I stand in the empty locker room hours after the game ended, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.

    My phone rings, but I don’t look. And I don’t answer. I’ve been jumping every time it buzzes, hoping it’s her. But it’s been hours since I texted, and Sloane hasn’t messaged back.

    Neither has her assistant manager or publicist.

    It’s been absolute radio silence from her entire team, and it’s making me twitchy.

    Especially since everybody else on the fucking has called, starting with abu Ximena and ending with nearly every friend I’ve got. And they all want to talk about one thing.

    I didn’t know you liked bad girls.

    Has she said yes?

    Good taste, man.

    Not to mention my personal favorite: Aren’t you worried she’ll kill you next?

    Jesus. Before today, I had absolutely no idea just how many shallow assholes have my phone number.

    Even the team’s GM is getting in on the act. He congratted me on a great game, then immediately asked if he should save tickets for Sloane. Three hours since the Great Jumbotron Debacle, and we’ve already sold out five home games.

    Plus, my agent’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing, either. The same with my publicist’s. Reporters. Brand reps. Endorsement offers frompanies I didn’t even know existed.

    I already have a few solid deals—and I’ve turned down plenty that didn’t feel right. But now? Everyone from designerbels to booze brands wants a piece of the guy who asked Sloane Walker out on national television.

    Even the reps from the Jackson-Ware Foundation I’ve worked with for thest several years are excited. We’ve been nning the L.A. fundraiser for months, and now they’re asking if I think I could get Sloane to perform.

    It’s unbelievable.

    Vivian is dancing, but I’m too busy contemting the best way to torture Marquis to think about the upsides. When he told me to go big, I thought he meant jewelry. I never imagined the fucker would dream up this mess, much less bribe the jumbotron techs to make it happen. It takes a lot to piss me off. And right now? I wouldn’t mind making the fucker bleed.

    What the ever-loving hell was he thinking? I asked for advice on getting Sloane’s attention, not how to turn both our lives into a Super Bowl halftime show on steroids.

    Thest thing I wanted was to make her life harder, and considering the response I’m getting, I can’t imagine what’s going down on her end. Just the thought makes me feel like an even bigger asshole than I already do.

    But sitting in this locker room, hiding from whatever the hell is waiting for me outside the stadium doors, is getting old fast. Especially since everyone else has already left, including Marquis, who slinked out before I could corner him for an exnation…and an ass-kicking.

    Fuck it. If the press is out there, I’ll just “noment” it like I’ve been doing all afternoon.

    I wind through the tunnel to the yers’ entrance and throw my shoulders back. I keep on walking, straight into the sweltering September heat.

    On the plus side, security must have banned the press from this lot, since all the reporters are currently standing outside the yers’ area. On the negative side, there are about a hundred of them, and they’re dangerously close to my only way out.

    I didn’t even know there were a hundred reporters in Austin. I’ve seen the same ten or fifteen my whole damn professional career.

    Not wanting to encourage the madness, I ignore the crowd as I make my way through the lot. That doesn’t stop them from yelling questions at me about whether she’s said yes or where I want to take Sloane on our date.

    I’m halfway to my truck when my phone rings, and a quick nce at the screen tells me it’s Vivian. Again. Deciding whatever she’s got to tell me can wait, I send her to voicemail, only to have the phone ring again before I even open my door.

    Hoping this means she’s got something important to tell me, like how the fuck to get out of this mess, I swipe to answer it. “Give me a minute,” I tell her as I sling my bag into the passenger seat before climbing in and starting the truck.

    Once the call picks up on my audio system, I say, “What’s up?” and start backing out of the parking space.

    “What’s up?” A low, whiskey-smooth voicees through the speaker, and everything inside of me freezes. “You really have the nerve to ask me that after the stunt you just pulled?”

    Shock rockets through me, and I m on the brakes, half in the parking spot and half out. “Who is this?” I ask when I get my voice back, even though I already know.

