I slept like the dead once Jordan left the hotel to go to practice. The plane ride, the taxi ride, the shower, the sex, the orgasm, it all had a mind-numbing effect on me, and the moment my head hit the pillow, I was out.

Not sure how long I slept, but when my eyes blink open, I can tell it was nighttime. The hotel room is dark, the curtains still parted, so I can see the lights from the city just outside the window. I sit up, push my wild hair away from my face. Glance down to see I’m wearing Jordan’s red Niners T-shirt.

Huh. I don’t remember putting that on.

My phone sits on the bedside table, plugged into its charger. Funny, I also don’t remember pulling my charger out of my purse. Jordan must’ve done that for me.

I start to smile when I think of him. Always taking care of me. That’s just his way.

Glancing around, I look for any sign of him, but he’s not in this room. I just know. His presence radiates, and I gravitate toward him like he’s the sun and I’m this bumbling planet lost in space.

But where could he be?

I grab my phone and check it for notifications. I have four texts and two missed calls from Jordan, plus a voicemail notification.

You awake? Team is going to dinner, wanted you to join me.

Mandy? You must be still sleeping.

I’ll bring you back something to eat. This restaurant is amazing.

Miss you.

It’s the final text I check my voicemail next.

You’re sleeping. I know you were tired. That’s why I left you alone and didn’t wake you up when I came back to the room. But I wish you were here with me. Cannon wishes you were too.

In the background, I hear Cannon making fun of Jordan for telling me that. I can even hear Cannon making exaggerated kissy noises.

Anyway, I’ll be back in the room soon. In about an hour or so. Hopefully you’ll be awake by then.

The voicemail ends.

A sigh escapes me and I listen to the voicemail again. His voice is deep. Low. Intimate. Warmth spreads through me at hearing it. There’s emotion there, just beneath the surface. When we had sex earlier in the shower, he’d been so tender with me. So sweet. And when he came inside me…

I drop the phone, blinking in shock. Yeah. He came inside me. I felt it. As in, he didn’t wear a condom.

And I’m not on the pill.

I fall back onto the bed, my head sinking into the pillow as I stare up at the ceiling. Shit, shit, shit! I didn’t even think of asking him to put on a condom. He didn’t think of it either. We both messed up with this one.

I try to think of the last time I had my period. A week ago? Two weeks ago? Okay, let’s be real here. I’m like clockwork. My period shows up every twenty-eight to thirty days. And it warns me too. It was two weeks ago, give or take a few days. Which means I should be ovulating.

Right.

Now.

“Oh God,” I say out loud, and close my eyes. Press my hands against them, rubbing hard. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe we really didn’t have amazing shower sex. I imagined the entire thing. My hands fall away from my eyes as I continue to stare at the ceiling. Yep, that’s what happened.

There’s rustling at the door, a click sounds and then the door swings open, letting in a bright beam of light. I close my eyes and turn my head, thankful when the door quietly shuts.

“Amanda?”

I sit up. Offer a little wave. “Hey.” My voice is weak. I sound pitiful.

Jordan sets a takeout container on the desk and approaches the bed. “Hey, sleepyhead. Did I wake you?”

“No, I woke up a few minutes ago.” I run a hand over my hair, wincing. I went to bed with it wet and now it’s all over the place. Great.

“You sleep good?”

“Yeah. Really good.” I try to smile, but I give up quick.

I’m freaking out here. How do I tell him this? I mean, it could be nothing. I have no idea how fertile I am. What if I’m not fertile at all? What if it turns out that getting pregnant won’t be easy for me? What if I end up having to do in-vitro or whatever?

Oh my God, talk about putting the cart before the horse.

Hmm, I could also—do something to ensure I won’t get pregnant. There are plenty of options out there.

But this is with Jordan. The boy you loved. The man you probably still love. The man you want to be with forever…

“You okay?” He settles his big hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. My skin warms from his touch and I waver.

Should I tell him? He needs to know. My chances of getting knocked up are high.

I’m also panicking. Worrying over potentially nothing. So…yeah.

For now, I need to keep this to myself. No use in getting him worked up too.

“I’m fine. Still a little out of it,” I assure him.

“Hungry?” he asks.

My stomach chooses that moment to growl. Loudly. My nervous laughter mingles with his deep chuckle.

