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“It’s not even game day. Why would there be kids?”

“I don’t know!” Her volume spikes, matching mine. “Maybe I don’t need to justify myself to some overgrown caveman with road rage!”

Jesus Christ. She’s five-foot-nothing and yelling at me like she wants to throw down.

And fuck me—I’d let her.

A flicker of heat tightens in my chest. Or lower. The memory of tangled limbs and soft gasps tries to break through, but it won’t stick. Just the echo of it. I blink, forcing it down.

“Whatever. I don’t have time for this.” I spin, stalking toward my car.

“Where are you going?”

I ignore her.

Her fingers wrap around my forearm—small, firm, warm—and I go still.

Electric. That’s the only way to describe it.

Not just heat. Recognition. Like my body clocked something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

Her scent—clean, citrusy, but with this soft hint of vanilla—hits me in the chest. It clings. Familiar in a way I don’t like. Or maybe I like it too much.

I blink down at her, this stranger who looks at me like she’s daring me to explode. And for a second, I’m off balance. Like there’s something I should remember, something just out of reach.

I yank my arm back—not hard, but enough to break whatever weird current was zapping between us.

“I asked you a question.”

I glance down. Her touch zings straight to my bloodstream, crackling beneath the surface.

“To park.” I yank my arm free and open the door, forcing her to step back. She watches as I pull into a space a few spots down. Arms crossed. Eyes blazing. I kill the engine and sit there for a second, pulse still hammering like I’m mid-game.

When I turn the car off, I let out a long sigh and grip the wheel.

If this is any indication of what I’m in for over the next two years of my contract, I’m not sure I’m going to make it out in one piece.

The team nutritionist shows up while I’m reviewing playbooks. Blonde. Professional. The same woman who tried to take my bumper off yesterday.

She stops dead when she sees me. Clipboard drops an inch. “Shit.” “Yeah.” I don’t look up from the plays. “Small world.”

She recovers fast, stepping into the room like she didn’t just curse. “I’m doing intake assessments this week.”

“Course you are.”

“Basic questions. Injuries, supplements, allergies.” She’s all business now, but her jaw’s tight.

“Also, energy drinks aren’t breakfast.” I lean back, finally looking at her.

“You psychic now?”

“I can smell the Red Bull from here.” Fair point. I drained two cans before nine AM. “Anything else, Doc?”

“Not a doctor. Nutritionist.” Her pen hovers over the clipboard. “How many meals did you eat yesterday?”

“Define meal.”

“Food. On a plate. That you chewed.” I think about it. Protein bar at six. Another Red Bull around noon. Whatever was in the vending machine after practice.