    “Seriously?” Sloane sounds equal parts annoyed and amused as she continues. “Exactly how many women have you asked out on national TV today?”

    “Only one.” I finish pulling out of the parking spot with what I’m pretty sure is the dumbest grin in the history of the world on my face. She called. She finally called.

    “Yeah, well, it was one too many,” she shoots back. “What the hell were you thinking, Sly?” My heart kicks up when she says my name.

    “That I could trust my best friend. And believe me, it’s not a mistake I’m going to make again.”

    Sloane pauses like I’ve surprised her. “Exin,” she finally says.

    So I do, throwing Marquis under the bus with gleeful abandon as I steer around the pack of reporters. I even wave at a few as I drive on by, certain they’re getting some really great shots of me grinning like I just won the biggest lottery on earth…which is exactly how I feel right now.

    “I’ve got to say I’m a little disappointed in you,” she tells me as I finish the story. “You’ve had how many years in the spotlight? And still haven’t learned to be careful who you trust.”

    She sounds more amused now, but there’s a thread of seriousness—of truth—in her voice that makes me wonder just how lonely it is at the top. And whether I could help her feel a little less alone. Not that I say that out loud. Considering the shitstorm I just kicked up, I sincerely doubt she’ll be impressed with the sentiment.

    “Oh, I trust Marquis with my life,” I finally say as I make it to the exit. “I just don’t trust him with my—”

    “Sex life?” she posits.

    A drop of sweat that has nothing to do with the Austin heat rolls down the center of my back. “I was going to say heart,” I tell her, “but I won’t kick your answer out of bed in the middle of the night.”

    She finallyughs at that, and it’s even better than I imagined. I was afraid this mess would break whatever this thing is between us, but instead she sounds almost intrigued.

    I seize the opportunity to say what’s been on my mind for thest few hours. “I’m sorry, Sloane. I’m so fucking sorry about this. I’d take it all back if I could.”

    There’s a long silence from her end, and I’m just beginning to think I’ve lost her when she says, “I still don’t see why Marquis couldn’t have advised you to go about this the normal way.”

    “I’m guessing because I tried the normal way and it didn’t work. Obviously.”

    She sounds skeptical when she replies, “I wouldn’t exactly say a giant ice cream sundae is normal.”

    “It got you to text me, didn’t it? Even if it did take you four days to answer my question.”

    “Actually, it got Pauline to steal my phone and text you. I didn’t notice she’d done it until this morning.”

    “Pauline?” I ask, trying to ce the name.

    “Pauline Vargus. She very much enjoyed your choice of ice cream parlor.”

    “Are you telling me Pauline Vargus helped you eat that sundae? And then texted me about it?” Shock ms through me. “The Pauline Vargus?”

    “You’re sounding a little overstimted there, Sly.” There’s a teasing quality to her voice I can’t help but respond to. “Exactly how many of us singers do you want to go out with?”

    That startles augh out of me. “Just you, Sloane. But you’ve got to admit, Pauline’s still got it.”

    “Oh, there’s never been any doubt about that.”

    She doesn’t say anything else. Now that I’m over my shock about Pauline Vargus being the one to text me, I’ve got to rify, “So what you’re saying is you never would have texted me on your own, even though you asked for my phone number.”

    I make a right turn onto the highway and can’t help noticing that several news vans are following directly behind me. I decide to ignore them, mainly because there’s not a lot else I can do. Besides, everyone’s got to make a living.

    “That was a mistake on my part,” she finally says.

    “Fair enough,” I respond as I changenes, making sure to keep my speed at the normal limit. Thest thing I need is an article in tomorrow’s paper talking about how Sloane Walker’s “boyfriend” is a reckless driver. “I really am sorry, Sloane. If there’s something you think I can do to make this better, just tell me. Whatever it is, I’m happy to do it, even if it means not talking to you again.”

    My stomach clenches at the thought.

    “I didn’t say that.” For the first time, she sounds just a little bit flustered. “I’m just saying you could have gone with an email or a phone call or maybe a bouquet of flowers if you really wanted to put in some effort.”

