The Rivalry #1
Summary:Rival. Enemy. Teammate. Friend. Lover.
The first time NFL quarterback Heath Harris meets Sam Crawford, it’s just them, a luxury yacht and a few days of fun in the sun. Sam turns out to be nothing like Heath expects. He’s kind and funny and irreverent—and also unbelievably, shockingly sexy. For three short, glorious, life-changing days, there are no rules.
The second time they meet, Sam has just been traded to Heath’s team, and instead of lovers, they’ve become rivals instead. Heath has spent the last five years working desperately to be the best quarterback the Riptide could ever need, but when injuries threaten to derail his career, Sam is right there, standing on the sideline. Ready to take over, and ready to ruin everything Heath has given his life for.
Rival. Enemy. Teammate. Friend. Lover.
As their orbits collide, sparks fly, and Heath struggles to find the right label and the right box to shove Sam into, hoping to keep him contained. But Sam—and Heath’s feelings—refuse to cooperate.
Sam might not be just one of those things, he might be all of them, and so much more.
The second time they meet, Sam has just been traded to Heath’s team, and instead of lovers, they’ve become rivals instead. Heath has spent the last five years working desperately to be the best quarterback the Riptide could ever need, but when injuries threaten to derail his career, Sam is right there, standing on the sideline. Ready to take over, and ready to ruin everything Heath has given his life for.
Rival. Enemy. Teammate. Friend. Lover.
As their orbits collide, sparks fly, and Heath struggles to find the right label and the right box to shove Sam into, hoping to keep him contained. But Sam—and Heath’s feelings—refuse to cooperate.
Sam might not be just one of those things, he might be all of them, and so much more.
Summary:
Their romance is forbidden. Their love is a secret.
Neal Fisher knows heartbreak. It's the clock ticking down in the Super Bowl. It's missing the most important field goal of his life. It's losing everything: his thirteen year career as an NFL kicker, his future, and his pride.
Jamie Wright knows love. It's everything on the line as the crowd holds their breath. It's a perfect kick as the ball soars through the goal posts. It's NFL fame and glory laid out before him.
Neal is on his way out, and Jamie--if he can withstand the tryout pressure-- is on his way in. The one person Jamie should avoid is the veteran kicker, and the last thing Neal wants is to sink Jamie’s chances. But a chance meeting and a wild and undeniable chemistry proves to be irresistible.
Neal thought he knew heartbreak. Jamie thought he knew love.
They were both wrong.
Their romance is forbidden. Their love is a secret.
But if they trust each other, maybe their growing relationship won't end in tragedy. It might even be the beginning of football’s greatest love story.
Spencer’s deep in the Red Zone and it’s time to even the score.
Nine years ago Spencer Evans became the first player out of the closet to be drafted into the NFL. Everyone believed he had aspirations to change the world but all Spencer ever wanted to do was play football for a team that accepted him wholeheartedly. But they never would, and Spencer began to conceal all the parts that made him different.
When a terrible injury forces him to re-evaluate his life and his choices, he realizes there’s only one man who can help him.
The very first gay sports agent, Alec Mitchell has given his life and his career to making queer athletes’ dreams come true. He can’t help but think of Spencer as the one who got away—professionally and personally.
Alec thought he’d buried his desperate longing for Spencer ages ago but it turns out it was just lying dormant, waiting for the right spark. When he begs Alec to take him on as a client, everything they’ve been burying for years surfaces once again.
With Alec’s help, Spencer can change everything about his life he’s come to hate. An extraordinary future—and an undeniably extraordinary man—are waiting for him. The play has been called. All he has to do is catch the ball and score.
The Rivalry #1
Chapter One
July
The sun shone on the back of Heath Harris’ neck with all the relentless energy of the Alabama defensive line. When he’d been a quarterback for Auburn, they’d played Alabama once a year, and he knew just how it felt to have all that pure, blinding drive focused right at you. Out here, on the dock, there wasn’t any shade, and no way to hide. So he faced all that ruthless sun the way he’d faced the Alabama defensive line—by holding his ground and refusing to give even an inch of quarter. He tipped his head back and simply let the heat wave of a Floridian summer wash over him.
About a dozen bright white yachts were moored on this particular stretch of dock, and they shone under the sunlight of a bright Miami afternoon. As Heath walked down the sun-bleached wood, each boat seemed to be longer and more elaborate than the last. He finally reached the end, where it seemed the jewel of the fleet was moored. Flipper was painted on the flawless white hull in confident slashing letters.
Even though he’d been pulling down an incredibly lucrative salary for the past five years, and by anyone’s standards, would be considered a wealthy man, it was still hard for Heath to put his dirt poor, growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, rustic Texas roots behind him. He checked the name of the boat again. It matched what Heath remembered but looked so much bigger and more impressive than it had on the website. He pulled out his phone anyway, and used the extra moment while he checked the reservation email to compose himself before stepping aboard.
When he clicked out of the email, a text flashed on the screen. It was from Brandon Phillips—his center and the foundation of the Los Angeles Riptide’s offensive line. This fishing trip had been Bran’s idea from the beginning, and now he was canceling, and Heath couldn’t even be mad about it. Frankie went into labor early, the text read, I’m going to have to skip the fishing trip. Sorry, man.
Frankie was Brandon’s wife, and Heath’s other best friend. Her first pregnancy hadn’t been an easy one, but they were reaching the last few weeks, and she’d pushed Bran into booking this trip for the both of them. “Get out of my hair, and let me nest properly,” she’d insisted. But there wouldn’t be any last-minute nesting happening now.
Hope everything goes ok, dad-to-be, Heath texted back. He considered adding something else, like thinking good thoughts or crossing fingers, but changed his mind, afraid that any message might betray his anxiety.
But Bran fired back almost immediately. Dr thinks everyone will be fine. Have fun in the sun w/out me!
Heath tilted his head back and shot a wry smile towards the blazing sun. He wasn’t going to have fun on this trip without Bran. He hadn’t even wanted to goon this trip. He’d agreed to come because Bran had emphasized how much he needed one last hurrah before the baby arrived. Heath didn’t even like fishing.
“Hey there, you must be Heath.” A deep voice addressed him and Heath glanced over at the man who’d appeared on the narrow ramp that went to the Flipper. He was dressed in a white polo, khaki shorts, and the rattiest-looking baseball cap that Heath had ever seen. Adding insult to injury was that the logo, still barely visible, belonged to the Miami Piranhas, another team in the NFL.
Heath hid the grimace at being recognized. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, walking up the dock and shaking the man’s calloused hand.
“I’m Tom Sanderson, but you can call me Captain Tom,” the man said, shading his bleached blue eyes from the sun. “I just got an email from your teammate—Bran Phillips? I guess he can’t make it. But it’s nice to meet you regardless.”
“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” Heath said, even though deep down, he wasn’t necessarily sure that was true. Could he still bail? But Captain Tom didn’t seem interested in hearing it, as he’d already reached for Heath’s leather duffel and before Heath could intervene, was taking it with him as he climbed aboard the Flipper.
