I’ve done a lot of fucking hard things in my life. I’ve played football in hundred-degree heat with full padding. I’ve dislocated my shoulder and had to have it pushed back in by the docs on the field, then returned to the game. I’ve even broken two of my ribs clean in half and not missed a single practice or game because of it.

But the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life is walk away from Anna Wilder’s hot, willing body.

I’ve fucked plenty of women over the years. So far, I’ve managed to avoid sticking my dick in crazy and ending up the subject of some tabloid piece revealing what I’m like in the bedroom. Anna promised me she wouldn’t break the story about me trying to get signed back on to the Rockets. But even so, I’m not gonna push my luck by screwing a reporter who already told me she’s hungry to get ahead. She’s already got too much on me as it is. If I get her in bed and she decides she could sell the story to some sleazy talk show in exchange for some sort of some bimbo talking head position, I’m fucked.

Not that I think she’d actually do that. There’s something about Anna’s dark brown eyes when she looks at me. They feel sincere. She seems honest. Real. Way more so than most of the chicks I encounter in my line of work.

Still. I’m not gonna take any chances. At least not until I have a signed contract and a chance to prove myself to the team.

When I get back to my place, I head straight for the bedroom and peel off my clothes. Anna’s tight little body has been right in front of me in my mind ever since I left her at her car. Jesus. I shouldn’t have kissed her. I couldn’t fucking help it, but it was still a dumb-ass move. It would be a hell of a lot easier to forget her right now if I hadn’t felt her full, round tits brushing up against my chest. Even now, my hands remember the outline of her ass as I cupped it and drew her to me, pressing her against my hard-on. Jesus fuck, that felt good. My cock is hard as iron right now, just thinking about it. The way Anna kind of moaned and pressed up against me when she felt how hard I was for her… Shit, she was ready. I know she wanted it just as bad as I did. All I would have had to do was take her by the hand and lead her over to my SUV, and I could have been inside her in the back seat in a hot minute.

God damn, my balls ache.

I slide my jeans off, kicking them to the floor, and ease back onto the bed. Before my head hits the mattress, my cock’s in my hand and I’m stroking it as slowly as I can stand it. I can’t decide what fantasy to choose: Anna’s mouth wrapped around my dick? Anna prone on the bed with me sinking myself deep inside her? Anna on her hands and knees, looking back at me with a coy come-hither stare as I slam into her from behind? Finally, I decide on her mouth, and imagine those cherry-red lips wrapping around my cock head, sliding down my shaft as she takes me as deep as she can. I let out a loud groan and suppress a shudder as I stroke from base to tip, raising my hips up to meet her wet, willing mouth. “Fuck,” I hiss, and start stroking faster, my jaw tense with the effort of trying to hold myself back. It doesn’t take long until I can’t take it anymore and I unleash, coming with a deep, explosive shudder that makes me see stars.

As sleep starts to overtake me, I tell myself that maybe once I’m signed and shit has calmed down a little, I can call Anna up and ask her out. Start from scratch, with neither of us owing the other anything.

Maybe.

The next morning in the light of day, I start to worry Anna will go back on her word. Over breakfast, I grab my tablet and look her up online to see which TV station she works for. I type in “Anna Wilder Springville,” and the first hit that comes up is WSPR TV. I scroll through the “News Team,” and find her picture way down at the bottom of the list of reporters. I click on the head shot, and her bio comes up. I learn that she grew up in Nebraska, and went to college here, at Springville State, where she got a double major in journalism and communications.

Apparently, she loves cross-country skiing and international travel. In her spare time she likes to bake and read.

I wait for a couple of days, tense and on edge, but no story breaks about me in the news. Eventually I start to relax that Anna hasn’t screwed me — just about the time I start getting really nervous that my agent hasn’t called me yet with an offer from the Rockets.

It’s tough being patient when I have basically nothing to do but wait. And shit, waiting is all I’ve been doing for the past year. I can’t even afford to go out and let off some steam, since I need to be on my best behavior whenever I’m in the public eye. So, I hang around my house, watching Sports Center and lifting weights in my home gym, and try not to jump out of my damn skin. I go out to the marina and do some work on the sailboat I keep out there. Finally, three days after the night I met Anna, I get a call from my agent, Tom Price.

“Hey, Tom,” I say, affecting a casual tone. “What’s up?”

I'm sitting too stiffly, muscles all tense as I perch on the edge of the couch. I'm hoping for good news, while trying not to get my hopes up. It’s a fucked up balance.

“Mason!” Tom replies. He sounds in a good mood, and that makes me relax just a bit. “I couldn’t wait to get back to you with this. I hope you’re not busy?”

“Not at the moment, no,” I answer quickly, grabbing the remote to turn off the TV.

“I gotta say, kid. I wasn’t sure we could pull this off, but damn. I’ve got some great news!”

Immediately, my heart is beating fast. Finally.

I wait for him to continue, but Tom has stopped talking. “Well?” I growl, impatient. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Let’s uh…” he trails off. “You know, let’s meet for lunch and talk the deal over.” His voice has gone serious. “There’s actually quite a bit that I need to tell you. It is good news, but I have to say it’s...complicated.”

My guard immediately goes back up. I fucking hate complicated shit. My stomach drops to the floor. This was too good to be true, I think, but stop myself.

Pull your shit together, Robichaud. Hear what the man has to say.

“Look,” I say into the phone. “You have to tell me, is there anything that could get in the middle of me getting picked up? If nothing else, at least tell me that much.”

“Not necessarily,” he says slowly, which is not reassuring at all. “You’ll have to make the decision for yourself once you hear it. I got you the best deal I could, just so you know.”

I sigh and lean back into the couch, pushing my hair back off my forehead. “So, lunch,” I sigh. “Where and when?”

“How about one o’clock? I’ll text you the place and directions.”

Tom and I say our goodbyes, then he hangs up. I look at my phone. I’ve got two hours to kill until I have to meet him. Two hours of wondering what the fuck is going on.

And whether I’m going to be a Rocket, or whether my football career just flew out the goddamn window.