Page 3

Micah

A few hours earlier…

T he upbeat music of my jogging playlist thrums in my ear. Two squirrels fight over a nut to my right as other joggers pass me going the opposite way to my left. None of them pay any attention to me.

The breeze picks up as I follow the winding path. I take a deep breath of the fresh air. Central Park. If I have to be in New York, this is the place to spend time in. Green grass. Leaves blowing in the wind. It reminds me of home.

My feet press into the trail at a rhythm that barely registers, my arms swinging freely beside me. The sunrise hovers above the tree line as if it’s trying to peek through, but it’s not yet awake, giving the sky a sleepy orange glow.

It always surprises me when I jog here how many people have the same idea. Back home, if I go jogging, I might meet a few others, but nothing like this.

My music cuts off, and a beeping sound replaces it. I hit the Answer button, and Joey’s voice slides into my ears in a much more boring, curt way than the music had. “You’re not in your hotel room.”

“No, I’m in New York.”

“I know you’re in New York, but you’re not in your hotel room.”

“Joey, I’m in New York,” I remind him, and something must click in that overly critical brain of his.

“I see. I’ll re-route the limo to Central Park.”

“Because when I’m in New York…” I pause, waiting for him to repeat my saying back to me.

“You go jogging in Central Park.”

“Good.”

“Oh, I’m so glad I can still make you proud,” he deadpans.

I smirk, a snicker pushing up my throat. Joey’s been my assistant for a few years, and he’s got that organized black and white thing going for him. He likes things easy and on schedule. He hates gray areas and blurred lines, and he’s a straight shooter.

“The limo will take you to the studio where you’ll be on The Paula Show.”

“Yes, I remember. I’ll be my charming, approachable self.”

“Be better than your charming, approachable self. Be…Parker.”

I huff out a laugh and turn back toward the entrance I started from. He’s right. That guy is a PR’s dream, and he’s also a damn good quarterback. “I’m so sorry you’re slumming it in the Micah Freeman camp.”

“RIP my career. Now,” he says, getting back down to business. “I’ll make sure the show knows you’ll need to shower. Hair and makeup. And?—”

“Why am I doing this again?” I interrupt. It isn’t usual to be on a morning talk show. I’m almost always on at night, and at the end of the season, not right in the middle.

“Raeann Gorman.”

My mind works on her name, trying to find some tie-in to why I had to start jogging in Central Park at 4:30 a.m. instead of my regular time, or what she has to do with the television show. “And she is?”

“The video, Micah. The viral video. The one where she’s high on whatever they give you at the dentist and says you two are married?”

“Oh. She said that?” I pick through my brain, immediately recalling Vegas because where else in the world would I get married off the cuff like that?

“You might want to watch it before you meet her. Though, they’ll probably play it on the show. What’s another million views, right?”

“Million views?”

“Well, it’s at a hundred million right now.”

My feet nearly trip over each other. “A hundred million views?”

“You live under a rock. No one sent it to you?”

“You told me not to open my IG messages anymore after that teacher from OnlyFans sent me photos and then told everyone I looked at them.”

“Okay…” I can picture Joey now, moving his glasses out of the way so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. “Note to self: send all viral videos of Micah to Micah.”

“Are you only saying that out loud? Or do you have some handy machine that makes notes for you?”

“Both. I was being productive and facetious.”

“Multi-talented.”

“Talented enough for you to put in a word for me with Parker’s camp?”

I huff out a laugh as I come to a stop by the park exit. Propping my heel up on a bench, I do some short stretches while the limo pulls up. “You wish. You’re stuck with me.”

“Just remember, she’s a big fan. She’s a little country. Sweet hometown girl. Her family has been Wildcats fans forever. This is the demographic you want to impress.”

“Are you my assistant? Or my publicist?”

“Wearing multiple hats today since your publicist is on vacation. Yay for margaritas on the beach.”

“Ooo, margaritas.”

“Not you. You’ll have orange juice and water. I’ll mention it to Paula’s people.”

“And a New York bagel.”

“And a New York bagel. Anything else?”

He waits for a beat, and when I don’t say anything, the phone beeps, and my music comes back on with a crashing vengeance.

I cringe, taking the earbuds out of my ears as I make my way to the long black car.

People start to look. The orange hue of the sky has brightened, and now the sun is peeking through, warming up the slight chill in the overnight air.

A few people even take their phones out of their pockets, and I’d bet a thousand dollars they’re tourists.

New Yorkers don’t care about this kind of stuff.

I give them a wave and the driver opens the door for me. I scoot in, getting comfortable when the door closes. My drenched shirt sticks to me, so I take the hem and wipe my face.

The first thing I do after that is take a sweaty selfie and send it to a group chat with a couple of the offensive guys. “Cardio done. Gonna smoke you guys this season.”

I don’t expect them to get back to me for a few hours since it’s a day off for us. No practice. No meetings. I’d be sleeping in today if I wasn’t here for this interview.

Wait. Not an interview. What exactly am I doing again?