“Come on”—Captain Tom waved—“the rest of the guests are already here, and I like to get the intros out of the way before we start the safety presentation.”
To Heath’s relief, the enormous boat felt surprisingly solid under his feet as he stepped onto the deck. “Safety presentation?” he asked as he followed Captain Tom’s figure as he navigated around the side of the boat and onto the massive front deck.
“Just standard stuff. We’ll start in a minute. Go ahead and get acquainted with the rest of the group,” Captain Tom said, waving at a group of four others who stood in a loose semicircle.
They were engrossed in their own conversation, and didn’t look up as Heath approached. A waiter passed him a glass of champagne, the flute delicate in his hand as he took a large gulp. Should’ve bailed, Heath told himself, but then really, how bad could this be? Three days in the sun, cruising down towards the Keys. Someone else cooking for him, and champagne handed to him by waiters. Even if you added in fishing—possibly the most boring activity ever conceived—spending a couple of days on a luxury yacht was hardly going to suck.
There was a distinguished older man, the flash of a silver watch at his wrist as well as the young blonde woman at his elbow telling Heath plenty about who he probably was. The blonde was the only female in the group, and seemed pleased about this state of affairs, smugly sipping from her champagne flute. The older man was speaking to another nearly his own age, but he was missing the accessories that proclaimed “rich”—no watch and no much-younger female partner. Instead, he had an interesting, arresting face, and wore the most bizarre hat, complete with dangling lures, each more complex and intricate than the last. His t-shirt was emblazoned with a slogan: “I rescue fish from water and beer from bottles.”
The last of the foursome had his back to Heath and it was only when the Fish Master glanced up and held up a hand of welcome that he turned.
Heath very much considered jumping in the water and swimming back to the shore.
The face he saw was one he was definitely familiar with, though now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember actually meeting Sam Crawford. They’d traveled in the same circles for years, but somehow he’d never actually had a personal conversation with the man, despite the fact that they were both quarterbacks in the National Football League, and Sam had recently been drafted to the Miami Piranhas.
“Hey, wow, you’re Heath Harris!” Rich Man exclaimed. “And you’re . . .”
Sam smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He seemed amused rather than shocked—currently the only emotion Heath was feeling right now. “I’m Sam Crawford? I think we’re both pretty aware of that.”
If Bran was responsible for this uncomfortable twist of events, then Heath was going to use his not-insignificant influence to make his upcoming training camp a misery. Two-a-days? Heath was going to implement four-a-days.
Sam held out his hand, still smiling. “I can’t believe it, but I don’t think we’ve ever met, officially or otherwise.”
Somehow, they hadn’t. Sam was four years younger than Heath, so their time in college hadn’t overlapped, and even then, they’d played for schools on opposite sides of the country. And the Riptide and the Piranhas hadn’t played each other last year—Sam’s first in the league.
It was ironic that somehow this iconicmeeting wasn’t happening in a football stadium in Los Angeles in November, but over three thousand miles away, on a luxury yacht floating off a Miami dock months before football season had even begun.
With three clearly interested parties watching, it was impossible to do anything but take Sam’s hand, both casually and completely impartially, and shake it briefly. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Sam inclined his head, a lock of his famous honey-blond hair falling over one blue eye. That hair was too damn long, full of too many damn highlights, way too damn fancy, too damn everything. A reminder that while they might work for the same organization, and hold the exact same job title, they were absolutely nothing alike. But even though Heath wanted to count that against Sam, he found himself thinking that was hardly a bad thing.
“So,” the blonde woman asked, like both Sam and Heath couldn’t hear her, “they both play football?”
“They not only both play football, they both play quarterback. Heath plays for the Riptide, in LA, and Sam was drafted to the Piranhas last year. They thought Colin O’Connor might finally be retiring, and they wanted him to take over, but the jury’s still out on that.”
A flash of clear frustration passed over Sam’s face. Heath didn’t want to understand how he felt, but it was impossible not to. If you were really goddamned lucky, you might possess all the necessary tools and skills to be a successful quarterback, then if you worked your entire life to hone and shape them, and then in college, you might be good enough to win the starting job. Then, hopefully you played well, and didn’t get hurt, and miraculously, you made it to the NFL Combine. Then, against all the odds, you were selected in the draft. None of that ever meant you’d start your position when the season began—or that you’d even be on a team during the opening game. Sam had jumped through every single hoop, but then Miami’s starting quarterback had decided he had a few years left in him, and so Sam, despite flashes of something that might be either brilliance or pure, foolhardy arrogance during the preseason, had spent the next sixteen games holding a clipboard on the sidelines.
He hadn’t been happy about it; he’d even said so to the media once or twice.
Personally, Heath thought with those comments, Sam was wearing out his welcome in Miami quickly, and had been surprised he hadn’t been traded yet. He was a risk as a backup, but there were plenty of teams in the NFL who needed help at the quarterback position.
But it was only July, and technically Sam Crawford still occupied the number two spot on the Miami roster.
“Hey,” Heath said, awkwardly reaching up to clap Sam on the shoulder, a universal action on the football field that didn’t work quite as well on a yacht, “O’Connor can’t play forever.”
Sam’s smile had diminished but he still flashed it regardless. Cocky and arrogant had been Heath’s first and only impression of the quarterback, and so far that hadn’t quite held up. There was vulnerability hiding under all that bountiful confidence. “You don’t know him, man, he’s a freaking machine.” Sam paused, and then laughed—this time it was his turn to be awkward. Ofcourse Heath knew Colin O’Connor.
“That he is,” Heath said, not feeling particularly like making the other guy squirm in front of an audience—even though before this moment, he might have.
“I think we’re pretty damn lucky,” Rich Guy said. He put out a hand, and Heath wasn’t surprised that he’d offered it first to him, not to Sam. A year ago, Sam had been an exciting new player, and everyone had wanted a piece of him, but after an uneventful season of riding the bench, all that excitement had begun to die a slow, excruciating death. “I’m Drew,” he said. “Andrew Willingham the Third, and this is my wife, Brooke.”
Heath managed to keep his eye roll to himself as he shook the man’s hand. “Good to meet you both.” He turned to Fish Master, extending his hand towards the other man. “Heath Harris. I love your t-shirt. I’m going to have to find one for my best friend who was supposed to be here with me.”
“Mark Corey,” the man said with a ready grin. “I’m not sure it was a joke when my wife got it for me. Are you married?”
Someday, Heath would stop stiffening at the question. Someday was not today, because it happened anyway. He told himself it was because he was already ill at ease with Sam Crawford right there and the grandiosity of the Flipper, but the truth was, he didn’t know what to say. “I’ve never met a woman I ever really wanted like that, not forever,” was a response he would sometimes attempt when he was alone, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you confessed to complete strangers, especially when one of those complete strangers played football.
“No,” Heath said, and tried to keep his answer casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Haven’t met the right one yet, I get it,” Mark said conspiratorially.
