. “It is. Who are you? If I may ask.” Polite, a lot kinder than my dad was to Carly. My mouth is so dry, I feel like I crawled through a desert, and my Gatorade is the last small pond of water. I gulp it down. “I’m Silvia, his girlfriend.” Red Gatorade sprays out of my mouth and all over my car. “Fuck!” I scream. “Well, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have answered his phone. It’s just…we’ve been together for a few months, and I know he’s worried about telling you, but I figure, you’re a grown boy.” Her entire speech makes me speechless as the word months hangs in my head. No wonder, after the Carly thing, I haven’t heard much from him. I figured it was his silent treatment because he tends to act like a spoiled child when he doesn’t get his way. “Silvia, where is my father now?” I ask, grabbing some napkins from the glove compartment. “Well, he’s at the store. You know how forgetful he is. He left his phone, but he should be back any minute. We decided to cook in, so he’s picking up some steaks and corn. We don’t get as nice of corn as you boys grow out there, but it’s decent this time of the year.” I mop up the Gatorade, my fingers tapping the sticky steering wheel. Great. “I heard you were hurt. How is that going? I don’t follow much football, so when I met your dad at a widows’ and widowers’ meeting, you can imagine how red my cheeks became from embarrassment. Everyone laughed when I had to Google him.” She continues talking, and I’m stuck on the widow and widower group. Is he trying to act sad, as though my mom’s death somehow impacted him? From what I remember, within a week of her death, he took down her pictures, gave her clothes to a Goodwill, and erased any trace that she was a part of our lives. “Listen, Silvia, I need to go. Please have him call me when he returns.” I’m nice and cordial.

“Well, honey, please don’t take it out on him. I shouldn’t put my nose in other people’s business, but I care for your father, and I know it’s been eating him alive, keeping us from you.” I’m already annoyed with this woman, and she’s done nothing wrong. I remind myself that it’s my dad I have the issues with. “It was a pleasure speaking with you, Silvia. My other line is ringing. Hopefully, we’ll see each other soon.” “Well, sweetie, I’ll let him know you called. Bye.” The line clicks off, and I release a long stream of breath that the awkwardness is over. Not that Silvia felt awkward. Just me, I guess. I send a quick text to Carly to let her know I’ll meet her for lunch back at the condo. No reply. I’m driving back home, and the whole conversation with Silvia is eating away at me. Him having a girlfriend only confirms how it’s been my whole life—do as I say, not as I do. I’m ashamed of myself for not calling him sooner about the Carly issue, but when it comes to my dad, I’ve always taken the approach of, Don’t wake the sleeping lion. If I poke enough, he’ll explode, and since he’s my only parent left, I shy away. I pull into my condo garage and pry my sticky hands off the steering wheel. Up the elevator to my condo, I check my watch. Carly won’t be back for an hour. My phone rings, and I know who it is. My dad. “Hey,” I answer. “Bryant.” No, Hello, or I’m sorry for not telling you. He says my name in a warning tone, like he used to do when I was in trouble. “Oh, I thought maybe it was Silvia,” I sneer. He releases a breath of air. “Don’t.” “Why not? You have no problem with invading my life.” I insert my key into the lock and push the door open. “It’s completely different. I told you, you don’t need the distractions. Look at the gossip, Bryant. They already know you’ve gone soft.” My teeth clench, and my hand crunches the phone like I’m The Hulk, except for the fact that I don’t actually have the power to crush a phone. “I don’t give a shit if you have a girlfriend,” I lie. “What I give a shit about is you interfering in my life. Don’t call Coach, don’t call Fred, and if you’re ever in the same room as Carly again, I expect you to apologize to her. I love her, Dad, and whether or not my football career holds, she’s here to stay.” The pressure that’s been resting in my gut releases. “Bry,” he says. But I’m not ready to hear his shit again. “Listen, Dad, I need to go. Tell Silvia I said hello.” I hang up the phone before he has a chance to argue with me. Knowing I have time, I go to my television and insert a DVD, pressing Play on the remote. Soft music sounds through the speakers before the first picture of my

mother pops up on the screen. I watch the rotation of pictures spanning her lifetime. Three songs in all were set to play during her funeral. She was beautiful, but there are those sad eyes—eyes that hid behind the smile that masked her depression. The last picture is of the three of us, and then the family fades, leaving a black screen. I sit there, numb. She’s been gone for fifteen years, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think, What if she was alive? I hear the squeak of a door, and knowing it must be Carly, I click the TV off and turn my head. No one is walking in the front door, so I spring to my feet. My eye catches my bedroom door. “Hey,” Carly says, her phone in her hand, as she yawns. “Did you just wake up?” I ask, walking toward her. She lazily steps into my embrace. “I’m not sure why I’m so tired.” She nuzzles into my chest, and all that sadness from my mom dissipates. “I must be wearing you out.” I kiss the top of her head. “I’ll let you sleep at night.” She shakes her head. “That’s okay. I’ll go without sleep.” She turns her head and smiles. “Did you call the office?” I ask her, escorting her to the couch. “I told them I was working from home.” “So, we have the whole day?” I ask. “Well, I should log in at some point. I feel like I’ve been slacking.” She snuggles up to my side on the couch, and I’m thinking, if we’re going to accomplish anything today, we shouldn’t start off in this position. “Fred and Coach are riding me, but I figure, once training camp starts, I’ll be theirs.” Her lips turn down. “I’m going to miss you,” she baby-talks. “Let’s not think about it. What do you want to do today?” I ask. She grabs the remote, clicks on the television, and rests her head on my shoulder. “This,” she says. My mom’s video begins playing. “Bry?” I gently take the remote and press Stop. “It’s my mom. The video from her funeral.” “Can I see?” she asks, her hand on my stomach and her sympathetic eyes focused on me. I nod, pressing Play. Carly again nuzzles her body into mine, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders as she watches my mom’s life through pictures. I just hope Carly’s eyes never turn sad like my mom’s from something I’ve done.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CARLY

he next morning, I wake up to my alarm, feeling refreshed. Maybe my body T can’t function on constant sex. I should curse that thought.

Bryant isn’t joining me in the shower this morning. Instead, he’s gone on a run. I’m buttoning my blouse as I walk out of the bathroom, and I find Bryant shirtless, doing push-ups next to the bed. “Are you really human?” I joke. His eyes look up at me while his body remains in sync, up and down. “Come here. I’m getting tired, and I need incentive.” He sits up on his knees, and he wipes the sweat off his face with a towel. I sit on the bed, but he pats the ground. “I’m already showered and dressed,” I complain. But he pats the floor again. “Come on. You’ve made me gain five pounds, so you have to help me burn it off.” I slide to the floor, and he nudges my torso down so that I’m lying on my back. “Is this some kinky-sex thing because I’m game?” He laughs, positioning himself over me. “Do you want to stare into my eyes because I can think of a more comfortable position?” He laughs again and puts his arms at my sides, contorting his body into the push-up position. “You aren’t serious?” He bends down with his strength and kisses me. Then, he pops back up. “I like this,” I say, puckering my lips. “Me, too.” He continues to do push-up after push-up, and he kisses me each time he dips down. After twenty, he rolls back onto his knees, wiping his face. “I like being a part of your workouts.” I slide up, checking my clothes for dirt. Tucking my blouse into my pants, I fasten the button. “You’re the best workout I get,” he remarks as he swats my ass, following me out of the bedroom. “Don’t you forget that.” I grab my smoothie off the counter.

Bryant follows me to the door, but he’s not walking me to work today because he has to see the Fullers for the charity. “I’ll see you for lunch.” He opens his door and cages me with his arms, sneaking a sip of my smoothie. “Yep. I’ll be here around one.” “I’ll be here. Maybe I’ll grab sushi, and you can eat it off me.” He smiles a wicked grin that makes me think he’s already planned for my lunch to be served on his rippled stomach. “Sounds great.” I rise to my tiptoes and kiss him good-bye. “See you at one.” “I’ll be here. Naked,” he says. I turn around, walking backward to the elevator. “You know I’ll be disappointed if you’re not now.” “Don’t worry; I fully intend on following through with my plan.” He winks, and my stomach flips. The elevator dings, and I blow him a kiss before stepping in. How wonderful is my boyfriend? Ten minutes later, the elevator at WorkNPlay dings on my floor. Surprise finds me when Marge grabs my elbow and guides me right back into the elevator, pressing the Ground button. “Your doctor has a blood order in at Memorial. Go get your blood work done, and then come back to work.” “This isn’t necessary. I promise I’ll go right after my meeting,” I say before the doors close. Damn her. I really meant to get my blood drawn last week. Unfortunately, time has not been on my side lately. I ride the elevator down to the ground floor, walk the ten blocks to Memorial, get my blood drawn, and then turn back around to the office to finally start my day. Marge should be happy now. My phone dings, and assuming it’s a text from Bryant, I pluck it out of my purse but find my mom instead. Mom: Plane taking off. Thank you again for the trip. Call you in a week. Me: Love you. Have fun. I planned and paid for my parents’ anniversary trip to Ireland. Riley and Cameron left yesterday for St. Martin so Renee and I are all by our lonesome with the two biggest talkers in our family gone with no international cell phone service. I’ve been excited for this week to spend time with Bryant after the hectic planning of Riley’s wedding, especially since he’s leaving for training camp in a few weeks. By the time I’m back in the office, Marge is tucked away in her own office, shuffling paperwork, but I owe her an apology because I’m not a child who can’t follow rules. I’m old enough to abide by my obligations. I knock, and she looks up at me and then studies the papers in her hands. “I’m sorry.” I place the double-chocolate cupcake, which I bought on the way over, on her desk. “Forgive me?” I put on my best innocent little girl act.

She slides the cupcake closer to herself, her eyes peering up, with a half-smile on her face. “Your insurance was about to go up by two hundred a month. You owe me more than a cupcake.” She appears serious, but then her smile widens more. I’m not sure if she’s smiling about the sweet smell of the cupcake or at me. “I’ll bring you a cupcake every day.” She furrows her eyebrows, and I laugh. “Thank you, Marge. I promise, next year, you won’t have any trouble from me.” I cross my heart over my blue blouse. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll see. So, you went, right?” she asks, taking the paper off the chocolate cupcake. “Scout’s Promise.” I hold up my Girl Scout three-finger salute. “Good.” I backstep toward the door since I’m now two hours late to work. I won’t be getting that promotion. I’ll be getting the ax soon. “How did you know who my doctor was?” I ask. A sheepish look crosses her face. “I’m not divulging my ways.” She moves her fingers across her lips and pretends to throw away a key. “That’s scary, Marge. You could work for the CIA,” I say, walking out of her office. “Remember that next year!” she hollers. AT TWELVE O’CLOCK, an hour before I’m supposed to meet Bryant for lunch, Mr. Plote calls me into his office. Mr. Plote is the President of WorkNPlay, and I’m crossing my fingers that it means our Vice President, Mr. Tierney, has finally decided to retire after fifty years with the company. The best part of getting the Vice President job would be that I’d be local more often. I’d be running the travel agents more than attending the trips. Cara, Mr. Plote’s secretary, smiles when I walk into his office area, and she motions for me to go right in. “He’s expecting you.” “Thanks, Cara.” I straighten my shoulders, taking in a long, deep breath, with my shaking hand on the doorknob. I twist it in my hand and push the door open to what I hope is a day I’ll never forget. An image of celebrating with Bryant tonight flickers to mind, and a small smile crosses my lips that he’d be just as excited as I would be. “Hello, Mr. Plote,” I say. He stands from behind his massive desk, motioning his hand toward the chairs in front of him. “Carly,” he says with a smile in his voice. I sit down and realize I never took off my Band-Aid from the blood draw. He eyes it for a second and then sits down in his equally as massive chair to match his desk. Glancing down at paperwork, he’s distracted, and I tear off the Band-Aid and crumble it in my hand. Hopefully, Marge didn’t tell him how I procrastinated on the blood draw.

“I’m happy with your work, Carly,” he begins. I can’t fight off the smile. “Thank you.” He slowly nods his head, and the ecstatic feeling I felt before suddenly changes to doom. “I see you’re dating Bryant Garrity.” I sit up straighter, crossing my legs and putting my linked hands on top of my knee. “Yes, I am.” “It must be hell to have your relationship on a jumbo screen.” I giggle, hiding my displeasure of the media. “It isn’t the best, but we’ve made do.” “See? That’s what I love about you, Carly. You persevere.” Okay, that trait could be good or bad in what my hopes are for this company. “Thank you.” He leans back in his chair, looking over to me. I slide back in my seat because his eyes are making me feel as though that looming doom is about to strike me down. “Rob Tierney just announced his retirement to me yesterday.” There’s no smile on his face, no sign telling me he’s about to offer me the position. “Oh, I had heard he wanted to spend more time with his grandkids.” “Cara called your office yesterday after I received the news, but you weren’t in.” “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Plote.” My face heats. Before I have a chance to finish, he interrupts me, “Your schedule hasn’t been the Carly Lincoln I had before Bryant Garrity stepped into her life.” “The back-to-back trips did wear me down slightly, and my sister got married, but I promise—” He raises his hand, and I straighten my slumped shoulders, exuding confidence. “If this were a month ago, you would have been my choice, hands down, but I’m not sure you’re as committed as you were before Bryant Garrity.” My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. Is he serious? “Sir, WorkNPlay is my life. I’ve given everything to this company, and I promise you, I would not disappoint you if you were to offer me Mr. Tierney’s position.” He shakes his head, glancing down to the paper in front of him, and there it is— the damn headline on the Sports section. Shouldn’t they be talking about baseball or whatever sport is being played right now instead of dissecting my love life? “I think you guys are a cute couple.” His smile doesn’t even reach his cheekbones, let alone his eyes. “But if you married an NFL quarterback, why would you even need WorkNPlay? You’d have plenty of money. I need someone in this position long-term, not just until their Prince Charming proposes.” Could my heart fall deeper? Yep, I’m pretty sure it just dropped to the floor. “I promise, sir, I would not leave the company. Plus, it’s a new relationship. You never know.” Why am I here, defending my relationship? Why am I not down at Marge’s filing a complaint? Because you’ve lived for this moment your entire life. That Vice President position should be mine, hands down.

He slowly nods that head, not one hair becoming unglued. “It’s between you and Sasha. I’m going to give you both the same client who wants to sign up with us for five years of planning their trips. This is a big account, bigger than the Fullers. You and Sasha will each come up with your plans, and I’ll choose the winner.” “Okay,” I say. This, I can do. Compete with Sasha? Done deal. “I’ll email you the details, and you’ll present in two months.” He slides his chair out and stands to his feet. “I wish you luck, Carly.” I shake his outstretched hand. “Thank you, Mr. Plote.” I open the door, and there my competition stands. Sasha smiles that cocky, arrogant grin she always holds, as though she’s already heard the news. That doesn’t sit well with me, but I pat her shoulder and slide by her. She brushes me off, and I’m thinking that Sasha doesn’t play nice on the playground. MY CELL PHONE is ringing by the time I get to my desk, and I pick it up, seeing Bryant’s name. “Hi,” I say, no enthusiasm in my voice. “Did I call the wrong number?” he questions. “I thought I was calling my girlfriend, but usually, she’s much more excited to hear from me.” I throw my body into my office chair and spin around, facing the window. “I’m sorry. Just a bad day.” No way am I about to throw all this at him; he has his own problems. “Sorry, but I bet lunch with me will cheer you up.” “Can we reschedule? There have been some developments this morning.” I pick up my pen, nibbling on the top, my mind far away from Bryant. “You sound distracted. Anything you want to talk about?” I hear the uncertainty in his tone. “Just work stuff. I’ll tell you tonight.” My computer lights up, alerting me that I have an email from Mr. Plote about the proposal. “I have to go. But how was the photo shoot?” I ask, changing the topic to anything but what’s going on here. He laughs. “Good. You missed me looking all GQ. Fred wasn’t happy that I missed another workout.” I hear the seriousness in his tone again. He’s missed a ton of workouts in the past couple of weeks. “Sometimes, I feel guilty for taking all your time.” On top of a zillion other things. I can’t keep up with any of my roles, except for daughter, but that’s because my parents just left on vacation. “Coach said to have fun now because, once I’m in training camp, I’m his.” “I think I might have something to say about that.” In my mind, Bryant leaving for training camp is the best thing for me. Then, I’ll have the time to do what I need to for this proposal without the distraction of him. For the first time in months, that plaguing question, wondering if I could have more than just a career, breezes to the front of my mind. The impossible feat seems

just that—impossible. “Just get used to phone sex, baby. Let’s start now. How about you lock that office door and tell me what you’re wearing?” He lowers his voice to a whisper, pulling out a laugh from me. “You are too much.” “Nah, I’m yours.” “That, you are.” I toss my pen on the desk, thinking phone sex could relieve a lot of my pressure right now. “You go, and I’ll be giving you a massage tonight.” “Yeah, I’d better. See you after work.” We hang up. I swivel in my chair, and at the same time, Sasha is walking past my glass windows. She peeks her head into my office. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I have a feeling that I’m going to want to yank it, like a catfight, after what comes out of her mouth. “This sucks, huh?” There’s nothing genuine in her tone. “Yeah. I guess the best woman will win,” I say, smiling so big that it hides my true feelings. “Don’t let that playboy deter you from the goal.” My eyes have to be shooting red lines right at her, but my lips only rise higher, making my cheeks hurt. “He goes to training camp in a few weeks, so no worries there.” Her smirk falters for a second. “Have you seen the women who stalk them down there?” Fucking bitch, baiting me. “No, I don’t make it a habit to stalk men who don’t want me.” I toss an insult to her since, last fall, she was the one standing outside her ex’s apartment, watching him. “Well, if I were you, I’d make a few surprise visits to see him.” I roll my eyes from the audacity of this conversation. Give me a damn break. “I know that trust has always been hard for you. Thankfully, it’s not for me.” Her lips rise slightly, quickly turning into a scowl, but my mission has been accomplished when she leaves. MY FINGERS HAVE carpal tunnel from searching for the most exotic and luxurious trips for the least amount of money. I have the feelers out to all my contacts at resorts, and hopefully, I’m on the right track with this company. My phone dings next to me, and for a second, I think it’s later than it is. I assume Bryant is wondering where I am, but then I see another number I don’t recognize. It’s a Chicago number, so I answer, “Hi, this is Carly Lincoln.” There’s a pause for a second, and then I hear a woman’s voice.

