After a shower, I returned to the living room to find Colt’s sweatshirt draped over the couch. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. It smelled so good—like Colt. Spicy and clean and something all his own. And geez, was it soft. What was this made of? Cashmere?

I couldn’t get Colt’s face out of my head, and his words ran on a loop through my mind. He was so different than I’d expected, and I wanted to believe it was genuine. No one had asked him to spend the night with me, to wake me every two hours. Yet he’d taken it upon himself to do so. And he’d been nothing short of incredible.

My phone rang, and the shrill tone made me yelp and drop the sweatshirt to the floor. I picked it up, fumbling with it as Coach Sawyers’s name flashed on screen. I balled up Colt’s sweatshirt and shoved it behind one of the throw pillows as if Coach Sawyers could see me.

I took a deep breath and grabbed my phone, pressing the button to answer the call before it went to voice mail. “This is Blake.”

“Good morning,” Coach said. His voice was full of warmth, nothing like the accusatory tone I would’ve expected had he known my thoughts. “I heard about what happened at the charity game last night. How are you feeling today?”

Guilty. Conflicted. Confused.

My stomach churned like a hurricane picking up speed as it swept across the ocean, preparing to leave a path of destruction in its wake. Just like I was currently on a path to self-destruct.

“Okay,” I lied.

“I’m glad. Look,” he said, and I could hear shuffling in the background. “I know how important it is to rest after a head injury, and I want you to take the day off.”

It was a Tuesday, which meant the players had off. But it was also one of the most important days of the week for the coaches. It was the day the game plan for the week was formulated.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued talking. “Take care of yourself, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

For a moment, I wondered if he’d treat a male employee in my situation the same. And then I told myself to stop being ridiculous. Coach Sawyers wasn’t one for preferential treatment, and I knew I’d be useless if I went in. I couldn’t think straight, but I couldn’t blame my state on the concussion. No—caring, sexy, unexpected Colt was to blame. So, if Coach Sawyers was offering me a day to recover, I was going to use it to get my feelings in check.

We ended the call, and I trudged over to the couch. I closed my eyes and threw my arm over my face. What the hell was wrong with me? Was this another side effect of the concussion—catching feelings, and inappropriate ones at that?

“So,” Bastian said, lifting my feet to take a seat at the end of the couch. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked. “Because clearly there’s more going on than a concussion. Did something happen? Did Colt kiss you?”

“Nothing happened.” I gritted my teeth.

“But you wanted it to,” he said, daring me to disagree. His touch was gentle when he peeled my arm away from my face, and his eyes were kind when I finally gathered the courage to look at him.

“Come on, B. That man is… He’s fucking hot.” He blew out a breath. “And no one would blame you for wanting more with him.”

Colt was so not my type, it wasn’t even funny. Not that I was entirely sure what my type was, to be honest. But I was convinced it wasn’t a pro athlete with a mischievous side, a hot-as-hell body, and a devilish smile.

Who was I kidding? Colt was everyone’s type. The guy you always picked first to be on your team. The guy who made everyone laugh and whom no one took seriously. But he was the type of guy who was always there when you needed him. Ugh, why him?

“Even if I wanted more—which I don’t,” I huffed, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Do you really want me to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea?” I asked. “I’m his coach. He’s a player,” I said, ticking off my fingers.

“What if you could keep it a secret?” he asked. “What if no one had to know?”

I scoffed. “He’s a celebrity. Even if we could keep it secret at work, there’s no way we could hide the truth. Not with the paparazzi hounding him.”

“But you like him,” he said. “There’s no use denying it, B. I saw you sniffing his sweatshirt like a love-sick teenager.”

I shrugged, embarrassed he’d caught me. “He’s a good guy. He’s…not what I expected.”

“Sometimes the best things in life are the ones we least expect.” There was a knock at the door, and Bastian stood to answer it.

I hmphed. “Well, I have a plan, and getting involved with Colt isn’t part of it.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Never say never.” I was beginning to hate that stupid phrase, and I wanted to punch him in the face every time he said it.

When he stood at the door, staring out the peephole without opening it, I frowned. “What? Is there an ax-murderer waiting on the other side or something?”

He faced me, cupping his hands around his mouth as he whisper-yelled, “It’s Tristan Holmes, and he’s holding a giant bouquet.”

“What?” I shrieked, scrambling from the couch. My aching muscles protested the sudden movement, but I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. My hair was in a messy knot atop my head, and I was dressed in loungewear after my shower. Before I could tell him to pretend we weren’t home or hide in my room, Bastian opened the door.

“Hi. Uh, I’m looking for Blake Mackenzie, but I must have the wrong address,” Tristan said.

