I suck in a breath when her lips finally hover over my mouth. Actually suck in a goddamn breath, inhaling like someone laid their freezing hands on my stomach. Or shocked me with a Taser. Or…was about to kiss me full on the mouth.

God, I’m such a damn child. My stomach positively churns from nerves—I’m in my twenties, for fuck’s sake, not a freaking boy.

Charlie finally—finally—presses her mouth against mine. Firmly, our top and bottom lips meeting. Warm. Soft. Pouty. Full.

She stands there, unmoving, letting the simple kiss simmer, tattooing my mouth forever with the imprint of hers.

It burns. Singes.

Electrifies me.

Yet I don’t move, instead letting my hands hover at the sides of her waist, almost touching her but not quite, too afraid to go anywhere—a deer caught in headlights.

I’m never as passive as I am right now, normally decisive and full steam ahead. A decision maker. The receiver on the team and the guy running the ball. A leader.

Not this bullshit where I’m letting some silly girl push me against the wall on her porch, calling the shots and taking control. That’s usually my job.

It’s refreshing.

Charlie’s sweet mouth cracks open, and mine automatically does, too—just the barest of a fraction, our intentions the same: tongue.

They touch tentatively, mine hesitant, wanting and needing her to lead the way. Goddamn I wish I knew what I was doing.

Nature takes over, my tongue surprisingly meeting hers without fumbling; it’s all things honey and sugar and sexy and wet. Innocent, but not quite, as Charlie opens her mouth wider so I can move my tongue deeper.

When she sucks on it, my dick stiffens in a way I haven’t felt before—hard. Painful. Blood rushing from my goddamn brain to my cock. I wonder how I’ll walk straight to my truck when this is over.

My hand moves up her body, gripping the back of her head at the base of her neck, pulling her closer. Her hands leave my shoulders to grip the waistband of my jeans, fingers hooking through the belt loops and tugging.

Our pelvises don’t line up—I’m too tall for that—but they’re close enough to alleviate this throbbing between my legs as our lips and tongues clash.

A bump on the wall digs into my ass, but I couldn’t care less. All I care about is Charlie kissing me. The little moans coming from her throat. The fact that we’re alone, the only two people who matter right now.

What team? What coaches? What career?

Nothing matters.

There is no one but Charlie Edmonds.

A Wednesday

Jackson

I couldn’t sleep for shit last night.

I can’t eat at breakfast.

I can’t do anything but let my mind drift.

It’s the first time I’ve been this distracted in my entire life, at least that I can recall.

My ass has been lodged on the same weight bench for the past ten minutes, except I haven’t lifted a single barbell or weight.

One name plays itself on a loop in my mind: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.

Shit, what happens if I sleep with her? What will that do to my football career? I have no fucking idea, and I’m not sure I’m brave enough to find out. My entire life I’ve been told by Pops and my coaches that girls are nothing but a distraction—career killers.

The wrong girl can make or break you, the way my pops blames Mama for him not playing college ball, although I can’t imagine getting some girl knocked up doing that much damage. You do what you have to fucking do and hustle harder.

That’s the difference between my father and me—he obviously never had the drive, instead blaming his shortcomings on the person closest to him: my mother. She didn’t get herself pregnant, but he blamed her my whole life.

Which is why he pushes me so hard not to screw myself by screwing women.

That’s not what this is, though. Charlie isn’t…

Our relationship isn’t the same.

She wants what’s best for me, and if I told her tomorrow that I wanted space, she’d back off and give it to me.

Charlie would disappear.

The thought makes me fucking sick to my stomach, along with the thought of being alone for the rest of my life.

Sure, when I make a pro football team, I’ll have more money than I’ve ever seen—more than I’ll know what to do with, more than my family has ever seen. I know my parents expect me to support them after I’m drafted; that’s the motivation behind my father’s big push.

Then what? I pay off their house, buy a swank pad of my own—and sit in it alone? I immediately envision a backyard with a pool, grill, and lots of space. Inviting friends over and watching them with their children and families while I’m off to the side watching.

Jealous.

Cleaning up the mess, alone. Going to bed, alone. Waking up in the morning, alone. Heading to practice and coming home to an empty house.

Sounds fucking awful.

All because I’ve been told and taught a relationship will squash my goals.

What’s the worst thing that could happen if I stick my dick inside Charlie? We give each other a few orgasms and go on our merry way.

Easy.

It’s not like I’ll get attached to her. Boom, one and done.

Okay, maybe twice.

Liar.

You’re a fucking liar, Jackson. You’re already attached or you wouldn’t be thinking about sleeping with her at all. You’d be doing what you’re supposed to be doing—these squats.

I’m staring off into the distance, at a banner hanging from the far wall, down the cinderblock confines of the giant workout facility. It’s a blown-up photo of one of the rowers on the women’s crew, her expression one of elation as the team crosses the finish line first at a meet.

I pan to another banner: baseball. A grunting pitcher on the mound, face pinched, one eye shut as he takes aim before releasing the hard ball.

Wrestling. Dark and broody Zeke Daniels, an alumna. Kind of a bastard, if my memory serves me correctly; I’ve only met the guy a few times, but he wasn’t pleasant. I believe he’s engaged to be married.

Which means he had a girlfriend when he was winning championships. Their other team captain did too.

Legs spread, a white towel in my hand, I wipe the sweat from my brow, mind ticking through a mental roster of my teammates—which of them have serious girlfriends?

Devin Sanchez, linebacker. Peter Van Waldendorf, quarterback. Stuart White, linebacker. Kevin O’Toole, tight-end.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What have I been doing the past three years? No personal life, just football. No going out, just football. No drinking, no sex, no nothing.

Just football.

I lean forward, burying my face in my hands, drying my sweaty forehead on the towel. Close my eyes and breathe.

This isn’t my fault.

I did what I thought I had to do.

But for what?

For your career, idiot, I argue.

But why? You’re twenty-two, not fifty.

Because that’s the only thing I’ve been taught.

There—I just saved myself hundreds of dollars on a shrink and therapy, because Lord knows I probably need one after the head case my father has turned me into.

Damn him.

Fucking Pops.

He’s at home sitting in his recliner, armchair quarterback for the past two decades, calling shots on my life from Texas while I bust my ass in Iowa. Me. Injuries, arguments, grunt work—for him. Sweat, plenty of tears, and sometimes blood.