I had been called a brooder, and at times much worse. I liked beer, an occasional dip, and I loved to fuck. At twenty-six, I valued my time and space more than the warmth of someone sharing my pillow. I didn’t have time for relationships.

And what quarterback did? I didn’t need a girl to get in my head or under my skin. One climbing into my bed was an entirely different story.

I closed the locker under where Wiley was engraved into the wood.

“You headed out?”

I turned to see one of the conditioning trainers behind me.

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “You’re the only guy on the team who isn’t going to Cabo or Rio. You know that, right?”

“Fuck.” I laughed. “I don’t need that shit. I get enough of it during the season. The last thing I want is the fucking press following me around.”

“Going to your fishing hole?”

That’s what the guys around here called it anyway. They didn’t know shit about where I was from. I was ok with that. I kept my personal life personal. I never took them. Never even invited them.

“Something like that.” I pressed my lips together.

Jones strolled through the locker room. “Dude, you’re not going to Cabo with us?”

“Not this time.”

I got enough of these fuckers during the season. I only had one break a year. And I wasn’t going to waste it in the spotlight.

“Too bad. The girls are hot as fuck down there.”

“So I hear,” I answered.

“We’ll miss you.” Jones slapped me on the back.

The trainer bumped my fist. “Keep up the stretching and don’t tweak that knee.”

It had been giving me problems since spring training. One twist the wrong way and I had been on the ground gripping my leg. The last thing I wanted was for any of the guys to see me down. There was no room for weakness on the field.

I had put off having surgery, but I was working through a vicious therapy regimen.

“Got it.” I lifted my bag to my shoulder. “See you guys way too soon.”

I walked out of the locker room ready for my time off to start.

It was only a month until practice resumed. It wasn’t like I had months to travel the world and party my ass off like these other mother fuckers.

My job required meetings. Strategy. Planning. While they were drinking their asses onto the floor I was watching tape. I was writing plays and studying the competition. I dealt with the Sports Now speculation. I had to meet with rookies. QBs never slept.

So I took my month off. And I made sure nothing interfered with it. Nothing.

* * *

I carried my 6’5” frame with confident strides across the sandy parking lot, and threw a six-pack of beer into a cooler. Beads of perspiration started a slow trickle down my forehead. If I didn’t get on the water soon, the fish would be running from the sun just like I was. Damn it. This Fourth of July was hotter than hell.

I didn’t practice in fucking heat like this. That’s why we had an air conditioned facility. But I wasn’t in Orlando. I was back home for most of the summer. If there was one place that didn’t give a fuck that I was an A-rated American Football Association QB, it was this island. This tiny piece of land where I grew up.

I guided my truck under the water oaks, keeping the shoreline in sight. The road seemed to follow the curvature of the small coastline where years of ebbing and tiding had crept up on the pavement. I couldn’t tell you a spot on the island where you couldn’t see the water. As far as I was concerned, if it did exist, it wasn’t worth mentioning.

This was my place. The only town on this planet that didn’t bother me for pictures or autographs. I could do exactly what I was doing today—go fucking fishing with my cousin without worrying about a mob of fans.

I slowed the truck to turn onto the grassy path leading to my boat.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. I’d recognize those legs anywhere. I wasn’t sure if it was the lips, the blond hair, or that attitude of hers I wanted to break. I’d always wanted to break. Fuck.

She was the kind of girl who thought she was too good for the island. The kind that only cruised with champagne in her hand, and nothing was ever good enough. But she might just be the sexiest woman I’d ever known.

When had Sierra Emory got back in town? And why was she here this summer? And why the fuck was she leaning over the bridge?

In the meantime, Cole was probably revving the boat impatiently and already a few beers ahead. We had a full day of fishing ahead of us.

My cousin sat on the bow with a goofy grin and a beer in hand. “Let’s go, man. Where in the hell have you been? I’ve been sitting out here thinkin’ you weren’t going to show.”

“You know I’m not going to bail on you.” I smiled and popped the top of my first beer. “I had a lot of shit to get done today. I’m ready now.”

I loaded the cooler, a box of tackle, and a bag of sandwiches I had picked up from the Seaside Café into the toolbox at the stern of the boat.

She still didn’t have a name. I knew it was bad luck not to name my boat, but I wasn’t superstitious. For now, she was nameless, but I trusted her. I had handpicked every limb of her frame and driven every nail into her seams. My father had tried to help, but I’d refused the free pair of hands when I had them.

I felt the back of my throat clutch at the thought.

“Can you believe it’s already the Fourth? Man, this summer is flying by.” I positioned myself behind the steering wheel. “I have to report to fucking camp soon.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. I loved this place, as much as I loved football. And right now, I didn’t know which one I needed more.

“Hey, did you know Sierra Emory was on the island?” I asked.

Cole shook his head. “No. Hadn’t heard that.”

I didn’t want to make a fucking big deal about it. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, we better steer clear of the cape today. It’ll be full of those damn ski boats, scaring off the fish,” Cole agreed.

Cole loosened the sailor’s knots and tossed the ropes up on the dock. With one hard shove, we started drifting in the creek, and I cranked the engine. The creek was alive with jumping mullets. I steered us under the bridge and headed east.