To say that Logan was surprised when he woke up to see the face of a woman he didn’t recognize would be like saying a magnitude-seven earthquake was a little rumble. Especially since the woman grabbed his head and squished it into her chest. “Oh my gosh, he’s awake! George! Get the doctor!”

Logan squeezed his eyes closed, hoping the hazy feeling would clear if he just kept them shut for a second.

Three different doctors hovered around him, doing tests and asking him a battery of questions. Some of the answers he knew, others he didn’t.

The worst part was when he was asked anything pertaining to the woman next to him. She burst out crying: “Oh, Logan, oh, Logan, baby, I can’t believe you don’t know me.” One of the women doctors escorted her out, which relieved Logan, and they got back to running tests.

Logan was scared. Not scared like he needed to run away. More like a nervousness that he didn’t understand. “Where’s Paris?” he asked several times. “Or Shane? I want to talk to my dad.”

One of the men there, George, identified himself as his agent. Like football agent?

This news made Logan jittery. “I have an agent?” he laughed, dumbfounded.

The doctors and George told him he’d played football at Cal a couple of years with Shane Hadley.

George said to Logan, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you some answers. Let’s just get through the tests.”

Logan buckled down and observed, feeling antsy. If his life had taught him anything, it was better to listen and watch. He gathered he played for the California Wave now, which felt weird, but made him proud. He’d been hit during a scrimmage game and been in a coma for a little over twelve hours.

In the corner, a doctor whispered to George. “Sometimes people don’t remember things when they want to repress something.”

“How could he not want to remember?” George asked. “He’s twenty-six and at the top of his professional career. His life is pretty good.”

He was twenty-six years old?

When the doctor and his agent had incessantly quizzed him, he scrambled to remember even that much. “I can’t remember anything since the huddle the night of the state championship game.”

“The state game?” the doctor repeated, looking blank.

“My high school state game. The one I was playing just a few minutes ago.”

George, his supposed agent, frowned. “How old were you then, son?”

Logan’s mouth felt dry. “Eighteen. A senior in high school.”

After more than an hour of drawing blood, a million more questions about his life, and running him through a battery of physical tests, Logan grew even more frustrated. “No more,” he said, after the doctor showed him current dates on a newspaper and how the latest version of his iPhone worked.

He stood. “Get me Paris, please.” If he knew one thing in his whole life, it was that no matter what had happened, she would be there.

The doctors and his agent left the room, looking concerned.

Logan went to the small bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He was old. He pulled off the hospital gown and looked at his bare chest. Not old in a bad way. Dang, he was ripped. He looked down his arms and saw the tattoo of a wolf’s face on his left shoulder. Weird. For the most part he couldn’t believe how in shape he was, like one of those muscle magazines. Barring the major headache and tenderness at the back of his head, he felt fine.

He flexed in the mirror, but before he could do too much inspecting, George came back in with the doctor. “Logan,” he said, a little louder than necessary. “You’re engaged to Kim.” He gestured to the door. “Kim Turner, the woman who was here when you woke up.”

He didn’t respond.

“Kim Turner, the movie star. You’re getting married to her in less than a month.”

“He’s not hard of hearing.” The doctor frowned at George, then narrowed his eyes at Logan. “Do you remember her, son? Do you remember being engaged?”

Logan let out a puff of air. “No, I don’t.” He turned to his agent. “I’m not engaged. And definitely not engaged to her.” He pointed to a chair. “Do you mind getting my clothes, please? I’m leaving.”

The doctor hovered over him. “Mr. Slade, I don’t think it would be a good decision to get discharged from the hospital yet.”

Logan knew these things could be fussy. He remembered his own mother checking in and out of rehab until she’d died when he was only twelve. It was tricky. He leveled the doctor with a long, hard look. “Doc, I’m leaving. I may not remember everything, but you said yourself it could take a few days. I’m not staying in the hospital. I’m going home.”

“Home?” George said as he handed him a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He flashed a grin. “That’s a great idea.”

Logan nodded. He couldn’t stay in here any longer.

“Yes.” George turned toward the doctor, suddenly confident. “Let’s discharge him to Kim; she’ll get him home and settled.”

“No,” Logan said reflexively. “I’m not going with her.”

But it seemed he didn’t have a choice. If he wanted to leave the hospital, someone had to be “in charge” of him, and neither Shane nor Paris was around.

The next couple of hours were highly confusing. Using her phone, “Kim” recorded their whole trip home, where their driver took them to an absurdly large mansion.

Logan didn’t feel right about anything in this new life of his. Especially this woman, who kept trying to maul him like some mother bear with a cub, pulling him in and pushing kisses on him. “Stop,” he firmly said to her. “We are not engaged.”

She showed him videos on her phone of them together. Both of them were doing some idiotic wolf howl to a group of people who were doing it back. “See, you remember, baby, don’t you?” When he shook his head, her face screwed up in a fit of sadness. “Logan, you have to remember me.”

“I don’t. So we’re not getting married. Do you understand that?” Logan wasn’t immune to women crying, but he honestly felt it was all show, partly because she made sure it was all recorded for something she would be putting on their vlog. He still didn’t know what that was, exactly.

His head hurt and he asked her to show him to his room. She insisted it was their room, and it was just as tasteless as the clothes she wore—the leopard-print comforter and the mirrors on the ceiling were just the start. “What, do I live in a Vegas showroom?” he asked her as he pulled off his shirt and got into bed.

She sat there, holding her iPhone and recording him.

He was too tired to do anything but go to bed. Before he drifted off he said, one last time, “I don’t know who you are, but I’m not marrying you.” He dozed off to the sound of her muffled tears as she fled the room.

Hours later, he woke to the sound of snoring. When he turned, the woman claiming to be his fiancée was cuddled next to his back, sawing logs like a lumberjack.

He looked at the clock on the table next to the bed. Three o’clock in the morning. His head still ached, but he knew he couldn’t stay here. He needed answers.

Logan padded into the bathroom and found a gigantic closet inside. He grabbed a gym bag and threw in some shorts, T-shirts, jeans and different shoes. Opening a nearby wallet, he was shocked to see the large wad of cash and various credit cards. He also saw a phone next to the wallet.

No, he would skip the phone. He didn’t want anything to do with this Kim, and he really didn’t want the man who called himself his agent to try calling him.

He went down the stairs and saw a row of keys next to the kitchen. Smiling, he saw one labeled “Mustang.” Okay, maybe his future self wasn’t entirely an idiot.

Logan went to the garage and turned on the lights, finding the Mustang ready to go. He opened the garage and beelined for the Mustang, ignoring the ache in his head and his empty stomach.

He needed answers, and there was only one person he trusted to give them to him: Paris Ford.