False Start

FALSE START A SECOND CHANCE SPORTS ROMANCE

S.J. BISHOP

This book was given to JOANNA Rączkowska on Instafreebie. www.instafreebie.com

CONTENTS

False Start Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Kick Off 1. Sarah 2. Burke 3. Sarah 4. Burke 5. Sarah 6. Burke 7. Sarah 8. Burke 9. Sarah

FALSE START

PROLOGUE JAMIE

Y

ou’re a failure! A complete and total failure. I’d never felt so miserable in my life. I couldn’t even look my teammates in the face. 3 to 2. Georgetown had beaten us in the last four minutes of the game when I’d completely miffed the pass. Because I wasn’t focused. It’s your fault! As we walked to the locker room, nobody spoke to me. Once inside, I collapsed onto the bench and rested my head in my hands, letting my long, dark hair fall over my face. All about me, frustrated silence rang louder than the cheers on the field. Lockers slammed and gear bags were kicked across the floor. “Hey, Jamie. It happens.” I looked up into Fernanda’s wide, understanding gaze. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, taking a seat next to me on the locker room bench. I hadn’t told her about Caz and me, but I knew she could guess. Fernanda had gone through her own terrible breakup just a few months ago. It hadn’t impacted her playing, though. I wanted to throw my arms around Fernanda, bury my face into her neck, and cry. But I wasn’t going to

do that. I didn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy. I shook my head. “Okay,” said Fernanda, standing. “But if you need to chat, I’m here.” Once I was alone, once the locker room was empty, I lost it. Oh God! What had I done? I could feel the sobs building from deep within my chest and did my best to hold them back. Since Caz’s football season had started, I’d gone crazy. I’d lost ten pounds and couldn’t sleep. Everyone had commented on it. You don’t look so good, Jamie. You all right, babe? You’re getting kinda thin… I’d dated Caz just over a year, and we had been so good together. We’d laughed, had hot, wild sex, and even travelled together. I’d met his parents, he’d met mine, and I’d never been so happy in my entire life. With Caz, I wasn’t just Jamie Anderson: daughter, Honor student, and soccer all-star. I was Jamie Anderson: sex goddess, tease, envy of the Stanford co-eds, and the future Mrs. Cassidy Woods. It had been a huge confidence boost when someone like Caz, a senior and the star wide-receiver, had deigned to date a sophomore (even if I was supposed to be one of the best players on Stanford’s women’s soccer team). And I’d loved him so incredibly much. He’d loved me back – at least I thought he had. Everyone had said so: I wish someone would look at me the way Caz looks at you! But then football season had started – and it was like I’d ceased to exist. He’d stopped reaching out to me and stopped answering my calls. I’d barely seen him at all. He hadn’t even gotten me a ticket to the homecoming game. “Caz loves you,” my roommate had said to me. “Break up with him. He’ll understand what he’s lost. He’ll come begging for you to take him back…”

But I knew he wouldn’t. I knew it. And so, I’d confronted him. I’d told him, “I can’t live like this. I need more! I love you so much.” I couldn’t be second fiddle to football. I couldn’t just be some chick he picked up and put down when he felt like it. “If you love me,” I had told him, “you’d care that you’re hurting me.” He’d just stood there as I begged him to give me more time, to tell me that I mattered to him. “I can be a good boyfriend, or I can be a good football player. We can pick back up when the season’s over.” He’d said it so definitively. I’d stared at him, willing him to take it back, to tell me that he’d try to make it work between us, that he loved me as much I loved him. I’d tried one more time; I’d said to him, “I need you to choose me.” And he’d shrugged. So I had broken up with him. I’d broken up with Stanford’s star wide-receiver. He’d stood there, looking stunned. And then his face had gone blank, “Then you need to leave.” So I’d failed in my relationship with Caz, and now, I’d failed in my game. And worst of all, I was full of doubt. Had I done the right thing? I could see him, his face blank, his shoulders shrugging as if to brush our entire relationship away. We were over. I let the sobs break free.

1 CAZ

C

hanel No. 5 flew through air and hit the wall with a magnificent crash. I ducked as shards of glass flew past my head. The heavy, too-sweet scent of perfume filled our chic, Upper West Side penthouse. “Bastard! You pathetic excuse for a man! Ruin, infeliz, cabron, no tien las cajones…” Karissa’s elegantly accented English devolved into a series of nasty Spanish invectives. I don’t speak Spanish well, but spend two years with Karissa, and you learn real quick what hijo de puta means. “Babe,” I said. I knew I was baiting a bear, but a guy’s got to stand up for himself, “What did you expect me to do?” “DO!?” Even angry, Karissa was gorgeous: a runway model with legs for days, caramel skin, and thick, dark hair that curled in perfect waves down her back. She had the face of an angel and the mouth of a sailor. When we’d first met, that had been a helluva turn-on. “I expected you to show up! It was the Victoria Secret after party! It was my shot to get them to pay attention!”

Oh fuck. This shit again? It was Karissa’s dream to walk in the Victoria Secret fashion show. She had this idea that if she attended their after party with me on her arm, they’d sign her up on the spot. She thought that because I’m now teammates with Dash Barnes, star quarterback of the New England Patriots (whose wife is a Victoria’s Secret Angel), I could somehow get us into the after party. I tried real hard not to roll my eyes. Okay. I didn’t try that hard. “Babe,” I held up a placating hand. “I just signed the contract with the Pats. I had to go to the press conference.” Karissa screamed, a guttural bellow of rage that, to be honest, would have turned me on back in the early days of our relationship, when I’d thought of her temper as “fits of fiery passion” (instead of as fits of flat-out crazy). “You’re so selfish! It’s all about you! You, you, all the time…” I lost the rest as Spanish overwhelmed English. “What about my contracts!? What about my shows!? What about my press!?” She switched back to English and turned her back on me, looking for more things to throw. It had been like this with Karissa for the last few months. I’d been busy trying to get signed in the off season and had seen her a few times. But those few times we’d gone out together had ended in such violent and public brawls that we’d made the headlines. “And don’t think I didn’t see your stupid press conference!” she said suddenly, whirling on me, holding a large, plaster bust in her hand. “You and that blond reporter. You practically had your tongue down her blouse!” “’Riss,” I objected. “My tongue was fully in my mouth the whole time…”

Another bellow of rage, and the plaster bust went flying at my head. Her aim was better this time, and though I ducked, it managed to graze my ear. What the fuck!? She’d just tried to give me a fucking concussion? I had to take a few deep breaths so as not to launch up and throttle her. My mother hadn’t raised an animal. You don’t touch a woman in violence, even if she’s trying to brain you with plaster busts of Hugo Chavez. “Is that what your puta mother taught you? You just go around and stick it in whatever bimbo catches your fancy! Well, go ahead!” she snarled at me. “Go ahead. Go see other women. I’m not moving to that icebox holeof-a-city Boston.” She stormed to the other side of the room, and I stood up slowly, anger giving way to exhaustion. It didn’t really matter how beautiful she was; I didn’t want her to come to Boston with me. We’d been bad for months, but to accuse me of infidelity, to nearly give me a concussion…I was beginning to suspect that Karissa loved drama more than she actually loved me. “You know, babe,” I said slowly. “I think that’s a good idea. I don’t think you should come to Boston. In fact, I think I’m done with all of this.” I gestured at the shattered glass, at the dark perfume stain on the white wall, at the plaster, and at the pillow cushions littering the floor. “I think it’s over between us.” I should have expected the quick change in emotion, but I nearly fell over when she burst into tears, ran across the room, and threw herself against me. I hate crying. I hate it. During my parents’ divorce, they’d spent the better part of two years crying. Tears always brought me back there. But Karissa’s sobs were loud and dry. As she buried her face into my neck, she raked her long, manicured nails lightly down the sides of my face. “Oh,

mi vida, mi vida,” she cooed between sobs. “Oh love, oh no, my love. You can’t leave me. I love you…” She pressed her body against mine, her lush lips brushing frantically against my throat. “You need me,” she urged, her breasts brushing against my chest. “You need me, and I need you…” Her hand snaked down my torso and slid up under my t-shirt, caressing my flat stomach, the hard ridges of my abdominals. Then she reached to undo my belt. “You need me,” she whispered hotly, her mouth straining upward to catch mine. Karissa had always been able to turn me on, and even now, I was getting hard, my dick remembering all the wild times we’d had together. I took a breath. It was best to let cooler heads prevail. I was now absolutely certain that Karissa Kruise and I did not belong together. I reached down and grabbed her wrist. “Stop,” I said and took a step away from her. I looked down and saw her growing angry again. Shit, she was volatile. “We’re finished,” I said as firmly as I could. “And I’m leaving.”

2 JAMIE

“You ready for this?” Fernanda asked me. “I was born ready.” “You want to get dressed then?” she asked, eyeing my pink underwear, matching pink sports bra, and purple soccer cleats. How had I managed to put my cleats on before my shorts? “It’s not my fault I got distracted,” I muttered, pulling my shorts on. “I’ve never seen a locker room this fancy. Not even at National’s Camp.” The Boston Breakers, New England’s professional women’s soccer team, were currently changing in the cheerleader’s locker room at Gillette Stadium, home of the New England Patriots. A pipe had burst at our home stadium, and management had moved our practices and our games to Gillette. “How about a shirt?” Fernanda said, tapping her toe impatiently. I smiled at her and struck a pose, flexing my abs and biceps at her. I’m short for a soccer player, but I’m also cut. My breasts are on the small side, but a lifetime of lunges, squats, and grapevines had given me a high, tight ass. Over a decade of sit-ups meant that my abs were chiseled to perfection.

“Seriously. Put your shirt on. We’ve got to warm up.” Fernanda and I had signed on with the Breakers straight out of college. She knew I got nervous before games and took it upon herself to “manage” me. I rolled my eyes at her and picked up my jersey. I was just tugging it over my head when I heard her mutter, “Oh shit.” I looked up. There were TV screens in every corner of the locker room, trained on ESPN, NECN, and Fox Sports. I froze. NECN was airing yesterday’s press conference, and smack in the center of the camera was a blast from my past: Cassidy Woods. He was grinning at reporters, showing off the dimple in his left cheek. His eyes, thick lashed and dark blue, glimmered delightedly at a reporter’s question, and the lights shone on his rich, brown hair. The volume was off. I don’t know what he said, but in my head I heard his voice—that warm, slightly gravelly timbre. I shivered. “He’s playing for the Pats,” said Fernanda, her voice low and worried. “Shit, Jamie.” Buck up! Shake it off! You’re starting tonight! I took a deep breath and shrugged, but my eyes were glued to the TV. Glued to Caz. Oh God! What if he’s in Gillette stadium this very moment?! “Come on,” I said to Fernanda, standing up and turning my back on the TV. “I’m starting tonight; I’m not going to focus on that. He doesn’t matter. He’s not going to ruin another season for me.” The season that Caz and I broke up was the worst I’d ever had. Caz was the reason I didn’t date during the soccer season. I was terrible at compartmentalizing, terrible at focusing when my head and heart were distracted. I wasn’t a college player any more. I was a

professional, vying for an invitation to the national training camp. I had to focus. I had to push Caz out of my mind. Besides, what are the chances I’d run into him. Gillette’s a big stadium, and Boston’s a big town. “I’m fine,” I told Fernanda. “We’ve got a game to win.”

3 CAZ

“I ’m sorry, Cassidy. I can’t advise informing the press of your breakup.” Not what I wanted to hear. I paced around the player’s lounge, listening on the phone as my agent gave me all the reasons why I couldn’t call up Bleacher Report and let them know about Karissa. She’d been non-stop texting, trying to convince me to take her back. Telling the media we were broken up might get her out of my hair. “Listen, the media loves you two together, and not all publicity is good publicity. You two have had enough public fights where she’s come out looking like the victim. I also don’t want this to impact your playing. If you’re looking to extend your contract with the Pats, you’re going to have to have the season of your career…” “Karissa is not going to impact my playing,” I said, cutting that argument off. “I keep that stuff off of the field. Always have.” You can’t rely on anything but yourself. I learned that in the wake of my parents split-up. You want something? You have to go for it, guns blazing. And you can’t let anything hold you back. Mind over matter, always.

“Isn’t Karissa friendly with Becca Barnes?” Dash’s wife, the underwear model. “You don’t want to alienate yourself from your team before the season starts.” I gritted my teeth. I highly doubted that breaking up with Karissa was going to cause as much trouble as my agent feared. But he was the pro at this media bullshit. I just caught the football. “Okay,” I said, cutting him off. “Okay, fine. I won’t announce it yet.” Who cared, anyway? I knew I wasn’t with her. She knew we weren’t together anymore, much as she didn’t want to admit it. I had the sneaking suspicion that Karissa didn’t love me that much at all. She liked the attention that came with dating a football player, and the sex had been pretty explosive. As I hung up the phone and sat down, I noticed a commotion coming from the vicinity of the arena. “Yo, Caz!” I looked up as Burke Tyler, the Pat’s franchise tight end, wandered through the lounge and over to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water. He opened it and sucked it down, then looked at me. “What’s good?” Burke makes me look tiny. He’s 6’7” with pale blond hair that he styles in some sort of braided Mohawk, shaved at the sides. I’ve seen him give press conferences. He comes across as stupid. In reality, he’s anything but. “Agent stuff,” I muttered, standing up to stick my phone in my back pocket. “What’s the noise? What’s going on in the stadium tonight?” Burke smiled widely, “The Breakers are playing,” he said. “Wanna go watch?” “The Breakers?” “Dude. You don’t watch women’s sports?” I blinked. Women don’t play football. Sometimes I watch baseball. I shook my head.

“Missing out, man. Did you watch the World’s two years ago?” Yes. Everyone watched the World Cup. “Okay. So you know who Noemi Sax is?” I smiled, suddenly understanding why he was so keen to go watch the Breakers play. Noemi Sax was the star forward on the women’s national team. She was still big news, with endorsement deals from Under Armor and Gatorade. She was hot. With long blond hair and these massive, sexy thighs. “Dude,” said Burke, winking. “You gotta see her play, man. She freaking tears it up. There’s plenty of room in the box.” “In,” I said. I had nothing else to do. I trailed Burke through the building and toward the stadium box seats. “So, do I need to, like, tell you about soccer rules?” he asked. I snorted. “No. I don’t watch it, but I know how to play,” and for some reason I decided to add, “I dated a soccer player in college.” “Hot,” said Burke, giving that million-dollar grin. “I’ve always wanted to bang a soccer chick.” I smiled back at him. “If you haven’t, you should.” But my smile wasn’t genuine. I actually felt like I’d been kicked in the gut and was having a hard time suppressing memories that kept trying to resurface. Dark brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, pouty mouth. I’d shoved all that old Jamie Anderson shit in a tight mental box and padlocked it. “Yah? You think Noemi Sax has a thing for blonds?” When we arrived at the box, there were only a few people there: a small group of business execs who might have something to do with the Breaker’s franchise and a few Pats players drinking beers in the back.

The Pats greeted us with enthusiasm, and Vic Ferguson, a new safety, tried to get me into a conversation about dating models. But Burke clapped his massive hand on my shoulder and said, “Come on, man, the game’s already started.” We sat down in the front row, and I looked down. The stadium, usually slammed for Patriots games, was not even half full. “Look at her; there she is,” Burke closed his eyes and tipped his head back. “Fuck me. I’m just thinking about those thighs wrapped around my waist.” I stared down at the field where Noemi Sax was powering past defenders to try a failed shot on the goal. That was one of the things I really hated about soccer. It took forever to score a fucking… An opposing player was charging downfield, kicking the ball into Breaker territory. The defenders were setting up to stop her. “Dude. Are you okay?” My heart was pounding, and my mouth was dry. I licked my lips and nodded. Sitting up, I rolled my shoulders and tried to get over the sudden breathlessness. Shake it off, Woods. “That soccer player I dated in college,” I said. “She’s on the left there. Dark hair.” I pointed. In college, Jamie had had long, straight brown hair. It was short now, cut to about her chin, and held back by a bright pink headband. “Oh, wow,” said Burke admiringly from beside him. “You dated Jamie Anderson?” “You know her?” Was she well known then? To be honest, once I’d stopped dating Jamie, I’d stopped caring about women’s soccer. Thinking about her sucked. It always made me feel like I’d been roundhoused in

the gut. “I mean, I follow the Breakers,” said Burke. “She’s really good. I don’t think she’s national team good, but she’s definitely one of the top players at her position. Cute, too. Really cute.” I couldn’t quite look away from her. Jamie had always had something about her… She wasn’t anything like Karissa, or some of the other women I’d dated (longlegged and exotic). She was petite, focused, and just – I don’t know, genuine. She had this girl-next-door vibe that had always made me feel comfortable. But when you’d get her in the sheets, she was so fucking hot… She’d been the best of both worlds. “Oohhh,” Burke said, his eyebrows raising with interest. “This looks like it’s gonna be a good story.” I shrugged. “It’s not. We dated for about a year in college. Hooked up right at the tail end of my junior year. She was a freshman…” Memories that I’d shoved into that padlocked box resurfaced. I’d been interested in this cheerleader who’d had a friend on the soccer team. So we’d gone to one of the games, where I’d seen Jamie play. She was hard to take your eyes off of. She was pretty and tough as nails. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and when she had her head in the game, she was unstoppable. She was like that in a relationship, too. When a girl like Jamie turned her focus on you… “What happened?” I shrugged. “Usual college shit. You know? I had to concentrate on football; she wanted me to pay more attention to her.” “Yah?” said Burke, settling back in his seat and putting his hands behind his head. “Women can be crazy.” I envisioned Karissa hefting Hugo Chavez and taking

aim at my cranium. By Karissa-standards, Jamie was downright boring, and I felt the need to defend her. “She wasn’t crazy. Just…I don’t know. You can either be good at football or good in a relationship, right? One thing at a time.” “Dude, that’s total crap,” said Burke. “What are you, fifteen? Half of these guys are married and still play. Look at Barnes. And his lady’s a handful.” “Well, at the time, I couldn’t handle it. So she broke up with me.” Burke whistled through his teeth. “She broke up with you? Fuck, man. That sucks.” I shrugged, for some reason feeling the need to be honest. “I guess I was pretty arrogant about the whole thing. I didn’t think she would break up with me. I actually didn’t see it coming.” And there it was—the lid was off of the Jamie box, and I was spilling my fucking heart out to Burke Tyler. I couldn’t stop myself. “I really liked her. You know? I was really into her. I got drunk one night in the off-season. Went into San Francisco with a bunch of the guys. One of them wanted to gamble but had no cash. So we went to this pawn shop so he could hawk his watch. There was this tiny ring in there. I don’t know what came over me, but I decided that I was going to propose to her. I was so hammered. I paid the guy four hundred dollars for it…” I looked up, expecting Burke to laugh or give me shit. But he looked serious. “I’ve had my heart broken, bro. It kills, man. It really kills.” I nodded. “But it sounds like you had it coming,” Burke continued. “You can’t just ignore people when you feel like being busy. Dick move.” Okay. Now he was just pissing me off. “You should go talk to her,” said Burke

suddenly. “And while you’re down there, see if Noemi Sax might want to date a Tight End. Tell her I like to cuddle.” He winked.

