It had been a few weeks since my run-in with Colt, and I’d finally given up on hearing anything from the Rebels. Nevertheless, it nagged at me that he’d asked for my number at all. Especially when it had seemed like such a promising lead, when he had seemed so honest and earnest. I’d warned myself not to get my hopes up, told myself not to trust him, yet I couldn’t help it. When you wanted something so badly, and your dream seemed to materialize as if by magic… Well, I should’ve known it was too good to be true.

I slid the pan of lasagna my dad sent home with me into the preheated oven with a deep sigh. Bastian wouldn’t be home for another half hour, but I was starving. I grabbed my phone, poised to set a timer, when it rang. A local number flashed across the screen. I didn’t recognize it, but with all the jobs I’d applied for, I often received calls from unknown numbers. Most were junk, but I couldn’t take that chance.

“Hello,” I said, shifting so I could hold the phone to my ear as I wiped down the counter.

“Hi, I’m calling for Blake Mackenzie,” the woman on the other end said. “My name is Shelby Collins, and I’m with the Boston Rebels.”

“If this is about a special credit card or a deal on season tickets, I’m not interested,” I said, ready to end the call.

“No.” She cleared her throat, and I detected an undercurrent of amusement. “I’m actually calling because you were recommended to our coaching staff. And they’d like to schedule a time to meet with you. Assuming you’re interested, that is.”

My eyes went wide, and I froze mid-circle, sponge glued to the marble countertop. Holy shit. This had to be a prank, right? I held the phone away from my face and looked at the number again as if it held the answer.

“Hello?” she asked. “Are you still there?”

I swallowed and rushed to respond. “Can you tell me what they’d like to discuss?” I asked, striving to sound calm and professional even when all I wanted to do was bust out my end zone victory dance. “I wasn’t aware the Rebels were hiring.”

“This is strictly confidential." She paused for a beat, waiting to continue until I'd given my assent. "Unfortunately, one of our quality control coaches is undergoing medical treatment. We want to ensure both he and the team have the support they need during this difficult time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. And I was saddened for the QC coach, even if I was also thrilled by the opportunity created by his illness.

We finalized the details of the meeting before ending the call. I set my phone on the counter and stared straight ahead. What the fuck had just happened? The Boston Rebels, my home team—my dream team—had called to interview me for a coaching job. This was too good to be true. I could only assume Colt was responsible, and I could kiss him for it.

No, I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. No kissing. Absolutely not. His lips would not touch mine.

A high-pitched noise startled me. I jumped, realizing too late it was the smoke alarm. Crap.

Black smoke poured out of the oven, and I scrambled to shut it off as I coughed into my arm. God, it smelled terrible. The alarm was still blaring, and I dug through the kitchen cabinets for a baking sheet. Bastian was going to kill me. I dragged a chair over to the detector and jumped up on it, waving the pan above my head in an attempt to get it to stop.

Of course, Bastian chose that moment to return. The door swung open, and he marched toward me. Even with his nose buried in the crook of his arm, I could see his eyes were thin slits.

“Blake,” he chided. “You promised.”

“I wasn’t cooking. It was leftovers, I swear,” I called. My head was starting to ache from the fumes and the incessant blaring of the alarm.

“How do you burn leftovers?” he yelled, his voice even louder when the alarm finally went silent a moment later. “Never mind,” he said, lowering his voice to a more normal level as he sliced a hand through the air. “I don’t know why I even asked. You have no business being anywhere near a kitchen.”

“I have a good excuse this time, I promise,” I said as I hopped down from the chair. I set the baking sheet aside, taking in Bastian’s crossed arms and pursed lips. “I do.” I nodded.

“Out with it, then. And it better be good, or I’ll…I’ll steal all your fancy socks with the bees on them,” he taunted.

I narrowed my eyes at him. We both knew I was OCD when it came to my footwear. I couldn’t stand it when there were seams on the socks or the interior of the shoe rubbed the wrong way. “You must enjoy having your ass kicked.”

“Careful, B. Or I’ll threaten to take your flashlights,” he said. Two sets of eyes widened, and he immediately realized his mistake. He stepped closer, grasping my shoulders in his hands. “You know I’d never do that, right?”

I talked a big game, but we both knew when it came to my flashlights, it was no joke—I was terrified of the dark. His threat was one of my worst nightmares.

“Blake?” He frowned. “I swear I wouldn’t do that. I’m sorry I even joked about it.”

“I know,” I said solemnly. I trusted Bastian completely, and I hated discussing my fear. It made me feel so weak, so…silly. So, I focused instead on my good news. “I didn’t get to set a timer for the lasagna because I got a call from the Rebels. They want to interview me.”

I watched as his scowl transformed into a wide grin. He lifted me off the floor, swinging me around the living room. “That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you, B.”

