A few months later

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“Go, go, go!” Violet thrusts her arm in the air when Smashalie scores a point.

Turns out the little girl was serious about roller derby. She took it up after her last appointment, and joined a junior league that Violet and I happen to fully sponsor. My signing bonus was pretty damn sizable, and I decided to donate it to charities and youth programs in the Bay Area. The children’s hospital is using it for services and research, and Ford is helping me funnel money to worthy programs for kids. That includes sports for girls, but also some sports programs for kids who might need a little extra help, whether after battling cancer or having corrective surgery. I want to give them every chance to reach their fullest potential.

So here we are at the roller rink, watching a bout as Smashalie and her teammates cruise around the oval.

“What would your roller derby name be?” I ask Violet.

She screws up the corner of her lips, looks to the ceiling then at me. “I’d be the Purple Snipper. Don’t you think?” She pretends to cut with scissors.

I grab my crotch. “Ouch.”

“Lavender Cutter?”

I seesaw my palm. “Mildly better.”

She snaps her fingers. “The Lilac Shredder!”

“You’re brilliant,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“What about you? Would you be Best Butt in the NFL? Hard Rock Cheeks?” She squeezes my ass.

“Steel Buns.”

She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m keeping the butt nicknames for myself. You’re the Gunslinger.” She runs a hand down my right arm. “Yes, the Gunslinger made all this happen.”

And, honestly, that’s one of the things I’m most proud of. That I’ve been able to give back. And I’ve done it with Violet. That’s always been one of our shared passions, finding worthy causes that help kids. That’s why I chose this spot instead of the beach, a mountain hike, a picnic, or a basketball arena. That’s why there is no Jumbotron, no cameras, no flash mob. I researched ideas. I googled clever strategies. I approached this moment like I was prepping for a game, studying all the options, deciding which plays to use.

In the end, though, I want today to feel authentic to who we are as a couple.

I turn to the woman I adore. “Hey, Violet, I wanted to ask you something.”

She tilts her head, waiting, her lips quirking up in a soft smile.

I move quickly. Always have. I drop to one knee and flip open the box I’ve had in my pocket. Her eyes widen. “You’re my best friend, my lover, and my favorite person in the universe. You are more precious to me than anything else. And I know our love will outlast everything. Will you marry me?”

She clasps her hand to her mouth as she whispers the loveliest word I’ve ever heard—yes.

Tears stream down her cheeks as she kneels with me, still nodding, now sobbing, and holding out her hand. I slide the ring on her finger, and it’s perfect. Honestly, it’s one of the biggest rings ever made. You can’t be the quarterback’s wife and walk around with a tiny diamond.

“I love you, Cooper. So much you have no idea.”

“Oh, I do have an idea. A very good idea. I think it’s pretty damn close to how much I love you.”

She brushes a kiss on my lips. “Some days I still can’t believe it’s real.”

“And I’ll spend a lifetime showing you how real my love is.”

She threads her hands through my hair, and we kiss, kneeling on the floor of the roller rink.

When she breaks the kiss, she lifts her hand and gazes at her ring. The way I see it, even if I don’t have a ring, there’s no reason she shouldn’t.

Besides, there’s always next year.

---

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PROLOGUE

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I can reel off some pretty impressive stats, and I have for the last few years as a star receiver for a winning NFL team, but my favorite is this—ten and three-quarter inches.

Pretty big, huh?

You don’t get into the double digits too often.

That’s nearly as long as a football.

And that makes me a one-of-a-kind guy.

C’mon.

I’m talking about my hands.

And yes, another part is close to a foot long, too.

But they don’t call me The Hands for nothing. These hands have won championships. These hands have pulled off circus catches in the biggest games. These hands are a beautiful target for game-winning passes.

I know exactly what to do with these hands.

Especially when it comes to enjoying the soft, sweet flesh of a woman. A touch here, a stroke there, and I can have her melting beneath me. They’re a multipurpose asset, and these hands and other parts have come out to score quite often after hours. There’s no better way to enjoy a career as a pro-baller, as far as I’m concerned.

Except when it comes time to clean up my act.

Remake myself into a good, upstanding citizen, and kick that party boy to the curb. Fine, I can do that. I can absolutely do that.

And hell, do I ever need to after some of the shit I’ve had to deal with in the last few years.

But a little help would be nice, and there’s only one person to turn to. One luscious, delicious, fantastic person. None other than the woman I’ve been lusting after for years.

