“Yeah, but that’s different,” I said.
“You’re projecting.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, while you sort that out, I’m doing my job and setting you up with the NFL’s hottest distraction.” Rachel was already in work mode, her thumbs flying across the screen like a womanpossessed. She gave me a cheeky smile. “Texted his agent. I’ll let you know when we hear back. Love you,” she sing-songed.
“Am I going to regret this?” I muttered.
She smiled without looking up. “Only if you fall in love with him.”
I tossed a napkin at her, and she caught it one-handed like a smug little ninja.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, eyes on the tunnel where Sawyer had disappeared.
What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all? Maybe it really was slightly unhinged football player logic that said,Hey, national television seems like a great place to flirt.
For all I knew, this could implode any second or fade out in a week, dropping me right back into the status quo. But with the whole world watching, it didn’t matter how it played out. Either way, they weren’t letting it go.
THREE
Sawyer
The team doctor raised an eyebrow,clipboard in hand. “Just a concussion. How many have you had?”
“Not a number you want to hear.” I forced a smile.
He nodded. “You need to rest for the next couple of weeks. Let your brain heal.”
This could’ve been worse, but not by much. I didn’t need a season-ending injury to knock me sideways. This was already damn close. When your job depended on you being fast and game-ready, being benched was hell, especially when the one thing people loved you for was what you did under the lights, not who you were off the field.
I’d already made peace with this year. One last season, one last run before I hung up my helmet for good. Mid-thirties in the league? That’s borderline ancient. Every morning reminded me of it—stiff knees, a back that creaked with every movement, and bruises that lingered longer than they used to. I wasn’t bitter about it, not really. I had to let go of the game sooner or later, but damn if I didn’t want to finish strong on the field, not watching from the sidelines.
“When can I get back in the game?” I asked, my voice rougher than intended.
The doctor didn’t hesitate. “We’ll reassess in two weeks. For now, no screens, no workouts. Just rest. Ice, over-the-counter meds, and plenty of sleep. Let your body catch up to everything it's been through.”
I nodded slowly, my mind racing. “Yes, sir.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and gave me a knowing look. “You’ve earned a little rest, James. Take it.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
He stepped toward the door, and just as he grabbed the handle, it swung open. West and Bronx strolled in, still in their uniforms and sweaty from the game.
“How are you holding up?” Bronx asked, dropping into the chair beside the bed. His brown eyes were tired, but his grin was wide.
“Out for two weeks,” I muttered, running my hand over my face and rubbing the back of my neck.
“Shit,” West muttered under his breath, flopping into the chair across from me. “Right when the season’s getting real good.”
“Tell me about it.” I exhaled, leaning back against the wall. My body sagged with the weight of it all.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me out of my spiral. Unknown number. I squinted at it, raising an eyebrow.
“Spam?” Bronx asked, running a hand through his dark hair.
“Probably.” I was about to ignore it when West’s eyes lit up with a mischievous spark.
