“What happened out there?” Bastian asked as soon as I walked through the front door. His eyes were glazed, and I knew he’d been drinking.

The game had ended hours ago, and the streets of Boston were likely filled with fans celebrating. Celebrating the win or commiserating over the fight, or both. Wondering—like Bastian—what happened out there. I knew, and I was still trying to wrap my head around it.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I dumped my bag on the couch and headed straight for the kitchen. Liquor. I needed liquor.

He paced back and forth, forking his hair with his hands. “I mean, what the hell was that? It looked like Tristan attacked Tyrese. And then…” He covered his face with his hands and shook his head. “Please tell me Colt is okay.” Bastian always had a flair for the dramatic, but never as much as when he’d been drinking.

I rolled my eyes. “He’s fine.” I grabbed a bottle of tequila from the cupboard along with a shot glass.

“They’re just lucky we still won the game.” He was merely echoing the sentiment of any Rebels fan, but I didn’t want to hear it. “Damn, they’ve been on fire this season. I hope they don’t crash and burn after this fight.”

I set the bottle down with more force than necessary, and the glass clanged against the counter. Would he ever shut up? I wondered.

But I knew this was only the beginning. Tomorrow and for the rest of the season, this fight would play on a loop. And when everyone discovered the reason for the fight… I poured a shot and downed it, the alcohol burning my throat.

“Ruh-roh,” Bastian said, sounding annoyingly like Scooby Doo. “This must be serious if you’re busting out the tequila.”

I poured another shot and drank it just as fast. Bastian narrowed his eyes at me, pointing at me from across the room. “What’s going on, Blake?”

“I said,” I ground out, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

My phone chimed from the coffee table, alerting me to an incoming message. Bastian was closer, and he swiped it from the table before I had the chance. He squinted at the screen and then frowned at me.

“Who’s T? And why’s he texting you he’s sorry? What’s he sorry about?”

“Nothing,” I said, trying to grab the phone from him.

Unfortunately, Bastian had both a height and weight advantage on me. Even though he was drunk, he was determined. He held the phone above his head, while I jumped and yanked on his arm, attempting to get it back from him. When it chimed with another text, he glanced up at the screen, using his free hand to bat me away.

“Mmm,” he said. “X wants to know if you’re okay. Hmm, X and T,” he mused. “Xavier and Tyrese? No, Tristan,” he quickly amended. “Shall I text him you’re drinking shots and dancing on the table?”

“Don’t you dare,” I seethed, jumping up to grab the phone from him. I’d never had siblings, but this was exactly what I imagined it would be like to have an annoying brother.

“And now C is texting you. Judging by the previous two text messages, I’m going to go with Colt.” He looked to me for confirmation, and I glared at him. “Boy, this just keeps getting more and more interesting,” he mused. “Who will be next? Tyrese or Quentin perhaps?” His eyes were piercing when they met mine.

“Bastian,” I warned. “Leave it.”

“Something stinks,” he said, wagging his finger. “And it’s not the sweat-soaked socks of the Rebels.” He laughed, nearly snorting. “Sweat-soaked socks. Say that five times fast.”

“I’ll pass.” I turned so my back was to him.

My breaths were ragged, my chest aching from the strain of it all. I was disappointed and heartbroken and so many conflicting emotions I couldn’t put my finger on. I’d been on the verge of losing it all night, and I was pretty sure I was going to crack. One little push and it would all be over.

Bastian’s voice was softer, calmer, when he spoke again. “B?”

“What?” I snapped.

“Talk to me. Please?” My phone continued to chime in the background, but we ignored it.

I clenched my fists. “I told you, I can’t.”

He walked around to face me. “I can understand being upset about the fight, but you shouldn’t take it personally. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I muttered.

“Why would you say that?” he asked. “Blake?” he prodded.

“Because the fight was about me,” I blurted, immediately covering my mouth with both hands.

“What?” he asked, quickly sobering.

The stress of the evening had taken its toll, and the alcohol was starting to take effect. I never should’ve admitted it aloud, yet here we were.

“Some of the players had a bet on who could fuck me first.” Bastian flinched at my words. “And Tristan was…” I covered my face with my hands and shook my head. The tears fell freely now, like a waterfall that couldn’t be stopped.

Bastian guided me over to the couch. I sank down onto the cushions, and he wrapped his arm around me, holding me close. “Was he in on it too?”

I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. He claims he wasn’t, but…well, I’m not so sure.”

“Because…”

“Because we kissed.” I screwed up my face, closing one eye as I braced for his reaction.

He jerked back like I’d slapped him. “What? When?”

“A few weeks ago,” I said, thinking back to our kiss. It had been passionate and unrestrained, like a wildfire let loose. Tristan Holmes knew how to kiss, scorching me with an intensity I’d been completely unprepared for.

Bastian’s eyes bugged out. I knew my best friend wouldn’t judge me, but even he seemed astonished by my actions. “Damn, I bet that was hot.”

I laughed. “It was, but that’s not the point.”

“Right.” He shook his head. “Who initiated the kiss?”

I thought back to the kiss, and I honestly didn’t know. I couldn’t explain it, but it was like a collision of magnets. We were drawn together, powerless to resist. There’d been no beginning or end; there was just us.

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s not that difficult. Did he kiss you first? Or did you kiss him first?” he asked.

“It didn’t happen like that,” I said. “We just…collided.”

