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JUDE: I want to be called Sexy Kennedy.

WYATT: Okay, Baby Kennedy.

I second Baby Kennedy.

JUDE: I hate you both.

Chick flicks and idea drafting had somehow turned into more drinking, which had then turned into Wyatt building an actual win-her-back playbook. At one point, he’d started assigning probability percentages to each plan despite having absolutely no basis for any of them. More than half the ideas were unusable. A decent portion involved public declarations that would’ve resulted in Rhodes either murdering me or moving back to Florida early just to get away from me. But buried beneath the absolute nonsense, there were a few ideas that gave me at least some direction.

Granted, none of that would be possible if I couldn’t get my brain to start functioning. Drinking the night before training had been a terrible decision. No amount of water, electrolytes, or greasy food could do anything about the headache pounding behind my temples.

“Never again,” I grumped. We sat scattered across the football field in training clothes, stretching while we waited for Rhodes to show up. The morning sun already felt too bright, the grass smelled too green, and every laugh around me sounded louder than necessary.

“You idiots say that every time,” Trent said, laughing at us—too damn loud. “You never learn, do you?”

“Nope,” Wyatt replied. “We were plotting.”

“Plotting what?” Drew asked. He abandoned whatever stretch he’d been doing and scooted across the grass toward us with immediate interest. Great. That was exactly what I needed. More people involved.

“Nothing,” I told them quickly.

“We’re plotting how to get your asses kicked off the team,” Jude cut in a little too aggressively. “Anyone want to help with that?”

The stare-down he gave them rivaled my grandmother, who had perfected the ability to make grown men rethink their life choices with one stare. Drew immediately lost interest, and Trent laughed, but even he turned back toward the guys beside him and let the conversation die.

“God, you’re a dick,” I said under my breath, laughing quietly.

“Got the job done, didn’t it?”

“Thank you.” I meant it. I was barely comfortable with Wyatt and Jude knowing all the carefully fabricated details. And by carefully fabricated, I meant increasingly unhinged lies created while drunk enough to think adding emotional backstory would make them more convincing. My imaginary girlfriend now had interests, a personality, and relationship issues. At some point, Wyatt had asked what kind of flowers she liked, and I’d nearly said Rhodes doesn’t like flowers before catching myself. The entire situation was becoming dangerously elaborate.

It was weird enough that Jude was unknowingly helping me win back his own brother. The last thing I needed was the entire team joining Operation Get Rhodes Back.

“Please,” Jude scoffed. “They’d fuck up the plan.”

“True…” My voice drifted off as I caught sight of Rhodes across the field. And apparently my hangover wasn’t strong enough to stop me from being pathetic.

He strode toward us dressed to train like the rest of the team, and fuck me, that was somehow worse than the dress clothes yesterday. A white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off stretched across his chest and shoulders, leaving most of both tattoo sleeves exposed. Athletic shorts put far too much of his thighs on display for a man who expected me to behave professionally around him.

His sneakers looked expensive, and his studs were back in his ears too, which made me wonder again why he only wore them sometimes. His hair was also tied back, something I’d never seen him do before. Most of the long strands had been pulled away from his face, but a few loose pieces had escaped around his temples and jaw.

I liked it. A lot. Enough that I immediately started wondering what it would feel like to grab—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

“All right, let’s go!” Rhodes shouted as he joined us. “Everyone on their feet and grab your water bottles. We’re doing a five-mile run!”

The protest was immediate.

“Five miles!” Brent exclaimed over the collective groan that rolled through the team. “I can’t run five miles!”

“You can and you will,” he said, “even if it takes you all day.”

“Man!” Rodney whined. “That’s too damn far.”

“You’ll be just fine,” Rhodes assured him. I bit back a laugh because I honestly didn’t think half the team would survive a five-mile run. Five miles wasn’t exactly impossible, but our team covered a wide range of body types and positions. Some guys were built to sprint, others to tackle, and some looked personally offended by the concept of sustained cardio. But the expression on Rhodes’ face told me this wasn’t negotiable. He had that calm, maddening look he got when he’d already decided how something was going to happen and was simply waiting for everyone else to catch up.