“Carly, this is Dr. Hayes.” If I thought my stomach had dropped when Mr. Plote told me the Vice President position wasn’t mine, it just dropped like a weighted boulder off a cliff. There’s no way I’m pregnant. Were they even testing me for that? I thought they were doing my cholesterol and glucose. “Hi.” “We received your blood tests today, and I’d like you to do something for me.” Her voice is a mix of panic and ease, and I wonder if doctors take classes on how to give news because she’s definitely hesitant to tell me something. “Yes.” My hand covers my heart to slow the speeding pace. “I need you to go to the emergency room to have your blood retested.” “Why? I don’t think I’m pregnant.” Then again, I don’t remember the last time I had my period. While my mind is busy putting a list of dates together, she knocks me over with a bigger boulder. “No, it’s not pregnancy.” Phew, thank goodness. Neither Bryant nor I is ready for that. “Your white blood cell count is very high, and I want to rule out a lab error before we investigate this further. Our lab is already closed for the day and I don’t want to wait on this.” White blood cells? Very high? “If they are high, what does that mean?” I ask because I’m good. I’m healthy. “Let’s just wait until we get the results. I’ve called ahead for you to go in, and I’ll be there shortly to meet you.” She’s meeting me? “Please, Dr. Hayes, what if it is correct?” I ask, my stomach knotting and my heart racing. She releases a breath over the receiver. “Carly, we’re jumping ahead of ourselves by speculating, but if this number is correct, we’re looking at a blood disease.” Disease? Tears threaten my eyes, but they don’t fall. There’s no way she’s right because I have had no pain or signs of being sick. Hell, I just walked ten blocks each way this morning. The test has to be wrong. It has to be.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CARLY

a high white blood cell count can get you seen in the ER as soon as you I guess walk in through the sliding door. I’m situated on the bed with a nurse putting

in an IV. “Why an IV?” I ask. She smiles up at me in that don’t-ask-questions, I’m-here-to-help-you grin. “Just in case we need more blood. We don’t want to prick you a lot.” I haven’t missed her sad eyes after she looked at the notes in my file from my doctor. This is major, and I think about calling someone to be with me. But what good would that do? Just worry someone else, and since it’s nothing, that’d be a waste. As if someone senses something, my phone rings as I’m waiting for the blood results to come back from the lab. Renee’s name flashes on the screen. It’s quiet in my room, so I figure I’ll answer. She’s probably just lonely with Mom gone. “Hey, Renee,” I say. I hear Matty yelling in the background. “Hey. Matty wants to talk to Bryant.” “He’s not with me.” “Why? It’s six o’clock,” she asks, not understanding that those who work might work longer hours than from nine to five. “Oh, well, if I tell you, don’t freak out. I’m sure it’s nothing, okay?” I think the fear that it could be something more has told me that someone needs to know about this. “What is it, Carly?” Her voice is already in a panic. I debate if maybe I should keep this quiet until I have final answers. “I had to get my blood drawn for work. Insurance. Well, I guess an abnormality showed up, so they asked me to come down to the hospital to have a repeat test.” Silence…utter silence on the other end. “That doesn’t sound like nothing, Carly. What hospital?” she asks. “You’re not coming down here.” Damn it, I knew it was a bad idea to be truthful. “Do you want me to call every hospital in the city, or do you want to just tell me?” I can picture her hand on her hip, and I hear a door shut on her end.

“It’s probably nothing, and I don’t want you to waste your time on coming down here in rush hour traffic.” I fight her coming, but I can tell she’s already in the car and on the speakerphone. “I’ll take the train. Where are you?” She becomes more persistent, the longer we’re talking. “Is Bryant with you?” “No! I’m not telling him. The last thing I need is for him and the press to be here.” Although the comfort of his arms sounds nice right about now. “You need to call him,” she insists, like I knew she would. “If you call him, I’m not going to tell you where I am.” “How would I have his number? Damn, if I did though, that would sell for a lot. This is the last time I’m asking, Carly. What hospital?” she demands. She’s my older sister, and she has had that authority over me since the day I was born. “Memorial,” I answer. “I’m on my way.” She hangs up. I stare at the black screen, hoping that I can razz her later that this was for nothing. That the blood test they did earlier was wrong. Maybe my blood was mixed up with someone else’s, but that pit in my stomach is saying no. Although this entire turn of events appears like a fog to me, it’s very much my reality. After another half hour, the ER doctor walks in with Dr. Hayes. I try to dissect their faces. Small smiles but their eyes meet mine. Dr. Hayes has her white coat on with her hands stuffed in her pockets. The young ER doctor stands at the foot of the hospital bed while Dr. Hayes sits on the edge of my bed, taking my hand in hers. Yep, the pit of your stomach never lies. “Carly,” she says so softly that I feel the tears immediately brimming my eyes. “The test was correct?” I ask, not sure why I’m posing it as a question. She nods. “Yes, white blood cell count is ten times the normal level.” “How high?” “The high end of a normal white cell count is ten thousand. Carly, yours is one hundred and six thousand. Dr. Glassman has secured you an appointment with a hematologist and oncologist for tomorrow afternoon.” All the information is swimming in my head, and I wish Renee would get here because I need someone to take notes. Dr. Hayes’s cold hand squeezes mine, and I look between both of them. “What does it mean?” I ask at the exact moment a big figure fills the hospital door. Dr. Glassman steps away from the foot of my bed to talk to the man, but Dr. Hayes turns and looks at me. “Friend of yours?” she asks. I nod. Tears break from my eyes, and Dr. Hayes stands before Bryant knocks her down to reach my side. He takes my hand that she was holding and brings it to his lips,

kissing it. “What is it? Are you okay?” His hand reaches out to caress my cheek, and then his eyes glance to the IV in my arm. He turns his attention to the doctors. “What’s wrong?” he asks them. They both look at me. “How did you find me?” I ask, choking for breath through the tears. “Renee called. I gave my number to Vinnie last weekend.” I should be mad at Renee right now, but when it’s Bryant’s familiar squeeze of my hand by my side, I suddenly feel at ease. “So, what’s going on?” he asks me, wiping another tear. “Renee just told me you were here.” Oh, boy. Thanks, Renee. “Do you want me to continue, Carly?” Dr. Hayes interrupts. Bryant sits on the doctor stool, holding my hand between his. We both stare up at the doctors. “Please. What is the hematologist going to do for me?” Dr. Glassman steps forward. “He’s asked for a few more tests and a slide of your blood. He’ll have more of an idea of what it could be, but more than likely”—he pauses, and I see he’s uncomfortable with divulging more—“it’s a form of leukemia.” Leukemia? Isn’t leukemia cancer? “Cancer?” I question. He nods while Dr. Hayes comes to the other side of me, patting my arm. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. You look well; you look healthy.” Bryant jumps to his feet. “Exactly. She looks fantastic. There’s no way she’s sick. I think you’ve had some kind of mix-up in the lab. No way she has leukemia.” I’m not sure who Bryant is trying to convince more—himself or the doctors. “The nurse is going to take more vials of your blood, and I’m going to get you the information for the doctors.” Dr. Hayes disregards Bryant. “You’re letting me go?” I ask in disbelief. “If you didn’t look so healthy, we’d keep you, but you look good,” Dr. Glassman says. “Exactly,” Bryant sneers. I grip his hand harder to calm him. “I’m sorry, Carly. I’ll be in touch. If you need anything, let me know,” Dr. Hayes says. Dr. Hayes and Dr. Glassman leave, and I pull my phone out to start researching high white blood cell counts. Bryant swipes it from my hands and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans. “You’re not going to Google shit,” he says. “I have to know what I’m facing,” I argue, holding my hand out for my phone. “You’ll find out tomorrow,” he says with finality on the topic as he paces the floor in front of my bed.

The nurse comes in a minute later, her eyes veering to Bryant, to me, and back to Bryant. “Yes, it’s Bryant Garrity,” I say, annoyed and irritated about being sick and no one able to tell me why. She glances to him, smiling, and then retrieves her vials of blood from my arm. Bryant grants her no attention as he continues to pace, mumbling how this is not correct, that I’ll be going to the best doctors, that there’s no way these doctors know what they’re talking about. He can play ignorant, but as soon as Dr. Hayes told me, I knew it was correct. Tomorrow, I’ll find out what I’m fighting. THREE HOURS LATER, Bryant is walking Renee down to her car in the parking garage of his condo. She’s trying to be strong, but I fear she’ll drive home through a curtain of tears. Bryant is in fix-it mode, already calling a teammate he knew who had lymphoma to find out which doctor cared for him. Said it was for a charity. I keep telling him we need to take a breath even though I wish I could talk to the doctor right now. My phone is resting on the breakfast bar, next to the uneaten Chinese food Bryant ordered for the three of us. Checking the door, to make sure Bryant hasn’t returned, I grab it and quickly Google elevated white blood cell count. First, the webpage mentions fighting an infection, but my one hundred thousand number is too much to account for that. Then, the other reasons are listed—all the different kinds of leukemia you can have with high white blood cell counts. As my eyes glance to the door and back to my phone, I eventually narrow it down to chronic or acute form of leukemia. After reading the symptoms, I look at the statistics. My heart drops when I read there’s a three-to-five-year life expectancy. Before I have a chance to dig further, the door clicks open, and Bryant emerges through, looking about five years older than he did this morning. Damn, I hate seeing the lost-puppy look on him. He fakes a smile and holds his hand out for me to stand. When I do, he swings his arm around my shoulders and pulling me to him, bring us to the couch. We both sit down. His lips graze the top of my head. “Don’t worry, baby; we’ll fight this.” I nod into his chest, wishing the tears would stop falling, wishing my mind would stop spinning. Most of all, I wish my future wasn’t being stripped away from me. We sit there as the sun descends into darkness for what feels like hours, and I keep the fear of dying out of the conversation, but I allow Bryant to believe I’m strong enough to win, that I’ll fight until my last breath, when I honestly don’t know if I am. “You were going to tell me about work?” he asks. He’s trying to get my mind on something else, but that’s impossible.

“Just the promotion, but now that I’m dying, I don’t think I’ll be eligible.” I regret saying it as soon as the words leave my mouth. His body stills, and his hand goes limp for the first time all night. He pulls me back, his hands on my shoulders, and his eyes wait until they’re locked with mine. “Listen to me, Carly. You are not going to die. Do you hear me?” I nod, believing none of what he says. He can’t control this disease, he can’t control whether I live or die, but I’ll let him believe he can if that makes him feel better. I crawl onto his lap, nuzzling my face into his strong neck, wishing we lived in a fairy tale and my hero could truly spare me from death.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BRYANT

arly finally fell asleep an hour ago, but my eyes have been open the entire night. C The sunrise beams through the sliver of my drapes right over my comforter that she’s tucked under. My eyes refuse to leave her face, wanting to embed every ridge and every contour of her face to memory. She’s beautiful. Although I hope, when we go to the hematologist/oncologist office today, we find out that she’s really as healthy as a twenty-eight-year-old should be, I know that’s not the case. As she peacefully lies here on her side with her delicate hands tucked under her pillow, a disease is killing her. She moans, rolling over to her side, and I expect to see her eyes open, like they’ve been doing the entire night. Her restless body moves but settles into another position. I promised I wouldn’t leave her side, and I won’t until we figure this out. I wasn’t lying when I told her last night that I’d spend every penny I had to cure whatever this was. If anything, hearing she has leukemia only makes me realize how much I love her and how much I don’t want to live this life without her. The morning and the appointment can’t come soon enough because I just want the details on what we’ll need to do. My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I glance to find a text from Vinnie. Vinnie: Renee would like to come to the appointment if it’s okay. She doesn’t want to step on any toes. Me: All good. 12:15. 1500 St. Clair. Vinnie: Thanks, man. She’s been a wreck all night. Please give Carly a kiss for us. We haven’t told Matty or Tatum just yet. Renee doesn’t know what to do about their parents and Riley. Me: I think we’ll just keep it between us four for right now. Carly would never want them to return from their trips because of her. Vinnie: You know her well. We’ll see you there. Me: See you. Vinnie is a good guy, and I’m glad I gave him my phone number this weekend. Otherwise, I fear Carly would have kept this from me. Carly stirs again, and those bloodshot whiskey eyes peer over to me as I’m turning the screen of my phone off.

“Renee?” she asks. I open my arms, wrapping them around her small body. “Vinnie.” She nods into my chest, and her body racks with sobs once again as I attempt to soothe her. Her breathing becomes labored, the harder she cries, and I wish I had studied medicine, so I’d be smart enough to find a cure for whatever she has. I’ve never in my life felt so powerless. Her head draws back, and I see the question swimming in her eyes. She asked the same question no less than ten times last night, and I don’t have a fucking answer. “What if…” she asks, not having to finish the question because she’s already convinced herself that she’s going to die. Her hand touches my cheek, and I push back my own urge to cry. No damn way will I ever lose my shit in front of her. “Promise me, no matter what, you’ll play this season.” I shake my head, not even wanting to have this conversation. It’s the one decision that’s consumed my mind. If she was in a hospital, going through treatments, how would I ever travel to all the games? It’s an easy answer. I wouldn’t. I’ll take the season off somehow. We’ll get her healthy, and then I’ll come back next year. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Her eyes fall another dimension, and she sits up straight, rising onto her knees. “I’m serious, Bryant. This is my problem. You will not put your future on hold.” “Carly, I’m not going to leave you while you’re going through treatment. I don’t care if I never play again. You’re more important.” She stands and grabs another tissue from the box I put next to her last night. “Bryant, we’ve been dating for what? Three months? This isn’t your problem. I’m not your problem.” Her footsteps start moving toward the bathroom, but I spring up off the mattress, jumping in front of her. “You are my problem because I love you, Carly. I never expected this between us, but damn it, it happened. I know our time together has been short, but time is not a reflection of feelings. I’m going to be right next to you every step of the way.” Her eyes lock with mine. Waiting for what, I have no idea. “This isn’t what you signed up for.” I shake my head. “If it were me, what would you do?” Tears pool in her eyes, and her nose crinkles, as she tries to pull back her emotions from flooding. “I’d love you through it.” I nod slowly, waiting for any sign other than despair, but I shouldn’t expect it. Carly is independent, but she’s going to need to accept the support. “And I’m going to love you though this. Please don’t pull away from me, Carly.” My hand grips the back of her neck, and I guide her toward me until her scent is the only thing that surrounds me.