4 JAMIE

W

e did all right. We won, barely. And I could have been better, but at least I hadn’t sucked all over the field. I’ve never, never been good at keeping my emotions in. If I’m feeling confident and happy, I play great. If there’s something in my life that’s distracting me, I play distracted. “Proud of you,” Fernanda said, as we headed toward the locker room. “You could have had a meltdown. You chose to keep it together.” “I don’t want to talk about it.” I said as kindly as I could. They say you never get over your first love. I think that might be true. But Caz wasn’t going to get any more attention than I’d already given him. “Good game, Jay! You going to meet us out?” A bunch of the girls were going for sushi. “Yes!” I said, faking enthusiasm. “I’m going to grab a shower, so I’ll meet you there.” I took my time showering, trying not to fantasize about Caz in the shower with me. I got dressed, pulling on a dark red blouse, skinny jeans, and black ankle boots with

enough of a heel to put me at the same height as some of the other girls. My hair was still wet, so I used a few bobby pins to keep it off my face. I put on some mascara and lip gloss, so I didn’t look as exhausted as I felt, and turned to follow the rest of the team. Pulling my phone out of my pocket to google the directions, I wasn’t looking as I opened the door and strode into the hall, smack into something hard. “I’m so sorry!” I said as hands came down to steady me. Oh fuck. To say I’d never imagined what it might be like to run into Caz again would be a total lie. I used to think about it all the time. And now, there he was, staring down at me and smiling like he used to. Like I was the sky after a storm. “Hey, Little Girl,” he said, his voice soft and warm with that gravelly rasp that used to make me shiver. Fuck, Jamie, say something! “Hey.” It was all I could manage. Caz had that effect on me. He was so beautiful, and in the years since we’d last met, he’d gotten even better looking. He was bigger, packed with muscle. He was wearing an expensive, gray t-shirt that clung to his biceps and the flat expanse of his pecs. His face had the same sculpted, familiar planes – sharp cheek bones, knife-bridge nose, and lush, gorgeous mouth. And his dimples were out. “That was a great game,” he said. Oh god. He had watched the game. “Excuse me,” I said, “I forgot something…” I turned and rushed back into the locker room. Smooth, Jamie. I paced the locker room, trying to ditch the adrenaline that had flooded me with such quick intensity. Cassidy Woods, the man who’d broken my heart, had watched my entire game and come down to

the locker room to say “hi.” Somewhere, pigs were flying and hell was freezing over. I turned, staring at myself in the mirror. Why was I feeling inadequate? I looked fine! And he’d sought me out. This was my shot to show him what he’d thrown away all those years ago. I squared my shoulders and headed back out. Caz was still there, still smiling, but he looked less certain now. “Did you find what you needed?” “Yah,” I said, not elaborating further. “Hi. How are you? It’s been… a really long time.” Caz didn’t respond. He was just staring at me, smiling. Finally, as if he realized that he needed to say something, he said, “I’m good. Great. I signed a deal with the Patriots. I was upstairs in the lounge when your game started. I actually didn’t know you played for the Breakers.” “Yes,” I said. My phone buzzed, and I looked down. It was one of the girls, asking me if I was coming. “Ah. I’m meeting the team,” I said. “I have to go.” “You do?” Caz asked and stepped forward as I stepped forward. “Do you have to?” He looked disappointed for a moment, and his eyes met mine. God, they were beautiful. So dark blue they almost looked brown. And he was wearing his hair differently. It was long and wavy and swept back off of his forehead. “I was going to see if you wanted to go out to dinner. It’s been… Little Girl, it’s been years.” Little Girl. He used to call me that. He’d had tons of nicknames for me, but he reserved Little Girl for the bedroom. And it still had the same effect on me. It made me feel naughty. And horny. I hadn’t had sex in a while. “Do you want to go to dinner with me?” he asked softly. His voice was all gravel.

“Sure,” I said before I could stop myself. My heart was pounding, and I was burning with an intense mix of anxiety, longing, lust, and heartbreak. But I knew I looked cool, confident. “Great! I’ll drive us. Louie’s okay?” “Louie’s is fine,” I said, “but I’ll meet you there.” Looking down at my phone, I shot a quick text to the girls. I started walking toward my car, and Caz fell into step beside me, having to shorten his stride so as not to overtake me. “Where are you parked?” he asked. Did he think I wasn’t going to actually go to dinner with him? “Over there,” I said, pointing to my seven year old, neon green Mazda 2, the same car I had driven in college. Caz blinked, and I wondered what he drove. “All right,” he said. “Ten minutes. Oh! Park in the back, okay? I’d rather not have people gawking at us.” Gawking at us? Was he that big of a deal? “Okay. Fine,” I agreed. But I was irked. It’s not that I want to be stared at by strangers during dinner, but was he ashamed of being seen with me? I was glad for the anger; it helped push away some of the lingering longing. I got in my car and called Fernanda to fill her in. “Be careful,” Fernanda warned as I pulled into Louie’s back lot. “You can’t afford to let him mess with your head. He messes with your head, he messes with your game.” I hopped out of the car in time to see a large, navy blue Porsche Macan Turbo pull up next to me, and Caz hopped out, still smiling. His smile was going to kill me. “Go ahead,” I said, my voice more terse than I wanted it to be. “I don’t know where the back entrance is.” His smile lessened for a moment, but he nodded, moving toward the dumpster and a small side door. He must

have called ahead because there was a hostess waiting just beyond the door, ready to seat us. She was a voluptuous, young, Italian woman who looked over Caz as if she were considering buying him. She led us to a darkened alcove in the back of the main dining room. People would have to look hard to see us. I tried to hold on to my ire, but it was difficult to stay angry when Caz put on the charm. He pulled out my chair, and when he gently lifted my purse from my shoulder, his fingers brushed my bare skin. “It’s been ages. I can’t believe how long,” Caz was saying as he picked up a menu. “You look… I love your hair like that.” I resisted the urge to touch it. I’d chopped it off the summer after sophomore year when I’d decided that the best way to get over Cassidy Woods was to get rid of everything he’d loved. I’d thrown away a ton of clothes, burned a bunch of love letters, and cut my hair. I’d refused to grow it back since. “Thanks,” I said. “Yes. It’s been a long time. How are you?” Caz smiled warmly at me. He needed to stop. “I’m great, now.” “Oh?” “It’s just…” he paused, staring at me some more. “You look the same. The hair is different, but you look the same.” “I guess I’m not much different than I was in college.” I shrugged. “Still playing soccer…” “Yes! You went pro! Congrats!” “Thanks. You, too.” Caz shrugged. Going pro had been a forgone conclusion for Caz. After his senior season, he’d been drafted first-round.

“Do you know what you want to order?” The hostess was apparently also our waitress. She ignored me, staring at Caz, willing him to look up at her. I cleared my throat, “I’ll have the linguini with the pancetta.” She didn’t look at me as she wrote down my order. “That sounds great,” said Caz. “Two orders. And a bottle of the Chianti, please. Do you want an appetizer?” he asked me, his eyes were sparkling, and he didn’t wait for me to answer before saying to the waitress, “Can we get the calamari? It used to be her favorite.” He winked at me. He remembered my favorite appetizer? Was he kidding? I kept my cool. “That sounds nice.” It sounded wonderful. As the woman left to place our order, I was the sole focus of Caz’s attention. “So. Tell me what you’ve been doing? How long have you played for the Breakers?” I feel bad for anyone who’s never had Cassidy Wood’s sole focus. Caz is a machine. When he sets his mind on something, nothing stops him. And when you’re on the receiving end of his attention, it can be a heady thing. And hard to resist. I didn’t try to resist. I told him everything there was to tell: going pro, my sister’s wedding (he’d met her), the two invitations to national camp, only to fall short… When I told him that, he reached over and grabbed my hand up in his. His hand was warm, callused from weight lifting, and mine fit so neatly inside his. “You’ll make it this year. I know you will. You were always great when you put your mind to it.” His voice was low, seductive, and I leaned forward without thinking. His thumb brushed across the back of my hand, and he asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.” What happened to showing him what he missed? I was about ready to leap over the table and straddle him. The waitress chose that moment to reappear with the food. We had to let go of each other’s hands. When the waitress lingered, Caz looked up and give her a tight, “Thanks.” It was a dismissal, and the waitress looked disappointed before heading off. “Jay,” he said, picking up his fork and twirling it in his pasta. “I’m sorry. I know that was a prying question. It’s just… It just feels so good being with you again, just sitting here with you. It feels good, you know?” What did he want from me? This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I needed to be cooler, more distant. I needed to change the topic. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.” Caz was always a bit self-centered, so ask him about him, and he can talk for an hour. He’s smart, too, and he has opinions on everything. He spoke for a long while on union contracts in the NFL. We had a lively discussion about fair pay. I told him how much I made as a professional athlete, and he was appalled for me. “You’ve got to score an endorsement deal, then,” he said, as if it were that easy. He gave me a once over and beamed. “I bet you could sell anything. You could advertise toothpaste, and I’d run out to buy it.” “Thanks.” The check arrived, and Caz reached out to pay it, grabbing it before I could. “Let me get it, Jay,” he said. “No,” I shook my head. “We’ll split it. This isn’t a date.” “I’ll let you split it with me,” he said, holding the check out of my reach, “if you let me pay next time.” I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t sure there was going to be a next time. And I think he must have plucked the

thought from my head because he leaned over, intent. “Tell me you don’t feel the same way I do? Tell me this doesn’t feel good?” “I didn’t say that…” “Let me take you out again. We always had such a great time.” “I’ll think about it.” Caz smiled. His dimple reappeared. My heart melted. He reached across the table and plucked my credit card from my hand. When the waitress came back with the check, there was an extra piece of paper with her number on it. Caz ignored it. He might have been a jerk toward the end of our relationship, but I don’t think he ever cheated on me. His mother had cheated on his father, which had caused their nasty divorce. Caz vowed never to do that to someone else. We walked out into the night, and I walked to my car. I realized Caz was still beside me. I stopped by my front door and tried to open it, but Caz’s hand came down on top of mine. “Caz…” But that’s all I got out. His lips were on mine, his arms wrapped around me, pulling me close to his chest. Lightening shot through me, and wetness bloomed between my thighs. As if he sensed it, his lips pressed harder against mine, the kiss intensifying, and I kissed him back. His hand found its way into the back of my hair, pressed my mouth more firmly against his, and then his tongue pushed past my lips. The kiss went on and on as our tongues tangling. I was burning up from the inside, absolutely burning with need. I pressed up against him and felt the hard length of his cock straining against his jeans. We can’t do

this, I thought weakly. Not here. He sensed my withdrawal from the kiss because he withdrew too, and pressed his forehead against mine for a moment, as if to steady himself. Even in the dim light of the parking lot, I could see lust sparking in his eyes. “Goodnight,” I said to him, proud that my voice was firm. “No,” he disagreed. “But it will be, soon.”

5 CAZ

I

spent the entire ride back to my apartment thinking about Jamie. Fine. I spent the ride back thinking about sex with Jamie. Jamie was wild in bed. Small and muscular, she marathons sex like nobody’s business, and we’d gotten into pretty intense acrobatics… In the shower, I imagined Jamie’s mouth on my dick, and I came in thirty seconds. That night, I dreamed of Jamie. In my dream, she was on my college dorm room bed, wearing nothing but my letterman jacket. She spread her legs wide and crooked her finger at me. But when I stepped forward, I couldn’t quite reach her. The bed kept moving farther and farther away from me… and a submarine was firing off a missile… It was my phone. The blaring Red Alert ring tone meant that my agent was calling me. I blinked, checking my clock. It was only seven AM. What the fuck? “Hey,” I said, pressing the send button. “What is it?” “PR problem.” My agent didn’t sound happy, and I shook my head, trying to wake myself up. “What happened?”

“You were photographed last night, Caz. With someone who wasn’t Karissa.” It took a minute for his words to penetrate. Then I cursed. “Where is it posted?” “It’s hit a bunch of outlets. Pick your favorite.” I got up and went over to the computer, typed in the URL for Barstool Sports, and, sure enough, there was a grainy, dark picture of me in the corner of Louie’s holding some petite, dark-haired chick’s hand. Thank god, Jamie’s hair was in her face. She was impossible to identify. I let out a string of creative curses. “Care to tell me who that is?” my agent asked when I was finished. I wanted to tell him to mind his business, but my PR was his business. “A girl I used to date in college. I ran into her yesterday and took her out to dinner. We were just catching up.” “What do you want me to tell the press? Because I’ve gotten at least seven calls for comments since last night…” Last night? Oh jeez. If this went up last night, that meant that Karissa probably had a hold of it. As if thoughts had summoned her, someone began banging ferociously on my front door. “Hang on,” I said to my agent. “Someone’s at the door.” I got up, aware I was dressed in only a pair of boxers. As I opened the door, a flood of Spanish invectives poured into the hallway, loud enough to wake the neighbors. I hung up on my agent and tugged Karissa into my apartment, slamming the door shut behind her and taking a step back as she flew at me. “Bastard!” she said. She looked half-crazy. She had no makeup on and wore jeans, a designer sweatshirt, and a ball cap pulled low over her face. “How dare you make a fool of me?”

“We are not together anymore!” I said, bewildered. Holy crap. Had she flown in this morning from New York? What on earth… “Not together!” “We broke up,” I reminded her, and then I amended, “I broke up with you.” “Yah! Well no one told the press that! And now I look like a total fool!” She paced the foyer of my apartment. “You can’t just throw away two years of a relationship because you feel like it!” She was crying now, and not her usual dry sobs, but real, fat tears. They were streaming down her cheeks, and she looked furious and helpless. I felt like a total cad. “We had something, Caz. We had something great, and now all of a sudden, you’ve decided you’re sick of me…” “Karissa,” I said. I wasn’t going to be guilted into remaining in a shitty relationship. “You and I are not good together. We haven’t been happy for a while …” “The press is having a field day. I look pathetic! You’ve made me look pathetic.” “Fine!” I said, throwing my arms up. What did she want me to do? “I’ll call them right now and set it all straight. I’ll tell them you broke up with me…” I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but I wasn’t expecting what Karissa did next. She snapped her hand out, chopping at my wrist so hard that my phone flew out of my hands and crashed onto the ground. The screen cracked. “What the fuck!?” Now, I was yelling. “Don’t be stupid,” she said, her voice breaking. “Then I’ll look like a bitch! Your star is on the rise! You’ve got this fancy new contract, and I’m only walking in four fashion week shows! Now, I’m humiliated all over the

news.” She started to cry loudly and sat down atop one of the cardboard boxes. I felt terrible and helpless. She was really upset. “’Riss,” I said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “What do you want me to do?” She looked up at me then, her eyes rimmed red from tears. “You owe me this season,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “After all I’ve been through, you owe me time in the player’s box with Becca Barnes and all the other Angels she invites to watch the games. I’ve waited two years for you to make it big. You owe me the press.” I backed away from her. Unbelievable! She wanted to use me! Karissa got up and stalked after me. “This is good for you, too!” she insisted. “To be dating a model? To be constantly in the papers? Men want to be you, and women want to date you. You’ll put fans in the stands, Caz. If I’m in the box, it’ll look good for both of us.” I was shaking my head, but she continued. “I don’t care who you sleep with,” she said. “Sleep with whomever you want. I don’t care. But you owe me this season. At the end of the season, we can announce our breakup. It’ll be mutual – nobody gets hurt.” She sounded like my agent. His words rang in my ear. “You don’t want the negative attention before the season even begins. You have to think of your career. Get the outlets to focus on your football, not your love life!” I swore, and Karissa stopped speaking, staring at me, her eyes pleading. I swore again. They were both right. I had to focus on my career, which meant that now wasn’t the time to publically break up with Karissa. “Fine. But I’m not lying. The media hears nothing from me about us. And you don’t say anything either. I’m not confirming we’re together when we’re not. But I won’t

publically announce the split.” “You don’t have to,” said Karissa, looking relieved and a little smug. I stared at her. She was planning something. Part of me wanted to take back the promise I’d just made. But I knew I was overreacting. What would it hurt for people to think we were still together? I knew we weren’t. That was what mattered.

6 JAMIE

W

hen the phone buzzed next to me on my desk, I hoped it was Caz. I wanted him to call me and explain what the hell was going on. I’d seen the latest news outlets. I knew about the photo of us, and I’d read about the insinuations that he’d stepped out on his model girlfriend. But that wasn’t the worst part. And the worst part wasn’t googling photos of him and Karissa Kruise together. The worst part was… I grabbed at the phone. It was Fernanda. “Hey.” “Hey.” She sounded nervous. Fernanda had picked up the pieces after I’d dumped Caz the first time. I’d called her on my way home from the dinner, and she’d advised caution. “I know you still have feelings for him,” she said. “But what if he’s the same old, one-track minded Cassidy Woods who forgets about you because football is more important?” “Maybe he is the same. But what if I’m different?” I’d asked her. “What if I don’t need him hanging around and mooning over me anymore because I have my own life to live?”

“Maybe you’ve both changed,” Fernanda had allowed. “Or maybe neither of you has.” “Jamie,” Fernanda said, calling my attention back to the current conversation. “You okay?” I took a deep breath. “You saw the photo this morning?” “Which one? The one of you at the restaurant or the one of Karissa Kruise leaving his apartment this morning wearing a Patriots hat?” That had been the worst part. I was stuck between rage and a deep, deep sorrow. “I never pegged Caz for a cheater,” Fernanda said. “Me either,” I said. “I guess he has changed since college. Fernanda, he kissed me. Really kissed me.” “Some guys don’t consider that cheating,” she said. “Well I do.” Angry. I was definitely more angry than sad. “They asked him who I was. Did you read that? His agent said I was a friend from college.” “I guess it would have upset people if he were going out with the ex-girlfriend from college instead.” Fernanda. Always the pragmatist. “I was an idiot to go out to dinner with him.” And I was exhausted from all the emotional highs and lows of the last few hours. “You’re not an idiot,” Fernanda assured me. “You’re not done until you’re done. And you don’t sound done. You don’t sound like you’re over him. Sometimes it takes that second try to really get over someone.” “You’re right,” I said softly. “I don’t feel over it, and it feels bad.” Fernanda sighed on the other end of the phone. “You need to distract yourself. We’ve got practice tonight and tomorrow morning, and if you suck, Coach will start someone else.”

“Got it,” I said. “I’ll see you at practice.” “Hang in there, chica.” We hung up the phone.

Caz didn’t call me. He didn’t even text. And it’s really hard to get over something when it hasn’t been resolved. Part of me wanted to grab my phone and call him, demand an explanation. But my pride wouldn’t let me. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I was upset. But that also meant I was checking my phone every few minutes. It also meant I was a distracted mess at practice. Part of me hoped that Caz wasn’t texting me because he wanted to come clean in person, so I kept watching the sidelines and the box seats. I missed passes and lagged in the runs; even the coach checked in on me after my third failed corner kick. “What’s going on Anderson?” he’d demanded, frustrated. “You’re playing like a second-string high schooler!” After a terrible night’s sleep and a terrible Sunday practice, Fernanda dragged me out into Boston so that I wouldn’t be home checking the Sunday afternoon football scores. While we were out, I kept checking my phone until she took it from me. “If we didn’t have practice tomorrow morning, I’d take you and go dancing,” she said. “You need a distraction.” Instead, she took me out to dinner and didn’t drop me back off at my place until eight o’clock that evening. “Turn your phone off and get some sleep,” she told me. “Yes Mom,” I teased. But I was grateful for her intervention. It’s good to be distracted from your misery. And sometimes, you just have to make a decision. Tonight, I’d decided to put Cassidy Woods out of my

head. I felt better as I watched an Episode of Game of Thrones and settled into bed with a book. That was when my phone rang. Caz. His number blazed across the screen. I didn’t pick it up. He didn’t leave a message. But the appearance of his name had broken the spell. I picked up my phone and used it to check the Patriots and Dolphins score. 24 to 17. And Caz had caught a touchdown and run for 90 yards. A great game by all accounts. Every single New England sports news outlet was gushing about the Pats’ latest pickup. I got a terrible night’s sleep.

I awoke in the morning to a missed text message. Hey, LG. You see the game? Hope you’re good. Call me back. Fat chance. I was really angry now. And yet, it was his response that allowed me to finally put my phone away. Monday’s practice wasn’t as terrible as the other two hand been, and when I got home that night, I had two missed text messages, a missed call, and a voicemail. What time is practice tonight? Take you out after? Well, clearly not anymore. I didn’t need to listen to his voicemail.

7 CAZ

to see if Soccer Chick got back with you?” “C hecking Vic Ferguson slapped me on the back, nearly making me drop my phone. I was frustrated enough to glare at him. “Take it easy, Woods!” said Vic, backing up with his hands raised. He still had his pads on, and one of his hands had a helmet in it. “I ain’t gonna rib you, man. You just seem distracted.” I sighed and ran a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. I wasn’t used to having to chase after someone. But Jamie wasn’t texting me back. I hadn’t told Vic about Jamie, which meant Burke must have. Dick. “What is it?” asked Burke, rounding the corner wearing nothing but a towel around his hips. The man was absolutely huge. I wondered, absently, how much I’d have to bench to get that big. “She’s not texting you back?” “No,” I said. “I don’t blame her,” said Burke, whistling as he headed off to the shower. “Did you tell her you were still dating that model? If not, dick move, man. Dick move.”