“I have some good friends in LA I could introduce you to,” Brooke piped up, and not for the first time, Heath wondered if she would have said something if he was just Heath Harris from Nowhere, Texas, and not Heath Harris, quarterback for the Los Angeles Riptide. Rich people always wanted other rich people to find each other.
“I’m sure Mr. Harris does just fine on his own,” Sam said, coming over and draping a friendly arm around Heath’s shoulders. Brooke shot him an overly polite, only slightly venomous smile, and turned back to her husband.
It seemed unlikely that Sam actually understood, or had guessed how many women Heath had half-heartedly dated over the years, but he’d rescued him anyway. He felt Sam’s arm drop off his shoulder. Mark had started up a conversation with Captain Tom, and he and Sam were left virtually alone for the first time.
“Thanks,” Heath muttered.
“No prob,” Sam said with a slightly dimmer version of his earlier, happy-go-lucky grin. “Because everyone knows who you are, they think they can know everything about you.”
That was definitely true, but there was something else there too, something that Sam wasn’t telling him. Heath could hardly call him out on it, especially not with the point that Sam had just made about professional athletes deserving to keep their private lives private.
“It’s not my favorite part of the job,” Heath said dryly.
“It’s not so bad sometimes, but when . . .” Sam broke off suddenly, and looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected himself to say any of that. But just when Heath was about to—gently—pry, Captain Tom cleared his throat and moved to the front of the boat deck.
“Welcome aboard the Flipper,” he said, “let’s go over some safety procedures for when we’re on the water. I’ll go into more detail with the fishing equipment tomorrow.”
Quickly, Captain Tom ran down the lifeboats, the flotation vests, the radio, the flares, and the procedures if any inclement weather cropped up. “Luckily for us,” he finished, “the weather forecast looks great for our trip.”
It wasn’t like Heath wanted to experience a hurricane, even in a vessel the size of the Flipper, but he would’ve taken a little wind or rain that might’ve cut their trip short.
“We serve dinner family-style at seven,” Captain Tom continued, “breakfast is a buffet set out from seven to nine, and lunch from eleven to one. Any questions?”
Nobody raised their hand. “Great,” Captain Tom enthused. “Margo and I will show you to your rooms now.”
Heath’s room was underneath the front or the bow, as Captain Tom mentioned. It was one of the bigger rooms, Heath figured, because he and Bran had planned to share the two double beds. But, Heath thought with a sigh, he was going to get both beds to himself. He set his bag on one and more out of routine than anything else, began to hang up the polo shirts and khaki shorts he’d packed.
He hadn’t brought much—mostly his wardrobe consisted of a few pairs of swim trunks, so it didn’t exactly take an eternity to put his stuff away. There was a tiny bathroom with an even tinier shower attached to the room, and he’d just ducked his head in, tossing his toiletry kit onto the cramped countertop when he felt the boat shift underneath him, the engines roaring to life.
“Too late to back out now,” Heath said under his breath.
“Not unless you want to take a real long swim.”
Heath glanced up and Sam was standing in the doorway of his room.
“Whoooo”—he whistled as he ambled in, not even bothering to wait for an invitation—“this room is nice. Why the two beds?”
Heath gritted his teeth. It wasn’t like he wanted to be unfriendly, but just because they both happened to play quarterback for the NFL did not make them friends.
“My best friend, Bran, was supposed to come with, but his wife went into labor early.”
Sam, with his wild blond model hair and all those straight white teeth he liked to flash in a never-ending parade of smiles, didn’t seem particularly sharp at first glance, but Heath would have to be a lot slower to miss the intelligence in those eyes. “Bran as in Brandon Phillips, the Riptide’s center?” he asked.
Heath nodded. He was going to need to remember it wasn’t going to be easy to put one over on this guy, no matter how laid-back he seemed. He was obviously way smarter than he let people know. Heath couldn’t even hold that against him; everyone in the NFL had to learn to deal with the fame and the scrutiny and the pressure, and there were a thousand different ways.
“What do you think of everyone?” Sam asked.
People often asked Heath’s opinion, probably because he tended to be the quietest person in the room and everyone always assumed it was because he was in some kind of constant analysis mode. It wasn’t even the worst assumption. Even then, Heath rarely felt comfortable sharing any conclusions he’d drawn. But today, he opened the box a little wider than he normally did. He didn’t know exactly why. Maybe it was because Sam was one of those very rare few who both knew what he’d been through, what he was experiencing right now, and it wasn’t crazy to assume their future goals were probably similarly aligned.
“Drew the Third? Dumb frat kid who wants to make sure everyone knows how much cash he’s got, even though he’s probably pushing fifty and shouldn’t even be worrying about that anymore. Brooke? Just as much proof as that Rolex he wears. Mark seems like a good sort, unassuming but super old school.”
“Totally old school,” Sam agreed. “And geez, I thought I was the only one who got entitled prick vibes off Drew the Third.”
“He reeks of them,” Heath confessed. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. Was he gossiping with a quarterback who played for a rival team? Maybe Bran was right, and he’d spent too much time studying film and not enough time actually socializing with anyone. But then, unless he was close to someone and trusted them, even friendly conversation could be a struggle. He was too contained, too convinced he was going to say or do something wrong. The only time he ever felt free was when he was on the football field, crouching to receive the snap from Bran.
And yet, yet. He was doing it right now, with Sam Crawford, who definitely wasn’t a friend, and absolutely wasn’t someone he trusted now or probably ever. What was it about this kid? Was it his genuine smile? Was it his open gaze? Was it the intense blueness of his eyes that would make you feel about ten inches tall if you were rude and gave him the cold shoulder? Heath didn’t know, but he had a feeling he was going to spend the next three days finding out.
Sam couldn’t believe it. Heath Harris. Right here, on this very boat.
There was a part of him who desperately wanted to text Dane and confess that the other quarterback that they’d always fantasized about was actually here, in the flesh. But the breakup was still raw enough that Sam knew texting his ex would be a huge mistake. After all, he was on this boat because his sister, Felicity, had gotten fed up with him moping around the house they shared. “You’re not pathetic,” she’d said to him before presenting him with the trip she’d planned for him, “but you’re doing a really good job of convincing me you might be.”
The most galling part had been how right she was. He was teetering on the brink of pathetic, and all because Dane—who’d promised that they’d tackle this professional football thing together, no matter how hard it was—had given up. On them, or on him, Sam still wasn’t sure.
“You’re looking thoughtful.” Brooke directed this question at Sam, and it managed to, at least partially, jerk him out of his moping. Because that was the point of this, wasn’t it? To keep him busy so he wouldn’t have a chance to overthink his failed relationship.
Brooke smiled at him, a little too widely, and Sam hadn’t missed the fact that her much-older husband had spent most of dinner, and then at least an hour afterwards, plastered to Heath’s side.
“Shit,” Sam said, wiping off his morose expression with a bright grin, “can’t be doing that.”
She laughed, even though it wasn’t really all that funny. Definitely not up to his usual standards. But then nothing had felt right since Dane packed his suitcase four months ago. “You’re cute,” she pointed out, sliding her deck chair a few inches closer to his.