TWELVE O’CLOCK, we enter the door to the hematologist/oncologist office. Renee stands up and rushes over to give her sister a hug. The waiting room is small and filled to the max with people. After her sister backs away and eyes me with a question as to how she’s doing, Carly signs in on the book, and the receptionist opens up the glass door. As Carly fills out paperwork, Renee helps her with their family history. I look around the room, finding Carly’s the youngest by forty years. This has to be a mistake. No way does she belong here. I catch a few lingering eyes on me, but no one asks me to sign anything. My only hope is that no one leaks this to the press. Vinnie watches the television show on low volume with his wife’s hand tucked in his. A half hour later, Carly is called into the office. I follow, as does Renee, but Vinnie stays behind in the waiting room. Right before the door closes from the waiting room, I hear a guy ask Vinnie if I’m Bryant Garrity. Vinnie says no but that I get that all the time. He goes one step further, saying everyone has a twin in the world and that lucky bastard got Bryant Garrity. I’m not sure if the other guy believes him, but I need to thank Vinnie later for that one. “I need you to step on the scale,” the nurse says to Carly. She puts her purse on the chair and slips off her shoes. I’m waiting there, leaning against the wall, checking out how this office operates, when I notice three sets of eyes on me—Carly, Renee, and the nurse. “What?” I ask, looking around, like I’m missing something. “You need to wait outside,” Carly says as she points to the doorway. “Why?” “I’m not going to let you know how much I weigh.” Her tone suggests that I’m crazy for not already knowing that. “Baby, I could bench-press two of you. Give me a break.” She crosses her arms and shakes her head back and forth. “Just go Bry…an,” Renee says. I furrow my brows at her. She widens her matching whiskey eyes, and her head bobs toward the nurse. “All right, I’m going.” I hold my hands up and back up from the small room. Two minutes later, the nurse walks out with Carly and Renee right behind her. I follow behind them until the nurse leads us into a room. She asks Carly to sit on the bed while Renee takes a seat in one of two empty chairs. As the nurse takes Carly’s blood pressure and temperature, Renee pats the chair next to her. “Why don’t you sit, Bry-an?” she asks. I wonder if the nurse has caught every stutter from Bry to an. “I’m going to stand.” “I suggest you sit,” she says. Her tone is no longer asking but more dictating. Damn Lincoln women. “I’m standing.” The nurse eyes both of us, and then after she’s jotted down all of Carly’s info,

she looks me up and down. “You aren’t Bryant Garrity, are you?” Carly eyes me, and Renee laughs. All eyes turn to her. “Seriously? He wishes,” Renee says. The nurse laughs, looking at me one more time, before shaking her head. “You look like him, but I guess she’s right. I think Bryant is bigger.” This earns a laugh from Carly, and I’m just happy that something has made her laugh since yesterday afternoon. “He does wear pads on the field,” I answer. Renee and Carly laugh at my meager attempt to boost my ego. The nurse smiles politely, her eyes that were looking at me like I was a rock star now gone. “The doctor will be right in.” She leaves. Carly holds out her arms to me. I walk over to her, and she kisses my cheek. “Don’t worry; you’re plenty big for me,” she whispers but not quietly enough. “Ew,” Renee says as she rolls her eyes. The mood is much lighter for the ten-minute wait. Renee is razzing me about standing, and I tell them about the guy in the waiting room with Vinnie. It’s briefly touched on how I’ll be sneaking in and out of buildings, so the press doesn’t know what’s going on. They laugh at obscure ways we can be incognito, and it’s good to see Carly’s smiling lips again. Then, Dr. Cummings walks in. “Carly Lincoln,” he says, putting his hand out in front of her. “Hello,” she says. I hear the shakiness in her voice. I move to her side, placing one hand on the bed behind her and my other one out for the doctor. “I’m her boyfriend, Bryant,” I introduce with my own name, all fun and games behind us. If my name will give her better care, we’re using it. He shakes it and moves on to Renee without any regard to who I am. Carly sneaks a peek up to me with a look that says, Maybe he’s not a football fan. She’s crazy. Who isn’t a football fan? He washes his hands in the small sink and takes a seat on the rolling chair with a piece of paper and a pen. “So, I’ve looked over the slides and the blood tests.” His one hand rests on his crossed ankle, and I see a wedding ring. He’s married; that’s a good sign. I’m not sure why, but that seems to mean something. His graying hair eases my anxiety, too. She’s not his first case. “And?” Carly asks, her back straighter. She inhales a breath, as though she’s waiting for her punishment. Then, it dawns on me; she’s showing her courage, saying, Give me what you’ve got because it won’t crumble me. “With the elevated white blood cells, the immature cells on the slide, and considering how healthy you look, I’m guessing you have chronic myeloid leukemia, but we’ll have to get another blood test done to confirm it.”

“What is that?” she asks. Renee is furiously jotting down notes. “It’s a form of leukemia, obviously, but it develops slower. With your numbers, if they were acute, I’d suspect that you’d be much sicker at this point. We’ll take the blood test and send it out. That will tell us more.” His eyes stay focused on her. “Treatment?” she asks. Renee’s hand can barely catch up to what the doctor is saying. “There was a pill developed in the late nineties, referred to as Gleevec. Many have found great success with that along with the second- and third-generation medications that keep the disease at bay. Now, there is no cure for CML as of yet. You’re young, so if the medications don’t work for you, we’d consider stem-cell transplant. Hopefully, one of your siblings would be a full match. But even a stemcell transplant is not a guarantee, and it comes with many obstacles. I suggest we try the oral medication first. Really, we need to get the confirmed diagnosis from the blood test. We’ll do a bone-marrow extraction after we have the results to check for sure.” “What if it’s not CML?” He smiles and nods. “I’m ninety percent sure it is, but I believe you still have a chronic form of leukemia. As I mentioned, if you had acute, you’d have many more symptoms.” “If I had acute, you could cure it, right?” she asks. Renee glances up to me, and we both turn to Carly. She’s been doing too much research on this. She probably knows exactly what she has. “Yes, but you’d go through extensive chemotherapy, and it wouldn’t be guaranteed that you’d be cured when we finished.” The doctor stands and takes out his stethoscope. “But I have to take this medication for the rest of my life?” she asks. I want to sing to the Lord that this is the best news we could have expected after yesterday. A pill every day, and it keeps your disease hidden. “You will.” “What kind of side effects does it come with?” she asks. Now, I see where she’s headed. “Each medication comes with different side effects. Some are more serious than others.” The doctor tries to begin his exam, but Carly stops him with another question. “How effective is it?” He gives up on the exam for the meantime and sits back down. “Carly, let me assure you, if you have to have cancer, this is the one you want to have. In the fiveyear studies, ninety-seven percent of people are still alive, or they’ve died from something other than CML. There are people who have lived over sixteen years with this disease. “Before Gleevec was developed, the life span of a CML patient was anywhere

between three to five years. We didn’t have the medication to stop the progression of the disease, and by the time it turns into the blastic phase—the worst phase—it makes it harder to treat.” He rolls forward and places his hand on his knee. “You’re young, and I think we caught your disease early enough that the medication should work for you.” Carly releases a breath and nods, appeased by his words up to this point. “Okay, I’m going to do a checkup.” He listens to her lungs and feels her neck and collarbone. Lastly, he has her lie down to feel her stomach. “Have you had any pain on your left side under your rib?” he asks. “No,” Carly says. He nods. “Yeah, some develop an enlarged spleen, but yours feels normal.” “That’s a good sign?” I ask. He nods. “Very.” Thank goodness. The doctor goes back to wash his hands. “While we’re waiting for the blood test to come back, we need to get those white blood cells down. I’m going to prescribe two medications for you to take. One is an oral chemo pill that will kill the white blood cells, and the other one is to help your body flush them out. Now, you need to make sure you’re drinking more than enough water, and I want to see you in two days to check your levels. The oral chemo is going to kill off your immature and your healthy white blood cells, and I don’t want them to get too low.” Renee’s pen is moving so fast. I’m thinking, next time, we should just record this session. He types on the computer and then stands. “If you have any questions until then, Carly, please call me. The nurse will be in.” “Thank you, Dr. Cummings.” She shakes his hand. He moves around the room between Renee and me. “You’re welcome. It looks like you have a lot of support here.” He winks to me. Is that an I-know-who-you-are wink or a you’re-a-great-guy-for-standingby-her wink? The doctor leaves the room. Renee jumps to her feet, hugging her sister. “Oh, other than you not having cancer, this is the best news,” she says. Carly doesn’t reciprocate the hug. “I wish I felt the same.” Renee eyes me, and we stare down to a distraught Carly. “This is good news. He said you have the chance to live a normal life span,” I say, my own heart elated by this news. “He also said I’ll never be cured. So, I’m supposed to live my entire life with cancer. I can’t win. I can’t beat it.” She stares down at her lap. “Who’s to say I won’t be the three percent that the medication doesn’t work for? What if Renee or Riley isn’t a match for me?” Renee places her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “I never thought of that, but let’s stay optimistic, okay? This is much better than you believing you wouldn’t live

for the next three months.” Carly nods her head, but from her distant stare, I can tell she doesn’t truly believe her sister’s words. My stomach tightens for what our future entails. Have we really dodged a bullet?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CARLY

he last five days have been similar to what isolation in a prison must feel like. T I’ve gone to work and acted as normal as possible. I’ve denied my urges to dial my mom and beg her to come home. Bryant has thrown himself into workouts, making up for the prior weeks. Me, I’ve Googled. I’ve Googled CML, AML, ALL, CLL, and every other type of leukemia, searching and dissecting information for what I have. I’ve had more needles in my arms in the last week than five years before. Two days ago, Bryant left an endorsement commercial to meet me at Dr. Cummings, telling them he had to have lunch at this time. So far, there’s been no spreading of news about me being sick, but I worry every time we walk into the medical building. Lucky for us, with training camps starting, a lot of the media are reporting on who is going and who wasn’t asked. As it’s been the last two visits to Dr. Cummings, Renee is in the chair, and Bryant is at my side. The nurse is taking my blood in the opposite arm she did two days ago. Bryant intently watches the process, as though he would know if the nurse was doing something wrong, while Renee turns her attention to her phone, not wanting to see the sight of blood. “All set.” The nurse takes the needle out and puts on the cotton and then the Band-Aid. My heart races, knowing today is the day for the results, the day I’ll find out exactly what I’m going to fight. “The doctor will be in shortly.” She leaves. Bryant jumps on the bed and plants his lips on the back of my neck. “It will all be okay,” he whispers. He kisses me once again. I wish he knew for certain, but the reality is, he doesn’t. My legs hang off the bed, and I tuck my hands under my thighs to stop them from shaking. A minute later, there’s a short knock, and after we tell them to come in, the doctor enters with another man. Who is this? Is this a new doctor because I have some obscure kind of leukemia? Like the rare one-in-fifty-million kind?

“Good afternoon, Carly.” Dr. Cummings’s sprinkled gray hair is gelled into perfection as he sits down on his rolling stool with papers in his hands. “This is Dr. Walker. He’s an intern, just observing me.” The guy smiles, and I smile back, wondering how old he is. Dr. Walker discreetly keeps looking at Bryant but says nothing. Bryant slides off the bed, grabbing my hand in his. “So, you have the test results?” he asks. I glance to him, surprised he’s so inquisitive. “I do. Carly, the blood tests show you have—” “Wait.” I hold my hand up in the air. I’ll never be the same after this moment. I take a deep breath and let it out in a slow stream. After he tells me exactly what I have, it will define me, and I’ll no longer be the Carly I’ve known the past twenty-nine years. “Okay, go ahead,” I say, sitting up straighter and waiting for the sentence. “You have chronic myeloid leukemia, Carly. Exactly what we thought.” My body doesn’t relax or calm with the diagnosis, but Renee’s and Bryant’s relieved breaths are heard in the small room. “You have the most common type, so I’d like to talk about medication now. There are choices for you to make.” He glances down at the paperwork in his hand, points, and gives it to Dr. Walker to observe. “Your white blood cells are coming down, and I’m taking you off that medication to let the tyrosine kinase inhibitor or TKI do its thing in bringing the white blood cells the rest of the way down. I can’t stress enough that you cannot miss any appointments. We’re going to put the medication through insurance; sometimes, we run into paper problems, depending on your insurance. In the meantime, I’d like to schedule a bone-marrow extraction.” I’ve liked Dr. Cummings from the minute I met him. I feel safe in his hands, but all this information is flying by me, even with all the research I’ve done. “I’d like to start you on a second-generation drug…” Dr. Cummings discusses the pros and cons to each medication and suggests one. After we decide, he leaves the room, and Bryant gives me a big hug, circling me around the room. When my feet finally touch the ground, his hands cup my cheeks. “Good news.” Renee follows shortly after him, pushing him out of the way to hug me. “I’m so relieved.” I wish I held their same enthusiasm. Is there really such a thing as the best cancer? THREE DAYS LATER, I’m back at Dr. Cummings’s office. Seriously, maybe I should plop a cot in the waiting room. Luckily, Matty’s babysitter said she was sick, so Renee isn’t joining our sympathy-for-Carly party today. It’s just Bryant and me, like an old married couple, going to the doctor. What a great way to be after only three months

of dating. Lunches of sushi on naked bodies have been replaced with needles in arms, like druggies. Same routine as every other visit. Weight, blood pressure, temp, blood draw, wait for the doctor. Except, today, I get a special white medical bracelet for my wrist because I’ll get a needle stuck in me to suck out my bone marrow. Fun. This best cancer is getting better by the day. Dr. Cummings walks in with Dr. Walker. “Okay, Carly, I’m not going to lie. This isn’t going to be enjoyable.” He turns to Bryant. “You might want to wait outside.” Bryant shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.” I glance over to him. I don’t even know him well enough to know if he’s okay in gory situations. He nods and crosses his arms, like a bouncer outside a hot nightclub. I guess he’s not going anywhere. “It’s okay. He can stay,” I say. Dr. Cummings steps out with Dr. Walker, so I can change into the gown. “You feeling okay?” Bryant asks, folding my clothes as I discard them. Since my diagnosis, I’ve been unable to do anything by myself. When he’s not working out at the gym, he’s on my ass about eating and sleeping. Long gone are the days when he’d screw me without asking if he was hurting me. Not that we’ve actually been screwing because, in his mind, that would entail hurting me. I’ve eaten more cancer-curing foods in the past week than I have in the last year. I know he cares about me, but somewhere in all of this, I’ve turned into his fix-it case and not the woman he lusts after. Slipping into the gown, I sit back on the bed, tucking my hands under my thighs. If Bryant sees my shaking hands, he’ll know I’m nervous, and that just makes him nervous. After a knock on the door, the two doctors come in. I lie down on the bed, like instructed, and they put a sheet over me. Dr. Cummings walks me through the entire procedure. Someone might want to tell him his analogy of a garden roto driller isn’t the best image of what’s going into your hip bone. Even with my body seesawing on the table and hearing Dr. Cummings exhaustion from the physical labor of the procedure, all in all, it isn’t as bad as I expected. “Good job, Carly,” he says. The nurse shuffles out of the room with my slides and samples. “I’m just going to bandage you up now,” Dr. Cummings says. “Okay,” I say. “You have one tough boyfriend,” he says. I wonder if he’s finally recognized Bryant. “He watched me the entire time and didn’t throw up. Impressive.” I smile into the pillow, knowing how strong of a guy Bryant is. “I want to talk to the two of you before you leave. So, go ahead and get dressed, Carly, and we’ll meet in my office.”

