DAMON

A plume of steam from the shower follows me into my bedroom, a towel wrapped around my waist. Coach wants us at the airport by one o’clock, which means I’ve got four hours to get my head straight before departing for the biggest game of my life. The National fucking Championship.

The words still feel foreign in my mouth, like someone else’s dream I accidentally stepped into.

I shake my head as I open my dresser, trying not to think about Avery and how she never showed up last night.

I should’ve known better than to hinge my hopes on her, yet I waited for her to get off work like a kid waits for Christmas, only to be disappointed.

Maybe she really did get caught up at work.

Maybe she had a perfectly legitimate reason to leave me hanging, but I can’t help but feel like it’s the warning I need to stay away.

If I get too close to the flame, I’m bound to get burned, and when it comes to Avery Astor, I’m completely hopeless.

My phone buzzes on top of the dresser, interrupting my melancholic thoughts. Swiping it off the dresser, I check the screen, unsure of whether I should answer if it’s her. I’m all nerves?pins and needles and excruciating anticipation?but when I see Chris’s name, instead of hers, I hit ignore.

I’ll be seeing my teammates soon enough. Right now, I need to find a way to calm my racing thoughts and lock in. If I don’t, they’ll only get worse as we head to the airport.

I toss the phone back onto my dresser and slide open the top drawer, reaching for a clean pair of boxer briefs when the damn thing buzzes again. Same name. Same ringtone. Chris. Again.

I groan, raking a hand through my damp hair.

If he’s calling twice, it’s either something important, or he’s being a pain in the ass. Either way, I jab the green button and lift the phone to my ear.

“This better be good,” I mutter.

“Have you turned on the news?” Chris asks, his tone frantic.

I straighten, my muscles pulling tight. “No. Why?”

“Do it.”

I only hesitate a moment before I make my way into the living room where I find West, already dressed and lounging on our couch with a book in hand.

He barely spares me a glance as I swipe the remote from the coffee table and point it at the TV. “Chris said to turn the news on,” I tell him, then hit speaker on my phone, so we both can hear Chris once I power on the television.

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 in twenty inches 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.

Anger slithers in my chest, slimy and unsettling. If there’s one person on my shit list these days, it’s Reginald Astor. “Is everything okay?” I ask. I expect it’s not, simply because wherever Reginald Astor is, there’s fire.

“Yeah. They just paid me a surprise visit,” she says, with a flap of her hand. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“It’s not?” I ask, clutching my towel at my waist.

“I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you, but I just thought you might need a caffeine fix.”

I tilt my head, my grin deepening. “Is that the only reason you stopped by? To caffeinate me?”

“And I wanted to say sorry and wish you good luck and to tell you that I’m going to your game. I booked a flight.” She bites her lip, eyes glittering as she waits for my reaction.

I lift the coffee cup, hiding my grin behind it as I take a sip to deflect how much this admission affects me. Regardless, just knowing she’ll be there sends a flood of warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with caffeine or the heat of the drink in my hands.

“Seriously?” I ask, and when she nods, I shake my head. I can’t believe she’s coming. I asked her on a whim, but I never really expected her to come. “That’s . . . amazing.”

“Does it make up for last night?” she asks, scrunching her nose.

“It might be the best apology I’ve ever had.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, those hazel eyes darting from mine to her surroundings, taking everything in and looking everywhere but at my bare chest or the towel slung low on my hips.

And suddenly, I’m hyperaware of every bead of water still clinging to my shoulders, the dampness of my hair, the precarious position of my towel, and the way her cheeks flush every time she glances this way.

There’s an odd kind of power that comes from knowing you still affect someone this much—especially someone who once shattered you?but I try not to let it go to my head as a I hook a thumb toward my bedroom and say, “Give me one second, and I’ll change.”

“Okay, yeah. Good idea,” she says, and the relief in her voice nearly makes me laugh.