I didn’t remember the ride home, though somehow, I’d managed to give Colt my address. When we reached the door, I fumbled with my keys, struggling to open it. He wrapped his hands around mine, suffusing me with a sense of warmth. Trapped in his arms as I was, it would be so easy to fall into him, to fall for him.

God, my brain really was damaged. Fall for him? Who was I kidding?

He took the keys and unlocked the door himself, and I couldn’t deny that I immediately missed his heat. Colt made me feel safe, protected. And it had been so long since I’d let anyone take care of me.

The apartment was dark, but my flashlights glowed from their spots along the wall, reassuring me they would light my path. Colt followed me inside, and I kicked off my shoes.

“Thank you again for driving me home,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint.

“You’re welcome. Nice place,” he said, glancing around. Before we left the stadium, he’d changed into some jeans and a hoodie. “Do you live here by yourself?” he asked, peeking into Sebastian’s bedroom.

All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and go to sleep, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. A small part of me wanted him to stay, even if I’d never admit it. I was his coach, and he was my player. I refused to risk my dreams for a feeling, a desire, no matter how overpowering it may be.

“No,” I said, slumping onto the couch. I leaned back against the cushions, barely able to keep my eyes open.

“With your boyfriend?” he asked. And I knew what he really wanted to know was if I was single.

“My roommate?” I answered, peering at him from beneath my lashes. I didn’t miss the way his shoulders relaxed, the corner of his lips curving ever so slightly upward. His pleased reaction shouldn’t affect me, but it did.

We could not, should not, cross the lines that divided us, even if they were a bit blurry at the moment. And the sooner he left, the better. I didn’t trust myself in this state. Not when my body was craving the warmth of his arms and my brain was saying maybe it would be okay.

Blame it on the concussion, I thought, to the tune of “Blame It” by Jamie Foxx. I drew out the word “concussion” in my head. Shit, I really was losing it.

“Will she be home soon?” he asked, his eyes never straying from mine.

I laughed, nearly snorting at that. Bastian may be a diva, but he was most certainly a dude. “He,” I said. My eyelids were so heavy. I’d just close them for a moment. Or at least it felt like a moment, but I had no idea.

The next thing I knew, I was being lifted from the couch as if I weighed nothing. Colt cradled me to his chest, and bracketed by his muscular biceps, I felt safe, protected. I listened to his heart as it beat a steady cadence.

Steady.

Reliable.

Comforting.

Words I never would’ve thought would describe him. Yet as he set me on my bed, pulling back the covers to tuck me in, I felt more cared for, more loved, than I had in a long time. And that terrified me more than the idea of a spontaneous power outage.

I was in the middle of a crazy dream when someone whispered my name in the dark. Their voice bore an uncanny resemblance to Colt’s, but I knew I had to be dreaming. And what a dream it had been. Colt carrying me through the apartment, sitting on the edge of my bed as he swept my hair away from my face. He was so tender, so sweet, and…

“Blake,” he said again louder, and my eyes fluttered open.

When I found him kneeling on the floor beside me, I jolted awake and scrambled to cover myself. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You don’t remember?” he asked. I could see his frown in the darkness, his face illuminated by the city lights beyond my window. “Figures,” he muttered. “We share the best night of my life, and you don’t remember a thing.” He shook his head, bowing it to his chest.

I scrutinized his expression for a moment before it all came back to me. The charity game, being tackled, the concussion, Colt. I groaned, but I was secretly grateful he wasn’t babying me. And he’d found a clever—albeit slightly devious—way to check for signs of a worsening condition following my concussion. Loss of memory was a serious concern, as were other more severe complications I didn’t care to contemplate.

“You’re such an ass.” I fumbled for my phone. I found it plugged in and charging on my nightstand, even though I didn’t remember doing it. Huh. I glanced at the illuminated screen to discover it was after one in the morning. “What are you even still doing here?”

“Somebody has to wake you every two hours,” he said, as if the answer were obvious.

I held up my phone and waved it in the air. “Hello, technology. That’s what alarms are for.”

