My hair is sticking up.

In my defense, it’s always sticking up.

I have what’s known as permanent bed head. Which can be awesome, if I want to look like I just strolled out of a most excellent roll in the hay, complete with a sexy stranger running her hands through my dark brown strands.

It’s less awesome for pulling off the part of a classy athlete dressed to the nines. I’m decked out in a tailored charcoal-gray suit and parked in a leather chair in a suite at the Whitney Hotel in the heart of San Francisco, along with a bunch of other guys from the team.

Violet’s trying to curb my bed head. Her long fingers thread through my hair, aiming for a reverse roll-in-the-hay effect. “I swear, Cooper, you’ve had the most stubborn hair your entire life.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “It takes after me. I can’t be tamed, either.”

She rolls her amber eyes, her long chestnut hair spilling over her chest. “That’s right. You’re a wild mustang. Impossible to domesticate.”

I neigh.

She stops, sets her hands on my shoulders, and gives me a sharp stare. “Can you count with your hooves, too?”

I drag a wing-tipped foot along the carpeted floor one, two, three times. “I can go all the way to ten.”

“You let me know when you make it to twenty, Mister Ed. That’s when I’ll truly be impressed,” she says, with the smile I’ve seen for the last twenty years. I’ve been friends with Violet since we were kids and I moved to her hometown, a few blocks away from her house.

I rub my palms together. “Excellent. I have a goal to shoot for. You know I love goals.”

She laughs. “I do know that.”

Give me a task, and I’m nose-to-the-grindstone focused. I’ve been that way my whole life. Run a mile in under six minutes? Sure thing. Throw a ball downfield twenty-five yards? Let’s do it. Win a scholarship to a top-tier school? Consider it done, and done with a smile.

Violet stretches her arm behind her, silver bracelets jingling as she grabs some hair gel in a black tube from the chrome coffee table. “We need to domesticate your lovely locks, Cooper. I don’t have a riding crop with me, but I think this gel will do.”

I give the tube a skeptical stare. “You’re not going to put a ton of goop in my hair, are you?”

She adopts a serious expression. “Absolutely. It’s a brand-new product I’ve been testing at my salon. It’s called Goop for Guys. It’s so perfect for you.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “But I won’t tell anyone you have to use . . . product to look so pretty.”

“More like pretty ugly.” A deep voice booms the insult across the suite. Jones is the king of put-downs, and one of my closest friends on the team. At the moment, he’s lounging in a chair, scrolling through his phone, and wearing a custom-fitted dark navy suit.

The team publicist, Jillian, organized the event and chose the tailored suit theme for this year’s auction, our annual holiday fundraiser for the San Francisco Children’s Hospital. Her exact words were, “Suits are like catnip to women, and to men, too, and I want my team of pretty kitties to raise even more money this year.”

That’s a tall order, but most of the dough comes from the entrance fee—a donation to simply walk in the door. We’ve already circulated amongst the crowd, chatting with fans in the ballroom, finishing the mingling session while the speakers played “It’s Raining Men.” That song presaged the final event of the night—the auction itself, also affectionately known as the annual parade of Renegade Man Meat, when the single men on the team strut their stuff.

I glance over at Jones, picking up the insult volley. I eye his midsection suspiciously. “How’s your girdle fitting you tonight? Is that why you look so nice and trim?”

He pretends to adjust it. “Yeah, I borrowed yours.”

“It’s a comfort fit. I can see why you’d need it.”

“You can wear it next. A blushing bride always needs one.”

That’s what the guys call me now. Bride. But hey, I’ll take it over bridesmaid since it comes with the starting job after three long years on the sidelines.

Violet shakes her head as she flips open the tube. “The two of you—”

“Are clever, brilliant, and handsome devils? Why thank you,” I say, straightening my vest. I went three-piece, all the way. If Jillian wants us to wear suits to rake it in, I’ll damn well do my best to bring home a four-peat. I’ve been the recipient of the highest bid the last three years, and since I love streaks, I want to keep it up this year, too.

For the kids.

I want to win for the kids. The hospital does amazing work, and I gladly support it.

