“Looking good, Cooper.”

I snap my gaze to Greenhaven after we finish a light practice—no pads for today.

He’s only called me by my first name once before. Since I signed, I’ve always been Armstrong. That’s it. Plain and simple. “Thank you, sir,” I say, still curious about the change in names.

But he gives no indication as to what it means, only a quick, crisp nod. Then, another first. He cracks a smile. It’s barely there, just a hint of a grin, and it disappears quickly on his gruff, weathered features. “Looking forward to Sunday?”

“Absolutely.”

He walks the other way, across the grass. For a moment, I watch him, his bulky figure cutting a solitary path up the field, crossing the fifty-yard line. I first talked to him the day I was drafted. As is the custom, the scouting director made the phone call to tell me I’d been picked in the first round, then said he’d put the head coach on the phone.

Talk about nerves. I was flooded with them, knowing I was getting an audience with the man.

When Greenhaven picked up, he said, “Congratulations, Cooper. We couldn’t be more pleased to have you as a Renegade.”

“I’m thrilled, sir. Absolutely thrilled. This is a dream come true.”

It was the culmination of everything I’d ever hoped for, and it was the start of a whole new future.

Only, it was the start of the longest wait of my life. Jeff Grant had been injured the season I was drafted, and the team picked me expecting Father Time was winning the battle with the star. But Grant was legendary for a reason. He recovered faster than anyone expected and returned even stronger, defying the odds for three endless years. During that time, I was Armstrong to the coach, and Grant was Jeff.

That’s a small thing, and it didn’t bother me. There’s a pecking order on a team, and you have to do your time. I hadn’t done mine yet.

Greenhaven has used my surname all season long, too.

Until now.

Maybe this means nothing. But maybe it means more. Maybe it means I’m his guy. Not just for a few games, but for longer. For a couple years, maybe even for several. Perhaps enough to make me the face of the franchise. The prospect makes me a little giddy—not gonna lie. That’s the dream among dreams come true. I turn the other way to head inside. I’m nearly tempted to text Ford and tell him what Greenhaven just called me.

But I don’t.

Because it feels like something that’s between player and coach.

And honestly, if I did, I’d sound like a pathetic ass trying to decipher a text message from a lover.

What does this mean, Jones? Does this mean she likes me, Harlan? Can you tell if she’s into me, Einstein?

I roll my eyes at the prospect.

Nope. I won’t be that guy. Instead, I’m going to enjoy this moment for what it is. Mine.

As I reach the goalposts, I stop and turn to the stands. They’re empty, of course, and this isn’t even where we play games. But I imagine the stadium on Sunday. It’s sold out, packed with cheering crowds. That’s who I’m most grateful for. You play for the owner, you play for the team, you play for the coach, but at the end of the day, we’re all playing for the fans.

Once inside the locker room, I grab my phone from the top shelf. But before I can text Violet about Jillian’s request, Harlan smacks me on the back.

“C’mon, you lazy-ass passer. Time for steps.”

“Let’s do it.”

I follow him back outside, where we’re joined by Jones and Rick. We trot to the stands, and section by section, we run up the steps, down the steps, till we cover the stands.

Spent and exhausted, as we should be.

The four of us flop down in the second row. I grab the hem of my T-shirt and wipe the sweat off my forehead. It’s fifty-five degrees in December in San Francisco, and I’m sweaty as hell from the workout.

“Are we ready now?” I ask.

Harlan drags a hand through his long hair. “I’m ready.”

Jones taps his ankles. “My stinky game socks are not in the wash.”

“And I’ve got a brand-new bag of bubblegum. My little sister picked it up for me since she loves pink bubblegum,” Rick says, his dark eyes flashing confidence as he imitates kicking a ball.

They stare at me. I roll my eyes as I jerk my fist up and down. “I’m all good.” Then, I lean forward, parking my hands on my knees, and stare out at the open field. “You guys don’t really think that’s why we’re playing well, do you?”

Rick laughs. “Who knows? We haven’t lost a game since Pittsburgh more than a month ago.”

“But Coop has been a monk since the season started,” Harlan says in his drawl. “I haven’t cut my hair in months, and we did lose a few games.”

“But we’ve won way more than we’ve lost, though,” Rick says. “So, is it the superstitions, or something else?”

“When you have a ritual you believe in, you do it even if you lose,” Jones answers, his deep voice full of certainty. “Wade Boggs ate chicken before every baseball game, win or lose, rain or shine. He’s a Hall of Famer now. He didn't alter the routine. Serena Williams bounces the tennis ball five times before every serve, no matter what. And for us, we have a winning record, so we keep doing it.”

Rick raises a finger, his voice inquisitive, as if he’s in class. “So, does it extend to the post-season? If we make the post-season.”