Colt glared at me, and I knew he wasn’t going to let this go. If Tristan was the Monk, Colt was the Bulldog—tenacious, stubborn, unstoppable.

“Alarms can’t force you to wake up if you black out. Alarms can’t call for help if you’re lying on the floor alone,” he said, his voice rising with every word. “Alarms—”

“Okay, okay,” I said, holding up a hand. “I get it. Please just stop talking.” I pinched the bridge of my nose with my other hand, still trying to figure out why he was being so nice, apart from the yelling.

He took my hand and held it gently in his, rubbing his thumb back and forth over my skin. With every swipe of his thumb, I found myself both more and less relaxed. I wanted to enjoy the comfort he was offering, but the gesture felt too intimate. Maybe if we weren’t in my dimly lit bedroom, with him looking at me as if I were a coveted championship ring, it would be different. So, I retracted my hand and fluffed my pillow. It wasn’t that I didn’t like his touch, it was that I liked it too much.

“Please,” he said, his voice gruff. “Please let me stay. Let me do this.”

“Why?” I croaked, finally voicing the question that had been plaguing me all evening.

“Can’t I want to help you without expecting anything in return?” I searched his face for clues, but I found his expression open, his eyes sincere.

“Not in my experience, no. At least, not when it comes to men.”

He scowled. “Then I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with the assholes of my sex.”

I was so very tired. Too tired to argue. Too tired to insist he leave, even though I was positive I’d later regret this. Colt was the type of guy that if you gave him a yard, he took fifty. I needed to hold my position, stand strong against this sexy tight end who was blitzing his way into my heart.

“Why do you have to be so irresistible?” I whispered. The last thing I remembered before drifting off to sleep was his bemused expression.

“Blake,” he whispered my name in the dark. I knew without looking that two hours had passed.

“What?” I groaned. I just wanted to sleep.

“Who has the most wins as a head coach in the NFL?” he asked.

“It’s pathetic that you even have to ask.”

He chuckled, and I knew from the sound that he was close. Dangerously close. So, I grunted and rolled away, putting my back to him.

“Come on,” he said. “Humor me.”

“If I answer, will you leave me alone?” I asked, my voice muffled by the covers.

“No guarantees,” he said, before adding in a lower tone, “I’m not sure I can.”

I stilled, holding my breath. He was pushing the boundaries, challenging my willpower. I needed him to get out before I used the situation as an excuse to do something stupid. Something we’d both regret.

“Don Shula,” I answered.

The sound of our breathing filled the room, and I didn’t say anything more, and neither did he. He was so quiet, I wondered if he was still there, still awake. I drifted off to sleep, comforted by the idea that he was watching over me.

“Blake,” Colt said. I opened my eyes to find him crouched on the floor next to the bed. Time for my next two-hour wake-up call. “Do you think I’ll win NFL MVP this year?”

I laughed. “Not likely. It’s rare for anyone but a quarterback to win.”

“Exactly,” he said. “So, it’s about time for another non-quarterback to take home the award.”

I tucked the covers under my chin, enjoying the view. His hair was mussed, his feet bare, and I was surprised by how comfortable I was, considering the circumstances. I’d long since given up on telling him to go home, and I actually found myself looking forward to our conversations.

He kept them brief, asking me enough questions to ensure I was okay. But not pushing me so far as to tire me further. He was kind and funny, sweet even.

He reached out as if to touch my cheek, and for a moment, we both stared at each other. Gray eyes met blue, the air swirling with possibility. Finally, he moved his hand away, plucking a feather from my hair instead. My lips parted on a deep sigh.

“Are you feeling okay? Can I get you anything?” he asked. My eyes were drawn to his long, dark lashes. They framed his gray eyes perfectly, delicate lines contrasting with a swirling storm. A storm I wanted to sweep me away.

I shook my head, my hair rustling against my pillow that smelled of gardenia. “I’m good, thanks. You’ve already done so much.”

“It doesn’t feel like nearly enough.” He focused on me with an intensity I wasn’t prepared for. After a moment, he pressed his palms to his thighs, standing and walking out of the room before I could respond.