Plus, bragging rights do rock.

That’s all that will be rocking this year. I need all my focus on the field, which means no full-benefits package with this date, even if the opportunity should present itself. I spent the last three years idle on the bench but busy after hours. This season is a whole different beast now that I have a record and reputation to think about. We’re closing in on a wild-card spot in the playoffs, and these days the only scoring I plan to do is on the field.

Violet tips her chin at my attire. “I like the vest. You rarely see anyone wearing a vest here.”

We live in casual country, home of the hoodie, and land of the jeans. “Is that your way of telling me you’re a vest woman?”

She laughs then lowers her voice. “I’m an everything woman.” She lets that comment hang between us, and for a moment, my head is in a fog. Everything. What sort of everything does Violet Pierson like? Everything in bed? And why the hell am I thinking these thoughts about her? Violet’s not only my friend, she’s also my best buddy’s sister. “And you’re going to clean up, my friend, since there are few things hotter than an athlete dressed in a suit.”

“Yeah?” I ask, meeting her eyes as she squeezes the goop onto her hands, and my mind continues to wander down the everything yellow brick road. Every position, every night—is that her sort of everything?

“Of course. You have a great face, a nice body, and that top-notch suit fits like a glove,” she says, listing these attributes like they’re hardwood floors, a quiet dishwasher, and a front-loading washing machine. Violet meets my eyes, and her tone is cheery. “Don’t worry. I’m only saying nice body in an empirical sense.”

I put on the brakes, since it’s not very sexy to be described like an appliance.

“Right. Of course.” I nod, wiping the everything thoughts from my brain, too. “It’s a completely objective compliment.”

“Totally clinical.”

I adjust the vest anyway. Just in case it empirically looks better this way. Or clinically, for that matter.

She runs her gel-covered hands through my hair. “Let’s at least try to tame you for the cameras.”

The auction is being carried live on local TV, and that’s why Violet is here—to give us a little touch-up before we go on air. She’s a hair stylist, which happens to be one of my favorite professions in the world.

One afternoon during my sophomore year of high school, the grizzled old dude who’d cut my hair forever was out, and his twenty-two-year-old granddaughter filled in for him at the barbershop. I glimpsed the angels in heaven when she leaned in to cut the front of my hair, and I’ve been a big fan of haircuts ever since.

But I’m not checking out Violet like that, even though her breasts are precariously close to my face as she styles the mop on my head.

I’m absolutely not thinking of the angels I’m seeing.

I can’t think of her that way.

She’s Trent’s sister, and he’s been my best friend for twenty years, since all the way back in elementary school. That places her firmly in the not-allowed-to-even-consider-whether-she-might-be-hot category. I’ve never thought of her as a babe, not once in all the years I’ve known her. Which is all the more impressive considering she has a rocking body, lush chestnut-brown hair, and big amber eyes. Oh, and she has a wicked sense of humor. But I don’t think of her as smoking hot, even tonight when she’s wearing those black jeans, the kind that look as if they’ve been painted on, and that silvery tunic thing that clings to her chest.

Nope.

That’s why I talk to her like a buddy. Or an appliance, for that matter.

“Just don’t make me look like a douche,” I say.

Jones chimes in from his post on the couch. “Yeah, he can do that just fine on his own.”

Violet glances over at him then back at me as she finishes. “Yes. Fine being the operative word. I’d say Cooper looks quite fine indeed.” She gives me a wink.

Ha, take that, Jones.

She shifts her gaze to the couch and our kicker, Rick. I’d like to say he’s our secret weapon, but everyone knows the broody-eyed Stanford grad has the best foot in the league. That right toe of his has hurled the pigskin more than forty yards when he’s needed to, and he’s only missed one field goal so far this season. Harlan’s here, too, his suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He’s our star running back, and even though I prefer to throw the ball, I’ll hand off to him, too. He’s escaped hordes of humongous linemen with his quicksilver feet.

These guys have seen a hell of a lot more action than I have, since they surrounded the Renegades superstar Jeff Grant, who retired last year. Despite the ribbing, they’ve welcomed me as the new quarterback, due in part to the fact that it’s December, we’re sporting a 9–4 record, and we have a real chance to clinch a wild-card spot in my first season as the starter.