“I take that as a yes.” He stands and goes over to the desk, grabbing the to-go box he brought in with him. “Can I turn on a lamp?”

“Go for it,” I tell him, and he does. The bright light makes me blink, holding a hand over my eyes like a vampire. “Oh God, that’s awful.”

“You’ll get used to it. You need to wake up anyway. You need to adjust to the time change.” He pops open the box and the room instantly fills with the delicious smells of the dinner he brought. “Come over here and eat.”

I crawl out of bed, tugging the shirt down as I do, though I don’t know why I’m worried. It’s so large, the hem almost comes to my knees. I pad over to the desk and look inside the box. There’s baked chicken and roasted potatoes, plus a side of green beans flecked with slivered almonds. A flaky roll sits next to the chicken and my mouth literally starts to water.

“Oh my God, I’m starving. This looks amazing.”

Jordan pulls the chair away from the desk for me and I plop my butt onto the seat, realizing quick that I’m not wearing any underwear.

Well. I have a feeling I should get used to this. We’re going to sightsee all over London, but I anticipate us spending a lot of time in bed together too. Using condoms every single time, I might add.

No more accidental protection-free sex for us. No way.

I just hope our one time without protection doesn’t result in something too big for us to handle.

 

 

“This place is packed,” I say in wonder, gazing out at the field, at the majority of the seats filled in Wembley Stadium. There are people everywhere. I knew the NFL had been hosting exhibition games in the U.K. to gain interest in the sport, but I had no idea it was becoming so successful.

“We’re one of the most popular teams in the NFL right now. Of course they’re going to come out in droves,” says Harvey Price, lead publicist for the 49ers. He’s wearing a black three-piece suit, accompanied by a bright red tie. He’s a fast talker, slick looking, and I’m not sure I can trust him, considering what he said to me when Jordan introduced us earlier: “Ah, so you’re the new mystery girl in Tuttle’s life.”

Harvey Price’s words and his skeptical tone left me unsettled. More in the way he said it, versus what he actually said.

“I just didn’t realize football has taken off so well over here,” I tell him. We’re in a borrowed suite at Wembley, and it’s filled with all sorts of people. Family members of the team. Employees. Friends. Guests. Someone whispered Prince William and Kate—excuse me, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge—were possibly going to show up later.

Now that I’d like to see. Or Harry and Meghan.

Hmm, especially Harry and Meghan.

“They like to watch, but I don’t believe any of them want to actually play,” Harvey explains. “They’re fans of the superstar players, the most visible ones, including Tuttle. But I doubt the NFL will ever really take off here. They prefer their own football. Soccer. Whatever you want to call it.”

I smile at him, then return my gaze to the field. The game starts at two-thirty, and it’s already two-fifteen. Yesterday was my first full day in London, and I didn’t get to spend as much time with Jordan as I wanted. Not only did he have practice, but the team also made a public appearance, a sort of meet-and-greet early last night that I attended, but then left after about an hour when the crush of people in the room overwhelmed me.

Plus, I was tired. I’m still not fully adjusted to the time difference. Besides, Jordan barely knew I was there. He was talking to so many people—correction, so many people were talking to him. He’s popular. Everyone wants a piece of him.

Including me.

Those old, lingering insecurities threatened at one point, but I pushed them away. I was going to be fine, I told myself. Jordan wants me there. I know he does.

But Harvey Price had a special request. He asked before the event started that Jordan and I not stand together or take any photos with each other. “I don’t want this exhibition game to turn into the Jordan Tuttle New Romance Show,” he said matter-of-factly. “The British paparazzi love to chase anyone from the US, because they know sites like TMZ will pay big money for scandalous photos. We don’t want to give them anything to talk about. This weekend should be about the team.”

I didn’t protest. Neither did Jordan. He did pull me aside, full of apologies, but I told him I was fine. I understood.

Doesn’t mean I liked it.

I kept my distance during the time I was there, and it hurt. Every time Jordan caught my eye, he’d wink at me, or smile. I’d smile in return, but I felt lonely.

So lonely.

He made up for my loneliness by kissing me fiercely the moment he slipped into our shared bed when he finally made it back to the hotel. I could feel the urgency in his touch, his lips. By the time we came up for air, I was pretty much naked, Jordan pushing inside of me after putting the condom on, making me cry out in pleasure.