Sam leaned over the table, one hand curled around the gin and tonic like it was a lifeline. “I know,” he said.
It would be so easy to deflect her attention, but telling random women on boats that he was gay probably wouldn’t help him stay in the closet very long.
Dane would have been proud that he was considering it, even vaguely, but horrified at the purpose. “You know how to get rid of women like this,” Sam imagined Dane saying to him, shaking his head in disapproval. Yeah, he knew, but he could still get tired of it.
Maybe it was all those Dane thoughts he couldn’t seem to shake tonight; maybe Heath Harris being close enough to touch made him feel dangerous. Sam waved Brooke closer, and she leaned in, dark eyes twinkling with shared mischief. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly.
“Don’t you think he’s cute?” Sam asked, the words tripping so much easier off his tongue than he’d ever have imagined.
Several emotions passed across her face—she was clearly too shocked to hold them in. He recognized surprise, then disbelief, and then ultimately, disappointment. “What? Who?” she half wondered, half demanded.
It was sostupid, but he just couldn’t help himself. Heath was everything he found attractive in a man—tall and powerful and handsome, with that hint of reserved stern seriousness that was his catnip. Dane hadn’t been anything like Heath, which . . . Sam realized now should have been a tipoff long before this moment.
He gestured to where Heath and Brooke’s husband, Drew the Third, were chatting. Drew, with animation and excitement in his expression, and Heath, barely managing to keep the glaze of boredom out of his eyes.
“Heath Harris?” she hissed. Sam didn’t miss that she’d automatically assumed the man he was talking about wasn’t her husband.
“Well, he’s certainly not unattractive,” Sam said flippantly. He had an inkling that throwing open his closet doors to anyone who cared to listen as a massive fuck off to Dane hadn’t been Felicity’s intention for this trip, but it was sure a great distraction. “You disagree?”
Brooke stared at him, fascinated, like she wasn’t quite sure she’d seen him properly before. She probably hadn’t, but that was because Sam was really damn good at putting up a front. “I don’t,” she said.
“Good, that’s settled, then,” Sam said, even though she clearly had a million questions that she wanted to ask him.
But none of them were: do you want to sneak back to your cabin right under my husband’s nose?
Yep, Sam thought with satisfaction, she was thinking about everything except that right now. It was a little like killing a spider with a crate of dynamite, but he was feeling a little dangerous tonight.
He realized a second too late that his hushed conversation with Brooke had finally caught Drew the Third and Heath’s attention, and they were walking back over to the table, led by the former, a frown forming on his tanned face. “What’s going on over here?” he asked. Sam wondered if he realized that his voice tended towards sneering, or if it was completely on purpose.
Brooke straightened, her back going rigid. “Talking about cute girls,” she said, and the inevitable defensiveness in her voice told him that Drew’s sneer was completely intentional.
“Ah,” Drew said. He paused. Just long enough for Brooke to throw Sam a look that spoke volumes. You’re welcome for keeping your secret, it said at the same time it proclaimed, and now I know your secret.
“Sounds like we missed a fun time,” Heath said, and Sam, who’d noticed his self-consciousness before, realized it was back in spades. Heath was shoving his hands into his pockets and was looking everywhere but at Sam. Awkwardly. It was possible Heath just sucked at social interactions in general or maybe . . .
Do not even go there, Sam told himself firmly. You’re just imagining things because Heath Harris is exactly, completely, utterly your type.
“A fun time we’ll be missing.” The sneer was back in Drew the Third’s voice and he wasn’t even doing anything to disguise it this time. “Time to go to bed, sweetheart.” He shot Sam a hard look, took Brooke’s hand and practically dragged her away towards the cabin level.
“What was that about?” Heath asked once they were out of earshot.
There was definitely a part of Sam that wanted to tell Heath everythingabout what had just happened, but the rest of him had unfortunately remembered why it was a bad idea to spread his secrets indiscriminately. Even to sexy-as-hell men who might be tempted to take advantage of them.
“I think Drew the Third is afraid I was flirting with his wife,” Sam admitted. Of course, nothing was further from the truth, but what else was he supposed to say? That he was mooning after Heath like a teenager with a particularly sappy crush? And all because he’d finally gotten to meet him and get a real-life glimpse of those big, strong capable hands?
Yeah, no.
“Were you?” Heath seemed surprised by Sam’s admission.
“I actually think she was trying to flirt with me.” Technically not a lie. Brooke had thrown out a definite lure at the beginning of their conversation.
Heath rolled his eyes. “Her husband was right there.”
Something hard and angry coalesced in Sam’s belly. Damn him for liking uptight, stern, judgmental men. Why did he have such terrible taste? Dane had seemed to be the singular exception, but then he’d bailed at the first hint of trouble, so when Sam pined, it wasn’t like he was even pining for the guy who’d cut and run on him. Instead, he was mourning the loss of an idea—someone loyal who would stick, through thick and thin, and even though it might be easier, would never, ever dream of abandoning him. But it wasn’t like that man could possibly be Heath Harris either. Sam just liked the way he looked; like he could pick Sam up, pin him to the wall, and figure out every single devastating button to press.
It was sexual, and that was all it was.
“Did you miss what I said?” Sam asked, a hint of that danger rising to the surface again. “I said she was flirting with me.”
Heath stared at him. “Yeah, you did. But when you look like that, how can you expect any differently?”
“When I look like what?” Sam demanded. This was not the most ideal way to start what he’d hoped would be a friendship between two guys who dealt with a very similar lot in life, but what was he supposed to do? Just stand there while Mr. Uptight shit all over him?
“You know.” Heath waved his arms around, and then flushed, the blush spreading up from the open button of his green polo and towards his cheeks. It was high summer, and Heath lived in Los Angeles, but he was still pretty pale. Like he spent too much time inside, and not enough outside, enjoying the life that his unique skill set and incredible work ethic had bought him.
“Do I?” Yeah,Sam was definitely feeling dangerous. Dangerous enough to take a step closer and then another, until he was near enough he could see every single variation of color in Heath’s bluish-gray eyes. Up close, the color was softer than Sam had imagined, or maybe it was the expression in them. Like Heath had just realized he’d fucked up, and he was sorry.
But then suddenly, they hardened until they were as flat as two ice chips in Heath’s handsome face. “I’m not playing this game with you.”
“What game?” Sam asked, as Heath turned to go.
Looking back, Heath shrugged. “We might both be quarterbacks in the NFL, but we’re not friends, we aren’t going to braid each other’s hair and make friendship bracelets and chat about the girls we like. Especially if the girls are married.”
“What . . . I . . .?” Sam stuttered. “Do you really think I’m interested in Brooke?”
Heath just stared at him.
For a split second, Sam considered telling him the truth, but then decided that such a judgmental asshole didn’t deserve it. Instead, he merely stared back and did his own version of a questioning shrug. It didn’t have quite the flair of Heath’s, but then most of what Heath did had flair. It was clearly an innate ability and also totally wasted on the man in front of him.
