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Grant

I don’t need to see the jumbotron at my back to know that Zoe Peebles is in the owner’s suite. The stadium buzzes with excitement, and it’s not because Card is stretching on the twenty-yard line.

I glance his way, and the jerk winks at one of the reporters on the sidelines. She giggles and preens and generally melts at the mild attention. I’d be tempted to think she’s unprofessional, except that the row of grandmas in the front of the stands are also swooning at the guy.

All right, the buzz might be because of Card. He’s basically got his own cheering section-slash-fan club-slash-dating app. my own sister wants to join. But the stands are louder than even team Card-nova usually inspires.

Not to mention the sidelines. Trainers are staring up at the suites, and two of the defensive coaches are elbowing each other.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I scowl anyway as I bend low, reaching for my left ankle and stretching my hip and hamstring. We don’t need this kind of distraction. Not after last week’s loss.

Images of the game flash across my mind as I swing to the right and work that side. We didn’t get outplayed. We shot ourselves in the foot. In fact, we set a new record for the organization. In penalty yards.

I push myself up on my knees, windmilling my arms, and almost smash into Ja’maar Harlin.

“Yo.” He laughs, bobbing and ducking out of the way. “We’re on the same team.”

I thump the purple eighteen on my chest that matches his jersey. “Thanks. I figured that out.”

He laughs again, pounding a fist on my shoulder pad. “Looks like we got a celebrity audience today.” His black eyebrows waggle, especially dynamic since there isn’t a single other hair on his round head.

I refuse to look in her direction. “We’re just going to play our game, right?”

“Yeah, but if we win, you think she’ll give me her number?”

I scowl at him, but he laughs it off.

“Come on, man, a guy can dream.”

“First, we have to win the game.” With a glance at the team warming up on the opposite end of the field, I frown. “Then, you’ll have to beat Card to it.”

Ezra—Card—Jennings jogs up to us, his helmet hanging from one hand as he runs the other through his cropped hair. His eyes are still on that reporter on the sideline. “Beat me to what?”

“Zoe Peebles.”

Card immediately loses interest in the reporter and whips around to Ja’maar. “Zoe’s here? Think I should shoot my shot?”

My tight end just lifts his chin toward the row of suites, and he and Card stand like statues, mouths gaping open. I don’t even know if they can see her. She’s probably hiding deep inside. I’d be looking for a hole to disappear into if my face was plastered across every tabloid in the King Soopers checkout line.

Well, every tabloid except The National Enquirer . Probably because the story has too much credibility to make the notorious paper. Not that I think the reporters are writing the whole story.

I’ve known Zoe since the night I was drafted to the Fourteeners. Well, known is probably too strong of a word. But we’ve been at the same party at least a few times a year. That’s one of the consequences of playing for her dad’s NFL team.

We’re on a casual first-name basis. A nod of the head. A grin in passing. A “we’ve met” every single year when Mr. Peebles’s lawyer tries to introduce us.

And even though I can count the number of actual conversations we’ve had on one hand, I’ve watched her from a distance. Not in a creepy way. But my eyes naturally wander to her. That’s just a consequence of her being the prettiest woman in any room.

I’ve seen the way she is with people—real people. The waitstaff. The valets. The ones everyone else in her circle ignores.

Zoe never does. She always has a smile and a word of gratitude. She treats everyone with respect—whether they can boost her career or not.

Whatever the tabloids are accusing her of, I can’t believe she’s guilty of half of it.

She usually steers clear of the Fourteeners and keeps her distance from the guys on the team. She sure deserves better than some gawking jocks.

Without thinking, my gaze swings toward the wall of windows. The reflection off the tinted glass makes it impossible to see inside, and the box seats on the stadium side of the windows are empty. They’re probably chugging Dom Pérignon inside just in case they don’t have anything to celebrate after the game.

But it’s my job to make sure they have the win.

And I need my teammates to have their heads in the game, not wondering if the petite brunette with the wide smile is noticing their play. That’s a sure-fire way to miss your mark and wind up with a broken ulna. Been there and have the surgery scars to prove it.

Suddenly a younger girl catches my attention in the stands. She walks down the steps to the railing and gives me a waist-high wave. Over her sweatshirt, she’s wearing one of my purple jerseys—certainly under duress—and even though I double checked that it was a small, it still reaches her knees.

