Page 107 of Irresistibly Risky

“Is he okay?” I ask one of the trainers.

“Yes. He got his bell rung and most definitely has a concussion. Dean is taking him back for an X-ray and possibly a CT scan, depending on what he discovers during his neuro exam.”

“Good.” I breathe out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad Dean is on it.” Leo is a nice kid. A bit too cocky for his own good, but a nice kid.

Joe glares at me from the sideline, and I give him a cheeky grin. He grumbles something I can’t hear and then turns back to the field. What his problem with Asher is, I have no clue, but it doesn’t matter. We’re out there now. Asher just made us public, and any peace and quiet we had before is now gone.

I should be angry about that. It’s not what we talked about at all, but I can’t find my ire anywhere. My guy is on the field, and that seems to trump everything else at the moment.

“Don’t worry,” one of the players, whose name is Aaron I think, says to me. “They’ll keep him safe, and Asher is the best in the league at evading the sack. I think he only had six all of last season.”

“That’s not a lot?” I ask, gnawing on my lip.

He grins at me. “There are quarterbacks who have six in a game.”

“Oh.” I grimace. “Okay. Got it.”

“You get used to it,” he tells me. “My wife never used to watch my games, but now she comes to every home game we have.”

“Thank you for that,” I tell him. “It helps.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slip it out to see it’s Fallon.

“Excuse me.”

I shift over toward the side—and the heater, let’s be honest—for some privacy that I doubt I have any of.

Fallon: Asher kissing you is all over every sports network right now, whether they’re broadcasting the game or not. You can also tell that he says I love you to you.

Me: Fabulous. What are the odds we make it home without a media storm or without people discovering that Asher is my baby daddy?

Fallon: Next to none. They’ll know your name and who you are by the end of the game. I’m sorry.

Me: Thank you. It was bound to come out at some point.

That’s the spin I’m going to put on it because it’s the only one I’ve got. Asher steps onto the field, and the place erupts into thunder and lightning, vibrating the earth beneath my feet with its intensity and flashing endless light from camera phones. Asher throws his hand up in the air, thanking the fans, and then he’s all business, going into the huddle and leading his team.

My heart hiccups into my throat and stays there, lodged like a lump of clay unable to be expelled. My fingers knot up and tuck under my chin like a six-year-old. I never really watch the games when I’m out here. I mean, I watch some of it. But I don’t follow plays or downs or the score—or much of anything—other than the clock that I was always counting down.

But right now, I’m invested, my breath held along with every other fan here.

Ryder snaps the ball, and right off the damn bat, two guys on either side of the field go running the distance along with another guy I’ve heard referred to as a tight end. Asher fakes handing off the ball to the runner and then he sidesteps, dodging the advance of a defensive player, and lets the ball fly. Joe curses audibly, ripping his headset from his head and thrashing his arm out as if he’s about to chuck it. The ball sails in a high, tight spiral that hits one of the players downfield midstride.

With the ball in his hands, he sprints down the field, only to be tackled on the twenty-yard line. Asher fist pumps into the air and then points at his wide receiver, but that’s the only emotion he shows. Just like that, he’s clapping his hands, and getting his team to run down the field, calling something out to each of them as they go.

Joe is losing his absolute mind on the sideline and then calls a timeout.

Asher is furious, yelling at Joe in a way I’ve never seen him do before as he comes running over to the sideline. The two of them go head-to-head, shouting words no one else can hear due to the roar of the crowd. Ryder inserts himself between the two of them and then starts walking forward, pushing Asher back onto the field.

“Follow the fucking plays I call!” I hear Joe belt out, and all Asher does is shake his head.

“I know!” He points at Joe over Ryder’s shoulder. “I fucking know all about you, Joe. You’re not calling shit today.”

I have no idea what’s going on, but I’ve never seen Asher like this. And what the hell did that mean? He knows about Joe? What does he know? Ryder grabs Asher by the facemask of his helmet, and then he’s saying something that has Asher nodding. The timeout ends, and Asher is on the field, calling the play, going completely rogue.

Joe’s headset goes flying, skidding across the grass, forcing two players to jump so it doesn’t smash into them, and then it crashes against one of the heaters. He’s ripping at his hair and for a man who is notoriously cool and composed, he’s completely unhinged. The players shift, giving Joe a wider berth. Not even his assistant coaches will go near him.

My phone vibrates in my pocket again.

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