Three years later

I scanned the roster of players, skimming the list of names. Quarterbacks, passable. Even the first two running backs were decent picks, but then I saw the next name and frowned at the laptop screen.

“Giddeon Hastings?” I turned to stare at Sebastian. “Are you kidding me?”

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, leaning back against the couch, one leg crossed over his knee.

He took a sip of his beer, his latest experiment in home brewing. I had yet to try mine. It was his concoction; he was going to taste it first. And then, only if he didn’t shudder in disgust or spit it out, would I drink it.

“What on earth possessed you to add him? He fumbles the ball more often than not.” I watched his expression carefully. So far, he seemed pleased with his beer, and I knew it wasn’t an act. Sebastian was a terrible liar.

“So, he had a few missed handoffs last season.” He shrugged. His navy scrubs provided a stark contrast to his pale skin and auburn hair.

I glared at him. “A few? Are we talking about the same Giddeon Hastings?” I asked. “The Atlanta running back who was nearly traded after his shitty performance?”

“I thought you said to pick the underdogs? The players no one expects.”

I shook my head and laughed. “Yes, but only if they actually have skill. And Hastings does not. He’s off the team.”

I deleted his name from the roster, debating for a moment before deciding to add Xavier Lee. Bastian leaned over, crowding my space as he attempted to see what I was typing.

“Lee?” he asked, skepticism evident in his tone.

“Yeah. What about him?” I shrugged, taking a sip of his newest brew.

I tilted my head to the side as the flavors rolled over my tongue. Not bad. Not bad at all, especially compared to some of the other combinations he’d come up with. I tried not to gag as I remembered the one that tasted like air freshener.

He pursed his lips. “Not who I would’ve expected, that’s all.”

“Why not?” I grabbed a coaster and set it and my glass on the coffee table. “He’s quick and agile, and he rarely gets tackled.”

“Just the other day, you were complaining about his lack of speed,” Bastian said.

“You do listen!” I threw my arms in the air.

“Of course, I do.” He shoved my shoulder, and I narrowed my eyes at him, unable to hide my smirk. “So, why Lee?”

“Because I think he’s capable of more. That doesn’t mean he’s not a strong player. He has good bursts through holes and superb vision. But he lacks top-end speed. He relies too much on his ability to dodge defenders rather than outrun them.”

“And don’t forget, he’s hot as fuck.” Bastian leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table and focusing on the TV.

I rolled my eyes and returned my attention to the laptop. Number twenty-three did have a nice smile, even if I didn’t understand the whole dreads thing. How did a man who was five foot eleven and 210 pounds not sweat to death with all that hair?

But the longer I stared at Xavier Lee’s headshot, the more pleasing I found his appearance. His face was symmetrical. He had dark brown eyes you could lose yourself in, ebony skin the color of midnight, and the most pearly white teeth I’d ever seen. And those lips—plump and kissable. I could just imagine sucking the lower one into my mouth and giving it a good nibble.

I shook my head and tore my eyes away from the screen. What was wrong with me?

I was a professional, not a groupie. I followed the sport because I loved the game, not because I wanted to fuck the players. If I wanted to be taken seriously in the NFL, I couldn’t be drooling over the athletes. And sleeping with them was out of the question. The slightest whiff of an inappropriate relationship would be enough to tank my reputation and end my career. Well, my future career. I was still trying to get my foot in the door.

“Mm-hm,” Bastian said. “You know I’m right.”

I rolled my eyes. I’d never admit it. “How many times have I told you not to pick your fantasy team based on looks alone?”

“Oh—” he tapped his chin “—only like a million over the last five years.”

“Yet, you never listen.” I squinted at the screen, tweaking the roster before moving down to the wide receivers. When I got to those, I shook my head in disappointment.

“What?” Bastian asked, leaning over so he could see what I was looking at. “What’s wrong now?”

“You listed Tony Sanders as your top pick for wide receiver,” I said, as if the answer were obvious.

“So?” He cocked his head to the side. “Everyone knows he’s the best in the league.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Everyone thinks he’s the best in the league, which means everyone wants him. Go for someone like Tristan Holmes. He’s lightning-fast, and his record is stellar.”