I wave as I jog over to the stands. “Hey, Kenna.” I reach up to grab her hand and give it a little squeeze, but she crosses her arms.

I manage a smile and reach between the rails to tap the top of her Converse shoe. “You made it.”

She shrugs and presses her toe into the concrete. “Jerry and Denise said I had to come.” She points to my housekeeper and her husband, who are standing a few steps behind her. They’re not full-time or anything, but when my older sister Eden was deployed a few weeks ago and Kenna needed a place to live for six months, Denise insisted we take Kenna in. Of course I wouldn’t have let her be homeless or anything. But I didn’t have a clue what a thirteen-year-old girl needs. Still don’t.

Except that she does not need a nanny. Kenna made that abundantly clear on her first day under my roof. You’d have thought I suggested we burn the whole house down.

“Teenagers are a lot like toddlers,” Denise had said. “Feed and hug them. And make sure they get some sleep.”

Denise and Jerry have parented seven of their own into adulthood, so I figure they know a thing or two. And even if Kenna doesn’t need a nanny, at least she has someone around who might have answers to her questions.

I nod my head toward Jerry and mouth a thank-you to Denise. They smile and wave, patiently waiting for Kenna to join them before heading to their seats on the fifty-yard line. I offer them tickets every season but always get the same response. “We couldn’t impose.”

l need them to bring Kenna to my home games, so they can’t make that excuse this season. Honestly, it’s nice to have someone in the stands, who actually knows me. If my parents were still around, I know they’d love to watch me play. But they’ve been gone since I was in college. I’m thankful to have Denise and Jerry here.

Kenna, too. Even though I have a feeling this game isn’t going to impress her. It’s an obligation, a part of being under my roof. And she couldn’t care less.

I bet the seats would impress some of her male classmates though. A few signed footballs and dirty towels and I’d be in with them.

Girls are a different story. I have no idea how to connect with her, but I’ve got to do something. Six months is a long time to eat dinner—and breakfast—and weekend lunches—in silence. I put a no-screens-at-the-table policy in place as soon as she arrived. Stupidly I thought it would mean she’d tell me what she’s up to.

Instead, it means me watching her stare at her plate and poke at her food. Denise doesn’t cook anything less than incredible, so I’m pretty sure Kenna’s sullenness has more to do with her mom’s absence—and maybe the stress of changing schools halfway through the semester—than the food.

But something’s got to give. Maybe today will be the start.

“Will you cheer for us today?”

Kenna shrugs beneath the massive jersey.

“Tell you what, my first touchdown today is for you.”

She squints, clearly unimpressed. “What if you don’t score?”

Ouch. I’ve passed for at least one touchdown in each of my last seventeen games.

I’m not superstitious, but maybe I just jinxed that streak.

When I don’t say anything, she shrugs and turns toward Denise.

“I’ll see you after the game,” I say. “I love you!” My call is nearly drowned out by fans flocking toward me, shoving balls and jerseys over the railing and yelling for my signature. I nod toward the field and tell them I’ll see them after the game.

Kenna doesn’t even give me a look over her shoulder.

When I jog up to Ja’maar, he’s still stretching. eyebrow raised, he says, “Looks like your cheering section is getting younger.”

“She’s my niece.”

Both Card and Ja’maar look like a feather could push them over. “You’ve got a niece?” Card says.

“And a sister, too. But we’re not talking about girls anymore today.”

Card frowns, waving his gloved hand in the general direction of the suites. “But that’s Zoe Peebles up there.”

“Her dad owns the team. It’s not like this is the first game she’s been to.”

But this time is different. This time she’s not famous for the movie poster she’s on. She’s famous for a very public catfight with her boyfriend’s wife. And an angry director blaming her for having to recast and reshoot his movie.

“Come on, guys.” I pound them both on the shoulder and give them my QB voice, the one I use to make sure they can hear me even when we play in notoriously loud stadiums. Including our home field here in Colorado Springs. “We’ve got a game to win.”

They both give the box seats another long look.

Card flexes his not insubstantial arms, which sacked more quarterbacks last season than any other defensive end in the league. “Right. First we win. Then we chat up Zoe.”