One week later

I jump the fire pit at the end of the mud run, then almost fall to my knees in gratitude. I just completed fifteen grueling miles of the most physically exhausting obstacle course I’ve ever competed in.

I’m covered in sweat and mud. My knees and elbows have gashes and cuts all over them. My thighs are screaming from all the burpees I had to do during the run.

But I finished.

And now, I’m starving.

A smiling woman hands me a banana and a beer. “Congrats!”

“Thanks,” I say, careful not to spill my beer as I peel the fruit.

Beside me, Dallas Drake—infamous tight end for the Raleigh Renegades—downs his own beer. “This will be awesome, they said. You’re in great physical shape, they said.” Dallas levels me with a look. “They. Are. Liars.”

I bark out a laugh. “It wasn’t that bad.” My buddy’s eyes narrow. “Fine. It was worse.”

We watch as a group of men, fully dressed in military gear, including rucksacks on their backs and gas masks on their faces, carrying a stretcher with a dummy on it, pass us.

Yeah, we need to shut the hell up.

“Beasts,” I call out and toast them before throwing back my beer. Then I turn to Dallas, who finishes off his. “Still want to complain?”

Dallas shakes his head, then tosses his trash in the large garbage bin. “Hell, no. Let’s hit the showers.”

The showers consist of a roped-off area full of pipes and hoses that the participants use to spray off the mud, sweat, and blood. There’s no privacy, and since this is a family friendly event, we can only strip down to our boxer briefs.

“How’s Paige?” I ask, gingerly rubbing my elbow to break up the dirt that coats it. Man, that’s going to look nasty tomorrow.

Dallas grins, his eyes lighting up like they always do when someone mentions his wife’s name. “Good. And after you drop me off at the hotel where she’s waiting for me, I’ll be doing even better.”

“Must be nice,” I comment.

“No one waiting for you?”

I think of Ashley, of her fiery hair and hot body. If I’d succeeded in asking her out a week ago, then maybe she’d be the one waiting for me at my house. “Gunner’s waiting, but his massage skills are pretty much nonexistent.”

Dallas laughs, taking the water hose and holding it over his head. More than a few women in the showers with them stop mid-wash to stare. “Who is she?”

Damn, when did I become so easy to read? “No one.” I turn off the water and step to the side to let another man pass, then make my way out. Dallas follows me.

“You’re so full of shit, Turner,” he calls out as we get to my truck. “You got your fake-out face on.”

“I do not.” I reach inside the bed and fish out two towels, throwing one at Dallas’s face.

With a bark of laughter, Dallas catches the towel easily and dries off while I do the same. “Please. I taught you that face.”

I unlock my truck and climb inside, Dallas joining me. “You didn’t teach me shit.”

Dallas’s brows rise. “I remember when your first game for the Renegades. I also remember you puking right before we ran out on the field.”

I grin, starting up my engine and pulling out of the makeshift parking lot. Hitting the gas, I follow the line of cars to the highway. “Those were the days. Nothing but the expectation to make the owners happy they traded Clark instead of me.”

Dallas whistles. “Paige just texted me. The mud run raised over three hundred thousand, and she ordered me two of everything on the room service menu.”

With mine and Dallas’s promises to match whatever is raised, the veterans outreach program will make over six hundred thousand.

“Nice. Makes my sore ass worth it.” Slowing my truck down, I turn in the hotel’s drive. I stop right in front of the entrance, then put the engine in park.

“Just your ass?”

Before I can reply, I get a glimpse of a familiar face. It’s Ashley, wearing a robe and heels. Her hair is done, but she’s not wearing any makeup.  What is she doing here and why is she dressed like that?

My heart speeds up and before I know what I’m doing, I’m already out of the truck and striding up to her. I catch her before she makes it inside. “Hey you.”

“Ryan?” she gasps, her pretty blue eyes widening.

Oh yeah, not only remembers me, but she’s also happy to see—

“Oh my gosh! Did you get attacked?”

Wait. What? “No.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Then why does it look like you’ve gone two rounds in the ring with a heavyweight champ?”

“Because he went fifteen miles to raise money for Victorious Veterans,” Dallas says, punching me in the shoulder and I suppress a grunt. My sore as fuck shoulder, but I can’t let Ashley know.

Mostly because manly men don’t show pain.

Also because I’m an idiot.

“You did?” Ashley says, her voice full of the familiar awe I’ve come to expect from fans. This time, it makes things awkward because it’s not about a game I played. I don’t want her fawning over me for helping the men and women who serve to protect our country.

It feels wrong. “Yeah, but it’s not a big deal.”

She frowns.

“I mean, the charity is a big deal, just not my part in it,” I clarify. That brings back her smile and those killer dimples.

Tears fill her eyes and she gives me a big hug, one so tight that her full breasts are flush against my chest, her silky robe sticking to the parts of me that are still wet. I can’t help my body’s reaction—it gets all tight and hard at the same time, even as I try to give her a decent, respectable hug back.

“My brother Rhett lost his leg in Afghanistan, and V-Squared has been helping him with all the VA red tape,” she says softly. “If it wasn’t for those guys, he’d still be waiting to get therapy and a prosthetic. Thank you so, so much.”

As she lets go of me and steps back, I clear my throat. “It’s the least I could do.”

She beams. “So nice seeing you.” Then she begins to walk away.

“You’re losing her,” Dallas says, shoving his hand into my back to propel me forward.

“Hold up.” I jog to Ashley. She turns around, her dimples no longer flashing and her eyes wary. What is it about me that makes her so skittish? Or rather, makes her so skittish now. We’ve spent five weeks together—the first four flirting and getting to know one another via our dogs. Unless... shit. “I’m not that guy.”

“What guy?”

“Typical jock.”

She rakes her gaze over me, taking note of the mud-stained clothing and shoes. “I disagree.”

Excellent. “Then go out with me.”

“No.”

“If you do, I’ll donate another one hundred thousand to V-Squared, in your brother’s name,” I say, taking a gamble this is the right move.