Training camp is brutal. It’s supposed to be brutal. Exhaustion is my sole state of mind and body at the end of every day as Coach Greenhaven works us to the bone. We run routes like we’ve never run routes before. Last year, we went as far as the championship game, but we were knocked out by our biggest rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks. This year, the goal is to go all the way to another ring.

Better, faster, stronger. That’s my motto as I rise at dawn, hit the weight room, then run drills and sprints on the practice field all afternoon.

During training camp, I’m all football all the time, and I love it.

Except when I see Jillian.

We train at a university an hour from the city, and she’s here regularly, since training camp is a media fiesta. At least a few times a week, I see her. Standing against the wall in the back of the press conference room, scribbling notes in her notebook, tapping out replies to emails on her phone. Hanging out on the edge of the field, answering questions from reporters and bloggers. One afternoon as I grab water after an intense drill, I see a local sportscaster stride over to her. Kevin Stone is his name, and he dresses sharp. As he approaches, Jillian crosses her arms and raises her chin, a slight shift in her demeanor, as if she’s protecting herself.

Awareness slams me like a linebacker.

She used to date him. I remember her seeing him a year ago. Holy shit. Is he the asshole who detests room service? Wait. His crime is way worse than hating a great meal option. He’s the shithead who cheated on her. For a second, this feels a little like jealousy because it tightens my muscles and makes me grit my teeth. But I feel zero envy for that ass. He’ll never have that incredible woman again. Not after he broke her trust.

That’s what pisses me off. That’s why I’m wound up. That jackass hurt my woman, and I have half a mind to march over, shoot him a withering glare, and tell him he lost out on the greatest chance ever.

But I don’t do that. I snap my gaze away and down another water. I lost a chance, too.

For vastly different reasons, but I’m in the same boat as that fucker.

She’s not my woman, either.

* * *

On the second to last day of training camp, Jillian asks the marquee players to sit for a news conference. That’s Cooper, Harlan, Rick, and me.

At the end of the presser, a sports blogger tosses out the final question in my direction. “Jones, how do you feel about your chances this year?”

The question has been asked every day, countless times, in press conferences all across the NFL and in every professional sports league. Reporters and fans have a bottomless appetite for pondering how far any team can go. Can we go all the way? That’s what everyone wants to know. Hell, that’s why we play.

As I clear my throat and prepare to answer, my eyes drift to Jillian, standing against the white wall near the front of the room. I’ve seen her in this pose hundreds of times before, dressed to the nines, her brown eyes taking in the whole room.

She wears a black skirt and a candy-apple red blouse with white polka dots. She’s so fucking business-sexy that it’s impossible for me not to want to strip those clothes off and fuck her against the wall.

But that’s what I shouldn’t think about.

Except, she’s looking at me now. Not in the way she used to before Miami, but really looking at me. Seeing me. Knowing me.

The question hangs in the air as that loaded word—chances—takes on a brand-new meaning. How do you feel about your chances this year?

Our eyes lock. A connection seems to pass between us, as if she knows what’s on my mind. She’s on my mind. She’s the chance I wish I could take. I repeat the question, buying myself time. “How do I feel about our chances?”

The reporter nods, an expectant look in his eyes, his phone pointing in my direction, recording my answer.

“If we play hard every day, we have a shot. And isn’t that all we can hope for?” My eyes drift back to her for a fleeting second. “To have a chance?” I add one more word, so she knows I mean her. I’m not entirely sure what I’m hinting at. Or if I’m merely expressing a wish. But I say it anyway. “Presumably.”

She dips her head, and a smile spreads across her face, even as she tries to rein it in.

After the press conference ends, I drag my feet, taking my time leaving. I make sure I’m the last player to exit, and when I’m the only one in the hall, she comes out of the room, shutting the door.

“Oh. Hey.” She sounds startled to see only me in the long, empty hallway.

“Hey.” It’s the first time at training camp when it’s been just the two of us.

“How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Are you enjoying training camp?”

I step closer, dangerously close. “You can presume it would be better if you sneaked into my room at night,” I whisper into her ear.

Her eyes float closed, and a visible tremble moves down her body. She murmurs my name, then she opens her eyes. “You are far too tempting.”

My gaze roams over her from head to toe, thinking of those two days and nights in Miami when she was all mine. “I could say the same about you. Especially in this red shirt. Red is lucky, you know?”

A faint smile spreads. “I wish.”

“I wish we were getting lucky.”

“Me, too.” She glances down the hall, and even though the coast is clear, she tips her forehead to the door at the far end. “I should probably go. Someone will show up here any second.”

“Are you worried you’d be tempted to do something if you stayed here in this hall with me?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not worried. I’m absolutely certain of what would happen if I stayed near you for another five seconds.”

I grab her wrist, the need to touch her overruling any reason. Stroking my finger across her skin, I move closer. She’d better stop me, because I’m not sure I can stop myself. I’m not sure I want to.

She swallows, shakes her head. “Jones, you’re making this hard.” Her voice is wobbly.

“It is hard.”

