The offensive coordinator spoke into the headset. “Again,” he said, and I could hear the groans of everyone on the offensive line.

I didn’t blame them. He’d made them run the same drill at least five times, and it still wasn’t entirely clear to me what he was looking for. Whatever it was, he wasn’t seeing it. While there was an argument to be made for repetition, there was also the law of diminishing returns.

I stood on the forty-yard line, having just finished practice with the scout team. As a QCC, I spent hours watching film and analyzing mounds of data, studying the competition. And occasionally, Steven let me run practice for the scout team. It was my responsibility to study the opponent and to use the squad to give the starting players an accurate look at what they'd face come game day.

After dismissing the practice squad, I’d stayed behind to observe the offense. I’d watched the team run this play on the Coaches Film, and now on the field, numerous times. Yet, it was never as smooth as it should’ve been. It was never going to work against Arizona this week, at least not as it was currently being run.

The special teams exited the field, heading to the weight room for strength training. Tyrese was among them, grinning as he approached. He’d been friendly since I’d started, almost overly so, and it was throwing me for a loop. Maybe I’d been wrong about him, but I doubted it. Either way, we were both professionals trying to do our jobs, and it didn’t matter what happened that night in the bar. As a player, I’d learned that the locker room would sort it out. In time, if there was an issue, the team handled it among themselves.

“Hey, Coach.” Tyrese slowed his movements as he neared.

“Tyrese,” I said. “Good job today.”

“What? No pointers?” He smirked, but behind his teasing tone, there was a hint of bitterness.

“Nope,” I said, heading for Coach Sawyers before Tyrese could push the matter. Engaging further would be a waste of my time.

Coach Sawyers stared at the players from behind his sunglasses, his face emotionless. I followed his line of sight, watching the team run the play again.

“Blake,” he said, finally acknowledging my presence. “What have you got for me?”

“Well, Coach,” I said, swiping my tablet on so we could view the screen, “it looks like Denver has been focused on their passing game.” We weren’t playing them until next week, but QCCs watched film weeks ahead of a game with the opponent.

“Hmm, good to know. Thanks,” he said, scrolling through the report I’d emailed him.

The offensive coordinator blew the whistle and called for the players to circle around him. The guys sagged with exhaustion, removing their helmets as practice came to an end. Colt placed his hands on Xavier’s shoulders, and Xavier did the same before allowing their foreheads to kiss. Then each followed the same pattern with Tristan. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them do it, and I wondered what the story was behind their ritual. None of the other players were included, and no one else seemed to think twice of it.

From everything I’d observed, the three of them seemed more like brothers than friends. I could understand the strength of a bond between teammates, but this went deeper than that. I was curious to know more.

“Looks good,” Coach Sawyers said, and I tore my attention away from the field. “Carrie in PR wants to speak with you. If you’ve finished with the scout squad, you can head over to her office.”

I nodded, taking one last glance at the field before returning to the belly of the stadium. I walked through the corridors, passing players, trainers, and staff on the way. It was like a beehive down here, the building humming with activity as everyone went about their jobs.

If this was what it was like during preseason, I couldn’t wait to experience my first game day as a coach. I’d envisioned the moment I’d step onto the field many times, brimming with pride and excitement. I couldn’t wait.

After a brisk five-minute walk, I arrived at the front office. I’d met Carrie once before, but it had been brief.

“Hey, Carrie,” I said, peeking my head in, only to find her on the phone. She waved me inside, and I took a seat across the desk from her. I glanced around her office, trying to ignore the snippets of conversation I could hear. Words like “drugs,” “arrested,” and “suspension” floated through the air.

Carrie was head of PR for the Rebels, and I wondered why I’d been summoned. I’d heard many of the players refer to her as Scary Carrie, and as I watched her on the phone, I could understand why. She came across as poised and confident, but when she was mad, you’d better watch out.

“Seriously?” Her jaw clenched, and I could tell this wasn’t good news. She listened for a moment more before ending the call with a deep sigh.

“Sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Quentin Brooks has gotten himself into trouble. Again.”

Her sleek bob swung as she shook her head. Despite her short stature, I knew many of the players feared her. Her brown eyes were shrewd, and they saw everything. She didn’t bullshit, and that was something I appreciated. She was the type of kick-ass woman I could see myself being friends with.

“I swear, that boy is one scandal away from losing his spot on this team,” she sighed.

I wanted to laugh at her use of the word “boy,” considering Quentin was in his late twenties. That said, age didn’t equal maturity. And from everything I’d seen, Quentin could use a little growing up.

“I hope I’m not here because I’m in trouble. I have a feeling I don’t want to be on your bad side,” I joked.