Bastian held the back of his hand to my forehead. “Call a doctor because someone’s lovesick.”

I shoved his hand aside, more annoyed with myself than anything. “I am not ‘lovesick.’”

“Mm-hm, sure.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his face flushed.

“Can we please get back to the matter at hand?” I asked.

“Right,” Bastian said. “The bet and Tristan’s role in it. I don’t know him as well as you do, clearly.” He gave me a knowing look, and I knew he was dying to pump me for information about the kiss. “But Tristan doesn’t strike me as the type of guy to participate in something as immature and distasteful as a bet to sleep with someone.”

“I know.” I sighed, slumping deeper into the couch. I grabbed one of the throw pillows and clutched it to my stomach. “Or, at least, I thought I knew him. Now, I feel like I know nothing.”

“Come on, B. This is Tristan Holmes we’re talking about. He’s known as the Monk for a reason. He’s a rule-follower. He’s disciplined.”

“Yeah, but if he was willing to throw all his rules out the window and kiss me, who knows what else he’s willing to do,” I said, and it felt good to finally voice some of my fears aloud.

Bastian frowned. “I see your point, but couldn’t the same be said for you? You disregarded your own code of conduct and kissed him. But you’re still the same hardworking, upstanding, stubborn person you always were.”

“You know,” I said, pinning him with a gaze. “I forget how insightful you can be when you’re liquored up.”

He leaned back, draping his arm over the back of the couch and crossing his leg at the knee. “I’m glad you finally realized that. And I hope you’ll listen to me when I say you’re wrong. Tristan was defending you. All three of them were. And I think you know that too.”

In my heart, I knew he was right. Just as I knew Tristan, Xavier, and Colt would never intentionally do anything to hurt me. They’d proven their loyalty time and again. And they wouldn’t have risked everything if I didn’t mean something to them. Whether that was respect for a coach or a woman or something more, I wasn’t sure.

I rubbed my hand back and forth over one of the throw pillows, the faux fur soft and comforting like petting a beloved dog. “You’re right.”

“Wow,” he breathed, clearly not prepared for my answer even after all his posturing. “Can I get that in writing?” he teased.

I glared at him. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I assume Coach Sawyers doesn’t know about the kiss. But what about the bet?” he asked.

“No.” My voice was garbled, my tear-stained cheeks hot with anger, embarrassment, and shame. “No one does outside of the five of them and, well, me.” But what about Amy and Shay? a voice whispered in the back of my mind.

“What happens now?” He’d asked the million-dollar question.

“We wait to hear what punishment the commissioner will hand down, and then we go from there.” There was so much up in the air, so many unknowns. Even if the commissioner was lenient, there was still the public image to consider. And that didn’t account for the fact that I didn’t know where any of this left me. Assuming the guys remained silent, did I even want to work with them? Could I after knowing what they’d done?

“So, Tristan, Colt, and Xavier could be punished for standing up to those assholes?” he asked.

“They were fighting on the field, so yeah.”

“Do you think anyone will blab?” He rubbed circles on my back, always knowing just what I needed.

“I honestly don’t know, but the five of them seem intent on maintaining a conspiracy of silence.”

He furrowed his brow. “Why?”

I shrugged. I’d been asking myself the same thing ever since the five of them addressed the coaches.

“Take a stab at it. You are a psychologist, after all,” he teased. I appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood, even if I couldn’t so much as muster a smile.

“Besides the obvious,” I sighed, thinking of increased fines and suspension time that could be tacked on if the truth was revealed. “If I had to guess…Tyrese and Quentin have already been in hot water this season. And they know if something like this came out, there’d be no chance of redeeming themselves.”

Bastian nodded, seeming to agree with my theory. “And Xavier, Tristan, and Colt? Why would they agree to keep quiet?”

It made absolutely no sense, but there was only one reason I could think of. “To protect me,” I said, though it sounded more like a question.

“Of course it’s to protect you,” Bastian said, as if it were obvious. “They lurve you.”

“They don’t lurve me,” I said. “Respect, yes. Like, maybe. But love…they don’t know me well enough to love me.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “But I’m not giving up on my dreams of a football romance yet.” I rolled my eyes, but before I could respond, he added, “Never say never.”

“It wasn’t going to happen before, and it’s definitely not going to happen now. If this bet has shown me anything, it’s that I need to keep my distance. Because this…scandal is not the type of legacy I wanted to create.”

He frowned. “Don’t be so focused on your legacy that you forget to live in the present.”

I shoved his shoulder. “Exactly how much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to sound wise, but not enough to act stupid.” He was talking in riddles now, and it made me laugh.

He was contemplative, and I knew he wasn’t done discussing this yet. “Do you think the commissioner would be more lenient if you spoke out about the reason behind the fight?”

My stomach clenched. “I’ve been wondering that myself, but I doubt it. A fight is a fight, and violence between teammates is not the kind of image the NFL wants to project.”

“True.” He nodded, looking like a bobblehead. I frowned. Soon, the closest I’d get to NFL players would be in the form of sports merchandise like those oversized heads jiggling on dashboards across America.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked.

I stood, wiping away the last of my tears. I was exhausted, and I was done talking. I just wanted to go to sleep and pretend it had never happened.

“Go to bed,” I answered.

Beyond that, I didn’t have a clue. All my hopes and dreams, all my hard work and sacrifice were for nothing. My legacy was slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, and I was powerless to stop it.