After Sunday’s game, I get back to my apartment, write an article about Felix, submit it, and go to bed.

In the morning, my boss calls me into his office.

“What the hell is this?”

He’s holding up my article. It’s covered in red pen.

I frown. “I guess you didn’t run it.”

“Of course I didn’t fucking run it.” He sighs. “I told you what I want from you. Not this, whatever it is.” He tosses the paper onto his desk.

I stand. “Okay. Is that all?”

“Play ball, Brynn.”

I shrug and leave his office.

I head over to my desk, sit down, and try to figure out what I’m going to do.

I should be numb right now. I’m caught between two things. On the one side, my boss wants more Sean. On the other, I’m banned from writing about him at all.

Then there’s Sean himself. He doesn’t seem to give a shit about my problems, and I have to admit, I don’t blame him. He just wants me.

And I like that. I really, really like that.

I’m so tempted to tell everyone to go to hell, to run off with Sean, to let him do whatever he wants with me.

The more I sit here, trying to work up the nerve to make a decision, the more I can’t care.

I should be numb. Except I’m not.

Because I’m buzzing with Sean. I’m buzzing with a need for him that I’m shocked still drives me absolutely wild.

What he did to me after the game, the way he dominated me, controlled me, and got me off… it was incredible. I’ve never felt like that before. I got myself together and left that room yesterday practically still shaking from that orgasm.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

I’m starting to realize something. It’s not a nice thought, not a nice realization, but it’s true.

Of everything that’s happened to me this season, there’s only one thing that actually felt good.

It’s Sean, the way he kisses me, the way he touches me.

He’s the only constant. Putting aside my stupid career, my anger at him lying about sleeping with me, my prejudices against him, putting all that aside, I know what’s true.

I know what I really want.

I want Sean. I want him to kiss me, touch me, make me laugh.

I can’t get past it. Can’t get around it.

My phone rings a few hours later, just like I knew it would. “Hello,” I say.

“I’m going to come pick you up,” Sean says softly. “Can you leave right now?”

“I’ll be right down,” I say softly, and hang up.

Screw doing what’s practical. Screw trying to get ahead. I need to do what feels good.

So I gather my stuff and I leave. It’s just after five, which is normally fine, but my boss expects new copy on his desk.

He’s not getting it. Not right now at least.

Sean’s sitting outside of the office in a vintage Mustang convertible. He grins at me as I hop in the passenger side.

“Where do you want to go?” he asks.

I shrug. “Anywhere.”

“Good answer.” He puts it in drive and pulls out into traffic.

One of the best things about living in Fargo is the landscape. It’s beautiful out here, especially when you get outside of town. It’s pristine, wild, untamed. I love that about it, the danger, the beauty. We drive for a half hour, following twisty roads, taking the back way. Trees thin out when Sean pulls off the main road, taking a little side street through a state park.

He pulls the car over in a gravel lot. Up ahead, trees spread into the distance.

He looks at me, a little smile on his lips. “What?” I ask.

“I knew you’d answer,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be a dick.”

He laughs. “Sorry.”

“Where are we right now?”

“Miller State Park,” he says.

“It’s nice out here.”

He shrugs. “It’s not bad. I come here sometimes when I need a break from all the football bullshit. Some decent hiking paths.”

“Really? You never struck me as a hiking kind of guy.”

We settle back into our seats. Neither of us wants to leave the car, and that’s fine by me. We’re alone in the woods on a little patch of gravel. It’s surprisingly pretty out here, all alone.

“You don’t know all that much about me,” he says, smirking.

“Tell me something, then.”

He frowns. “Okay. I used to play in a punk rock band.”

I blink. “Are you serious?”

“Yep. Back in ninth grade, before I joined football. We were called The Spunks and we were fucking awful.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You were a punk.”

“Yeah, but a shitty one.”

“Don’t punks hate jocks?”

“They sure do.” He grins a me. “I had really long hair back then.”

“How long?”

“Down to my shoulders.”

I groan and laugh. “Better than a mohawk.”

“I had one of those, too.” He grins and I can’t help but laugh again.

“How did you end up playing football then?” I ask him.

“My dad made me,” he says. “I hated him for it at the time, but he said that if I didn’t go out for a sport in high school then I couldn’t play in my band. So I went out for football, figuring I’d get cut.”

“And you didn’t?” I ask softly.

“I didn’t,” he confirms. “Turns out, I was pretty good. I didn’t start that year because we had this stud guy named Derrick playing QB, but when he graduated the next year, I took over.”

“And won two state championships,” I say softly.

He grins at me. “So maybe you do know something.”