“Just don’t date the players or get caught doing drugs or driving drunk,” she said, ticking the items off her fingers. “And we’ll be great.” She grinned.

I lifted a shoulder. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good. Because the season hasn’t even officially started, and I’m already ready to pull out my hair.”

“Uh oh.” I frowned. “Is another player in trouble?”

“If it’s not the players, it’s the cheerleaders. Every few seasons, there’s always one who wants to date the players even though they know it’s against the rules.

“Anyway,” she said, waving a hand through the air. “I didn’t call you here to bitch about the team. I’m sure you have your fair share of fun with them on the field.” Her voice was tinged with sarcasm.

“Actually, I do,” I said with a grin. And I meant it. My job was stressful, but I genuinely loved working with the players. At least, when they were actually listening to and implementing my advice. And when Steven wasn’t fighting me on letting me help him.

“So, why did you call me here?” I leaned forward, ready to get to the point. I had a to-do list a million miles long.

“We’ve had interest from a number of media outlets wanting to interview you.”

Since joining the team as a coach, I hadn’t had much time or desire to watch the news. I assumed there would be talk about the Rebels’ new female coach, but I’d hoped the coverage would be minimal.

“What would you think about doing an interview with Vogue?” she asked.

My mouth fell open. “Vogue?”

She nodded, clearly pleased by the idea. “They’re already doing a feature on Tristan Holmes, and they want to do one on you as well.”

That surprised me. Tristan was known for being more closed off when it came to the media. Even in practice, he rarely spoke. He was focused and dedicated, and I never saw him messing around like the other guys. And I was with him a lot.

The only time I ever saw him so much as crack a smile was when he was with Xavier and Colt. The three of them seemed like an unlikely pairing, but they were often together. I’d taken to calling them the three amigos in my head.

“We’d vet the questions ahead of time. And the photo shoot shouldn’t be too involved,” Carrie said, bringing my attention back to her.

“Photo shoot?” I gulped. I’d had my photo taken numerous times when I was a member of Team USA, but I’d never felt at ease in front of the camera. Okay, so that was putting it mildly. Once, I’d nearly puked on set.

Despite my self-confidence, I had serious anxiety when it came to being photographed professionally. Bastian said it was because I didn’t like being in the spotlight. While that was true, there was something about standing under the lights, posing as everyone watched and directed. It was unnatural. Plus, they were going to airbrush the hell out of me, which only aggravated me more. What was wrong with how I looked?

“Yeah, they’ll want some images for the article.”

“Can’t they just use some of the ones from the sidelines? Action shots from practice?” I asked, feeling my blood pressure spike.

“We can always ask, but you should consider it. They want this article to be part of a series on the theme ‘Strong is Beautiful.’ They intend to interview a handful of women—athletes, soldiers, and cancer patients.”

“I’m in,” I said without hesitation. If a woman who had gone through cancer had the courage to share her story, I needed to suck it up.

“Great,” Carrie said. “I’ll meet you in the media room Friday morning, and we’ll go from there. Since you don’t have an agent, I’m willing to step in temporarily if you’d like.” Although many NFL coaches had agents, I wasn’t one of them. Maybe one day I would, but not yet.

“Great. I really appreciate it,” I said, rising to shake her hand.

Friday morning, I arrived at the stadium bright and early. The team had dominated our first preseason game, and then I’d gone home and crashed. Now, less than seven hours later, I was back at the stadium to be interviewed by Vogue. Vogue! Sometimes it felt like I was living someone else’s life or a dream.

When I’d told Bastian about the interview, he’d squealed in a voice that was unnaturally high-pitched for a twenty-nine-year-old man. He’d been on me to eat healthy and drink water all week, to be sure to get my beauty rest and minimize bloating. He was a good friend, but I was going to kill him if he didn’t stop smothering me.

I navigated the labyrinth of hallways to the press room, where the photographer had already started setting up. Large spotlights illuminated the space, casting a harsh and unforgiving light on the backdrop. I wasn’t even standing beneath the lights, and I was hot. Sweat pricked at the back of my neck, and I turned away before I could psych myself out.

I’m so excited. I forced myself to smile. Though judging by the reaction from one of the passing members of staff, I looked like a crazed lunatic. Whatever, I sighed. A little reverse psychology never hurt.

When Carrie spotted me, she came to greet me before introducing me to a few people. The next thing I knew, I was whisked away, draped in a cape as people fussed over my hair and makeup. It was all happening so fast, but there was nothing to do except close my eyes and go along for the ride.

