“Re-bels. Re-bels. Re-bels.” Even with my headset on, I could hear the crowd chanting as I stood on the forty-yard line. Their words, their energy, were contagious. I felt…electrified. And I knew the team felt it too.

Xavier was amped up, practically skipping down the sidelines between plays. Despite his shy nature, he seemed to thrive in this charged environment. And his enthusiasm made me smile.

The boom of a cannon and the smoke of gunpowder filled the air, heralding another touchdown for the Rebels. Colt jogged off the field and removed his helmet. Tristan followed at a slower pace, cradling his shoulder as he walked. I frowned, wondering if his injury was acting up. Most people saw the glitz and glamour of the NFL, not the long hours, the dedication, the pain. Being a professional athlete was a year-round job, one that required discipline. Calorie counting, weightlifting, recovery after injuries were all part of the job description.

“You okay?” I mouthed as a trainer assessed him. I knew daily aches and pains were a way of life for most of these guys. You didn’t play at this level without some sacrifice.

He nodded, using his hand to add pressure to the ice he’d been given. I wanted to go to him, to see if I could help, but I was called away. My assistance was needed elsewhere.

So I was grateful when Colt went over to his friend. He knelt before Tristan, their intensity impressive considering the chaos surrounding them. Tristan nodded his head several times then stood, seeming resolved.

After sitting out the next few plays, he returned to the field. I didn’t miss the grimace he wore when he adjusted his pads. Nor the way he clenched his hand when he ran onto the field. I questioned the wisdom of allowing him to continue to play, but ultimately, it wasn’t my decision.

When the clock ran out, confirming our victory, the crowd erupted. The sound of their cheers was deafening, and the boom of the cannon punctuated the celebrations. The coaches shook hands with each other, players chest-bumping. Confetti fluttered down from the rafters, celebrating another win for the Rebels. It was mayhem, in the best possible way.

“Good game, Coach.” Xavier held up his hand for a high five.

“Good game, Xavier,” I repeated, reaching up to slap his gigantic palm. He’d played well; they all had for the most part. I was proud of my guys, and I was proud of the role I’d played in their success.

He grinned, joy radiating from every pore. “You, um—” He pointed at my hair. “You have confetti in your hair.”

I laughed and ran my fingers through my tresses, attempting to remove it. “Did I get it?”

He shook his head and laughed. He lifted his hand, his touch gentle as he plucked a few pieces from my hair. Everything slowed, and the moment boiled down to a series of impressions. His lips parting, tongue slipping out to wet them. My heart beating, pumping out a rapid pace. His hand in my hair. We were surrounded by almost 70,000 people, but there was only Xavier and me.

Quentin slapped Xavier on the back, bursting the bubble. “Good game, man.”

“Thanks,” Xavier said. “You too,” he added almost reluctantly. I rarely saw Quentin tell anyone they’d done a good job, so I was equally surprised by this show of camaraderie.

Xavier and I followed the rest of the team to the locker room. Everyone huddled around Coach Sawyers as he gave a short speech and handed out game balls. Tristan received one, but he didn’t look particularly pleased. He was clenching his jaw, and I could see his nostrils flare with every breath. Though there was a chance he was disappointed by his performance or his inability to play, I had a feeling his expression had more to do with being in pain.

Again, I wanted to speak to him, but now wasn’t the time. If the game was hectic, the period immediately following was even more so. The players headed to the showers and the coaches to their suite. I hung around the suite, talking with Steven and some of the other coaches about the game. A few team members came and went, speaking with the media along with Coach Sawyers.

When I returned to the tunnels, I ran into Amy and some of the other cheerleaders. A forklift beeped in the distance, and the lanes were still filled with buses and cars. It was like a private parking garage that existed only on game day.

“Blake! Great game,” Amy said, giving me a quick hug.

“Thanks! You guys looked awesome out there. Loved the new dance routine,” I said.

Her hair was in a messy bun, but her makeup was flawless, if a bit more understated than it had been for the game. She wore fitted jeans and a crop top, and she looked ready for a night out. I marveled at how quickly she must have showered and dressed.

“What are your plans for tonight?” she asked.

“Not sure yet,” I said, though I would probably go home and have dinner with Bastian, watch some TV, and go to bed. Even though we’d won, I still had work tomorrow. My first meeting of the day was at seven, and I had much to do before then.

“You should come with us. Quentin’s having some people over to his house, and everyone’s invited.”

