Thirty minutes after we leave Sloane’s dressing room, I finally get abu Ximena through the pouring rain and into the car. As the lights of the stadium fade in my rearview mirror, I point us toward her cozy house outside Bu, a small town about an hour from Austin, where I grew up.

    A quick nce at her in the passing streetlights tells me my abu looks exhausted but also happier than I’ve seen her in a long time.

    “That was better than I dreamed it would be.” She pats my hand on the steering wheel. “Thank you so much, mijo.”

    “I should be the one thanking you,” I tell her. “The concert was great.”

    “It really was. And I still can’t believe you arranged for me to meet her.” She sighs happily. “I always knew Sloane was a wonderful person, but she was so much kinder than I ever could have expected. And she’s even more dazzling in real life, don’t you think?”

    The truth is, I don’t know what to think. I mean, abu Ximena’s right. Sloane is both gorgeous and kind, and while I can appreciate both those things, they aren’t why I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since I closed her dressing room door.

    No, what keeps her front and center in my mind isn’t her looks or her voice or even how sweet she was to my abu. It’s the way she wears the ck Widow like a shield. The way her fingers were ice when she went to shake my hand. The vulnerability in her eyes and the way she tried so damn hard not to let it show.

    I don’t know what hurt Sloane so badly she has to hide herself away from the world. But I do know what it feels like to break. And I know just how exhausting it is to shield the broken parts of yourself.

    “What song was your favorite?” my abu asks as we merge onto the highway.

    “I liked ’em all,” I answer, even as an image of Sloane forms in my mind. Skintight tube dress, crimson lips, hair a wild red explosion around her. Eyes wide and wild as she sinks…and then ws her way right back to the surface one inch at a time. “But maybe ‘The Rumor Game.’ I know it’s what everyone says, but it’s a good one.”

    And I’ll never be able to hear it again without thinking about the strength it took for Sloane to fight her way out of the abyss.

    “That’s a great one,” abu Ximena agrees. “But I’ll always love ‘Watch Me’ the best.”

    “Oh, yeah?” A couple verbalmandster and the song is sting through my audio system while my abu sings along. Tonight was my first time hearing it, so I don’t know the song as well as she does, but I do my best to keep up on the chorus.

    At least until a message shes across my dash, telling me I’ve got a text from my agent. What the fuck could Vivian want at midnight on a Sunday?

    “Sorry, abu.” I interrupt the third verse so my car can read me the message.

    Vivian: Any reason why a request from Sloane Walker’s publicist for your phone number just came across my inbox?

    Before I can even process what that means, my abu is hooting and hollering beside me. “Looks like you’re not the only one who’s smitten.”

    “Smitten? I’m not—” I break off as my car asks if I want to reply. “Yes! Yes!”

    Abu Ximena chuckles, but I do my best to ignore her glee as I reply to Vivian. “Did you give it to her?”

    Vivian: That’s why I’m asking. What’s happening here?

    Me (and by me, I mean my abu responding to my car’s prompt): They’re taken with each other

    Me: That was abu Ximena. We are not taken with anything. She probably wants tickets to a game

    Vivian: I can do that without giving her your number

    Me: No, go ahead and give it to her, just in case she wants something else

    Me (and by me, I mean my abu again): Like a date?

    “No!” I order, shooting her an exasperated look when the car asks if it should send that.

    But she just shrugs. “I know I’m old, but in my day, there was only one reason a girl asked for a guy’s number.”

    “Did girls even ask for numbers back then?” I query.

    She shoots me a wicked grin. “The smart ones did. How do you think I hooked your grandpa?”

    “I thought you ran him to ground and hog-tied him,” I answer with a smirk, because she was a champion roper and barrel racer in her day.

    “Well, that too.” She smirks right back. “But seriously, I saw the way you looked at her.”

    “Like I was impressed with her talent? Because I was.”

    “Of course you were.” She waves my answer away. “Who isn’t? But that’s not what I meant. You think just because I need bifocals I didn’t notice that you saw something different in her? Maybe something…familiar?”

    My stomach clenches. Not just because I thought I was better at hiding that shit than I obviously am, but because I don’t want my abu to know just how fucked-up I am with how everything went down with Lucia.

    It’s not that she doesn’t know about it. Lucia isn’t just my sister. She’s her granddaughter. But that doesn’t mean I want her to know how much my failure haunts me. Or how much I me myself for all the shit my sister’s been through.

    “Is it really so far-fetched to think she did the same?” Abu Ximena reaches over and squeezes my hand again. “Not to mention that you’re pretty dazzling yourself.”

    I force a grin I’m far from feeling. “I think you might be biased about that.”

    She snorts. “Yeah, me and all those ‘best-looking athlete’ lists you make on the regr. I’ve got clippings in my scrapbook. Page forty-seven, right next to that picture of you in the tiara and heart-shaped sunsses for Cam’s fifth birthday party.”

    “I rocked that tiara, thank you very much.” Still, my face starts to burn at the reminder of those ridiculous lists. They don’t mean shit to me—I’m way more interested in how I perform on the field than I am in what people write about me off it.

    “Also, we’re using ‘on the regr’ now, huh?” I tease, going for deflection, since my abu is more than capable of reeling off thest ten lists in chronological order. She and my sisters have been poking fun at them since my sophomore year of college ball. “I’m impressed, but who are you?”

