Her phone pings with a text, and she looks at me warily. “It’s Elena asking how my classes are. She must be up early in Hawaii or hasn’t even gone to sleep yet. I’ll call her later and tell her about the fire.”

I see the problem right away. “Don’t mention you’re staying here.”

She nods quickly. “Mum’s the word. Jack will never know. I’ll be gone before they get back.”

“Right.” I stick my hands in my pockets and follow her to the elevator and push the button for her, eyeing her legs. “Is your ankle all right?”

“Fine.”

“Knees?”

“Good.”

“Any more bad dreams?”

“No.”

I heave out a breath. “Giselle. About this Mike guy . . .”—who I don’t like on principle—“instead of rushing out for a fling with him, why don’t you let me find you a nice guy? Not Aiden, not any football player, and not any guy on the app.”

The elevator opens as we stare at each other.

She frowns. “Not Lawrence.”

Fuck no. Lawrence is a woman-eater of the first order. “Let me work on it, okay? I have someone in mind.” I think.

She stares at the floor, then back up at me. A strange expression flits over her face, and I think it’s disappointment.

“Whatever. You find him, and I’ll meet him.”

Relief wafts around me. I dangle Red’s key, the extra one I grabbed from the foyer. “Well, if you’re gonna do the walk of shame to my lobby, at least drive a badass car.”

“We slept together because of my dream!”

“Uh-huh. The valet’s name is Richard. Password to drive my ride is ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me.’” No one drives her but me, but because Aiden begs to drive it when he’s over, I made up a silly password to taunt him with, and he keeps trying to guess it and approach the valet.

I laugh and toss her the keys. She catches them, her eyes wide. “Devon! Are you sure?”

I usher her into the elevator and push the button for the lobby. “Can you drive a stick?”

“Was driving a tractor when I was ten.”

I wince. “Not quite the same, baby, but I trust you. Bring her back in one piece, and I’ll tell you why I kissed you.”

She sputters just as the door shuts in her face.

After letting Pookie have another pee, I leave the penthouse, stopping at the valet’s desk and asking for the Hummer to be brought around. I add Giselle’s name to the list of people allowed up the elevator in case she comes back when I’m not here and can’t recall the code. Security is tight around here, one of the many reasons I bought it from Jack.

I’m sliding into the car when a man across the street calls my name. I’m used to people seeing me around town and asking for autographs if they bump into me, but he’s not the usual fan. Shaved head, tattoos, work boots, and a determined grimace plastered on his face as he holds up traffic to reach me. I eye the car he was leaning against. Blacked-out sedan.

“Mr. Walsh!” he yells as he runs across the parking lot to the overhang of the hotel.

I’ve been mauled by women and bombarded after games by overzealous fans who’ve managed to get on the field, but I don’t hang around for strange dudes who drive dark cars. Living with my father has taught me to be on the defensive, and coupled with the stardom, I’m a paranoid fuck. How does he know where I live? Because he wasn’t just walking past. No, he was waiting.

I lock the door and pull out in the opposite direction, glancing in my rearview mirror. He’s standing with his feet apart, hands on his hips. He kicks at a piece of the asphalt with his boots. It’s not hard for my head to wonder if this guy is related to the men looking for my dad. Annoyed, I pull over a few blocks later and send a text to check on my dad, but he doesn’t reply.

After parking behind the locked gates of the stadium, I jog to the gym, where we spend the first few hours of camp. After working out, we’ll do a team meeting and watch tape, then separate for offensive and defensive strategy sessions that last an hour or so depending on the day before. Next is our first practice of the day, more mental preparation than physical, where we’ll jog through plays and discuss pros and cons. By late afternoon, playtime is over, and we’ll put pads on for the grueling, challenging second practice.

“Where the fuck have you been?” says Aiden as he runs on one of the treadmills. “I’ve gotten a massage and a leg workout in.”

I get on the treadmill next to him and turn it on. “I may be late, but I can still kick your ass.”

He snorts—as much as he can going at full speed.

I match his pace, increasing my incline so it’s steeper than his.

He cocks an eyebrow, and it’s on.

“How was the fight?” I rasp out a few minutes later.

“Slick. McGregor took him down in the second round.”

I nod.

“What was your big errand?”

Flashes of me taking care of Dad and cleaning up his house come to mind.

“The model? You go see her?” He ups his incline.

I shake my head.

“Huh. Okay, so you flaked on one of your friends because you’re a dick.”

I grin at him in the mirror, and he flips me off. I like Aiden, and we’ve become friends over the past year—when he isn’t aggravating Jack—but nobody gets the lowdown on my dad.

“You gonna see her again?” He pants, upping his speed on the machine. Damn twenty-three-year-old rookie.

“Don’t kiss and tell,” I drawl as I finish my run. Besides, nothing happened between me and the girl from the wedding.

I wipe my face with a towel, then suck down water before I head to the weights.

“I can spot you,” Aiden calls, getting off the treadmill.

“You just wanna see if I can press more than you.” I get settled on the bench and wait for him to prep. He’s a competitive bastard, but it’s good for both of us.

“Two hundred?”

I roll my neck, cracking my fingers. “Two twenty-five.”

He chuckles, moving the weights for me. “Now we’re cooking with oil!”

I roll my eyes at his southern slang. Straining, I get the first ten reps up; then my arms tremble.

“Come on, pussy; you gonna quit now?”

Sweat drips down my forehead, and my fingers curl tighter in the gloves. “Been playing longer than you. I got this.”

Five more pushes, and my arms burn.

Aiden leans in. “Who are you? Who the hell are you?”

“Devon Walsh,” I mutter, shoving the bar up.

“That’s right, motherfucker. You’re a constant threat. Running or getting the ball. Your body is a well-oiled machine, the best wideout in the NFL. You make defensive guys cry. You catch a jump ball as easy as a post. Shallow, deep, or on a slant. Nobody can catch your ass.”

I grunt. “Tell me how pretty I am.”

“So damn pretty. Not as much as me, but nobody is.”

“Not working,” I heave as I struggle to get the bar up for another rep.

“Twenty, man, that’s all you got? Hollis beat your ass yesterday with five more. Push it up, or I swear I’m gonna escort Giselle Riley all over Nashville. She’ll be in love with me, ’cause come on—who isn’t?” He pops my leg with his towel. “I might just love her back. I’m sick of the women, dude, annoyed with the attention, and she’s not like the rest. Did you see her in that skirt? I went to bed thinking about her—”