I don’t know why I did it, but I flattened myself against the rug between the couch and the coffee table. I groaned at the impact to my bruised body, immediately regretting my decision. It wasn’t my finest moment.

“You have the right address. I’m Sebastian. Blake’s, uh—” I could sense their eyes on me, wondering what the hell I was doing.

I didn’t blame them because I was wondering the exact same thing. Crouching on the floor? Attempting to hide from Tristan? What was wrong with me?

“You okay, B?” Bastian asked from across the room.

“Yep,” I said as I jumped to my feet, banging my elbow on the coffee table in the process. I cursed under my breath. And it just keeps getting better and better.

“Was just, uh—” I glanced around, grasping for any excuse “—looking for this!” I held a coaster in the air triumphantly. I wanted to crawl under the couch and die. Why couldn’t I have just left it alone?

“I’ve been wondering where that went,” Bastian said, totally mocking me. “You have an unexpected visitor.” He waggled his eyebrows, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“Tristan, hey,” I said, padding over to greet him. His eyes swept from my top knot to my bare toes, and I stood a little taller in the wake of his appreciative perusal.

“The cheerleaders wanted you to know they’re thinking about you. And they appreciate how hard you played in the charity game,” he said, holding the vase of flowers out to me.

I attempted to smile as I reached for the vase, but judging from his reaction, it came out as more of a grimace.

He frowned. “You’re allergic to flowers, aren’t you?”

I shook my head, waving a hand through the air. “No, no. They’re beautiful. Thank you.” They were beautiful, and I knew they had to have cost a fortune judging from the size of the arrangement and types of flowers. At least Bastian would enjoy them—at work. Because they weren’t staying here.

“Then what is it?” he asked. “It’s okay to accept the gift. You’re not violating any league rules about bribes or anything.”

God, if only he knew about all the rules I’d violated with Colt. Even if we hadn’t actually done anything, I felt guilty enough. I’d violated my own code of ethics and professionalism.

“I know,” I said in a quiet voice.

From his tone and the way he used his free hand to rub the back of his neck, I sensed his genuine concern, his desire to please. And that was something I’d never expected from Tristan—that he’d care about anyone’s opinion, let alone mine. I began to wonder if this gesture was more Tristan’s doing than the cheerleaders.

“I, um…” I swallowed. “Flowers remind me of my mom’s funeral.” I stared at the floor, the pattern in the tile infinitely interesting. I was surprised I’d admitted it to him; I never talked about my mom’s death.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry,” he said, setting them on the counter.

“It’s okay. You couldn’t have known, and I do appreciate the sweet gesture.” I smiled, a genuine one this time.

“Can I, I don’t know, take you out for coffee or something else instead?”

I couldn’t help myself, I laughed. “Is that even possible? Can the Tristan Holmes go out for coffee without being mobbed by his adoring fans?” His face was plastered on billboards and featured in magazines. Everyone knew who he was.

He smirked. “Yes. You just have to know where to go. That is, if you’re up to it.” From behind Tristan, Bastian gave me a look that said, If you don’t go, you’re crazy.

Even though I wanted to go, I hesitated. What if someone saw us? What if we were photographed together? And what message would it send if I was absent from practice because of a concussion, only to be spotted galivanting about town with Tristan?

Tristan stepped closer. “Blake?” He lifted his hand as if to steady me before sliding it into his pocket instead.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” I finally admitted.

Tristan smirked. “I’m beginning to think you’re embarrassed to be seen in public with me.”

“No.” I rushed to reassure him. “I just…I’d feel like I was playing hooky when I’m supposed to be recovering.” Which was true.

“It’s coffee, Blake,” Bastian piped up. I’d almost forgotten he was standing there. “Not a marriage proposal.”

I glared at him, but Tristan smirked. “Exactly. Just coffee.”

“Besides,” Bastian added, tapping his chin. He just couldn’t stop himself, could he? “Walking or light activity following a concussion can be good for recovery.”

“He’s right.” Tristan nodded, a slow grin spreading across his face. “See, I’m only trying to promote your well-being.”

I glanced between the two of them and realized they weren’t going to let it go. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was overthinking things. It was just coffee, after all. We weren’t doing anything wrong.

“Shoot, if Blake won’t to take you up on your offer, I will,” Bastian added. He grinned at me, and I knew he wasn’t joking. And the longer I debated, the more time he had to embarrass me.

“Give me a minute to get changed,” I finally said.

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck and smiled. “Great.”

With Tristan’s back turned to me, I narrowed my eyes at Bastian. “Be good,” I mouthed, and he just smirked.

Less than ten minutes later, Tristan and I strode down the hall toward the elevator. I’d never seen Tristan outside the stadium, and I sensed that even though football was his life, there was more to him. I found myself wanting to know all about it. And not the tabloid version or what was written in the sports blogs, but the truth.