“Don’t ever think I’ll abandon you,” he told me, his eyes bright, his tone serious. “That was Harvey’s idea. Not mine.”

“You two dated before,” Harvey suddenly says, startling me.

I turn to look at him, noting the shrewd expression on his face. “Yes,” I say, keeping my tone nonchalant. “We did.”

“You’re the girl from high school. The one who got away.” When I frown, he continues, “What Tuttle said in the Inside Football interview.”

“Oh. Right.” I don’t know how much Jordan has told Harvey, so I really don’t want to delve too deep into this conversation.

“How’d you two reconnect?” His tone is casual, but I’m not stupid. He’s digging for information.

“Social media.” I don’t bother telling Harvey that episode of Inside Football spurred me into action.

“A modern love story then,” Harvey says, a slight smile curling his thin lips. “Sorry. I’m always looking for an angle.”

“I’m sure,” I murmur, glancing around the room. I don’t really know anyone here. And I’d rather be talking to anyone else, even a complete stranger, if I’m being honest. This guy makes me uncomfortable. Like he’s watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake.

He’s judging me too. Seeing if I’ll measure up.

“You don’t like me very much, do you.” It’s not a question Harvey’s asking. More like a statement.

I turn to face him once more, my gaze meeting his direct. “More like I don’t think you like me.”

“Honestly?” I never like it when people use the word honestly. To me, it means they lie—maybe more than they tell the truth. “I don’t know how I feel about you yet.” Harvey crosses his arms, contemplating me. “Lots of questions run through my mind. Are you using Tuttle? Trying to get a piece of his fame?”

My lips pop open but I can’t find any words to say. His accusation takes me aback.

“Any other woman would’ve stomped her feet like a toddler and thrown a major hissy fit last night after I told you two that you couldn’t be seen together.” He tilts his head. “But you didn’t.”

I shrug. Why make our lives more miserable by acting like a baby?

“You earned a few points for that,” Harvey continues.

“Gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically.

“Listen.” He takes a step closer to me, his voice lowering. Like he’s going to tell me a big secret. “This life isn’t easy. It’s not for the faint of heart. Most of the women who come after these guys are in it for the money. Or the fame. That’s it. They don’t give a shit about the man himself. They want his money. They’ll do whatever it takes, even make up lies about being pregnant with their baby. They care more about what the man can give them in their quest for celebrity.”

My bravado wilts a little when he says the word pregnant.

“I’m not out to become a celebrity,” I start to say, but he silences me with a look.

“The ones who stick with their girlfriends from high school? Those long-term relationships tend to work better than any other. These guys know that the girl who stuck by their side since he was a teenager actually fell in love with them, not the celebrity version of themselves.”

Then I should be trusted, right? Isn’t that what he’s telling me?

“But you’re an unusual case. The high school sweetheart who sweeps back into his life out of nowhere, just when his popularity and worth are about to skyrocket? Not so sure about that one.” Harvey starts to walk away, patting me on the shoulder as he passes. “We’ll keep in touch.”

I watch his retreating back, see how he stops and talks to a woman who looks about my age, maybe a little older. She gives him a hug, and his gaze meets mine when they’re mid-embrace.

Harvey mouths, A good one, and points at the back of her platinum blonde head.

Turning away, I face the field once more, contemplating everything Harvey just said. He doesn’t trust me. He thinks my motives are shady when they’re anything but.

Like it matters, what that guy thinks about me. He’s the team publicist. I won’t let him dictate my life.

I blink my vision into focus, excitement filling me when I see the team already out on the field. Specifically Jordan. We’re so high up, he’s like a tiny speck of white and red, the number eight on his back telling me exactly where he’s at.

Taking out my phone, I snap a pic of them down on the field, then open up Instagram, putting together a quick post.

Enjoying my favorite pastime live and in person. Back with the old crew. #eightisgreat #jordantuttle #cannonwhittaker #ninernation #london

I add my location—Wembley Stadium—and post the photo of the team on the field.

Hopefully Harvey won’t care if I made that post. Not that I should let him dictate what I do. But still. Now he’s got me thinking about my every move. Worrying over my behavior, how I might look. How I should act.

And that sucks.

His words linger throughout the first half. To the point I can barely concentrate on the game. Not that it’s a big deal—they’re winning so easily, it’s almost embarrassing for the opposing team.

