1
Preston
“I don’t know why I was volunteered as tribute,” I muttered as I maneuvered my basket through the unnecessary traffic of aisle three.
It was like a town-wide group text was sent, alerting everyone to show up to the supermarket on the same day at the exact same time.
There were two things I despised in this world, and grocery shopping was one of them. The other was losing.I hated losing.And as a former college athlete with a five-year stretch in the NFL, I’ve suffered my fair share of losses. Nowadays, I was on the other side of the game. The same field but a different dynamic. I still had the love for the game running through my veins. Still possessed the competitive passion that had always burned inside of me since childhood, but now I was on the sidelines.Coach, printed proudly on the back of my shirt instead ofRusk.
I could handle a little challenge on the field, but being rammed by a seventy-year-old woman who hissed, “Move, Pretty Boy,” had me tucking my tail and bailing.
This place is likeThe Hunger Games. Pun intended.Even with the carts whizzing by and the constant chatter, I could still hear the chaos erupting through the speaker of the phone I held to my ear.
“For someone who can squat four hundred pounds, you sure are a pus—” Wesley Ford, my best friend since the third grade and the defensive coordinator for the team, scoffed before a high-pitched squeal cut off his words.
I winced as another shriek echoed, followed by his hushed curse.
“We have a situation. Get the Funyuns.” The line went dead, and I glanced at the screen with a shake of my head.
Wesley was a single father to my two adorable but feral goddaughters. At ages four and six, they kept him on his toes and constantly sleep-deprived. Which was why he was the only asshole attending our monthly coaches' cookout who had an excuse for not venturing to the store.
I paused by the canned goods, glancing down at the crinkled piece of paper in my hand. It had a list of items scribbled in dry-erase marker that I’d been sent to collect. There wasn’t much, but I’d ducked away from at least three prying shoppers already so that I didn’t have to talk offensive strategy next to the Preparation H for forty minutes like my last trip here.
That usually happened when I appeared in public. In Texas, football was more of a religion than a sport, and Canyon University was at the top of the ranks. One of the best college football teams I’d ever seen, but that came with a price.A heavy priceof perfection.
Taking a deep breath, I took a sharp left, passing a toddler sitting in the front of a basket, double-fisting two suckers.The mother attempted a smile, but her eyes were glazed with exhaustion. I returned the sentiment but kept my Nikes moving across the dated linoleum. Maybe I could make it out of here before anyone could stop me to ask if I planned on beating the Stallions this year. Quite frankly, I was sick of their bullshit too, and their head coach was a real prick. They played dirty and continued to be Canyon’s biggest rivals. Like the Hatfields and McCoys. It was legendary.
I slowed my basket next to the Styrofoam boxes stacked neatly on a refrigerated shelf. Scooping up two cartons, I placed them in my basket before turning onto the cereal aisle. My phone buzzed in my joggers, but as my gaze lifted to the aisle before me, my steps faltered. My sneakers made an audible squeak that had me jolting to a full stop. I was no stranger to beautiful women. I’d spent time with a handful of them in my thirty years, but the one standing just a few feet from me had me utterly frozen. I took in the pair of long tan legs that were lean and tempting. Those tan legs were left completely visible, only partially covered by a pair of frayed denim cut-off shorts. My gaze traveled higher, leading to a plain white V-neck T-shirt. It was simple, but something about it was distinctly attractive. My eyes slid higher to wild auburn hair, gathered up in a disarrayed bun on the top of her head. Pieces of hair were hazardously falling out, framing a face that had high cheekbones, full lips, and a nose that held up a pair of black-framed glasses.
The glasses. Holy shit.I swallowed, my fingers strangling the basket as I watched her glance down at her phone, then back up at the shelf. She was studying an assortment of Pop-Tarts, squinting as she moved her eyes from row to row. Her sharp focus was as if this was breakfast trivia and she was searching for the answer before the buzzer sounded.
She was absolutely breathtaking. Not a stitch of makeup. Natural. Exquisite.
My body moved without permission, surrendering to the sudden need to know the color of her eyes. She hadn’t even noticed me, too engulfed in her exploration to see me slipping up next to her. I paused, pretending to search the shelf in front of me. A wave of something resembling vanilla swirled around me when she aimed for a box that was just out of reach. I was itching to intervene, but her small hand surprisingly retrieved the box of strawberry Pop-Tarts with no icing.
“You know no one really eats those, right?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
She dropped back down on her heels, swiveling her head to face me.
Moss. Green.
The greenest, most haunting eyes I’d ever seen stared up at me. My chest pinched when she tilted her head, a lone chunk of hair sliding to her cheek. Instantly, I wanted to reach out and brush it off.
What the hell was wrong with me?
She was silent for a moment before her lip slightly curved. “Says who?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Most of the population.”
She laughed, a genuine smile drifting across her face as she glanced back down at the box. “Looks like I’m going to break the mold then.”
“These are my favorites.” I pointed out a box of s’more-flavored tarts.
I rarely bought these. I was a grown man. I ate foods like sausage and scrambled eggs.And cereal.But I had my goddaughters to consider on occasion, so I’d indulged in one a time or two.
“I can’t do chocolate.” She scrunched her nose.
I lifted a brow. “Come again?”