Violet parks her hands on her hips, surveying the guys in the room. “Look at you boys. Such pretty Renegades.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t mind me. I’m just getting into the spirit of objectification for tonight.”

“You want to bid on me, don’t you, Vi?” Rick calls out, flashing her a gleaming white smile that contrasts with his dark skin.

“It’s all I can think about,” she says with an over-the-top purr. She leans close to the chrome table, rooting around in her purse. She finds her wallet, flips it open, and shows him a few tens. “Will that be enough for you?”

“We’re running a discount on Einstein,” Harlan says, scratching his stubbled jaw. “You can have him for a ten and a six-pack.”

When we found out Rick had earned a perfect score on the Wonderlic, the cognitive test we have to take before the draft, we naturally had no other option than to nickname our resident brainiac kicker after the world’s most famous genius.

“Hell, I’ll throw in your favorite bottle of wine if you take him off our hands now,” Jones adds.

Rick rolls his eyes and flips us the bird. “Watch me clean up tonight, just like I have to clean up all your messes on the field when you guys can’t get it in.”

“I always get it in,” I say, because I can’t resist. He went there first. I turn to Harlan. “Think you’ll find a nice guy to bid on you this year?”

He scowls and taps the side of his nose. Two years ago, a prominent local businessman placed the winning bid on our running back. Harlan, not being a homophobe, went on a platonic date with the guy. The next year, Harlan’s bids came from nearly all dudes, so during his time on stage he tapped the side of his nose, and his female agent got the message to place the winning bid.

“Violet, why don’t you save those bills and bid for me?” Harlan asks in his Southern drawl. “I don’t care if I go for less than the others.”

She laughs and glances at me, raising her hands, like scales. “Hmm. I can’t decide. Cooper, should I bid for Harlan or you? You or Harlan? Are you as cheap as the others?”

I scoff, lifting my chin. “I’m a premium kind of guy. But if you wanted to bid on me, I’d foot the bill for it.”

What the hell just came out of my mouth? I’m not angling for Violet to bid on me or anyone else. I like the come-what-may thrill of the auction. It’s worked out pretty well for me in the mutual attraction department three years running, including last year when local news anchor Lourdes Mariano won me, and that black-haired vixen was as unbuttoned in the limo as she was buttoned-up on air.

I can absolutely live with my decision to stay laser-focused on the game. But I’m a competitive bastard, and I want to emerge victorious.

“If you’re paying, I’ll be sure to bid sky-high,” Violet says, then she points at Harlan. “You’re next in the hot seat.”

Harlan taps the arm of the chair. “It is indeed hot.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her when he says that, and my shoulders tense as she moves in front of him.

I try to ignore his flirty comments as she works on his long hair, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice him inch closer to Violet. Closer than he needs to be. A strange burst of annoyance spreads in my chest as she combs his hair, smoothing and neatening it.

“Can you cut my hair sometime?” His eyes lock on hers. “What’s the name of your salon?”

“You are welcome anytime at Heroes and Hairoines,” she says.

I snap my gaze to the running back. “You know your speed comes from your hair.” I couldn’t give two fucks about the length of his hair, but I don’t want him pulling up a chair in her salon.

“Dude. You haven’t cut it all season, and we’re winning,” Jones adds, his blue eyes intense, since he’s the keeper of our superstitions, and the four of us have plenty.

“No shit. I’d wait till the end of the season,” Harlan says, raising his hand to his hair. “Can’t fuck with our luck when we’re so damn close to a playoff slot.”

“Don’t jinx us.” Jones crosses his fingers. “And don’t cut your hair, man.”

Harlan makes the sign of the cross on his chest.

Jones points at Rick. “Einstein chews that pink bubblegum his little sister gave him before every quarter now to make sure we kick ass.”

Rick raises his chin and nods, agreeing. “And I brush my teeth on the sidelines, too, once I’m done with the gum.”

“Do you use bubblegum toothpaste too?” Jones asks.