Damn. That was it. Of course. Of course, Jamie would have seen those stupid articles about Karissa leaving my house. “Gotta fall on your sword, man,” Vic said. “What are you gonna do?” I knew what to do. Whenever we’d had exams, we used to stay in and study, and Jamie would order Asian takeout. She had her favorites: dumplings, sushi, and drunken noodles. I had to call a Thai place, a Japanese place, and a Chinese place to get all the food delivered. But when Breakers’ practice let out, I waited outside the locker room. Jamie was always quick to get ready, so I wasn’t surprised when she was the first one out. She’d showered, but she looked like she was heading home. She had on a pink crew-neck sweatshirt and a pair of leggings that revealed every single inch of muscle in her toned legs. Her hair was wet and slicked back off of her face. No makeup either. I don’t know why, but that got me going. She looked ready to curl up on a couch, and I wanted to climb on top of her. “Hey, Little Girl!” I called. “Jay.” She looked over and stopped walking. Oh man. If looks could kill. Jamie didn’t even look pissed, she just looked annoyed. Like I was a fly in her ear. “I don’t know if you got my messages…” I started, but she cut me off. “Caz. I don’t feel like talking to you right now. I’m tired and hungry.” She blew past me. “Hey!” I called, running to intercept her. “Jamie, come on. I know you’re pissed. Can we talk about it?” She glared at me, “No, Caz. There’s not much to talk about.”

“Jay, wait,” I said as she turned. I tried to grab her shoulder, but I was holding the takeout and ended up whacking her on the back with the Chinese food. She turned around again, livid. “Jay, I’m not seeing Karissa anymore. You know me. I’d never cheat on anyone. The whole thing is a big misunderstanding. Look,” I held up the three bags of takeout. “I got your favorites. I think I remembered right. Yellowtail sushi, drunken noodles, and pork dumplings.” Her eyes went wide a second, and for a moment, I thought she was going to turn and keep on walking, but she sighed and said, “You’re lucky I’m starving. What do you want to talk about?” “Come upstairs. There’s a players’ lounge and the team is gone. We’ll have it to ourselves. We can sit and eat a bit. I’ll explain myself.” She shrugged. It was dismissive, and I tried not to be offended. Remember, Caz, she thinks you were cheating. Why would she trust you? We walked upstairs in silence, and when we got to the lounge, Jamie chucked her bag onto one of the chairs and sat in one of the others. Fuck, she was cute. She had neat, classic features and big eyes. With her short hair, she looked like someone right out of an old movie. I set out the food, and once Jamie was eating, I started talking. “I broke up with Karissa a week ago. It was at least a few days before I saw your game. I know that’s a pretty quick turn-around, but things had been bad for a while.” “Yah, well, the press thinks you’re both still together.” Jamie put down her plate and crossed her arms. Shit. That gesture was familiar. Whenever Jamie got stubborn, I used to turn on the charm, get her out of her clothes,

and fuck her until she forgave me. But I didn’t think that tactic was going to work now. “We haven’t told the papers. My agent seems to think that a big break up will focus media attention away from my playing. Coaches don’t hire players based on how often they’re in the tabloids. I only have a one year option with the Pats this season. If I want them to pick me up after this season, I have to play good football, not bring unwanted attention.” “Sounds like you have your hands full with your ex and your contract. Why even bother with me right now?” Oh wow. She was really angry. Best to just be honest, then. “I had an amazing time with you the other night. It felt just as good as it used to feel. I could forget about you, I guess. Go back to playing my game.” I reached out and grabbed her hand. “But honestly, that doesn’t sound too good to me. If I’m being real honest, you and me sitting on a couch and eating takeout is pretty close to perfect.” Okay. I was lying with that one. There were a ton of things I’d rather be doing with Jamie than sitting on a couch and eating takeout. Bending Jamie over the couch. Getting Jamie to straddle me atop the couch…. I must have said the right thing, though, because Jamie physically relaxed, her shoulders down, and picked her food back up. “Okay,” she said. “Fine. You’re not seeing Karissa anymore. You’re single. I’m single. We’re eating takeout.” “Damn right.” “How was your game on Sunday?” I don’t know why, but finding out she hadn’t watched it ticked me off. But I pushed that aside and told her about my game. I asked her about her weekend, and she talked for a while. She got up off of the chair she was

sitting on and joined me on the couch. Though we weren’t touching, it felt better having her closer. “Hey,” she said suddenly. “How’s your mom; how’s your dad?” I paused mid bite. I had forgotten that she’d met them. I finished chewing and swallowed. “Mom’s all right,” I said, shrugging. “She remarried two years ago.” “Oh, wow!” said Jamie, “What’s this, her third?” “Fourth,” I said. “You met Ray?” that was her second husband. Jamie nodded. “She got married again, not long after that,” I said. “Guy named Hank. This latest one is Vincent. He’s okay. She likes him.” “What about your dad?” I don’t know how I must have looked, but Jamie reached over, picked my hand up, and gave it a squeeze. “Still a wreck,” I said. I love my old man, but he’s never been the same since my mom left him. “He’s working his same job, living in his same home. But he’s a zombie. Talking to him is depressing.” “I’m sorry,” said Jamie, and I could tell she was sorry. It floored me. Karissa had met my parents, too, and afterwards had told me she never wanted to meet either of them again. “Your mother’s crazy,” she’d said. “And your father is pathetic.” Both were true. But Jamie wasn’t judging at all. She was simply asking after them, and her sympathy felt real. “Nothing to be sorry about.” “Do you think your mother’s finally found love? Do you think this latest guy will last?” I tried to smile, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. “Is there really such a thing as love that lasts?” She was quiet a moment, but she stared into my eyes. She looked thoughtful and a little sad, and I

reached out and cupped the side of her face, needing that contact with her. “I never stopped loving you,” she said. It sounded offhanded. Like a response that someone throws out as a “for instance.” But I was speechless. Jamie Anderson had never stopped loving me? She’d broken my heart, standing in my dorm room, telling me I wasn’t enough for her. She’d broken my goddamn heart, and here she was, telling me she’d never stopped loving me. “Even that night when you told me it was over?” “Especially then,” she said. “That was the worst night of my life.” Silence stretched between us, but I couldn’t have spoken if I’d wanted to. My mind was flooded with “whatifs.” What if I hadn’t been such a jerk? What if I had told her I’d make her a priority? Hell, we’d be married now! “Come back to my place.” I said. I wanted her. I wanted her so badly it was painful. I wanted to fuck her senseless so she’d know how stupid we’d both been. I waited. I watched as she thought about it. I was sure she was going to say no. It was dumb of me to even ask. “Okay,” she said, finally.

8 JAMIE

T

he minute the words were out of my mouth, Caz had me flat on my back beneath him on the couch. His lips were hard against mine, his hands cradling my head. I kissed him back and arched up, pressing my crotch against his, and I felt his cock through his jeans: rock hard. Part of me wanted him right then and there. I rubbed myself against him. I wanted him here, now, and hard. He groaned low in his throat and pulled back. “Not here. My place.” We rushed out of the stadium. Caz pushed me up against his car, his kiss more of a tongue-fucking than anything romantic. “Get in the car,” he growled in my ear. I did as he said, burning with need. He started his Porsche and peeled out of the lot so fast he left tire marks. “Little Girl,” he said, his eyes on the road, shaking his head. “I’m going to give it to you so good.” “How good?” I asked, reaching over to slide my hand along his thigh. He hissed in through his teeth. “You remember the night of the Junior Ball? Where I

bent you over the foot of your bed?” Oh god. I was wet just thinking about it. “Get ready for a deep dicking.” I shuddered, and my hand moved to cup him through his jeans. The car swerved slightly. “Careful, LG. You’re playing with fire.” “I like it hot,” I murmured, flicking the button of his fly open. I needed him to want me as badly as I wanted him. I needed him to burn for me. He didn’t stop me as I pulled down the zipper of his fly. Didn’t stop me as I undid his boxer briefs and slid out his thick, long… damn, it was just as I remembered it. Nobody had a cock more perfect than Caz – it was part of what had made getting over him so hard. I bent down and placed my mouth over the sensitive tip. “Oh, fuck…” Caz started cursing, which meant I was doing a good job. I slid my tongue down the length of it and back up. “You’re going to get us killed.” His voice was terse, and I laughed. It vibrated up his shaft, making him groan. When I made as if to leave, his hand came down and tangled in my hair; his hips strained up against his seatbelt, filling my mouth. I hummed my appreciation, and he cursed again. “Goddamn. Your mouth. God, that mouth,” he was muttering. But he tugged my hair firmly, and I let him go, sat back, and buckled my seat belt. “Oh no, you don’t,” Caz murmured. “Take off your pants. Now.” “Now?” “Don’t make me ask twice, Little Girl.” His voice was all gravel. My body hummed in anticipation, and I peeled my leggings down. Caz swore low when he saw I wasn’t

wearing any underwear. “Oh, fuck yes. Turn this way. Open for me.” “I’m going to ruin your seats…” “Fuck the seats.” I spread my legs. Caz reached down, sliding his hand up the inside of my thigh, his fingers brushing against my molten core. “Damn, baby. You’re soaking,” he murmured. “Open more.” I did, and one finger sunk deep. I cried out as he slid another finger inside me. Caz’s thumb reached up to swipe at my clit. I cried out. “Oh, baby, the things I’m going to do to you,” Caz murmured. He withdrew his hand and gave the steering wheel a sharp turn, veering violently into a parking space. “Pants on. Let’s go.” I slid my leggings back on and then my shoes, and as I leapt from the SUV and closed the door behind me, I was instantly slammed up against it. Caz’s mouth came down hot over mine. He rocked against me, leaning down to insert a muscular thigh between my legs. I whimpered into his mouth. He grabbed my hand and tugged me into the apartment building. We didn’t wait for the elevator but took the stairs. Three times, he stopped climbing to push me against the wall and kiss me some more. Then we were out on the landing and inside his apartment. It was all boxes – he hadn’t unpacked yet, but thank god, there was a bed. Caz shut the door, and in a quick move, had my ass in his hands and was lifting me up against the door. His teeth grazed my ear and then bit hard. I moaned. I was burning up. All flame. All need. He whirled, strode into the bedroom, and tossed me onto the bed. He was on me before I could move. He spread my legs and drove his hips into mine hard; one hand slid up my shirt to palm my breast through my bra.

His mouth trapped my moans. With a growl of frustration, he took his hand away. “Off,” he said, getting up off me. “Get those clothes off. All of them. Now.” I didn’t make a dance of it. I stripped everything off and didn’t even have time to look at his face before he had me on the bed again, groaning as he kissed me. God, I could kiss Caz forever – but that wasn’t what I wanted. I yanked at his hair, and he laughed against my lips. “Oh, that’s how you want to play it, baby?” Next thing I knew, he’d tossed me higher up on the bed. His head went between my legs, and his mouth was on me. Oh Fuck! Oh my god. Caz took a long lick between my lips, his tongue swirling around my clit until I screamed. “Oh yah, baby. Scream for me,” Caz murmured against the inside of my thigh. His fingers filled me, his tongue swirled at my clit, and I realized I was begging him. He stopped suddenly and stood back, staring down at me, prone. “Don’t move,” he said, and in one move, he stripped off his shirt, revealing an incredible set of washboard abs, perfect pecs, and chiseled arms. His pants were next, and as he freed his erection, my mouth went dry. It was huge and imposing. I wanted it bad. He was back on me a moment later, kissing me, the hot head of his erection parting my lips and sliding through them to burn against my clit. I whimpered, wild with need, thrusting my hips up to meet his, to take me in. “Shhh, little girl. Let me handle this.” He reached down and grabbed my wrists in his hands. In one deft move, he flipped me so that I was face first on the quilts, my ass in the air. His hands ran across

the smooth, muscled globes, and two fingers dipped downward, finding my heat and filling me from behind. I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure I could take him this way. I hadn’t had sex in months, and Caz was huge. But I wanted him so badly. I strained against his grip my hips rising to meet his hand. “Greedy girl,” he murmured. His teeth scored the back of my neck and left lightning in their wake. Then he removed his hand and I felt it, the head of his cock, probing my entrance, coating itself in my slick wetness before pushing slowly, so slowly. Oh god, oh god. He was filling me inch by slow inch, so big I thought I was going to split in half, but my body accommodated him. When he was halfway in, he slid out again and then pressed in a bit further. Then out, slowly. Oh fuck. He slammed into me, sheathing himself to the hilt. I cried out at the sensation, electric, amazing. He murmured into my hair and shushed me. His hand reached under my hips to pull them a bit higher, and then he was moving: deep, powerful, slow strokes that shook me to my core. I was whimpering for purchase, arching beneath him. Over and over, he fucked me, and when I thought I couldn’t take any more of the vicious pounding, he stopped and flipped me onto my back. “God, Jamie,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. “Your body. How I’ve missed your body…” I reached for him, nearly crying. I was so close… He growled and came down on top of me, sliding back in with a vicious down-stroke, and I cried out, tilting my hips up so that he hit just the right spot. “Oh, Caz! I… Oh god, Caz!” His fingers bit into my hips, and I wrapped my legs around him. He filled up every single inch of me, hitting every nerve until I was nothing but sensation, my body screaming for release. I

was begging, keening, and his rhythm was picking up. Higher and higher he took me, deeper and harder… I saw stars and a world-rocking explosion that sent me shooting upward in a firework blaze of release. I felt him grow impossibly big inside me, and he let out a low groan, burying his face in the side of my neck. He unloaded, hot and violent, deep into my womb. “Jamie, Jamie,” he murmured my name into my hair, both of our bodies shaking with the last spasms of the most intense orgasm of my life. “Jamie,” Caz breathed. He stared down at me, his eyes wide with bewilderment. “Holy hell, Jamie, I think you killed me.” I couldn’t respond.

I spent the night wrapped up in Caz’s arms, held close to his chest. In the morning, we woke up early and got dressed. Caz had to make it to practice, and I’d left my car at Gillette. We grabbed bagels and coffee at Dunkin Donuts. I was a bit put out when Caz wore his hat low over his face so he wouldn’t be recognized. But it was hard to feel anything other than amazing. Last night had been so incredible. I was sorer than I’d been in… hell, since the last time we’d done something like that. We got back in the car. I ate my bagel and tried to talk to him. It wasn’t until I asked him about his practice, and he didn’t respond, that I realized he wasn’t listening to me. I looked over at him and said his name again. “Hmm?” he said, not taking his eyes off the road. When we got to Gillette, Caz got out of the car and

went around to his trunk to grab his gear bag. Juggling my coffee and my keys, I went to say goodbye to him, but he was already striding off toward the stadium. Not even a backward glance in my direction. I stood there a moment, not sure how to react. I knew what this was. It was so familiar, had happened so many times in college. Caz had flipped the switch. Last night, he’d been mine. Today, he belonged to the Patriots. I headed toward my car, trying to snap out of the funk I felt coming on. You knew this would happen, Jamie. Fernanda was right. The only way this is going to work is if one of you has changed. It was clear from last night in bed, and this morning at the stadium, that Caz hadn’t changed a bit. Had I? Maybe I hadn’t – but I knew two things: 1) I wanted to keep Caz. 2) I needed to finish this season strong. So I was going to need to learn how to compartmentalize.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if it was the mind-blowing sex last night or because it had been followed by such a terrible morning, but I felt different. I didn’t have trouble that afternoon at practice. In fact, I was amazing. Incredible even. Coach was beaming at me the whole time, and even Noemi came up and high fived me after a phenomenal corner kick. “Get ‘em, girl,” Fernanda said to me as we headed into the locker room after practice. “Or did you already get some?” She laughed and winked at me, and I smiled at her – but I couldn’t wink back. Not when I didn’t know where things stood with Caz. As if thinking of him had summoned him, my phone

buzzed. Hey, sexy. I want you back in my bed. But busy tonight. How’s Thurs? I was travelling to Portland on Thursday for a game on Friday. No problem. Come to NOLA on Sat for Sun game? Pool, food, hotels? Hot sex? I’ll get you a ticket? I blinked at the text, trying to decode Caz’s shorthand. They were playing the Saints on Sunday. Caz was inviting me to New Orleans for the game and was offering to get me a ticket from Portland. Yes. I’ll email you my info.

9 CAZ

Argozzi is out for the season,” Vic said, tossing “I hear back the last of his Miller Lite before signaling the bartender for another. “So that’s one less lineman to worry about tomorrow.” “I’m not worried.” Burke eyed the fresh beer the bartender set down. “But that’s the last beer you’re having before the game tomorrow. Are you serious right now?” “It’s a Lite goddamn beer,” muttered Vic. “I don’t see you giving Caz a hard time.” “Don’t bring me into this,” I said. “I’ve been nursing this damn thing for a half hour.” I waved my Sam Adams at the two of them. Burke smirked. “Any word on when your lady is arriving?” “After the conference, I think.” I checked my Rolex. Jamie’s plane was set to land at about 4 pm, and the conference started just after 3:30. I had a feeling she’d arrive right as things finished. “Fuck me,” murmured Vic. “Please.” Burke looked to where Vic was looking and said

quietly, “Uh oh.” Interested, I looked as well. “Shit,” I muttered. Karissa strode past the entrance to the hotel bar, sauntering up to us like a cat that had spotted prey. I had to agree with Vic. She looked hot. New Orleans is humid, even in October, and Karissa was dressed for the weather, wearing short, black shorts, red Louboutins, and a billowy, red silk blouse. Her hair tumbled in thick waves down her back. She looked camera ready. I eyed the blousy top. Not her usual style. She usually wore her clothes skin tight. “Hey baby,” she said, slinging her arm around my shoulder and planting a slow kiss right along the ridge of my cheekbone. Shit. What the fuck was she doing here? She hadn’t said anything to me about showing up in New Orleans, and if she had, I either would have told her no or not invited Jamie. Fuck. “Caz, boy, you better introduce me,” said Vic, biting his lip at Karissa and murmuring, “damn girl,” beneath his breath. Karissa preened at the attention, and I made the introductions and then excused us. Pulling Karissa to the side, I said angrily, “What the fuck are you doing here?” “Press,” Karissa said succinctly. “You played so well last game. It’s all anyone’s talking about right now. All eyes are on you this weekend, which means all eyes will be on me.” Her eyes dared me to contradict her. I didn’t have the energy for this. “Just stay out of the way,” I said. “You don’t talk to anyone. People can speculate all they want, but we’re not lying.” Karissa smiled and reached up, patting my cheek. “I know,” she said, and sauntered away, laughing. I pulled my phone out and texted Jamie. K is here. Use back

entrance. I’ll send someone to show you to the room.

Not everyone does the press conference. The fact that I was included in the list was a pretty big deal. I followed Dash Barnes, Burke, the coach, and Clay Aarons, the Pats’ special team captain, up to the table that had been set up in one of the hotel conference rooms. As we entered the room, the cameras went off, and I tried to keep my expression neutral. But fuck, was I tense. Press conferences usually made me a bit anxious, but the added stress of having Karissa and Jamie in the same place… As if my thoughts had summoned her, Karissa appeared out of the crowd of reporters. As Coach and Dash went about shaking hands with some of the press, Karissa sidled up to me, touched the side of my face, and kissed my temple before darting toward the side of the room. The cameras caught the whole thing. As the interviews got underway – most of the questions (thank god!) were directed toward Coach and Dash. Occasionally, I got to chime in, but mostly, I was just there to look good. At one point, Burke nudged my thigh with his, and when I looked up, he was looking toward the edge of the crowd. Karissa. She was visible in her bright red top, and she alternated between beaming up at the table, patting her stomach, and staring down at her hand with this strange, sappy smile. Fuck, fuck, oh fuck!!! For a moment I panicked, my mind launching back to remember when we’d last slept together. I took a deep breath. I knew she wasn’t pregnant. I knew it. She was

on the pill, and we hadn’t had sex in at least a month. But the press didn’t know that, and the more she rubbed her stomach and gazed longingly up at me, the more people began to notice. I saw a few cameras turn her way and start clicking. “I’ll let Caz handle that one. Caz?” Burke kneed me again, and I realized that Coach had just shot a question in my direction. I stared blankly at a reporter below, who looked up at me expectedly. “Sorry,” I said. “Could you repeat that?” “No problem, Caz,” said the reporter familiarly. “I can see you’re distracted.” The room laughed a little bit. Shit. They’d noticed that I’d been watching Karissa. “Can I ask you about that distraction?” the reporter said, glancing over at Karissa. “How are things going between you and Ms. Kruise?” Fuck. How to answer that. “Fine,” I said dumbly. I was blanking hard. “Yes, they look fine,” the reporter said. More laughter. “Are congratulations in order?” he continued. I stared at him. And he stared back at me. I knew I had to say something. “Uh. I’m just here to focus on the game.” I sounded brainless, but there was nothing else I could say because I could see her in the back of the room by the door. She looked so damn cute in a blue, strapless dress and heels that showed off her muscled calves – Jamie. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking over at Karissa, at all the cameras pointed at Karissa. And there was Karissa, her hand on her stomach, beaming at me. I looked back just in time to watch the door close. Jamie was gone.

