ONE
IAN
August
With my workoutbag strapped over my shoulder, I wait for the elevator. Tapping my foot on the floor, I’m impatient to crawl into bed and sleep off my muscle fatigue.
The start of the season is approaching. I can almost feel the weight of the ball in my hand and visualize throwing it downfield, and it slices through the air, spinning until it’s caught in the end zone—a touchdown leading to the ultimate win.
The head coach has us on a draconian program we must follow—no partying, a strict diet, and training that leaves me exhausted to my bones. But I am where many dream to be and fewer ever get, playing professional football.
I’m at the top of my career, one of the highest paid quarterbacks in the league, and after two Super Bowl wins, the motivation for another ring injects a shot of renewed energy into every knackered limb.I have this.
No distractions are allowed either, even though I wouldn’t even know what that was.
Ever since I was drafted in the first round, football is what I live and breathe. Getting to the top is hard, staying there is even harder.
There are moments when I would like to be more than Ian Weston, quarterback for the San Diego Sharks. It’s as if that’s all I am. A young captain who still must prove himself worthy of his position. When you play at this level, one mistake could cost you everything.
A groan rumbles out of my throat. Look at me, whining about my privilege. But it’s the mix of excitement of playing another championship game, coupled with the fear of losing that knots my stomach into a ball of anxiety. I have to push through, and then I will enjoy the break, letting loose.
The elevator door slides open, and getting in, I press the button to my floor. I pluck my phone from my jeans pocket when a dainty hand shoves between the doors. I take a step back, making room for the newcomer, when my breath catches in my throat.
I blink asshewalks inside, trailing a roller bag behind her. It’sher.Lilly. The woman who has been haunting my days and infiltrating my dreams for four years.
I shake myself out of the stupor, trying to get my head straight. My heart pounds a merciless beat. I’m afraid it will barrel out of my chest. Am I hallucinating with so much pressure dangling over my head that my brain conjures her—the one that got away—reminding me of the best night of my life?
I wish that were the case, butshegulps, recognition flashing in those captivating green eyes with speckles of gold. Her heart-shaped mouth parts on a surprised gasp.
“Ian.” Her soft voice seeps through the confined space.
My fingers tighten on the duffel strap. At the confirmation she’s real, a surge of anger blasts through me. I thought we shared something special. I guess I was wrong. When I went to her the nextmorning, there was a note slapped on the door.I can’t do this. Thank you for last night,reducing me to a meaningless hookup.
“Do I know you?” My tone is icy, the opposite of how I feel inside.
She blinks at me, hurt blanketing her delicate features.
“No,” she says, closing her eyes for a moment. “My bad.”
No, my bad for thinking the feeling was mutual.
Tension stretches between us in wisps of smoke. The air grows headier with her flowery scent: lily, sensual vanilla notes, and her. I narrow my eyes at the panel.Come on, you stupid elevator, move faster. I can’t stay in her vicinity one more second or I’ll combust.
The elevator finally stops at my floor, and she’s the first to stumble out. At the only other door on the floor, she steals a glance at me over her shoulder, her brows furrowing.
I hurry past her. Shoving the key in the lock, I open it with more force than necessary, letting myself into my loft.
It’s an open space with floor-to-ceiling windows providing the best view of the city spread below me. On the far right, I can glimpse the stadium. White walls, polished floors, and dark furniture. It’s minimally decorated and modern, just how I like it.
What the fuck am I going to do with her being my damn neighbor? She’s not a distraction; she’s a Trojan horse sent to destroy my focus.
For years I’ve searched for her in every woman I met. No one could hold my interest because no one compared to Lilly and the night I spent with her. I thought what we shared was significant, impossible to repeat—our connection transcending the physical and going straight into intimacy.
A total simp after a one-night stand. But that night taught me a valuable lesson. Sex with a connection is what truly matters.
I throw my gym bag on the floor and rake a hand through my hair. Fuck.
Slumping on the large rectangular cushioned sofa, I hold my head between my hands, trying to get a grip on my disarrayed thoughts. The memory crawls out from where I stuck it deep inside my brain and shut the lid.