Two hours and what felt like twenty layers of makeup later, I finally stood from the chair. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, surprised by how much I was digging the look. My hair had been blown out and curled, looking better than ever. I was used to wearing it in a ponytail, and now I looked like a model in a shampoo commercial.

My makeup was flawless, natural-looking despite the layers caked on. I knew it was to combat the lighting, but it felt like a mask. And whatever mascara they’d used was amazing, my long lashes dark and framing my blue eyes.

Carrie caught my eye in the mirror. “Lookin’ good, Coach.” She winked. “Now on to wardrobe.”

She led me over to a rack of clothing, all in the team’s signature cobalt blue and white colors. “We have a selection of outfits from the team shop,” Carrie said as I picked through the offerings. “See anything you like?”

“Definitely not the crop top,” I said, pushing the hanger aside. I didn’t mind showing a little skin, but this feature was supposed to highlight my accomplishments, not my, ahem, assets.

“Got it.” She nodded, looking through the rack for something. “What do you think of this?” she asked, holding up a knit dress that looked like a team jersey.

“I don’t hate it.” I took it from her so I could hold it up to my frame. It looked like it would come to about mid-thigh, but I’d have to try it on to know for sure.

I slipped into the restroom and pulled the dress on over my head, careful not to mess up my hair or makeup. When I caught sight of my reflection, I smiled. The dress was flirty and sexy without being too revealing. I felt beautiful, strong, confident—exactly the image I’d hoped to project.

When I emerged, Carrie was talking with the photographer, gesturing toward the backdrop. I heard Tristan’s rich voice, and I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on his interview. He was sitting in a chair across from a woman who was smiling at him, leaning forward as she toyed with her hair. I couldn’t see his face, but everything about his body language indicated he wasn’t interested. His arms were crossed, his feet pointed away from her. And if I didn’t know better, he was fighting the urge to flee. Guess I wasn’t the only one who dreaded these types of things.

“How’s your season going so far?” she asked. “There were rumors that your injury may sideline you for a few games.”

“I’m feeling great,” he said, his tense shoulders undermining his statement.

The woman smiled, and I knew she was struggling to put him at ease. Tristan was a great player, he photographed like a dream, but he shied away from the media. I’d originally pegged him as an introvert who preferred his privacy, but I was beginning to wonder if there was more to it.

“What’s it like to play with your college teammate Colt Whitney again?” she asked.

Tristan’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and I could sense his relief. “It’s a privilege to play with someone like Colt. He has such a natural talent for the game, and he works hard to be the best.”

Colt and Tristan seemed like the odd couple. Colt was the life of the party, Mr. Personality. And, if I was right, Tristan was the type to stay at home, alone. Despite their differences, they were both very talented players. I’d watched clips of their college years, and they made a great team then and now.

I was pulled away before I could hear any more; the photographer was ready. I stood beneath the bright lights, sweat prickling along my skin. He snapped photo after photo, giving instructions for how to stand, where to look, how to smile. It was exhausting, and after a while, my face was numb. I was nervous and awkward and uncomfortable. And I didn’t know how much longer I could stand there, posing for the camera.

Tristan approached, standing off to the side of the photographer. He scanned me head to toe, memorizing my body as if it were a play. My cheeks heated from his intensity, and I wondered if he could see me blush even under all this makeup.

“That’s it,” called the photographer. Snap, snap, snap, clicked the shutter of the camera.

Tristan’s eyes darkened, lips parted, and I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off him. He was powerful, dominating, mysterious. And the pull between us was beyond intense.

“Perfect,” the photographer said, taking a few more shots before finally releasing me.

“You did great, Blake,” Carrie said as I neared both her and Tristan. I wasn’t so sure about that. But considering I didn’t puke or pass out, I was calling it a win.

Carrie was called away, and I watched with amusement as Tristan did a double take.

“Like my makeover?” I teased, doing a little twirl.

“I almost didn’t recognize you at first,” he said. I wasn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment or not.

“Think I should take this look to the field? I might be a little late to the game if I have to spend two hours in hair and makeup,” I joked.

He rubbed the back of his neck, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. “You look nice, but—”

I held my breath, waiting to hear the rest of his statement.

“—you’re even more stunning without all the makeup.”

His eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just said. I couldn’t believe it myself. Despite all the time we spent together at work, Tristan barely spoke to me unless it was about football. And now he was complimenting me? A thrill raced through me at his words.

“Blake?” asked the woman I’d seen interviewing Tristan earlier. “You ready?”

I nodded, allowing her to lead me away from Tristan in a daze. He thought I was stunning? And why did I care? I was his coach. He was my player, a man so completely off-limits, it wasn’t even funny.