I pulled up his stats so Bastian could see, and he nudged me aside so he could zoom in on Holmes’s team picture. He nodded, tapping his finger against his lips. “He could definitely work. He’s got that whole tall, dark, and brooding vibe going for him.”

I elbowed him, pushing him away from me and the computer. That was it. I wasn’t letting Bastian near the computer until I finished. He picked up his phone, thumbs flying over the screen while I continued to review the roster. The rest of his picks weren’t half bad.

“Yep,” he said, turning his phone so I could see the screen, where a picture of a shirtless Tristan Holmes was on display. His skin was inked with a beautiful design that curved over his shoulder and down one bicep, a swirling mix of words and elegant lines. “I definitely want Holmes on my team.”

Me too, I thought, unable to stop myself. Almost all football players had nice bodies, and Tristan was no exception. But it wasn’t his perfectly sculpted abs or his chiseled jaw that drew me in. It was the tortured look in his greenish-gray eyes, the way his long fingers gripped the ball as if made to hold it.

I turned my attention back to Bastian’s team, doing my best not to think about what else Tristan could do with his talented hands. Normally, I didn’t view football players as anything more than professional athletes, and definitely not as men to be objectified. Apparently, my dry spell was catching up with me.

I hadn’t had sex in months, not since well before I’d moved back to Boston. And it had been even longer since I’d been in a relationship. Not since…well, Seth.

As a woman in her mid- to late-twenties, I’d found there was a certain expectation—surely, I wanted marriage, a house, kids. You wouldn’t believe the number of times people had tried to set me up with their sons, brothers, cousins, whatevers. But what was the point? I was driven, focused on my career. I had neither the time nor the desire for a relationship.

“Now your roster has too many Rebels on it. We need to swap one out,” I said, returning my focus to the matter at hand.

“And whose fault is that?” Bastian teased.

“Yeah, yeah. I can’t help it that Colt Whitney—who you listed as your first pick for tight end—was traded to the Rebels this spring.”

“Not Whitney!” he cried as if I were threatening to kill an adorable puppy. “He’s cute, and I really liked him when he hosted Saturday Night Live.”

“You have such high standards when it comes to who makes the cut for your team,” I joked.

“Look at that face,” he said, shoving his phone beneath my nose.

There was a black-and-white image of Colt on the screen, shot in an editorial style. His hair was short on the sides and messy on top, like he’d just run his fingers through it. Scruff lined his angular jaw, and even though his expression was serious, his eyes hinted at mischief. He looked like trouble.

“You can’t get rid of him. This is my fantasy after all.” He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and batted his eyes.

“Your fantasy team or just your fantasy?” I joked.

“Both,” Bastian said with absolutely no shame.

“Fine,” I said. “But we’re making him your third pick. And we need to talk about your team name for a minute.” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “The Knockouts?”

“Yeah,” he said, clearly pleased with his choice. “It’s the perfect double entendre. The guys on my team are hot, and I’m an anesthesiologist, so I—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” I waved a hand through the air. “You knock people out. Har-har.”

He frowned. “I’m not changing it, Blake.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I can’t have my name associated with such…ridiculousness,” I said, finally settling on the word.

“Don’t worry.” He grinned like a fool. “I’ll gladly take all the credit when I win the office sweepstakes.”

I rolled my eyes and rotated on the couch, draping my feet over his lap. When I’d told Bastian I was moving home from Florida, he immediately offered to let me stay with him. It was either that or live with my dad in the suburbs. It was a no-brainer. Much as I loved my dad, I needed to feel somewhat independent, even if I was mooching off my best friend. I reminded myself it was temporary. As soon as I had a job that paid more than minimum wage, I’d move out.

Still, it was fun living together again. We’d shared an apartment in college, but it was nothing like this. This apartment was close to downtown, overlooking the Charles River. It was within walking distance of restaurants and bars, and it had a great loft style I loved.

When a segment about football came on the evening news, I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. Training season was about to start, and it was my favorite time of year. Soon the news would be dominated by football—wins and losses, upsets and injuries. But right now, the entire season lay ahead, and I couldn’t wait to enjoy every minute of it. Every pass, every touchdown, every victory.

“Dallas announced today that Drake Kelly has been selected as their new assistant defensive coordinator.”