Part of what made Colt a good player was that he liked to push the boundaries. As a tight end, it was his job to open up a hole in the defense for the tailback to run through. So why did it feel like he was making a play off the field? Rushing into my life and prying open my walls so he could burrow his way into my heart.

The next morning when I woke and didn’t see him in the living room, I was almost disappointed. But then I reminded myself it was a good thing. Perhaps it had been a dream, after all, a figment of my imagination. A man like Colt didn’t exist in real life, at least not like the one I’d fantasized about last night.

A glance at my phone told me it was after eight, and I padded across the carpet to the coffee machine. My head and body were achy and fatigued, but I told myself it could’ve been worse. I gripped the cold edge of the counter and hung my head as I waited for the coffee to brew, my thoughts on Colt and the night before. I still couldn’t believe he’d spent the night, intent on watching out for me. And it wasn’t so much in the words he said as the things he did that I knew he cared for me. Or maybe that was my concussed brain making more out of the situation than there was.

“Morning,” Colt husked, and I spun to face him.

Black spots swam before my eyes, and I reached out for the counter to steady myself. I swore under my breath, and he stepped closer, completely invading my space.

He lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You okay?”

I nodded, unable to form a coherent response. I couldn’t think, not when he was staring at my lips like he’d kill for a taste. Not when his hips were practically pressed to mine.

“You sure?” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. I could feel the heat emanating from him. It struck a chord and resonated deep within me.

“I’m great,” I said, forcing a smile. I felt like I’d been run over by a Mack truck, and my head was spinning from everything that had happened with Colt.

I was grateful when the coffee machine beeped so I had an excuse to back away from him. But when it started spluttering, spewing hot liquid everywhere, I groaned. Why was I so incompetent when it came to the kitchen? It was a freaking machine, for crying out loud. All I had to do was press a few buttons, and it did all the work for me. Yet I was incapable of even that.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Colt grabbed some paper towels and whipped into action, cleaning up my mess like it was his job. “Don’t beat yourself up, Blake. You have a concussion.”

He dumped the paper towels in the trash and leaned his hip against the counter, looking all sexy. Ugh. The first guy I’d met in a while who seemed genuinely kind and interested in me was the last guy I could ever consider dating.

“I wish I could blame it on the concussion,” I said with a sheepish grin. “But that’s not the first time it’s happened.”

“Well, perhaps it’s a complex machine,” he offered.

I laughed. “It’s not. I’m just completely inept when it comes to anything involving cooking or a kitchen.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” he said, a soft smile playing at his lips. “And even if it is true, you have many redeeming traits.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

What was I doing? I shouldn’t be acting like this—all foolish and flirty. I was entering dangerous territory, practically fishing for compliments. Next thing I knew, I’d be batting my eyes.

He nodded, crossing his arms over his broad chest. I would bet he could bench-press me, easy. Was it weird the idea of it turned me on?

“Well, you’re incredibly knowledgeable and passionate about football.” His eyes scanned my body from head to toe, and a trail of fire blazed in their wake. I expected him to say something about my looks, but he surprised me. “You’re smart, funny, and driven. And you’re not afraid to speak your mind.”

I grinned, pleased by his assessment. Most men would’ve jumped straight to complimenting my appearance, and many men were intimidated by my smart mouth. Somehow, though, I got the feeling Colt saw the real me. And he liked what he saw.

“And if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse, I want you on my team. You’re clearly prepared for anything considering all the flashlights. If that’s any indication of your bottled water and food supplies, consider yourself taken.”

I sputtered a laugh, amused by his joke, until he added, “Seriously, what’s up with all the flashlights? It’s lit up like Times Square in here at night.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. Colt may have spent the night taking care of me, discussing any number of things. But my fear of the dark was off-limits. So, as always, I resorted to humor. “Are you one of those weirdos who can’t sleep unless it’s pitch black?”

“Why don’t you spend the night with me, and you can find out?” He smirked.

“Pretty sure I did. Last night,” I shot back, leaning my hip against the counter.

“That doesn’t count,” he said. “I’d prefer it if you were completely conscious and naked the first time we’re together.”