I squeezed my arms around him, grinning like a fool as my feet kissed the ground. “It’s just an interview. I don’t have the job.”

“Yet.” He grinned, bopping me on the nose. “You will.”

“So, you forgive me?” I asked with a sheepish grin.

“Of course.” He draped an arm over my shoulder. “So long as you promise me Rebels season tickets and an introduction to Colt Whitney.”

“How about Thai takeout instead,” I offered. “I’ll order it online,” I added when he continued to stare me down.

“Fine, I guess that’ll have to be good enough. And stay away from my kitchen from now on. Far, far away.” He shuddered.

“And here I thought you’d be happy to have some hot firefighters come to our rescue,” I teased, making my way to the bedroom so I could grab my laptop.

“Shit. Turn the oven back on—and the stove while you’re at it,” he called down the hall, and I shook my head with a laugh.

A few days later, I stared at the Rebels’ stadium in disbelief. My dad and I had watched so many games from the stands, had shared so many memories here. And now I had the opportunity to make new memories. To make history.

I’d reviewed everything I could find on the coaching staff, the players, and the team’s strategy. I’d spent hours watching video, making notes on each of the players. Most people would consider it a chore, but I found it invigorating.

I strode through the metal detector in my favorite navy suit with a crisp white shirt. After much debate, I'd left my blond hair down about my shoulders, the ends curled. I wore a splash of blush and mascara, and a thin layer of lip gloss. I felt confident. Excited. Ready.

It was game time.

A receptionist led me to a large conference room that felt more like a fishbowl. TVs were everywhere, but there was some artwork thrown in too.

It was similar to most offices—at least if you ignored the shiny trophies and autographed memorabilia. It was like a beautiful shrine to the Rebels, and I would’ve loved to have had more time to pay my respects.

Compared to the Jacksonville offices, these were even more impressive. But it didn’t hurt that the Rebels had a legacy as one of the winningest teams in the league. And even if they hadn’t been as successful in nearly a decade, they were certainly one of the most beloved.

I waited for the coaching staff to arrive, my eyes darting to the elevator every time it opened. It felt like a million tiny footballs were bouncing around in my stomach. I was trying not to get my hopes up, but I had a good feeling about this. It was the same feeling I’d get the morning of a game when I knew in my gut I was going to dominate.

Bill Sawyers, the Rebels’ head coach, strode into the room, and I tried not to let my jaw drop. Coach Sawyers was a legend. He’d won the Heisman and played pro football himself before going on to become a college, then NFL, coach. He had a reputation for being tough but fair, and he was well-respected by the players. Most people idolized the players, but to me, coaches like Bill Sawyers were the gods among men.

He’d brought the offensive coordinator with him, as well as a pale, thin man I assumed was the QC coach. The three of them were dressed in team gear, and it was clear they’d just come from practice or were headed that way soon.

I stood and extended my hand, hoping he didn’t notice the slight shake. “Blake Mackenzie. It’s an honor to meet you, Coach.”

“Please, have a seat,” he said, before introducing himself and the other two men.

Steven, the QC coach, shook my hand, his eyes never leaving mine. As we took our seats, I studied their body language, knowing immediately that Steven wasn’t a fan. He did nothing to hide his skepticism, crossing his arms over his chest as he evaluated me. I smirked to myself, knowing he’d laid down the gauntlet. By the end of the interview, I intended to have him lobbying the other coaches to hire me.

Coach Sawyers didn’t waste any time, explaining what the job would entail before launching into question after question. Despite his relaxed stance, he and the other coaches grilled me on the players, the opposition, the strategy. Almost an hour later, I felt like I’d been put through the wringer. It was an intense interview, but I’d expected nothing less. Besides, this was just a tiny preview of the pressure I’d face on the field.

“What do you think you can contribute to the team? Why should we choose you to fill this position?” Steven asked, a hard edge to his voice.

I considered my words carefully, knowing I was going to risk alienating them with my answer. Weakness was seen as a hindrance, something to be avoided at all costs. But ignoring weakness—either mental or physical—wasn’t the solution. The trick was to find the source of that weakness, to dig deep and acknowledge it. Only then could you use that knowledge to your advantage. Better to expose your own shortcomings than have your competitor exploit them. Unfortunately, not everyone could see that.

“Every player on your roster has something unique to provide,” I finally said. “I can tap into what others perceive as weakness and turn it into a strength. I can help them overcome their shortcomings and make them unstoppable.”

Coach Sanders raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his barrel of a chest. “That’s quite a bold claim.”

I shrugged. “Better bold than bland. Better to give it your all and fail than never reach your full potential.” There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“One final question,” the offensive coordinator said. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

Seriously? This question? It was so dated. I had to check my hard eye-roll, forcing myself to smile sweetly instead.

“As the head coach of an undefeated NFL team, of course.”