Damn shame we’re going to be spending so much time in close quarters in the next few weeks, especially when she says everything needs to remain hands-off.

Until the time it doesn’t . . .

---

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ABOUT THE BOOK

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It should have been a simple play…

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She needed a football player to step up and be the star for a charity calendar. I needed a sharp and savvy publicist to manage a brand-new sponsorship deal. I scratched her back. She scratched mine. And oh hell, did Jillian ever drag her nails down my back on one hell of a hot night. Okay fine, it was several hot nights on the road.

---

Now we’re back in town and it’s time to set the play clock back to when we were simply player and publicist.

---

After all, she doesn’t date players. And given the way the last few years have gone, I can’t risk this deal. But that sort of delay of game doesn’t work so well once you’ve seen someone naked. So when she asks me to help her at an upcoming event— hands-off, of course — I’ve got a feeling it might be the hardest night of my life. Pun intended.

---

What’s a guy to do when he’s always been most likely to score, but the woman he’s falling for is just out of bounds? Find a way to convince her to be hands-on and all-in, body and heart, no matter the risk.

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Coming next is , a brand new rom-com told from the guy’s POV! Releasing October 23 everywhere! A sneak peek follows.

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Women often say a good man is hard to find. And a hard man is even better. That’s why I’m quite a catch— good, hard, loaded, and wait for it…I’m ready to settle down too. But the woman I want to pitch my tent with lives clear across the country. Neither of us wants to get lost in those woods. All I have to do is resist her for the week she's in town. I try. I swear I try. But yeah, that doesn't work out.  And after one fantastic night with Mia, I’m ready to give her years of nights under the stars. What's a few thousand miles when love's involved? But there’s a hitch in my plans — she just hired my adventure tour company. If there’s one thing I’m committed to, it’s running a squeaky clean business. Number one on my list of iron-clad rules? Don’t screw your customers. I can follow my own guidelines for a quick group tour down the hills and over the trails—even if it’s hard in the woods. I’m about to give myself a badge of honor when the storm of the century hits, sending everyone else running for cover. They're safe, but Mia and me? We're trapped. Together. Alone in the woods.  You don’t screw the client, especially when you’re already in love with her . . . But what’s a guy to do when she’s so hard to resist? Time to take a trip in a new direction.

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Prologue

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By now, most women have met the half dozen or so basic types of men in the world.

Just to be sure, though, let’s review the lineup.

First, there’s the too-cool-for-school playboy who solemnly swears he’ll never settle down. Next to him in the modern-day parade of dudes is the Grouchy McGrouch Pants surly bearded guy who’s a softie beneath the dickhead exterior he shows to the world along with his beanie cap. By his side is the guarded businessman in his three-piece suit, housing deep, dark secrets that only one woman can unlock. We have other roles in Guy Central Casting—the lumbersexual, the groomed father, the citified pretty boy, the hot nerd, and the bad boy with a heart of gold.

Trust me when I say the ladies of the world have heard their stories.

I know that because I’ve fucking heard them. I’ve heard them from the guys, I’ve heard them from the gals. When you take people out of their comfort zone and into the woods, they tend to tell you everything.

Every sordid detail. I’m honestly kind of amazed that men and women, women and women, men and men, get together at all. There’s so much baggage going around, it’s like a goddamn virus.

As for me?

I’m simple. I travel light. I don’t bring luggage to the table. I hoist my backpack and I’m ready to go. I’m a man of many skills. I could spend a week in the woods, and we’d all survive. Pitch a tent, find some food, we’ll make it last. Give me a battery and I’ll start a camp fire. Show me an old phone and I’ll make a compass. I’m the guy who knows how to get out of jams. Fix a tire, repair a sink, gut a fish, pick a lock, survive a bear attack. Been there, done that, have the merit badge to prove it.

Not gonna lie. Women do tend to like a guy who can get shit done without bitching about it. That’s why I’ve had a nice run of luck with the ladies. But I’m not looking just to get lucky anymore.

I’m ready for a whole lot more.

I’d like to think that makes me the good guy with all the skills when we’re talking about types. I’m the unicorn, and I’m not just talking about the length of my horn, if you catch my drift.

I’m the guy who’s fit, successful, baggage-fucking-free, and—wait for it—ready to settle down.

Just call me a four-leaf clover.

The trouble is the woman I want is off-limits. She’s my best friend’s sister. But don’t worry. That’s not the issue. My buddy is a cool cat, and he has no problem with the fact that I’ve got it bad for his little sis.

