I rinsed the dishes and was loading them into the dishwasher when my phone rang. Sebastian’s name and image flashed across the screen, and I frowned down at it. I hadn’t expected to hear from him, so I dried my hands and answered it.

“Hey, Bas.” I cradled the phone between my shoulder and my ear. “What’s up?”

“We’re going out for drinks.”

“Tonight?” I asked, surprised he was already off from work.

“Yeah. Why? You got big plans?” he joked, knowing Thursday evenings were usually spent watching football with my dad.

“Hmm, I might be available,” I teased. “Is Chad coming too?” I asked, referring to Sebastian’s flavor of the week.

“I’ve grown tired of him,” he said in a bored tone. I could imagine him reclining on a lounge chair, waving his hand imperiously. And he’d just love the image I had of a half-naked man fanning him with a palm leaf, while another fed him grapes.

“Is that Sebastian?” my dad asked, sliding the leftovers onto a shelf in the fridge.

“Who else?” Not only was he my best friend, he was pretty much my only friend.

I’d never had many girlfriends, and the few I’d had moved away after college. I kept in touch with a couple of my teammates from Team USA, but our interaction was limited. Everyone was busy living their lives, raising their families.

And then there was me—the crazy girl who was still trying to chase the NFL dream. Sometimes I felt like that middle-aged guy everyone knows. The one with the beer belly and the receding hairline. The one who loves to relive the glory days, even though everyone knows he was never good enough to go pro. Was I good enough to coach the pros, or was it wishful thinking? Nothing more than a pipe dream.

“Tell Big Mac I have that new moisturizer for him,” Bastian said, using his nickname for my dad.

I whipped my head around to look at my dad, my brow furrowed. Since when did my dad and Bastian talk about skin care? Since when did my dad care about his skin?

“Bastian says he has a new moisturizer for you.” It wasn’t a question, but it certainly sounded like one.

“Great,” Dad said. “Ask him to send it over with you next Thursday. Or better yet,” he said, wiping down the counters as if nothing were unusual, “tell him to bring it to dinner himself. I’m making chili—his favorite.”

I shook my head. This was odd. My dad wasn’t a super manly, gruff dude by any stretch. But I also never imagined him doing much to care for his skin beyond washing it with a bar of soap. Next thing I knew, he’d be getting pedicures. I laughed at the image of my six-foot-four dad folding himself into a plush chair at a spa. Cucumbers over his eyes, flavored water in hand.

“Does this mean you’re ditching me?” Dad asked, breaking me from my reverie.

I covered the phone speaker with my hand. “Would you be terribly disappointed if I miss the replay of Penn State-Pittsburgh game?”

“If you can live with yourself, I suppose I can.” He grinned, wrapping his arm around me and giving me a squeeze before heading for the couch.

“I can be ready in twenty,” I said to Bastian before darting up the stairs to my old room. Fortunately, I still had some clothes here.

“How nice for you,” Bastian said, his tone snarky yet teasing. “For us mere mortals, looking drinks-ready requires a bit more preparation. I’ll need at least thirty.”

“Maybe if you didn’t use so many products, you could be ready faster,” I joked.

My best friend was a prima donna who liked to primp and preen. Despite what he claimed was a mild obsession with beauty products, he was very genuine and down-to-earth. And you’d never find anyone more loyal than him.

He gasped. “Never. And don’t mention it again if you want to continue living with me.” I rolled my eyes at his theatrics.

“Where do you want to meet?” I asked, trying to get the conversation back on track. “O’Malley’s?”

“Their beer is shit, and we’re never going to meet anyone there.” There was rustling in the background.

“Who said anything about meeting anyone?” I asked, already stripping out of my clothes as I made my way to the bathroom.

I didn’t do relationships. A casual fuck, sure. But more than that, no. Because a relationship meant compromise and sacrifice, and I was too selfish. I’d chosen myself, my dreams, once. And I always would.

Besides, between Bastian and my vibrator, I was almost convinced I’d never need another man. Almost.

He was silent for a moment before he said, “How about Le Cirque?”

“The trendy place?” I asked. “Pass.”

“God, for someone who claims to be low-maintenance, you are so picky,” he said, and I laughed. “Final offer—Arlo and Henry.”

