I call out a play adjustment. My guys hustle, changing positions. And the defense scrambles to follow.

The instant Finn makes his signal, I snap the ball and explode into action. Emmet and I meet like a thunderclap, helmets clacking, bones rattling. My thighs bunch as I push forward, the balls of my feet digging into soft earth as I drive him back. He’s hammering his fists at my wrists, sending shards of pain up my arms, straight to my brain. But I hold tight and strong-arm him to the side to clear a path for my guy.

Emmet goes down in a tumble. And, when the play ends, I lean over him. “If you ran your ass half as good as you run your mouth, I just might be afraid, bitch.”

Trotting back to the huddle, I give Finn a slap on the helmet. “Let’s light ’em up, rook.”

He gives me a grin. “You know it.”

For the rest of the game, we do just that. We play smart, crafty, and light them up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. My guys play like a well-oiled machine—Finn picking apart the defense with a football sense you can’t learn; it’s just innate, and a beautiful fucking thing to witness.

But the taunts don’t stop, they grow. Doesn’t matter if I play my best. It’s no longer all about my performance. The world is pulling down the walls I’ve built to protect myself, exposing me without my consent.

Fiona

I love parties. I love the noise and the chatter and the chance to talk to new people. I love free booze and sampling cute little appetizers. I love dressing up and looking at other women’s dresses—I always find myself envying at least one outfit. But this party? Kind of blows.

Oh, the food is stellar. Champagne flows, and the decor is as impeccable as the view. Janice Mark’s penthouse is incredible, with views of the entire city spread out beneath us like a sequined dress, glittering and twinkling in the night.

By all accounts, I ought to be loving this. Dozens of top interior designers are here, giving me the chance to network. And the energy in the room is high.

I just don’t feel it. Because Ethan isn’t here. The sad part is I’m equally sure he’d hate this party. I can imagine him now, tugging at his collar and finding a nice corner to prop up. Now that he holds all my attention, memories of him before we were together come flooding back. He was always in the corner, nursing one of his water bottles, talking to a few guys—or listening, rather, and saying little.

But what he said always seemed to count for more. Ethan chooses his words carefully, never giving up useless spares. I remember that now and how it fascinated me then, because I usually have words enough for two people.

I remember that he used to watch me with those deep-set hazel eyes. It hadn’t made much of an impression then because I was loud, and people usually glanced my way when I was in a room. Never really bothered me. I’d assumed Ethan was doing the same—giving crazy Fi Mackenzie a onceover before going back to his life.

Now I know it had been more. Strangely, this makes me warm all over. He saw when I wasn’t “on” or trying to impress him, but as myself. And he’d wanted me anyway.

But now he’s in New Orleans, and I’m stuck fifty stories over Manhattan, surrounded by the type of people I grew up around. And it all feels foreign and off. Nothing is right anymore.

“Fabulous party, isn’t it?” Jackson is resplendent in a shiny, sapphire blue Zegna suit that would look ridiculous on most men but he pulls off with aplomb.

“Yes.” It is. Even if I’d rather be somewhere else, I can admit that much. “Makes me wonder why Felix isn’t here.” My boss should be all over this.

“As I said before, Janice, our lovely hostess, is mortal enemies with his current client, Cecelia. The very notion of letting a potential spy into her nest would enrage Janice. Which reminds me…” He drops his voice. “Let’s not tell anyone you’re working for Felix, eh?”

My lips quirk. “Don’t want to be kicked out on your couture?”

“Don’t even jest.” He fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, a silk peacock print that somehow works with the outfit.

“Fine.” I set down the glass of champagne I’ve been holding for the past half hour. It’s warm and flat now. “I’ll keep quiet.”

“What’s wrong?” Jackson looks me over with a frown. “Missing your big football player?”

I give him the side eye. “How did you know that?”

“Because Benedict Cumberbatch just walked by, and you didn’t even blink.”

“What?” I whip my head around, searching the room. “Where?”

“I’m kidding.” He laughs when I glare at him. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“You dickweed.” I give his side an elbow. “That was beyond low.” Jackson knows I have a thing for Cumberbatch—with that deep voice and quiet way of his that you just know hides a total perv in the bedroom.

Jackson fends off my attempt to pull the perfectly folded aqua handkerchief from his coat pocket so I can bat him with it. “Hey now, pixie, easy with the outfit. I give. I give. I was a dick.”

“Damn right you were,” I say with a sniff. “I’d like to see how you’d handle it if I said I saw Fassy.”

He makes a look of mock horror. “You wouldn’t. My love of Fassy far exceeds your high-school-girl-crush on Sherlock.”

“Actually, I liked him better as Khan.”

“Oh, me too. I think if I ever met him I’d have to shout it a la Captain Kirk.” Jackson makes a face as if he’s silently screaming out, “Khaaahhnn!” and I laugh.