10 JAMIE

W

hen I broke up with Caz that first time in college, I’d cried and cried. I’d cried on and off for a month. Whenever a song came on the radio, I cried. Now? I felt nothing. I felt tired, and blank, and just… disappointed. After watching Karissa very openly signal to the world that she was pregnant with Caz’s baby, I had gotten out of there fast. I’d grabbed my suitcase from the porter, called an Uber, bought a plane ticket, and was seated in a middle seat on my way back to Boston before I could even think about whether or not I’d made the right move. Caz hadn’t lied to me. From the look on his face in that press conference, I doubted that he’d known Karissa was pregnant, but it wasn’t her pregnancy that upset me. It was the text message telling me to go to the back of the hotel – to not let anyone know we were together. It was listening to the reporters ask him questions about his relationship, about Karissa, and he hadn’t denied anything. And I’d known – I’d known – that he wasn’t planning on announcing their split publically. Perhaps I hadn’t

changed as much as I’d hoped I had. Perhaps I still wanted more from Caz then he’d ever be willing to give me. “How are you feeling?” asked Fernanda the next morning, when speculation about Karissa and Caz had made it into the mainstream news cycle. “Dead,” I said. “Emotionally dead. Which is maybe better than devastated.” “Maybe,” said Fernanda, unsure. “Come over tonight,” I said. “I can’t let this bullshit with Caz mess up my game. Come over tonight and watch the Patriots play the Saints on TV with me. I need to face this shit down. I need to watch him have his perfect game so I know, once and for all, that I’ve made the right call.” Fernanda came over with a bottle of wine and a tin of caramel popcorn. We uncorked it, sat down on my couch, and settled in to watch the Pats clobber the Saints. Three hours later, we were dumbstruck. “What now?” asked Fernanda when I finally summoned the presence of mind to turn off the television. The Patriots had won – but just barely, and no thanks to Caz. He’d been terrible. He’d dropped at least four of Dash Barnes’ perfectly placed passes, and the one that he’d caught, he’d barely carried the ball for a yard before he’d gotten tackled. “Now?” I said. “Now, I forget about him. I’m not going to let myself, for one minute, believe that he was distracted on that field because of me.” The commentators had speculated that he might be distracted due to Karissa. Every time Caz had dropped the ball, the camera had panned to the player’s box where Karissa Kruise, in leggings and a loose green blouse, was chatting with Rebecca Barnes.

“Do you even want to check his messages and see what he’s said?” I shook my head. After the third text message demanding I pick up his calls, I’d blocked his number. “I don’t have to think about him again,” I said. “We’ve got a game on Friday to prepare for, and we’re back in our home stadium. He won’t be a problem. I’m not going to let him ruin my chances at National Camp.” Some things are more important. Fernanda placed her hand on my knee. “I’m proud of you for being so strong, Jamie,” she said. “You were the one who told me, ‘You’re not done until you’re done.’ Well, I’m done,” I said. “And it feels good.”

11 CAZ

T

he last time I was this miserable was when my parents had split up. There had been something so incredibly final about their parting. I knew that I was never going to get my family back again, and that the person I’d been before the divorce was not the person I’d be after. Losing Jamie this time around felt even worse than that. Once the press conference had let out, I’d left immediately. I didn’t want anyone asking me about Karissa. I wanted to find Jamie and… and do what? Explain what? I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter anyway. Jamie had left. I tried calling and texting her, but after a while, the phone had just gone to voicemail, signaling that she’d blocked my calls. Fuck if I was going to go stalking her. But this shit was bad. I’d never allowed a girl to get in the way of my game before – but I’d played terribly on Sunday. Nobody had said anything to me, but I knew the drill. When we got back to practice to watch film from the game, I was going to get roasted. I’d be lucky if Barnes trusted me with a pass any time in the near future.

“Dude. You okay?” Burke jogged up to where I was pacing the bleachers. “I’m fine,” I said. I was so not fine. I’d heard stories about what it felt like to be ripped apart by Coach – they hadn’t even come close to the truth. I’d gotten ass-reamed. Hard. “Yah. You look fine,” said Burke, staring down at me skeptically. “Come on. No use pacing around here. Let me buy you a beer.” “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. The Breakers had practice this evening, and I had every intention of catching Jamie before then. Burke watched me in silence a moment before he said, “If you’re pacing just to blow off steam, cool. But if you’re waiting around for the Breakers, they’re back at their home stadium.” Fuck. I collapsed onto one of the seats. Burke moved to tower over me. “Come on. You need a drink. I’ll buy you one.” We went to a bar where Burke knew the owner, and we got placed in a back booth where no one would bother us. “So, let me guess,” said Burke thoughtfully. “Karissa Kruise is pregnant with your kid, and Jamie Anderson won’t talk to you.” I laughed bitterly. “If Karissa Kruise is pregnant, which I highly doubt she is, it’s not mine.” The waiter came, and I ordered a scotch. Burke raised his brows but said nothing. “She’s a fame-whore,” I continued once the waiter was out of ear shot. “Ah,” said Burke. “So, what’s going on then that’s got

you playing like shit? Clearly, you and Anderson are on the outs. What’s it over?” “Fuck if I know!” I said, frustrated at the whole situation. “I didn’t lie to her. She knew the deal between me and Karissa…” “What is the deal between you and Karissa?” Burke interrupted. I told him. And when I was done, he was staring at me as if I was the biggest moron on the planet. “You’re the biggest moron on the planet.” Ah. There it was. I tipped my entire scotch back in one swallow and waved at the waiter to bring me another. “Do you like the soccer player?” “Jamie?” “No, the other soccer player you’re banging. What an asshole.” Burke looked annoyed. “Listen. I was raised with sisters, so maybe I have a leg up on an only child like you – but dude. Seriously. Put yourself in her cleats for a moment. Let’s say Jamie’s up there at that press conference, and I’m standing there, telling everyone who’ll listen that we’ve fucked and that she’s pregnant with my kid. And you’re standing in the back of the room, watching the whole thing. And Jamie’s not denying shit. So then, everybody thinks that Jamie and I are not only boning, but we’re going to have a kid together.” I had a sudden, unwelcome image of Jamie straddled atop Burke Tyler and saw red. “Exactly.” Burke reached across the table to whack me lightly on the forehead. “Idiot. You want that girl back? You’re going to have to open up about Karissa. And who gives a shit if the media attention takes away from your playing. Your game’s already fucked to hell as it is.” I took a deep breath, and the waiter delivered another glass of scotch. “Listen,” said Burke, sounding calmer. “Do you want a

future with Jamie Anderson?” “Yes,” I said. I wanted a future with Jamie. I wanted Jamie in the player’s box, Jamie at the press conferences, and Jamie in my bed, beneath me. “Then get rid of Karissa Kruise.”

12 JAMIE

W

hen the phone rang again, I was afraid to look and see who it was. But Fernanda’s name popped up on the screen, and I picked up the phone, relieved. “Oh my god,” I said by way of greeting. “Fernanda, where are you?” “I’m on my way over,” she said. “I’ll park on the street behind your building. You can exit the back and meet me in the lot next door.” “You’re a life saver.” “How many reporters are there?” I got up and went over to the window to peer between the blinds. “I think only two now. And the reporters are gone. It’s just the photographers. I think they’re waiting to either follow me or see if Caz is going to come here.” “You should talk to one of the news outlets, maybe. Tell them there’s nothing going on between you and Caz…” I didn’t have an agent to handle these things. I wouldn’t even know who to talk to. I had asked Noemi, who had an agent, and she’d texted back: I wouldn’t say anything. There’s no need to respond. So I was keeping

quiet. Caz had posted a picture of me on his Instagram account that Wednesday – it was an action shot from a game two years ago. Beneath it, he’d captioned: Boston Breakers, Jamie Anderson #womancrushwednesday. I’d gotten a few calls then, but I think most people had just assumed Caz was a soccer fan. On Thursday, however, there was a photo of Karissa Kruise at the Taj with none other than Pats’ safety Vic Ferguson. I’d come home from practice Thursday night, and there were reporters and photographers camped out on my doorstep. Whatever Caz was up to, I didn’t care anymore. I’d had a great last few days at practice, and if I played well in tonight’s game, I’d get an invitation to National Camp for certain. It was time to keep my head in the game. For the first time, I think I understood Caz a bit better. It’s easy to let the outside world distract you. It takes discipline to push it all aside. Or, barring discipline, it takes heartbreak. You have to reach the end of your rope to really find out what’s important. Is love important? Absolutely. But love is a two-way street. At the end of the day, you’ve got to rely on yourself. You can’t let yourself down. I was beginning to understand that. “You all right?” asked Fernanda as I jumped into her car. “Blast the music,” I told her. “I need to stay focused.” • - At the game, there were more reporters than usual, and security was keeping them away from the player’s parking lot. Coach met us at the door. “Anderson,” he barked as we neared. “What the fuck is going on? The press office has been fielding calls all day.”

“I don’t know, Coach,” I said honestly. I hadn’t let myself think about it. “I’m not paying attention to it. I’m here to play.” Coach eyed me, assessing the truth. He knew me, knew that when I was distracted, I played like shit. I could see him weighing his options. I spoke up. “Really,” I said. “It’s not a problem. I’m ready to kick ass. You just need to put me out there.” Coach nodded curtly. “Fine. Get going.” I got dressed in silence, visualizing corner kicks, decoy runs, and dummies. “Jamie,” said Fernanda as we lined up to take the field. “I’m not trying to distract you, but do you think that the Instagram photo, the breakup with Karissa – do you think he’s trying to get you back?” I shrugged. It wasn’t important. The game was phenomenal, and I was on fire the first half. But the score was tight. Not everyone was on their game, and at four minutes left of play, the score was tied 4 to 4. Noemi took a shot on the goal, but it was ultimately blocked by Red Stars’ winger, Ella Tierney. Coach called me over to take the corner kick. Breathing deeply, I lasered in on the goal. This is what I’d been practicing for. If I could get this angle right, Noemi could head it in. If I could bend it perfectly, I’d score the goal myself. I set the ball down. I’d never been so focused in my life as I was in this moment. I took a step back, two, three, and then let fly. My whole being went into that kick, and when my foot connected, I didn’t even have to look. It bent perfectly, sailing past the Red Star defense, past the goalie, and into the net. The stands erupted; I erupted. My teammates and my coach rushed the field. Everyone was running, screaming

– I was screaming the loudest. I’d done it. I’d kept my head on straight; I’d focused on my game and on not letting my team down. And we’d won. It took a while for us to calm down, to go over and congratulate the Red Stars on a game well played. I was still beaming ear to ear as we headed back to the locker room. And I wasn’t the only one. Standing just out of view of the cameras, over by the doors to the locker rooms, was a tall, incredibly sexy man in jeans and a neon yellow Boston Breakers’ t-shirt. His dark hair was trimmed close at the sides and swept off of his face at the top. His dark blue eyes were sparkling with excitement and something else, something much more carnal. Caz. I swallowed. Being over him was great in theory, and seemed easy when he wasn’t present, when I could push him out of my mind and not think about him. But as he stood there, wearing that stupid yellow t-shirt and smiling that million-dollar smile, I wanted to run to him. I wanted to fling my arms around him and kiss him until neither of us could breathe. I wanted to… apologize. I really wanted to apologize for not understanding him better in college. I got it now. “Hey, Caz,” I said, walking up to him. But he held out his hand, asking for my silence. “Jamie,” he said. “Jamie, I’m so sorry…” “No, Caz, I’m…” “Let me finish, Jay.” He reached and gripped my hands in his. “I never told you, though I hoped you knew: I was so in love with you in college. And when you broke up with me, I pushed all of it away. I tried to forget it, and I succeeded for a while. But I never stopped loving you either. And I’m sorry I couldn’t handle you and football. I think I was afraid of what love did to my dad. It just ruined him. And it was easier to push you away and blame it on

football.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a… “Fuck.” I said it out loud. I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he had a ring. I took a step back, but he held my hand in his and pulled me closer. “I’m not proposing, Jay. It’s okay,” he said, laughing a little. “But I wanted you to know that I bought this for you in college. I was really drunk – and all the inhibitions were gone. And I knew I wanted the rest of my life with you. All the other bullshit that I let get in the way of that…” He swore under his breath. “I’ve got to learn to face my fears, Jay. And I’ve got to work on being a little less selfish, I know.” He turned my palm over and placed the ring in the center of it. It was small – and the diamond on it was tiny – but he’d bought it for me six years ago, and he still had it. “I want to be with you, Jamie Anderson. I promise, when I propose, the diamond’s gonna be huge. But that ring is what I was going to give you, and it’s my promise that I’m going to do my best to make us work. It’s not going to be perfect, but I’m going to do my best.” I didn’t realize I was crying until he reached out to brush one of the tears away. “I wanted to tell you that I was sorry, too. Not about the Karissa thing,” I clarified, shakily. “That was just dumb…” “She’s not pregnant. She never was.” What a bitch! “Forget her,” I said. “I should have been more understanding. I get it now. I get the importance of focusing on your future. If you can be a bit better about not shutting me out, I can be better at being a lot more understanding when you do.” “So, you’ll wear that?” he asked. I stared down at the ring, a symbol of all we could

have been and all we could be soon, and I slid it on my finger. I was in Caz’s arms in a second, my feet dangling above the grass as he kissed and kissed and kissed me. “Fuck, baby,” he growled, low and gravelly in my ear. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a big problem I need you to tackle.”

KICK OFF

BAD BALLERS - BOOK 1 PREVIEW

1

SARAH

soy latte, one pump sugar-free vanilla, “G rande brewed extra hot? For Yvette?” The Barista standing behind the enormous espresso machine eyed the crowd in front of him, looking to see who had ordered the obnoxious drink. “Here!” I called, politely pushing past the 10 a.m. crush of college students and freelancers. When polite didn’t work, I started to use my elbows. “Thanks,” I said, reaching for the coffee. The Barista handed it to me, giving me a small, judging smile. It’s not for me! I wanted to say, but why bother. To be honest, I was slightly affronted. I definitely don’t look like someone named Yvette. Pushing back through the crowd, I burst on to Boylston Street with my phone out, fingers working quickly to order an Uber. Boston isn’t like New York – it’s actually incredibly walkable, and I could have hoofed it if I’d had the time. But when you’re the assistant of a tireless, jet-setting, workaholic Supermodel, time isn’t something you have much of. When a black Honda Accord pulled up in front of me,

I hopped in. “Where to?” asked the driver, a dark-skinned young man with an interesting accent. “The South End,” I said and sat back, slightly breathless. My boss had her offices and apartment in the swanky SOWA district. Yvette is one of the rare models who manages herself and isn’t beholden to the schedules of an agent. She’s got a great social media presence, a brilliant mind for marketing, and is in enough demand that most designers will travel from New York to visit her. She has an apartment in New York, and she’s sometimes there – but mostly she stays in Boston. “C’est plus European,” she tells everyone. It’s more European. Yvette and I had both been up before 6 a.m. this morning because she’d had a meeting with Fianacci, a high-end designer who worked out of his flagship store on Newbury Street. After about twenty minutes, it was clear she didn’t need me, so she’d sent me to run a few errands. I’d picked up her juices for the week, made phone calls to schedule an interview and a few more meetings, as well as visited the bank to deposit a few of her checks. Yvette’s schedule had her back at her apartment for a 10:30 meeting – right around the time she’d be looking for her second coffee. Yes. I fetch coffee, and while I’m not the biggest fan of being someone’s bitch, I’m very good at it, and Yvette pays very well. When I had started working for her, just under three years ago, the goal had been to make enough money to pay for law school. I’d waited tables all the way through undergrad, and when a friend – who’d known I spoke French – had hooked me up with Yvette, she had just moved to Boston and her career had just been starting to take off. The Uber pulled up in front of Yvette’s apartment building, and I got out, juggling the Whole Foods bags

and the coffee. “Thanks!” I called to the driver, shutting the door. The building Yvette lived in was a relatively new construction. Like much of the new construction in the South End, they’d taken an old warehouse and repurposed it. Architects had kept the building’s old brick façade and had bolstered it with concrete and steel beams – it looked industrial-chic. I didn’t have to fumble opening the door. Yvette has a doorman who recognizes me, and he rushed up to let me in. “Ms. Forte,” he said, politely. “Salut Phillipe,” I said. This was the concierge that Yvette liked. He was middle aged, Haitian, and could understand most of her Parisian French. “Ms. Delacroix has a visitor,” said Phillipe, walking with me toward the elevators. “You’d mentioned someone visiting. I have a note in our guest log, but neither of you were here, and so he’s waiting in the upstairs lobby.” “You mean Yvette isn’t back yet?” It wasn’t like Yvette to be late to meetings. It was part of what enabled her to be successful without an agency. She took her work very seriously. “No,” said Phillipe “Not yet.” “Okay. No problem.” I tried to remember with whom Yvette was meeting. The details were on my phone, but my phone was in my back pocket, and my hands were full. The elevator dinged, and Phillipe entered it with me, hitting the eighth floor button, then stepping out. “Have a good one, Sarah,” he said. No way was I having a good one today. I had a sneaking suspicion that the day was about to be shot. Yvette was only ever late if something personal came up.