“Sounds like a hipster bar. Do they have TVs?” I asked. I didn’t want fancy cocktails with quirky names. All I needed was a nice cold beer and a TV with sports.

I could feel his eye roll through the phone. “Yes.”

“Sold. Meet you there in thirty,” I said and disconnected the call.

I took a quick shower, then pinned my blond hair in a messy bun. After perusing my limited options, I slipped into a fitted scoop-neck shirt with a pair of high-waisted denim shorts that showed off my legs. Knowing I’d never hear the end of it from Bas if I wore flats, I slid on a pair of wedge espadrilles. With one last glance in the mirror, I swiped on some mascara and lip gloss.

Arlo and Henry was packed, and when I didn't see Bastian's red hair among the crowd, I headed for the bar. I managed to score an empty stool, scanning the drink offerings while I waited. Conversation buzzed around me, the smell of spices and fried food filling the air.

Someone slid into the seat next to mine, and I recognized him as Tyrese Jackson. He was one of the rookies for the Rebels, a round five draft pick who was more full of himself than he had any right to be. As a kicker, he had one job, and I doubted his ability to do it well, at least based on his subpar college performance.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing,” Tyrese drawled. His words were infused with a Southern accent that betrayed his Louisiana roots.

I wanted to laugh. Little? At nearly six feet tall, I was pretty sure if I stood, I’d tower over the five-foot-eight-inch kicker. Strike that—rookie kicker.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said, settling his arm on the back of my chair. Ugh, he was so not my type. Cocky and a pro athlete. Hard no.

“I’ll pass, thanks.” I returned my attention to the drink menu, crossing my legs away from him. I thought that would’ve been enough to put an end to the matter, but he wouldn’t take the hint.

“Why don’t I skip straight to the point,” he said, crowding my space. He stank of beer and aftershave. “I play for the Rebels, and I would love to tackle your ass. Come home with me?”

I threw my head back and laughed. Laughed. Did he seriously think that was a good pickup line? He didn’t even play defense. “If your performance on the field is any indication of your prowess in the bedroom, I’m definitely not interested.”

His jaw dropped open, but he quickly closed it. I didn’t have time for arrogant assholes, no matter their profession. And I certainly had no patience for lazy athletes who relied on their talent to carry the day. I respected hard work, dedication, sacrifice. Qualities I believed were lacking in Tyrese Jackson.

“Damn,” uttered someone with a deep voice to my right.

I turned to find none other than Colt Whitney—the Rebels’ tight end and Bastian’s third pick for his fantasy team—staring back at me. I sucked in a sharp breath. He was even hotter in person, and he smelled divine—his scent masculine and spicy. The sight of his muscular, tanned forearms and chiseled jaw sent a rush of desire straight to my core. What the hell was wrong with me?

His gray eyes swept over me, lingering on my legs. “Good evening. Is my friend behaving himself?” He clapped a hand on Tyrese, maintaining a firm grip on the other man’s shoulder.

I shrugged. “His behavior leaves something to be desired.”

“As does my kicking, apparently,” Tyrese grumbled, his fist clenched.

“So I heard,” Colt said. “And what would you suggest to improve his performance? On the field, that is,” he added with a smirk. Tyrese rolled his eyes, squirming in his seat as if itching for a fight.

I assessed Colt a moment before deciding he was serious. “Your kick lacks oomph,” I said, addressing Tyrese. “And you’re rushing it. If you’d wait even a second longer, it would give you the extra power you’ve been lacking.”

“What’s your name?” Colt said, nudging Tyrese off the barstool so he could take his place.

Tyrese sulked over to a table where several players were currently gathered. Beautiful women buzzed around them like bees to honey. I returned my attention to Colt, wondering which bee was angling to be his queen. If the rumors were true, he didn’t stay in one place for long.

“Blake Mackenzie,” I said, extending my hand.

“I’m Colt Whitney,” he said, grasping my hand and shaking. His skin was warm and soft, his fingers molding around me like a glove. “But judging from the way you put our new rookie in his place, you already knew that.”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“Care to share your opinion on my technique, or lack thereof?” There was humor in his tone—humor and interest.