“Okay.” I feel like okay is the only word in my vocabulary as of late. Bryant and I follow the doctor’s orders, and a nurse escorts us to his office. It’s a typical doctor’s office where they give you bad news, like how long you’re going to live. I really hope that’s not why I’m here, but I don’t have enough time to let my mind wander with debate because the doctor comes in. “Okay, you two.” He takes off his white coat and sits behind his desk, pulling out brochures. “I don’t know the nature of your relationship, but we should discuss if you’d like to consider freezing your eggs before you start treatment.” How have I never considered this before? Kids. I won’t be able to have them. “I won’t be able to conceive?” I look at Bryant, whose face is as white as the doctor’s coat. “I mean, whenever the time is right.” “Not while on treatment, you won’t.” The doctor glances to Bryant, whose eyes are glazed over. “Um”—I turn to Bryant—“maybe this is a conversation I should have with Dr. Cummings by myself?” I really don’t know the protocol here. I mean, again, our short relationship isn’t really a solid foundation to freeze my eggs for a possible baby who would essentially be parts of both of us. He shoots me a death glare before his face softens. I think the doctor just took us off guard here. Maybe not the best decision to bring in Bryant for this convo. “No, I’ll stay.” He grabs my hand. “We’re not engaged or anything. We’ve been dating for a short time,” Bryant tells the doctor. Dr. Cummings nods. “If I don’t start treatment right away, what does that mean?” I glance to the white bag on his desk that holds my lifesaving medication—medication that costs ten grand a month, according to my insurance. Luckily, WorkNPlay has halfway decent insurance. “I’d obviously like you to start right away, but I don’t want to take options away from you.” “So, I can’t have a baby?” I clarify again, feeling way too awkward having this conversation in front of Bryant. “You can get pregnant, but there has been no evidence on people having a baby while on the medication. We don’t know what it would do to the fetus. The other side of the coin is, if you respond well to treatment, there is a chance that you could go off treatment long enough to have a baby or freeze your eggs. That wouldn’t be an option until the traces of leukemia were undetectable for two years.” “But going off the medication, means the leukemia isn’t controlled?” “Yes, we’d intervene with a drug if your tests starting trending high during pregnancy.” “Is that safe?” I ask, loathing more that I’m in this position. “Listen, Carly, you’re young, but if you and Bryant wanted to have kids soon,

then you’d have to freeze your eggs or embryos and look for someone else to carry the baby. The decision is yours.” He hands me a pamphlet about it, and my stomach twists and turns at the title, Freezing Before Treatment. I never thought I’d be in this spot. I’m not looking at marriage, let alone a baby. “Can I think about it?” I ask the doctor. Bryant interjects, “She’s going to start treatment.” My head flies to him, but he ignores me, his eyes on the doctor. “What?” I ask in disbelief. This might be worse than Dean asking me to quit my job. His eyes fix on mine. “We aren’t chancing your life to freeze eggs. If it comes to it, we’ll adopt.” His voice has a tone of finality on the discussion. “First of all, it’s my body. We aren’t married. We definitely aren’t having children. I think this decision is up to me.” My voice rises. The doctor tries to intervene, “Really—” “Would you like me to go home, slip off my shoes, and cook you dinner, too, Bryant?” He lets go of my hand, going toe-to-toe with me. “Why would you ever want to chance your own life?” “Really, you two, I didn’t mean for this to start an argument.” I hold my hip from the throbbing pain since the numbing medicine is wearing off. “What if I want a child of my own? I want it to have my hair color, my eyes, and my personality. To know it’s that way because it’s a part of me?” Tears fill my eyes. Bryant’s shoulders fall, and he reaches for my hand, entwining our fingers. “I refuse to lose you.” His voice quivers. “Let’s take this in baby steps,” Dr. Cummings says. “It’s not your choice.” My voice matches Bryant’s gentle tone. I know he’s not going to let this issue rest. Our eyes lock together, and his face changes from anger to sadness to anger again as quickly as a snapping of fingers. “Jesus, have you already killed yourself off?” “I’m realistic,” I say, closing my eyes against the pain. “You’ve dodged a bullet, Carly. Let’s not tempt evils, okay?” “I haven’t even made a decision yet.” I fight back. “That’s why I’m making it for us.” “There is no us, Bryant. You’re not bound to me, and I’m not bound to you. I appreciate you being here with me, but these are my decisions to make without your influence.” The minute the words leave my mouth, and his blue hues turn to a turbulent storm in the middle of an ocean, I know how this is about to end. He releases my hand, and my arm falls to my side. “Have it your way then,” he says before storming out of the doctor’s office. And then I’m alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

BRYANT

s soon as the office door shakes from the force of me slamming it, I wish I were A on the other side, but Carly pissed me off. The nurses and receptionist look me over as I walk past them and flop myself into a chair in the waiting room. I’m mad at myself for losing my cool, especially at a time like this. But how could she really think I’d allow her to push her treatment off just to freeze some damn eggs? There’s adoption and other choices. Hell, I have the money; we could buy some damn eggs. “Excuse me?” someone asks next to me, pulling me from the war in my head. I glance over to find a man in his seventies. His arms look like he’s a heroin addict from the amount of bruises and needle marks. Will Carly’s arms turn that way? “Are you Bryant Garrity?” He flips the magazine cover, staring from my picture on the underwear ad to me. Do I even lie? “I am,” I say, holding my hand out. He shakes it, his eyes looking my body over. Leaning in, his voice lowers to the softest of whispers. “Are you sick?” he asks. I shake my head. “No, I’m here with a friend,” I say. “Not a Knight player.” His shaky hand lands on my gripped palm on the hard wood of the chair. “God bless your friend.” The sorrowful look in his eyes reminds me of what Carly must be going through. God, what a selfish bastard I am for acting like a damn bull in demanding she start treatment. Just as I’m contemplating how I’ll apologize for it, Carly walks out the door and into the lobby. I stand and turn back to the elderly man. “Bye.” He smiles and glances to see Carly walking toward me with no endearing smile. The white bag is held tightly in her fingers, her messenger bag swung over her shoulder, and damn, she’s walking slower. “I thought you’d left,” she says, bypassing me to the doors. “Because I’m such a dick, I’d leave you?”

“Exactly my point.” The elevator doors ding, and before I can ask her the meaning of her words, two more people file in with us. I slide the messenger bag off her shoulder, placing it on my own. “I can get it.” She fights me. “I know you can, but I want to,” I say. She rolls her eyes. Luckily, there are no more stops, and we’re out of the elevator and out of earshot of others. I grab her upper arm, twist her to look at me, and tuck us behind a plant. “I’m sorry, okay?” My apology could have been better. “You’re sorry for acting like you’re my father and I’m five? That you can dictate what I’ll do with my body? Is that what you’re sorry for, Bryant?” Her arms cross under her breasts, and her icy glare chills my constantly hot body. “Yes, but I think it should be up for discussion.” She sighs, and her shoulders slump. Her eyes veer to the window with the busy people walking up and down the street on their way to work. “I know I’m about to sound like a skipping record here, but why, Bryant? We’ve been dating for three months. Kids and marriage are not on the horizon.” Wetness pools in her eyes, and I have no idea what to say. “You are my future, Carly. End of story. I thought I made that clear.” She nods. “You have, but I can’t help but think that you’re signing up for more than you thought when you told me you loved me.” Her body slumps, and I pull her into my chest, my hands comforting us to our situation. Will she ever feel secure in my feelings for her? CARLY AND I pick up lunch and go back to my condo. With the buzzing of Knights training camp starting, there have been a few more photographers lingering around us. “So, let’s talk,” I start because I hate this lump weighing in my stomach. She places her napkin on her lap. “I’m just trying to absorb this, Bryant. There are decisions I never even thought I’d have to contemplate. I mean, my eggs? It’s crazy. I know I haven’t been myself, and I worry I never will be the girl you fell in love with again.” “You were thrown a curveball, but you’re going to get through this.” I try to assure her by repetition, saying what the doctor has said. “I found this forum the other day that led me to a blog.” I can tell by the sound of her voice that this isn’t an inspirational story. “It was a man who tried all the drugs, and none of them worked. He died last year. His poor widow keeps up the blog, organizes runs, and tries to raise more awareness.” “That’s a shame, but you can’t think that’s going to be you,” I say.

She looks up from her sandwich, eyes darting knives into my skull. “And we can’t assume it won’t be. We can’t assume that, in two or five years, it won’t be me…or even you planning fundraisers in honor of my…life.” I release a deep breath because I have no idea what to do in this instant. “Thinking negative isn’t going to help.” She shakes her head and stands up, going to the fridge. She throws it open, the jars jiggling from the brunt of her force. Pulling out a diet soda, she cracks it open. “It’s so easy for you, for Renee. Am I thankful that it’s CML? Yes, but it’s still cancer, and there’s no way of knowing what will happen. Did you know there were people with such debilitating side effects from these medications that they couldn’t stay on a drug long enough for it to work? Did you know there was unexplained resistance where the medication didn’t work? Even with this miracle drug, over a thousand people still die from the disease every year. A week ago, I was on cloud nine with my superstar football boyfriend, and my only worry was my promotion. Now, I’ve had a screwdriver drilled into my hip bone, needles poked into my arms, and been asked if I wanted to preserve my eggs.” I can tell there’s so much more she wants to say, but she’s holding back. “I’m trying to be supportive.” I stand on the other side of the counter. “I know, but I’m terrified, Bryant.” Tears fall from her eyes, and when I move to meet her on the other side, she holds her hand up in the air. “No. GOD!” she screams. “I hate this so much. I’m turning into a miserable person.” “We’ll get through this together,” I say for what seems like the millionth time since we’ve found out. The screen of her phone lights up, and she glances down to read it. “No, Bryant.” Her voice lowers, and she concentrates on her phone. “We won’t because I’m breaking up with you.” The tears stop, and her eyes search for her belongings. “Oh, no, you’re not.” I round the corner without her permission, stopping her before she can grab her bag. She swings them over her shoulder. “I’m not the girl you fell in love with.” She holds up her phone in her hand. “I’ll forever be the cancer girlfriend you’ll never be able to break up with.” There, on the lit screen, reads the headline, Garrity Consoling Lincoln After Rumors of Her Sickness Go Public. “Motherfuckers.” My hand whips the diet soda can across the room. The contents splash to the floor. More tears cloud her vision. “They know I’m sick. I can’t be in the public eye and deal with this, Bryant. I’m barely holding on.” She shakes her head, staring into my eyes for what seems like eons, and I hold her stare, so she doesn’t pull away. Surely, we’ll realize what we have and how there’s no way this can end. Ending our relationship will only destroy us. She blinks, and then the moment vanishes. “I’ll make sure they know nothing. The doctors are obligated not to say

anything.” I’m grasping for anything to keep her here even though I know any promise I make in regards to the press will be broken. I have no control over them. I follow her footsteps to the door. She slips her feet into her shoes and opens the door. “I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m sorry.” Her mascara stains down the ivory of her skin. “Carly.” I follow her to the elevators, and she presses the button, her vision zeroed in on the doors. She wants them to open, and I’m secretly hoping there’s a malfunction, so they won’t. Of course, they do open, and she turns to me, placing that delicate hand on my chest. I take a hard look at the color of her eyes. They’ve grown darker, losing that glint of happiness. “If you love me, you’ll accept this.” As the elevator doors close, our eyes fix on the other, and my heart cracks, as though a machete just sliced through it. “Fuck this.” My finger jams the down elevator button and when the second set of elevators open, I’m convinced I have a chance to catch her. As the elevator descends, I run through a convincing speech in my head. Then, it stops and the doors open on the third floor. A kid stands there and steps in. “My mom will be here in a second,” he says, but I hear no noise and nobody comes. Envisioning Carly already on the ground floor, I leave, running down the hall to the stairway. I open the door to the stairway, tumbling down each one, knowing I’m hurting my knee with every flight. I jump railings to reach her before she leaves the building, but when I finally escape the stairway, a panting mess of an athlete, I see her stepping into a cab with our doorman shielding her from the flashes of one annoying cameraman. The taxi pulls away fast, probably on the direction of Carly. I walk out of my building in my bare feet and squarely punch the cameraman in the face. He falters back, snapping another shot of me coming at him. “You fucking asshole! You’re so desperate for money? Here.” I dig out my wallet and throw all my cash on his chest. “Go buy yourself a real profession.” “Mr. Garrity.” Bill, the doorman, ushers me into the building before I gain more attention. “I’ll take better care of the press. Make sure they don’t bother you or Miss Lincoln.” He walks me right to the elevator doors, pressing the Up button. “Miss Lincoln won’t be back,” I say, walking into the small space, realizing I do love her enough to stay away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CARLY

been four weeks since the day I walked out of Bryant’s condo. The press has I t’s stopped asking questions, chalking it up to a failed relationship on Bryant’s

part. Thankfully. I walk into my doctor’s office for my weekly appointment, and the nurse calls me in. She weighs me, takes my blood pressure and my temperature, and then leaves me in the same room I got my diagnosis in, but this time, it’s a little colder and a little lonelier. Not like Bryant would be here even if we were together. He’s been at training camp. Another reason our breakup is for the best. Our schedules aren’t conducive. This way, I’m the only one who wishes he were here. He can concentrate on his ring, and I’ll concentrate on my health. But, if I close my eyes tight enough, I can feel him behind me on the bed, his hand casually resting on my back while his thumb mindlessly massages my hip. His hand is a constant sense of comfort, silently telling me he’s there. A tear falls when I open my eyes, and just like every other day since I left him, I ache. I stand to grab a Kleenex when the doctor walks in. Great. “Carly?” he questions. His shadow, Dr. Walker, is at his heels. “Hi, Dr. Cummings.” I wave, snatching a Kleenex and discreetly wiping my eyes. “Are you okay?” He continues his approach to me. Of course, he couldn’t have been running late this afternoon. One where I sit here for a half hour, searching last month’s magazines for any article that would entertain me. I nod fast to convince him that my tears are nothing. “Yep. I’m great.” “Okay, let’s do a quick exam.” As he feels my lymph nodes, listens to my lungs and my heart, he tells me that my numbers are looking great, but we’ll know more in three months when I can have the special blood test to see if the leukemia cells are, in fact, going down. He eases me back on the table to feel my stomach, and my hand feels empty without Bryant’s strength.

“Carly,” he questions me, “does that hurt?” He presses again on my spleen area. I shake my head, and more tears drip down, soaking the paper protector under me. He turns back to Dr. Walker. “Take a break.” Dr. Walker looks quizzically at him. Dr. Cummings slowly says, “Go take a break.” “But—” “Break, Jared. Leave.” I snicker a giggle, and Dr. Walker leaves the room. When the door clicks shut, Dr. Cummings pats the chair next to him. “Come down here.” I climb down from the table and sit next to Dr. Cummings. “Where’s our guy?” he asks. In the time I’ve been under Dr. Cummings’s care, he’s never gotten personal with me. “Training camp?” His eyebrows shoot up. I laugh. “So, you knew who he was the entire time?” “I have season tickets. Unlike Dr. Walker, I know a star quarterback when I see one.” “We broke up,” I say. He lets out a long sigh. “Because of your diagnosis?” “Should a doctor really be talking to their patient about personal problems?” He looks at me, the fluorescent lights shining sparkles on his silver hair. “Let’s chat. Is it the medication?” I shake my head. Other than the knife-jabbing headaches for the first ten days, the medication hasn’t caused me a ton of problems. I’m more tired, and there’s a constant dizziness in my head, but I can function. According to the message boards, I’m lucky. “No. I think this disease is affecting me more emotionally than physically.” He nods, like I’m not the first patient to bring this to his attention. “I mean, we’re supposed to be grateful that we have the good cancer, and I am, but I’m still pissed that I have one at all. I’d rather have none.” My hands ball into fists. “Let me offer you a few statistics, and I suggest you seek out support groups. A lot of people have lived with CML for years, and data predicts that they’ll live normal life spans. But I’m a firm believer in therapy and support groups to help you out with the psychological aspect of having a chronic illness.” He pulls out his phone and jots an email address on a piece of paper. “I should have given this to you before, I apologize, but you seemed to have it all together.” He hands me the paper with a name and email on it. “Thank you.” I tuck it into my pocket. “But, Carly, don’t push away the people you love.” He looks at me with that

fatherly stern look on his face. I nod. “Okay.” “I’d hate to sit in the stadium seat, week after week, and watch the Knights lose because our quarterback is too heartbroken to play.” He smiles. I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m sure heartbroken is pushing it.” I refrain from saying how Bryant’s never called me since that day. Although our time together seems like it was all a dream, it’s not that I wanted him to fight for me, but it hurts. “Have you stopped reading the sports articles?” He raises his eyebrows. “I tend to shy away from anything sports related.” “I think it’s time you read them. I’ll see you in two weeks.” He stands, opens the door, and leaves. I grab my purse, and my fingers hover over my phone. Do I check or not? My phone vibrates in my hands, and I fumble with it before grabbing ahold of it and answering, “Hello?” “Sweetie, how was the doctor?” My mom couldn’t join me today because she had to watch Matty, and there’s no kids under twelve allowed in the office. “Good. Everything looks good.” “Great. Come over. I made your favorite.” “Ma, I think I’ve gained thirty pounds in the past month.” Not that I’m complaining about the nice relief of eating away my emotions. “You have not, and I know, if you don’t eat here, you don’t eat.” “Fine.” I hang up with my mom, and my phone vibrates again. This time, it’s a text message, and my heart drops when I see the name. Bryant: How was your appointment? Bryant has texted me after each appointment. Damn me for scheduling all my appointments out for the next three months. Me: Everything looks good. Bryant: Good. There’s no emotion, and it hollows my heart to know that there should be more here. I usually leave our texts like that, but this time, I decide to ask him. Me: How’s training camp? The three dots appear, and I sit down on the bench outside the office, waiting to hear from him. Bryant: Looks like I’ll start again. Me: Oh, I’m glad. You deserve it. Bryant: Thanks. I wait for the three dots to appear or for my phone to ring. I want to hear his voice so bad. But it doesn’t. So, I stand from the bench and head to my mom’s. ON THE TRAIN to my parents’, I pull out my laptop and check the leukemia forum that