He placed his hand on my lower back as we neared the elevator, and I felt a jolt of electricity at the seemingly innocent touch. He must have felt it too, judging from his sharp intake of breath. The elevator doors slid open to reveal Colt, and I stopped in my tracks.

Colt glanced between Tristan and me and frowned. “What are you doing here?” he asked Tristan.

“Delivering flowers from the cheerleaders. What are you doing here?” His tone was more questioning than accusatory. But their attention shone on me like the bright stadium spotlights, leaving me exposed.

“I left my sweatshirt at Blake’s,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Tristan before turning his gaze to me. “Feeling better?” He smiled, flashing me his brilliant white teeth. It had only been a few hours since I’d last seen him, but it felt like much longer.

“Pretty good, all things considered. Thanks again for bringing me home last night.”

“Anytime,” Colt said, and I ignored Tristan’s curious look. “Where are you two off to?

“We were going to grab some coffee,” I said, rushing to add, “Why don’t you join us?” It was an act of self-preservation, a desperate attempt to keep my growing attraction for them at bay. I realized too late I’d only compounded the issue.

Tristan’s disappointment was matched only by Colt’s enthusiasm. “I’d love to.”

“Great,” I said, rocking on my heels. “That’s great.”

We stood for a moment in awkward silence before Tristan pressed the call button for the elevator. Talk soon turned to the charity game, and I was pleased to learn our team had won. More importantly, the game had raised thousands of dollars for charity.

“Where were you thinking of going?” Colt asked Tristan. “The place near the loft?”

“There or the one on Second,” Tristan said. The earlier tension between them had completely dissipated.

“Wait…do you guys live together?” I asked.

“Yeah. Tristan, Xavier, and I share a loft downtown.”

“Really?” I couldn't mask my surprise. Why would three incredibly wealthy professional football players choose to live together? It’s not like they couldn’t afford their own places. Though I guess that explained some of the closeness I’d noticed between them.

“Technically, it’s Tristan’s loft since he owns the building. Xavier and I share the top floor with him,” Colt said.

Tristan cleared his throat, and I whipped my head around to stare at him. “You own the building?”

He shrugged like owning real estate in Boston—a freaking building—was no big deal. It was so a big deal. Just how wealthy was he?

“We could go there,” Colt offered. “We have an amazing coffee machine, and our rooftop patio is very private.”

“First, you attempt to shower with me, and now, you’re trying to lure me back to your place,” I teased, regretting the words the instant they left my mouth. I’d nearly kicked him out of my apartment for suggesting the same thing earlier this morning.

“What the hell?” Tristan asked. “You were supposed to take care of her, not assault her.”

I shook my head, holding up my hands as I tried to backpedal, to explain. “He, um…” I glanced to Colt for assistance, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. Our earlier argument all but forgotten.

“I was a complete gentleman.” He straightened. “Tell him.” He smirked, and we both knew Colt could never be a complete gentleman. But that was part of his allure.

“I wouldn’t say you were a complete gentleman,” I said. “But you did take very good care of me.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “See, Tristan. I took very good care of her.”

“Colt,” Tristan growled. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“A gentleman never tells.” He mimed zipping his lips as he walked backward through the lobby, forcing us to follow. He was shameless.

“I’m beginning to wonder if Colt had the head injury, not me.” I glared at him.

“Or needs one,” Tristan muttered. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was jealous. That couldn’t be. Could it?

We walked down the sidewalk, the path littered with pigeons and trash. Skyscrapers lined the streets, looming over us and blocking out the sun. I kept wondering where the paparazzi were. Were they shadowing us with their cameras while we continued on, blissfully unaware?

Yet, as we crisscrossed the city, it all felt surprisingly normal. Sure, most people were working or in school on a Tuesday morning. But we were only stopped once for an autograph and a picture. The guys were gracious, especially Colt. And I could tell how important it was to them to please their fans.

They paused in front of the Jameson, a large, historical property with beautiful landscaping. Colt held open the door, and I tried not to let my jaw drop. The freaking Jameson? They lived here? Tristan owned this building? It was only one of the nicest luxury condos downtown, known for its tasteful combination of tradition and modernity.

They led me to an elevator off to the side of the main bank, and I paused, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. Sure, their rooftop patio was more secluded, but…was I crossing a line? It would've surprised me if the other coaches hung out with the players outside work, let alone in their homes.

Colt nudged me forward. “Come on, friend,” he said, reminding me of his words the night before.

I shook my head but complied, knowing I tended to overthink things. How could I not when I’d been trained to analyze people’s behavior and actions? Even outside the classroom, I’d spent years studying my teammates and opponents on the field. Still, these two men were a puzzle. They intrigued me, and I wanted to know more about them.