It wouldn’t be her family. Her father was the CEO of Axique, and her mother was a famous fashion model in her own right. They were incredibly busy and rarely dropped in to see their daughter unannounced. That meant that something had come up with Luis. Luis was Yvette’s on-again-off-again boyfriend and a superstar striker for Real Madrid. They’d been blissfully off for the last two months, but my experience with Yvette told me that missed meetings signaled trouble, and trouble meant Luis. As the elevators opened, I stepped off and looked around the spotless chrome-and-red-velvet foyer. The eighth floor belonged entirely to Yvette. The two apartments on the top were separated by a small foyer with two red velvet chairs and a low, red-velvet couch. I stifled a gasp. Seated on the red-velvet couch, taking up most of it with his incredible bulk, was Burke Tyler. Burke. Freaking. Tyler. I knew for a fact that I hadn’t written Burke Tyler’s name anywhere in Yvette’s schedule. I’d have remembered. Burke Tyler was the franchise tight end for the New England Patriots, and as a life-long Pats fan, I knew exactly who he was. My mind raced back to the schedule. What had I written down? Wait, no. I hadn’t written down anything. Yvette had put this event into the schedule. Meeting with Becca’s friend. If Becca’s friend was Burke Tyler, then Becca must be Becca Barnes – the Victoria Secret model who was married to Dash Barnes, the Patriots’ quarterback. Holy crap. Yvette was supposed to have a meeting with Burke Tyler. And she hadn’t shown. I realized that I was staring at Burke and that he was staring at me, confused. “Hi,” I said quickly. I went right

into assistant mode. “I’m Sarah, Yvette’s assistant. She’s running a little late from her last meeting but will be here shortly, I’m sure! Why don’t you come in, and I can get you something to drink while you wait?” Burke rose from the couch. My God, he was big and mouthwateringly gorgeous – if you’re into six-foot-seven, heavily muscled Vikings. And who wasn’t? It was difficult not to stare. Burke wore a pair of expensive-looking jeans and a black t-shirt that hugged ever single muscle in his torso. Because the sleeves were short, a good deal of his tattoo was showing. I’d seen the ESPN body issue – they’d given their readers an up-close and personal look at Burke Tyler. The tattoo was a huge tree that took up most of his bicep and shoulder. Ravens flew up his forearm and were clearly visible now. “Can I hold something for you?” he asked, looking amused as I struggled to fish the keys from out of my pocket. I blinked at him. Amused? That didn’t quite fit with the persona I was familiar with. Burke Tyler was a dumb-as-a-rock party boy, known for his unique look (his hair was shaved at the sides and braided into a fishtailed Mohawk), fearless playing, and hysterically stupid offfield interviews. “Oh, no,” I said. That wasn’t his job. “I’ve got it…” but I nearly upended the coffee. Suddenly, Burke was right before me, taking the paper grocery bags out of my hand. God, he was huge. He was at least a full foot taller than I was. And while he looked entirely approachable on TV – in person, there was something even larger and slightly more forbidding about him. He looked immaculate. Not a hair was out of place, his jaw was clean shaven, and he had a cleft in his chin. Striking, iceblue eyes penetrated mine. “Thanks,” I finished weakly, managing to extricate the

keys from my pocket and open the door. He followed me into the office. Yvette was a minimalist, so her office had the same industrial chic design as the building. Her tables and chairs were all metal tones, and anything upholstered was luxurious, velvet, and dark red. “Have a seat!” I said to Burke, thinking that he was probably a bit too big for the small chairs in front of my desk. There was a chaise lounge in the corner, the wine-dark velvet offset by ivory pillows. Burke Tyler sat gingerly on the end of the chaise, looking entirely out of place. I decided to try to act normal (instead of star struck) and went about my usual routine, putting Yvette’s juices in the fridge, checking the messages, and answering emails. I stared at her coffee, wondering if it would still be hot by the time she got here. “Yvette is rarely late,” I said, thinking out loud. “I’ll call her and see if she’s on her way.” “Thank you,” said Burke. His voice was deep and rumbling from his chest. I watched him out of the corner of my eye while he observed her apartment. His gaze was keen and interested, landing on the art and sweeping around the desk as if trying to figure out the room’s secrets. Wow. This was definitely not the Burke Tyler one usually saw on TV. TV Burke was just as handsome and just as impressive, but he was a bit wilder. In fact, it was a part of his brand, and he did a damn good job branding himself. Everyone in Boston knew who he was, and he was a national figure as well. He was the spokesman for Dudley’s Coffee, Puma, and a whole host of local businesses. He was constantly in the society pages: behind a DJ booth at a local club or hosting a party at a hotel with a hot blond on each arm.

He came across on TV as a bit of a meathead. But now, in person, he seemed intense and impatient, his presence taking up the entire room. “Do you and Yvette know each other?” I asked, trying to make small talk as I dialed her cell. It rang and rang. Yvette didn’t pick up. “No. We’ve never met before,” he said. “Can I get you something to drink?” Wow, was I nervous or what? “I’m fine, thanks.” Silence. Well, this was going to be awkward. “Are you here on behalf of a designer?” I asked. Oh, good one, Sarah; pretend you don’t know who he is. I’m such an idiot sometimes. But Yvette hated it when people recognize her and talk to her as if they “know” her. Maybe Burke was the same way. Burke blinked at me, and then his shoulders relaxed. Ah, so I was right. “No. I’m here socially. She’s friends with Becca Barnes. I tried to get Becca to give me Yvette’s number, but Becca said Yvette didn’t give out her number. So she called in a favor and scheduled me a meeting.” “Oh,” I said. Wow. Burke Tyler wanted to meet Yvette. For what? “A date at 10:30 in the morning?” Oh shit! I hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud. Burke looked uncomfortable. “Apparently, this was the only spot in her schedule she could meet.” “She’s pretty busy,” I allowed. “We just got back from New York, and there’s a lot to catch up on.” “I’ll bet.” I got up and went over to make a coffee (even though the last thing I needed was more caffeine). But staying busy is an old bartender’s trick – looking like you’re doing something puts the customer at ease. I don’t know why I

thought that I needed to put Burke at ease, but he looked anxious. Yvette kept an espresso machine in the corner, and I set it up to make a cappuccino. “I’m having a coffee,” I said. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?” “Actually, that looks good,” said Burke, eyeing my cappuccino. I tried to hand it to him, but he waved me off. “You have that one. I’ll get the next one.” I started making his coffee. “So, what do you do?” I asked. In for a penny, in for a pound. Apparently, I was going to continue pretending I had no idea who he was. “Are you a model also?” “Me?” he blinked. “No. I play professional sports.” “Oh. Cool,” I said. “I played sports in college.” “What’d you play?” “Lacrosse.” “Rough game.” “What do you play?” “Football.” “Well, that’s even rougher, isn’t it?” I asked. Burke smiled at me, and it was so startlingly sexy that I nearly dropped the cappuccino in his lap. “So,” he said, sipping the coffee. “You do know football.” Busted. I did the only thing I could think of to do: I smiled and winked. “Yah, I know who you are.” Oh God, I’m flirting! That startled a loud laugh from him. “But you were going to pretend you didn’t?” I shrugged. “You seemed tense.” “Good call,” he said. “I was tense. I am tense. I’m into your boss. She’s drop dead gorgeous. Been looking forward to meeting her for a while.” He was incredibly candid, and damn if I didn’t feel just

a bit disappointed. Well, come on, Sarah, Jeez. Like Burke Tyler was here to see you? “Do you usually date models?” I asked. In fact, Burke Tyler’s dating history wasn’t all that well known. He’d been photographed all over the place with attractivelooking women, but he never seemed to be dating any of them. “Usually?” He looked at me as if I were growing another head. I realized that I was prying and being rude. “Do you?” he shot back. “Er. No.” I felt effectively put in my place and blew on my coffee for lack of anything better to do. “But then again, I’m not a football star…” “But you hang around a lot of models, right?” “Not when I can help it.” He grinned at me. “What’s wrong with models?” I sighed inwardly. Maybe he was as stupid as he appeared in his press conferences. “Nothing. They’re just like any other normal person.” Heavy sarcasm. There was nothing all that wrong with models. Some were smart and interesting; some were absolutely useless. But in my time shadowing Yvette, I’d also come to understand that it took a very particular type of person to become a model. Models walked a fine line between self confidence and self-esteem problems. Most models I knew needed constant validation. “Ahh,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. The small cup looked ridiculous in his huge hands. “So, what is it that you do then, Sarah, when you’re not assisting famous supermodels?” “There’s no such thing as having a life when you’re assisting famous supermodels,” I assured him. “But, eventually, law school.” “Sounds boring,” he said. “After flying from New York,

to Paris, to Milan, to Boston, you’re going to become a lawyer?” “How would you like being an assistant for the rest of your life?” Burke shrugged. “Fair enough. Although tell me, I’m curious…” He was curious about me? I found myself leaning forward. “Is the lawyer goal yours? Or your family’s?” I blinked. Well, we were getting pretty personal, weren’t we? “Mine,” I said, lying. It was my mother’s. She was a law professor at Rutgers University and had always pushed me toward the practice. “And what about you? Are your parents proud you’re playing football?” His smile widened, as if he appreciated my challenge, but as he opened his mouth to reply, the door to the office burst open and slammed against the wall. “Shit. What a shitty, terrible, shitty morning!” bellowed Yvette, in French, as she flew into the office, flinging her Birkin bag at me in an uncharacteristic show of frustration. Yvette had a very useful saying: don’t get frustrated. She was obviously off her game. I put my coffee down just in time to catch her purse and just in time to see her catch sight of Burke sitting on the couch. Burke stared at her, startled, and then his gaze turned appreciative. I got it. I did. Yvette was gorgeous. She was five-foot-eleven and beautifully formed: naturally lean and toned. Her face was Botticelli perfect with large, wide, blue eyes; thick, dark lashes; thick, dark brows; and a perfect cupid’s bow mouth. Her hair was a remarkable shade of deep chocolate brown (her mother was Italian), and her skin was creamy white and flawless. “Sarah,” she said, “Qui est le bete?” Who is the beast?

Beast? She couldn’t have been speaking about Burke. “Your 10:30,” I told her in French. “He’s in your calendar as Becca Barnes’ friend.” I cast a smile at Burke, silently apologizing for the language change. He was staring intently at Yvette. “Quelle sauvage,” she murmured to me, but she sounded intrigued. “En fait,” said Burke, startling us both when he spoke up in perfect French. “Je suis tres sympa, quand tu me connais.” I’m really nice when you get to know me. Yvette pursed her lips at him, smiling to herself, clearly surprised. I was, too. So, Burke Tyler, NFL’s happy idiot, spoke French? I was starting to suspect that I’d been correct in my first estimation: Burke wasn’t as dumb as he played on TV. In fact, he might not be dumb at all. “Too bad,” said Yvette to Burke in French. “I don’t like nice guys.” Burke smiled that same way he’d smiled when I’d challenged him. It looked intent and cocky. “Don’t worry, beautiful,” he said, in English this time. “I know how to be a real jerk, too.” The tension in the room was thick and sizzling. I was beginning to think that I needed to take my leave. But Yvette laughed, delighted, and clapped her hands together, “All right, Savage. I don’t have time for you today. I’m sorry. What is it you wanted?” Burke thought about it a minute, clearly enjoying that he was taking up her time. “A date,” he said. “Friday night.” “Impossible,” she said. “I am having dinner with friends.” “Change your plans,” said Burke, staring her down

intently. Yvette was a sucker for jerks. It was why she kept going back to Luis. I could see her thinking about it. Finally, she said, “Okay. Friday night. I’ll change my plans.” She sent me a meaningful look as I wrote down a note: change Friday plans. Burke moved past Yvette, coming closer to my desk. He reached out a hand and plucked a pen and a pad of post-its. He then peeled off a post-it and stuck it to the desk. His number.

2

BURKE

Tyler.” Yvette sauntered out of her building “M r. wearing a gorgeous black dress that clung to every inch of her toned and incredibly banging body. If you’d been living under a rock and didn’t know who Yvette Delacroix was, she was the Victoria’s Secret Angel with the “don’t fuck with me” strut, dark chocolate brown hair, and bedroom eyes. I’d been bugging Becca Barnes to hook us up for months. Yvette wore a pair of five-inch silver stiletto heels and was pretty damn close to my height. I wanted to grab her up, flatten her against the door of my Maserati Levante, and give her a good tongue-fucking. Maybe I was the savage she’d accused me of being. I smiled at her, bowing slightly, and opened the passenger side door. She gave me a cat-with-the-cream smile and folded herself into the front seat, crossing her legs so that the black dress slid up and revealed several mouth-watering inches of creamy white thigh. Fuck. Me. “Ever been to Andre’s?” I asked her after I’d closed the door behind me. I’d called her assistant (Sarah?) to figure out if Yvette Delacroix was a gourmet gal or a

burger and beer kind of babe. “Gourmet,” the assistant had answered. Andre’s was going to blow Yvette’s mind. “That little bistro in Cambridge?” she asked, pursing her lips. “C’est ca va.” And then she smiled and translated for me, “It’s okay.” “Ca va?” I asked. “Well, then you clearly haven’t had their crab dip.” I spoke in flawless French with a damn solid Parisian accent. I had been a French minor in college, motherfuckers. Also a little known fact, I have my masters in comparative literature from the University of California Berkeley. Don’t tell the boys at Dudley’s Coffee. They don’t pay me to be smart. “Mmm,” Yvette purred, considering me. “So, not just a pretty face, eh, bad boy?” “Oh, I didn’t say I wasn’t pretty,” I winked. “And I didn’t say I wasn’t bad either.” Thank God the ride to Andre’s was short. Yvette was blowing my mind, and being that close to her and not being able to touch… I got out and gave the keys to the valet, opening Yvette’s door and offering her a hand to step out. She took my hand lightly in hers, and her touch was cool. The owner was a big Patriot’s fan, and he came out to show us personally to our seat. I don’t think he had a clue who Yvette was, because he asked after the identity of my “beautiful guest.” I bet Yvette wasn’t used to being unknown, for she was frowning when we sat down. “Ready to have your mind blown?” I asked her. Yvette considered it, her brilliant eyes meeting mine across the table. Then she shrugged. When the waiter came up, I ordered a bottle of the white burgundy, the mussels and crab dip as an appetizer, and two of the arctic char entrees. I might look like an extra off of The Vikings set (hell, I had been an extra on The Vikings last

summer), but I could pull off elegant when I chose to. As we waited for food to arrive, I tried to get to know Yvette a bit better. I asked her questions about her parents and about modeling; I asked about her travels and her favorite foods. I’ll tell you what – she was flirty as hell. Her every shift in her seat seemed calculated to make me drool. A strap sliding down her shoulder, her dress sliding slowly up her thighs, the neck dipping down over her cleavage, and her hair brushed back behind perfect ears. She answered every one of my questions with a small smile or a charming wink and a clever retort. It was halfway through the meal before I realized that she hadn’t asked me a single question. In fact, we’d finished the bottle of wine before I realized that for all that shifting, those clever remarks, and her winks – she was bored. She wasn’t at all interested in me, in the dinner, or in my conversation. Somewhere between the time I’d picked her up and the end of the appetizers, I’d managed to bore her. Fuck. Fuck. I switched tactics. I’d been trying to be friendly and warm. Maybe she wasn’t into that shit. Maybe she wanted Berserker Burke, the idiot tight end who spent his weekends in a DJ booth. Women were fucking difficult. Come on too strong with some of them, and you’re a misogynist, insensitive dickhead, but try to be fucking polite – you’re boring. “D’accord,” I said, switching to French, for we’d been speaking in English. If she wanted a dickhead, I could be a dickhead. “Don’t tell me you’re not at all interested in me? We’ve been speaking about you for an hour. Are you going to play into all of the model stereotypes? Or are you going to be interesting?” That had her. She sat up straight and looked startled.

I stared at her, thinking about all of the delicious things I’d like to do to her in bed and letting it show on my face. Rather than get angry, she seemed to consider me for a moment. She leaned forward, accepting my challenge. Fuck, this woman was so fucking hot. “Okay, Sauvage,” she said, her eyes sparking with sudden fire. “You speak French – have you been to Paris?” “Not yet,” I said. “So, you’ve never been to Le Cinq? You’ve never seen Opera at le Garnier?” I blinked. Shit. “Not yet.” “Have you been to Milan? What about Japan?” “On my list of places to go.” What the hell? Was this some kind of test? Yvette sat back as if I’d confirmed something, and the waiter chose that moment to come up and ask if we wanted anything else. No way was I giving up that easily; I started to order another bottle of wine, but Yvette cut in. “Just the addition.” The waiter blinked at her. “The check,” I translated, dumbfounded. The waiter had it on him, and I handed him my Black card. Yvette dabbed the sides of her perfectly lipsticked mouth with her napkin, and she filled the silence he’d left by talking about Becca Barnes and saying how maybe she’d come by and watch a game this season. She was letting me down easy! She was fucking letting me down easy! Flashbacks to college when I’d thought being a football star would land me all the girls I wanted, but the cheerleaders hadn’t known what to make of the star tight end who wanted to talk about Emile Zola… The waiter brought the check back, and Yvette stood

up as I was signing. She politely waited for me as I rose. I offered her my arm, and she took it (thank God!) and let me walk her out. “Do you want to get a drink downtown?” I asked as the Valet rushed off to find my car. “Oh no,” she said, pointing to a dark Cadillac pulling up around the corner. “I’ve got a party to go to.” She leaned up, her perfume wafting up around me as she kissed my cheek lightly. “Thank you for dinner, Sauvage.” And before I could object, she strolled toward the Cadi, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

3

SARAH

“

I

’m telling you, Roz; I don’t think he’s as dumb as he appears on TV.” “You’re kidding, I hope?” said Roz from her spot on my bed. She was examining her cuticles and looking through People Magazine, her long legs crossed at the knee and her foot bouncing impatiently. I was sitting at my computer going through all the pictures of Burke Tyler I could find. It was a totally pointless and incredibly fantastic way to spend one’s Sunday. There were a lot of photos of Burke out there. My favorite? It was a tossup between the ESPN Body Issue (his abs, oh my God, his abs!), his stills as an extra on The Vikings (where they’d given him some really cool blue face tattoos), and a ridiculous spread he’d done for Sports Illustrated where he was playing in a large pile of bulldog puppies. “Sarah, this is the guy who went onto the Late Show with Jimmy Fallon after the Super Bowl and said that winning was a ‘disenfrazzling’ moment.” “I think he puts it on,” I said. I really shouldn’t be looking at pictures of Burke. Not when he was out on a

date with my boss. But you couldn’t blame me. Really. You had to see Burke Tyler in person. He was just too gorgeous to believe, and with that hair and that tattoo… My phone buzzed. “Who’s that?” asked Roz, uncrossing her legs and sitting up. Roz and I were college roommates who’d decided to continue living together after college. Roz was attractive in an unconventional way. She had dark skin; thick, untamable hair; and a large, hooked nose. She also had incredible, gold-colored eyes and pretty lush lips, now turned downward in a frown. Something in People had upset her. She tossed the magazine toward the trash, missing. “I don’t know,” I said, unwilling to check my phone. Maybe it was Yvette, but it was Sunday, and Yvette took Sunday off as a rule. Plus, I was busy ogling Burke Tyler’s butt. “Who’s it from?” asked Roz. “Who cares,” I muttered. “Sarah Jane!” snapped Roz. “Stop drooling over some football player who’s dating your boss. Who texted?” I glanced down at the phone. Fuck. “Andrew.” Roz stared at me, her brow furrowing in confusion and then understanding. “Andrew? Like Andrew Sullivan? Like, weren’t we done talking to Andrew?” Roz had a boyfriend who lived across town, but she still talked about my relationships as if she was a voting member in them. Who are we going out with this evening? Weren’t we through with him? Did we think he was good in bed? “Chill,” I advised Roz. I picked up the phone and checked the text. Hey! My contract ended in Chicago, and I’m back in Boston for a few months. Care to meet up? “He wants to meet up,” I said, my stomach seizing a little. I hated that it still did that. I hated that Andrew, my

first love, might always have that power over me. “His project in Chicago ended, and he’s back in Boston.” “Well, what are you going to do?” I thought about it. “I don’t know. It’s Andrew.” “Yah, well, why bother with him again? Especially when he’s the one who keeps dumping you!” Why bother with Andrew again? Because I’d loved him so incredibly hard; because a part of me will always love him. “All the more reason to stay away,” said Roz quietly, reading my silence. “I don’t know,” I said. “I keep thinking that maybe there’s a reason we keep coming together…” “Maybe there’s a better reason you keep breaking up.” I shrugged. “That’s what growing up is, isn’t it? You change, and maybe you change in ways that bring you closer together. Maybe you change in ways that make you incompatible.” “Sounds like bullshit to me.” I laughed. Roz was a skeptic. “Well, whatever,” Roz continued. “At least Andrew might keep you from thinking about Burke Tyler. Screwing around with the man your boss is dating – that’ll get you fired pretty damn quickly.” “Maybe I want to get fired,” I suggested. “Yah, sure,” said Roz, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And stop jet setting, stop dining at nice places, and stop spending weeks lying on the beach while your boss does the SI swimsuit edition? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

MONDAYS W ERE ALWAYS the craziest day of the week. Since

Yvette refused to work on Sunday (and let me tell you – the fashion world worked every day of the week!) it meant that Mondays were full of answering emails, making phone calls, setting up appointments, and running errands. On Mondays, I worked until about eleven o’clock at night. I had two phones – my work and my personal. Yvette had three phones. Her work, her personal work (both of which I handled), and her personal personal (which she kept on her at all times). I explained this only because I had four phones (five if you counted the office phone) that sat on my desk, so when one of them buzzed, I was momentarily confused when I looked down and saw: Hey, Gorgeous. Try again? The ballet is performing Romeo and Juliet. For a moment, I thought it was Andrew, and then I realized that the name on the phone read Burke. I felt a sudden breathless excitement wash over me until I realized that it was Yvette’s work phone (which has a similar gold case to my personal cell). I took a deep breath. Yvette had ridden the train up to NYC early that morning to meet with the producers of a French reality show looking to hire Yvette as a guest judge. I shot her a text on her private cell, telling her about Burke’s message and asking what she wanted me to reply. Let him down gently, she responded almost immediately. Was she kidding? What was wrong with her? I rolled my eyes. It seemed totally inane that someone as dynamic, intelligent, and beautiful as Yvette Delacroix would waste her energy on a jerk like Luis Abasolo but wouldn’t give someone as interesting as Burke Tyler a chance.

