Her next words are a knife to the chest.

“I am disappointed, Brody, but there’s a difference.” She keeps talking but I don’t want to hear it. “I’m not disappointed in you, or who you are, only in what you did.”

If she says I’m better than this, I’m going to lose my shit. Only she doesn’t. What she says next hurts more than I thought possible.

“If you couldn’t get drafted into the big leagues without drugs, then maybe it’s not where you’re supposed to be.”

Brody

“You good to go?” Eddie calls out.

Sliding the zipper closed on my sports bag, I call back, “Be right there!”

Loud thumps tell me he’s jogging down the stairs. When the sound of the fridge being raided reaches my ears, I quickly slide open the bottom drawer of my bedside table and reach for the little bottle. Unscrewing the lid, I palm a handful of Adderall and tip my head back, tossing them down my throat.

The fridge door slams shut as I’m swallowing them dry. “Hurry up, Madden!”

“Yeah, yeah!” I call back, my heart pounding hard in my chest.

Taking the pills—especially still under stage one of the substance abuse program—is a risk the size of Mount Everest. But with a home game in just a few hours, followed with a bye and four days in Seattle with Jordan for her finals, it’s a risk I’m willing to take—more so than ever in the wake of her words from last week. Maybe it’s not where you’re supposed to be.

Jordan couldn’t be more wrong. Everything I’ve been through to get to this point would all be for nothing otherwise.

Grabbing my bag, I sling it over my shoulder and jog down the stairs.

“Yo!” Eddie appears in the living room and fastballs me the car keys.

Stretching up, I catch them and my ribs give a twinge. The entire length of my torso is black and blue from training this week. It’s par for the course, but when I walk in shirtless to my trainer’s office an hour later and tell him I need something for the game, I’m jabbed with a shot of Toradol—a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory. When injected, it becomes an amped up painkiller, used to reduce pain sensitivity and leave you playing like a fearless machine.

Numbness floods my body, and I walk back to my locker with the knowledge I’m doing what I have to do. As a pro player, the hits come harder and the injuries more frequent. You need to have an edge, take risks, and show you can play with pain, otherwise they’ll replace you with somebody who can.

Eddie’s grin is wide when I return to my locker.

My brows rise in question as I shove my shorts down and off, tossing them in the direction of the open shelf. “What?” I ask, yanking my football pants out.

His grin widens further, bright enough to take out an eye. Standing, he pulls his football jersey down over his head. Tugging it in place, he says, “You got a surprise visitor.”

“Yeah?” Stepping into my pants, I tug them up my legs. “Who?”

He jerks his head toward the door of the locker room. My head turns but no one’s there.

Hawk, our starting quarterback, strides past. “Yo, Madden.” He gives me a playful shove and keeps moving. Turning, he walks backwards and winks. “Your girl looks hot to see you. Better go put that fire out.”

“Dammit, Hawk!” Eddie bellows. The big, romantic lump scrunches his hands into fists, his expression wounded. “You ruined the surprise!”

Hawk spins on his heel, laughing loud and hard before disappearing inside the office of our head coach.

My heart leaps at least a mile in the air. I look at Eddie. “Jordan’s here?”

Not waiting for an answer, I start jogging toward the outer room.

“Five minutes, Madden!” Joe Pettone, our wide receivers coach, yells out behind me.

Waving him off, I reach the outer room and stop dead when I see Jordan’s solitary figure, her hands clutching a large handbag slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing my football jersey, tight dark jeans, and a hesitant smile.

A rush of love hits me harder than a linebacker tackle, stealing my breath. Jordan’s here to watch my game, and I’m fucking thrilled. “You’re here.”

Her smile falters slightly. “Is that okay? I wasn’t sure if— Oomph!”

Jordan’s words are cut short when my body slams in to hers. Before she can topple backwards, I’m picking her up. Her long legs wrap around my waist and her arms grab my shoulders. Holding her thighs, I spin us both around.

Coming to a stop, I bury my head in her neck and breathe deep. “You’re really here.”

My teeth find skin and nip gently, following a path up toward her ear. She giggles, drawing back a little. “That tickles.”

“Too bad.” I do it again, my tongue snaking out to suck her lobe into my mouth. Jordan jerks back, still laughing. “Kiss me.”

She does. Her lips find mine, and her laughter turns to a low moan. Only when I’m dizzy from lack of air do I pull back—but not far. I rest my forehead against hers, our mouths less than an inch apart.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

My brows knit. “For what?”

“For what I said. Of course you’re supposed to be here. Football is in your blood. Anyone can see that. I’m just scared.” Jordan’s eyes fill and she turns her head, blinking. “What it takes to play at this level…” her gaze returns to mine “…it’s overwhelming and intense, and so fucking hard.”

My lips press together and her eyes narrow at the dirty gleam in my expression. “What?”

“You said hard!”

“Brody!”

Jordan’s lips twitch and I laugh, more than happy to surface from the deep waters our heavy conversation was falling into. She wriggles and I let her slide to the ground. When her feet hit the floor, she aims a hard jab to my bicep. Her fist bounces off. “Jesus,” she complains, taking in my large, rounded shoulders. Built-up deltoids are the best defense against injury for a wide receiver, and mine have never been bigger. “It’s like punching a brick wall.”

I grin and flex. “You like?”

Jordan’s gaze lowers over my chest and ribs. “You’re so bruised.” Her hands skim over my skin, her touch soothing and delicate.

“It doesn’t hurt.” She looks at me, skeptical, but the Toradol is so powerful I could get hit by a car and barely feel a thing. “I promise.”

My jersey slaps me in the head from out of nowhere. Grabbing it in my fist, I drag it from my face, revealing an exasperated Eddie. “Your five minutes are up, Showpony.” He gives Jordan his attention. “I’d apologize for dragging him away, but it looks like I’m actually doing you a favor.”

Dimples break out on Jordan’s cheeks when she gives Eddie a laugh. I don’t like it. They’re my dimples.

“Shutting your mouth would be doing us both a favor,” I retort. Slinging my jersey over a bare shoulder, I take Jordan’s hands in mine and tug her close. Seems I can’t handle having her in the same room without some part of her body touching mine. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Eddie gives me a nod and Jordan a salute. “See you after the game, sweetheart.”

“She’s not your sweetheart!” I call after him, flushing with indignation.

“Dude.” He holds up his hands defensively and turns, his big body disappearing from sight.

“Now,” I say, looking down at Jordan with intent. “Where were we?”

“We weren’t anywhere. You were too busy puffing out your chest like a peacock.”

I snigger.

Her eyes roll, amused. “Yes I said cock.”

My lids lower, liking the word on her lips. “Say it again.”

“Do you really want to go there right now?”

Jordan’s hips press against my groin, a reminder that I’m currently wearing tight football pants and no cup. It’s all on display down there. I draw my hips back. “Probably not a good idea.” Threading our fingers together, I finally get around to asking Jordan how she managed to be here. “You have finals in four days, babe,” I add as if she didn’t already know.