The ride to the studio is short. I’m ushered into a dressing room where I can shower and change.

The vanity chair is a snug fit as a guy with a headset knocks on the door and then brings in a change of clothes—no doubt courtesy of Joey.

When he leaves, I pull them on, approving of the dark-blue slacks and slate-gray button-up shirt tailored to fit me perfectly.

I close my eyes and drift off while hair and makeup comes in. People chat at me, but it doesn’t really warrant conversation. I respond enough to be polite so they can’t tweet that I was a huge dick. Unfortunately, it’s happened before.

The guy with the headset comes in a few minutes after they’ve finished and tells me they’re bringing the girl on now and that I’m not allowed to leave my room until she’s on stage.

His words are a reminder of Joey’s briefing. She doesn’t know I’m coming on the show. She’s a huge fan, and I’m surprising her. I remember now.

Headset guy peers down the hallway. With the door open, I can hear the excitement of the crowd.

He calls me forward then, and I get up, checking myself in the mirror one last time before following him.

He peers back at me only to have to shift his eyes up to meet my gaze.

I’ve seen surprise like that before. I look smaller on TV. People say it all the time.

Headset guy stops me next to a dark wall.

Beyond that, I can see the bright lights of the set, but we’re sequestered away for the time being.

He points to a monitor, and I’m immediately struck by the sight of one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

Honey-blonde curls. A dress that hugs her curves, the hem lying across a pop of calf.

For a moment, I confuse the host with the girl I’m surprising, but then it’s all too obvious which one is which.

She’s stunning. Blood pumps through my body, a current straight to my dick as my pants stretch against my growing crotch.

The girl speaks with a twang that sucker punches me in the gut.

The camera pans to the host for a while, and my chest constricts until they switch to a different angle that shows the girl again.

What did Joey say her name was? It was country-sounding.

Something that only a few seconds ago was so forgettable, but now a name I wish I knew my entire life.

Her face reddens, and I step closer to the monitor.

All the thoughts running through my head drown out their conversation, but I really want to hear what they’re saying.

Instead, I’m greeted with a home video. The same girl on the stage is cuddled up on a couch with her dog, who’s wearing an adorable plaid outfit, only this time, the girl is stripped of makeup and naturally gorgeous.

Her gorgeous, pouty lips, disheveled hair, and bright eyes.

“But I ‘ove him!” she nearly growls into the camera.

“Honey, you’ve never met him,” another female voice says.

Her cute, confused expression is replaced with a scowl. “Tha’s wha you fink.”

The video goes away, and the crowd cheers. The camera is on her again. She’s clearly mortified, her fingers curling into each other on her lap.

My heart slams in my chest. I pull out my phone and send Joey a text using my voice. “Get me everything you can on this girl, and what’s her name again?”

“Raeann,” headset guy answers. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

I grab the front of his shirt, yanking him toward me with a growl.

My finger catches on the cord that runs from his headset down his body, twisting it nearly off his head so it sits askew.

I look him up and down, shoulders tight.

The same surge of energy that rushes through me out on the field reverberates through me now.

I’ve always said I become animal-like, grunting and grinding through D-lines with my sole focus on eating up as many yards as I can.

Right now, I want to tear this guy’s eyes out of his body for having the audacity to even look at this girl.

“Whoa,” he stammers, lifting his hands up. The clipboard he was holding clatters to the floor.

My face on the screen captures my attention. It’s barely more than a stock video of me that my PR team asked for. I vaguely even remember doing it, and I certainly didn’t know who I was doing it for.

The camera cuts to Paula when she yells, “Micah Freeman, come on out!”

I have only a moment to register the complete shock on Raeann’s beautiful face before I shake the guy and ease my grip on him. “She’s way out of your league, and…don’t talk about women like that.”

“I just said she was pretty,” he protests.

Is that all he said? The blood rushing through my head tells me it was worse.

“Don’t fucking talk about her like that,” I warn before stepping out around the wall and jogging toward the small stage.

I usually walk casually across these things because you don’t want to be the celebrity who makes the highlight reel on late-night television because you tripped over your own feet and ended up sprawled across the whole stage.

I’m known for my athleticism, but there are always exceptions.

Especially when I’m distracted.

And Raeann is a complete interruption to my psyche right now.

I barely register saying hi to the host before turning toward the girl in the flesh.

She’s peering up at me, as most people do.

She doesn’t even come up to my shoulders.

The aroma of salon hair products reaches my nostrils, and I breathe her in deep.

I don’t bother shaking her hand, I go right in for the hug, my arms encasing her, my body needing to feel her against me. Screaming that she’s mine .

She goes still, and I’m pretty sure I can hear her reminding herself to breathe before her chest expands.

The brush of her body against mine goes straight to my dick, and I have to pull away before I embarrass us on TV. I take her hand, squeezing it. “Nice to meet you.” A charged connection zaps between us.

There are only a few things I’ve been sure of in my entire life. I’m really good at football. I was born to lead. And Raeann and I are written in the stars.

It’s fate, and I won’t let anyone or anything stand in my way.