Music pulsed through the walls, beckoning me to join the party. I bounced on my toes, a familiar feeling of anticipation humming through me as I waited to be called onto the field. Though this time, it wouldn’t be as a running back or even a coach, but as a quarterback.

“You ready, Coach?” Xavier asked, grinning at me from across the dimly lit tunnel. He was dressed in the male equivalent of the cheerleader’s uniform—fitted shorts and a tank that showed off his toned arms. He looked good, and I couldn’t help admiring his form.

“Always,” I said, excited to get back on the field in front of a crowd. It wasn’t until this moment that I realized how much I’d missed it. I’d been so focused on my career as a coach, I'd forgotten the joy of being a player.

There was shuffling and raised voices toward the back of the tunnel, and I spotted Colt’s dark hair above the crowd. As he neared, I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him. He was dressed in a tight skirt that sat high on his muscular thighs with a matching crop top. I wanted to ask how he’d found a cheerleading uniform large enough to accommodate his legs and abs, and well, everything. But there wasn’t time.

He winked at me when he ran ahead, forming a line with the other "cheerleaders" at the end of the tunnel. I shook my head as Colt jogged onto the field, his skirt riding high on his perfectly round ass. When the announcer called for our team, Amy nudged me. I shook my head to clear it and ran onto the field with a wide grin. I was pumped and ready for a throwdown.

The game started off well enough, and I was impressed both by the level of play and Tristan’s leadership. Impressed, but not surprised. Especially not after how he’d taken charge at the crash. But it was more than that. Between his organization and no-nonsense attitude, he made a great coach. And even though this was a charity game and all in good fun, he clearly took his role seriously. Come halftime, we were in the lead.

I removed my helmet, offering Amy a high five as we left the field. Behind us, the crowd laughed. I searched for the source of their amusement, not at all surprised to see Colt dancing around on the sidelines. He was thrusting his hips, shaking his butt, and basically making a fool of himself, but they ate it up.

Women were practically launching themselves over the stands to reach him. While it shouldn’t have bothered me, it did. I didn’t like the way they were ogling him like a piece of meat to be devoured. Maybe it was because I was guilty of the same behavior, even if I told myself it was different. I knew the man behind the sexy abs and sultry smile. And I wasn’t objectifying him, I was appreciating his physique as an athlete. Yeah, even I wasn’t convinced.

Halftime passed in the blink of an eye. Before I knew it, we were lined up on the fifty-yard line in the middle of the third quarter. Our team was still in the lead but not by much. And the other team was playing aggressively, almost overly so. We lined up and the center snapped the ball to me, and I moved into place to make the throw. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the opposing players rushing toward us, and then everything happened in slow motion.

She slammed into me, and I flew backward, landing hard on the field. The moment I hit the ground, the world stopped. The air was sucked from my lungs, and I lay there in shock, a blanket of silence falling over the crowd.

It was funny, the things I noticed in that moment—the rafters high above, Xavier’s mouth opening in shock, my heartbeat whooshing in my ears. I blinked a few times, the sound of the crowd’s reaction distant and muted. Colors swam before my eyes, and then Tristan came into view, followed by a medical team that had been standing by.

“Blake.” Tristan’s panicked eyes betrayed his calm tone. “Can you hear me?”

I nodded but then groaned from the movement. Son of a bitch, that was one hard hit. My chest ached—strike that, my entire body felt like I’d been run over by a bus. And then it had backed up and run over me again. Ugh, bad association.

The stadium was silent, the spectators eerily quiet as they awaited my fate. Meanwhile, the medics fluttered around me, checking my eyes and asking questions as they assessed me. I noticed Colt standing nearby, his brow furrowed. I would’ve made a joke about seeing up his skirt, but my head was throbbing.

The medic finally asked if I felt up to walking off the field myself. Without answering, I took a deep breath and sat, wincing as I did so. Colt and Tristan were immediately at my side, lending their support as they helped me to my feet. The crowd started to cheer, hesitantly at first, before breaking into hearty applause.

Tristan’s eyes met mine, doing his own assessment. They were the color of grass kicked up by cleats—dark and troubled. Surely it was because he cared about me as a player and his coach and nothing more. Right?

Yet everything from his protective stance to the way he leaned toward me told a different story. A story I should strike from my thoughts like a banned book. It was likely I had a concussion, but I could read his body language loud and clear. And it was telling me he liked me, cared about me.

“I can go with her,” Amy volunteered.

Tristan glanced at Colt, and a look I couldn’t read passed between them. “Stay,” Colt said to Amy, his touch gentle yet firm on my arm. “I got this. You finish the game.”

Amy opened her mouth to protest, but Tristan cut off any further argument. “Thank you, Colt.” He released me, his fingers grazing the bare skin of my arm. I sensed his reluctance to let me go, and I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. I appreciated his concern, even if it was making my head spin.

The crowd cheered as I left the field, hobbling across the turf with Colt’s support. As Colt and I neared the medical rooms just off the tunnel, I could hear play had already resumed.

As an athlete, I’d been lucky. I’d had injuries, sure, but never to the point that I had to be carted off the field. And never the type of injury that could jeopardize my career or my future. It gave me a greater appreciation for what the guys went through as players, what Tristan had gone through last season. There was a new ache in my chest, and it wasn’t from the tackle I’d just received.

After a more thorough medical assessment, I returned to the hallway, helmet and pads in hand. I was surprised to find Colt leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, head leaned back. At the sound of the door opening, he opened his eyes and pushed off the wall, coming to meet me.

