She was a sports medicine specialist and probably not supposed to have a favorite football team.

But damn it if Dylan Rose didn't love the Texas Teamsters.

She wandered through the packed stadium, munching kettle corn and taking in the football fans lining up for their own concessions. She always arrived at the stadium early so she’d have plenty of time to people watch. It was already the second week of September—the start of the regular season—but ninety-degree heat in Austin meant most ticketholders were buying seat cushions and postponing the moment they stepped out into the baking-hot sun. The covered walkway provided shelter from the elements, sure, but was packed with enough activity to constitute a carnival: children ran screaming underfoot, dull-eyed custodians spun their brooms around like stiff dance partners, and men and women guffawed with equal bravado. It was an atmosphere of ecstatic celebration, and the air crackled with barely-checked feelings of pride and rivalry.

Not to mention smells. Freshly-spun cotton candy, hot dogs grilled until they split open, something that gushed hot out of a machine and passed for cheese—all of this and more perfumed the air. The mouthwatering, caramel-salt smell of kettle corn popping had been the arrow to Dylan's own self-control.

Unfortunately, where humans gathered, they brought with them other smells. Spilled soda, body odor, and overflowing bathrooms—every aroma seemed to be competing as hard as the players were about to in the hopes of taking home a trophy.

When it all became too much for her, Dylan mounted the steps to the upper deck of the stadium. She would get some exercise walking laps at a higher altitude and escape the crowd for a bit, before heading back down to her own seat in time for kickoff in an hour.

She had not figured on getting knocked on her ass by a freight train.

It had to be some form of locomotive that hit her and sent her ten-dollar popcorn flying out of her hands. Nothing else could account for the power, the sheer force, responsible for the collision. It knocked the air out of her lungs, the sunglasses off her face, the indignation off her tongue; Dylan rebounded off the obstacle, arms pinwheeling, until someone reached out and caught her.

The train had a hand. He had a face.

God, did he have a face.

The man gazed down his nose at her, surprised but not in the slightest bit upset by their encounter. The man towering over her had a strong jaw, cocked slightly off-center in a rueful smile. His eyes were a wintery blue, and his blond hair hung down past his incongruous square chin.

"Excuse me, I didn't—" she began.

"Sorry about your—"

They both offered their stumbling apologies at once. The man held up a finger, and Dylan clicked her mouth shut. Wait a minute—had he really just signaled her like she was a dog? But he stooped down in front of her like Cinderella's prince to pick up her sunglasses, and she decided to let it slide. Speaking of letting things slide, it was all too easy to imagine from this angle how her hands might arc down those incredible shoulders of his…

It hit her like the first kickoff of the season. They had never met before, but this man was all too familiar. Dylan knew he was famous before she could put a name to his face, to his body. He was football stock, but he wasn't just any ordinary player.

Charlie Wild, starting quarterback of the Texas Teamsters, straightened and brushed the popcorn kernels off her glasses before passing them back to her.

"Yours, I believe."

"Thank you."

The way his eyes lingered on her…he must have some imagination hidden away in that impenetrable head of his, Dylan mused. He may dote on her like Cinderella, but she was definitely the sans-ball gown Cindy. Today she had dressed herself in a white slouchy tee, a corner of which she tucked into the front of her jeans to give the casual viewer at least some evidence of her trim stomach. A baseball cap pulled low over her eyes completed the lazy, figure-swallowing ensemble.

It amused her to watch the behemoth lean in again, conspicuously this time, to try for a good glimpse of her face beneath the hat. Now that she knew who he was, she also knew his specs. Charlie Wild: six-foot-six, two hundred eighty pounds, thirty years old. He hadn't just trained himself to peak physical perfection, he had invented it. In all her time pursuing a degree in sports medicine, Dylan had never been faced with a specimen like him. He looked like he had descended from Valhalla to play starting quarterback for the Texas Teamsters.

And she looked like a mortal mess. For once, Dylan actually regretted dressing down for one of these games, but it didn't appear her efforts—or lack thereof—dissuaded Charlie Wild from getting an eyeful. Dylan lifted the brim of her hat a little to gaze back at him defiantly. If he was used to women shrinking beneath him or melting into panty-twisted puddles of goo and thought she would do the same, he had another thing coming.

"You look like you're incognito." His voice boomed in his chest like a summer storm, like a packed stadium rumbling with applause. "You in some kind of trouble?"

What a line! Amusement tugged at the corners of Dylan's mouth despite herself. "Something tells me I might be," she confessed.

Charlie's own mouth quirked at her response. Of course—he seemed the type to enjoy games, on or off the field. It factored into his public persona, but maybe there was more to it than just marketing.

"Something tells me you can handle it," he said.

"Oh, I handle men like you every day in my line of work," she agreed. She didn't give him an inch, didn't betray who or what she was.

"I doubt you've ever handled a man like me," he said.

"That remains to be seen," she replied. And likely will remain so, Dylan thought, even though she couldn't resist pushing their innuendo to its natural conclusion.