I sank farther into the couch, tuning out the rest of what the anchor said. It didn’t matter. Kelly had gotten the job, and I hadn’t. And with training camp about to begin, my already slim chance of getting a job this season was dwindling.

“That blows,” Bastian said.

He knew I’d applied for a position with Dallas and even had a phone interview. I thought it had gone well, but they’d decided to go with someone else. Someone much less qualified. It wasn’t the first time I’d been passed over for a man, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“Yep. Looks like I’m going to be stuck coaching peewee football a while longer. But even that only lasts for another month or so. And then I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

He gripped my thigh with his hand, his touch reassuring. “I know I’ve suggested this before, but why don’t you apply for a job as a sports reporter? One of the doctors in my practice worked on one of the local anchors. I could talk to him.”

Bastian worked in a plastic surgery practice. He had great hours, great pay, and great vacation. Sometimes I wondered if I should’ve chosen a more conventional field. A field that wasn’t quite so dominated by men. But that was exactly why I couldn’t give up—because I was a damn good coach, and it shouldn’t matter what gender I was. I had something valuable to contribute.

I laughed but shook my head. “I don’t see myself standing in front of a camera all the time.”

“Why not? You’d be perfect.” His tone rang with sincerity, and I knew he wasn’t blowing smoke. Not only was Bastian a terrible liar, he wasn't one to shy away from giving you a kick in the butt if needed. “With your blond hair and long legs, you could be a model. And you’re a walking encyclopedia of football.”

“Have you forgotten how I freeze up anytime I have a photo shoot? Besides, my passion is coaching. I want to make calls on the field and work with the players, not play Monday morning quarterback.”

The sport was in my blood. Competition was in my spirit. And football was my heart and soul.

And one day, I’d do what no woman had done before. Because I had dreams of becoming the first head coach of an NFL team. Of leading my men—and maybe one day, women too—to victory. Of winning the championship. I just needed the chance to prove myself.

“Don’t give up,” he said, patting my leg.

“I won’t,” I said through gritted teeth, and I meant it. I hadn’t come this far; I hadn’t sacrificed this much to give up now. Besides, what kind of coach would I be if I couldn’t withstand some setbacks? I just had to keep my eyes on the goal and my head in the game.

I set the laptop aside and stood from the couch, feeling restless. “I’m going for a run.”

“Now?” Bastian asked, glancing toward the windows and the city skyline beyond. The sun had set over an hour ago, but I wasn’t ready for bed. Not even close.

“Yeah.” I walked down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Want to join?”

His answering laugh told me that wasn’t going to happen. If I’d said I was doing strength training, he would’ve jumped at the chance. But running—no. One day I’d convince him there was more to working out than lifting weights.

Over the Charles River I flew, legs pumping as music pulsed in my ears. I was still adjusting to not running alongside the beach every day. Even though I’d grown up in Boston, so much had changed. I had changed. But my love of running hadn’t.

I pushed myself harder, seeking to be better, faster, stronger with every stride. This was why I ran—because sometimes, when you got it right, it felt like you were flying. Like you were a god.

I could understand why so many professional athletes believed they were gods. But that kind of attitude also spelled downfall and defeat. The best players were humble, passionate, dedicated. They pushed themselves to be the very best because they couldn’t stand anything less. They went the extra mile not because someone told them to, but because they demanded it of themselves.

So, I kept pushing, kept running, wondering why no one saw my passion, my dedication. Football was my life, and coaching in the NFL was my dream. And I wouldn’t give up.

Heart pumping, I flew over the pavement until I could run no more, until my body reminded me just how mortal I was. I doubled over, planting my hands on my thighs as I sucked in a few deep breaths. When my vision was no longer spotty, I checked the app on my phone, surprised to see I’d run almost seven miles in an hour. Shit. No wonder my heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest.

Even as I wanted to collapse on the ground, I knew if I didn’t start moving again, and soon, it would be even worse. I forced myself to straighten, and when I glanced toward the sky, Tristan Holmes was staring down at me. He was larger than life, wearing a tuxedo and a luxury watch as his eyes appraised me. For a second, I thought the universe was mocking me. But football was everywhere, and Tristan was one of the best players in the league.

I’d kill to work with a player as disciplined and talented as him. Instead, I was staring at a huge billboard of him from several stories below. The distance between me and my dreams had never seemed so insurmountable.