It’s our impromptu first date.

We stroll along the streets of downtown Sausalito as night falls across the sky and the town’s Christmas lights sparkle on signs and trees above us. We wander past the ice cream shop, and we drop into a wine store that’s having a tasting. The sommelier is oblivious, but a customer drinking a red can’t take his eyes off us. That might have to do with the fact that he’s wearing a Renegades jersey. It’s a Jeff Grant jersey, but hell if I care.

When we leave, he calls out, “Kick some Dallas ass this weekend.”

I turn around. “Absolutely. Nothing less.”

Out on the street, with the cool December breeze softly blowing, Violet takes my hand, and her touch ignites a spark inside me.

I look at our joined hands for a moment, liking how we fit. Then I remind myself she’s just touching me as part of the date.

“Are you ready for this weekend?” she asks.

“Yeah. I think so. We had a tough practice today, but I think we’ll take no prisoners on the field. I’m going to spend more time tonight studying the playbook.”

“Don’t you have it memorized by now?”

I smile. “I do. I’ll memorize it even more.”

She laughs, then her voice turns serious again. “Do you ever get nervous before a game?”

I look to the night sky, pondering her question. “Honestly, no. Because if I do, then I’ll overthink every move. I need to be in the zone both physically and mentally, so I don’t give myself time to feel nervous, if that makes sense. Mostly, I’m pumped full of adrenaline. But a focused kind of adrenaline that beats out the nerves and leaves only this intense desire to get out on the field and win.”

“Intense desire,” she says, like she enjoys the sound of those words. “You make football sound so passionate.”

“Of course it’s passionate. How else could you play but passionately?”

“I style hair passionately,” she says, playful, fluffing out her hair.

“You touch hair passionately.”

“I guess your hair just brings out the passionate hairdresser in me,” she says as we reach the fountain near the ferry. A string of red and green lights decorates the ceramic fountain. The water gurgles a gentle tune. She snaps her fingers. “The Passionate Hairdresser! Would that be the most ridiculous or one of the most ridiculous names ever for a salon?”

I tilt my head and screw up the corner of my lips, as if I’m considering it. “Second most.”

She gives me an intense look. “Because Curl Up and Dye is the most ridiculous, right?” she asks, emphasis on dye.

“That would indeed be the worst.”

She laughs then flops down on the edge of the fountain, gazing at the lights of San Francisco in the distance. “I have to say, Cooper, I’m so happy Jeff Grant finally retired. I know this city loves him, but I was rooting for you the whole time.”

“Yeah?” I ask, sitting next to her.

“Of course. I never wanted to say it at the time, because I didn’t want to put pressure on you, but I’m so glad it’s your team now. Ever since high school, since I watched you play on Friday nights, I always wanted to see you in the pros.”

“Are you coming to my game this weekend, then?”

She blinks, meeting my eyes. “What?”

“You say that like it’s a surprise. You’ve been to a couple already. I get you, Trent and Holly and your parents and my mom and Dan tickets. You’re my people.”

“But this time I’d be coming as your girlfriend?” she asks, drawing quotes around the last word.

I sketch them back in the cool night air. “Yes, since that’s what you are right now. And if you’re my girlfriend, I would think you’d want to come to the game in that role. Wear that jersey you sleep in,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.

She lowers her voice. “I won’t wear my sleep jersey. But I will wear one with your number on it. Root for my man and all,” she says nudging me with her shoulder.

I drape an arm around her and pull her close. “You should absolutely root for your man. Besides, I suspect you’d be a good-luck charm.”

“What if I’m not? What if you have the worst game of your career?”

I set my finger on her lips, shushing her. “Never say that again.”

She smiles beneath my finger. “Sorry.”

“You’re not allowed to speak. You’re in trouble for saying something horrible.”

“You’ll have the best game of your career,” she whispers.

I nod. “Much better.”

“And I’ll be your good-luck charm.”

“Excellent. That’s what I thought.” I lower my finger, thinking that’s one lucky digit to be so close to those pretty lips. “By the way, you really thought I was a weird kisser, didn’t you?”

Might as well get it all out in the open now.

She laughs, then arches an eyebrow, challenging me. “I can’t seem to remember.”

I shake my head. “You’re killing me.”

She taps her bottom lip. “Just give me a peck and remind me.” She grabs her phone. “I’ll take a kissing selfie.”

“That reminds me. Ford wants me to send him one.”

“Ford wants a shot of us kissing? He’s the weirdo.”

“It’s for Instagram or something. He’s setting up an account for me.”

“Well, let’s give him something to post.”

She holds up her phone, selfie style, and I suppose it’s time to find out how weird she thinks I kiss.

This time I lead. This time I’m in charge. I cup her cheek, and look into her eyes. I swear, I fucking swear, I see desire flicker across them. She parts her lips, and I wait, and I wait. Making sure she wants it. Making sure, this time, she feels it everywhere.

I breathe her in, and it feels like I’m holding in so much. Then I kiss her.

I’m only gentle for a few seconds. I kiss her harder and deeper, and if she thinks this kiss is weird then she’s an alien. This kiss rocks the motherfucking world of kisses. Soon, she lowers her phone, and that’s my cue to stop. But I don’t, since she doesn’t. She brushes her lips over mine, sliding, dusting, kissing. She flicks the tip of her tongue over me. I groan as her tongue slides between my lips, and we kiss, hard and greedy, for one, two, three seconds.

Then we stop.

She looks intoxicated. I feel infatuated.

She sets a hand on my shoulder. “Better send you home to memorize that playbook.”

But the playbook I want to learn is the one for her body.