I was dying to ask her about her date, to see what had happened that made her so quick to write him off. I stared at her phone a moment, feeling a ridiculous amount of regret. I’d hoped that Burke and Yvette would hit it off, if only so that I’d get to see him a few more times. Oh, come on! Haven’t you ever had a celebrity crush? I mean, yes, I spent a good deal of my time around male models, but the age of Tyson Bedford and Larry Scott was long gone. Designers were more interested in Danila Kovelev types (men who were wispy and beautiful enough to be mistaken for women). I stared at Yvette’s phone a moment, trying to figure out what to say. Finally, I said: I had a nice time with you on Friday. But I’m a bit too busy right now to get involved with anyone. There. I hit send and went back to my emails. It was a moment later when the phone buzzed again. Hey, lovely. Care to grab some lunch? For a moment, I was confused. Really? Had Burke not gotten the hint? It took me a moment to realize that it was my phone – not Yvette’s – that had buzzed. And it wasn’t Burke; it was Andrew. My stomach seized up again. Did I want to grab lunch with Andrew? I stared at the phone, not sure what to respond. Roz was partly right about needing to stay away from Andrew. He was the one who always broke up with me, and I was the one constantly heartbroken over him. The phone buzzed again. No strings. I’m going to take two weeks in between gigs and do some travelling. I just want to pick your brain! I took a deep breath. That I could do. Sure, I texted back. But it has to be a quick lunch and it has to be near me. I’m swamped at work.

W E MET at a sandwich shop down the street from Yvette’s loft. I got there first and ordered a salad. Andrew was always late – always – but I wasn’t going to allow his lateness to dictate my time. I was going to keep our meeting as short as possible. If Andrew decided to show up late, that was his own problem. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t raided Yvette’s store of free gifts and borrowed an elegant, dark green blouse and a few Mac cosmetics. Can you blame me? It’s human to want your ex to want you, isn’t it? When Andrew walked into the small shop, mine wasn’t the only gaze directed his way. There were a few tables where people were having working lunches, and there was a table of young women near the door who immediately started whispering. Yah, Andrew is that good looking. He works for a fancy consulting company, so he’s usually dressed in suit. But since he was in between projects, he was dressed casually, as casually as Andrew ever dressed. He grew up in boarding schools, so his “casual” attire was still pretty formal. He looked like he’d walked off the pages of a J Crew catalogue. He wore slim-fitting, gray khakis, a maroon Lacoste polo, and aviators. His shoes and belt were the same medium brown and made from expensive, butter soft leather. He removed his sunglasses, sticking them in his shirt pocket, and his eyes roamed around the small café until they landed on me. I wished my heart didn’t stop at the sight of Andrew. But seriously, you’ve got to see him to understand it. He’s gorgeous and exudes a calm confidence. Andrew strolled over to my table and leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to my cheek. He smelled like his aftershave lotion – vanilla and sandalwood. I inhaled and

tried not to get giddy. “You look beautiful,” said Andrew, sitting down. “How are you?” The waitress came and delivered my salad. “Doing well,” I said. “It’s Monday, so I’m busy. How are you?” “Relieved to be back in Boston,” said Andrew, leaning back in his chair and looking at the menu. His eyes roamed over it a moment before looking back up at me. His smile was boyish. “What should I get?” I looked at the menu, trying to envision what Andrew might like. He cared more about his figure than he did about food. “The grilled chicken and red peppers,” I said. Andrew winked. “Dead on, beautiful. I see you’ve still got it.” “Was that a test?” I asked, frowning. Andrew wasn’t listening to me. Instead, he was checking out the restaurant, his eyes landing a moment on the table of young women before landing back on me. “So,” he said, steepling his fingers, “where do I go for my holiday?” I inhaled through my nose and forced a smile at him. No more small talk then. He really did just want to get some feedback on his travel. “Well, do you want warm or European? Do you want exotic? How long do you want to spend on an airplane?” “I’ll have the chicken with peppers,” said Andrew as the waitress came up. She smiled at him and wrote down his order. “Fries or homemade chips?” “I’ll have the spinach salad,” he corrected lightly. Then he turned his warm brown eyes back on me. I sighed inwardly. When Andrew looked at you like that, it was

hard to deny him anything or even be frustrated with him, really. And that was the problem with Andrew, those eyes and that look have gotten him everything he wants in life. It didn’t help that he was a hard worker. When he put his various talents toward a task, it was difficult to say no to him. When the waitress left, he leaned in and reached across the table, taking up my hand. “You really look great, Sarah.” “Thanks.” I smiled lightly, hoping it hid the fact that my stomach had seized up, the pain of our breakup fresh in my mind. I never had closure with Andrew. We’d broken up twice. Once in college and once after, and I never really knew why. Both times, Andrew had made it seem as though breaking up was to our mutual benefit - that we needed space to grow as people. “I was reading your blog,” said Andrew, sitting back. “Can you tell me about Bali? Those pictures looked fantastic.” I blinked. “You were reading my blog?” “What about Croatia? I saw those pictures, too. How was Croatia? Where were you when you took that picture of the cliffs?” Andrew was following my blog. This shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise. I advertise my blog on my social media page and actually had a robust readership – but how had Andrew even found my blog? I’d unfriended him the last time we broke up. Had he googled me? The thought that Andrew was maybe not over me, had been thinking about me, left me fiercely triumphant. I like to think I’m not that forgettable, but spend enough time playing second fiddle to a model and it was easy to doubt yourself. “Sarah?” Andrew prodded. “If I want to get to Croatia,

where’s the best place to fly out of?” I took a deep breath. Stay focused, Forte. Just because Andrew read your blog doesn’t mean he was interested in getting back together. “Providence,” I said. “Unless you don’t mind the extra three hundred dollars it will take to fly out of Boston.”

IN THE END , I spent an entire hour longer than I meant to with Andrew. He talked about Chicago, and we argued over the best deep dish pizza places. He had read almost every article I’d written about my travels with Yvette and had questions about some of the places I’d visited. He’d recently been to Barcelona, so we talked about some of the places he’d seen. Only when Andrew had finished his sandwich and paid the bill did we get up and head out. Andrew walked me back to Yvette’s building. When he leaned down to kiss me goodbye, he gave me a small kiss on the lips. “Let’s meet up when I come back. I’m going to check out a few of the places you recommended. We’ll compare notes.” “Sounds good,” I said, feeling a bit sad but trying to hide it. He must have heard the regret in my voice, however, because his smile softened, and he reached out and took my hand. “It’s really great to see you,” he said. “You look fantastic. I’m glad you’re doing well.” “You, too,” I said, trying to sound sunnier than I felt. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you later.”

4

BURKE

“I don’t know, Bro. You want me to kiss your ass or you want real talk?” Caz cut off a large bite of his T-bone steak and eyed me warily. “Please, Woods. As if The Berserker could handle ‘real talk.’” Mac grinned at me, all teeth and challenge. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped. “That you can dish it out but you’re pretty shit at taking it,” said Mac. I looked at Caz, and he shrugged, still chewing. Dicks. “Fine. Real talk.” Mac’s grin widened, and Caz’s muscular throat worked to swallow. He took a sip of water and shrugged again. “You go after the wrong women, dude. Like, all the time.” I stared at Caz. What the hell was he talking about? “Bimbos,” Caz clarified. “Trust me,” I said sourly. “Yvette Delacroix is not a bimbo.” “Maybe not,” Caz shrugged. “But she’s a model, right? So what do you like about her?” I didn’t need to go pouring my heart out to an idiot like

Cassidy Woods. “B,” said Mac. “That’s his point. You like her ‘cause she’s hot.” We were eating at Garcia’s Table in the South End. It was a local spot that served thirty dollar lunch entrees but had a damn good selection of on-tap beers. It was Mac who’d invited us both out for lunch. He’d wanted to throw some new business venture past us – and we’d both turned it down. It’s not that the prospect wasn’t an appealing one, but Mac’s a tough dude to get along with, and the idea of partnering with him for business… Thanks, but no thanks. “Fuck you both,” I said, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re telling me you don’t purposefully date women who are attractive?” I glared at Mac. “Do you even date women? I thought you just fucked them.” “I told you,” said Mac with his mouth full, waiving his fork at me. “He can dish it out, but he can’t take it. Bro: We don’t go out of our way to date ugly chicks, but models, man? Caz can tell you all about dating models.” “They’re crazy,” said Caz, shaking his head. “Here. Look.” He took the cloth napkin off of his lap and laid it across the table. Then he looked up at Mac. “Mcloughlin, you got a pen?” The fullback dug one out of his pocket and handed it over. Silver Sharpie. Who the fuck carries around a silver sharpie? I had to bite back a snide comment about autographs. Mcloughlin was lucky if someone even recognized him. He was a career Patriots player, but he wasn’t exactly franchise. “Look,” said Caz, drawing a line graph. Along the Y axis he wrote the word “hot,” and along the X axis he wrote the word “crazy.” He gestured to his graph, labeling

hot and crazy between a 1 and a 10. Then he drew a diagonal line. “You don’t want to date anything below this…” He scribbled out the section of the graph that landed between 1 and 7 on the hotness scale. “And you don’t want to date anything above this…” He circled 7-10 on the crazy scale. “But models fit in right here,” he said, drawing a star where 10 on the hotness scale intersected 10 on the crazy scale. “That’s the way the world works, man. That’s science, bro, right there.” “That’s some pretty stupid science,” I said. “Did you graduate college?” Caz grinned. “Stanford, motherfucker.” “No, man, he’s right,” said Mac. “Listen to the man. Just look at Vic.” I rolled my eyes. “Yah, well, there’s no scale in the world that can calculate Karissa Kruise’s crazy.” Vic Ferguson, one of our safeties, was dating Caz’s exgirlfriend, a fiery and certifiably insane Venezuelan model. I reached over and wadded up the napkin. “And this moron dated her for two years. Not the best person to be getting advice from.” “Listen,” said Caz, holding his hands up in defense. “I’m trying to tell you…” “Mmm. Look at that ass,” Mac interrupted, staring over Burke’s shoulder toward the hostess’ stand. Both Caz and I turned to look. The woman leaning against the stand had her back to us. She was average height but wore expensive, skintight jeans that highlighted a pair of high, round, muscular cheeks. She wore heeled, black boots, and her hair was braided in a French braid. Even from behind, she looked familiar, and I tried to place her. “Damn. Look at that thing. What are the odds, boys,

that she has a face to match?” “Slim,” murmured Caz, who’d looked back to his plate and was cutting another bite. “But you can keep dreaming…” As if the girl had heard us, she turned, giving us a glimpse of her profile. Naturally tanned skin; rounded, apple cheeks; and a straight, slightly upturned nose. “Wrong, Woods,” said Mac. “She looks pretty damn hot from here…” “Shit,” I said, getting up. “Where are you going?” asked Mac. “Dude, I’m not buying your lunch.” “Get you back,” I muttered, walking over to the hostess stand. The hostess had left, and the girl was now standing by herself, checking emails on her phone. “It’s Sarah, right?” I asked, smiling apologetically as she jumped, startled, and looked up at me. Honestly, if Mac hadn’t said anything, I might not have noticed her. I had been so keyed up the last time we met – but it was Sarah, Yvette’s assistance. And Mac was right, she was pretty. She wasn’t Yvette pretty, but she was really good looking. When she saw me, her eyes widened, and I saw that they were an interesting shade of brownish-green, with gold rings around the outside of them. “You’re Yvette’s assistant?” She was staring at me as if I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had the wrong girl? “Yah, I am. Hi,” she said, shaking her head and regaining her equilibrium. I get that reaction a lot, honestly. I’m a big dude, and I had startled her. “You having lunch?” I had half a mind to invite her over to our table. I wanted to know more about Yvette, and I also wanted to prove those other assholes wrong. If anyone could vouch for Yvette, it would be her assistant. “No, picking up. Busy day.” She wore a form-fitting,

navy blue top and a black blazer that stopped at her waist, highlighting how lean it was. She was remarkably fit. I recalled that she had played a sport in college. I wondered how many years out of college she was. She still looked pretty young. “So, what’s the deal with your boss?” Sarah blinked. “Wow,” she said. “That’s really blunt.” I shrugged. Why beat around the bush? Yvette Delacroix had given me the write off, but I wasn’t willing to give up yet. I was willing to bet that Sarah whateverher-name-was could help me. “Yah. So? What’s her deal?” “She’s really busy,” said Sarah. “We’re all really busy. And we all need to eat. She’s blown me off now, twice. I want to know why. Am I not her type?” Sarah looked around as if there might be someone to rescue her from the third degree. I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t. My sisters have always told me I’m like a dog with a bone, but I’ve found that you’ve gotta be persistent to get anywhere in life. “Come on. I’m a big boy,” I said, and for some reason, I don’t know why, I couldn’t resist flexing for her. I saw her eyes land on my bicep and watched her lick her lips. I smiled inwardly. Too easy. “I guess she’s just not that interested,” said Sarah, tilting her chin up so she could meet my eyes. Her expression was a bit hard to read. She had these thick, almost black, lashes that fluttered down to obscure her gaze. “And yah, you’re right. I don’t think you’re her type.” “Bullshit,” I said. “I’m everyone’s type.” It was true. I’d figured it out in college. Girls were attracted to the body and the face – just not the brain. If I gave them what they expected – hot, blond, and dumb – I found I could get

anyone I wanted. The hostess, a plump young woman with dyed black hair, came back, carrying a cloth bag that clearly held several to-go containers. “Here you go,” she said, handing the bag over. Sarah reached up and took it, turning back to look at me as she backed up toward the door. “I’m sorry,” she said, flashing a nervous, apologetic grin. “I’ve got to get this to Yvette while it’s still hot. If it helps, she is really busy….” And before I could stop her, she turned around and left. Fuck. Of all the fucking useless bits of information. What was I supposed to do with that? I wasn’t Yvette’s type? What was her type? What did I need to do to gain her attention? “Dude, you know her?” asked Mac when I came back to the table. His eyes were following Sarah as she passed by our window. “You have got to introduce me!” I don’t know why, but the thought of Mac and Sarah together made my stomach turn, so I shook my head. “No way,” I said. “She’s nice. I’m not hooking her up with a player like you.” Mac was loose as fuck. “Use ‘em and lose ‘em” was his motto. Mac frowned and opened his mouth, no doubt to rip into me, but Caz held a hand up. “Now that’s a girl you could date,” said Caz. “She was hot. And she wasn’t a model. How do you know her?” I rolled my eyes and sat down. “Cool it, both of you. She’s Yvette’s assistant. She’s nobody. I’mma finish my lunch. I’m done talking about this shit.” No offense to Sarah. She was pretty. But I was after bigger fish. The two subsided, Mac looking annoyed and Caz looking resigned. I didn’t care. Fuck them both. I wanted Yvette Delacroix, and I was going to have to up my game.

I just had to figure out what my next move was.

5

SARAH

I

had a ton of things to do before the end of day tomorrow. I needed to solidify the booking with Givenchy. I needed to make sure we had first class tickets to Abu Dhabi for next week. I needed to make certain that the samples Vogue had sent for their upcoming cover made their way back to NYC… “À demain!” I called to Yvette. See you tomorrow. Yvette said something back, but it was muffled by the closed door of her apartment. I hit the elevator button and rode the elevator down to the lobby, thumbing through my texts and making sure I’d left everything in order. There was a text from Roz, checking in and letting me know that she’d be at her boyfriend’s tonight… The elevator doors dinged open, and I stepped out. “Have a good evening, Sarah!” called Phillipe from his position behind the front desk. I waved back, noting that Phillipe was in the midst of dealing with a customer. Whoa. Not a customer. Burke Tyler. Burke looked up when Phillipe called my name, and he smiled at me, waving a friendly hand. My heart fluttered a bit, and I waved one back, feeling nervous and

excited at the same time. What was he doing here? Burke turned to say something else to Phillipe. The concierge nodded to him. Phillipe was not a small man, but Burke made him look tiny. “On your way home?” asked Burke as I passed the desk. We were both heading for the door. God, he looked great, like he’d just come from a business meeting. He wore crisp black pants and a soft, blue, button-up shirt with a black silk tie. The sides of his head had been freshly shaved, and his braided Mohawk glinted gold beneath the dim lights of the hall. “I was, yes. What are you doing here?” I asked. “Dropping off a letter for your boss,” said Burke. “She’s not responding to texts, so I decided to go old school. Will that get her attention?” A letter? I shrugged. “Maybe.” Luis wrote her letters all the time. They came to the apartment sealed with red wax – like he was some medieval lord writing his lady. It made me slightly queasy, to be honest. Burke Tyler didn’t seem to me like the kind of guy who wrote letters. But what did I know? In just the two short conversations I’d had with Burke Tyler, he’d upended every single idea I’d had of who he was. “Maybe,” Burke repeated, frowning. “Is it, me, Sarah, or is Yvette an enigma?” “It’s not you,” I said, pushing open the door and exiting out into the chilly April evening. “It’s part of her appeal. I’ve worked with her for three years. Even I don’t get her.” It was true. She was inconsistent. I had no idea what motivated her. In her more petulant moments, she was impatient, crabby, and sullen. She seemed to thrive on drama and strove to create it. In her brilliant moments, she was focused, friendly, funny, and magnetic. She refused to tolerate fools, cut past all bullshit, and

understood the bottom line. She had a great mind for marketing, and she was her own best product. “Hmmm,” Burke mused thoughtfully. He stopped and stared out across the street. While we were gradually coming out of the winter blackness, at 7 p.m., it was fully dark and the streetlights lit up Boston like stars floating in the night sky. God, I loved this city! “Have you had dinner yet?” he asked suddenly, turning to me. My stomach plummeted into my feet, and I swallowed. “No.” I shook my head. “Come back to my place,” said Burke suddenly. “I want to talk somewhere where people aren’t going to be taking pictures of us.” It wasn’t a request; it was a command, delivered with the confidence of a guy who knows you’re not going to say no. Ugh, why does that bullshit work? A part of me just melted, and my brain chose that moment to remind me of ESPN’s Body Issue: Burke Tyler, stark naked and chiseled, a football in front of his crotch. Eyes blazing and intense. “Is that a good idea?” I asked before I could stop myself. Burke looked at me as if I’d grown another head. “Sarah,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m not going to have my way with you on my kitchen table.” The graphic image that erupted before my eyes had me wet. I was in trouble. “I just want to pick your brain…” Burke continued. Why was it guys just wanted to pick my brain? Was there something wrong with my body? I ran. I did Pilates. Burke was still talking. “I want to know more about Yvette. I’ve got lobster in my fridge. I’ll fry it up with some buerre blanc and scalloped potatoes? Who says no to

potatoes?” His smile would have melted an iceberg. “Okay,” I said, and I knew I sounded as dazzled as I felt. Burke had parked in a nearby parking garage and, as we walked to his car, I asked him why he was dressed up. Apparently, one of his sisters was in town for a medical conference, which had culminated in a fancy dinner, and she’d asked Burke to be her date. “Sister?” I asked. Burke frowned. “I have four of them,” he said. “This is one of the middle ones…” “And she’s a doctor?” “Cardiothoracic surgeon,” he said. He fished his keys out of his pocket and hit the unlock button. A sleek, black SUV blazed to life in front of us. I tried to figure out what kind of car it was, but I wasn’t good with cars. It looked expensive. Burke went to open the door for me, but I waved him off. “I’m not Yvette,” I said. “I can open my own doors.” Burke shrugged and hopped into the driver’s seat, turning the key into the ignition and allowing the car to roar to life. While he maneuvered the car out of the parking garage, I shot off a quick text to Roz, updating her on the latest turn of events. Not that I expected anything to happen between me and Burke Tyler. I took him at his word. He wanted to talk, and it was easier to do so in private. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to fantasize about all the things that might happen. Honestly, was Yvette insane? Who said no to someone like Burke Tyler? He was just so large, so raw, and so masculine. And dressed like he was – God, I wanted to rip his tie off of him, tie him to my headboard and have my way with him. I smiled at that. I didn’t think