I’ve been stalking every day. I scour for information from others who have CML. Their stories are inspiring when I see how long they’ve lived with this disease. Some on the board are newbies, like me, and others are five-plus years survivors. Then, I read the side effects these people deal with. The cardiovascular problems, the rashes and skin problems. Eye bleeds, diarrhea, vomiting. None of us have another choice but to take the medication. I click off the site as my skin begins to itch from the unknowns of this disease. I pull out the piece of paper Dr. Cummings gave me. I figure, Why not? I’m not truly living right now. I mindlessly go about my daily activities with no emotion. Clicking on my email, I shoot a message off to the address he gave me, asking when the support group meets. What I don’t expect is a response a few minutes later. Pulling it up on my phone, a guy named James welcomes me to the club no one wants to be a part of. Gives me a list of the dates the group meets, and luckily, it’s in a week in a private room in the library. The train conductor announces my stop, so I pack up my stuff and move to wait by the doors. For a Saturday in mid-August, I’m surprised it’s not busier, but I guess most are going toward the city, not away from it. Riley’s head is buried in her phone when I step off the train. Her fingers are feverishly typing away. “Ri,” I call out. She lifts her head, tucking her phone into her back pocket. She walks up to me, swinging her arms round my neck. “How are you?” she asks. I shrug and walk to the car. “The doctor appointment?” she asks. I shrug again. “Good,” I answer just to leave it be. If I could wish for one thing, it would be not to think about this disease for one whole day. I sense that will never happen since my mind won’t turn off with the rush of questions. “So, Mom planned a dinner, and she invited—” “You’re kidding me, right?” I stop walking and turn to her. Her hesitant eyes and withdrawing body tell me that my assumption is wrong. “Bry—” “Dean.” Her eyes widen. “Bryant is still at training camp, right?” she asks. I nod. “Yeah,” I answer, a little broken that it’s not Bryant, but I remind myself, it’s for the best. “Do you miss him?” she softly asks as we weave through the parked cars to her Mustang. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I pull the strap of my messenger bag up on my shoulder and walk forward a bit to conceal the water in my eyes. Everything makes me cry nowadays. “It’s okay, you know. You can miss him and not go back to him.” She’s following close behind me, doing what everyone does—trying to give me advice. “Riley, I don’t want to talk about it,” I say again.

This time, she listens, clicking the fob of her Mustang to unlock the doors. “How’s married life?” I steer the conversation her way. “It’s awesome.” Her face washes over with a dreamy gloss. “I love it.” Great. “I’m happy for you.” I smile and climb into the car. She slides into the driver’s seat, her key about to enter the ignition, but she turns to me, and I know exactly what she’s going to say before she does. “You were really happy with Bryant. I think—” I hold my hand up in the air. “Don’t, Riley. It’s over for us. Sometimes things are just impossible. Bryant needs to win the Super Bowl, and I need to worry about my health. He can’t win if he’s only worried about me or the press hounding me. I need to not have my life in the press while I come to grips with my diagnosis.” “But the medication is working. You’ve done more research, and I know he loves —” “Riley!” I screech, not wanting this conversation. “Just because you aren’t together doesn’t mean he’s not concerned about you.” I clench the strap to my messenger bag. “I was fine by myself once before, and I’ll be fine now.” “Fine isn’t happy, Carly.” I remain quiet, and she starts the engine, probably exhausted with me. I feel like my whole family has been exhausted with me lately. That’s the exact reason I cut it off with Bryant—before he could become exhausted with me too. RILEY PULLS up outside my parents’ house, and Cameron’s matching Mustang, Renee’s minivan, and Dean’s SUV are parked in the driveway. “Why did she invite him?” I ask Riley. She shoots me a sympathetic look. “Mom can’t not meddle.” She climbs out of the car. I can’t catch up to her before Cameron steps out to my parents’ porch, and she’s in his arms. I slide by the happy newlyweds and go into my parents’ house that should be serene, but the first person I see is Dean, sitting on the couch, playing PlayStation with Matty. “Hey, Dean,” I say, turning down the hall toward the kitchen. The usual music of clinking pots and chatter in the kitchen can be heard from the front door. “I’m just saying, she should go.” Renee is talking, so I stop outside the door before entering. “It would only hurt, Renee. She made the choice. We don’t have to agree with it in order to accept it,” my mom says. “You both need to stay out of it. I don’t see the boy beating down her door either,” my dad says. I hear the crinkle of the newspaper he’s reading.

“That’s because he doesn’t want to hurt her. He calls Vinnie to check up on her every day, Dad. Every. Day.” She stresses the last two words. My hand covers my heart as my back leans on the wall. “He’s staying away to make it easier on her, not because he doesn’t want her,” Renee continues to be pro-Bryant. “She needs to get through this initial phase. The doctor said it could take six months to a year to really feel normal again. I’m thinking about asking her to go on anxiety medication.” My mouth hangs open from my mom’s words. I thought she was on my side. “What she needs is Bryant. We’re going down to the Family Day at training camp tomorrow, and I’m going to ask her to go with me.” Renee’s voice is so persistent. I hope I’ll have the strength to say no. “Renee, you need to let it rest. When she’s ready, she’ll go to him.” My mom continues to fight. “You both need to stay out of it. Let’s just get her healthy,” my dad intercedes. That one word, healthy, has the capability to make tears burn my eyes. “She’ll be fine,” my mom says. Then, there’s a huge crash in the kitchen, and a dish shatters on the ground. “Oh, Mom,” Renee says. I hear her footsteps pad on our hardwood floor. The next sounds are sobs from my mom, my dad’s newspaper crinkling again, and his footsteps heading toward, I assume, my mom. “She’s going to be fine. She’ll live a long and healthy life,” my dad tells her. The tears that were burning my eyes are now falling freely down my cheeks. I wipe my eyes, unable to listen to their unhappy cries for me. For the past month, everyone in this family has been concerned for me, my health, my appointments, my damn blood numbers. I shouldn’t know so much about white cells, red cells, and platelets. Unfortunately, when I turn around, two arms are waiting for me, and I willingly enter them, allowing the arms to comfort me like they did years ago.

CHAPTER THIRTY

BRYANT

“S o, we’re still waiting, huh?” Monica says next to me as their two boys

scrimmage with Jonathan and Kurt, dodging the inflatable poles. “Waiting?” I ask, not exactly sure what she’s talking about. “For her to come to you?” she asks. I glance over to her, shaking my head, before pinning my eyes on the boys again. “She broke up with me,” I remind her. A huff leaves her throat, the kind that conveys that I’m a moron. I’ve learned it well over the last eight years. “And you never tried to stop her.” She stretches her legs in front of herself and crosses her ankles. She’s dressed in jeans, All-Stars, and a Knight jersey with Jonathan’s number on the back. Although the rock on her left hand is the size of Texas, she’s very downto-earth, considering her husband signed a multimillion-dollar deal this spring. Not like the other wives across the field in their designer dresses and heels with matching purses. Their makeup is done to the nines with pieces of jewelry dripping from every limb. Ridiculous, and it only makes me miss Carly more. She was the perfect fit, if there ever was a perfect fit. I’m only reminded that my day job ruins perfect. “So, the media wouldn’t broadcast her personal business. After we broke up, they receded, like I knew they would.” If I wasn’t a public figure, if the press wasn’t like vultures waiting for their next hit, I’d never have let Carly leave me. But the press has been my life since before I was drafted. Hell, I made news stories before I graduated high school. I know what it’s like to have your privacy stripped away, and if I could control one thing for Carly in her coping with her disease, I was going to do it. So, if losing me to gain privacy was it, there was no other choice. Jonathan does a fake-out on his son, Trey, and Kurt lets Wes tackle him down. My eyes instinctively move to Rachel, clustered with the other done-up wives. She’s trying, I’ll give her that, but I’m not sure Kurt is invested. Nonetheless, her belly shows that, soon, their lives will be tied together forever. “If she loved you, she’d have gotten used to the media. It’s a small price to pay

for the one you love.” “Says who? I can’t stand the fucking gossip and lies. They would have had her on her deathbed,” I tell her. She does that annoying you’re-a-moron huff once more. “Bry, I can’t imagine what she must be going through, but every girl wants to be chased. The fact that you sat on your ass and did nothing tells her that she was never that important to you.” Monica rises to her feet, holding her hand out to me. “If you love her, you need to fight for her.” I put my hand in hers and pretend like she could actually assist me in getting up. “I do love her, but sometimes, things don’t turn out the way you wished.” I refrain from pouring my heart out and saying how I bought the same shampoo she has just to smell it. As sick as it sounds, I haven’t washed the pillowcase since she last slept on it because her scent still lingers in the soft cotton. And I’ve bought spumoni ice cream because, when I open the fridge, for a second, I think she’s on the couch. Nope, I leave all those facts out. “Men are stupid,” she says. She runs out to join her husband and kids. Jonathan picks her up and swings her around until their lips press together, and the boys scream their displeasure at their parents’ affection. I pull out my phone, reading through the last month’s worth of texts to her. Always the same thing about her doctor appointments. For a second, I assumed her sudden interest in training camp might be a sign that she was ready to start again, but the conversation quickly ended. I tuck the phone into my back pocket when Lily, the team’s promo representative, comes over. “Hey, Bryant,” she practically coos. I’m not naive or stupid. The woman would let me lead her to my room, and I could fuck her without many expectations later. “Hey, Lily. Where do you guys want me?” Her eyes light up, confirming my previous statement. “We have a booth over here.” She points down the field, and we begin to walk there. “So, you’ll sign autographs, take pictures, and then maybe throw a few passes to the kids.” She gives me the rundown on what’s expected of me. “Great.” I’ve been through this drill the last eight years, so I don’t really need directions on how to entertain the families. “Listen, I have guests coming today. Can you make sure they don’t run into problems?” I ask. Vinnie said he and Renee would be bringing Matty down, so he could meet Jonathan. “Of course. What are their names?” She poises her pen to the paper in her hand. I give her Vinnie’s and Renee’s names, and she scribbles them down. “Do you want them to come directly to you first?” “Nah, I want them to do whatever they want to do.” I arrive at the booth and introduce myself to the two college kids helping me keep today organized. “Oh, great.” She smiles, and then her hand lands on my arm. “I’ll be back to

check in on you.” She scrapes her fingernails down my bicep. I step away. “Thanks, Lily.” “I aim to please. Especially for you, Bryant.” She winks and then turns around, showing me her ass in the pencil skirt. It’s a nice ass, but I’ve seen a hell of a lot better, like on the beach of St. Croix, hidden under sheets on my bed, bent over my couch, and in my hands. I look out to the field at the other players and their families, wondering why it can work for them but not for me. Why couldn’t Carly try harder? Then, I remind myself that I wouldn’t want to deal with a cancer diagnosis with the whole world watching. Just then, my heart leaps when I see her dark hair shining in the sun with the red highlights glittering and her cute figure from behind as she laughs at something the guy next to her is saying. My feet start to move as the college kids try to grab my attention, but if she’s here, then there’s hope. She’ll accept my profession. I’m two hundred feet away when the girl turns her head. My footsteps stop, and my heart catapults. Renee. Her eyes catch mine, and that laughter from a second ago turns to sadness. She fakes a smile, and so do I, but I already know that Carly isn’t with her. Vinnie said they were going to try to convince her, but I guess they couldn’t. Before I have a chance to really let the depression set in, Matty breaks away from his parents and runs straight to me. I open my arms and squat down to the ground, waiting for him to rush into them. Just as he’s about to reach me, he turns and runs to my left. Renee and Vinnie start laughing, and when I turn around, he’s standing in front of Jonathan with a ring of kids. “Man, don’t I feel like third string?” I say as I backtrack my steps to them. Jonathan is staring down at Matty as he rambles on about how much he loves him. “Thanks. Do you want a signed football?” Jonathan asks. His son throws him a ball to sign from one of the buckets. “Yeah. Bryant told me that I’d get one of your gloves.” Jonathan looks up from the kid to find me. “Did he?” he asks with a smirk on his face, the black marker moving across the ball. “You know Bryant?” he asks. “Yeah, he used to date my auntie,” Matty says. Jonathan’s smirk leaves his lips. Monica’s eyes search around until she finds me. I shake my head, and her shoulders deflate. “Oh, I remember now. Is your auntie here?” he asks the kid, leaning down, like I can’t hear. “No. She has cancer, so she’s decided to close herself off from everyone. If she knew what was good for her, she would have come, but she’s wallowing instead of living,” the kid says it all with a straight face. Jonathan cracks up. “That’s philosophical of you,” he says. Matty’s shoulders rise up and then fall back down. “It’s what my mom told my

dad on the way down here.” He leans forward, and Jonathan gives him all his attention. “They think I don’t hear them talking.” Jonathan looks at Monica, and they share a smile. “Well, I’m glad I got to meet you. These are my boys, Trey and Wes. They’ll be happy to show you around Family Day.” Matty’s eyes light up, and he allows each boy to take his hand. Then, the three of them walk away. “I’d better go chaperone,” Monica says before rushing off. Renee is about to come to me when she turns to join them. Monica instantly places her arm over Renee’s shoulders, and the two laugh. Damn if my ears won’t be burning for the rest of the day. “So, she didn’t come?” Jonathan asks. I seriously wish people would stop talking to me about Carly. “No,” I say. “This is her brother-in-law.” I nod my head toward Vinnie, who is breaking the distance of the field to us. I hold my hand out. “Hey, Vinnie. How was the drive?” He shrugs and brings his hand up to his ear, mimicking a mouth. “We psychoanalyzed Carly and you. The two of you. It only took Renee three hours to solve all your problems.” He laughs, and Jonathan and I join him. “Saves me money on a psychologist,” I joke. They all laugh again. We’re ignoring the seriousness of the situation, but I’ve always sensed that humor is the way Carly’s family deals with things. “Hey, I’m Jonathan Monroe.” Jonathan holds his hand out to Vinnie, and they shake. “It’s great to meet you.” He smiles. Then, an uncomfortableness fills the space. “So, you’re related to Bry’s girl?” Jonathan asks. “She’s not my girl,” I remind him. He smacks my back. “Oh, yeah, she is.” “I’m her brother-in-law,” he says, as though Jonathan doesn’t already know that. “I can’t wait to meet her.” Vinnie and I look at one another, like, What’s he smoking? The college kids in charge of Jonathan’s fun-zone area call his name, and I glance back to mine where I see a line forming. Jonathan starts sprinting backward toward his station. “Don’t look like that.” He points to both of us. “Didn’t you tell him about my psychic abilities, Bry? End of the season.” He winks, turns on his toes, like he expectedly has to score the winning touchdowns on more than one game, and jogs over to his station. “Psychic?” Vinnie asks. I shake my head. “Don’t even waste your brain cells on figuring that one out. Hey, you want to come over with me?” I nod toward my booth.

“Yeah.” The two of us begin to walk over, and Vinnie clears his throat, making me look over to him. His eyes pin everywhere. “I think there’s something you need to know.” Vinnie’s pale skin says it’s something big. “What is it?” I stop us a few steps before the booth to grant us the privacy I’m assuming this needs. “It’s Dean. I’m afraid he might be sneaking back into the picture.” My throat locks up like the Fort Knox Depository.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CARLY

the quiet library, searching the posters for signs to lead me to the I enter meeting. Pulling my phone out, I search my emails for the room number.

