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The Red Zone series continues with Sam and Brixton in TIGHT END, a hot and steamy hate to love fake relationship, rock star football romance.

Stepping inside, my eyes adjust to the dim gold and orange light in the hospital chapel. Rows of candles glow along the sides of the room and a large crucifix hangs on the wall opposite me.

I swallow hard, clenching and unclenching my fingers. I wipe my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans and look around at the empty pews in front of me.

Do I sit down? Light a candle? Kneel at the altar?

I have no idea what to do but somehow, just being here makes me feel like I'm doing something to help my brother Davis.

"If you don't know what to do, just light a candle and say a prayer."

I jump and twist around toward the intruding voice. A dark figure hunches over the top of the pew with his hands folded. His head rests on top of them, a spill of dark hair falling over his eyes which stare straight in front of him. Squinting in the darkness, a flicker of recognition registers in my brain.

Sam Hartley. Tight end for the Oakland Saints. Hot as fuck and built like a brick shithouse.

Crap, am I allowed to think those things in the presence of God? I mean, let's face it, God created him so he knows it's all true. He can't hold it against me.

"Thanks." I guess I give off the amateur religious vibes. Taking a few slow steps toward one of the rows of candles, I cast another glance at Sam. His broad, muscular upper body is stiff, jaw tight and tensed.

I fish out a match and hold it to one of the flickering flames, igniting the tip. Then I choose a candle in the top row and hold it to the wick until it flares. I blow out the match and stick it with the other extinguished ones.

Say a prayer.

I watch the candle burn for a few long seconds, waiting for some sense of peace to wash over me. Isn't that what's supposed to happen? Some feeling that everything is going to be okay because God's on your side?

"If you're waiting for some magic to happen, it won't."

That voice again.

But damn, it's like he can read my mind. I've heard him speak in interviews and he sounds like a pretty smart and well-educated guy. But maybe he's got psychic powers besides all the superpowers he displays on the football field.

Still, my spine tenses. I turn around and look at him.

"I appreciate the chapel tutoring session, but I'm good."

He lifts an eyebrow. "If you were good, you wouldn't be here right now."

"Maybe I'm just thankful." My pulse throbs against the side of my throat because his words hit me with the force of a hammer to my chest.

"Or maybe you're just covering your bases." He rises from the kneeler and sits back in the pew. With a sweep of his hand, he pushes the hair out of his eyes, slicking it back to expose the tormented expression on his face. "But either way, it won't matter. No matter how many prayers you say, candles you light, or good karma you command, none of it will change God's plan." He hangs his head. "And it really fucking sucks."

"I, ah, didn't think we were allowed to curse in here."

Sam lifts his tortured gaze to mine. "I don't think it can make things any worse at this point."

"I was in a bad car accident tonight while we were trying to get my brother's fiancé to the hospital. She went into labor after a concert," I say. "My brother was hurt pretty badly and needed surgery. But he's out now and things are looking good. Plus, he's got a brand-new baby girl to meet."

I step into a pew a few rows in front of him and sink onto the bench. "I came here after leaving his room just to say thanks, I guess."

Sam narrows his eyes at me. "You're Brixton Scott, right? Sin City? I've seen you guys play in LA."

I nod. "Yeah. We were at the Sun Arena tonight. Fucking Uber driver was more concerned about Allie giving birth in his backseat than getting us to the hospital in one piece."

A hint of a smile lifts Sam's lips. "You just cursed."

"You said it was okay." I shrug. "And you seem to be more of an expert than me with this stuff, so…"

"I said it wouldn't make things any worse," he corrects. A deep sigh shudders his shoulders and he reclines against the back of the pew.

"Why are you here?"

"My brother. He's been sick for a long time. It's bad. He's terminal. And I've spent more time in this chapel than you can imagine over the past couple of years." He stares down at his hands. "We thought things would get better but he's just gotten weaker and weaker. Today, he took a nosedive. The doctors told us it's the end."

"That explains why the media was all over you after this afternoon's game." He slowly lifts his head and stares at me. "Yeah, I know who you are, too."

He holds my curious gaze. "Not my shining moments, that's for sure. My head wasn't in it at all. I'd just gotten the call right before kickoff and the game pretty much ended before it started for me."

"So why'd you come here, then? Praying for a miracle?"

With a look around, his face hardens. "Nah. Not anymore. Now I'm just praying that he's not in any more pain. That he can go peacefully. That my family and I can figure out how to pick up the pieces when he's gone." Sam's Adam's apple bobs in his throat and I have the sudden urge to wrap my arms around him.

He's such a huge force in the NFL. A star rookie turned league superstar after only a few short years. But he sits here in front of me now, powerful, strong, and completely broken at the same time.

My heart clenches.

It could be me saying those very same things if the situation was different and if Davis hadn't come out of the surgery successfully a little while ago.

"I'm really sorry about your brother." I finally find the words and he smiles.

"Thanks. I'm glad your brother is going to be okay." He stretches his arms over his head, the arms of his suit jacket hugging the muscles. I swallow hard and drag my eyes away from him.

Suddenly, I feel like I'm intruding on his space. I rise from the pew and back away, part of me resisting the movement because in all honesty, I want to stay. He gazes at me, sadness and resignation pooling in his dark eyes.

My fingers itch to trace over the lines of his jaw, my lips tingle with the urge to taste his.

Seriously?

I ball my fingers into a fist.

Jesus, I need to get out of here. I can't have these thoughts…in here, of all places…about a guy who's about to lose his brother to some horrible disease.

Our eyes lock.

My brain short-circuits and I struggle to find parting words, mainly because I don't want to part.

"Um, good luck with…uh, the rest of the season."

The guy needs to grieve alone. He doesn't want me in there interrupting his spiritual flow.

Sam watches me as I practically trip over my feet to get through the door. I can feel the heat of his stare singe my skin through all the layers of clothing. My breath hitches when the door closes. I stand in the hallway, the stark white walls suddenly cold and void of compassion.

With a thumping heart, I grab my buzzing phone from my pocket.

Mercy Hospital flashes across the screen. My eyes widen. What the?—?

With a shaking finger, I stab the Accept button, my heart thrashing in my chest.

"Hello?"