I’m waiting for the guys to get here since we’re all riding over in the limo. I’m normally pumped as hell about this party because my inner kid rejoices at getting to dress up for Halloween. Tonight’s excitement is trumped considerably at the prospect of seeing Ivy dressed up and as my date.

She agreed to go to this Halloween bash put on by ESPN only if she could avoid the red carpet action and all the photos. Of course, I’m a little disappointed I won’t have her by my side for the entirety, but I understand. She’s always been up front about her aversion to that sort of attention, and I respect it.

The first sign that my guys are screwing up my plans—or more specifically, my theme of movie and TV duos—is when they start showing up at my door.

Dax and Mario arrive first. Dressed in a plain beige T-shirt, Dax has a sunglass-wearing baby doll in a carrier strapped to his chest. Behind him is Mario in a plain white sleeveless shirt with a giant-size Hello Kitty bandage on his shoulder.

I stare at the two for a moment, trying to scan my memory of the movie The Hangover but keep coming up short.

“Hold up.”

The two stop before me, and I point at Dax.

“I know you’re the guy from The Hangover”—I wave my hand at Mario—“but I don’t remember anyone with a Hello Kitty bandage.”

Dax’s lips curve into the widest, shit-eating grin. “Probably because we’re not from that movie.”

“Then who—”

Dax points both index fingers at himself. “You’re looking at Uncle Becket.”

Before I can manage to respond, Mario beams with pride and points to the Hello Kitty bandage. “And I’m ‘My shoulder’s botherin’ me because I’m a pussy’ Becket Jones.”

Jesus.

I place my hands on my hips and glare at them. “We had a plan. A theme.”

“Change of plans.” Dax slaps my arm playfully and grins. “Plus, I think your ball-buster of a woman will love it.”

I squint at them. “Get outta here.” I tip my head toward the living room where I have snacks laid out. “Feed your inner mean girl while you’re at it.”

They boom with laughter as they stride down the hallway, and I close the door. Once I step into the living room, the doorbell rings again, and I find myself wondering what the hell will be on the other side.

As soon as I open the door, my eyes widen in shock. Briefly, that is. Because I should have known better.

Tank, our lineman, is clad in only a pair of black Under Armour boxer briefs. But that isn’t what’s drawn my attention. Nope. It’s his large belly that appears to have drawn-on abs—or specifically a six-pack—in black marker.

I raise my eyes to meet his laughing ones. “I know I’m gonna regret asking who you’re dressed as.”

His mouth stretches into a wide, toothy smile, his top front gold tooth shining back at me. He playfully slaps my shoulder before stepping around me to enter the house. “I’m Becket Jones, the underwear model.”

I can only manage to stare after him as he disappears down the hall to join the others.

“Trick or treat.”

At the sound of her voice, my lips part for an immediate smile, but the moment I turn my head and take in the sight of her, I falter.

Holy shit.

I’m faced with the only woman who could possibly make this costume look sexy as hell. I mean, overalls and a paisley shirt unbuttoned, and dark-framed glasses shouldn’t make any woman look so appealing. Ivy gives the character Laney Boggs, an unpopular high school art student from the movie She’s All That, a run for her money.

But on her, she’s…

“Well, hell, if you aren’t exactly what the movie title says.” I snake an arm around her waist to pull her close. With a quick press of my lips to her forehead, I lean back to take her in once again.

“She’s all that,” I murmur. My eyes lock with hers, and I detect a shimmer of pride in the depths.

“Well, you’re no slouch for a Freddie Prinze Jr. either, buddy.” She pats my chest with a sly smile before glancing past me, eyes narrowing at the sight of Dax. “Hey,” she yells down the hall, “I thought you said we were all showing up at the same time.”

“Sorry, Ivy.” Dax’s response carries down the hall. “We had to space ours out in order to carry out the dramatic entrance.”

Ivy stares at me in confusion. “Dramatic entrance?”

I shake my head. “Go see for yourself.”

She steps closer and draws a finger down my chest before she pauses over my crotch and my cock jerks at her light touch.

“Stop touching me there!” I say in loud faux outrage, grinning down at her the entire time.

She rolls those beautiful blue eyes at me. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re the one touching me where my mom always said were no-no places.”

“No-no places?” Her eyebrows rise, eyes dancing merrily. “Do you ever actually listen to what comes out of your mouth?”

I smirk and hold up a finger. “Give me a moment.” I close my eyes and say, “I have to savor the fact you said the words come and mouth in the same sentence.” Then I let out a dreamy sigh. “God, that was just beautiful.”

“Ugh.” She shoves at me, and I grab her swiftly and grin before I place a quick kiss on her lips.

“I love messing with you.”

The edges of her lips twitch as she attempts to restrain a smile. “Clearly.”

“But, really, Ivy,” I say with utter seriousness. “You shouldn’t touch me down there.”

One eyebrow arches. “That’s not what you said the other night.”

Mollified, I gasp dramatically. “I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating. I’m a man of delicate sensibilities.”

“Really?”