“I think you should remember that things,” Sam finally said, enunciating every word, “are not always how they look.”
Rough Contact #2
Prologue
February 2021
It was the shortest field goal of Neal Fisher’s life, and also the longest.
His breath came in choppy, uneven pants as he jogged onto the field with the rest of the kicking unit. He couldn’t calm himself, no matter how much he tried to slow both his breath and the uncooperative heart thundering away in his chest.
He’d kicked this distance a thousand times, probably more, but he’d never done it under these circumstances—even though the Los Angeles Riptide had won plenty of games on his leg alone before. But they’d never won a Super Bowl when he was the one responsible for the three extra points that would put them on top.
Last year when they’d won, it had been all Sam Crawford and Chase Riley. They’d done their best this time around, too, hoping they might do what very few teams in the modern era of professional football had done—repeat Super Bowl wins—but it hadn’t been quite enough, and Sam and Chase had come up short. “It’s okay, it’s good,” Sam had chanted when he’d returned to the sideline, “Fisher’s gonna get it done for us.”
Almost always when Neal kicked, the world retreated into a fuzzy approximation of reality, but maybe there was just way too much fucking reality happening today, because right now, he couldn’t get back into his own head again. The noise of the crowd was deafening, a loud cacophony ringing in his ears, reminding him of every single person who was watching here, at the stadium, and also of all those millions watching on their televisions.
The hardest people to forget were his team, all braced on the sideline, relegated and resigned to the act of observation. All of them, counting on him to do the job for which he was paid very well—to kick a ball dead straight for forty-four yards. That was all. Piece of fucking cake.
He could make this kick a hundred times in a row in practice. A thousand. But in front of millions, with the whole game riding on him? That was why he was one of the highest-paid kickers in football. Still, it was hard not to sweat, not to feel the pressure begin to press in on him.
Neal thought he caught a flash of blond hair out of the corner of his eye. Sam must have taken his helmet off, and kneeled, as he often did, when their games came down to one of Neal’s kicks.
Right now the announcers would be analyzing the distance of the kick—forty-four yards—the angle—pretty much dead center—and the wind—a slight breeze but nothing Neal was particularly worried about—and they’d be putting up stats on the bottom of the screen, talking about how he’d never missed a kick in a big-time situation. Of course, he’d never kicked to win a Super Bowl, but he’d kicked and won them a playoff game, once, three years ago. In their Super Bowl run last year, he’d been merely incidental, only being called on to kick the extra points as Sam threw the touchdowns that had led to their victory.
“You good?” Jon, the long snapper, nudged him with an elbow. Aware, as they always had to be, that not only were their actions observed by everyone, but there were some crazed weirdos out there that tried to read their lips, too. Nothing was secret on a football field. Especially not this football field.
“I’m good,” Neal said, and meant it. Maybe he hadn’t been in this exact situation before, but he wasn’t going to let the pressure get to him. He was going to make the kick. He could already feel his foot hit the ball just right, could already see it soaring through the uprights. Could feel the way Sam would smack right into him, in some approximation of a bear hug.
It was already all there. It existed somewhere, in some version of some reality. Neal just had to make it happen in this one.
The referee indicated it was time, and since the Miami Piranhas, the opposing team, didn’t even have a timeout left, there was nothing to do but to watch—they couldn’t even “ice” him, or force him to make the kick a second time by calling a timeout at the last second.
Jon got set, and Neal nodded down at the holder—who was also their punter, Ian. He was set too. Everyone was set. Neal tamped down the sudden nerves that swamped him. It was just another day, just another kick.
Kicks always went so fast. Jon snapped the ball flawlessly, Ian caught it and then suddenly he was kicking it, right where he needed to, right as he’d intended. The moment it left his foot, it felt perfect, just like he’d wanted it to, just like it had felt a hundred times before, a thousand.
Except, then, suddenly the ball veered off to the right, then hit the crossbar, and Neal stared disbelievingly as it fell forward.
His first thought was, that’s a mistake. Then he realized, a half second later, as the Miami Piranhas poured joyously on the field, that was my mistake. I missed it. The single biggest kick of my entire career, and I just fucking blew it.
Somehow, Neal got pushed to the sideline, though he wasn’t even sure how he’d made it from the center of the field to the Riptide’s side. He couldn’t force his head up because he might be forced to see the wrenching disappointment in everyone’s faces. He thought Sam came up, the flash of blond hair too distinctive, and felt, for a brief second, the press of a hand on his shoulder pad. “It’s alright, dude,” Sam might have said. Or it might have been a, “Fuck you.” Neal wasn’t sure he could distinguish, not right now, not when suddenly, inexplicably, he’d gone from the most important person on the team to the least.
He’d known then that things were going to change. But he’d never guess that a single missed kick would alter his whole life.
*****
“I’m glad you could come by today.” Michael Turner, the assistant director of player personnel for the Los Angeles Riptide, propped a hip on the corner of his desk.
Every single time Neal faced his boyfriend across the expanse of office carpeting, done in gaudy shades of teal and aqua, he found it awkward. He’d known it would be when they’d started to date, but even though he’d learned to tamp most of his reaction down, he still felt the echoes of it.
But today? The awkwardness was back in spades, and it had been from the moment Neal had missed that stupid fucking kick less than a week earlier.
Everything had changed in a second, and in the five days since. It hung there, unspoken, when Neal had gone to clean out his locker. When he’d done a few workouts in the player facilities. When he’d been in the steam room after a particularly brutal set of reps, and a few of the defensive players had come in and taken one look at him and hadn’t said a goddamn word. It had been there, ugly and pervasive, between him and Michael. Like Michael couldn’t quite look at him, not in the eye. Neal couldn’t even blame him, because he couldn’t look at his own self in the mirror. Not anymore.
There was a rumor that one of the Piranhas had tipped the kick, but Neal hadn’t been able to bring himself to watch the footage to see for himself. He’d rather walk barefoot over hot lava.
“Yeah,” Neal said shortly. What was he supposed to say? No, I’m not coming? I know what you’re going to do and I can avoid it forever if I avoid coming here?
“You’re a valuable member of this organization,” Michael said kindly. Lied kindly.
Neal had been a valuable member of his organization, signed right out of college when the Riptide had been an expansion team. He’d played for Los Angeles for his entire career. He’d been rock solid, never missing when he needed to make it. He might not be able to routinely kick the sixty-yard field goals that were the new norm, but he could reliably kick in the high fifties, and there weren’t a lot of kickers out there who could say that.
But all it took was one miss. And a miss in front of millions? It erased every good thing he’d ever done. Neal felt empty inside, as Michael smiled, full of cold sympathy. “I told them I wanted to do it, because it’d be easier coming from me.”
Neal hadn’t ever come out officially, but he and Michael, who was out, who’d been one of the first gay executives in professional football, were an open secret. When they’d started to date, Michael had made lots of promises, both to his boss, and to Neal. We’ll never let our personal and professional relationship intersect, he’d vowed, and Neal had agreed because that was something he’d wanted, too.
