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The screen flickers to life before I navigate to local news where they’re talking about a winter storm warning. I shrug, even though Chris can’t see me. “We’re getting snow. So what? It’s January, and we’ll be gone by this afternoon.”

“No, you jackass,” Chris grinds out. “Look at the part of the map he’s pointing to.”

West drops his book and sits up, staring at the television with wide eyes as I squint and peer closer, focusing on the map as the anchor points. My skin prickles as I realize the camera isn’t focused on the state of Michigan at all, but rather, Texas. Houston, in particular.

The weatherman points excitedly to an area covered in a moving swatch of dark blue over the Doppler radar. “Oh shit,” I hiss.

“Exactly,” Chris snaps. “This is complete?”

“Shhh,” I hush him as I turn the volume up and listen with rapt attention. “Listen . . .”

“If the cold front moves in like we’re currently predicting,” the weatherman says, circling Houston on the map, “this will be the worst winter storm Houston has seen in over one hundred years, Brian. In fact, it was Valentine’s Day in 1895 when the city was last buried intwentyinches of snow. Practically unheard of for Bayou City.”

The news anchor grins like an asshole as he straightens, moving away from the map. “Houstonians are already preparing. Store shelves are emptying,and people are lined up at the pump, filling tanks for generators. But more concerning are the travelers already arriving for the Football Championship game this weekend. Officials are already talking of canceling and rescheduling, but with both teams set to arrive in the next twenty-four hours, and many fans already in the area in preparation for Monday’s game, others are choosing to remain optimistic Houston won’t get hit as they’re predicting and are urging to keep the game as scheduled. Only time will tell, Brian. Of course, no matter what happens, we’ll be rooting for the Griffins. Back to you . ..”

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose for a moment to collect myself before angrily stalking toward the TV and unplugging it. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

This is the last thing I need. I’m fucking cursed. First, Avery’s arrival at AAU drove me to distraction and I almost lost us the semifinals. Then we reconnect and she stands me up. And now we have to contend with the biggest fucking snowstorm since 1895?

Fuck. Me.

“I know what you’re thinking,” West says, breaking through my post-weatherman freakout. “This feels like an omen, but it’s not. The universe doesn’t give a shit about our football game. It’s just weather,” he says calmly.

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Zen,” I mutter.

“As much as I hate to interrupt your little pep talk,” Chris’s voice crackles through the phone, “but Coach just sent us a mass text. The game is still on, and he said not to listen to the dipshits at the news station.” I snort, as Chris continues, somewhat relieved to hear it. “But to be safe, he’s arranged an earlier flight. He wants us in Houston and ready in case the weather takes a turn for the worst. There’s talk of potentially moving the game in anticipation of the storm. We leave in an hour.”

My stomach knots. An hour? I’m not even dressed. “Fuck.”

“That means I’ve gotta get my ass in gear,” Chris says to the sound of rustling in the background. “See you at my place in twenty.”

West rises from the couch as I end the call and toss my phone onto the cushions, then race back to my room. The last thing I need to worry about are things I can’t control like the weather, when there’s plenty within my control to worry about. Like winning the fucking championship and securing my future.

I reach for my dresser drawer and pull out a pair of boxer briefs when I hear a knock on the door.

Who the fuck . . .?

With a growl, I chuck them back inside and slam the drawer closed with my hip before stompingaveu back through the living room toward the sound of pounding and wrench it open.

I swear to God if this is Chris or Brandon or?

“Avery,” I breathe.

She stands in the hallway, the morning light catching her blonde curls, while those hazel eyes look up at me with a tentative smile pasted on her lush pink lips.

Her gaze drops and the smile slips as her cheeks pinken. “Uh, sorry . . .” She clears her throat, then tears her gaze from my bare chest back up to my face. “I, um, hope I’m not interrupting anything . . .” A blush darkens her cheeks as she shoves a to-go cup from Java the Hutt toward me. “Here.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of making Avery nervous, and I forgot how much I like it. With a smirk, I take the cup and our fingers brush, shooting a jolt I’m not prepared for up my arm and to my bones. It’s an electric shock to my entire body.

“For me?” I ask examining the cup as I step aside, allowing her inside.

“Oh, yeah.” She bites her lip, a self-deprecating laugh bubbling from her chest as she brushes past me. “Consider it an apology. For last night.”

My stomach squeezes as I remember how I waited. Even after I got her text telling me she might not make it, I still hoped. “What happened?” I ask, hating how desperate I sound, but also needing to know if she has a reasonable explanation.

Please have a reasonable explanation.

“My parents happened,” she says with a grimace.