Just as I find it, a deep voice interrupts me, “Carly?” I look up to find an attractive guy, probably in his thirties. His dark hair is a wild mess, but somehow, it suits him. His jeans are worn, and the band T-shirt with sneakers speak volumes to the laid-back persona he appears to have. “James?” I question back. He smiles, holding his hand out in front of me. “That’s me.” He motions toward the hallway. “We meet down here.” His louder voice has a few library patrons casting glances, but that doesn’t quiet him. We walk into a small room filled with people of all ages, sitting around an ovalshaped table with bins of candy. They each shoot me a welcoming smile as I walk in with James. “Guys, this is Carly.” They each convey their hellos to me. Then, he points to a piece of paper. “Go ahead and sign in.” After I write down my information, I take an empty seat and wait for the meeting. James is busy with searching his iPad while chitchatting with the woman to his right, using language I’ve come across while reading about CML but don’t fully understand. The man to my right, who is probably in his fifties, grabs literature from the table and hands it to me. “How long ago were you diagnosed?” he asks. I actually have to think about it because I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have this disease. “A month,” I say. He nods. “Three years for me. It gets easier.” He smiles. “Which drug are you on?” “Sprycel,” I answer. He nods. “I tried that one. Didn’t work. I’m on Tasigna now.” I rack my brain to remember which drug is Tasigna and which side effects it can give you.

Luckily, James starts the meeting before I make a fool of myself by not knowing everything about this disease that I should. All I know for sure is that it’s been fucking with my head. “Let’s introduce ourselves, and then we’ll circle back to Carly for her story.” He smiles to me. I notice he has a crooked tooth that only makes him more endearing. He’s an easy guy that, I imagine, doesn’t let a lot get under his skin. The table begins. We have Leah, who is forty-two, diagnosed five years after she beat breast cancer; Bill, who is fifty-five, diagnosed from a random blood test; and Cade, who is forty-eight, diagnosed a year ago after signs of an enlarged spleen. There are only six people in the secluded small room, but somehow, I feel bonded with them. They understand my worries, my fears, and my anxiety. The lucky cancer isn’t so great to have. I find out James is thirty-two, diagnosed at twenty-five when he was going in for knee surgery and they ran his blood. After all the introductions, I know they are going to circle back to me, and the butterflies start fluttering in my stomach. I’ve spoken in front of groups of people with no concern, but somehow, this is different. Not to mention, anytime I discuss this disease, I cry. My eyes search out the Kleenex box, finding it the closest to me. Did they plan that? Did Bill just slide it over because they are expecting me to break down? “Carly, would you like to talk about anything?” James asks. A million questions are overpowering my head. I want to dig information out of them, like how they seem so normal, yet I’m like a trash can full of used tissues. “Um…sure.” I pause to channel my thoughts into a coherent funnel to leave my mouth, but all that comes out is, “I broke up with my boyfriend.” One tear slips out, and Leah’s hand covers mine. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she whispers. Bill slides the tissue box a little closer to me, but I refuse to need one, so I push those tears back. “Sorry.” I shake my head. “I was diagnosed a little over a month ago…” I ramble out my own story without any tears, and I’m pretty damn proud of myself. I manage to even convey my fears of not having kids and how I never froze my eggs because I was so worried about making sure I drilled the leukemia cells down. I disclose my obsession with Google and the discussion group on the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society site. They each nod, as though they’ve been there, and no one is judging me. After I finish, I take a deep breath and relax back in my chair. “Thank you for sharing, Carly.” James nods. “Did you break up with your boyfriend because of your disease?” Leah asks. I eye her for a second because, last I checked, this isn’t therapy, and we just share what we want and move on. All eyes around the table focus on me. I look at Bill’s wife at his side, and

suddenly, Bryant’s face comes into my mind. His slightly crooked nose from being broken. His blue eyes that are more beautiful than the oceans I’ve visited. A tear trickles out, and the tickle in my nose says more is coming. I nod, and Bill pulls out a tissue, handing it to me. I accept it with a gracious nod and blot under my eyes. “We had been dating for only three months. I couldn’t put him in that position,” I admit. “What kind of position?” Leah pries. I’d like her to stop the interrogation. “The cancer girl’s boyfriend.” They all, “Oh…” But Leah doesn’t pull away. If anything, she surges forward. “What do you mean?” I look around the room. Some might even know who I am and who said boyfriend is. “He’s a public figure.” I glance around for some sort of facial expression to say, I know, I know. “And?” Leah asks. Seriously, did I sign up for psychoanalysis? “We were together for three months, he’s a public figure, and the news about my diagnosis was about to come out. Let’s say, if it didn’t work out between us, then he’d be the bad guy, the guy who dumped his cancer-stricken girlfriend.” Another drip of a tear splashes to the table. Bill hands me another Kleenex. Why did I want to come here again? “Did you love him?” she asks. Thankfully, James interrupts, “Leah, I think we’ve pried enough. It’s up to Carly if she wants to share.” “Yeah, Leah. This isn’t your office,” the lady next to James chimes in. Leah grabs the pen and paper, pushing it toward me after she scribbles something down. “Here’s my office number. It’s on me if you want to talk.” “You are a psychologist?” She smiles and nods. “Yep, and believe you me, this disease is an emotional roller coaster.” I fold the piece of paper and put it in my purse. “Thank you.” Her hand covers mine again, squeezing comfort into my body. “We have to stick together.” The rest of the meeting, the group talks about drug side effects and things they’ve read about research on trials or cures. James shares information about how he is starting a trial to stop the medication in order to see if his level can remain undetectable without it. It’s an option for those who have been undetectable for two years. I have a flicker of hope that I will be in those shoes someday. After the two hours are up, everyone collects their purses or bags and papers. Leah says to me to give her a call, and Bill waves good-bye. I linger back while people talk with James, so I can thank him for organizing such a great support

group. “So, what did you think?” James asks, swinging his messenger bag crossways over his body. “It’s great, and it made me feel better. It sounds stupid, but seeing people doing so well years later helps me believe the whole normal-life-span theory.” I say theory because the miracle drug has been around for only sixteen years, and I need it to work for fifty-plus. He waits for me to exit the library room first and then turns off the lights and shuts the door. I wait for him to join me again. “Yeah, it’s hard, right? To believe you’ll live with cancer for the rest of your life.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Well, I’m not thrilled by the fact, but I’ll take that over the alternative.” “Definitely.” James waves to the clerk at the front desk. “Night, Wendy.” “See you, James.” The older lady waves back. We continue our path to the doors. The humid air of August is stagnant when we leave the cool air-conditioning of the library. Bugs circle the streetlights, and the streets have quieted with most people having retired back to their suburban homes. James’s eyes glance down the street to the illuminated coffee shop. “Coffee?” he asks. I follow his vision to a plain black-and-white sign that says, The Coffee Shop. I’ve passed it many times, but Bryant and I always went to the chain coffee place. Habit, I suppose. “Sure.” I accept his offer, eager to pick his brain a little more. James has that whole swagger of a cool and confident guy, and his dark-framed glasses and appearance scream hipster. We walk over, talking about Leah and her need to help every new member. He assures me that she means well, which I agree. He opens the door for me, and we each order and buy our own coffees. I almost considered an iced tea to cool down from the minute walk down the block. Seriously, Chicago heat in August is stifling. We sit in the back corner where it seems the most secluded. For the first few minutes, I take in my surroundings—lines of used books on the bookshelves, signs that have everything to do with late nights and coffee. An older man stands out in the group of young professionals and college student patrons sitting on the couches, each with a book. “It’s nice here,” I comment. James sips his coffee. “Yeah, sometimes, in the winter time, we all come here after the meeting.” He glances around, not looking overly impressed, like I am, probably because he’s been here before. Then, a drought of silence encompasses us until he breaks it. “Can I ask you a personal question?” he says. “I don’t want to pry but your boyfriend…”

His hesitation is admirable, and it makes me trust him even more. “It’s Bryant Garrity, right?” he asks. My face flushes. “Yeah.” I nod. “I couldn’t remember the name of the girl he was dating, but when you told the story, it all just fit together for me.” He glances around the coffee shop. “It’s okay. It was like my five minutes of fame.” I laugh although it’s hollow. “I can see where you’re coming from. I think, at diagnosis, I would have been the same way.” “You seem like you have it all together,” I say, envious to reach where he is right now. To wake up and not think about the disease would be awesome. “Me? Nah. I’ve made peace with it, but I definitely don’t have my shit together.” He circles his mug in his hands. “Once you see the treatment working, you’ll feel better. It’s hard to believe a small pill can stop cancer.” I nod, agreeing, “Yeah, I keep saying, after my first three-month test, where they test the leukemia cells—” “Your PCR and FISH levels.” There go those acronyms again. “Can you explain to me about all the measurements and levels again?” “Yeah.” He digs into his bag for the papers and then lays them out in front of us. For the next twenty minutes, we drink our coffees, and in layman’s terms, he explains to me each test and what the doctors like to see for response levels. “How long did it take you to become undetectable?” I ask. “Eighteen months, but you know, Bill’s not undetectable. There are a lot of CMLers who aren’t.” “I read a few articles online.” “Be careful what you read. Some information is outdated, and you never know the level of someone’s disease,” he warns. The silence washes over our conversation again, and we both glance down to our now-empty cups of coffee. James puts his messenger bag over his shoulder, and I grab my purse as we stand from the table. “Thank you for taking the time to explain all that.” “No problem.” He pushes the door of the coffee shop open for me to exit first. The hot summer air rests heavy in my chest once again as we say our good-byes. “Do you want to share a cab?” James asks. I shake my head. “I’m hopping on the Red Line.” I point to the subway sign. “All right.” His hand lands on my upper arm, and I’m thinking he’s going to warn me about talking to strangers. “Don’t let this disease win.” His eyes stare into mine, as though I’m supposed to figure out what he’s talking about from them. “Okay.” His hand grips my upper arm, and his other arm grabs my other one. “You can’t control people or their feelings. You can’t stop people from loving you, nor can you stop yourself from loving them. I don’t want you to have regrets, like I do. No one

knows their future, Carly. Your train could collide with another one tonight. My cab could plow into a street pole. The plane overhead could crash into Lake Michigan. No one’s future is set in stone. You’ve been given a small gift to reevaluate what’s important in your life before it’s too late.” Tears well in my eyes because I’ve weighed these facts this past month. I’m grateful for the cancer I got. I just wish I didn’t have to have cancer at all, but maybe I’ve been harping on that too much. “Thank you, James.” He surprises me by pulling me into his arms. He smells like soap and male. No cologne. “Carly?” The deep male voice ringing through the sound of the rustling city isn’t James. James releases me, and I turn around to find Bryant in his shorts and T-shirt, drenched in sweat. Our eyes lock, hurt layered in his.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

BRYANT

“B ryant.”

Is that guilt in her tone? I don’t move from my spot on the corner, so I won’t hit those damn black-framed glasses off this guy’s face. “I’d better get going,” the guy says. I catch his hand on her upper arm, squeezing it. “Okay. Thanks for everything, James.” She turns away from me, smiling to the jackass. He waves down a cab. “Email me if you have any more questions or if you want to talk,” he says. Then, he ducks into the awaiting cab. It drives off, and she twists on her sandals toward me again. I swing my earbuds around my neck and step a little closer. She looks better than I remembered. Much better than she did the day she walked out on me. “How are you?” I ask. She approaches me. Oh, how I would love to hold her to me and smell that damn shampoo. “I’m good.” She points to the spot where she was just at with that guy. “That’s James. He’s the leader of the CML meeting.” The weight on my heart lifts. “Oh, you two seemed cozy.” I can’t help myself. I need to feel this situation out. “He was just giving me some information.” She disregards my comment, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. “I’m glad he gives you what you need.” Although I don’t want to leave her, I’m not sure I can stand here and not touch her, so I start to pass her. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Well, have a great night. Things sound like they’re fantastic for you.” I grab my earbuds, ready to put them back in. “Bry,” she says. “I heard about you and Dean. Congratulations.” I have to know the truth. Vinnie told me last night that he wasn’t sure what was going on anymore. That Dean hasn’t been around much, and maybe he had the situation wrong, but I have to know.

The tilt of her head has my heart hoping Vinnie was jumping to conclusions. “What about me and Dean?” she asks. “The two of you are back together. I think it’s great.” Why am I lying? “You do?” Hurt saturates her eyes, and my heart hammers to my chest wall. “I just want you to be happy.” I step forward again, the pull to her too strong to fight. “Does he make you happy?” I whisper. She fidgets with her hands in front of her. “No.” She shakes her head. “I’m not with him.” “Oh.” I wish my voice didn’t reflect happiness because I truly do want her to be happy. She closes her eyes, and a tear trickles down her cheek. My hand reaches out, cupping her face, and my thumb wipes it away before another one falls. “I miss you,” she says. My eyes softly close, my hand on her head sliding to her neck. I pull her into my body, and I step closer. Peace…utter peace falls over my body with her in my arms. Her back trembles under my hand as we hold one another. Then, she steps back from me, wiping her tears from her cheeks. “What?” The question escapes my lips with a silent plea for her to confess her love for me, to tell me she could handle the press. I’d slay each one to protect her. “Good luck this season,” she says. That hope that was spurring falls. Unable to stop myself, I step forward. My two hands planting on her upper arms, I lean forward and kiss her forehead. Her eyes drift to her right. I hear the shutter of the lens before I see the man. That’s why she pulled away. “Good luck with the promotion.” I step back, knowing our relationship would be impossible as long as I’m with the NFL. “Oh, I didn’t go for it,” she says. I stop from placing my earbud in my ear. “Carly,” I sigh. I see tears brimming her eyes. “Do me a favor?” “Yeah?” “Live.” I place my earbuds into my ears. We share a matching smile, fake and forced for the camera. Then, I turn and continue jogging down the street, feeling her eyes on me with every step. My heart wrenches, empty and alone, the farther I jog away from her. I desperately want to look over my shoulder and see if her eyes are lingering on me. Like in those romantic movies where the person continues to watch the one they love until they pass the corner. With confidence in my shoulders and stride, I don’t break my cadence until I take a left around the next corner. Then, I stop mid stride. Unable to pretend I have my shit together, I bend down at my knees, putting my head in my hands, wondering when the pain that stabs my heart will disappear. Isn’t this the reason I

should stay away from love? Carly hit me like a damn storm on one of my four-by-four treks up in Wisconsin. I was rough-riding it through dirt-filled hills, enjoying my life, until the clouds turned an ominous black. She was the drenched downpour that had me rethinking my future plans to drive up that hill. Somehow, I was okay with lying low and enjoying a peaceful ride on tree-lined paved streets. Wanting to get out of dodge on the off chance that she’s continuing this way, I stand to my feet and begin jogging again. It isn’t until I rush through the doors of my condo that I allow myself the serenity to let the confidence wane completely. I wave to Bill, go to the elevator doors, and take it up to my condo. That bravado I portray for others can’t disarm too quickly because, when I open the door, Laces barrels to my feet, and my dad stands up by the couch. “Bryant?” he questions. Then, the all-consuming smile crosses his lips when he sees I was working out. “What are you doing here?” I ask, petting Laces and walking to the fridge to grab a water. “Just checking up on you since you don’t answer your phone.” “I’ve been busy.” I gulp down a hefty amount of water. He crosses the room to the breakfast bar and slides onto one of the stools. “I’m sorry about the girl, but you have to see, you’re better off.” I finish the water bottle and crumple it in my hand before I do something really disrespectful, like hit my own father. “Her name is Carly.” I throw the crushed plastic in my recyclable container. “Bryant, I think you’ve seen firsthand that relationships are hard to maintain in the NFL.” Laces weaves between my legs, and I drop my earbuds and phone on the counter in front of me. “Do you really want to know what I saw?” I ask him, ready to finally confront him on issues from the past. “I saw a man who never cared enough to put his own priorities aside for his wife.” He huffs, his eyes never wavering from mine. “You think you know it all since you’ve been in love what? Once? You don’t know anything about your mom and me.” “Then, tell me. You barely cried at her funeral. Hell, you made me play that game the day after. God forbid I take one practice or game off, even to grieve for my own mother.” My voice is rising, all the hurt from fifteen years ago surfacing. “I was trying to keep you distracted. Not to mention, I had no idea how to raise a kid.” “I wasn’t a kid. I was a fifteen-year-old who lost his mom.” My emotions calm, not wanting to continue this conversation further because it will only end up in a bigger fight. “Listen, Bry.” He places his hands on the cool granite of my counter, and his shoulders falter. “I messed up, okay? I was stupid, and I never realized how much I

loved your mom until she wasn’t there anymore. I was too set in my goals to see past them. My career was crumbling, and she asked me to retire. I wanted just one more year to go out on top. You understand, I didn’t want to retire, sit on the bench, or be remembered as the guy who couldn’t call it quits.” His eyes look down at his hands. “But don’t think for a second that I haven’t missed her every damn day for the last fifteen years.” He stands and retreats to his room. I don’t stop him because we don’t talk about feelings and crap like that. Needing to relax and shake off the conversation with my dad, I go to my own room with Laces at my feet. I take a shower and then turn on ESPN to listen to them talk about my prospects. The guys discuss me like they know me and my abilities. They show highlights from my rookie year up until last year with me being driven away on a cart with my head in my hands. That day will forever be in my head as the worst day of my life. “Will this be his year?” one of the guys asks. “I don’t know. This could be the end. We’ve watched so many players not know when to call it quits. It’s hard to come back from a surgery like that.” “Yeah, but Bryant Garrity has the discipline to make a comeback,” the third guy chimes in. Finally, a guy on my side. “The one question is, can he handle the distractions in his own head. When I came back after injuring my back, it was hard to trust my body.” I click the TV off, not wanting to hear any more. I glance down at my knee and at the haunted line down the center. How will this season play out? Questions continue to plague me about my future. I try to concentrate on my career, but a dark-haired girl with whiskey eyes is the only thing coming to mind. I grab the pillow I’ve yet to wash and inhale her scent. Sometimes, you have to sacrifice to love, and sacrifice, I will. Somehow, when I fall asleep, my body and mind are at peace for finally coming to a decision. WE’VE HAD two pregames where I did decent and then two more where Andrews played. Our team definitely has a chance at the title this year, but I want to be the player who brings that title to Chicago. More importantly, it’s our first game of the season, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish Carly were up in the wives’ box, looking down at me. Our only conversations have been about her doctor appointments and how things were going. She said she’s good, but I hate that she’s decided to go on this path by herself. I’m just hoping she sees the press conference tonight. First, I have to tell my dad. I’m in my condo, packing my bags to get to the stadium, when my dad knocks on my door.

