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“I’m not being ungrateful. I just thought you should know that we have chefs who make us breakfast or lunch, depending on when practice is. They also cook for us on game day.”

A relieved breath escaped me when I found my tape in a tennis shoe.

“That’s pretty badass, but I bet they’ll never make a breakfast sandwich like this.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, returning to the kitchen where she was wrapping my sandwich in parchment paper. “Did you make yourself one?”

She shook her head. “No time.”

“Vera.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll pick something up before I head home. Sorry about the dishes.”

“Where’s my phone?”

“I’m assuming in your pants,” she said, nodding towards the living room. I jogged over, scooped up the dress slacks, and fished my cell phone from the right pocket and my wallet from the left. I winced at the 18% in the top right corner and nearly shit a brick when I realized I had 17 minutes to have my ass in my seat for review. “My ride is here,” she announced, picking up her purse from the floor, minding the shattered glass from the fallen lamp.

“Here,” I said, foisting $40.00 toward her. Her face morphed from confusion to pure disbelief.

“I told you I wasn’t a prostitute.”

I frowned at her accusation, but I could see how she reached that conclusion.

I am handing her forty bucks after a night of crazy sex.

“It’s not like that. It’s for breakfast.”

She smiled apologetically before saying, “I’m good, Sweet Hart. If you enjoyed your time with me as much as I did and believe we’re a good fit, sign the contract, and I’ll send you the wiring instructions to remit payment.”

I nodded and slipped the money back into my wallet. “Okay.”

“Great,” she replied awkwardly, eyes darting to my lips.

Without shame, I closed my eyes and leaned in for a kiss. I groaned when I felt her luscious lips graze my cheek. I opened my eyes and watched her back up to the door. “See you later, Sweet Hart,” she declared before leaving me with a deep ache in my balls and a hard dick.

Are we a good fit? Without a shadow of a doubt. Will I survive eight months without falling for her? Probably not, and therein lies the problem.

***

“Rough night?” Marlon asked after I threw myself into my seat beside him. I was panting and sweating from both adrenaline and my mad dash from the parking lot to the review room. I didn’t even have time to drop my shit off at my locker. I grunted and unwrapped my sandwich. “Where the hell did you get that from? I didn’t see them serving that on the line.”

My stomach twisted in suspense as I admired the masterpiece before me. One of the eggs had broken, and at some point, the yolk oozed down the side, coating the bacon, cheese, and everything else in between. I took a picture and posted it before digging in.

“Mmmmm,” I groaned. A few of my teammates in the front rows turned around and gawked at me. “The fuck are y’all looking at?” I asked between bites.

“They’re wondering what the hell has you moaning like you have two bunnies on your dick,” Chandler commented. I held up my sandwich instead of answering with a mouthful.

“I bet it’s on Andre’s brunch menu,” Morgan mentioned.

It’s not, but it fucking should be.

“Eyes forward!” Coach barked, entering the room with the remainder of the coaching staff trailing in behind him. “Myers! You know the rules. There is no eating in here. Get rid of it!”

“Sorry, Coach,” I mumbled, scarfing the rest of the sandwich down, giving myself the hiccups.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

“Understood, Coach.”