Except now, they weren’t separate at all. They were intertwined, staring at him in the corner, the ugly elephant in the room.
“Is that really what you think?” Neal asked. He’d told himself when he’d dressed this morning for this meeting that he’d take the punishment. But that was when he thought he’d be meeting with Michael’s boss.
“That it doesn’t have to be hard? Of course it doesn’t. You can just turn around and walk away, and things will go back to the way they were before.”
Except Neal already knew that couldn’t happen. He could see it in Michael’s eyes, which had gone inexplicably cold.
It was salt in the wound that it was going to be the man he loved, who he’d thought loved him, who was going to be the one to tell him that his services were no longer required by the Riptide. The only team he’d ever known. Before this moment, he’d even stupidly believed they were like a family.
But family didn’t come and go. Family didn’t judge. Family accepted you, even when you fucked up. Even when you fucked up at the worst time imaginable.
It was his own goddamn mistake, Neal realized, he’d forgotten what it was that ran this league. Money. And he’d just lost the Riptide a whole fuckton of money.
“Well, not exactly how it was before,” Michael added, still painfully sympathetic, but at least he was being more honest now. In the two years since they’d begun dating, his blond hair had started to gray at the temples, and trying to marshal his temper, Neal focused on those silvering strands. Because he knew what Michael meant. Knew that it wasn’t just his job he was losing.
He'd known because Michael couldn’t even look at him anymore. How could you have a relationship with someone who blamed you every single moment of every single day?
“I didn’t think so,” Neal growled.
“At the time, it was a good fit,” Michael said. “But now . . .”
Neal stood abruptly. He was a grown man, but he felt like a goddamn child, anger flaring through him, burning through all his self-control, unleashing things that he’d only thought about in the dark of night, when he couldn’t sleep. “Is that what I was to you? An accurate, reliable convenience?”
“You were a valuable member of the Riptide organization . . .” Michael said smoothly, then stopped abruptly, in the middle of his fucking platitude, no doubt realizing what he’d just said.
Were.
“Yeah, I thought so.” Neal shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “I fucking thought so.”
Michael’s handsome face didn’t flinch. “Now, there’s no need to get angry. You know . . . you know we can’t keep you on this team. Not after . . .” He couldn’t even say it out loud. After you lost us our place in history, the only modern team to repeat Super Bowl wins. “After what happened,” Michael finished awkwardly.
“After I missed the kick?” Neal ground out. “You can say it, it’s not going to kill you.”
Just me. It’s only gonna end up killing me. Everyone else will go on, move on, focus on next year, but I’ll be stuck there forever, in that moment.
“There’s plenty of teams that are going to want you, Neal,” Michael said.
Neal wondered if he’d written down a whole list of painful platitudes to recite ahead of time. Wondered if he’d made Gavin, his assistant, put them on notecards, and he’d memorized them that way.
That seemed like exactly the kind of shitty, heartless thing that Michael would do. At some point, Neal had found it amusing, the bloodless way he went about his job, how he was all cool, clear-cut logic. But that was before Michael had turned all that logic onto him, and Neal discovered that he didn’t give a shit if it cut him and left him a bloody fucking mess.
It was like seeing him for the first time; and realizing that maybe he’d loved something that had never really existed at all.
“But not you,” Neal countered.
“The Riptide are going in a different direction next season,” he said. His face softened, just a little, but it felt so calculating, and the veil had been lifted from Neal’s eyes—he’d never be able to see Michael again, with those gorgeous blue eyes, and be able to see them as anything other than painfully cold.
“And you?”
“Me?” Michael had the nerve to sound surprised, like he couldn’t believe that Neal was dragging their relationship into this. Like he hadn’t just fucked Neal into the mattress and dried his tears only a few days ago. Like he hadn’t seen how destroyed Neal was after the game. Like he didn’t know just how much Neal wanted to forget and had done his best to help him.
“You,” Neal retorted. “That’s what we’re talking about, right? Because every single fucking sports reporter, when they’re not covering Colin O’Connor’s victorious retirement, is predicting how fast the Riptide is going to release me.”
“We talked about this,” his boyfriend said carefully, “that we wouldn’t let our relationship intrude into Riptide business.”
He had. He’d promised. And then when the time came to let Neal go, to put the final nail in his coffin, he’d volunteered to hold the hammer.
It was impossible not to take that personally. Michael could say all he wanted to that he thought it’d be easier if he delivered the blow himself, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Neal. Almost better than anybody else, which was particularly galling in this horrible moment.
“Yeah,” Neal said shortly. “Exactly.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say, you sure didn’t waste any time twisting the knife you just shoved in my back,” Neal sneered.
“That’s not . . .” Michael stopped abruptly. “Maybe it’s better this way, anyway. I was going to give you some time to adjust, but yes, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better to just kill two birds with one stone.”
The sudden shift in his tone—resolute and resigned, like he’d always planned it would happen this way—was like an ugly kaleidoscope, further revealing what he was really capable of. How had Neal never seen it before? He didn’t know, but he was furious now. Furious that he’d opened himself up to someone who had turned out not to give a single shit.
Someone who could sit there while he cried and plan how to further ruin his life.
“It sure fucking is better this way,” Neal spat out. “I can’t fucking believe that I ever thought you cared about me. Not when . . . not when . . .” He found he couldn’t finish the thought, that voicing how much he’d thought Michael cared about him but never had, hurt like fucking hell.
He’d thought missing that forty-four-yard field goal in the Super Bowl was the most humiliating experience of his entire life, but no, it was this.
Realizing that the man he’d thought he loved was a dead-eyed stranger, who couldn’t wait to briskly dismiss him, like he’d meant nothing to him or to the team he’d loved.
“It’s over,” Michael said, and Neal knew he meant everything.
Neal’s gaze fell on the framed photo on his desk. The one he’d given him for his last birthday, or was it their anniversary? He couldn’t remember, and suddenly, even seeing it, their arms wrapped around each other, celebrating the first LA Riptide Super Bowl win, rings flashing on their fingers, was too much. He grabbed it, the wooden edges digging into his palm.
“What are you doing?” Michael asked, voice guarded. And yeah, Neal thought with vicious victory, he actually sounded worried now. “Do I need to call security?”
Neal stared at him. “You gonna kick me out?”
“If you’re going to make a scene, yes.” Michael’s hand strayed towards the phone on his desk, and Neal knew he’d do it no matter what, because not only was their relationship an open secret, he wouldn’t be surprised if every single person in this whole facility thought he should be punished for his crime.
What could be more of a punishment than dragging him, disgraced and alone, out of his ex-boyfriend’s office?
“I’m taking this,” Neal said.
“You can’t, because that’s mine,” Michael said, extending his hand.