“Hey, Dad. Are you coming now or later?” I ask, gripping my bag in my hand with my suit jacket over my forearm. I slip into my dress shoes, and he straightens his tie. “Later, if that’s okay…” He looks like he is about to say something, but then he shuts his mouth. “I’ll be in the box before kickoff though,” he says. There’s a weird ominous feeling circling around him. We move past the living room and into the kitchen, and I grab my keys. “I’m announcing my retirement after the game today,” I blurt out fast, as though his older mind won’t know what I said until I’m out the door. He slowly nods in understanding. “Okay.” “Okay?” I ask. He nods again. “You do what makes you happy.” I look at him, wondering if my dad has a twin that I don’t know about and has somehow traded places. “Why?” He busies his hands, petting Laces. “The other night, I realized I’ve been living my life through you. That’s not fair to you. I’m sorry for the way I treated Carly. So, if you want to retire, I’m not going to argue.” I look over at him, still in disbelief that this calm man is my father. I assumed, with the announcement of my retirement, the vein in his neck would have popped open, and blood would be pooling at my feet. “I want her, Dad, and if I have to retire to have her, then that’s what I’m going to do. One day soon, football won’t be a part of my life, but I want Carly there every day.” It’s been hard as hell not to reach out to her until now, but I was hoping she’d come to me. “Then, go get the girl.” He smiles, and I check my watch, finding I’m about to be late if I don’t hightail it to the stadium. My dad stands, walks over to me, and hugs me into his body. Having no other choice, I hold him tighter to me. There weren’t a lot of words discussed between us, but I feel like we’re starting to understand one another a little more. “Go start the season off right. At the end of the season, I know you’ll have it all —the ring and the girl.” He pats my back and then releases me. “I know I’ll have the ring; the girl is the one I’m unsure about.” Showing weakness in front of my dad is still hard. He winks. “Today, worry about the game. Tonight, worry about the girl.” I nod and pet Laces good-bye before I leave my condo with the hopes that I start this season with a win.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CARLY

“D o you have me here to torture me?” I ask Renee as I’m curled up on my

parents’ La-Z-Boy while the first game of today streams through the television. “Don’t try to act like you haven’t watched the four preseason games,” she says, dipping her chip into my mom’s homemade French onion dip. She tosses it into her mouth with a conniving smile on her face. Matty runs into the room, and instead of the usual Monroe number twenty-two jersey on him, it’s Garrity’s number ten. “Huh,” I huff. Renee shoots me her yep-he’s-sold-on-Bryant-too look. “Who bought you the jersey, Matty?” I ask. He runs over, jumping on me in the lounge chair. “Bryant.” He looks down at it, his grin growing, the more he stares. “Isn’t it great?” “The best.” My sarcasm drips from my mouth. “Where’s yours?” he asks, curling under the blanket with me. Fleeting moments where my nephew still wants to cuddle are rare, so I take full advantage by wrapping my arms around him. “I don’t have one.” He looks up at me in disbelief. “Bryant never gave you one?” he asks seriously. “Nope.” I shake my head, and his lips turn down. The doorbell rings, and Renee stands to answer it. “Did you invite someone here?” I warn her. She gives me a get-a-life look. “He’s about to play in an hour. Use that smart head of yours, Carly.” She taps the side of her head with her pointer finger. I know there’s something up her sleeve. I just haven’t figured out what it could be. “Why didn’t he get you a jersey?” Matty distracts me after Renee answers the door. “I’m sure he would have.” “If you didn’t break his heart,” Matty says. I gasp. “Where did you hear that?” “From Bryant. I overhead him talking to Mommy and Daddy when we went to

the camp.” “What did he say?” I should stop this conversation. Ever since I saw Bryant outside that coffee shop a month ago, I’ve missed him more, if that’s possible. Renee’s right. I’ve watched every pregame, and although I don’t know all the rules of the game, the one thing I’ve noticed is, he rarely smiles. The fact that he’s playing so well told me that I shouldn’t mess with what’s working. The commentators brag about how wonderful he looks and how fast his knee healed, but they discuss the rumors about him announcing his retirement. I’ve come to grips with the CML with the help of the group. I put my job on the sideline and took a demotion just so I wouldn’t have to travel as often. Honestly, I’m thinking about leaving altogether because this disease has made me see priorities differently, and my family is just that. Renee keeps bugging me to start that organizational business. “He said you hurt him, Auntie. Why?” My hand moves to smooth the hair from his cowlick. “It’s adult stuff.” “Adults are dumb.” “Matty!” Renee comes in. The shadow of a tall figure shows on my parent’s carpet before he enters. My heart leaps in my chest when a man with the same frame as Bryant turns the corner into the room. Although he looks similar to the man I love, he treats me very differently. “Mr. Garrity,” I say, pulling the lever of the chair down and swinging the blanket off my legs. He pushes his hands down in the air for me to continue to sit. “Please stay seated.” Oh, great. He thinks I’m dying. Renee grabs the magazines she was looking at from the couch for a place for him to sit, and I suddenly feel more uncomfortable that he’s at my parents’ house. “I tracked you down here,” he says. His large frame in his fancy suit sits down on my parents’ ratty old plaid couch. “Why?” I ask. Matty scurries over to him. “Who are you?” he inquires. “I’m Ted Garrity.” “He’s Bryant’s daddy,” Renee says. Matty nods and then moves to the ground to play with his cars. “Nice jersey,” Ted compliments Matty. He beams a smile. “Thanks. Bryant gave it to me.” “He did?” Ted asks. Matty pulls it out by his small fists. “I asked for a Jonathan Monroe, but Bryant gave me his. Said I needed to cheer for family.” Renee laughs, but when Ted and I look at her, she purses her lips together to hold it in.

“Come on, Matty.” She stands and holds her hand out for him. “I heard Grandma was making some chocolate chip cookies.” Matty’s eyes widen, and he runs by her outstretched hand and right into the kitchen. “We’ll leave you two to it.” She smiles at me and pats my shoulder on her way out of the room. After we’re alone, I grab the remote, and I lower the volume on the television. “I hope you’re going to watch the Knights.” He raises his eyebrows at me, his playfulness toward me throwing my already defensive manner off-kilter. “If Renee has anything to say about it, I will be.” He nods and picks up the Sports Illustrated with Bryant from the coffee table. Damn Renee and her little hints. He peruses it for a few pages and sets it down on the center spread. “Have you read it?” he asks me. “No.” It’s the truth. I can’t bear to read what he said in there, so I’ve stayed clear. “Oh, you should. Bryant opens up in this article.” I own the magazine. I bought it the first day it came out this week, and my hands have moved to it no less than a million times, but I just can’t open it. To read how he’s zooming past me in the left lane while I’m stalled on the side of the road. “Maybe I’ll give it a try.” He looks down at it, and before I can prepare myself, he reads straight from the article. “I especially like this line, ‘I’ve sacrificed a lot of personal growth for my job.’” “Yeah, that’s a good one.” I concentrate on the television for a second when the crowd cheers for a touchdown. Words travel across the bottom of the screen, questions if Bryant is announcing his retirement today. “Or this one, too. ‘Losing my mother was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to overcome. Although I recently lost the second woman I’ve loved, I have to believe it’s not forever. One day—maybe a year from now, maybe five—our paths will cross when things are simpler for us.’” I swallow the large lump in my throat. “It’s funny. The interviewer asks him if he believes in fate.” He pauses, so I take the bait. “And he said?” “He said, ‘I believe in the power of true love.’ “The interviewer continues his line of questioning, forgetting the article is about a quarterback coming back from his knee injury. ‘Carly Lincoln is your true love?’ “‘Yes.’” Wetness blurs my vision, but I don’t want to cry in front of his dad, so I turn my head in the other direction. I hear the magazine close. “Carly, I need to apologize,” Ted says. I nod. “No need. It’s fine, but thank you.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. I was scared you were the one girl who could detour my son from his dream of being a Super Bowl champ, but I was wrong. The ring isn’t his dream, you are.” “Thank you, Ted, but football is just as important to him.” “I’m not sure if Bryant told you about his mom, but for me, the ring was more important, and I made a fatal error that cost me. Every day, I live with the guilt that I’m the reason she died, and I don’t want that for Bryant. He loves you, Carly. I know you’ve been dealt a hell of a hand as of late, but the fact that you’re crying as I read that article tells me you love him.” “It’s complicated,” I remark. “I’m not here to convince you to take him back. I’d better get going anyway, but I’m leaving you with one piece of advice. Figure it comes from someone with many regrets. Time is precious, and no matter if you die today, Carly, or fifty years from now, Bryant will grieve you just the same. Don’t waste your life.” He stands up and walks over to me. I stand, realizing how tall he is. Just like Bryant. He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it. “Thank you for letting me barge in like this.” “You’re welcome,” I choke out, unable to really form a coherent sentence. He straightens his jacket by the lapels and leaves the room. I hear the door open and shut, and I flop into the La-Z-Boy again. A minute later, Renee and my mom enter the room. The tears are cascading down my face as quickly as I can blot them away with the Kleenex. “Carly?” my mom questions nicely, sitting down next to me, stroking my hair. “It’s time.” She nods, and I stare into her matching eyes. “What?” Renee grabs the remote from my hand, pointing it toward the television, and she turns it up. His name pulls my attention to the TV. He’s walking into the stadium. His gray suit perfectly hugs his muscular body. The press begins to corner him, and he stops. It’s the first time I’ve seen a true smile on his face since the season started. “How’s your knee, Bryant?” a reporter asks. “It’s good,” he answers. “Are the Knights going to make it to the Super Bowl this year?” another reporter asks. Bryant chuckles with that charismatic grin. “Do you expect me to say no?” The reporters laugh. “The Knights will make it to the Super Bowl.” His tone shows his confidence. “And will you be leading them? Rumors are stating, you might be retiring,” the reporter continues. Bryant looks into the camera.

I bring my knees up to my chest because it feels intimate—the way his eyes are staring into the lens, as though he’s looking at me. “All I’m saying is, I’ll be making an announcement after the game, but I’m excited for this coming year and more.” He winks, and my shoulders fall. “So, you will announce your retirement?” another reporter tries to clarify. But a player intervenes, swinging his arm around Bryant’s neck and pulling him away from the cameras. “Get off your ass, and go get him!” Renee yells, throwing her arms in the air. I wipe my tears one final time, and his face on that magazine is right there for me to admire. “Do you think he’s retiring?” I ask, half-convincing myself. “Yes,” Renee says. “Why?” I question. “Please tell me you aren’t this dense, Carly. He’s picking you.” She throws my purse at me. “I never asked him to choose.” I shake my head while my mind swims for an answer. “You didn’t have to, but if he can’t have both, he wants you.” Renee grabs ahold of my arm and yanks me up from the chair. “Get up!” she screams. “Oh no, I can’t let him retire.” My feet move, having a mind of their own. I look over, and my mom smiles. I pull my hair back. “I look like crap,” I say. Renee grabs my hand and drags me toward the door. “You look beautiful. He doesn’t care about how you look. All he cares about is that you want him back.” She gently nudges my back. Right before I reach the front door, I turn around. “What if…” The thoughts of my disease and if we don’t make it continue to deter me away. My older and wiser sister takes my hands in hers. “Carly, you’re going to live a long and happy life, but even if you don’t, do you want to spend it being unhappy?” I shake my head, tears welling up in my eyes. “Bryant loves you, and you love him. Stop wasting the time you have, and go be with him.” I nod, my adrenaline starting to pump in my veins. “You’re right.” She rolls her eyes. “Okay, I’m going.” I swing my purse over my shoulder and open the front door. I stop in my tracks when I find Ted waiting by a taxicab at the end of my parents’ walkway. “You ready?” he asks as he opens the cab door. “Yes.” I give my mom a quick hug and run down the stairs. I climb into the taxi and it pulls away from the curb. Ted’s shoulder acts as my barrier as the taxicab weaves in and out of traffic. He pulls out his cell phone and begins calling people.

“Don’t call him,” I say. I’m unsure of what I’m even going to say, but I know I don’t want him to worry about me. “I’m not. I’m just using some connections.” “Will they hold the game?” I ask, staring at the clock. Two o’clock, and I know he’s going to take the field early. “I don’t have that much pull, but I can get us into the stadium and possibly outside the locker room.” He talks to someone and uses his persuasion to get us passes. When he tells the taxicab to drive faster, I grip the handle of the door, fearful that CML won’t kill me, but this taxi ride will. We arrive at the stadium at two thirty, and Ted uses his influence to get us through the gates and down the locker room hallway, but by the time he asks me to wait outside, the entire hallway is vacant. Not even a custodian is lingering around. Ted walks out a few minutes later, and his downward lips tell me exactly what I assumed. “I’m sorry, Carly. We’ll catch him at halftime.” “Yeah, okay.” The two of us walk back down the hallway when my body feels antsy, and there’s no way I can sit through a game without telling Bryant he can have it all. “I’m sorry, Ted. I can’t wait.” I turn around and run back down the hallway, toward the bright sun of the field. Two security guards stand with their backs to me, and I slow my approach, trying to think of a plan. Exactly then, a group of five guys walk out of a door in front of me, and I fall in line with them. The security guards step to the sides to let them through, and I try to blend. Bad idea. “Ma’am,” one security guard says. But I weave between the group of men, breaking in my new All-Stars by sprinting to the field. There are two teams, and I rack my brain for what color Bryant should be wearing. My eyes get lost in a sea of identical men until the crowd starts making noise, and I look around, finding my face on the Jumbotron. “Ma’am!” the security person yells out. “Bryant,” I say through rows of men who are bending on the ground, stretching. “Wrong team, darling,” a guy tells me. I realize I need to sharpen my football knowledge. “Oh, thanks!” I jog to the other half of the field while the security guy keeps calling out to me, “Ma’am!” “Bryant!” “Ma’am!” “Bryant!” Minutes later, Bryant is standing in a sea of his brothers.

