Heat steals over her cheeks, flushing them red. She clears her throat. “I uh, told them I had an ankle twinge. I’m supposed to be resting it overnight.”

I gasp in mock horror, clutching a hand to my chest. “You … lied?”

My words have her biting her lip, dragging it inside her mouth. “I wanted to see you.”

“And seeing me is all that and more, isn’t it?” I curl my forearm and biceps bulge.

Jordan laughs and I’m punched in the shoulder. Again. “Would you stop?” she asks.

“Can’t,” I say, shaking my head seriously. “You’re my girl. It’s programmed in my fundamental makeup as a man to show you my strength. You need to know I can provide for you.”

“Okay, you prehistoric brute.” My shoulder is rubbed in a placating gesture. “Use those manly muscles of yours to go forth and provide. You’re taking me out after the game, and I have a hankering for Japanese food.”

My insides recoil in horror. “Steak,” I correct firmly.

“Sushi.”

“Steak.”

“Sushi.”

I open my mouth and Jordan jabs a finger in the direction of the locker room. “Go!”

“I’m going.” Ducking my head, I press a long, slow kiss to her lips. Drawing away slowly, Jordan turns to leave. “Hey.” I pull her in close. Grasping her chin in my hand, my eyes lock with hers. “Don’t be scared, okay? Everything’s fine. I’ve got this.”

Maybe my words were prophetic because I bring my best game to the field. So do the Colts. Every sack they deliver hits like a freight train. One of them breaks a rib. There’s zero pain, but it’s getting harder to breathe so I know the fracture is there. My body will pay the price tomorrow, but I’m in the zone right now and it’s hard to care.

With a minute left on the clock, we’re trailing by four points. One touchdown is all we need. I step into the huddle, sweat in my eyes and every breath harsh inside my helmet. When Hawk calls the play, my pulse spikes, forcing an adrenaline rush so hard I feel the surge in my veins.

“Hut!” we roar in unity. With a loud clap we break and take formation. My eyes focus dead ahead, tuning out the screaming, chanting sea of blue that surrounds us. The opposing linesmen stare back at me, determination making their eyes hard and dark inside their helmets. There’s an endless field of green behind them. I fix on it. Nothing else exists except that empty space, and our entire team is betting against the clock, giving everything they have left to ensure I find it and bring the ball over the line.

I roll my shoulders. This is it, Madden. Breathe and run. That’s all you need to do. Breathe and motherfucking run.

“Hut!” The ball is snapped to Hawk and both teams rush. Digging in my heels, I push off, clumps of turf flying up behind me as I sprint for the green, ducking and weaving every Colt who comes at me. A player slides and I hurdle the felled body.

A quick glance to my right shows Hawk tossing the ball to Felix Lynch, our first string wide receiver. From there, the Colts strike, expecting him to carry the ball. But it’s a trick play that allows me to find the pocket I need to take possession. With the double pass in play, Lynch throws the ball down the opposite sideline. Vaulting high, the ball slides into my outstretched arms. Perfect orchestration. Wranglers supporters roar in triumph. I don’t hear them. I don’t see them. My task is clear. Run like a motherfucker.

With a final burst of speed, I reach the end zone and make the touchdown. Throwing the ball away, I leap up and fist pump the air. “Whoooop!”

“Umphf!” Eddie slams me before I hit ground. Lifting me high, he roars our victory. When I do hit the ground, Hawk runs at us both. His hand grabs my neck and we headbutt helmets with a loud crack. “You brilliant sonofabitch,” he gasps and slaps me on the back. “Didn’t think you were gonna make that catch.”

Pandemonium from the crowd surrounds our team as we slowly reach the sidelines. I’m snagged by a reporter before I can go any further. Dragging fingers through sweaty hair, I tuck my helmet under my armpit and give her my attention. Holding my sweaty bicep to prevent escape, she faces the camera.

“In what will likely be touted as one of the best games of the season, the Houston Wranglers clinch a nail-biting win against the Indianapolis Colts. Here I am with man of the hour, rookie wide receiver Brody Madden.” Erica looks at me. “Brody, a brilliant last few minutes. It secured a win for the Wranglers. Tell us about your final play.” She shoves the microphone in my face.

Swiping a hand across my grimy face, I shrug and grin. “We knew we had to pull out something miraculous.” I drag a few deep breaths into my lungs while Erica waits expectantly. “The Colts defense was like a brick wall. Our final play was the best way we knew to break through.”

Erica draws the microphone back to her. “It was a thirty-five yard catch and beautiful to watch,” she informs me. “I’d have to call that pretty miraculous. So do the Wranglers supporters.” Erica gestures toward the screaming crowd, waving flags and banners and homemade signs, some with my name on them. “It looks like Madden Fever is sweeping the nation. How does that make you feel?”

Back slaps hit me as team members walk past. Joe gives me a noogie, making me laugh as he pulls me in for a half hug. “Insane catch, Madden,” he shouts in my ear before walking off, victory making his steps light. I give my attention back to the microphone in front of me. “How does that make me feel?” My lungs expand with euphoria. How do you explain what it’s like to fly? “Incredible. Playing with the Wranglers, a team I’ve idolized all my life, is a dream come true.”

Erica smiles, pleased with my answer. “For the last two games you were a chosen finalist for the Pepsi NFL Rookie of the Week. There’s no doubt you will be again this week, which will make it the third week running. How do you do it?” She brushes away a lock of hair that blows in her face. “What does it take, as a rookie, to maintain this level of play?”

Lady, you have no idea. I swallow the lump of shame. I’m not the only one who does what they need to do in order to get time on the field. “Discipline and hard work.”

“What about family?” she asks, digging for a more personal angle.

A grin lights my face. “That would be Jordan. She’s my biggest supporter.”

“You’re referring to Australian ex-pat and forward for Seattle Reign, Jordan Elliot. She’s been your girlfriend since senior year of college?”

I shake my head. “She’s not just my girlfriend.”

Erica’s brows rise in question. “No?”

“No.” My heart rate kicks up and a smile pulls at my face. Jordan is going to kill me for going public with this, but I’m ready to burst after sitting on the news for far too long. It’s time. Finding the family section where Jordan should be sitting, I press my index and middle finger to my lips and then hold them up high. The gesture is for her, and her alone. Jordan’s mine, and I want the whole world to know. She’s my reason for breathing. “Jordan Elliot is my wife.”

Erica fumbles the microphone. Before she can recover, I lean in to the camera, salute the home viewers, and walk off.

Jordan

No! He did not just say that. I rise in my seat, my eyes narrowed on a grinning Brody as he leaves the field. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until his pretty face turns red and his eyes bulge from their sockets.

“Did he just say what I think he said?” Renae screeches from beside me. She’s Felix Lynch’s wife, and we’ve been making general small talk throughout the game. I’ve only met her once before, but I like her. She’s loud and assertive, and reminds me of Leah. “You two are married?”