    “You didn’t give me your email,” I reply. “And I sent four bouquets of flowersst week, with my phone number included on every card, just in case you lost the one you got from my agent. I didn’t get so much as a ‘fuck off’ from any of them. At least with the sundae I got a text from Pauline.”

    Sheughs. “You’re going to live on that for the rest of your life, aren’t you?”

    “I n to put it on my tombstone,” I shoot back. “I mean, Pauline Vargus texted me. Who wouldn’t ride that high?”

    “I—” She breaks off for a second, and when she starts speaking again I can’t help noticing her voice has warmed up another couple of degrees. Looks like my abu was right: women really do love flowers. “Wait. You sent flowers? Where?”

    “I had them sent to your venue and hotel both times, hoping you’d see them somewhere.”

    “You’re telling me you sent them to the hotel I’m at right now?” she asks, sounding skeptical. “Do you even know which one it is?”

    “I know how to google,” I answer dryly as I changenes again. “Thest time I sent them was to the Vian yesterday.”

    “Hold on,” she tells me, then a few secondster asks, “What do the flowers look like?”

    “One set is purple ca lilies—”

    “Ca lilies?” she repeats a little breathlessly. “How’d you figure…”

    She breaks off, and then, at the same time, we both say, “Abu Ximena.”

    I’ve always known my abu was worth her weight in glitter, but it turns out she’s one hell of a wing woman, too. I’ll have to make sure to thank her the next time I see her.

    “The other is a ck-and-red arrangement,” I add. “For obvious reasons.”

    Sheughs, and there’s some rustling on the other line, followed by, “Oh! I found them both. They were buried behind a giant arrangement of roses.”

    Not going to lie, that stings the pride a little bit. Note to self, send a gargantuan arrangement next time. Apparently five dozen flowers isn’t enough to stand out in the world Sloane Walker inhabits.

    “They’re pretty,” she says after a minute. “Thank you.”

    Okay, that more than stings. “I’m pretty sure it’s my turn to say ‘damned by faint praise.’”

    Sheughs again. “They’re very pretty. Sincerely.”

    “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. You’ve got to read at least one of the cards.”

    “Oh? Hold on a minute.” This time, she actually puts me on hold. And she keeps me there so long I keep checking to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.

    By the time shees back, I’m pulling off the highway and heading up the hill that leads to my house, while a whole host of news and paparazzi vehicles follows behind me.

    “Sorry. My publicist collects them and writes thank-you notes. If nothing else, you would have gotten one of those…probably.” She pauses, and I can hear the rustling of an envelope opening. “‘How do you cut the Roman Empire?’ That’s it?” she asks, sounding bewildered. “That’s your big move?”

    “I used my big move on the first bouquet I sent to the venue, thank you very much. The card you’ve got there is technically move number four.” I stop at the main gate to the neighborhood and click it open. “Look on the back.”

    I sit there for several seconds, waiting to cross just as the gate starts to close. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take pleasure in watching it slide shut before any of the news vans can make it through behind me.

    I know it won’t hold them for long. It never does. But for now, I’ll take it.

    “‘If you want to know the answer, call the number below. Also, break a leg tonight. And if you do, also call this number. I know a great orthopedic surgeon.’” She sounds amused, which is a win in my book. I wait for her to say something else, but there’s only silence on the line.

    I’m starting to wonder if the card annoyed her when she finally says, “Well?”

    “Well what?” I ask, baffled.

    “I called the number. I’m pretty sure you owe me a punchline.”

    “Oh, right.” I grin. Looks like move number four is doing better than expected. “With a pair of Caesars.”

    More silence, and then a reluctant chuckle, followed by a full-blownugh that’s as seductive as it is sweet. It’s a warm, full sound that fills up a bunch of the empty ces inside me. “That’s really bad, Sly.”