“Only if you think you can handle it,” I said, arching an eyebrow in challenge.

He nodded. “I can take whatever you dish out.” His gray eyes sparkled, and I sensed he was as amused and surprised by our encounter as I was.

“As you probably already know, one of your biggest challenges will be learning to play with your new team. Though, considering you spent your college career sharing the field with Tristan Holmes, you have a leg up.”

He nodded, considering my comments. “You’re well informed. Reporter?”

I shook my head. There were more important things to discuss, and I didn’t know how much time I had before he’d lose patience. Players probably got so sick of hearing fans’ “advice” on their technique. But I wasn’t just another fan; I actually knew what I was talking about, and I had the degrees and experience to back it up.

“There’s more,” I said. “You rely too much on your speed and size. Stick your foot in the ground, plant, and then shift your hips in the direction you want to turn. I think you’ll find it more effective.”

“Who are you?” His voice was filled with awe before he shook his head, seeming to recover himself. “Can I have your number?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to determine his motives even as my heart rate climbed to a fast clip. He was ridiculously good-looking, but I had a firm rule against dating pro athletes. If I wanted to be taken seriously as a prospective coach, I needed to keep things professional.

He shook his head. “Not for me, though I certainly wouldn’t object to taking you out.” He cleared his throat. “I was asking for the team.”

He handed over his phone, and I typed in my number, not surprised to discover the phone was the newest model. When I returned it to him, our fingers brushed in the process, sending a little thrill of excitement through me. Everything about him was electric. Judging from the expression on Colt’s face, I wasn’t the only one who’d felt the spark.

“There you are.” Bastian’s voice filtered to me through the crowd. “Sorry I’m late.” He placed a kiss on my cheek, his eyes widening when he realized who I was talking to.

Colt eyed Bastian as he stood from the stool. “It was nice to meet you, Blake. I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening.”

It was only then that I allowed myself to scan him from head to toe. Just because Colt’s clothes didn’t scream designer didn’t mean they weren’t expensive. His jeans fit him to a T, showcasing strong, powerful thighs. And his shirt draped over his muscular chest, his biceps as thick as my thighs. He was a powerhouse, and I found myself inexplicably drawn to him.

“What was that about?” Bastian asked as soon as Colt was out of earshot.

“I have no idea,” I said, staring after his receding figure. “One minute, Tyrese Jackson was inviting me back to his place, and the next, Colt Whitney was asking for my number.”

Bastian made a strangled noise, his eyes bugging out of his head. “I’m only ten minutes late, and you’ve already been approached by two guys. And not just any two guys, two professional football players.” He sighed. “Damn. You have all the luck.” Bastian signaled the bartender and ordered a round of shots.

“No.” I shook my head. “It wasn’t like that, at least not with Colt.”

Bastian leaned forward, propping his elbow on the bar and resting his cheek in his hand. “What was it like? Being fawned over by Tyrese Jackson and Colt Whitney. Fuck, they’re hot,” he said, casting a glance in their direction.

I swatted him. “Colt wanted my number for the Rebels.”

Bastian’s eyes went wide. “No shit.” He scanned my face before adding, “You’re serious?”

I nodded, biting back a grin. If Bastian hadn’t witnessed me talking to the Rebels’ tight end, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. It had felt great to give my input to a player, and he actually seemed to appreciate my opinion. But it was a fluke, a random chance encounter. He probably just thought I was attractive, and he was humoring me.

“It’ll never happen,” I said. I was skeptical that Colt would even mention my name to the coaching staff, ever more doubtful that they’d contact me. “Though, I could use a job. The camp ran out of funds, so I’m officially unemployed again.”

“Hopefully he'll call," he said with a wistful expression directed at Colt.

"With a job for the Rebels," I clarified.

"Right, the Rebels," he said, slow to respond. "Or a booty call.” Bastian grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

“No,” I said in a firm tone as the bartender placed two shots before us. “I will never sleep with a player,” I said, almost more to myself.

Bastian grabbed one of the shots and slid the other over to me. We held them up, the glasses clinking against each other.

“Never say never.” He smirked and threw his head back to take the shot, and I followed suit.