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“You’ve put in the work, and I have no doubt you’ll reap the benefits over the season. This’ll be the one. I can feel it.”
“That’s the hope.”
Four years playing ball in college. Five seasons in the pros. Three trips to the playoffs and one Super Bowl appearance.
Zero titles.
I hope this is the year that changes. It’d damn well better be because my time in the game is running out. Beau and Samuel have been pressuring me for years to retire, mostly because the risk of brain injury grows the longer I play. Now that I’ve hit two decades in the game—like my brothers, I started playing young, six years old—they’re laying it on especially thick.
For good reason. A reason I do not want to think about right now. So I won’t. I have to focus on the game and put my all into preparing for the season. It’s now or never.
I straighten and my lower back spasms. I try my best not to wince. I’m gonna be sore as all get-out tomorrow.
“You sure you’re okay?”
I spear Tom with a look. “How many burpees you want?”
He twists his wrist to glance at his watch. “Fifty seconds’ worth. Ready?”
I’m on the ground before he even sets the timer. Burpees are the devil’s work. I feel like puking as I move through one, then another and another, wondering when the hell fifty seconds got so long.
Workouts never felt so long, did they? Back in the day, I enjoyed them. Now? Not so much.
My phone starts buzzing again. My heart does that swooping thing—same as it did when I saw Amelia at the engagement party.
Tom glances at the phone. “You wanna get that? It’s the third time this Melissa chick’s called you.”
I go still halfway through a push-up at the mention of my lawyer’s name. She never calls me on the weekends. Ever. “Melissa Hanson?”
“Not sure. Couldn’t see the last name well, but it looked like an H.”
“Shit.” As far as I know, I only have one Melissa H on my phone.
I stand, grateful for the excuse to stop moving, and brush off my hands as I jog over to my phone. Could be the spicy workout, could be the weird shadow of foreboding that moves over my center—whatever it is, my heart thrums when I pick up the phone and slide my thumb across the screen. “Melissa, hey. What’s up?”
There’s a pause.
Melissa, being the consummate legal professional she is, is not one to pause.
“Hi, Rhett. You have a minute?” she asks slowly. She sounds . . . bewildered almost.
I glance at Tom. “I’m actually in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”
Another pause. My heart is going apeshit now.
“You know what, this is really important. I’m gonna need you to take a seat.”
“Uh.” I glance at the field around me. A butterfly lands on a nearby dandelion, fluttering its wings in panic as a wasp tries to join it. I feel that flutter in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t—there’s nowhere to sit.”
“You’re gonna want to sit for this.”
Now I really am gonna be sick. I meet Tom’s eyes. “Listen, Melissa, I don’t mean to be rude, but can you just spit it out already?”
“Rhett.” She takes a deep breath. “It appears you might be the father of a two-year-old boy.”
My blood rushes cold. “What?”
I don’t know how I end up on the ground, but suddenly I’m there, the roots of the tree digging into my left ass cheek. Tom rushes over, brow furrowed, but I wave him away, the saliva in my mouth thickening.
“Long story short, Miguel was going through your DMs, and he came across a . . . well, a troubling message from a woman named Elle Kincaid, which he forwarded on to me.”
Oh boy. That’s bad news. After the number of direct messages, or DMs, I got on Instagram became too overwhelming to keep up with by myself, I put my agent, Miguel, on the job. He mostly looks out for business opportunities—sponsored posts make bigger money than you’d think—but also for potential legal issues. He only forwards the trickiest stuff to Melissa.
I’m no saint. But never in a million years would I have guessed this would be the legal issue Melissa would find in my inbox. “I don’t know anyone named Elle.”
“She says she’s good friends with Jennifer Williams. Do you remember meeting a woman by that name?”
A deluge of fresh sweat leaks into my eyes. I try to wipe it away with my bicep, which is equally sweaty and only makes my vision blur.
“Do you remember meeting Jennifer Williams?” Melissa repeats.
My heart pounds as my mind whirs, trying to place the name. Finally, it catches—redhead, Hollywood Hills, that Leo DiCaprio party. Or was it the Winnie Harlow photo exhibit thing? Fuck. Fuck, why can’t I remember the details?