    “A woman who’s been around the block enough times to know what it looks like when someone is interested.” She shoots me her I mean business look. “You should send her flowers.”

    “That’s a jump from asking for someone’s phone number,” I tell her. “Especially since we don’t know why she wants it.”

    “So send her flowers and find out.”

    “She’s a superstar, abu Ximena. I doubt she’d actually get them.” Not to mention, just because I feel a strange connection to her doesn’t mean she feels the same way. Thest thing I want to do is make Sloane ufortable—especially when she’s already struggling.

    “Of course not,” she says with a snort. “But if you happen to remember that you’re famous, too, and change your mind, you should send ca lilies. They’re her favorite.”

    “Any particr color?” I ask before I can stop myself.

    Abu Ximena’s grin deepens as she pulls out the Sloane Walker/ck Widow journal she’s never without and starts to scribble who knows what down. “The dark-purple ones.”

    “Purple’s her favorite color?” I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does.

    “No, but they’re the prettiest,” she answers with authority. “Her favorite color is ck.”

    I’m not so sure about that. Oh, I’m certain she tells her fans that ck is her favorite. She certainly dresses like it is. But something in me suspects that the woman with the shaking hands and eyes like stained ss prefers a different color entirely.

    Sloane Walker may look like a badass who doesn’t give a shit about anything or anyone, but there’s more to this woman than meets the public’s eye. That much I know.

    Which is why thest thing I should be doing right now is pumping my abu for information about her. Sloane’s obviously been hurt before. I don’t know by whom, or how, but the scars are right there on the surface, her mistrust fully unmasked. Thest thing she needs is me crashing in and somehow making it worse.

    Besides, this is the worst timing in the world for both of us. Her focus is on her tour. My focus is on the season about to start. Between football, the foundation, and my family, I’ve got no time for anything else. Certainly not a world-famous pop star, no matter how many multitudes she contains.

    And still, knowing all that doesn’t stop me from hoping she uses that number she asked for.

    My abu runs out of steam right about the time I pull up the drive to the old farmhouse I grew up in. The fact that she lives so close to Austin is one of the reasons I was so happy when the Twisters drafted me. Even though it meant I had to y second string for two years while I waited for Sanchez to retire, it also meant I was close enough to check in on my abu and the girls every week or so.

    As I walk her to the door, my abu rips a piece of paper out of her journal and presses it into my hand, yfulness lighting her eyes.

    “What’s this?” I ask.

    She grins. “Let’s call it a cheat sheet. A list of likes and dislikes, just in case you decide to send her something else along with the flowers.”

    My hand clenches involuntarily on the list. “You didn’t.”

    “Sure I did. Top five snack foods, her favorite candle and perfume scents, and a bunch of other things including, but not limited to, how she likes her popcorn.” She waggles her brows. “Caramel with chocte drizzle, in case you’re interested.”

    “That’s shockingly thorough.” I look from her to the list and back again. “Not to mention unnervingly specific.”

    She shrugs. “When you’re one of the most photographed people in the world, there are no secrets.”

    And suddenly I get it. Not just with my head but deep in my gut.

    Of course Sloane keeps her guard up.

    Of course she wears the ck Widow like a second skin.

    When the world’s always watching—always waiting to twist your heartache into headlines—what choice do you have but to make yourself untouchable?

    The spotlight doesn’t just light her up. It burns her to a crisp. So she sharpens her edges, turns herself into someone to be worshipped or vilified but never held. Never seen. Never truly understood.

    Because once you’ve been burned badly enough, everything feels like a setup. The only safe ce left is behind walls only you can breach.

    The knowledge makes me ache for her in a whole new way as I look down at abu Ximena’s hopeful face. “If I send flowers, it would only be as a thank-you for having us backstage. Nothing else.”

    “Okay.” She leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. “But if you decide you want something else—”

    “I won’t.” Sloane has enough to carry. Thest thing she needs is me and my baggage, too.

    “Of course you won’t. But if you do, you need to know that Sloane hasn’t had it easy.” Her eyes meet mine, and they’re as clear as a west Texas road at midnight as she continues. “She’s been through a lot more than people think. She’s a real person underneath all that eyeliner.”

    I start to tell her I already know. But I settle for a simple, “Are you warning me not to break her heart?”

    “I’m warning you that broken pieces have jagged edges. Don’t push so hard that they cut her…or you.”

    The underlying steel in her voice has me taking note. It’s not often I hear that tone from her, but when I do, I know she means business. “You raised me better than that,” I answer quietly.

    “I know I did.” She reaches over and pats my cheek. “Just be careful, whatever you do. And text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

    I wait until I hear the lock slide into ce before heading back to my car. As I drop the list of Sloane’s likes and dislikes on the seat beside me, I’m tempted to take a look just in case they help me better understand what I saw tonight.

    But the truth is, I don’t want a cheat sheet. If I’m going to get to know her, I want it to be because she let me in, not because I snuck in through a back door made of bullet points.

    So instead of opening up the list, I pull out my phone and google the order of her albums. Then I swipe over to Spotify and put on Serendipity, her first.

    I drive home listening to a less guarded, more hopeful version of the woman I met tonight. By the time I finish the heartbreak and poetry that is Sloane’s third album, I’ve figured out two things.

    One, Sloane may feel broken, but she’s got more strength than my entire offensive line.

    And two, flowers and phone numbers are just the pregame. What we might be able to give each other starts after the whistle blows.