The first thing I notice when we enter Sloane Walker’s dressing room is one incredibly long, incredibly shapely leg, slowly being unzipped from thigh-high ck leather. It’s a beautiful leg attached to a beautiful woman, but instead of staring, I jerk my gaze straight up to her face and the brown eyes that look as perplexed as I suddenly feel.

    “I’m sorry,” I start. “Olivia told us—”

    “Do you need more time?” Sloane’s assistant manager—the one who set up our meeting—talks over me.

    “That’s all right.” She brings her leg down slowly. “We’re all good here. Aren’t we?”

    It’s more challenge than question, and when her eyes cut back toward mine, there’s a predatory look in them that has my mouth going dry even as a ping of disappointment resonates within me. Because the real Sloane, the one I saw in those frantic moments onstage and that first, startled second when Olivia opened the door, is gone.

    In her ce is the ck Widow, and she is very definitely ying offense.

    She stretches long and catlike before prowling toward us, more predator than pop star. But it’s all too polished, too precise. The kind of sexy that’s built to be watched, not felt.

    Hips swinging, shoulders swaying just enough to knock one thin dress strap off her shoulder and add to her undone aura. Long, tousled red hair, smudged eye makeup, unzipped boot, dress half falling off.

    But it’s all for show. One hell of a show, sure, but still just a show—one that feels like I’m watching her disappear even as she’s standing in the spotlight. And that’s before she parts her ruby red lips and shes her fangs at me, darting her tongue out to do a slow swipe over her top-heavy upper lip.

    I take it for what it is, a warning and an invitation all rolled into one. And, total honesty, when a woman with more curves than a back country road looks at me like that, I’m usually open to seeing what happens next.

    But that’s not what I’m here for. And even if it was, this Sloane—the ck Widow looking for another conquest—isn’t the one who’s caught my attention. No, that’s the woman who reached out with such openness to grab my abu’s hand. The woman who stared out at the crowd as her mask slipped and battled her way through hell to get back.

    I’d really like to talk to that woman.

    So instead of catching her pass and running for the end zone, I take a step back and say, “That was one hell of a concert. Thank you.”

    Sloane blinks. The bravado falters for half a second, maybe less. But it’s enough to let me know I’m not wrong about her.

    Abu Ximena steps forward then, going in for one of those long, tight hugs she’s known for. I wince a little internally, shooting the security guard who came in with us an apologetic look.

    “Oh!” Sloane gasps. For a second I think she’s going to fight against my abu’s very enthusiastic embrace. And I get it. As someone who’s spent a fair amount of time in the public eye, I know better than most what it’s like to have strangers grabbing at you without your permission. Still, I hope she won’t be too cruel about it.

    But Sloane surprises me. Instead of pulling away, she stoops down low—now that she’s this close, I realize she’s got about an inch on me in those boots—and tries to wrap her arms around my abu’s slightly bent frame.

    I say tries because what she actually does is awkwardly pat my abu’s back, kind of like she’s burping a baby. The whole thing would be hrious, except for the fact that she has no idea what to do with her hands.

    An inexplicable tightness invades my chest at the realization, because no one should have to learn how to be held.

    “I’m sorry,” my abu tells her when she finally pulls back, her voice wobbling just a little. “I should have asked if that was okay first. But it really seemed like you needed a hug.”

    Again, a startled look flits through Sloane’s heavily made-up eyes. And again, it disappears so quickly I would have missed it if I wasn’t watching her so carefully.

    “Don’t be,” Sloane responds graciously, tucking the ck Widow away, though she’s got the rest of herself all locked up, too. “You might have been right.”

    “Oh, I’m always right. Just ask my grandson,” abu Ximena answers as she turns to wave me forward. “This is Mateo, by the way. But everyone calls him Sly on ount of how good he is at sneaking past the defensive line.”

    I know my abu wasn’t thinking about anything but football when she said it, but her description definitely doesn’t make me sound great.

    Before I can correct it, though, Sloane’s brows go up. “I’ll remember that.” The words almost drip with disdain.

    “Just to be clear,” I tell her with a rueful shake of my head, “I save any and all unwanted advances for the football field.”

    The look she shoots back says as clear as day, We’ll just see about that.

    I’m not offended. The world is a fucked-up ce. It makes me sad, though, to imagine what Sloane’s been through if the ck Widow is the armor she has to slip on to feel safe in it.

    We stand there like that for several seconds, her not willing to give an inch and me struck silent for the whole fucking mile. There’s a war going on behind those eyes, and I want so badly to step in and fight.

    But then my abu burrows a bony elbow into my rib cage. The sudden pain snaps me out of my reflection, and I say, “Thanks so much for letting use back to meet you. Abu Ximena’s a huge fan. She’s got every one of your songs memorized.”

    “And you don’t?” She looks me over with a smirk, her eyes lingering on my ck Widow shirt.