Yet I can’t shake the fact that the team publicist doesn’t trust my motives for being back in Jordan’s life. Do I look that sketchy? Does he really believe I’m out to cash in on Jordan’s fame? I don’t want to deal with the fame thing at all. I told Jordan he’s a private person, but guess what? So am I. He signed up for this from the beginning. He knew what he was getting into.

Just because I care about the man doesn’t mean I can handle the celebrity that comes with him. Maybe I can’t. Maybe this will all prove to be too much.

“Hello. Please tell me you’re Amanda.”

Whirling around at the lilting female voice, I find a petite dark blonde standing in front of me, clad in a beautiful pale blue dress. The dress matches her eyes. They’re icy blue, sparkling and friendly.

I have no clue who she is.

“Yes, I’m Amanda,” I say carefully.

“Oh, thank goodness.” She rests her hand against her chest, her shoulders slumping in relief. “Cannon told me to come in search of you, and I was afraid with the mad crush of people in here, I’d never find you.”

She’s British. Her accent is sharp, her pronunciation almost exaggerated. Her posture is perfection. She has an elegant air about her, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her lips covered in a becoming shade of pink.

Oh, and she mentioned Cannon’s name. How does he know this woman?

“You’re a friend of Cannon’s?” I ask.

Her cheeks blaze a deep pink at the mere mention of his name. “We only just met yesterday, but…yes. I’d like to consider him a friend.”

“And you are?”

“Oh, how absolutely rude of me! I haven’t even introduced myself.” She smiles. Does a little curtsy. “I’m Lady Susanna Sumner.”

Lady Susanna? “Shouldn’t I be the one who curtsies to you?” I ask as I take her offered hand and shake it.

She lets go of my hand and laughs, shaking her head. “No, never. I’m not one for all that formality. I can’t help it if I was born the daughter of an earl.”

An earl? That means she’s royalty. From a noble family or whatever. “I don’t mean to be rude, but how in the world did you meet Cannon?”

“At the event yesterday. I accompanied my parents to the meet-and-greet gathering. My father is a huge fan of American football, and he wanted to meet some of the team members. I tagged along because I didn’t have anything else better to do on a Friday night.” She smiles, her cheeks still pink. “My father introduced himself to Cannon, even complimenting him on his massive arms, which was so incredibly embarrassing. I chastised Father for his ridiculous statement, and Cannon took great offense. Said he couldn’t believe his arms didn’t impress me.”

Oh Cannon. “In other words, he was flirting with you,” I tease.

She rolls her eyes. “Right. I told him he was so obvious. Father drifted away after a few minutes of our silly conversation and we ended up chatting for the rest of the night. He even, um, took me to dinner.”

I wonder if took me to dinner is code for something else entirely.

“Anyway.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Cannon invited me to the game, told me I should find you so we could keep each other company. I almost thought I wouldn’t make it, I was running so late, but now here I am.”

A new friend. I already adore her. She’s chatty and nervous and very unsure about this entire thing, I’m guessing. In other words, we can totally relate. “Perfect. Let’s sit together during the second half of the game.”

She wrinkles her nose, looking like a cute little bunny. Maybe it’s the pink cheeks and the dark blonde hair. Her teeth too. The front ones protrude slightly. Kind of like a…bunny. “The second half? I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t know much about American football. Or any other sport, for that matter. I just shout at the TV with the rest of my family when they’re watching a game at the appropriate moments.”

I smile and hook my arm through hers. “I’ll give you a lesson in American football. I just have one question. Should I call you Lady Susanna?”

She appears horrified by my suggestion. “Heavens no! Please just call me Susanna.”

“Perfect.” I tug her closer to me, our arms still hooked. “Let’s go sit down and watch the game.”

We settle into our seats, Susanna chattering away, her hands fluttering. I get the sense she’s kind of a Nervous Nelly. Or maybe she’s just excited, I don’t know, but I like her. She’ll be the perfection distraction for the rest of the game. At least I won’t have to worry about Harvey lurking around, watching my every move. Or worry about the fact that there’s a chance I could be…

Pregnant.

Ugh. I’m worrying over nothing. I need to stop.

So instead, I focus on Susanna and start explaining the basics of American football.

My favorite subject.