The problem is something else entirely, and I have the next week before she leaves town again to fix it. This is where all my life hacking skills will have to come into play.

Let’s do this.

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Chapter One

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Human beings have a tendency to overthink all sorts of stuff.

But a lot of our quandaries are pretty basic. You’re either going out to dinner at the new Italian joint, or you’re staying home to make a turkey sandwich. You’re doing the laundry so you have a fresh shirt to wear, or you’re sniffing the hamper, hunting for an oldie-but-good-enough-ie. You either carve out the time to run five miles, or you watch another ten episodes of Breaking Bad.

For the record, the answers are Italian, wash on hot, and lace up.

I take the same straightforward approach to the current black-and-white question posed to me by Camilla Montes, the local Channel Ten morning news anchor.

“Patrick, how will our viewers know if Fluffy wants to go for a hike?” she asks in that perfectly modulated TV reporter voice that matches her coiffed black hair.

“If you’re wondering if Tiger, Tom, or Tabby is ready to become an adventure cat, there’s a simple litmus test any pet owner can conduct.” I sit on the couch across from her and run a hand down Zeus’s back. He arches into my palm and rumbles, his purr so loud he could land a career in the cat sound effects business. Showoff. But in his defense, if I possessed an Al Green style purr, I’d make sure the ladies heard it all the time. “I like to call it the drag or no-drag cat.”

“Interesting. Tell us more,” she says, her voice dripping with Friday morning curiosity.

“Your cat either willingly lets you put a leash around his furry neck, or he turns into putty when you harness him, and you wind up dragging his feline butt across the floor.”

I mime tugging a gone-limp-now cat on a leash.

“That does make it crystal clear,” Camilla says, flashing her practiced grin, then she points a polished fingernail at me. “But how did you even know to try with Zeus? Did you simply want a famous hiking partner, or did he insist on it?”

“I listened to the cat.” I lean forward, parking one hand on my knee where my cargo shorts end, since the station likes me to dress like an REI model for my segments on tips and tricks for enjoying the great outdoors. “His behavior told me he might be willing. For instance, one time, I headed down to the hallway to drop the trash in the chute, and Zeus followed me out the door of the apartment, staying by my side the whole time.” I lower my voice, cup the side of my mouth, and speak in a stage whisper. “And I don’t think it was only because there was leftover salmon in the trash.”

Camilla laughs.

“Salmon aside, he exhibited this inquisitive behavior often, and that’s when I decided to give a leash and harness a whirl.”

“And now he’s become the Hiking Tomcat.” She gestures grandly to my long-haired cat, who’s lounging next to me, his white gloved paws folded in front of his chest, and a look of satisfaction on his furry face. I swear this dude is such a ham. He was born for the cameras. “Can you show our viewers how a cat who likes to go for hikes will handle being harnessed?”

“Why, I thought you’d never ask,” I say playfully as I stand, grab the leash, and harness from the couch, and pat my leg.

Zeus stretches, slinks down the side of couch, and gazes up at me.

“Want to go for a hike?”

His tail swishes back and forth.

Look, I’m not claiming he understands English. He’s a cat after all, not some kind of Cesar Milan-trained dog. But Zeus knows the drill, and the leash is dangling in my hand. He stretches his neck out, almost as if he’s inviting me to put the red hiking harness over his head. I slide it on and clip a leash to the end. Zeus struts a few feet.

Camila’s smile beams as brightly as the thousand-watt TV lights blasting from above. “There you go.”

“Would you like to walk him, Camilla?”

Her glossy red lips part in a wide grin. “I would love to walk this Internet superstar.”

I place a finger to my lips. “Shhh. We don’t want his fame to go to his head.”

“If he only knew his fandom was immense.” Camilla takes the leash and walks Zeus around the set. “We brought in something to simulate the conditions on the trails.”

For a moment, the segment cuts to Internet video I’ve shot of Zeus clambering up a hill on a nearby trail, then we return to the studio where Camilla has escorted my boy to some fake rocks set up for this demo.

She’s wearing heels so she walks alongside him, but he scurries up the rocks then down the other side. Note to self—score this cat some commercial work and see if we can retire on Friskies royalties.

But then, I’ve no interest in slowing down. My life is the textbook definition of so fucking good. My business is thriving, my family is healthy and happy, my friends are settling down. There’s only one thing I long for. Well, not a thing. More like a lovely, captivating, I-just-click-with-her someone.

But now’s not the time to dwell on a certain woman.

Camilla returns to her blue chair, and I park myself on the couch again, alongside my loyal companion.