She sighs, and it comes out soft, so sexy and needy that it nearly shatters my already weak resolve. “I really need to go.” But she doesn’t make a move. She leans in close, almost as if she’s inhaling me.

She’s inches from me, and if anyone saw us, they’d be hard-pressed to believe any denials we’d utter.

That reality—how close I’m tangoing to fucking shit up—smashes into me, and I let go of her hand in an instant. “I know. I really need to let you go, but you have to know that’s the part that’s hardest. Letting you go.”

Her brown eyes are big, beautiful, and full of something deeper, something I wish was in my life. The kind of connection I’ve never had before with a woman. The kind that lasts.

“I know,” she whispers, her voice trembling, her eyes shining. She inhales sharply, waving her hand as if to shake off her emotions.

She walks away.

* * *

Later that night, in the room I share with Harlan, he packs his suitcase. “Hey, man, whatever happened with Jillian?”

I toss a shirt into my duffel. “Nothing.”

“The cherry pie didn’t work?”

I shake my head.

“What about Miami?”

I don’t like lying to my buddy, but I promised Jillian that what happened in Miami was just between us. I have to keep it that way, even if I want what happened in Miami to happen again and again.

“Miami was . . . just work.”

* * *

The crowd roars. The din of sixty thousand fans in Seattle vibrates across the field, a steady drumbeat. That noise is paired with insults from the D line, the usual trash talk, words about my mother, your mother, my dick, your dick. I tune it all out, narrowing on Cooper taking the snap.

My cue. Breaking to the right, I race downfield, hunting for an opening every step of the way. The score is tied, and it’s the fourth quarter. There are two minutes left in the first game of the season in early September, against one of our division rivals on their home turf.

I have one job. Find the gap.

I dodge a speed-demon cornerback, racing into the perfect spot as Cooper launches the ball. All my senses zero in on one thing. My eyes track the pigskin like an eagle scanning for fish.

Crosshairs. Mine. I own that ball.

A linebacker appears out of nowhere, aiming for me. A quick sidestep, a double back, and I’m right where I need to be, avoiding him as the ball arcs low toward the grass. That won’t fucking do. No way in hell is this pass going incomplete.

I stretch my arms as I lunge for the ball, extending my hands. The football tap dances on the tips of my fingers. This is when the big hands count the most, and I grapple the edge, barely holding it before I reel that ball in like a big catch in the ocean, yanking it to my chest. In a split second, I’m off and running, sprinting hard. The end zone is twenty yards away. It’s my destination—it’s always my destination. A safety comes at me, trying to grab me anywhere. Arms flail at me. But I’m faster, and when I cross the goal line, the sounds truly become deafening.

The cheers, and mostly jeers, from the fans. The shouts. My heavy breath. The clomp of cleats, bodies slamming into bodies, big guys sledgehammering other big guys. Then me.

The safety wraps his arms around my waist, yanking me to the ground.

I’m fair game. I always am.

As a receiver, I know how to take the hits and how to fall, but there’s always a moment when I could fall wrong.

Fortunately, it’s not today as I land on the side of my ass. My padded ass, thankfully.

It still hurts for a second, and I wince. But then I shuck that off, the momentary hurt blotted out by the reward of six glorious points.

Thanks to a circus catch.

I raise my arms and form a J.

* * *

After the game, Sierra Franklin makes a beeline for me. One of the San Francisco sports reporters who travels with the team, she’s quick and smart. Jillian is by her side as the redhead thrusts her mic at me, her diamond ring sparkling under the afternoon sun. “Great job in a tight game that went down to the wire. Tell us what you were thinking when O’Malley circled around you before you caught the ball,” she says, naming the tackler who was aiming for me.

I answer her question the way I nearly always do. “I was just focused on finding an opening and getting in position to catch the ball.”

It’s that simple. Sometimes with sports, outsiders overthink what we do. Sure, it takes unusual talent, a larger than average physique, and a whole hell of a lot of work. But more than that, the secret sauce is focus. When I’m on the field, I’m not thinking of how my stocks are faring, what I’ll cook for dinner, or if there are any good flicks out that weekend. I don’t even think of women. My focus is one-track only. The ball—find the ball, catch the ball, run with the ball.

I block out everything else.

“You definitely made sure of that.” With a wry smile, Sierra adds, “What about the gesture you made in the end zone? We haven’t seen that from you before, but it looked like a J. Shall I presume that’s a new calling card now for your name?”

My eyes stray to Jillian, waiting patiently. For a split second, mischief flickers in her eyes. I flash back to Miami, the night I promised I would send her a signal.

“All the best names start with J. Thanks so much, Sierra. And congratulations again on your upcoming wedding.”

“Thank you so much, Jones.”

The redheaded reporter beams, and as the two women head off to find the next player to interview, Jillian says something about how she can’t wait to see her walk down the aisle in a few more days.

Then, Jillian glances over her shoulder at me, nibbling on the corner of her lip.

A charge rocks down my body.

From that.

From her biting her lip.

I’m screwed.

When I turn to the locker room, I wonder why I ever thought it would be wise to fall hard for a woman I can’t have.