My expression crumples, and a smile breaks free. “Nah. Not even. I mean, come on.” I lift a shoulder in a half shrug. “I get slapped on the ass by other men on a pretty regular basis. Nothing too delicate about that.”

She laughs, her eyes shining with amusement. “You’re something else.”

Ivy moves past me, getting in a little swat of my ass, and strides down the hall. I shove the door closed without breaking my attention, still admiring the way her ass looks fine as hell in those overalls. Her long brown hair gently sways against her back as she moves.

“You’ve got it bad, dude.”

So caught up in my staring, I hadn’t realized the door didn’t close, and my final guest had arrived.

Instantly, I fix a hard glare at Myers, our kicker. By far, he has the most elaborate costume out of all the guys. “Not you, too?”

He flashes me a toothy grin. “Damn straight.” Stepping inside, he closes the door behind him, and this is when I truly get a look at the extent of detail that went into this costume.

On exactly one-half of him, from top to bottom, he’s wearing a T-shirt with my number on the chest and one leg clad in jeans. Directly down his center, like a dividing line, the different fabrics are sewn together. The opposite side is a dress, including half a dark-haired wig with a blue streak in it. He’s even gone so far as to wear one woman’s shoe—albeit a low-heeled one.

He turns, the male side facing me. “Becket Jones, NFL star, nice to meet you.” Then he turns and gives me the other side, and his voice changes to a higher falsetto. “I’m Blue, Becket’s best friend for-ev-errrrrr.”

Creative as hell as his getup is, I still can’t believe this shit.

“You guys are messed up.” I pad down the hall, intent on grabbing a bottle of water.

“It’s because we emulate you.”

I let out a huff of a laugh because he’s full of it. “That’s got to be the first time you’ve ever used that word.”

“You’re not the only one who has a Word of the Day app on their phone,” he protests, his voice laced with amusement. “But, yeah, you’re right.” He slaps a hand on my back good-naturedly. “First time for everything. Now, where’s this woman of yours I’ve heard so much about?” Myers glances around, and when his eyes land on Ivy, they widen dramatically.

“Well, hell.” We all exchange odd looks of confusion. Myers turns to me and shakes his head, appearing regretful. “I can’t believe you stole Miss January out from under me.” He pokes an index finger at my chest. “I specifically recall putting a star beside her name on the Sports Illustrated calendar and staking my claim!”

I laugh and look over at Ivy, whose cheeks are flushed.

She steps forward. “Who’s this smooth-talker friend of yours?” she asks me, her eyes dancing with amusement.

He takes a step toward her and holds his arms out wide. “Come to Uncle Myers. Hug it out, girl.”

Ivy laughs and…God, she’s so damn gorgeous my breath lodges in my chest. When she steps up to my teammate, and he wraps his arms around her, eyeing me smugly, I can’t contain the growl of disapproval.

“Oh, no he di’in’t!” Tank whoops and proceeds to give everyone a play-by-play. “Jones thought he was going for a pick six, but he should know Myers was pulling some trickeration.”

“Simmer down,” I command. “Especially if you plan to show my lovely lady your karaoke game.”

Tank bounds up from the couch and preens, running a hand down his bare chest. “Son, you better prepare to lose your woman to me tonight.” Addressing Ivy, he holds out his meaty hand. “Come sit by me and prepare to be wooed by my stellar rap skills.”

Collective boos sound as everyone teases him.

And this is how our pre-party starts.

* * *

“Car’ll be here in twenty!” I holler to be heard above the loud din of conversation between karaoke songs.

The guys bought me a home karaoke kit as a housewarming gift. Of course, that merely means they end up coming over to use it, but I don’t mind. They crack me up.

I twist open another bottle of water and take a long drink when Ivy sidles up beside me. “Your friends are something else.”

I laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I like them.”

I glance over at her only to find her eyes flitting over my teammates, a soft smile playing on her lips.

“They’re good guys,” I mutter. “Just don’t tell them I said that.”

Her lips part to respond, but she’s interrupted by Tank.

“Ivvvvvvyyyyyy!” He waves her over. “Come ’ere, gorgeous. Sing with me.”

Ivy’s spine stiffens, her smile tightening slightly at the edges. It strikes me as odd at first, but I reason it must be related to her aversion to having attention on her.

“I’m a terrible singer,” she deflects, waving him off.

“Nonsense! Now get yo’ ass over here!”

She looks at me for help, and I laugh before I lean in. “It’s okay. Just humor him. He’s harmless.”

Five minutes later, I’m leaning against the back of the couch in my living room, surrounded by my four closest teammates and the woman I’m in love with. Tank’s trying his hand at singing a Cranberries song, “Zombie,” and doing a poor job of it. He’s left the chorus to Ivy, who’s singing softly and a bit off tune, her nervousness apparent in her white-knuckled grip on the microphone. But something strikes me as odd.

I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s almost like she’s actually trying not to sing well, which is…bizarre. I scan the expressions of the other guys, but none of them appear to register anything, so maybe it’s just me.

Still, as the night progresses, my confusing observation plagues me.