“Now, assuming your cat doesn’t become an Internet meme of a cat on a leash,” Camilla says, and the TV monitor nearby flicks to a shot of a leashed-up feline playing possum on the sidewalk, “What should viewers know if they want to hike the Appalachian Trail with their very own Fluffy?”

I spend the next forty-five seconds reviewing trail safety with cats. After all, hiking with a cat is not for the faint of heart. People with dogs have no idea how easy they have it. Hiking with a feline is a whole other kettle of fish, but well worth it for the photos alone. We’re talking unexpected goldmine. When my sister Evie plunked this cat down on my doorstep and begged me to give him a home, I had no idea he’d turn out to be, one, totally cool, and two, the best marketing ever for my adventure tour company.

When the segment ends, Camilla thanks me and cuts to a commercial. “See you again next week, Patrick. I’ve been thinking we could do a piece on first aid in the woods.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you know what I’ve been dying to have you do a segment on?”

“Whatever you want, I can do it,” I say, keeping up the easygoing vibe, since that’s what works best for business partners.

“What if we did a piece on how to glamp?”

I chuckle lightly, rubbing a palm across my jaw, which is covered in a short, neat beard. “I can do that, and I can also give you a simple trick for camping with style right now if you’d like.”

Her chocolate-brown eyes twinkle with excitement. “Please do.”

“Do you have your phone with you?”

“Of course. It’s on silent, but I’m never without my closest companion,” she says, taking it from her skirt pocket, unlocking the screen, and handing it to me.

I tap a few words into the search bar, and the result I need returns quickly. I hand the phone to Camilla. “This is who you call.”

Her reaction is priceless—a slow smile spreads as she recognizes the phone number for the Ritz Carlton.

“So true. What can I say? I’m not an outdoorsy girl at all. But I love your segments. So does my new intern, Taylor,” she says, lowering her voice and gesturing with her eyes to a bubbly blonde who’s waiting to escort me from the set. Funny, since my job requires me to find my way out of pretty much anywhere on God’s great green Earth. Not to mention, I’ve been the guest commentator for the station’s how to make the most of the outdoors segments for a few months now.

The gig has done wonders for business, but nowhere near what Zeus has done.

Then, because I like the furry dude and I don’t want to torture him—and taking a cat for a walk on the sidewalks of Manhattan is a unique and terrible form of torture, I drop him into my backpack, slide the straps on, and leave the studio with the perky cheerleader girl by my side and the cat’s silvery head poking out the top of the pack.

“I made s’mores the other day,” Taylor offers with a big smile, her bright blue eyes meeting mine. “They were so good.”

Her so has eight syllables and all of them drip with innuendo.

“That’s great,” I say, since I’m not interested in entertaining any syllables or innuendo with someone barely past puberty.

“Do you like s’mores, Patrick?”

“Who doesn’t like s’mores?”

“I was wondering, though, if you might have any tips for me on how to make them. Like, how do I get the chocolate and marshmallow to come together perfectly.” She stops at the door, leans her hip against it suggestively, and twirls a strand of her hair.

And I do believe s’mores porn is officially a thing.

Even though I pride myself on making the world’s greatest version of the campfire treat, I keep my answer simple, but clear. “It’s all in how long you let the ingredients age,” I say, since Taylor is twenty, twenty-one at best. “See you next week.”

I say good-bye and leave, catching a train downtown then walking through the streets of lower Manhattan on a Friday morning.

Do I get stares because of the cat on my back?

Hell, yeah.

Do I enjoy it?

Absolutely.

I smile and nod, giving a few salutes and a couple of how are yous and even a meow as a little kid walks by with her mom and whispers while pointing at my shoulder. As if I don’t know there’s a badass pussycat purring in my ear.

As I turn onto the block with my building, he’s not the only one purring.

Because there, right fucking there in front of the lobby, wearing reflective sunglasses and jeans that hug her curves deliciously, is a certain woman.

Mia Summers. Tiny but mighty. A powerful sprite with wavy hair, hazel eyes, a soft heart, and a quick wit that I just dig.

I met her several months ago, and it’s safe to say she claimed center stage in my mind ever since then.

When I see Mia, when I talk to Mia, when I spend time with Mia, it confirms my belief that some things are simple.

Like whether a cat drags his whole body on the floor or he gamely trots alongside you.

It’s a yes or no.

A black or white.

You’re either attracted to your best friend’s sister or you’re not.

For the record, the answer is so fucking much.

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will release in October!