When I return to my place a little after eight, with plenty of time for a good night’s rest, I can’t believe I actually do this, but I send a picture of me kissing Violet to my agent. His reply is swift—Awww. Melting from the cuteness. Xoxo

I write back, instructing him to never reply to a kissing photo again.

When I get into bed, my text notification winks at me. I groan, thinking it’s Ford. But it’s Violet.

I wait, my skin warm, my heart doing funny things in my chest as I stare at the bubbles that tell me she’s tapping out a reply.

I laugh as I ask why.

I find a laughing seal emoji and text it to her. I don’t send Ford a screenshot of that. He’d have a field day with it. Just like I’m having a field night right now because it feels like neither one of us wants to say goodbye. Like I could text her all evening long.

It’s only as I start to drift off that I realize I’m supposed to be keeping it in my pants this season. But we only kissed, I remind myself. My dick is safely in my drawers, thank you very much, and no way will it come out to play. I might want her, but at the end of the day, we’re only friends who pretend.

A few years ago, the Miami Mavericks drafted a quarterback in the fourth round named Quinn Mahoney. Boasting strong college stats and an impressive bowl record, he was regarded as a solid, steady choice. He turned out to be a steal since the Mavericks went all the way to the Super Bowl with him in his second season.

Mahoney is a thinker. He’s quick on his feet, possesses razor-sharp instincts, and is fast in the pocket. I admire the fuck out of him.

Mahoney is also the reason I’m up at the crack of dawn, lacing my sneakers, and pulling on a running T-shirt.

The dirty little secret about quarterbacks is this—you don’t have to be fit to play the position. Ironic, isn’t it?

Look around, and you’ll see the guys in the league who are in the best shape are usually running backs and receivers. But the guys who lead the team downfield? Most won’t be posing for the Abs-R-Us calendar. You don’t have to be a specimen to know where to throw and launch a ball with on-the-money accuracy. A quarterback’s best asset is between his ears and in his chest—brain and instinct.

But hell if I’m going to ever have anyone say about me what was said about Mahoney in his draft report.

Frumpy body with hardly any muscular definition. Mahoney doesn’t look the part. His uninspired body type will turn off some teams.

Mahoney has a ring, a wife, a baby, and a fat contract, so his frumpy body didn’t change his fortune.

Still.

Maybe I’m vain, but I don’t want that kind of epithet thrown at me. But more than that, I like being fit. I like how it feels. I like how it looks. I like the effort it takes to get there. And I don’t ever want a woman to say Cooper Armstrong is uninspiring when he removes his shirt. I especially don’t want Violet to say that. If the situation ever presents itself, I want her to rip off my shirt, tear off my shorts, and murmur, “Your body is unreal.”

Then I’d show her how inspired this unfrumpy body can make her feel.

Crap. Fuck. Dammit.

I did it again.

My brain went there.

Out-of-bounds.

I lift my hand as I run up a steep hill. “This is your fault for being my closest companion,” I mutter.

My hand doesn’t reply.

“You could at least make a joke.”

Still nothing. I lower my hand.

I force myself to remember the rules. Violet’s a friend, a fake girlfriend, and my best friend’s sister.

On top of that, I have a season on the line and a pact with my guys. Winning is my only job right now. And honestly, that’s the real reason I run from Pacific Heights down to the marina and back up Divisadero on Thursday morning as the dark sky hugs the city by the bay. The streets are quiet. My only company is a lone car gliding by now and then and the rare early morning exercise warrior. The first time I ran this steep stretch of road, years ago, it felt like my lungs were on fire and my thighs would burn to ash. Now, it feels like a good workout.

As I reach the top of the hill, my breath coming fast and hard, I turn around and inhale the view. My reward. The city lies at my feet. From here, I drink in the hills and homes, the curl of the early morning fog, and the Golden Gate Bridge, a beautiful beast standing proud between the Pacific and the bay.

My gaze drifts farther, imagining what’s beyond the bridge on the other side, in a little rental cottage tucked into the hills of Sausalito. Surely the woman who lives there is fast asleep under the covers. I wonder what she looks like sleeping. How her hair looks fanned out across her pillows. If she snores or breathes quietly. If she starfishes or curls up on her side near the edge of the bed.

I blink away the possibilities, shelving them in a drawer of things I will never know, right alongside what causes static electricity, and why the hell do baby carrots taste astronomically better than the regular small ones?

My phone buzzes in my shorts pocket with an incoming text. I grab it as I head the other direction, and it’s like a reward for heeding the five a.m. workout wake-up call.

I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of her message. With the street unfolding blissfully on the downhill, I jog lightly as I reply.

Interesting. It’s hardly six a.m. and she’s already texting me.

Don’t read into it, dickhead. She’s covering her bases.

As I pick up the pace, zipping past a hipster coffee shop opening its doors, I text her back. Yup, I’ve become that idiot who’s running while staring at his screen in the inky-blue dawn. And I don’t care.

I scratch my head as I slow at a light. A street sweeper trudges along as I jog in place. The light changes, and I run, replying before she can finish hers. And now I’m that idiot who’s running, and texting, and grinning like a fool. And I still don’t care.

As I run, I stare at the winking emoticon, like I can turn the symbol upside down and find some hidden meaning. I study it, searching for her true intention, until I nearly trip on a cracked section of sidewalk.

I regain my footing, reminding myself that her answer is a joke. Like Sierra at the auction, she’s weaving the story everyone wants to hear—the hometown girl crushing on the guy who made good. It’s a story that’ll go down easily, something the press, the fans, and the player’s wives will eat up with a spoon because there’s nothing cuter than childhood sweethearts.

I choose a true one. Something I absolutely want to know.

As I turn onto the next block, her reply dings. There are no words in it. It’s a multimedia image, and it takes a frustratingly long time to load as I blast by a row of Victorian homes.

Then it lands.

I stop running.

I can’t do anything but stare. There’s a shot of her from the neck down in bed. She wears a long blue shirt with the number sixteen on it, the fabric hitting near the tops of her thighs. Her legs are bare and beautiful, stretched out on rumpled red sheets.

God help me.

I’m dying to know what she’s wearing under that shirt, but this image will feed me for days.

The phone dings with another reply. It’s a shot of the empty bed, and the words: And now I’m up. Time to spin.

I text her goodbye, and when I return to my house, my heart pounds harder, but I don’t think it’s from the run. I head to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and down it as I click open the photo again. And I stare, and I stare, and I stare.

I might possibly salivate over those legs. So toned and creamy white. My God, even her toes look pretty with bright green holiday polish on her nails. And those red sheets. I want to run through the city, across the bridge, and down the hills. I want to bang on her door, scoop her up in my arms, and spread her out on those sheets.

Then kiss every square inch of those legs.

And that keeps me occupied quite nicely in my shower. But then, as I run a towel over my wet hair, I ruminate on the questions she prepped for. What will my answer be if someone asks how long I’ve liked her? Violet has her finger on the trigger of her phony answer. I suppose my fake reply would be the same. Since second grade.

But my real answer? The one I keep locked tight in my chest would be this—since last night. It’s been at least since last night that I’ve known how very much I like Violet Pierson.

Real like. Real emotion. Real fucking scary.

My heart beats harder, wishing she had a real answer that matched mine.

But my heart pounds in a whole new way when I run into Jillian that morning at our training facility and she shouts, “You’re in big trouble.”