We’re gearing up for the Super Bowl. If we win this one, I can hang up my jersey with even more pride.

I know what they’re saying about me. Hell, I can’t watch SportsCenter anymore. Sure I’m playing like a madman fueled by pure desperation and demons on his tail, but it’s working. I’ve helped my team score more points now than I have in my career thus far with the Jags.

There’s a saying that the person you want to call and share your news with first is the person who means the most to you. Shitty as it is, I’m dying to tell Ivy about my scores, about my long passes. I’m dying to simply hear her voice. To touch her. To have her curl up beside me in bed.

I’m dying to tell her I have a half brother and a nephew I never knew about. I can only hope Nathan will get the help he needs and come out of this mess with his anger issues resolved and gambling addiction under control. Granted, I’m not too fond of the guy, but the lawyers and Nathan’s grandmother—who now has custody of Sammy—agreed to let me officially introduce myself to my nephew. Sammy’s an amazing kid, and his great-grandmother has been doing a wonderful job with him.

When Nathan’s mother discovered the man she loved had been cheating on his wife—my mother—with her, she’d driven off in a fit of rage. She’d lost control of her car on the interstate, hit the median head-on, and had been killed on impact.

Our father had passed a few years later, and Nathan had been raised by the grandmother. Later, the lovely older woman had taken in both Nathan and Sammy after Nathan’s wife had passed away from a drug overdose. Poor Sammy has been through far more than any kid should have to endure.

My front door opens, and I whip my head from where I’m lounging on my couch to find Dax strolling in with Tank right behind him, each of them holding large bags of takeout.

I peer at them curiously and watch as they wave and set the bags on the large island counter and begin pulling out containers.

“Uh, guys? What’s going on?”

Most of the guys were planning to head to some get-together at Hooters. I opted to channel surf and ice my shoulder instead. Just haven’t been in the mood for socializing much lately.

Tank doesn’t turn around. “Now, son. You should know the looks of an intervention when you see one.”

What?

He looks over and grins, that tooth of his flashing in the kitchen lighting. “Get yo’ ass ready to sing ‘Kumbaya.’”

I scrub a hand down my face wearily. “Yeah, I’m not really in the mood for that kind of shit.”

“Too bad. It’s movie and takeout night.” This comes from Dax, who removes the lid from one large round container and brings it to me. “Here. Your favorite salmon poke bowl.” He hands me a napkin and a fork.

“Thanks.” I accept the food gratefully. “Appreciate this, guys.”

“We can’t have you wastin’ away now.” Tank shakes his head sadly. “Just won’t do.” He takes a seat on the couch with his own large container on his lap. “Ain’t no challenge with the ladies if you don’t have competition no more.” He cackles before forking a large helping of food into his mouth.

I shake my head with a little laugh and stab a large piece of salmon on my fork. “What are we watching?”

Dax settles in his spot with his meal and grabs the remote. “There’s this great show coming on in a minute, actually. Must-see, from what I’ve heard.”

Something in his voice has me eyeing him oddly. “What show is it?”

When 60 Minutes flashes on the screen, I immediately protest. “This is not my idea of—” I lose whatever I was saying because of the sight on the screen.

Ivy.

I whip my head around to stare at my friends. “What is this?” I demand.

“Just watch.” That’s all the answer it appears I’ll get from Dax.

Tank merely nods, too busy eating.

“Tonight, we have a story filled with heartache and danger, but it’s also one that can serve as inspiration. Many of you might know her from the photographs with Becket Jones, NFL quarterback, who’s known for more than his impressive feats on the field. He’s a passionate advocate for cancer research, and he’s well known for being one of the nicest athletes out there.

“Recently, Jones has been faced with accusations—which, I must note, have recently been retracted—and the person at the center has been cited as untrustworthy and plagued with addiction. This evening, however, we’re airing an interview with a woman who has chosen to come forth and share her story—one she’s kept secret for over fifteen years.

“Ivy Hayes, formerly known as Ivy Donohue, the child prodigy once said to have an unmatchable talent for playing the piano and a haunting contralto vocal range, will share with us a story of how a young child rose from the lowest of lows to become an entrepreneur. Stay with us after this commercial break.”

I dart a sharp look at Dax. “You knew about this.” I don’t phrase it as a question, but a statement. Accusatory.

Calmly, he nods. “I did,” he says around a mouthful of food. He chews and swallows before pinning me with a dark look. “You’ll sit right there and watch it. Or else I’ll have Tank sit on your ass to make you.”