He didn’t know how they’d ended up here, fighting over a picture in a ten-dollar frame. Just a week ago, before the game that had changed everything, they’d exchanged “I love yous,” like they had hundreds of times before. Michael had told him that he believed in him. But had he really? Neal thought of his older sister, Ella, and how she’d never really warmed to Michael. How he’d never really understood her lack of acceptance and her reticence. And now, it all made sense. She’d seen it, long before he ever did.
“Actually, it’s mine,” Neal said. “It was mine before, and it’s still mine.” It was so stupid to fight over this stupid goddamned picture, but there wasn’t much left of his shredded, tattered pride and he was going to own whatever still existed.
“Neal.” Michael uttered it warningly, and suddenly there was a discreet knock on the door and then it opened and Terry, the head of security for the Riptide, walked in.
“Everything alright?” he asked, glancing from Neal to Michael.
“Neal was just leaving,” Michael said smoothly, like he fired his boyfriends all the time. “And he’s leaving that behind.” He pointed, indicating the picture in his hands.
Neal’s grip on the frame tightened. Was he really going to make a point of this? After everything?
Terry reached out and, with an apologetic look, tried to pluck it from his fingers. Neal didn’t really blame him; after all, Michael was kind of his boss, too.
“Come on, Neal, don’t be childish,” Michael said patronizingly.
“Childish?” Neal spit out. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Take the fucking picture.” He was a kicker for a living—not a pitcher—but he prided himself on being in excellent shape. He flung the picture, just to the left of Michael’s stupidly handsome face, and fucking finally, felt something that wasn’t resignation or anger or disappointment. A savage sense of satisfaction swept through him as his ex flinched, and the picture crashed into the wall in a shower of wood and glass splinters.
Michael gaped first at him, and then at the shattered remnants of the frame. His expression hardened and then he pointed to Terry. “Get him out of here,” he said, and that was how Neal Fisher ended up not only being let go from the Los Angeles Riptide, but escorted off the property.
The Red Zone #3
Prologue
Between the referee’s whistle an dthe snap of th efootball, there was always an eerily silent, utterly static moment.
That split second of time, so quick you could nearly blink and miss it, was almost solely responsible for Spencer Evans falling in love with football all those years ago. Anything was possible in that moment. A hundred thousand possibilities, only defined by the athleticism of everyone on the field. Anything could happen, if only he could make it happen.
To anyone else, Spencer was sure the silence and that strange stillness didn’t exist.
After all, there was the raucous noise from the crowd full of fans—slightly tempered, if it was a home game, but indisputably still loud. The creaking of cleats digging into the turf. The nervous twitch of the offensive lineman’s eyes as he stared Spencer down from behind his helmet. The flash of blue of a wide receiver—probably Chase Riley, if Spencer guessed —switching sides, trying to find an open slot so he could move down the field unchecked.
In that moment there was nothing, and there was everything.
Spencer inhaled, and then, just as he was about to exhale, the ball snapped and he didn’t even think, just let years of well-honed instincts hijack his body and use it for their own end goal.
The end goal?
To disrupt the play unfolding in front of him.
To slough off the offensive linemen converging on his position.
To reach the quarterback and make sure he didn’t have even the handful of seconds he needed to throw the ball downfield.
Especially that he didn’t have the handful of seconds he needed to throw the ball downfield to Chase Riley.
One lineman, big and bulky, with a determined set to his shoulders even under his pads, faced off in front of him first, but Spencer had been dealing with this asshole the whole game so far, and up til now, he hadn’t managed to stop him, and he wasn’t going to stop him this time either.
Spencer thrust out his arm and skirted around him, smashing his palm right into the center of his jersey, keeping his center of gravity low and steady, using all the strength in his legs to keep them churning, keep them moving. He rounded the corner around the first guy, and of fucking course, there was a second guy there. His sole job was to back up the first guy; make sure that Spencer didn’t break through.
It was only a matter of time before they’d start to double-team him, and the very first play of the second half? It was exactly what Spencer would have told them to do. But it was hardly unexpected, and Spencer had already anticipated it.
It was a good plan, in theory. The problem was in reality, Spencer totally outmatched the second-string tight end, who was big and probably pretty fast, but not nearly smart enough to be the starter.
Spencer knew this because he wasn’t quick enough to anticipate Spencer’s sudden dodge to the inside. He’d expected him to go to the outside, where there was empty field and a clear, easy path to the quarterback. Sam Crawford had had the ball in his hands for approximately two point four seconds at this point, and Spencer knew he could get to him, could feel it deep down, in his bones, in his tiring, overworked muscles, as he strained to whip around one last player, and suddenly, unexpectedly, everything stopped.
The pop was jarring. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, not at first, but the unexpected sensation stopped him, moored him in place, and he found himself dropping to his knees. There was a roar in his ears and everything went fuzzy, but it took another few seconds, and then, finally, the pain hit.
Spencer had experienced a lot of pain in his years playing football. He’d broken a leg once; he’d sprained both ankles numerous times. He’d had his nose shattered and then put back together—his aunt Pru thought he looked more distinguished with it listing slightly to the right now, anyway—but he’d never experienced anything like this.
The pain was centered around the lower half, right above his heel.
Spencer knew what it was, without a doctor examining him, without a single consultation.
At thirty-two, his career wouldn’t be over by a long stretch, but it had sure gotten a whole lot fucking harder.
He breathed in and then out again as Sam Crawford threw the ball, landing it perfectly in Chase Riley’s hands as he ran for a solid twenty-yard gain.
Spencer hadn’t stopped Crawford. Hadn’t pounded him into the turf like he’d done already twice this game.
Nope. Spencer’s body had done all the stopping on this play.
He rolled onto his back, grinding his teeth against the consuming pain.
The referee blew the play dead.
Everyone around him got up, starting to head towards the new first down marker, established by Riley’s catch and run.
But Spencer stayed.
He supposed he could try to get up. Try to hobble over to the bench. He would probably get a load of crap later for staying put. That was just the kind of passive-aggressive shit that the dumbasses in his locker room would try to pull.
Somehow even being a two-time Defensive Player of the Year winner was not enough to prevent anyone and everyone from calling him a pussy.
At any other moment, Spencer would have cared. He’d have dragged himself up. He’d done it enough times, in that never-ending cycle to be the tough guy who wasn’t any less of a man just because he liked men in his bed.
But this was different.
Shaughnessey stopped at his shoulder. Just out of visual range. But Spencer could hear him. Feel him. When someone was a threat, you learned to sense them.
His own teammate shouldn’thave been one. It should have been the aqua and blue jerseys on the other side of the field that were the threats, but Spencer had discovered nine years ago that sportsmanship wasn’t as cut and dried as those ESPN documentaries tried to make it.
People were shitty. And Shaughnessey was the worst of the bunch.
“Hey, dickwad, you slackin’ over here?”
Spencer didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
Figured his non-response was enough of an answer.
Another player jogged up. It was Blaze, and he actually looked concerned.
“You okay, big man?” Blaze was one of the semi-decent guys on the team. A long, lean corner, he could pluck a ball right out of a wide receiver’s hands, or stretch himself out, full length, and prevent them from ever feeling it brush their fingertips.