I gripped the strap of my tote bag, hoisting it up on my shoulder. Even if I’d wanted to go to a party, which I didn’t, I wasn’t dressed for one. My hair was in a ponytail. My makeup was fine, if a bit natural. And my clothes were far too sweaty. Not to mention I’d stand out like a team mascot in my game-day apparel.

“I’m pretty sure ‘everyone’ doesn’t include the coaches,” I said.

“Yeah, but you’re not like the other coaches.” I frowned at her words. “You know what I mean—” she sliced a hand through the air “—you’re younger, more fun.”

“Brian is only a year or two older than me,” I said, referring to one of the coaches for the special teams.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but it’s different. He’s married and has kids.”

I heard raised voices, and I glanced behind me to find Colt, Xavier, and Tristan exiting the locker room. Amy and the other cheerleaders perked up at the sight of them, which made me frown. They weren’t doing anything wrong, even if cheerleaders weren’t supposed to date players, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way the cheerleaders touched the players, placing their hands on their forearms. And I certainly didn’t like the way Colt, Xavier, and Tristan were smiling back at them.

“What are you ladies up to?” Colt asked.

He was wearing a suit in the team’s signature cobalt color. The luxe material shone under the bright tunnel lights, and on anyone else, it would’ve looked ridiculous. Especially since he’d paired it with a crisp white shirt, black tie with a silver tie clip, and black sneakers. But somehow, he managed to look sharp and sporty, sexy even.

“We were trying to convince Blake to join us for an after party at Quentin’s,” Amy said.

“Is that so?” Colt appraised me, and I smiled brightly.

“Trying being the operative word,” I said.

He tilted his head back with a knowing smile. “Well,” he said, keeping his eyes intent on mine. “Perhaps that’s because she already has plans. With us,” he added.

“It’s a coach-player postgame breakdown thing,” I said on a rush, cringing at how bogus that sounded. Still, I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea about my imaginary plans with the guys.

“Oh.” Amy’s face fell, and I felt even worse for going along with Colt’s charade. “Well…you guys have fun,” she said after one of the other cheerleaders tugged on her arm.

They disappeared down the row of cars, their heels clicking against the concrete floor of the tunnels. I had absolutely no desire to attend a party, especially not one at Quentin’s. Talk about awkward. It was like inviting the principal, or your parents, to your after-prom party. It simply didn’t happen.

Besides, I’d heard rumors of what happened at these parties. And I didn’t want to be in a position where I had to lie or risk ratting out half the team for behavior that violated the league’s code of conduct. I didn’t want to be a babysitter or a tattletale. So, the less I knew, the better.

Colt turned to me. “You ready?”

“Thanks for bailing me out, but I’m just going to head home.”

“Nonsense.” Colt threw his arm over my shoulder, leading me in the opposite direction. “You’re coming with Xavier, Tristan, and me.”

“The only place I’m going is home,” Tristan grumbled, and Xavier hid a laugh behind his cough.

Tristan was dressed more conservatively than Colt. Though it was clear, from the cut of his gray suit to the material, it was an incredibly expensive garment. And Xavier looked sharp as well, dressed in a black suit and a red patterned tie with a coordinating pocket square. His hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and a large pair of diamond studs sparkled in his ears. Damn, the three of them looked good.

“Come on, Tris,” Colt said. “One night out won’t kill you.”

“If I don’t ice my shoulder and get a good night’s rest—”

“You’ll turn into a pussy. Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. His other arm remained wrapped around my shoulder, holding me close.

“News flash—it’s too late,” Xavier joked, surprising me as he turned to Colt. “When is he ever not a pussy?”

I covered my mouth, laughing to myself at their banter. It echoed many conversations Bastian and I’d had over the years, with Colt reminding me a lot of my fun-loving best friend. I hadn’t realized until now how similar they were. They were both outgoing and social, and they both loved to push people’s buttons and challenge their boundaries. No wonder I’d felt comfortable with Colt from the start.

“Don’t worry, Cinderella,” Colt said to Tristan. “We’ll have you home by midnight.”

Tristan glared at him. “Did you take a hit to the head? Because I said I’m not going.”

“Aw, come on,” Xavier said. “Don’t break tradition.” I was reminded of their ritual of pressing their foreheads together, the intimate gesture they performed before the start of every game and following every touchdown.

Tristan glanced toward the ceiling, scrubbing a hand over his head. “Make it ten, and you have a deal.”

“Ten thirty. Final offer,” Colt shot back.

Tristan huffed. “Fine.”

“Come on, Blake.” Xavier grinned. “What do you say?” I knew I couldn’t refuse, even if I’d wanted to. Which—let’s face it—I didn’t.