It was hard to take him seriously in his cheerleader uniform, but his downturned lip and slumped posture made me think twice about teasing him. I wasn’t prepared for this more somber side of him, and I felt uncomfortable being the object of his intense gaze. Without a word, he took my helmet and pads from me, escorting me to the locker room so I could shower and change.

“Concussion?” he asked, and I nodded, immediately regretting it. I held a hand to my head, wishing my brain would stop jiggling inside my skull.

“Did the medics give you any instructions or restrictions?” he asked. His hand was at my elbow, and we garnered a few curious glances as we navigated the tunnels.

“Rest and take it easy. Use over-the-counter pain pills as needed,” I said.

“And have someone wake you every two hours to make sure it’s not worsening,” he added.

I turned to look at him. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“I got a mild concussion last season. I know the drill,” he said as we reached the locker rooms.

I should’ve known that. Maybe I had at some point, but when I searched my memories, I came up empty.

“Thanks. I’ve got it from here,” I said.

“Blake.” His gaze was unyielding. “Let me help you.”

“I’m fine,” I said, but the words had barely left my mouth when I had to place my hand against the wall for support. I was dizzy and light-headed and…

“Come on,” he said, guiding me into the locker room. “Unless you’d rather I take you back to the medics.” I didn’t even have the strength to protest.

The opposing player had hit me hard, for sure, but it was more than that. It had been one of those hits that was at just the right angle to inflict maximum damage. The pros were trained to stop their opponent but not injure them. Most of the time, if you were tackled by a pro, you should easily bounce back.

Colt set my pads and helmet into a bin for cleaning before steering me toward the lockers. “Which one is yours?” he asked.

“Forty-four.” I sat, grateful for the reprieve.

He smirked. “Like my jersey, huh?”

I slumped on the bench, unable even to muster the energy to make a comeback. I'd been running nonstop since joining the Rebels. Add to that a concussion, and I was exhausted.

“Come on,” Colt said, kneeling before me. “Let’s get you showered and home.”

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

“Fuck that. You need my help,” he all but growled.

He was right, but I didn’t want to admit it. I considered the alternatives. I could call my dad to come get me, but did I really want to wait the hour or more it would take him to drive to the stadium? Bastian was usually an option, but he was out of town at a conference. Colt was already here and willing to help, eager even. And the longer I stalled, the less time I had before the cheerleaders would return. And I really, really wasn’t ready to be in a locker room surrounded by a bunch of chatty cheerleaders. I didn’t think my pounding head could handle it.

“Fine,” I said, pushing off the bench. “I will let you help me on two conditions. First, no peeking.” I narrowed my eyes, wanting to make sure he knew I meant business.

“Of course.”

“And second, you are never, ever, allowed to mention this to anyone.”

Great, I thought. This was the second time I’d shown weakness to Colt. For all my talk of embracing your weaknesses, I had a hard time being vulnerable. But of everyone on the team, I trusted Colt more than most, except maybe Tristan and Xavier.

Where some of the other players tried to challenge my authority, my expertise, the three of them always obeyed without question. They treated me no differently from any of the other coaches, and I was grateful. But it was more than that. They’d made me feel welcomed, valued. And after the bus crash, I felt even closer to them.

Colt chuckled, placing his hand on my lower back. “It’s so cute that you think you’re letting me help you.”

I glared at him before wincing in pain. I was going to be bruised and battered for several days. The medic said I was lucky it wasn’t worse, but that knowledge didn’t lessen the agony.

Colt switched on the shower faucet, sticking his hand beneath the water a few times until it was warm. Steam wafted up from the stall in tantalizing swirls. “It’s ready.”

“Great, thanks.” I stood taller, trying to project the strength and authority I was sorely lacking at the moment. “You can wait out there,” I said, gesturing toward the bay of lockers on the opposite side of the wall from the showers. It still wasn’t enough privacy, but I knew better than to push for more.

He crossed his arms over his chest, arching an eyebrow in challenge. “Not going to happen.”

“Colt, please. Don’t fight me on this,” I said, determined to stand my ground, even if the ground felt like it was crumbling beneath me.

His gaze softened, but his posture told me he wouldn’t give up. “I promise not to look. But I’m not going anywhere. Think of me as your gay best friend.”

I snorted, allowing my eyes to roam him from head to toe. If he were gay, I’d eat a football. “The position’s already been filled.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’d rather fill a different position.” His eyes darkened, his intent clear. At his words, I couldn’t help imagining us in various positions in the shower, on the bench… I was so hot, I could strip off all my clothes despite my protests. “Now stop stalling and get in the shower before we have an audience. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.” He smirked.

My cheeks heated, and I knew he could tell I’d been imagining him naked. I’d been so focused on the ache between my thighs, I’d forgotten all about my head for a brief moment.

With a huff, I mustered what little authority I had and twirled my finger in the air. “Turn around.”

“Yes, Coach,” he said in jest. But the use of my title was akin to dumping a bucket of ice-cold water over my head at the end of a game. That ritual, however, was a mark of respect and honor, of celebration. This…this was wrong.

He was my player. I was his coach. And we shouldn’t be doing this. But god, how I wanted to.

“Stop,” he said, cupping my cheeks. “Stop overthinking it. Just trust me. Let me be your friend.”

I scoffed. “Friend. Right.”

“Would I like more? Yes, absolutely. But I can be a good friend—ask Tristan and Xavier.”

Without another word, he turned his back to me, finally granting me some much-needed privacy. I was grateful because my cheeks were flushed, and there was no hiding my grin.

I shouldn’t like that he liked me, but I did. Colt continually surprised me. And even though I knew it was wrong, I found myself wondering what else he was hiding beneath that sexy exterior.