Page 134 of The Backup Plan

But it’s true. I do feel settled. Like after years of fighting my own body, something finally clicked into place. The thing I wanted that felt just out of reach I was finally able to grab.

I made the cut. It’s not like I didn’t come here with a contract—but contracts are only as good as your performance, and they could have easily cut me.

But they didn’t.

I’m here for the season. I’m a Lone Star Rebel.

The words still don’t feel real.

My phone was nonstop earlier with texts. Brendan losing his mind, bragging that this was a no-brainer decision for the coaches, and that he knows I’m going to do great. Teammates blowing up the group chat for those who felt like they were on the bubble. Emery’s eyes tearing up when I told her I made it—like it mattered to her as much as it did me.

Everything feels like it’s finally lining up.

“You know,” I say. “The wine is almost gone. The food is long gone.” I lean over and press a lingering kiss to her lips that has me growing hard in an instant.

“Are you suggesting we take this celebration to a different level?”

“I mean, if you insist.”

She laughs as I stand and hold out a hand for her. She slips her fingers through mine, and we head to the bedroom.

“No luck on the scans working then?” I ask.

I glance back, Emery’s lips part to answer—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

We both startle.

I frown. “That’s weird.” I hold up a finger to her and move to look through the peephole.

Shit.

Oh shit.

I turn back to her, and whisper-yell, “Bedroom. Now. You need to hide.”

“What? Why?”

I stride over and blow the candles out, waving the smoke away. “It’s Mark Jensen.” One of our linebackers.

Her eyes grow wide, realizing why I’m freaking out. She’s in my apartment at ten o’clock at night. A bottle of wine’s on the counter, candles are on the table, so it’s pretty fucking obvious what’s going on to even the most oblivious of people.

She rushes to grab her wineglass and put it in the dishwasher to hide the fact that there’s two of them before frantically looking around the space to eradicate any trace of herself. She grabs what she sees—shoes, purse, phone—and slips into the bedroom and shuts the door.

With a deep breath, I open the front door.

Mark stands there looking like he’s been put through the wringer.

His eyes are red. His jaw is clenched. His expression defeated.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says hoarsely. “With our history . . . I thought—I knew you’d understand.”

“Of course. Anytime. Come in,” I say quietly.

When he steps inside, I catch the sour scent of whiskey, but it’s fleeting as he begins pacing the living room, like he might fall apart if he doesn’t keep moving.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask.