Page 165 of Only in Your Dreams

I loop the silver strand around her finger, fitting it into a ring, and I was wrong.

So wrong.

Thisis the moment that can’t be topped.

Or maybe it can be. Maybe that’s the point. Because as long as I have her, my four-leaf clover, we’ll have a lifetime of topping the last moment.

THE END

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Bonus Scene: Paparazzi and Overalls

“Hey, Petey-Pete.”

If I didn’t know him—didn’t raise him myself since he was a year old, badly anxious and with zero bladder control—I’d never want to be caught in a dark alley alone with the monster-sized German shepherd currently barking on the sideline of the UOB football field.

I have no idea what’s setting him off. Maybe he’s scandalized that he doesn’t get to play with the balls spiraling through the air behind me, in individual practice sessions not unlike the one Parker’s trying to put me through. Or maybe he zeroed in on a tiny butterfly somewhere across the field he’d much rather be chasing.

But the second he spots me, my mean-mugging, one-hundred-and-five-pound boy flops to the ground, belly up, demanding his dues.

And I’d never leave him hanging.

With a playful growl, I drop to my knees and get to work on the belly rubs. Peter squirms happily into the ground, tail slapping frantically against my leg.

“You’re doing this on purpose, right? It’s not enough to be an ex-NFL star and the town heartthrob. Brooks Attwood has to be absurdly sweet with dogs, too.”

I wink up at Mel, ex-fake girlfriend turned frequent Pete-sitter whenever she and Zac are back in Oakwood Bay for the weekend. “I’m also a damn good kisser, and I can cook up a mean peach cobbler.”

“And humble as hell to boot,” she says with a half-hearted eye roll. She nods at Peter. “We were out for a run near the stadium and I thought we’d stop by to say hi.”

“Thanks for taking him out,” I tell her, getting to my feet and brushing the grass sticking to my knees. “I hate to leave him alone on the weekend, but I try to train every minute I can these days.”

“Not every minute, apparently. Parker looks like he’s trying to murder you with laser beams from his eyes.”

I peer over my shoulder, and she isn’t wrong. Parker’s out in the middle of the field, football in hand, waiting impatiently by a series of bright orange cones designed to torture my footwork into submission after my year and a half long retirement from the NFL.

I don’t blame him. For four months, I’ve been pulling him out of bed every Saturday and Sunday to help train me in the gym, then run me through drills on the field. Not to mention the sessions I make him put me through after he wraps up work for the day, from Monday to Friday.

I haven’t had a day off since the Huskies season ended and I quit my job to focus on the comeback. Which means that my poor, laser beam-eyed friend hasn’t been able to kick his feet up either.

I’d be more willing to rest if someone—read: my shark of an agent—hadn’t leaked to the media that the so-calledbeloved Brooks Attwoodwas spending the off-season trying to claw his way back into the league as an un-signed free agent.

Josh—the aforementioned shark—says it’s good to have media momentum backing me. Getting fans invested in my return makes me more attractive to teams. I’d bring extra advertising income and fan attention to whichever one signs me.

I say it’s a good way to drive myself crazy, when this comeback was a longshot to begin with. An unsigned player coming out of retirement after a bad concussion put him on his ass? It’s ambitious as hell.

Parker jerks his thumb at the collection of cones behind him, indicating I should really get my ass back out there if I don’t want him to kick it instead.

“He was the one who offered to rehab me, to be fair.” I turn back to Mel, who chuckles at her brother’s impatience while absently patting Peter’s head. “And I’ve been paying him in home-baked goods, which he should count himself lucky to have. You don’t develop a sweet tooth like mine without learning how to throw together damn good dessert over the years.”

“I’m aware—our survival at camp came down to your chocolate chip cookies. Anyway, Zac was mentioning that you started…”

I lose track of what she’s saying. Behind me, I hear a small coo and follow the sound to find two women striding out of the nearby tunnel under the stands leading to the locker room.

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