Page 3 of Final Down

I stand up and stuff Bryce’s card into the pocket of my joggers and rotate my arm a few more times. It’s not sore. It’s just . . . out of practice. Especially for throwing so many passes in a row. I wave to Reed as he looks my way, gesturing that I’ll wheel in the cart full of balls. He gives me a thumbs up, then holds out an arm to sling over Bryce as he walks up beside him. I pick up a few stray balls and drop them into the basket, but keep one in my hand, rotating it with a short toss in the air repeatedly, until Bryce and Reed turn the corner and are out of sight.

Portland noticed, huh?

I had a good summer. It was a lot of fun. Mostly, it was a nice excuse for Peyt and I to get away with Tasha and Whiskey. Since they got married and had twins, double dates have been hard to manage, and getaways are impossible. But with the rental house in Texas and the summer off, it was a nice chance to escape and pretend we were young again.

And the lights. The night games under the lights felt . . .

I walk down the field, stop at the ten-yard line, and toss the ball in my hand a few more times before scanning the landscape for witnesses. Joey, the seventy-year-old guy who works in maintenance, is swapping out a trash bag by the bleachers, but he’s not looking up.

I dig the toe of my shoe into the turf, testing how well my sneakers grip. These things are orthopedic, so not great. But they’ll do.

With my eyes focused on the way the ball fits in my hand, I tune out the world around me and mentally put myself there—in the game. It’s a clean snap and I fall back a few yards, checking the pocket, spotting my receivers, nodding to Keaton Jones as he pivots at the sideline and sprints to the fifty. The defense is rushing, so I have to spin and run wide right to buy more time. There are three seconds left. This is it—game on the line. One final play.

I sling the ball with all I’ve got and fall back a few steps, imagining the blow I’d take if this were real. The ball spins tight, cutting through the air, on track to hit Keaton mid-stride. Nobody’s guarding him. It’s a clear shot to the end zone.

My ball crashes into the middle of the cart, knocking it sideways and spilling the fifteen balls inside it in all different directions. My gaze pops up a tick to Joey, whistling with his fingers in his mouth.

“You still got it, Coach!” He waves, and I wave back.

I rotate my arm a few more times, expecting to feel something. And I do. I feel . . . good. Better than good. I jog to my mess and pick the balls up, tossing them in one at a time, but I keep one out and tuck it in under my bicep as I push the rest into the shed. I hold on to it as I hike across the parking lot to my truck, and I keep it nestled safely in my grasp as I stare out at the high school field of my old rival, where I now coach.

Portland noticed.

Chapter Two

Ishould have followed my gut. Wyatt has a thing for red, and the red satin slip I was set to buy at the boutique made me feel sexy. But then my bestie got in my ear, talking up the value of the lacy black and gold bodice and panty set with cut-outs in all the naughty places. She insisted that spicing things up for the scheduled sexcapades might do the trick and turn that second line on the pee stick blue.

I’ve been trying to snap the last hook in place in the dead center of my spine for the last forty minutes, and all it’s done is make me sweaty and given my bicep a cramp. The slip would have been so easy, and Wyatt would have looked at me with heat in his eyes. Because . . .red. Instead, he’s going to have to help me finish dressing up just so I can lure him to take this stuff off.

The clank of keys on the counter downstairs jolts me from my last attempt. I laugh out a breath and flop on my back, the cool of the comforter against my skin a refreshing embrace.

“I’m upstairs!” I holler. I lift my head and look down at my body, at the place where my skin puckers from the emergency surgery to remove a clot in my leg four years ago, then the waymy belly sticks out between the lace panties and the hard ridge of the bodice. I don’t exercise the way I used to. I can’t. This is a disaster.

“Hey, sorry I’m late. I had an interesting practice, and—” Wyatt’s hard stop as he stands in the now open doorway to our bedroom makes me bite my lip and hold my breath.

“Is thatgoodshocked ordid you fall and can’t get upshocked?” I really can’t tell from his speechless stare. And my low opinion of myself is leaning toward the latter.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure this is aI suddenly love black and goldstare,” he says, pulling his Coolidge High T-shirt up over his head in one smooth motion as he moves toward the bed. In under a second, he’s slipped his hands under my knees and pulled me to the edge of the bed. The movement knocks my breath away a little and I giggle, feeling a bit like a teenager, embarrassed for being so bold.

“Are you sure? I feel silly,” I say, the sudden chill of cool air against my exposed pussy reminding me that these panties are crotchless. I cover my face with both palms, and my cheeks are hot. I should not have listened to Tasha.

Wyatt’s hand covers mine, peeling my fingers away, his subtle grin pulling up one side of his mouth, his five o’clock shadow looking all sorts of inviting.

“You should definitely not feel silly, Peyt. You should feel a lot of things, which I’m about to make sure you do, but silly is not one of them. You are fucking . . .” He bites his lower lip and shakes his head as the dimple dents his right cheek. How can a man be both sexy and adorable at once?

“You better finish that sentence, Wyatt Stone. I’m fucking what?” Okay, the warmth is creeping into my body now. Maybe this outfit will do. And maybe my belly isn’t quite as pudgy as I imagine. And maybe?—

“Ahhh,” I sigh out as Wyatt’s thumb gently strokes between my legs. My knees part at his touch.

“I figured you were done listening to me talk,” he hums, pushing my legs farther apart as he drops to his knees and brings his mouth to my skin. “Do you want me to talk? Or would you rather I . . .”

His tongue flicks against my tingling skin, and goose bumps rush down my legs. The sensation is enough to make me want to press my thighs into him and hold him hostage against me. He must sense my muscles twitching because his hands rush along the insides of my thighs, holding me apart for him to feast. And feast he does.

“Oh shit, Wy!” I arch my back as his tongue assaults me in the best way, wasting no time diving inside as his mouth covers the rest of me, suckling me in.

I bite my knuckles to stifle my cries, knowing full well that my mother is still working with the horses outside and could be passing between the guest house and their home any second now. Sure, we’re married. Five years in. And yeah, my parents know we have sex and blah, blah, blah. The thought of one of themhearingus still makes my cheeks go beet red.

“Come here,” Wyatt commands, slipping a hand under the arch of my back and holding my lower body tight as he buries his face between my thighs.

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