My jaw dropped open, and I quickly closed it. It had been on the tip of my tongue to invite him to breakfast to thank him for his help. How could I have been so stupid?

“You need to leave,” I said firmly, ignoring the way my body vibrated from his suggestion. I was mad at him for putting the idea in my head, and I was mad at myself for wanting to agree.

“Blake—” He strode across the kitchen and reached for me.

He grasped my arm and turned me to face him, and I could see the remorse written in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak just as the front door swung open, and Bastian waltzed into the apartment.

I jumped back from Colt as if he were a snake ready to strike. Bastian stopped mid-stride, his suitcase still in the open doorway. He stared at Colt and me, his mouth flapping open and closed a few times. Then he disappeared into the hallway and shut the door.

“The roommate?” Colt gestured toward the door with a wry grin.

“The one and only,” I said, trying not to smirk when the door opened again, my earlier outrage somewhat dampened.

Bastian strode through a second time as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Though I knew him well enough to know he was freaking out. He had an embarrassing crush on Colt. And I knew it was killing him that I got to work with one of his top three celebrities to fantasy fuck. It made me wonder if he’d used his moment in the hall to primp or give himself a pep talk before meeting Colt face-to-face.

“Sebastian Hughes,” he said, extending his hand to Colt.

Colt took his proffered hand and shook, and I could see them sizing each other up. “Colt Whitney. You were at the bar the night I met Blake.”

I was impressed he remembered, but it shouldn’t have surprised me. When it came to me, Colt seemed to remember everything.

Bastian nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re the star of my fantasy. My fantasy team,” Sebastian rushed to add, clearly flustered. His pale skin bloomed a nice scarlet color, and I hid my laugh behind a cough.

“Good to know,” Colt smirked, completely unfazed. He was clearly at ease when it came to fans, even the crazies like Bastian.

“Blake,” Bastian said, wrapping me in an exaggerated hug. His voice was low in my ear. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

When he released me, I addressed Colt. “I’ll be right back.”

Bastian walked down the hall ahead of me, tugging me into his room in an almost comical fashion. “What the hell is Colt Whitney doing in our loft this early in the morning?” His eyes scanned me as if seeing me for the first time. “And why do you look like shit? Too much celebrating after the charity game?” he added, as if trying to piece it all together. But he wouldn’t let me get a word in, talking quickly before I could answer. “Christ on a cracker, did you sleep with him?”

My eyes went wide with horror. “What? No. And keep your voice down,” I snapped. “I had a concussion, thank you very much. Colt was taking care of me.”

Bastian furrowed his brows. “Taking care of you? You’re the most independent, stubborn person I know. You never let anyone take care of you.”

“Well—” I threw my hands in the air “—he didn’t give me much of a choice.”

He tapped a finger against his lips. “Is lapse of judgment a side effect of a concussion?” Snarky bastard.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Shouldn’t you be asking if I’m okay instead of grilling me about what happened with Colt?”

His face softened, and he took my hands in his. “Yes, I’m sorry. It’s just—" he glanced toward the living room where Colt was waiting “—I came home to find Colt freaking Whitney in my living room. It was a little…surprising.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Enough about me, let’s talk about you. Why didn’t you call me?”

“To tell you he was here?” I asked. “Waiting for you to arrive so he could profess his undying love,” I teased, intentionally misinterpreting his question.

He smacked my arm. “I could’ve forgiven you for not calling me after you were injured. But now you’re just pissing me off.”

“More pissed than the time you discovered I’d been adding self-tanner to your body lotion?” I smirked.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I kept wondering why my skin looked all streaky.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “And right before our spring break trip. That was evil.”

I threw my head back and laughed, stepping around him toward the door. After I was a safe distance away, I called, “By the way, I think the coffee maker’s broken.”

“Dammit, Blake,” he bellowed.

Colt’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I’ll take that as my cue to leave.”

He pulled me in for a hug, and I allowed myself to sink into him. To experience what it would be like to give in, even if only for a moment. Bit by bit, he was obliterating my defenses. And I wasn’t sure how to rebuild them…or if I even wanted to.