“Hell yeah. I added that in once Coop started kicking ass in game three. I amped up the whole ritual then, and it’s working.”

Jones tips his chin at me. “Plus, Cooper has kept the snake in its cage.”

I point to my crotch. “That’s why we’re winning, I’m sure.” I’m not actually as superstitious as he is, but Jones is my go-to guy on the field, so I respect his feelings.

The look in his eyes is intensely serious. “You gotta honor the power of the rituals. Don’t mess with them. Don’t fuck with them. Just fucking trust them. Michael Jordan wore his college shorts under his uniform during the whole six years when the Bulls were epic in the nineties. Look at me,” he says, tapping his ankle. “I haven’t changed my game socks all season.”

Violet crinkles her nose. “How is it you’re still single, Jones?”

He flashes her a dimpled smile. “Talk about miracles, all right. But it mostly comes from an iron-clad commitment to the cause.”

A few minutes later, Jillian strides in, looking polished in a dark gray dress, her sleek black hair twisted on her head.

“You all look gorgeous, as always,” she says, with the crisp and business-like smile that comes with her role as team publicist. “The media is ready and waiting. The crowd is enthusiastic.” She waves her jazz hands to demonstrate. “It’s showtime. Everyone ready?”

“Yes, we are,” Jones says, and as he chats with her, Harlan pulls me aside, lowering his voice. “Listen, I know Violet is your friend and all, but would you be cool with me—?”

The cloud of annoyance swells, but before he can finish asking my permission to ask her out, Jillian interrupts. “Gentleman, we have a crowded ballroom. More than three hundred attendees are ready and waiting. We have lots of eager ladies who want to bid on you. A few men, too, and some mighty handsome ones, I might add. I must say the choices look excellent. Let’s head backstage to the ballroom. We start in ten minutes.”

As the guys file out, Violet calls to me. I stop and turn. She’s a tall woman, and even taller in a pair of black, high-heeled boots that jack her up on those trimmed, toned legs. But I’m six-four, and I easily have six inches on her in those shoes.

I look down. She reaches a hand up and smooths a strand of hair out of place on my forehead.

“This is your first year out there as the starting quarterback,” she says with a soft smile.

I smile. “Crazy, huh?”

“You’ve killed it every year as the backup. You’re going to kill it harder as the starter. Plus, you’ve played great the first three months.”

I reach above her head and knock on the wall. “Knock on wood. We need to keep playing great.”

“You will, because my ritual is intact, too.”

I arch a brow, curious. “You don’t say. You’ve come to the superstitious side, Vi?”

Her eyes glint. “I wear my Cooper Armstrong jersey to bed every night and have since your week-three win.”

“Excellent.” I wag a finger at her. “And it pains me to say this, but no matter how tempted you are, don’t switch to lingerie.”

She play-punches my shoulder. “Don’t you switch to lingerie, either.”

I gesture to my chest and down to my thighs. “One hundred percent birthday suit at bedtime.”

“All right. Get out there. They’ll bid even more this season for a date with the new quarterback.” She takes a beat. “But not if this piece of hair keeps sticking up.” She runs her finger over a strand.

“I have faith you can fix it for me. Because you’re a miracle worker.”

“Of course I am, and I can.” She smooths it out over my ear, and it feels better than it should when she touches me. She steps back and observes her handiwork. “Empirically.”

I smile. “Clinically.”

She moves her hands to my tie, straightening it. I already did that, but I see no reason to stop her.

“Hey,” she says, as the corners of her lips turn up. “What do you call an alligator wearing a vest?”

“I don’t know. What do you call an alligator wearing a vest?” I ask, since Violet likes to tell silly jokes.

Her eyebrows rise. “An investigator.”

I laugh. “Good one.”

She shoos me off. “I need to pack up my supplies, and you need to get your butt to the stage.”

A husky voice floats down the hall, a smoky alto, belting out the chorus to “It’s Raining Men,” and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Maxine,” I hiss.

She’s the owner’s can’t-keep-her-hands-to-herself sister, and she doesn’t just want men to rain down on her. She wants one guy to fall from the sky into her lap.