    “I know a couple,” I answer. It’s a lie; I know several. Who doesn’t? But banter is easier than small talk, probably because it’s been my little sisters’ primary method ofmunication my whole life.

    “What’s that saying? ‘Damned by faint praise’?” Sloane asks.

    “Nothin’ faint about it, darlin’.” I let my drawl slip out, mostly because I don’t think to stop it.

    The corner of her mouth tips up, just a bit, as she turns back to my abu. “Do you mind if I call you Grandma Ximena, too?”

    “Abu, please.” She lights up like a firework. “Grandma doesn’t feel right to me.” She ps her hands, and I see how they catch Sloane’s eye.

    “Oh, I love your nails!” She smiles again, for real this time, as she reaches out to examine the tiny, painted spiders more closely.

    “Thanks! My granddaughter did them.” She beams with the same pride I feel for Mariana.

    “Well, she’s very talented.”

    “She is! And quick, too, since we’ve all been letting her practice. She’s doing makeup for the school’s fall production, and all the zombies need cyanide green nails.”

    Sloane follows my abu’s gaze to the chipped green polish decorating my own fingers. There used to be a football on my thumb, but it turns out picking at nail polish is a great way to pass the time on never-ending game tape days.

    “Bold color choice,” she tells me. “Especially since that stadium out there is draped in blue and gold.”

    “What can I say?” I shrug. “My baby sister wants to do the best damn makeup her school has ever seen. And if helping her means getting zombified, who am I to say no? Life’s too short not to go after what you want.”

    I’m speaking from experience. This season, I know exactly what I want. A Super Bowl ring, to make up for the one I lost usst year.

    Sloane, however, doesn’t seem so sure, which is strange, considering she’s already won the championship. “Going after what you want only works until you realize you’re turning into something with a very nasty bite.”

    This time when she grins it’s another sh of her teeth, sharp enough to bleed and just as practiced. Almost like she thinks I need a reminder of who she is.

    Or she does.

    Because there’s more to her words than I have time to unpack right now, I lob back a softball. “Good thing I don’t bite, then.”

    “Good thing I do.” Her voice has just enough snap to tell me she means it.

    Before I can think of how to answer what is very clearly a warning, Olivia shifts behind me, like she’s getting ready to break things up. But a slight shake of Sloane’s head has her going still again.

    “Oh, I don’t want to keep you,” abu Ximena tells her. She must have felt the movement, too. “I know you must be exhausted.”

    “It takes me a little while to wind down after a concert.” Sloane gently guides my abu and her unsteady knees over to the other side of the room. When she bypasses the low couch and chooses the small table and chairs that will be easier for my abu to get out of, I’m grateful.

    But I don’t follow them. We’re here for my abu, not me.

    Sloane asks her a bunch of questions, none of which have anything to do with music. Abu Ximena, aka @ck_widow_ximena, is all too willing to share the finer details of her life—and, by extension, mine—with her favorite artist. It isn’t long before she’s told Sloane everything about everything.

    She talks about her chickens, the time my sister fell out the window and ripped her favorite pair of blue jeans, and how I have toe fix her wifi and straighten out her DMs at least once a month. Sloane lets her take a selfie or two, but when my abu starts talking about her grandkids in earnest, I decide it’s time to intervene.

    I may have brought her to this concert, but I have absolutely no delusions of loyalty. She’ll throw me and my youthful escapades under the bus in a heartbeat if it means entertaining Sloane.

    “It’s probably time we let Sloane get going,” I tell my abu. “She’s spent nearly half an hour with us, and I’m sure she wants to get back to the hotel.” I know I usually need some alone time after the adrenaline of a game wears off.

    Sloane carefully helps my abu to her feet. “Mateo’s probably right.”

    I nearly choke at hearing my real namee out of her mouth. No one but my abu has called me Mateo in forever. I’ve been Sly since my first peewee football game, when Coach yed with myst name—Sylvester—after I snuck my way around the bigger, more noticeable kids all the way to the end zone. Twenty yearster and the nickname’s still with me, as is the thrill of scoring a touchdown.

    That doesn’t mean I don’t like the way my name sounds on Sloane’s lips, though.

    “We both appreciate your time,” I tell her, offering my hand to shake. Her eyes are shuttered when they meet mine, and for a second I think she’s going to leave me hanging. But just as her handler starts to step toward us, Sloane reaches forward and slides her palm into mine.

    Her hand is ice cold and shaking just a little. It makes me want to give her a hug, too, to share my warmth just until she stops trembling.

    I have a good idea of where she is right now. I’ve spent a year beating myself up for a mistake that cost my team everything. I hate to think that she’s doing the same to herself over a few seconds onstage tonight that almost nobody noticed.

    But I saw it. That moment she unraveled. Like she was screaming through the sequins and no one cared.

    Since hugging her without her permission isn’t an option, I do the next best thing. I look her in those gorgeous brown eyes of hers and say, “I know you think you froze tonight. But all I saw was you fighting to stay.”