He was real good, and even more importantly, he was not like Shaughnessey.
“Achilles,” Spencer said tightly.
“Oh, fuck,” Blaze said. Spencer saw him wave to the sideline, and a few medical personnel jogged out.
“Get your ass up,” Shaughnessey barked. “We ain’t no pussies here. This is our city, goddamn it, and we’re gonna punish Crawford for ever thinkin’ he can play here.”
“Fuck off,” Blaze told him succinctly. “Spence is hurt.”
Shaughnessey rolled his eyes and turned away. It wasn’t all that unexpected, but it would be easier, Spencer told himself, if he wasn’t around for this next part anyway.
The medical team stripped off his shoe, his sock, and the tape around his ankle, Spencer straining against the pain of it as it ripped across the back of his calf, right where the agony lived.
“Let’s get you up,” one of the guys said, “we need to get you to the locker room. Scan time.”
They helped him up, and as they walked off the field, Spencer being assisted by two guys half his size, he heard the roar of the crowd echoing in his ears.
He’d been booed before, after an injury. But the Riptide fans were classy that way. Or maybe they were just happy that in the annual Battle of Los Angeles game, one of the most important pieces had just been removed.
They didn’t know—couldn’t know yet—but Spencer already did.
He’d be sidelined for some time to come.
Spencer squirmed on the examination table, the paper crinkling under his big body. It had been the longest three months of his life since he’d torn his Achilles. He was more than ready to get on with the rest of his recovery.
“I bet you’re ready to get this cast off,” Mary said, her hands competent as she manipulated the heavy sharp shears that cut through the plaster surrounding his calf like it was sopping wet paper.
“I could do with a bit more breathability,” Spencer admitted wryly.
He’d never worn a full plaster cast before—he’d gotten lucky enough that he’d only ever been in boots. This cast business? He hadn’t anticipated just how crappy an experience it was.
“Could also do without using a coat hanger to scratch every itch,” Spencer added, because the sutures, while healed, had itched like a bitch while they’d been turning into scar tissue.
And that didn’t even take into consideration the horrible cramps he’d experienced, running all up and down his calf while his torn Achilles tendon had healed.
Shaughnessey would have delighted in calling him every name in the book if he could’ve seen how Spencer mashed his face into his pillow and just screamed, unable to move his leg to alleviate the cramp, or the debilitating pain that followed after.
Out of all the injuries he’d ever experienced—and he’d experienced his fair share, because what NFL player hadn’t—this was definitely ranking up there as his least favorite.
Mary peeled off the rest of the cast, and Spencer grimaced at the sight before him.
His lower leg, which hadn’t seen sunshine or fresh air in three months, was a sickly jaundiced yellow. The muscle tone that he’d always taken such pride in honing, until he was a well-oiled machine, had withered away until his calf resembled a stick figure and not the muscular tone of his other leg.
“Looks pretty gruesome, doesn’t it?” Mary said with commiseration in her tone.
It did look terrible, but it was more than that. Spencer looked at it and saw all the many months he was going to have to spend recovering. And he’d already given three months of his life.
Three precious months of the off-season, because the injury had happened in late November, at the tail end of the season. He’d be lucky if he made it back in fighting shape by April, when OTAs—optional training sessions—officially began. And because Spencer was Spencer, stubbornness ingrained in him, he’d never missed a single one. Even though sometimes he had a love-hate relationship with football, being the best was important to him. A point of pride.
“I didn’t expect . . .” He trailed off. He had expected recovery to be hard. He hadn’t expected it to be this hard.
“You’ve never been in a real cast, have you?” Mary asked sympathetically.
Spencer shook his head.
“Well, Doctor Chandarana will be in shortly, to discuss PT options with you. But I think she’s going to be happy with how it’s healed.”
“Really?” Spencer couldn’t help his skepticism.
Mary shot him a frank look. It was one of the reasons he’d liked her so much. “For a lot of people, this injury would’ve ended their career,” she said. “You know that, Spencer.”
He did know it. It was what he’d feared, all those long December nights, when he’d lain awake in bed and wondered what he was going to do with his life if that was the case for him.
And those thoughts always, inevitably prompted others.
Ones that asked, And what’ve you been doing with it so far?
Questions he’d never been able to answer.
“I know,” Spencer said.
It was too hard, usually, to think about if things had been different. If he’d made a different choice and not come out of the closet. If he’d been drafted by a different team. If the team he had been drafted to had been different.
But it wasn’t different.
He couldn’t change the past.
But, a voice in the back of his head echoed, you can change the future.
It wasn’t like Spencer had never considered it. It would be impossible to live the life he’d lived for the last nine years and not ever think about what he could change.
There was a soft knock on the door and Dr. Chandarana walked in, her expression no-nonsense. She was one of the best orthopedic surgeons in Southern California, but he’d have selected her despite that, because from the first moment, she’d been brutally honest, with none of the usual bullshit hedging that made him crazy.
“Hello, Mr. Evans,” she said briskly, immediately walking over and examining his ankle carefully, not touching it yet. “How are you feeling today?”
“Glad to have the cast off,” he admitted.
She pulled a pair of gloves on, and he flinched the moment she touched his ankle. It was unbelievably stiff as she manipulated it around.
“It will take time,” she said, “to break up the scar tissue and regain your flexibility.”
“And my muscle tone,” he said ruefully.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But I know the best physical therapist in the city. Mary will get you their card. And you’ll work hard.”
She stated it like fact. And yes, most football players he knew would work hard. But she’d gotten to know Spencer, and he figured she knew by now that he’d be committed to working the hardest.
Spencer nodded. He’d already known the recovery from this injury would be long and grueling. He just hadn’t anticipated it being quite so long or quite so grueling.
“When do you think I’ll be back?” he asked, even though he knew she wouldn't give him a solid answer. So much depended on his devotion to the PT work, and so much depended on factors that he couldn’tcontrol, like how well his Achilles had been repaired.
She pursed her lips. “You know I can’t answer that, Mr. Evans,” she said. “But if you commit to your PT like I hope you will, I don’t think playing this season is out of the question.”
“I don’t want to just play this season,” Spencer said. “I want to play the whole goddamn season.”
“The sky is the limit, as long as you are willing to put in the work,” she said, a glimmer of a smile appearing on her face for the first time. “And you’re certainly not afraid of that.”
He wasn’t.
There were other things he was afraid of.
Things he didn’t talk about.
Things he barely let himself think about.
Things that couldn’t be changed unless he was willing to blow up his whole life.
He’d never been willing to do that before, but now?
He’d gotten a taste of what it would be like if he lost football. That long, lonely, miserable, interminable winter. And on the other side of that black hole, the risk no longer looked as terrible as it once had.
Maybe . . . Spencer thought . . . maybe.
Beth Bolden
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
The Rivalry #1
Rough Contact #2
The Red Zone #3
Kitchen Gods Series
Charleston Condors
Rainbow Clause
Los Angeles Riptide Series
Food Truck Warriors
Star Shadow
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