He nodded, assessing me. “You wouldn’t be the youngest head coach in league history, but you’d certainly be a trailblazer.” I assumed he was referring to the fact that I was a woman.

I didn’t want to be a trailblazer; I wanted to be treated the same as everyone else. I wanted to do my job and do it well. And if I happened to pave the way for women to play a larger role in the sport I loved, even better.

“What can I say?” I cocked my head to the side, striking a playful tone. “I’m a Rebel at heart.” They seemed pleased by my answer, chuckling to themselves as they nodded.

Coach Sawyers leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his chin. Having come to some decision, he straightened. “You realize this is a consulting position and it’s temporary? We can’t guarantee anything in the future.”

I nodded, my hands tingling with possibility and excitement. “I understand, and I would love to have the opportunity to work with you and the team, no matter how briefly.”

“We’ve interviewed a number of incredible candidates,” he said. I tried not to let my smile slip as my heart plummeted to my stomach. It was absurd to think they’d offer me the job, let alone hire me on the spot. I was so distracted by my thoughts I almost missed what he said next. “But you’re the only one to come with a personal recommendation from a member of the team. You’re everything Colt promised and more,” he said. “And the job is yours.” He grinned, seeming to relax.

My mouth popped open, but I quickly closed it. Was I dreaming?

It didn’t matter that it was a temporary, consulting coaching job. It was the type of opportunity I’d been waiting for my whole life. It was what I’d worked all these years to achieve. And if I’d married Seth, a little voice in the back of my head said, I would’ve missed out completely.

I pinched my arm discreetly, but when the three of them continued to stare at me expectantly, I knew it was real. “I’m the woman for the job. And I’m honored to be selected.”

Two of them smiled, and Steven even allowed the corner of his mouth to tilt. Good enough for me. I absolutely could not wait to get started.

As if answering my thoughts, Coach Sawyers asked, “Would you have time to join us on the field now? Some of our players are out there running drills.”

“Absolutely,” I said with a smile. I stood to follow my new bosses, the coaches of the Boston freaking Rebels.

Holy shit! I wobbled on my heels. This was happening. I’d finally gotten my foot in the door, and now I was about to step onto the field. As a coach.

I tried not to completely geek out as we walked past the locker rooms, entering the tunnel the players took to the field. This was now my office, my life.

Stay calm. I took a breath.

Keep cool. I smoothed my hands down my skirt in an effort to chill the fuck out.

But there was no chilling out, especially not when we emerged from the tunnel and onto the field of the Boston Rebels. And definitely not when we reached the edge of the turf and I saw the team hard at work.

Coach Sawyers glanced down at my choice of footwear with dismay. “Don’t worry,” I said, grabbing a pair of guards from my tote and slipping them onto my heels. “I come prepared.”

He shook his head with a grin. “So it would seem.”

I followed him onto the field, noting the way the players stood taller when they saw him. They snapped the ball faster, hit harder, and the energy shifted merely from his presence. I garnered more than a few curious glances from players and staff, but no one remarked on my attendance.

So, there was a woman on the field? Women could watch from the stands and cheer from the sidelines. They could even work in the front office. But female coaches were practically unheard of in the NFL. Yet here I was, shattering the glass sideline.

I didn’t see myself as a distraction, but I knew many people would. That said, I didn’t believe in changing my appearance to downplay the fact that I was a woman. So what if I liked to wear makeup and heels? It didn’t mean I couldn’t be passionate and knowledgeable about football. I’d decided long ago that I was who I was, and you could take it or leave it.

“Holmes looks good today, strong,” I said, nodding as I watched him on the field.

At the end of last season, Tristan Holmes had been sidelined for three games with an injury. But it didn’t seem to be affecting him today. He looked powerful, his chest glistening with sweat as he darted back and forth across the field. His dark hair was buzzed close to his scalp, and his expression was fierce. Focused. He was even more intimidating in person than on screen.

I spotted Xavier Lee standing near a coach, head bent. He was nodding as he listened to instructions, and then he took off again to practice his blocking skills. His dreads were tied back, and he looked like a warrior heading into battle, his muscles tensing and flexing with every hit.

Colt Whitney headed for the sidelines, wiping his forehead with a towel before he gulped down some water. When he spotted me, he grinned and lifted his chin in acknowledgment. I really needed to find some way to thank him for suggesting me to the coaching staff.

“Stay out here as long as you like. We’ll see you tomorrow for practice,” Coach Sawyers said, shaking my hand.

“Sounds great, Coach,” I said. “I appreciate the opportunity to work with you.”

I’d grown up bleeding blue, following the careers of legendary athletes like Michael Wells and Pierce Jones. And now I was going to have a hand in shaping the Rebels’ dynasty. I didn’t care how long the opportunity lasted. All that mattered was that I’d finally been given a chance, and I was going to seize it.