Like we’re synchronized swimmers the four of us lean forward and rap our knuckles on the back of the seats in front of us. “Knock on wood,” I murmur, even though it’s plastic.

“We need a guru of superstitions and what they mean,” Rick continues. “We need to make sure it’s all good.”

“Guys,” Jones says, as he wraps his hands tighter over the back of the chair in front of him. “Here’s what the superstitions are about for us. The rituals are a pact. It means we have each other’s backs.” He draws a circle in the air around us. “Whether it’s the four of us, or whether it’s the eleven guys on the field on Sunday—we do this together. We’re a team.”

He holds up his fist, and I knock mine to his, then Rick piles on, then Harlan slams his hard against the top. “To the pact,” Jones says, and we echo his words.

Soon, the guys stand and file out, and I tell them I’ll catch up. I’m alone in the stands.

I grab my phone and tap out a text to Violet. But before I hit send, I dial her number instead. God bless texting, but sometimes a voice is better.

She picks up on the second ring. “I’m in the middle of coloring a blonde red and white for Christmas, so make this good.”

Her voice is worlds better. “You didn’t actually answer the phone while dyeing hair, did you?”

“Of course. I can multitask like nobody’s business. Just kidding. I’m actually in the back office paying bills. I finished a tint early so I have ten minutes before my two p.m.”

“I won’t keep you long. But Jillian asked if we can visit the children’s hospital. Would you be able to?’’

“Of course. I’d love to,” she says, her tone genuine. “I meant it when I said I love helping with kids.”

“Does next Tuesday work for you? Pretty please,” I ask, making my voice as sweet as pie.

“Well, since you said pretty please, the answer to Tuesday is yes. That’s my day off next week anyway.”

I smile. “Have I mentioned you’re a most excellent pretend girlfriend?”

“Have I mentioned you’re a most excellent pretend boyfriend?”

“Why, no. You haven’t. Do tell me what an amazing fake boyfriend I make.” I kick back, lifting my sneakers onto the seat in front of me and crossing my ankles.

She sighs happily. “My salon is packed again today, and every single stylist is booked solid for the next few weeks. Suddenly, everyone wants a cut from here, or a holiday up-do for an event.”

I run my palm over the back of my head. “Speaking of, my locks are getting shaggy.”

“You are welcome here anytime,” she says, then laughs. “My God, if you were in the salon, I’d sell out appointments for the year.”

I sit up straighter. “Yeah? And the landlord would be off your back?”

“Probably. But you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

I scoff. “First, you can take advantage of me anytime. Second, you’re helping me with this whole boyfriend–girlfriend deal. If cutting my shaggy hair helps you, I’m all yours.”

“I like the sound of that,” she says softly, and my heart threatens to kick into overdrive.

I rein it in. “One more thing. Do you want to sit any place special on Sunday? I can get you tickets with the players’ wives and girlfriends in a suite, which is cool but it’s kind of cliquey. Or I can get you tickets on the fifty-yard line with Trent and Holly and my mom.”

She inhales deeply. “Gee. I don’t know. Sit with a bunch of women I don’t know, or sit close to the action? I just can’t decide. Okay, if I have to, I’ll be at the fifty-yard line with pompoms.”

I laugh. “Now that’s a sight I eagerly await.”

“You have a little quarterback-cheerleader fantasy I need to know about? Because I’ll have you know I don’t have an ounce of cheerleader blood in me.”

“I know that about you. Trust me. I do.” Violet was never the ponytail and pompoms girl. She was into fashion, indie music, jewelry, and her friends. In high school, I’d run into her tangled up in a group of girls, laughing, listening to their iPods, trading tunes, and looking out for each other. She’d wave and say hello. I’d always give her a hug, wrapping my arms around her, inhaling her hair, enjoying her softness against me. The memory is so visceral.

Whoa.

I liked to touch her back then?

Of course you did, dickhead. She was a babe then, still is, and you like babes. Doesn’t make you the Sherlock of Romance to put that together.

“Hey, Vi?”

“Yeah?”

“Since high school,” I say, firmly.

“What do you mean?”

“If anyone asks when I first had a crush on you, that’s what I’ll say.”

“Oh. Is that so?” she asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice. The invitation, too. Like she likes this idea.

“We can’t very well have the same answer, can we? So, since high school sounds about right.”

When I end the call, I don’t need anyone to tell me what our conversation means. It means she’s coming to my game this weekend, and for a guy like me, there’s something a whole lot of awesome about playing in front of the woman you like. Every guy wants to show off for their girl.

“Hello there, handsome.”

I startle, sitting ramrod straight.

“Hi, Maxine.”