I was no longer as paranoid about being photographed with them. Especially now that I’d spent some time with each of them outside the stadium and no pictures had circulated of us. And I would know—Bastian had set up a number of news alerts linked to my name.

When we exited the stadium, a black Escalade was waiting. The chrome wheels gleamed beneath the lights of the parking lot, the paint shining. Xavier typed something on his phone as we approached.

A few seconds later, he held up his phone, the screen illuminated in the darkness. “Shay said our table is waiting.”

“Excellent.” Colt rubbed his hands together. “God, I hope that roasted chicken is on the menu tonight. Fuck, that dish is amazing.”

Xavier laughed. “Dude, it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t. You know Jared will make you whatever you want.”

“True,” Colt said, holding the door to the car open for me. “So, Shay’s working tonight?”

Xavier shrugged and climbed in behind us. “I just said she texted me, didn’t I? Why? You want to ask her out?”

“I thought you might want to,” Colt said from behind me. He’d climbed back to the third row, leaving Xavier and me in the middle. Tristan was riding shotgun.

“Nah,” Xavier said as the interior lights dimmed and then went out. “Shay’s nice, but I’m not interested in her.”

My shoulders relaxed, but I was curious. “Really? She seems sweet. And I definitely get the feeling she’s interested in you.”

I studied Xavier’s profile lit only by the streetlights and passing traffic. He tugged at his collar, clearing his throat. “I, um, she’s not my type.”

“I didn’t think you had a type,” Colt said. “Though, how would I know, since you never bring any women back to the loft.”

I perked up at that, surprised Xavier had never brought anyone home. Though, that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t having sex. He could hook up with a girl at a hotel or go back to her place.

I stared out the window, my limbs suddenly heavy. It wasn’t my place to judge, especially when I’d done the same thing myself. But that didn’t mean I was happy when I pictured Xavier with other women. Just as I hated the idea of Tristan or Colt with another woman. I had no right to be possessive of them, but I was.

“I have a type,” Xavier snapped back. His eyes darted to me, and my breath caught at the intensity I found there. The desire that flashed in them before he tore his eyes away from mine. “And so do you.”

Colt laughed. “Oh yeah? Do tell. What is my type?”

“Tall. Blond,” Xavier listed.

“You like a challenge,” Tristan chimed in from the front seat.

One would almost think they were describing me. I pressed myself against the seat, wishing I could disappear. Colt was remarkably quiet, and I was dying to glance back at him to gauge what he was thinking. Instead, I kept my eyes on the road, wondering if it was too late to back out of this.

Everyone fell silent, the sound of the road and the faint music playing from the radio the only noises in the car. It wasn’t the first time one of the guys had indicated they were interested in me. And I wondered what life would be like if I weren’t their coach. If we didn’t have a team and goals standing between us.

The driver dropped us off at the rear entrance, and we bypassed the kitchen before meeting Jared. He hugged each of the guys and smiled when he came to me, kissing my cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan stiffen.

“The Coach returns.” Jared cast his arms wide, the noise of the kitchen playing his score. He was a maestro, and the staff was his orchestra. Orders were called out. Pans bubbled and hissed. And the smells were amazing—garlic and butter. And was that curry?

Shay appeared at the entrance to the kitchen, giving Xavier a shy smile before leading us to the same table as before. I glanced over the menu, only then realizing how hungry I was. I’d been so caught up in the adrenaline rush of the game, I hadn’t stopped to eat. I only wished I’d had time to shower and change before we’d left the stadium. The guys looked incredible in their suits, and I felt out of place in my fitted slacks and button-down shirt embroidered with the Rebels logo. They were probably so used to gorgeous women with perfect makeup and slinky dresses, and…why the hell did I care?

This wasn’t a date, and I wasn’t interested in them. Right?

My head said yes. But as I glanced around the table at their faces, my confidence faltered. Colt was captivating and sexy, his playful demeanor belying a caring heart. Xavier radiated joy, and I couldn’t help but gravitate toward the talented athlete who was shyly confident. And Tristan, I sighed. Tristan was so disciplined and goal-oriented. Everything about him, from the set of his angular jaw to his chiseled physique, spoke of his dedication.

Who was I kidding? This might not be a date, but I was certainly interested in them. I wanted to spend time with them. I wanted to know everything about them. And I wanted them to crave those things with me.

For once, I wasn’t focused on my goals or my legacy. All I could see were the three incredible men sitting right in front of me.