“Just your football stats.”

“Well, yeah. I won two championships. I cut my hair, quit my band, and never looked back after that.”

“Punk turned jock. Huh. I never would’ve guessed it.”

“That doesn’t go in the profile.”

“I can see why. The media likes their quarterbacks to be All American good boys.”

He laughs. “That’s more the NFL, and the media does whatever the league wants.”

I make a face. “That’s not true.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How sure of that are you?”

I go to answer, but hesitate. I’m not actually a part of editorial decision. I usually don’t get to choose what I write about. And I have no clue how Soren comes up with the editorial schedule.

“I don’t know,” I admit finally. “But why would the NFL care about the Fargo Pioneer? I mean, we’re nothing.”

“True,” he says, grinning. “But still, they care about all press.”

I sigh. “You make it sound like a vast conspiracy.”

He taps his right temple with his index finger. “Better not talk so loud, Brynn. They’re listening.”

He gives me a goofy grin and I can’t help but laugh. He leans back in his seat and puts his hands behind his head.

“How’d you end up writing about steroidal morons for a living, anyway?” he asks.

“Boring story, honestly. I was an athlete back in the day, but couldn’t make it past college. Since sports were my thing, I just sort of fell into it.”

He nods a little. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitates for a second. “Well, a lot of these guys that interview us, they never really played sports. You know what I mean? And it shows.”

I snort a little. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“Don’t get me wrong, they know their stats and theory and all that, but like…” He trails off, looking for the words.

“But they don’t know what it feels like to get hit.”

He laughs. “Exactly.”

“I never played football,” I point out.

“But you know.”

I take a breath, and for a second, I’m back on the soccer field, running after a ball, slamming into a defender, pushing my way past, breath screaming with each fast step, the ball jumping out ahead of me, no time to think, no time to do anything but move. It’s exhilarating, out there on the field, acting by pure instinct, getting physical, getting dirty, getting my butt kicked and kicking butt. I always felt so alive out there on the field. Maybe I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.

“Yeah,” I say finally. “I know.”

He nods. “It’s what I liked about you when we first met. I thought you understood.”

“I try to understand, at least,” I say.

“Best you can do. Better than the other guys. They just treat us like cattle.”

I grin at him. “Honestly, that’s how I saw you at first. Just another cocky jock asshole.”

“And now?” he asks.

“Now I can’t help but picture you in a mohawk.”

He laughs and I grin at him. He shakes his head. “I’m gonna regret telling you this, but some of our songs are online.”

“No way.”

“Way. On our old MySpace page. Well, it’s on YouTube now, I think.”

“Oh my god.” I pull out my phone and unlock it. “I have to hear this.”

“No way,” he says, reaching across the car.

I laugh and we struggle for a second, his body close to mine as he grabs at the phone. I laugh and jump out of the car, and he chases me. He swoops me up off my feet, putting me back down on the hood of his car and pulling the phone from my hands.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “You win. Give me back my phone.”

“Promise not to look it up.”

I smile sweetly. “I promise.”

He sighs. “At least wait until I’m not around.”

“Fine.”

He hands the phone back and I put it down beside me. I lean back, legs wrapping around his waist. He smirks and leans toward me, and we kiss.

It feels strangely natural, like this was what had to happen. I can feel a thrill run through me again, a thrill at what I know he can make me feel, excitement pure and unbroken.

But I pull away from him before I can go any further. He raises an eyebrow, cocks his head.

“What’s wrong?”

I bite my lip. “I have to tell you something.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“My boss. He’s been pushing me to write about you. But I have this deal with Wood, and I just… I don’t know what to do.”

He stares at me for a long moment. My heart keeps beating and I watch him back, not sure what he’s thinking.

I’m afraid he’s going to get angry. I wouldn’t really blame him if he did, honestly. Even out here, even after all this, I’m still thinking about myself, my job.

“What is this, Brynn?” he asks me softly.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

He leans closer, grabs my hair. Tilts my head back. “Why do you keep coming to me?” he whispers. “Are you fucking me just to get a story?”

“No,” I groan. “I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

He bites my lower lip. I let out a soft moan.

I want him so badly, it’s driving me insane.

“I told him to go to hell,” I say softly. “But I can’t get away with that for very long.”

“Do you want my help?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

He laughs softly and lets go of my hair. “Come on,” he says.

I blink as he steps away and gets back into the car. I follow him, sliding into the seat next to his.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to my place.”

I bite my lip, right where he bit me just a second ago. I don’t need to ask why. I don’t need to say anything.

I let him drive us back to his apartment, my pulse racing the while time.