Burke Tyler was the type to let a woman have her way with him. He was probably all about control… “What’s got you grinning?” he asked, looking over. “Nothing,” I lied. “Where do you live?” I’d be dishonest if I said I calmed down on our ride to his place. In fact, I seemed to soak up every single detail, each one sending me into a continued state of excitement. Burke smelled incredible, and the car smelled like fresh leather, and I kept turning to look at the side of his face, so incredibly chiseled… Maybe I’d rewatched season four of Vikings just to see his cameo. He was like some sort of fantasy made reality: a Viking who’d stepped out of history and put on an expensive shirt and tie… I kept imagining what it might be like to take them off. Burke lived near Downtown Crossing in one of the gargantuan new high rises. His place was on the very top. “Bought it before they’d even started construction,” he said as we rode the elevator up. “You like penthouses?” “I like heights,” he explained. “Boston’s a neat city. There aren’t that many skyscrapers. Here, I’ll show you.” The elevator came to a halt, and Burke had to turn a key for the doors to open. When they did, I saw why. The elevator opened into his living room. “Wow,” I said. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. Maybe something like Andrew’s apartment, with leather furniture and framed posters of football heroes. But Burke Tyler’s apartment was sumptuous. Where Yvette liked raw-edged modern furniture, Burke’s home was built for comfort. The main room was enormous, an openfloor concept with iron beams and high ceilings. The kitchen sat alongside the right wall, with the room opening up into a grand living room with bookshelves

and an entertainment system, and beyond all of it was a huge wall of windows. Burke didn’t give me much of a chance to look around. He strode toward the windows, and I followed in his wake. “There,” he said, pointing. “See?” There was a lot of light in Boston, but the moon was nearly full that evening and hung fat on the horizon, illuminating the black expanse of sea beneath. The Atlantic. He could see the Atlantic from this height. There were deeper spots of black, indicating the islands. I knew that in the daytime, this view must be spectacular. “There’s a balcony out of the bedroom, too,” he explained. “So you can catch the sunsets in the west.” “Amazing,” I said, meaning it. “I’m going to get dinner started. Feel free to poke around,” he said, leaving me to stroll into the kitchen. The counters were black and white granite, and the appliances were all chrome. Burke loosened his tie and unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt, revealing his thick, muscular throat and a white undershirt. My mouth went dry. To distract myself, I turned my back on Burke and did as he’d said, exploring the living room and the formal dining room which sat just behind the wall of bookshelves. There were a ton of books on the shelves, and I investigated them. If you’ve seen Burke’s coffee commercials, or his Under Armour campaign, or any of his talk show appearances, you’d be shocked to discover that he read at all, let alone read books like Le Mort D’Arthur, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, or L’Etranger. He had a few old books of maps, too. In fact, the only book that seemed to have anything to do with football was a coffee table book that sat on a wide, glass table next to a pot of sprawling vanilla orchids. Oh. My.

God. Someone had turned his ESPN body issue spread into a coffee table book. I resisted the urge to sit down on his creamy, white sectional and see which photos hadn’t made it into the magazine. Maybe I’d order myself a copy. It seemed somehow rude to ogle your host’s naked body while he was ten feet away making you dinner. Burke was using the island to peel and slice potatoes. Behind him, a pot of water had been set to boil. “I feel like Belle when she enters the beast’s library,” I teased, sitting down at one of kitchen island stools. Fuck. Was I flirting again? “Beast, Savage,” murmured Burke as he peeled. He looked up at me, his blue eyes staring into mine, mildly irritated. “You and yours boss are going to give me a complex.” “I doubt it,” I said cheerfully. I was feeling incredibly giddy. I’d seen the dining room table and was having trouble not thinking about being bent over it, with Burke behind me. “There’s a wine rack over in the corner,” he said, nodding toward where at least thirty bottles rested in a large, metal rack against the wall. “Pick one out.” Bright white to go with lobster. I went to find a Sauvignon Blanc. There were glasses atop the wine rack, as well as a corkscrew, so I uncorked a bottle and poured us each a glass. He had good taste. The wine was crisp and refreshing, I’d imagined him to be a beer guy, but with Burke Tyler, I was beginning to realize that appearances were incredibly deceiving. So deceiving that I wondered if they were intentional. Was he misleading the world on purpose? And if so, toward what end? I shook my head.

“What is it?” he asked, raising a thick, blond brow at me with curiosity. “You think Yvette’s an enigma,” I said. “Jeez. You’re on a commercial in which you yell ‘It’s party time!’ and leap into a pool, holding a cup of Dudley’s iced coffee, and I just found a first edition copy of East of Eden in your bookshelf.” He grinned at me, shrugging. “Gotta give the people what they want.” “Do you?” I murmured, taking a long sip of the wine. “So, tell me about Yvette. What do you know? Tell me about her family. About her upbringing. Anything that might help…” Right. I was here to talk about Yvette. I took a deep breath and launched into what I knew. I’m loyal to Yvette, so it’s not like I was revealing her deepest, darkest secrets. Besides, telling someone that she preferred white chocolate to dark chocolate wasn’t the same as telling him that she had a heart-shaped mole on the top of her left butt cheek. Yes. I’d seen it. She was a model. She was constantly in and out of clothes in my presence. I told him about how she’d grown up in Swiss boarding schools and how she was entirely self-made. It seemed that, with each bit of information I gave, he seemed more and more interested. We talked for about a half hour before the lobster was ready. Burke didn’t bother going to his dining room table. He joined me on the other stool so that we sat shoulder to shoulder. He poured us both another glass of wine. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” I said, nearly passing out after my first bite of lobster. He’d cooked it perfectly and had splashed some of the wine into the butter sauce so that it was mellow and bright at the same time. The potatoes practically melted in your mouth.

“My dad’s a chef,” said Burke. “He owned a restaurant in Santa Barbara. Hired me throughout high school as a sous chef.” “And you became a football player…” “I’m six-foot-seven and run like I’m at least a foot shorter. I’m better at football than I am at anything else. And I’m damn good at other things.” He winked. My heart fluttered. “Can I ask you a personal question?” I said. He nodded. “Why do you have a coffee table book that has fortysix nude photos of you?” Two glasses of wine had made me bolder than I might have otherwise been, and Burke blinked before opening his mouth and roaring with laughter. When he stopped, he looked up, his eyes still sparkling with amusement. “Doesn’t everybody have a coffee table book of nudes?” “Is it wrong of me to admit that I want to see them?” What was I doing? Oh my God! What was I doing?! “Please,” said Burke, smiling, and we moved to the living room. I sat on the couch, grabbing up his book and flipping it open to page one. Burke sat closer, and his presence overwhelmed me, making it hard to breathe. The first few photos in the book were ones that I’d seen before, shots that showed off both Burke’s sheer size and athleticism as well as his “happy idiot” public persona. But as I flipped through, I saw why most of these photos hadn’t made the magazine. In them, Burke was much more serious. His poses more threatening, more masculine, and more raw. Silence descended between us as I flipped through the photos, stopping on one in which Burke was posed like the famous Thinking Man statue. His head was rested in his hands, his muscles were bunched and enormous, and his tattoo

was in full view, with its tree and its ravens. Wow. Beside me, Burke was still, but his presence was a force I couldn’t ignore. I looked up at him to see that he was looking at me curiously. As if seeing me for the first time. “I like this one,” I said, and I knew I sounded breathless. I watched his eyes track my tongue, and I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly very dry. I wanted to reach out and have another sip of wine, but I didn’t want to break the sudden, electric tension that charged the room. “That tattoo is one of the most magnificent things I’ve seen,” I said, needing to fill the silence somehow. “Can I see it?” Burke held my gaze as he nodded and unbuttoned his shirt one small white button at a time. He stripped it off and tossed his shirt on the ground. His white undershirt was sleeveless and stuck to the impressive ridges of his muscle. He turned, presenting his left arm to me so I could see the intricate detail of the tree and see the hunger in the ravens’ eyes as they circled. “What’s that?” I asked, looking at where there seemed to be an outline of a hanged man near the top of the tree. “That’s Odin,” said Burke. “A Norse god. He sacrificed himself to the Tree of Life in order to be able to see into the future.” He was so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath. His gaze was devouring me whole. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop myself as my hand reached out to trace the edges of his tattoo. He seemed to shudder slightly beneath my touch. Goosebumps rose beneath my fingers. I looked up in time to meet his eyes. Both of us stilled as a jolt of electricity seemed to arc between us. I don’t know which one of us moved first, but

suddenly, we were on each other. I was half in his lap, his arms banded about me, his lips pressing against mine with bruising force. Oh God, the kiss was incredible. I’ve never been so hungry for someone. He stood, holding me tight to his chest and, free from the couch, my legs wrapped around him, our kiss deepening, our tongues tangling, and our teeth clashing in our frenzy. Oh God, I was burning up, burning from the inside out. Breath left me in a whoosh as I hit the wall, held there by his chest. One arm caged me in; the other wound into my hair, pulling it from its usual braid. My hips ground into his, and the bulge that met them was almost frightening. Oh God, I wanted him so badly. I whimpered into his mouth, and he seemed to growl somewhere deep in his chest. I nearly leapt out of my skin when something vibrated against my thigh. I gasped, breaking the kiss. Another vibration. Another. He looked at me, his lips raw. One eyebrow quirked in a question. It was my work phone. It was Yvette. Yvette – the reason why I was here tonight. I hauled in one more, steadying breath and then pushed away. Burke’s hand encircled my waist. He placed me on the ground and took a step back.

6

BURKE

F

uck, this girl knew how to kiss. She wrapped her arms about my head and sucked at my tongue as if to pull it right out of my mouth. I hadn’t been this hard for a chick in months, but there was something about Sarah – about that quick, almost mischievous smile, about those all-seeing eyes. And when she’d stroked my arm like that – fuck. I ravaged her mouth, reveling in the pure sex she promised as she ground against me in an unmistakable rhythm. This girl was going to be fire in bed. I could just tell. To be honest, the buzzing startled me as well. It was in her pocket, but it was right up against my junk, and it buzzed three times in quick succession. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on the girl. She pulled her face away, and I stared down at her, pleased as fuck over her bruised lips and over the wild expression in her eyes. But as her vision cleared, she pushed away, and I set her down, backing up to give her space. Oh. This was so not over. Sarah smiled apologetically and fished her phone out

of her pocket. She stared at it a moment, looked suddenly troubled, and her fingers moved, sending a quick reply to whatever fucker had interrupted us. “Excuse me…” she said, smiling up apologetically, but her eyes didn’t reach mine. She turned and took a step away. Then she stopped and looked back helplessly. I motioned toward a door a few feet down, where the guest bathroom was, and she rushed toward it. She was clearly looking for a moment to compose herself. Hell, I guess we could both use a moment. I took a deep breath and reached down to adjust myself so that my jeans weren’t quite so painful against an enormous and raging erection. Damn. I had not been expecting that. I’d only meant to pick her brain a bit. I wasn’t one of those guys who took advantage of any woman who entered his apartment. For fuck’s sake, I had four sisters. But damn, Sarah was a neat little package: smart, pretty, and damn fit, with a flirty side and these eyes that promised to blow your mind… I stopped that train of thought because something was buzzing. My watch. I looked down to where my smartwatch indicated that I had a phone call coming in. Who was calling at this hour on a…Yvette? Yvette was calling. I moved quickly because I’d left my phone on the kitchen counter. Snatching it up, I hit talk. “Hello?” “Sauvage?” Yvette’s dark, sultry voice sounded just as sexy on the phone as it had in person. “I got your letter.” My letter? The letter I’d left. How could I forget leaving the letter? I’d left it all of three hours ago! I smacked myself on the forehead, eyeing the bathroom, but Sarah hadn’t emerged. “I’m glad,” I said. “I’m glad you called.” “It was beautiful. So eloquent and open. I’d like to see

you again, I think. Maybe I was too quick to judge that first night, yes? When are you free?” She was asking me out. Yvette Delacroix was asking me out. Sarah picked that moment to walk out of the bathroom. She’d re-braided her hair and reapplied her lip gloss. She looked put-together, like we hadn’t just been this close to fucking. “Sauvage? Are you free tomorrow night?” “Tomorrow night?” I said, realizing I sounded like a moron, repeating her. Sarah paused a few feet away and smiled at me, looking completely at ease. She mouthed: Is that Yvette? Dumbstruck, I nodded. And she flashed me two thumbs up. Was she kidding? Weren’t we just about to… “Go for it,” she whispered. “She’s interested!” “Burke,” said Yvette on the phone, sounding a bit impatient. “Tomorrow night? Oui ou non?” “Yes, okay,” I said, staring at Sarah, looking for any hint of what she was thinking. But Sarah was heading over to where she’d dropped her purse. I had to talk to her. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Anywhere you want to go?” “I’m flexible,” said Yvette. “Call Sarah, and she’ll help you set something up.” She hung up the phone. I placed my phone back down on the kitchen island. “Hey, that’s great,” said Sarah. “That must have been some letter.” “I guess,” I said. Was she kidding? Had she not just felt what I’d just felt? “Hey, listen, we should talk…” “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything,” said Sarah, waving her hand as if the kiss had meant nothing. “It’s not a big deal. Dinner was delicious, thank you! I’ll get you a reservation at one of her favorite places. I’ll send you the info tomorrow morning.”

“Um. Thanks,” I said, starting to walk toward her, but she’d already hit the elevator button. “Hey, listen, wait, you don’t have to leave…” “No, it’s late anyway, and I have to work early.” Sarah flashed me another smile. “Yvette’s great! You should go for it!” Go for it? The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. “See you around,” said Sarah, and the doors closed behind her.

7

SARAH

a terrible person, Roz.” I was on Roz’s bed this “I ’m time, watching as she got dressed for dinner. Her boyfriend was a reporter for the Globe, and there was apparently a banquet he’d invited her to. Roz didn’t have the best taste in clothes, but I wasn’t going to tell her that her purple sequined gown made her look like a disco ball. “Sarah, you’re not terrible. They’re not even dating yet. It’s not like you were having an affair! You just kissed the guy.” I could still feel his kiss on my lips. Even two days later, it still burned. I could still feel the wall against my back, and whenever I thought about that bulge, pressing right at the very core of me. Fuck! “Yah. But I knew he was interested in Yvette. One glass of wine, and I’m Jezebel!” Roz rolled her eyes, sliding in her dangling silver earrings. “You’re hardly Jezebel, and he’s a grown-ass man. He invited you over to his place, he fed you lobster, and he kissed you. Stop feeling guilty. What I can’t believe is that you hooked him up with Yvette. What were

you thinking?” “I panicked.” And I’d been second guessing it ever since. Yvette hadn’t been interested in him – but I was. And I swear he’d been interested in me. “No shit, you panicked.” Roz struck a pose in her mirror and then spun, going over to her desk and searching through the mess there for something she apparently thought she needed. I’m surprised Roz could find anything in this room. It was terribly cluttered at the moment. Roz was a teacher, and piles of paper were strewn about her desk. Her floor was barely visible through all the clothing she’d tried on and discarded. “Seriously, Sarah, where’s your self-confidence? You like the guy, right? What makes you think that Yvette is better than you are?” “You want a list?” “Sarah…” “She’s worldlier, she’s more beautiful, she has more money, she’s a damn deal smarter, she’s entrepreneurial…” “I get it, I get it, you worship at the Delacroix shrine,” Roz grumbled and then smiled when she found what she was looking for: a silver cuff bracelet. “Calm down. Seriously, Sarah, you’re pretty, you’re smart, you’re creative, you’re kind…” “Roz, stop, I don’t need a pep talk.” “Well, not anymore,” said Roz. “It’s too late now…” My phone buzzed, and I stared at it, cursing. “It’s Yvette,” I said. “She just got a call from the Chanel people. I’ve got to go send some emails. Have fun tonight!” Roz frowned at me. “Don’t work too hard, babe.”

THE NEXT DAY , Yvette breezed into the office at 9:30. It was late for her (she usually arrived closer to 8:00), which meant she’d been out late the night before. But she was wearing a change of clothes, so she hadn’t slept at Burke’s place. In fact, she looked casually gorgeous. She wore a pair of designer jeans and a black top with a fuchsia jacket that offset the dark richness of her hair. “How’d the date go?” I asked. I would have asked her anyway, even if it hadn’t been with Burke. “The Sauvage?” she said. “I like him.” She smiled at me. “I wasn’t so sure the first time. He seemed a bit… I don’t know. Dull. But we talked about art and about culture. He’s funny. Quick and dry. Very French humor,” she smiled. “I let some of the paparazzi take our picture when we left.” “Really?” That wasn’t normal. Yvette usually tried to avoid paparazzi. She liked to control her own image. “I want that loathsome Luis to see it. I want him seething with jealousy.” Oh God! Had she gone on the date with Burke just to make Luis jealous? That would have been a totally Yvette move. She wasn’t a bitch – but she’d grown up wealthy, and she wasn’t the most empathetic person alive. Some people called her rude; I just thought of her as matter of fact. “But you like him?” “I do, yes. He’s handsome in a rough kind of way. I’m going to convince him to grow a beard,” she smiled. “He’s invited me to the ring ceremony.” “The ring ceremony?” “Yes. They win some plate thing – bowl thing? – and they get rings. Sounds ridiculous, but he said that Paul Chapin is catering the event – which means the food will be good. And there’s the press. Becca Barnes is going,

too – so I said I’d go.” The Super Bowl ring ceremony. Melancholy rose up suddenly. If I hadn’t pushed Yvette at him the other night, would Burke have invited me to the ring ceremony? Probably not. Men like Burke Tyler – wealthy, handsome football players – viewed women like me as expendable. I’d made that mistake before with some of Yvette’s famous friends. A famous photographer had flirted with me at one of her events, taken me out to dinner, and then back to his place. We’d had fun, but that had been all he was interested in. I’m not even a D-lister. I’m an assistant. One of Yvette’s friends had once described me as popcorn – delicious but forgettable. While Yvette had come casually to my defense, the comment had hurt, and it had stuck. “When is the ring ceremony?” I asked brightly, pushing down feelings of intense regret. “Two weeks,” said Yvette, disappearing into her office. “Just two days after we get back from Italy.” Italy. I’d forgotten about Italy. How could I have forgotten about Italy? You’ve been distracted. “Am I packed?” Yvette called from her office. “Yes!” I lied, and got up to find our suitcases.

8

BURKE TWO WEEKS LATER

you both coming out afterward?” A small hand “A re gripped my arm, and I stared down into the earnest, questioning gaze of Jamie Anderson, Caz Woods’ fiancé. “Coming out where?” I was having trouble focusing on Jamie. I was on cloud nine and quite a few drinks in. This was my third super bowl ring, but the experience didn’t get any less intense. The Taj ballroom was full to bursting with enormous men in expensive suits, glittering, gorgeous women, and fantastic bourbon: I’d definitely had a few to get me through the droning speeches. The franchise players had been seated up toward the front, and I hadn’t needed to worry about boring Yvette – she’d spent most of the evening chatting animatedly with Becca Barnes. Every so often, she’d reach over and touch my arm, brush her thigh against mine, or give me a long, considering look. But for the most part, she’d spoken to Becca and done her best to ignore Vic’s girlfriend, Karissa, who’d kept wandering over and trying to engage Becca in Spanish. When they’d brought out the rings, the whole place

had nearly come down around our heads, we were all cheering so loud. I must have taken three hundred pictures since then, so when Jamie had touched me and asked me a question, I barely registered her words. “We’re going to the Sky Bar. Dash has rented up the upper floor. Are you coming?” “Sauvage, who is this?” Yvette’s breath was warm against my ear. She must have come up behind me when I wasn’t paying attention. Her breasts brushed against my arm. Fuck. Fuck, she was hot. “Yvette Delacroix, may I present Jamie Anderson? This is Caz’s fiancé. She’s a professional soccer player.” “Oh, wow,” said Jamie, recognizing Yvette. “You used to date Luis Abasolo.” I felt Yvette stiffen next to me and tilt her head at Jamie frostily. Fuck. Better get Jamie out of this one. “We might stop by for a while,” I said. “Are you leaving before the dancing?” “Caz hates dancing. So does Dash, apparently. So, yah.” “Let’s go,” said Yvette in my ear. “If Dash is hosting, then Becca is going, and she was telling me a story I want to hear the end of. Oh, hang on!” Yvette turned as someone called her name. And I was left alone with Jamie. “She’s stunning,” said Jamie. “Did Becca set you both up?” I smirked at her. “You don’t think I can get a girl like that myself?” Jamie pursed her lips. “You want me to answer that?” “No.” Caz came up behind Jamie and reached down, snagging her hand. “Shall we?” he asked. I looked around for Yvette and saw her heading in my direction

from across the room. As she passed, men turned to watch her walk, like the ballroom was her catwalk. Damn. “I’ll be right behind you,” I said.

