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“Cold Turkey?” Cass asks.

I shoot Trey a look that says he’d better keep it zipped, locked and airtight.

Winona giggles. Apparently, Declan told her the history of my nickname.

I chuckle softly to myself. It’s clever. I’ll give them that.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Trey says to Cass in his most deferential southern drawl. “I can’t disclose the secrets of our QB. Maybe he’ll tell you on the next date.”

“I think I can draw my own conclusions,” Cass says. And then she stands, grabbing her tray. “Well, gentlemen, as fun as this has been, I’ve got a meeting to get to.”

Trey smiles at Cass, “Have a beautiful day, gorgeous.”

“You’re good for my ego, that’s for sure,” she says back to him. “You have a good day too.”

“Bye, guys,” Cass says, turning to look at each of my teammates one by one.

Her eyes land on me, hold, and move on.

Then she turns to Keller. “Your independent hand has gotten really good. You’re not opening your chest up when you’re missing the first punch anymore.”

“Thanks, Cass,” Keller says with a familiarity that irks me for some inexplicable reason. “I’ve been working on balance in the preseason.”

The guys all exchange looks. She’s impressive. No doubt.

I already knew her penchant for stats. She used them to put me in my place the first day we met. It’s not surprising she’s got a keen eye for players’ strengths and weaknesses.

Winona looks at Declan, a soft, private smile on her face. “Football talk.”

He chuckles softly. “It’s our kryptonite.”

“Beautiful, rattles off stats like a commentator, and she watches game play like a coach?” Trey looks straight at me. “Better lock that down, QB.”

I stuff another bite of salmon in my mouth and chew. Nobody’s locking anything down—especially not with Cass Carter.

After lunch, I review film and meet with the offensive coordinator and our position coordinator. Then I stop in the treatment room before I head home.

I purposely drive the long way, heading past the house on Cherry Hill. I don’t pause this time. Instead, I turn and head toward town, stopping in front of the real estate office to see this agent, Coleman. I talked to him after the barbecue. Bryce gave me his number.

I park my Escalade and walk up the concrete steps toward the brick office building that’s nestled on the corner of a quieter neighborhood street just outside the main downtown of Waterford.

When I open the front door, I blink—literally squeezing my eyes shut and opening them again.

“Marcus Delaney!” a middle-aged woman wearing a substantial amount of eye makeup and a teased hairdo practically shouts my name. Her accent has hints of Appalachia.

She’s clutching her heart and staring at me as if she doesn’t know if I’m real.

My eyes don’t stay on her, though. They travel across the office to the brown-haired woman still wearing a Thunder jersey and a scowl. Cass’s hand is on her hip as if to accuse me of trespassing.

“What are you doing here?” we both say simultaneously.

“I work here,” she says.

“You’re everywhere these days,” I say, not meaning to actually say the thought out loud.

“More like you’re everywhere …” she says.

“You were at my facility this morning.”