I flash him a dirty look but stay quiet, internally torn as commercials flicker across the screen. Before I know it, the show is back on, and my breath is lodged in my throat.

She’s sitting in a chair, dressed in a simple pair of black slacks and a sleeveless blouse in a shade of blue that brings out her eyes. Her hair is simple and left loose, cascading down her back and shoulders.

She looks so goddamn beautiful it fucking hurts to look at her.

“Ivy, can you start us off at the beginning with how you came to realize you had a gift for playing the piano?” the female interviewer prompts.

Ivy smiles, and I notice the hint of nervousness in it. She folds her hands in her lap and tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. “My grandmother had left us her baby grand when she’d passed, and I’d discovered I had a knack for being able to hear a tune and recreate it. I began to write my own songs when I was maybe six years old or so.”

“That’s impressive,” the woman remarks. “Now, when did people start to notice your voice?”

Ivy appears pensive. “I don’t think it was until I volunteered for a solo at school.” She laughs softly. “I remember the first time I sang in front of the music teacher and the other students. When I finished, they all just stared at me.”

“They were stunned into silence.”

“I suppose so.”

“And when did your mother start entering you in contests?”

Ivy takes a breath. “She started entering me into every local talent contest around and eventually that morphed into larger ones.”

“Until America’s Talent,” the interviewer finishes.

“Yes.”

The screen transitions to display video snippets of a young Ivy on stage, seated at a piano, while the interviewer’s voice narrates.

“As you can see here, in the footage we obtained from Ivy’s performance in the first round of America’s Talent, she wooed not only the judges but the live audience as well.”

I sit, mesmerized by the sight and sound of Ivy as her fingers fly over the keys and she belts out the words to an original song, her voice spellbinding.

“She continued to win each round leading up to the finals, and it seemed like she was slated to win the grand prize of one hundred thousand dollars with the opportunity to meet with record executives and the prospect of signing a recording contract.

“She was the most watched performer from the show. YouTube videos of her had well over a million hits, and America’s Talent has yet to match the ratings Ivy brought in.”

They transition back to the interview with Ivy and the woman asks, “Tell me, what was going on behind the scenes during this time?”

“My mother got involved with someone who introduced her to drugs, and this started a rapid decline of the life I once knew,” Ivy states matter-of-factly and how she manages to keep her emotions under control amazes me. “She began to use the prize money to feed her addiction. That included what we’d saved up, as well as money designated for food and rent. Soon, all of it was gone.”

“And the woman you knew as your mother was gone as well?” the woman poses gently.

“Yes.” Ivy’s answer is succinct. “She stopped caring for me, didn’t consider whether I had food to eat. She only cared about her next fix and where the money would come from to enable that.”

“Ivy, can you tell us what happened during that final performance? You were a favorite amongst the judges, and the majority of fans adored you. Yet when you took the stage for your final performance, something happened.”

Ivy nods. “Yes. I decided I’d had enough. I knew that if I won, it would only mean my mother would have a hundred thousand dollars to waste on drugs.” She lifts a shoulder in a faint shrug. “It wasn’t going to make our lives better, nor was it going to ease our financial situation—all the reasons why I’d wanted to win in the first place.” She shakes her head. “It wasn’t going to make any difference anymore because I knew what the outcome would be if I was declared the winner. And I couldn’t bear to do that.”

“So you threw the competition. Intentionally lost.”

Ivy’s expression is solemn as she nods. “Yes.”

They flash a video of Ivy standing on stage beside a teenage boy, and the interviewer’s voice narrates, “Seen here is DeAndre Robicheaux, seventeen years old, whose talent had been a unique combination of modern dance and break dancing. He was announced the grand prize winner of the show. Robicheaux used the prize money to pay for his college education at LSU where he has been employed as a psychology professor.

“When we return, Ivy will take us through her journey post-America’s Talent.”

Dax mutes the commercial. “What do you think so far?” His voice is subdued, and when I turn to him, his gaze is watchful.

I turn back to the television without really seeing it. “It’s unreal.”

“Well, there’s more.”

I snap my head back to Dax. His eyes study me with intensity.

“It won’t be pretty, so brace yourself.”

Shit.

The next twenty minutes detail how Ivy’s mother became so desperate for drug money she’d shack up with whichever drug-dealing boyfriend would enable her at the time while placing young Ivy in danger.

Ivy’s expression clouds when the interviewer brings this up.

“I was put in a position that no child should ever experience. I had grown men trying to rub on me and touch me with the excuse that they wanted to”—she hooks her fingers in air quotes—“snuggle.”

I feel like I’ve just been sucker punched to the gut. I clench my fists tightly, wishing I could wrap my hands around those fuckers who tried to take advantage of a young, innocent girl.

Men who played such a powerful role in tainting her views on intimacy for the rest of her life.

If I thought that was bad, it only gets worse as the interview continues.

Ivy’s mother had agreed to sell Ivy to a known sex trafficker—one who would pay well for an eight-year-old. Her mother’s “boyfriend” had repeatedly hit Ivy’s head for resisting and putting up a fight when he grabbed her and stuffed her in the trunk of his car.

As luck would have it, the alleged sex trafficker the mother and boyfriend met up with turned out to be a federal agent leading a massive sting operation. Apparently, the Alabama-Tennessee border had been a hotbed of illegal activity at that time. Since the feds were involved and Ivy had no other blood relatives, she was placed in protective custody. Due to the high-interest of the story from not only the sting but also Ivy’s following gained from America’s Talent, it was suggested that Ivy be relocated and her last name be changed to help protect her identity. She was eventually placed in a foster home in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

With rapt attention on the interview, I war with the heartache of her not being honest with me. I hate that she made me fall in love with her but, more than that, I hate that she had to endure this sort of life.

“Tell us how your company, Ditched, got started.” The woman offers an encouraging smile, and Ivy details the background for their company, how the idea came to be, and how it took off while they attended college.

They move on to detail how her mother was behind outing her to the public because she’d wanted money for drugs.

“There’s something you mentioned to me before we started recording the interview, Ivy. You mentioned that someone else was hurt in the process of your identity being revealed,” the woman prompts.

“Yes, I’m hoping the individual will see this interview and recognize how sincere my regret is. That I’m trying to do what I can to move on, and I’m terribly sorry for hurting him.”

“Him?” The woman arches her eyebrows inquisitively. “Would this be in reference to a certain handsome quarterback?”

Ivy’s tone is admonishing yet polite. “I think that certain handsome quarterback has endured enough. I don’t need to add more to the mix.”

“But there’s a rumor…” The woman glances down at the thin sheaf of papers in her lap. “That rumor is that you had something to do with those accusations against Becket Jones being retracted.”

Ivy’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. “We all know rumors tend to be nonsense.”

The woman presses on. “So you know nothing about that?”

“I’d prefer to move on with the interview.” Ivy’s smile is polite but appears strained around the edges.

The interviewer begrudgingly continues. “Is it true that you’ve not sung or played the piano since that fateful day when you were a finalist on America’s Talent?”

“This is true.”

The interviewer tips her head to the side with an earnest expression. “Any chance you’d consider singing for us today?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards.”

“But are you planning to sing again?”

Ivy darts a glance at the camera. “That’s to be determined.”

“Can you tell us what’s next for Ivy Hayes? And might it have anything to do with a certain quarterback?”

With a faint smile, tinged with anguish, Ivy answers, “All I can say is, I don’t plan to close this chapter without a fight. I’ve persevered all along, and I’m not about to give up now. After this, I’ll know I gave it my all. And it can result in me getting the guy in the end…”

“Or?” The woman leans in with raised eyebrows.

“Or...” Ivy’s blue eyes focus on the camera. “Or, for the first time, I’ll be the one getting ditched.”

The screen cuts to the interviewer who wraps up the segment, informing viewers of what’s to come on their next show.

Dax turns off the television, and I remain sitting, stunned, my dinner forgotten and still on my lap.

“Told you.”

I level him a look. “You knew about this. How?”

“She told me.”

I furrow my brow. “You’ve seen her?”

Dax gives me a stern look. “No. She called and left me a message.” He pauses before adding, “I think she’s sincere in her apology, Beck. She’s been run through the wringer.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, letting my eyes fall closed. “She never said she loved me. She only said she was sorry.”

“Aw, hell no,” Tank exclaims suddenly, and I jerk my head over to stare at him. “Y’all, I got gypped. There were only eight jumbo shrimp in this, not ten.”

Dax turns to me and laughs. “Leave it to Tank to keep things real.”

“I heard y’all moaning your woes,” Tank says. “Need to get your ass in gear and figure out what your next step is.”

If only I knew what my next step was. Ivy may have declared on TV that she wants me back, but she’s always stuck to a certain pattern; she comes so far, only to hold back at the last moment.

I’m not sure I can put myself through another round of that.