THE S KY B AR might be my favorite club in Boston. It’s on the top of the Eliot tower, almost as high as my apartment, and has a killer view of the city. That night, it was full to the bursting with Patriots players pounding back thousands of dollars’ worth of booze. I think I might have been responsible for a good half of it. It had taken me twenty minutes of coaxing, but I finally got Yvette out onto the dance floor. “You’re laughing!” she declared angrily. “No, I’m not!” I said, but I absolutely was. She was good at a lot of things, but the girl had no rhythm. I ended up pulling her close and guiding her with my hips, and she soon fell in with me, her arms snaking around my neck and her eyes finding mine and sizzling. “You’re drunk,” she said, but she sounded intoxicated herself. “Not very.” Okay, that was a bit of a lie. “I need another drink,” said Yvette, removing her arms. “Baby,” I groaned. “Don’t let go.” “Come on,” she said, taking my hand and tugging me toward the bar. “You’re buying me another drink.” “Bartender!” I bellowed. There were three who were working, and one of them looked up, signaling he’d be over in a minute. “Brute,” murmured Yvette, but she looked enthralled, and I smiled down at her, thinking about those long, lean legs wrapped around my waist. Something caught Yvette’s attention, and she moved

past me. I turned, not wanting to lose my spot at the bar, eyes my tracking her toward the staircase, where she approached another young woman. This woman was shorter, her hair less of a dark brown and more of a honey brown; it hung about her shoulders in snaky waves. Her dress was turquoise and skin tight, revealing a figure almost as lithe as Yvette’s, but slightly more muscled. I realized I was checking out Yvette’s friend and tried to stop, but when Yvette turned, I caught a glimpse of the girl’s face. Sarah. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a little hard. That dress, though. Fuck. “I’ve got to take a phone call,” Yvette said. “Buy Sarah a drink!” And with that, she disappeared. Oh. I was going to buy Sarah a drink so hard… “Let me guess,” I said when Sarah approached. “You’re a vodka girl?” Sarah smiled up at me, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She was wearing something shimmering on her cheeks, for they caught the light and looked almost angelic. She had the smallest of dimples in her right cheek. “I hate Vodka,” she said. “If I’m getting a mixed drink, I go for whisky sours.” “What are you? Fifty?” I asked. “Are you going to order me a drink, or do I need to get it myself?” Sarah stepped past me and climbed up on the rail at the base of the bar. She was wearing lacy black heels that gave her a good four inches of extra height. Leaning over the bar, her cleavage on full display, she signaled a bartender. “Cool it,” I said, reaching out and fitting my hands about her waist, then lifting her from the bar and setting her down. “I’m taking care of this.”

Sarah rolled her eyes but turned her back to the bar and leaned against it. “So?” she asked. “So what?” But before she could answer, the bartender came over and took our orders. “So, let me see the ring.” I stuck out my fist. I’d worn all three rings that evening, and they made my hand incredible heavy. They were each diamond-encrusted and platinum, with a different design boasting the year and the score. Sarah sucked in a breath and ogled over each ring. The bartender came back with the drinks, and Sarah drank hers through a straw in all of thirty seconds. “Slow down,” I told her. “The night is young.” “Well,” she said. “I got here late, so I have a lot of catching up to do.” “How’d you get in anyway?” I asked. “I was out at Whisky Priest, not far away,” she said. “I got a call for Yvette. It was a personal one that I thought she might want to take care of.” “So, you’re on all hours of the day?” “Sometimes.” “What else can I get you to drink? You do shots?” “Sure.” “Bartender!” I bellowed again. I indicated the group around me “Get me a round!” The shots came, and we all did them, just in time for Yvette to come back. She gave the phone to Sarah, and before I could object, Sarah disappeared into the crowd. “Is that mine?” asked Yvette, and I handed her the martini. She downed it in one impressive gulp, reached up, and gave me a small kiss on the cheekbone. “Lovely evening, Sauvage. I have to cut it short. My mother is in New York, and I’m leaving now.”

“Not now…” “I’ve got a limo coming to take me to the airport. I’m leaving now. I’ll call you later.” “Let me see you out…” “No, no,” said Yvette, placing her hands on my chest. “You stay and enjoy everyone! I’m fine. I’ll be back in a few days.” And she hurried off. I was still staring stupidly after her when a heavy hand clapped onto my shoulder. “So, how’s it going with the model, Bro?” I turned and glared at Caz. “Whoa, man! Whooaa. It can’t be that bad. She came here with you, didn’t she?” I shrugged, irrationally irritated with how quickly she’d left. She’d been teasing me all evening, pressing close and then darting away. All night, I’d been imagining all the different ways we’d fuck. That she’d left had really messed with my equilibrium. I ran a hand over my face. “I just can’t get a read,” I said. “You look keyed up, dude.” Caz was swaying slightly, and his dark brown hair had flopped forward into his eyes. “Do you know what helps? Scotch.” He waved at one of the bartenders. “Give us a bottle of Johnny Blue!” he bellowed. “No, no,” I objected. “Your lady will kill you if you get that shit-faced.” “Nah. She went home. She’s got practice tomorrow. Me? I’mma get housed. You joining?” I thought about it for all of two seconds. Why not? “In.” I can’t remember how far into the bottle we got. “I’m telling you,” I said, hanging on Caz’s shoulder. “I’m telling you. Sarah is so fucking gorgeous.” “Who’s Sarah?” asked Caz, blinking at me heavily.

“What do you mean, ‘Who’s Sarah?’” “You said, ‘Sarah is so fucking gorgeous.’ Who’s Sarah?” I blinked. Shit. “Did I say Sarah?” “Yah. You did.” Fuck. Well, Sarah was fucking gorgeous. And really damn hot in that teal dress. “Dude,” I said. “She’s Yvette’s assistant…” “The girl with the ass, the one who came into the restaurant?” “That one…” I closed my eyes, recalling how passionately she’d kissed, recalling how her hips had ground into mine. Damn. There’d been no teasing with Sarah - no coyness whatsoever. Now that was sexy. I’d been out with Yvette three times now, and she hadn’t so much as kissed me. “Sarah’s here somewhere,” I murmured. “Yah, I saw her,” said Caz, pointing a finger down the length of the bar to where I could see a flash of teal. “She’s talking to Mac.” “Fucking Mcloughlin?” I said, straightening and grabbing the Johnny Blue bottle from Caz’s hands. “No fucking way. That guy’s a dick.” “He’s not that bad…” “He’s a fucking dick. I’mma go do something about it.” I said, and I stormed over to have a little chat with Ryan Dickhead Mcloughlin.

9

SARAH

I

’m usually good at knowing when I’ve had enough but, to be honest, this was the first time I’d gotten to see Yvette and Burke together up close, and it had really thrown me. They looked so damn good together. She was tall, dark, and slender. He was huge, blond, and heavily muscled. And he looked so damn delicious in his suit. When Ryan Mcloughlin had introduced himself and offered to buy me some drinks, I’d agreed. Don’t worry; I’m not a moron. I know who he is. He’s the team’s veteran fullback, a few years older than Burke, and he’s known more for his off-field antics than for his on-field antics. For instance, he’d dated a twenty-one year old reporter and gotten her fired, he’d publically fraternized with the captain of the cheerleading squad (and gotten her fired), and had caused a full-on strike when he’d moved on to date her best friend. So yes, I knew all that, but at that moment, I just needed to feel pretty, and Ryan was looking at me like I was good enough to eat. Though I was still pining for Burke, Ryan Mcloughlin was undeniably gorgeous. And the more drinks I had, the

more I thought I might be willing to give Ryan a go. “Times up.” A pair of hot hands came down and encircled my waist, drawing me back against a massive chest. While I couldn’t see who was behind me, based on how annoyed Ryan looked and how hard the thighs pressed into mine were, I could guess. It was Burke. And I was drunk enough to lean back against him. His shirt was cool and silky on my hot cheek. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Ryan asked. Burke ignored him and leaned down, his breath warm on my cheek. “Come on, baby. They’re playing our song.” We had a song? To be honest, I had no idea what was playing. It sounded rhythmic and thumpy, but no way was I going to object when Burke Tyler spun me around and danced me onto the dance floor. His hips kept time perfectly, and I reached around, my hands on his low back, just grazing the high, muscled ridge of his ass. He sucked in a breath and looked down at me. “Living on the edge there, baby?” “I’m not afraid of you,” I said to him. I reached out and plucked the bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label tucked under his arm. I took a swig, and it burned in a fiery trail down into my stomach. Burke was a phenomenal dancer, and he smelled so incredible. I pressed my face into his shirt and inhaled. He was wearing some sort of cologne with notes of… oh, who gave a shit. I reached up and pulled his head down, and his lips met mine in a searing kiss that went on, and on, and on. “Let’s get out of here,” Burke murmured into my mouth when we both broke away for air. “Let’s go back to my place. It’s not far.” “What are we going to do at your place?” I asked. My head was swimming, and all of the reasons I might have

thought of to not go were gone, replaced with a hundred and one reasons why going home with Burke Tyler was the best fucking idea I’d ever had in my entire life. In response to that inane question, Burke reached down, his hand splaying over my ass cheeks, and pressed the considerable and very hard length of him against my hip. Oh fuck. I wanted that. Badly. I must have whimpered, for Burke smiled against my mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and before I knew it, I was being led out of the bar. I don’t know when Burke had managed to call a limo, but there was one waiting for us, and after Burke gave the driver his address, he closed the tinted screen and was all over me again. He hauled me into his lap so that I was facing him, my dress riding up my thighs and my knees digging into the leather seats. Burke’s hand twisted in my hair, his mouth devoured mine, and his hands wrapped around, pressing me close. My head reeled; the whole backseat seemed to spin, so I held onto Burke like a lifeline and kissed him until I was burning alive from within. The car stopped so abruptly that I gasped and toppled off of Burke and into the door. We’d arrived at his apartment. I had to adjust my dress and take Burke’s hand as he guided me out of the car and into the building. I knew my lipstick was smudged and that my hair looked wild, but I didn’t care. I could barely see where we were going, and I leaned on Burke for support. Inside the elevator, he lifted me into his arms, pressed me against the wall, and wrapped my legs around his hips. I rode him, and he ground into me, his belt buckle creating delicious friction. “You’re so fucking hot,” he growled into my mouth. “Sarah, you’re so fucking hot.”

“I want you,” I gasped against his mouth. He fastened it on my neck, and I moaned as sensations assaulted me. “God, Burke, fuck me! I want you so badly.” I was rubbing up against him, yearning for more friction, needing that hot hard length buried inside me. The elevator dinged, and I hung onto Burke for an awkward moment while he fumbled for the key. Then we all but fell out of the elevator. Burke didn’t put me down but let me cling to him as he walked us toward his bedroom. The next thing I knew, we fell onto the bed, Burke’s hard body atop mine, crushing me into a down comforter. His hands were on my dress, sliding it up my thigh, and then he pulled back suddenly. I cried out at the loss of his heat, and he all but collapsed next to me on the bed, tugging at his shoes and laces and kicking his pants down, revealing hard muscles calves, quads, hamstrings, and sexy black boxer briefs. He ripped his shirt over his head, popping just a few buttons, and then he was on me again. He rolled over, crushing me beneath him - no finesse, no gentleness, just raw, wild instinct. His mouth found mine, his hands peeling my dress up until he had it over my head, and then he flung it across the room. “Oh, baby,” he said, groaning at the sight of me in my dark purple bra and panties. His mouth came down over the bra, sucking at the lace where it covered my nipple. Sensation streaked through me like lightening, and I arched against him, letting out a loud, wordless cry. His hand massaged my other breast, rolling the nipple into a bud. I could feel his free hand working its way down my abdomen in lazy, sensual circles. Then, without warning, he flipped me over onto my stomach. His hands ran down my back, and I found myself arching against his

touch. He smoothed his hands over my ass, his fingers curling around my thong and peeling it down. The bra followed until all I was wearing were my high heels. His lips brushed across the back of my neck, his teeth nibbling at the sensitive skin there, and while I moaned and writhed, one down reached beneath my cheeks and found the hot, wet center of my desire. “Oh, baby,” he said, his voice sounded slightly slurred. “Fuck, you’re so wet.” One finger sank deep, in and then out. I cried out when a second finger joined in, filling me, stretching me to an almost uncomfortable fullness - and yet I wanted more. I pressed against him, taking all he would give me. With his free hand, Burke grabbed my chin and turned my head, his mouth finding mine, his lips capturing my cries in a searing kiss. The next move took me by surprise - he grabbed my waist and flipped me onto my back, coming down between my legs and butting against my entrance with the enormous head of his erection. I twisted my fingers into his hair, pulling his head down and sucking his tongue into my mouth. I was burning from the inside. I wanted all of him. “Please, Burke,” I was begging, “please…” “Please what?” he murmured hotly against my ear. “Please, fuck me,” I gasped. I wanted him. I wanted all of him. “Oh, Yvette…” he murmured. I gasped, but there was no time to think, no time to back away for he was probing my entrance, stretching me impossibly. I whimpered at the uncomfortable fullness, but my body had a mind of its own, arching into him and he sank, inch by slow inch into me. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned into his pillow, his hands came up

to grab mine, holding them near my head. He put his weight on them, trapping me, and then he began to move. He was so big, so incredibly big, that he hit every single nerve cell I had. One deep stroke, then another, and then another. I was crying beneath him, arching my hips so that every single stroke brought him deeper and brought me higher. He picked up speed, bearing down on me, seeming to sense my need. His hands left mine, and he reached down and grabbed my hips, surging against me, bringing me to meet him thrust for thrust. I shattered. My climax came on me so fast that I screamed with the power of the release. Above me, he slammed in deep and held me still. A slow shudder came over him as he spurted hotly inside me. He ground against me tighter, sending me into another sharp orgasm. “God. Oh my God,” he gasped into my ear. “Fuck.” He rolled over, pulling out of me, and pulled me with him, trapping me against his chest. “Fuck, baby. You’re so hot,” he said. I was still throbbing, still burning. And as I came back to myself, the room was spinning violently. “I’m going to be sick,” I said, and he let me go, his arm flopping heavily to the side. He murmured something, concerned, but if they were words, I couldn’t discern them. I rushed to his bathroom, just in time to puke my guts out. When I stumbled back to bed, Burke was dead asleep.

I AW OKE the next morning with a vicious headache and no

clear idea where I was. The wall I was staring at had an unfamiliar, abstract painting in blues and reds. Ugh. My mouth was sticky, my stomach was sour, and my head was throbbing in time with my heart. I was hungover. I sat up, trying to remember where I was and trying to figure out how I’d gotten here. Oh God. Beside me, Burke Tyler lay half-under, half-on-top-of the white duvet cover. The night came back to me in a graphic rush that made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I’d only ever blacked out a few times, and unfortunately, this wasn’t one of them. I remembered the whole thing. God, we’d kissed in front of half of his team, and everybody had seen us leave together. I looked down. The t-shirt that I was wearing was huge, and I had a vague recollection of finding it inside one of his drawers. Oh God. This was terrible. This was terrible. I had to get dressed and, of course, the only clothing I had was the teal dress I’d come up in the night before. Walk of shame. I was going to have to do a walk of shame. It took me a while, but I found my bra and underwear and slid back into my dress. I wanted to borrow one of Burke’s sweatshirts, but they’d have come down to my knees. In the end, I took his ruined blue silk shirt and tied it around myself, rolling up the sleeves… Oh, who was I kidding? I found my purse and checked to make sure I had my wallet and my phone. I didn’t want to be the worst asshole in the world, so I found a piece of paper and a pen and left him a note. Burke, I wrote, Sorry to leave before you were awake. Had a lot of work to do. I signed it S and beat a hasty

retreat.

I’D NEVER BEEN SO grateful for Yvette’s crazy family. Her mother had appeared the night before in New York (Maman lived in the South of France, usually) and demanded Yvette show up and attend a gala with her. Yvette wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, which meant I had all day to nurse my hangover and regret every single decision I’d ever made in my life. Once back at my apartment, I’d slept until noon, and when I’d woken up, I was feeling even more miserable than when I’d gone to sleep. I knew that Burke and Yvette weren’t officially together. But that didn’t make me feel any better. He’d even called me Yvette. I tried to distract myself by working on my blog. I had at least two hundred new pictures from Italy to edit and a few new articles to write, and since I was effectively getting a day off, I should write them. Anything to take my mind off what a terrible person I was. Roz came in around noon but, mercifully, didn’t knock on my door. When my phone buzzed, I was afraid to look down, yet desperate to know if it was Burke. It wasn’t. It was Andrew. I took a deep breath, calmed my nerves, and picked up the phone. “Hey, lovely,” he said. “Hey.” I tried to sound cheery, but in obsessing over Burke, I’d forgotten about Andrew. “Are you back from Croatia?” “Got back a week ago and had to transition into a new project at work. But the good news is that the project is here in Boston for the next six months. Care to get dinner tonight? I’ll tell you all about my trip…”

“I’m a bit busy tonight,” I lied. I wasn’t busy, but one heartache was all I could take in a day. And Andrew wasn’t an idiot. He’d be able to tell that I was upset, and he’d ask me about it, and what would I tell him… “How about tomorrow, then? I’d really like to see you.” Andrew’s voice was a warm and familiar anchor against the raging storm of my emotions. “Sure,” I said. “Tomorrow. Just text me.” “I can’t wait.” And Andrew hung up the phone. The phone rang again. I picked it up without looking, figuring that Andrew was calling me back. “Hello?” “Hi, Sarah?” The voice was deep and rumbling. Burke. Warmth bloomed in the pit of my stomach, and my mind raced back to the night before - to one of the most mind blowing orgasm of my life. “Hi, Burke.” “Listen,” said Burke, sounding hesitant. “If this isn’t you, I feel like a total ass…” “If what isn’t me?” I asked. “Last night. I remember you were at The Sky Bar. I had a ton to drink, and the last thing I remember, really, was walking over to where you and Mclaughlin were chatting. You were there, right?” “Yah.” “So, this morning, it was clear that someone had stayed over last night, and someone named S left me a note. I…” he stopped. “Fuck. I haven’t blacked out in years. Did you stay over last night?” “Yah,” I said. The word hurt coming out, my throat was so tight. “Shit. Sarah, I’m sorry.” In his defense, he sounded really apologetic. “Did we… did we do anything…” “No.” The lie came to me quickly. It was simple. I regretted doing it, and he didn’t remember, so why not

make it like it never happened? “No. You thought Mclaughlin might take advantage, so you stepped in. We went back to your place and passed out.” His sigh of relief cut me to the quick. “I’m sorry, Sarah, if I said anything or did anything…” “No,” I said. I could feel the tears streaming down my face. “No, you were great last night. You were really nice. I’m sorry I had to cut out early. I grabbed your shirt, too. I’ll make sure it gets back to you.” “Thanks,” he said. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you around, I’m sure.” I tried to make myself sound bright, but my heart was breaking in my chest. I hung up the phone. Well, I told myself, it could have been worse. At least I’d still have my job with Yvette. At least Burke doesn’t remember any of it and doesn’t have to regret it.

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