    “You’reughing, aren’t you? And you haven’t hung up yet.” I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt as I turn onto the street that takes me up to my house, but I don’t give a shit. I made Sloane smile. Moreover, I made herugh. “I count that as a win.”

    “I’m sure you do.” She’s quiet, and I can hear her inhale like she’s trying to smell the flowers.

    Which is strange, considering…

    “I know they don’t have a scent,” she admits after a few seconds. “But I can’t resist checking. I guess I just assume they should smell as pretty as they look.”

    It’s my turn tough, and even though it’s corny, I can’t resist asking, “Is that your way of telling me you smell?”

    “Is that your way of telling me I’m pretty?” she fires back.

    “You’ve got a mirror and about a billion adoring fans who say it every chance they get. I don’t think you need me to tell you that.”

    She clears her throat and then says softly, “What do I need you to tell me?”

    Her tone is light, but there’s an underlying thread of seriousness that lets me know she’s listening. “Nothing, probably. But if you’re asking—”

    “I am.” She takes a breath, then holds on to it, almost like she’s afraid she’ll mess something up if she blows it back out.

    I know the feeling. But if being a quarterback has taught me anything through the years, it’s that the best time to take a risk is when you’re down a couple of touchdowns and the clock is running out.

    “You’re gorgeous,” I tell her softly. “But there’s so much more than that.”

    “How would you know?” Her voice is little more than a whisper now. “You met me once.”

    “Sometimes once is all it takes.” I can still picture her standing in the middle of that gigantic stage, fighting her way through the darkness to the light. “I think I see you, Sloane. And I think you see me, too.”

    I pull up to my house to find another slew of reporters camped at the end of my driveway. Surprise, surprise. I’m not about to tell her that, though.

    So instead of cursing, which I kind of feel like doing, I wait for her to say something—anything—that matters as I carefully attempt to make my way up the drive without running anyone over.

    But in the end, all I get is: “Thank you for the flowers. They’re really lovely.”

    “You’re very wee, corazón.” The endearment slips out, but it feels strangely right.

    “You have no idea what it’s like, Sly.” Her tone is almost pleading now. “This is just the beginning. If I say yes—”

    “Say yes,” I plead right back. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

    “I already regret making this phone call.” I can hear the eyeroll from here.

    “That’s just because you’re over there and I’m over here.” I understand her reticence, so I ignore the sting thates with her words. Instead, I do the same thing I do on the field and focus on the end zone. “Once we’re in L.A. together, you won’t regret anything. I promise.”

    “Don’t promise things you can’t deliver.” Her voice is sharper this time, and I can almost see her standing in the center of some fancy hotel room, rubbing her hands up and down her arms in that way she does when she gets nervous.

    She did it in her dressing room right after my abu hugged her, and I’ve seen her do it several times in videos I’ve watched of her in thest few days. Right before she won her first Grammy, for example.

    “Oh, I n to deliver,” I tell her, as delighted by her sour as I am her sweet. “Just say the word and I’ll prove it to you. I can be there by this time tomorrow.”

    Sheughs then, long and low and sexy as all fuck. “For the first time in a while, I really wish I could say yes.”

    “So go ahead and say it,” I pitch my case. “One date. If you hate it, I promise I’ll never put your name on a jumbotron ever again.”

    “I’m not afraid I’ll hate it,” she whispers, so low I have to strain to hear her. “I’m afraid I won’t.”

    I let the teasing note drop from my voice. “I’m sorry, Sloane. About the jumbotron and the reporters and all the extra attention. But”—I try to infuse every bit of truth into my words—“I swear you can trust me. I’d keep you safe, if you gave me the chance.”

    It’s more than a promise. It’s an oath, because letting something happen to her because of me is not an option.

    She sighs. “Goodbye, Sly. It was nice talking to you. And good luck with the next girl you put on the jumbotron.”

    Damn it! “Sloane, wait—” But she’s already gone.

    Which sucks for so many reasons, chief among them that I’m pretty sure she just took a little piece of my heart with her.