The last thing she intended when she got up this morning was to be flirted with by the Teamsters' star player. Apparently, he was as unprejudiced when it came to picking up women as Entertainment Weekly reported him to be. Dylan would have never guessed he could make time in his busy schedule for a woman who wasn't a cheerleader or Playboy model.

"Speaking of things that remain to be seen…" Charlie indicated the box he had been headed toward. "Why don't you come watch the game from the VIP suite? The only better view you'll find today is the one I'm already looking at."

"Hm." Dylan pretended to deliberate, resting her hand on one cocked hip as she watched the box's occupants file in. Suits, most of them—probably corporate bigwigs from sponsors, billionaire friends of the owner. A few had arm candy, similarly dressed up. "Something tells me you aren't allowed to extend that invitation."

"C'mon, now." Her resistance only seemed to make him more insistent. "If anyone were to see you walking away from our conversation, it would be bad optics for me." Dylan failed to pull a sad-puppy face, and he grinned. "Besides, I thought you said you could handle a little trouble."

There it is.

It was interesting getting to check off every item of Charlie Wild's public persona first-hand. Confident bordering on cocky. Charming bordering on promiscuous. Irresponsible bordering on reckless. He barely knew her, and he was already willing to break the rules. Too bad he wouldn't be present to face any of the fallout should she be caught.

Dylan's eyes followed a tall, bottle-blonde vixen breezing by them, her tight skirt accentuating every hypnotic swish of her buttocks. "I don't think I'm dressed for it," she replied. "But thanks for the offer."

Charlie, who had also been watching the blonde appreciatively, caught Dylan's arm in a last-minute play as she turned to go. The width of his palm encased her entire bicep; the realization of his size, his strength, made her shiver a little. That hand had thrown more winning passes than any other this season; that hand commanded attention. It didn’t hang idly in the face of defeat.

"Hey, now." Charlie drew himself in close, until the heat of his chest radiated all along the length of her shoulder. A sideways movement of her hand would bring her into direct contact with the piled abdominal muscles that had successfully sold so many men's fragrances. As a doctor, Dylan couldn't deny her—strictly scientific—interest in feeling them for herself. She was sure the existence of the eight-pack was still disputed in some medical circles.

"You look terrific," he assured her. "A die-hard sports fan. You deserve a good seat. You'll appreciate it more than those ex-Teamster cheerleaders."

Cheerleaders? Dylan hated to admit her interest was piqued, so she didn't…at least, not out loud. She relented and allowed herself to be dragged into the box after Charlie. She pushed the bill of her cap up a bit further so she didn't look like some antisocial Unabomber.

It probably wasn't every hot-blooded, heterosexual woman that could be lured with the promise of seeing cheerleaders up close. It wasn't a career path Dylan had chosen for herself, but she had been a cheerleader in high school, and she missed aspects of the culture: the graceful, and sometimes brutal, physicality; the command of the crowd; the adoration of the fans. Probably all the same things Charlie Wild lived for.

"Charlie! Where the hell have you been?" A man in a sharp suit hurried over to them as soon as they entered the box. His face was flushed—his hairline receding—his Ray-Bans as expensive as his watch. He was public relations personified in a private box setting. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Dylan couldn't be sure—the overexcited man wore sunglasses, after all—but she thought his gaze glanced right off her. Her presence didn't even register.

"Get your ass over to the autograph table. Someone get me a pen, please," the man stressed.

Charlie turned to her. "You want an autograph?"

"Want is a strong word," Dylan muttered below her breath, but she followed in the big quarterback's wake. He pulled a chair out for her beside him, then he fished her a Gatorade from a cooler hidden beneath the table. Dylan accepted and ignored the way her heart jumped when his fingertips brushed hers.

"I never drink these," Charlie confided. "Too much sugar. But they're a sponsor, so whenever you set it down, make sure the label's turned out or Smitty will shit himself."

"Thanks…I think." His gesture probably meant nothing, but Dylan had a feeling she would be committing it to memory anyway. It wasn't every day the star quarterback of the Texas Teamsters invited you into a private box, pulled a chair out for you, and made sure you were hydrated. She unscrewed the cap, tipped her head back, and took a long pull, sighing with satisfaction once the edge of her thirst was quenched. He was right about the sugar, but the cool gush of artificial orange racing down her throat tasted like paradise.

She turned the label out as instructed. She was surprised to find Charlie watching her. Their eyes met, and for a moment Dylan thought she saw exactly what scenario he was entertaining. Her lips parted, but before she could think to denounce or encourage his line of thinking, he turned away to consult with his PR guy. Dylan assumed that was Smitty.

She gazed around at all the extravagance and beautiful people. She couldn't help feeling confirmed in her recent life decisions. This was the exact kind of artificial, too-public lifestyle she hoped to leave behind her by moving her practice out of town.

Most of Dylan's city friends couldn't understand her attraction to Lockhart Bend, and Dylan didn't blame them. "The Bend," as she already affectionately called it, was small and slow and sleepy—its residents never rushed in their work, but then again, they never stopped working. Dylan admired Lockhart's own comfortable brand of industry. It came without the bells and whistles and cocktail glasses and dubiously-tasteful parties, and she thought some of her best healing work lay ahead of her there.