“Ma’am.” The security guard’s hand is on my upper arm, his voice softer. Bryant holds his arm up in the air, and the security guard releases his grip. “Carly?” he questions. “Go to the girl, Garrity,” a guy says who is in front of me. I glance down, and his teeth shine a bright light of white. “I’m Jonathan. We’ll talk later.” The guy next to him pushes his shoulder, and he falls over. Disregarding what’s happening in front of me, I step through the opening until I’m face-to-face with Bryant. His uniform fits firmly to his well-built body. His blue eyes show no emotion other than curiosity as to why I’m here. It’s eerily silent, and I glance over my shoulder to see I’m still front and center on the Jumbotron. “What are you doing here?” he asks. I desperately want to see those straight white teeth, the teeth that make my knees weak. “Are you going to retire?” Each player around us quiets, showing they’re just as interested as I am in his answer. Bryant looks around the stadium, and then his vision sets on me. “Yeah.” “Why?” My shoulders fall, and my hands itch to touch him, to tell him that he can have it all. “I want to be with you, and if I can’t have both, I choose you.” On the fifty-yard line where my heart started to heal after our date, it now shatters. I’ve done to him what Dean did to me, except Bryant is choosing love, not career. “I got scared”—my voice is as quiet as a mouse while I stare down at the painted white lines, unable to reach his eyes—“that you’d feel obligated to be with me.” His hand lands on my arm, and my eyes flutter closed from his touch. “I love you, Carly,” he whispers. I hear shuffling of people moving. When I look up to his eyes, I catch the players jogging to the sidelines, leaving us as the spotlight on the field. “I’m sorry, Bryant. I was changing into someone I didn’t recognize, and I wasn’t the girl you had fallen in love with. You’re such a great guy. I figured you’d never break up with me because I was sick. Then, add on the press, and I flipped out.” His hand grabs ahold of my other arm. “Are you done flipping out now?” I nod. “No more pulling away? One hundred percent in?” He steps closer, and that erratic heartbeat I was so familiar with picks back up. “No more pulling away. I’m in this. I’m through with being scared. I want to live,” I admit the revelation that’s slowly been transforming me since he whispered it in my ear outside the coffee shop. His cocky grin emerges on his lips, and my body calms, knowing he’s forgiven me.

“So, don’t retire,” I say. He shakes his head and places his hand on my cheek. “I don’t want you under the microscope, and I have to retire to ensure that.” “No, I can handle it.” I move closer, our bodies becoming flushed together. “You can have everything, Bryant—the career and the girl.” “And so can you. Except you have the guy.” He chuckles. “You remember when I told you I’d never ask you for anything?” I say. I look up to the eyes that fill my dreams every night. “Yeah.” “I lied,” I say. “Oh?” “Yeah, it turns out, I need your heart.” “Done.” His lips descend on mine, and he kisses me as though a spotlight is on us and it’s the end of a movie. Our movie. Our happily ever after.

EPILOGUE

BRYANT - TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER

“I

don’t think I’m going to make it, baby,” I tell Carly as the panting in the room rings louder than the three Super Bowl stadiums after I led my team to victory. Her hand squeezes mine, and her eyes bore into me. “Suck it up, big boy.” She has no sympathy for me. My eyes search out the smelling salt because I’m going to be one of those soonto-be dads who passes out. I’m exhausted myself from just hearing the panting and the screams, and I’m wondering when the hell this will be over. “The head is out.” The doctor peeks her head out from under the sheet. Thank God. “One more good one,” the nurse says. Carly’s hand restricts my circulation, almost cracking my knuckles, until relief takes over. Then, nothing. Silence. More silence. And…a cry. A lung-screaming wail of a cry out of my son. Carly falls into my arms, and I kiss her forehead as we both stare at our healthy baby. “He’s okay?” she asks. The doctor nods. After our moment together, admiring our squirming son in the doctor’s hands, Carly turns to the hospital bed. “Thank you so much.” She wraps her arms around Kylie, our surrogate. “You’re welcome.” Sweat drips from Kylie’s forehead. Her skin is flushed red, and her limbs are limp at her sides. “Now, go enjoy your baby,” Kylie says, tapping her hand on Carly’s. “Thank you, Kylie,” I say, peeking my head over Carly’s shoulder.

She smiles, and Carly and I exit the birthing room to enter our room where we will be staying with our baby until he is released. Carly hops on the bed, holding her arms out, and the nurse brings our boy over to her. She begins unbuttoning her shirt. “I don’t think we should do that in front of the baby,” I say. She rolls her eyes at the nurse. “Skin-to-skin contact,” she says, as though I should know what she’s talking about. The crazy thing is, I do because she’s been talking about it for the last two months. “I think I’m the best at skin-to-skin,” I say, climbing into the bed with her. I put my one arm around her shoulder as the nurse hands the baby over, and Carly lays him on her chest. “You’re next,” she whispers, her hand cradling our boy’s head. “It’s all right. Let the little guy have time with his mama. I can wait.” She laughs, and my lips find her temple once more. Even my three Super Bowl rings never warmed my heart to this magnitude. TWO MONTHS LATER, Carly and I are asleep in our bed, and a low cry rings through the speaker of the video monitor. Rolling over, I inspect it to see our little guy squirming in his crib. Since Carly took the initiative to get up with him last night, it’s my turn. I flick the volume on the speaker and emerge from the warm bed to go to our boy’s room. The name Trevor is painted on the wall with a mural of sports balls above his crib. The entire room is set for him to be a baller someday—although he’ll do what he loves and nothing else. I’ll make sure of it. I pick him up in my arms, my hands still finding the perfect way to get him snuggled in without being a contortionist. We sit in the rocker, him on my bare chest, and he calms. A minute later, Carly’s shadow appears at the door. I swear, she never sleeps. Her short pajama shorts and tank top begin to harden me. The best thing about a surrogate is, there’s no six-week rule. Then again, maybe I should prepare myself because Carly’s leukemia has been undetectable for a year, and we’re hoping, after one more year, she’ll go off the medication for us to at least freeze some embryos. She walks over, and her ring sparkles from the hallway light. We married last year after the Super Bowl with her family and my dad on the beach of St. Croix where we met. “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I say, Trevor not stirring. “I felt you get up.” “From all the way over there?” She rolls her eyes, breaking the distance in the room. “If I could feel every time

you got it up, I’d think of nothing else.” She sits on the carpet at my feet, and her hands mindlessly rub up and down my legs, her finger concentrating on my scar. “You anxious about tomorrow?” she asks. I nod, busying my hands on our boy’s back. “A little.” “You can still retract it.” She offers me the same advice every time we talk about it. “Nah. It’s time.” She nods, sliding up to her knees and wrapping her arms around my stomach, her lips casting short kisses onto Trevor’s back. “I love you,” she says, propping her chin on my stomach. With one hand securing our son and the other cupping her cheek, I stare at the two people most important in my world. “I love you, too.” She smiles her sweet grin that diminishes the anxiousness of tomorrow. She backs up and stares at my boxers. “Seriously, our son is on your chest.” She acts offended, but we both know she’s not. Her hand skims up my leg, disappearing under the hem of my boxer briefs. I move to stand, and her hand falls. “I think he’s ready to go back down.” I place Trevor back in the crib, and when I turn around, Carly’s inching her tank top up her stomach in a seductive catwalk move back to the bedroom. “Keep moving, Mrs. Garrity.” Her eyes light up with the devilish sex appeal I can’t stop craving. “Catch me, Mr. Garrity,” she teases before jetting down the hall. THE NEXT MORNING, Carly and I walk into the hotel venue with Trevor in his carrier, wearing his specially made number ten jersey. It’s his first picture day, and the press is snapping picture after picture. After all, it’s a big day. My dad gives Carly a hug, me a handshake, and Trevor a little tummy rub. Silvia emerges from the restroom, and she plows into Carly. “Hi, Silvia,” Carly says. Carly and me share a smile over her shoulder. “You look so great for just having a baby.” She pulls Carly’s arm out and stares at her thin figure. Carly and I look at one another, wondering if Silvia somehow missed that Carly’s stomach never grew. Silvia drops Carly’s arm and laughs. “Just a little joke to bring humor to the somber mood.” She dips her head into the stroller and starts baby-talking to Trevor. “It’s not somber,” Carly says, her hand reaching for mine. Silvia finally emerges from the stroller but not before our child will be haunted with memories of a redheaded lady being two inches from his face. The doors open, and Carly’s entire family files into the building. Her mother

ignores us and goes right to Trevor, plucking him out of the stroller. She holds him tight in her arms. “Mom,” Carly sighs. But her mom coos in Trevor’s now-open eyes. We all say our hellos, and Carly props Riley’s daughter, Ashley, on her hip as we make our way to the room. This is the moment, and my gut weighs heavy when I see all the press people sitting down in chairs. “Hey, Car, you ready to come back to work? I’m dying,” Renee says. The two of them started their own organizational company, and they even have a special line of drawer organizers that are only for closets made by the Fullers. Neither of them accepted a dime from me, so they built it from the ground up. Although some of my weekends in the off-season are spent at a stranger’s house, sorting through their stuff, Carly and I have made do in order to have it all. “Almost.” Carly peeks up at me, and we share a smile. “Whoa, what’s with the looks?” Renee asks, pointing her finger between both of us. I hold my hands up in defense. Carly nibbles on the inside of her cheek. “It’s funny you mentioned it. I don’t think I can leave him yet? One more month?” Carly’s been hesitant to leave Trevor and go back to work, but she needs to tear off the Band-Aid. Renee sighs, and her lips crease at the corners in understanding. “One more month.” Carly swings her arm around her sister’s shoulders and plants a kiss on her cheek. “What would I do without you?” “Well, you’d be single and without that bundle of joy over there.” She raises her eyebrows. Carly laughs, knowing it was her sister’s persistence that finally led her back to me. “Very true. I owe you.” Renee grabs Ashley off Carly’s hip and circles her around. “It’s family, right, Ash? We do what we have to for everyone to be happy.” Ashley squeals, and the entire family escapes to the side of the room with Silvia while Carly stands on one side of me with my dad on the other. This moment will change our lives the most. My dad won’t have a son to peer over his shoulder and offer wisdom anymore. Carly won’t have weeks where I’m gone, and now, our Sundays can be filled with taking Trevor to the park instead of onto a ball field. As I situate the microphone down to speak, I hesitate when my hand touches the football resting on the table. I grip it in my hands, feeling the softness of the pigskin, the hardness of the laces, and how my hand molds to it like a glove. “Bry?” Carly says, and she’s softly asking if I’m making the right decision. I nod.

She thinks I’m not ready to leave the game. She’s worried I might not be able to handle it, but what she’s missing is, over two years ago, I would have walked off that field with her and never looked back. Football has been my life for as long as I can remember, and I love the game, but I love them more. She’s dealt with the training camps, the crazy schedules, and the gossip with no complaints. But the suburban home where I can take Trevor out back and teach him how to throw, where I can install a basketball hoop, fill the bedrooms full of kids, and live my life with Carly—that’s what gives me the adrenaline of throwing a touchdown pass these days. I place the football down on the table and lean forward toward the microphone. “I’d like to announce my retirement.” Instead of my eyes focusing on the press in front of me, they drift down to Carly. Her tentative smile lifts and excitement shines in her eyes. The same nauseous rumbling that occupied my stomach on draft day subsides because I’m one lucky bastard to be her number one pick. Please turn the page for a letter from the author.

PERSONAL NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Dear Readers,

I hope you enjoyed Detoured by Love with Carly and Bryant’s story. I’m a private person, and I don’t share much of my personal life on social media, which makes what I’m about to disclose to you completely out of character for me. I’ve wanted to write this story for some time, but I continued to shy away from it for reasons still unknown. In July 2014, I was diagnosed with chronic myeloid leukemia through a random blood test, similar to Carly. Her journey reflects my experience, except I was done having children. At the time, I was thirty-eight, a mother of five-year-old twins, and had recently quit my job six months earlier to write full-time. Just as I was accepting my future with CML, I went to the emergency room for shortness of breath one night caused by my medication. Through a CT scan, they found a nodule on my thyroid. One in a million chance, my oncologist told me after an ultrasound and biopsy. It would be like lightning striking twice. And guess what? Lightning did strike twice. A month later, as I sat in my oncologist’s office to deal with my CML, I got diagnosed with thyroid cancer. So, September 2014, my thyroid was removed, and at that point, I was fortunate it hadn’t spread. Now, I was up to three pills I would be taking for the rest of my life. I fell into a downward spiral fast, spending most of my days on the couch, watching daytime television. I felt, if they opened up my body, I’d be ridden with cancer. Thank goodness I have the husband and family I do. They were supportive and loving, even being burdened with their own fear. Even though I know how fortunate I’ve been, it hasn’t been an easy road. The financial constraints due to the prices of medications, the constant visits to the doctors, the emotional stress, and the side effects from the medications are challenges many people face with chronic illnesses. Both CML and thyroid cancer are referred to as the good cancers, the ones you’d

want if you had to get cancer. Due to a lifesaving medication, I’m able to live my life. It’s amazing since, before the development of CML drugs, a normal life span for someone diagnosed with CML was three to five years. Every day, I’m thankful for the doctors and their team when I tuck my kids into bed at night. If you’re able, I encourage you to donate money to the medical community for a cause close to your heart. A portion of the sales from this book will be donated to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and/or National CML Society.

Thank you for listening.

Hugs, Michelle Join my newsletter to read a DELETED SCENE from Detoured by Love. http://eepurl.com/caGt-T National CML Society http://www.nationalcmlsociety.org Leukemia and Lymphoma Society https://www.lls.org

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michelle Lynn is a USA Today best-selling author. She moved around the Midwest most of her life, transferring from school to school, before settling down in the outskirts of Chicago ten years ago, where she now resides with her husband and two kids. She developed a love of reading at a young age, which helped lay the foundation for her passion to write. With the encouragement of her family, she finally sat down and wrote one of the many stories that had been floating around in her head. When she isn’t reading or writing, she can be found playing with her kids, talking to her mom on the phone, or hanging out with her family and friends. But, after chasing around two preschoolers all day, she always cherishes her relaxation time after putting the kids to bed.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are so many people to thank for this book, but first must be Dr. Brian Druker, M.D. who developed a targeted therapy drug that took a once-fatal cancer to a chronic illness. Without him, I might not be here.

To all my CML brothers and sisters. Here’s to - the obsession of what our PCR is. The anxiety as we wait for the results. The what if’s that keeps us up at night. The arguments we have with specialty pharmacies. The pills we hoard just in case that next shipment is late. We will keep up the fight until there’s a cure because one day there will be.

My husband. You never missed one doctor appointment that first year. Your arms were open every time I needed comfort. You held me in bed and listened to my fears. You handed me the tissues, with constant reassurances I’d see our kids grow up. I cherish the life we’ve built and I’m lucky to have you as my husband.

My parents who I’m certain were barely hanging on by a thread when I got diagnosed. I know this because I’m a mother myself and I still can’t imagine. You never cried in front of me although I’m certain you did after you drove away. You made me promises you couldn’t know would happen. You make yourself knowledgeable on my disease. You watch my kids while I went to doctor appointment after doctor appointment. Never would I have gotten through that first year without either of you. I’m lucky to be your daughter.

Since I kept my disease so secretive not very many of my friends knew, but those that did, thank you for not treating me any different. Thank you for not handling me with kid gloves and thank you for not giving me those pity eyes. Thank you for

allowing me to be Michelle.

Mia Kayla, I love you! Our sprinting nights, our brainstorming sessions and our overfilled Facebook messenger are reasons I’m the author I am.

To my editors, Unforeseen Editing, UltraEditing and Behind the Writer, thank you for making my words beautiful and readable! And, thank you for finding all my inconsistencies.

Thank you to my cover designer, Okay Creations.

My betas, Mia Kayla, Danielle Allen, Heather Davenport, Amber Moreau, Elizabeth Thiele, Michelle Campeau, Tanya Vought, Heather Lindsey, Michell Casper, L.B. Dunbar. Each of you brought something new to the story. Thank you.

The readers. Without you, I would never have the opportunity to write a story so dear to my heart.

BOOKS BY MICHELLE LYNN

The Invisibles Series Don’t Let Go Let Me In Let Me Love Can’t Let Go Let Me Go Love Me Always The Love Surfaced Series Love Surfaced Love Rekindled Love Emerged Standalones Love Me Back Collaboration Familiar Ground Seeing You Love Grows In Alaska The Infield Series Rounding Third