“Well,” Rolondo drawls, “at some point we all were virgins, D.”

I don’t want to smile. “You know what I mean. I’m saying it isn’t out of left field that they assumed I was. I never hid it. But I didn’t advertise it either. Doesn’t matter because—”

“You’re not anymore; I get it.” He turns in to the driveway of his condo. “You don’t gotta explain anything. But be prepared for some shit. This bitch-ass agency offered one million dollars for proof of getting into your pants?” A low, mirthless chuckle leaves him. “Man, shit. You’re gonna have bitches coming out of the woodwork for your ass.”

With a grunt, I slump in my seat, my heart clenching in my chest. “Fuck.” I’ve got to talk to Fi, prepare her for what’s coming. My insides roll. I promised her privacy, normalcy. This is far from fucking normal.

When I get inside Rolondo’s place, I try to reach Fi, but my call goes straight to voice mail. It keeps going to voice mail until it’s time to go out to dinner. And I’m left with this sinking feeling that everything has just fallen apart.

Despite my foul mood, dinner with the guys actually helps. Immediately they’re giving me hearty slaps on the back and offering inane jokes as we’re led to a quiet corner booth.

But once seated, Johnson leans in, wearing the fierce expression that has the press calling him The Viking, with his long yellow hair and slightly ruddy complexion. “Seriously, Dex, why the fuck did they start in on you? I mean…” He pinks a little. “We all kind of guessed you were—”

He slaps his mouth shut, unwilling to go there, which is kind of ironic considering he’ll talk shit about everything else under the sun. And I wonder if they pity me, thinking I’m some sad case. It pisses me off. The base part of me wants to tell them what I told Rolondo, that I’m no longer a virgin, or that I don’t give a shit about what I hadn’t done before, because being with Fi is the best feeling in the world.

But what I do with Fi is private. And I’m not even going to think about it now, not when she’s a thousand miles away and I miss her to the point of pain.

Yes, pain. It’s lodged in my chest. I rub the spot, hating that it feels cold and empty. There’s a pressure along my spine, like a hand pushing me toward wherever she might be. It’s getting worse, this urge to just leave where I am and go to her. Why isn’t she answering her phone?

I have dozens of voice mails right now. From Ivy and Sean Mackenzie, asking if I’m all right and wanting to discuss a game plan. Calls from my team’s PR rep wanting the same thing. Calls from nearly everyone I know except Fi.

Johnson is waiting for an answer.

“I honestly don’t know.” I rub the back of my neck where it’s stiff and sore. “I keep a low profile.”

“Man, I don’t think so,” Rolondo says with a shake of his head. “Not with you singing in bars and shit.”

Johnson laughs, hunching over. “Oh, man. I nearly pissed myself when I saw that video. Fucking crazy, D. I cannot believe you did that.”

I can’t either. But then Fi brings out parts of me I didn’t know were there. I’d gone into it trying to win her, but ended up having fun. I’d let go in a way I’ve only ever done on the field.

“Thing is, that video has been out for a while. It had a run on social media, got a good laugh on ESPN, but that was it.”

“It’s your calendar. They’ve released the photos.” Drew holds out his phone. There’s a picture up on his browser, and we all make a swipe for the phone to see. I get there first, elbowing Johnson off as I look down at the screen.

“Shit. I forgot about this.”

“Sexy Dexy,” Rolondo sings out with a laugh, earning a shove from my other elbow.

My team’s calendar photos. Nude photos. Yeah, I did it. Mainly because the photographer was a hot young woman who had a way of scaring the pants off all of us. Literally.

Thing is, she clearly had talent, and she didn’t treat it as some gratuitous man show—not that most of the guys would have minded.

The photos were tasteful, done in full, saturated color so rich it appeared as though you were looking at an oil panting.

My photo was a side shot against a deep red background. I’m taking a knee, my helmet on the ground beside me, my head bent and my arm resting on my thigh. A sort of football-style “The Thinker,” the photographer had insisted.

Aside from showing the side of my ass, none of my goods are on display, though I suspect there might be a little Photoshop at work—things hang and all that. I look weary yet undefeated, my expression thoughtful.

“It’s a good pic,” I say absently.

Drew smirks.

And I glare. “What? It has artistic merit.”

“It’s man candy,” Johnson says. “Look at you, all thoughtfully flexing your muscles. Did you flex your ass too?”

“Nothing to flex. That’s just my natural form.” I give him a look. “Jealous?”

Rolondo laughs. “Yeah, he is.” He gestures to the screen. “I’m gonna have mine blown up and hung over my bed.”

“Typical,” Johnson says. “How’d you pose for yours? Doing one of your showboating dances?”

“Holding a football in front of his dick while he strikes one of his showboating poses,” I deadpan.

“Fucking hot as hell,” Rolondo assures.