"Charlie!" One of the former cheerleaders dropped down into his lap and laced her arms around his neck. Charlie grinned; Smitty did the opposite. Dylan had a sudden, painful awareness that the person who originally extended her an invitation had now forgotten her completely.

"Veronica. Up to your old tricks," Charlie rumbled. His lap was so wide that he continued to sign autographs even as the cheerleader kicked her legs around.

Veronica giggled and stroked his chest. "I may have retired last season, but there's nothing old about me." She pulled a face. "You know, I was hoping to lead you in more than just a cheer tonight," she murmured. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. She punctuated her secret offer with a nip of her teeth, and Charlie groaned. He passed the signed autograph to Dylan and immediately refocused himself on signing another. Dylan almost spit out her Gatorade at the dismissive, almost mechanical maneuver. What the hell was she supposed to do with his autograph? Was it meant for her?

Are you fucking kidding me? When another autograph came her way, she added it to the pile and promptly stood. She left her Gatorade—label facing inward—and ducked out to the balcony. Fewer people loitered around out here and decidedly no cheerleaders. Dylan pulled her cap off and rubbed her forehead.

"Excuse me…Dr. Rose? Dr. Dylan Rose?"

"Yes? Can I help you?" Dylan asked curiously. A small group of men gathered near the railing with drinks had paused their conversation when she stepped out; now, they all but swarmed her in their excitement.

"Dr. Rose! What are you doing here?" one of the younger men exclaimed.

"Hello, Dr. Rose, I'm Brent Duncan. Houston Phi Chi."

"The medical fraternity!" Dylan said approvingly. No wonder they knew her name and work: she had given a talk at a conference in Houston they all attended last week. It hadn't escaped her that members of their fraternity had taken a particular interest in her allotted hour…and she felt certain it wasn't just her knowledge of sports medicine that made her face so easily recognizable to them now.

"How do you do, gentlemen?" She shook hands all around, and gladly accepted an offer of a drink from the bar, so long as it wasn't "labelled." The men laughed as if they knew what she was talking about. They then launched into a series of follow-up questions about her talk.

Now this was the kind of conversation she could get into. Still, Dylan found her gaze tracking back inside as she spoke. Charlie Wild appeared on his way out, flanked by a yammering Smitty, and watching her. Was it her imagination or did she see a flicker of real remorse crossing his gorgeous face? Dylan let her eyes drift cruelly over him, never snagging, as if she were only following a train of thought. She was surrounded by her own cheerleaders now.

When she looked for Charlie again less than a minute later, he was gone.

Better this way, Dylan tried to convince herself as she dropped into a seat offered her near the railing. Charlie Wild was a flirt, as unserious about her as he was about the rules. He shirked all responsibility and those who would impose it on him—and that was okay. The worlds they inhabited may have shared the same orbit, but they were still light years away from having anything in common. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with him. She was a helpful professional, a woman with a career that would last her all her life; he was a party boy most concerned with where his balls were at any moment, double entendre intended. He had maybe a few more years before a major injury took him out or until the media grew bored with him and decided to assist in his downfall. Dylan had seen this story play out a million times before.

Still, that didn't stop her from finding number twenty-seven down on the playing field once the game started. He wasn’t the biggest guy out there—the linebackers got that honor—but Charlie Wild was the indisputable center of gravity. Of course he would be surrounded by cameras and reporters, giving his pre-game interview. Dylan leaned forward, folding her arms beneath her on the railing as she watched. Maybe it was all right to admire him from a distance—the way his mile-wide shoulders filled out his pads; the way he leaned all his weight to one side, with his helmet nestled in the crook of his hip; the way the tight little knot of hair piled atop his head gave his chiseled features a strength and severity she hadn't fully appreciated before.

Okay, fine. She would admire him with all the rest. But like all the rest, she would only allow herself to admire from a distance.

The first quarter started. Dylan sipped on her second vodka-cranberry, relishing the tart taste that kept her company as she observed the action below. Occasional comments from her seatmates drew her attention away from the field, but her eyes always returned to the Teamsters' star quarterback. Someone wise had once said to never meet your heroes. Not that Charlie was her hero, but she couldn't help feeling…disappointed somehow. And not because she had built up some false, worshipful image of who he was in her head. He had a whole team of people behind him off the field whose sole job was to market him as the playboy of football, a potent man's man who conquered women as easily as he conquered his opponents.

But that wasn't the man Dylan thought she had met an hour ago. He had been cocky, sure, but…surprising. Chivalrous was the word she wanted to use, but she kept it to herself. Dylan sucked her drink down until the ice cubes rattled; she rose to go get herself a third.

"WILD IS DOWN! WILD IS DOWN!" the radio announcer in the skybox suddenly shouted.

All around her, the box's occupants stood with a cry. The crowd below them roared like an ocean in upheaval. Dylan whirled and rushed back to the railing. Her drink slipped from between her fingers and crashed to the balcony floor.

Maybe a few more years before an injury takes him out. Her own earlier thought bounced around in the back of her skull. There was number twenty-seven, sprawled on the field, surrounded by his teammates—with a stretcher on the way.