2. Luke

TWO

LUKE

End of March

I lean on the drive in my hand and cross my right foot over my left and watch as Kevin, my center, swings back, and even though it's not pretty, his shot has a lot of power behind it. This time, unlike on the last seven holes, his shot is straight, which means he's only a hundred and fifty yards away from the green on a par five.

Damn him and his beefy arms.

He may be eight years older than me, but I bet every man in the world wishes to be as fit as he is at thirty-six.

Cameron, my left tackle, and Rashan, our best wide receiver, whistle and hoot for Kevin as he walks back to the golf cart and puts his drive back in his bag. Kevin takes off the glove from his left hand with a shit-eating grin aimed at me.

"Yeah, yeah, good shot," I mutter as I put on my own glove and walk to the tee .

Kevin and I have a friendly bet going today. Since we're a few weeks away from the draft, we both chose our picks for the first thirty-two picks, and whoever gets more correct—with the team drafting the player—has to carry the other's luggage the whole season.

When we arrived at the country club today, he decided to up the stakes. Whoever wins today, will buy the O line their Christmas present.

It's tradition for the QB to do this, but since it's Kevin's last season—something only those closest to him plus Gab know—he's going all out.

"You should think about your kids' tuition, you know?" I say, unaffected, as I do my first practice swing. "College is expensive. You can't be spending half your paycheck on Rolexes for the O line and for me when you've got four little hellions wanting to conquer the world."

Kevin smirks and shrugs his shoulders. "They're smart. I bet they can get scholarships. But you don't have to worry, Riggs, there's no way you're beating me today."

I scoff, then focus on my shot.

My ball stops about a hundred yards back from Kevin's. Fuck. But I can make it up on the green, he's a shit putter.

It's a weird thing, for sure, but a lot of players in the NFL get really into golf in the off-season. The three men on the course with me are the ones who got me into it. If you'd told eighteen-year-old me that ten years later I'd actually enjoy playing golf and not just make fun of people who play it, he'd have told you to stop trying to screw with him.

I was a different person back then.

Full of resentment, fear of failure, desperate to never go back to Texas .

Sadly, I do have to go every season for my divisional game against Dallas, but that's far away enough from the shitty bumfuck nowhere town where I grew up that it's something I can deal with.

The only thing that kid and I have in common is the fear of failure—which hey, at least I can admit it now—and the love for football.

The only worthwhile thing I got from dear ol' Dad. The man loves football, that's for sure, which is why I resisted trying out for the school's team initially, but now I at least understand one thing about the man.

I don't think he loves anything else if I'm honest. He sure as fuck doesn't love me. Even after I started playing ball he still wouldn't give me the time of day. He told me I would never be good at it before I'd ever set foot on a field.

As we drive down the fairway, I let myself wonder about him for a few seconds. I don't allow it often, but sometimes I picture him getting his shit together, maybe even keeping a job. Sometimes I wonder if he's dead and no one bothered to tell me. I don't blame myself for wishing he's dead more often than not.

It would mean he's not hurting anyone, after all.

Walter Riggs knows how to do two things right—hurting others and slinging beer.

So yeah, I might go to hell for it—and I'd find my daddy there for sure—but I do wish he was dead.

I shake my head to come back to the present and find Kevin looking at me funny. "Sorry?" I ask. I get the feeling he said something.

"Rashan asked you how you're holdin' up with everyone and their mother saying shit?"

I wince, but shake it off as I get out of the cart and walk to the back to get my five iron. "I mean..." I trail off .

"It's bullshit," Rashan tells me loyally.

"It is, but it's worse for Gab, I think."

"Yeah, they're giving her shit too." Cameron shakes his head. "The woman is a genius. She doesn't need these fucking experts to tell her how to run her team. We've gotten two rings in less than ten years, haven't we?" he demands.

"We sure have," I say with a smirk. "Still, the last few years without a Super Bowl win, or even an attendance, means everyone's going to give us shit. Mostly because they know we've got the team to do it."

I keep my eyes down as I say it.

I believe it completely, but it still stings.

"It's not your fault man," Rashan says, releasing a loud breath. "You may be the most important player in the offense, but you're not the only one, and you can't do it by yourself. We can't win without you, Riggs."

I smile faintly at him, then focus on my shot.

The last few months, talking things through with Gab, putting a plan together for the next season, have been good for my self-confidence, but it's not back to how I felt about my game four years ago. We're still not quite done with the planning, but we're getting there.

I'm gonna swing by after we're done here today, actually. The endless hours of analyzing other teams' rosters have given me an advantage when it comes to my bet with Kevin, but I have to focus on winning today. I wouldn't mind saving myself the quarter-million expense of my O line's presents.

But... In the end, Kevin wins. The bastard.

He didn't need to propose the bet, he just likes playing with fire. A hellion just like his four boys, that's for sure .

"I didn't actually lose anything," I tell him, when he throws both fists in the air and runs around the green like an idiot.

"Keep telling yourself that, Riggs." Cameron pats me on the shoulder, while Rashan looks after Kevin and bends over with a cackle when Kevin dives into the bunker next to the green and starts doing sand angels.

I shake my head and walk away. I need a shower and to get my head in the right place for another endless workday with Gab.

But first, lunch. Man, I'm starving.

I rush through my shower and am the first to get to the club's restaurant. I get a table and breathe a sigh of relief at how empty the place is. Noon on a regular Wednesday isn't the busiest time of the week, not by a long shot, but there's always the possibility of other people being here. Rogues fans to be exact.

They mean well, and of course I normally love fan interactions, but with all the talk happening in the last few months, since we lost the Championship, everyone has an opinion, and they all think they're the only ones who are right.

The guys get here, and we all order quickly. They have to be as starved as me.

"So..." Kevin says, before wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. I turn, curious at what his tone means. It's not full of humor, or too serious, which are the two most common ways he speaks, it's... hesitant?

"Laura has this friend."

I throw my head back and groan. I won't let him say anything else.

"C'mon, man." Cameron nudges me with his elbow. "Tina is talking about setting you up with someone all the time too, you know?"

"So is Julie." Rashan nods without looking up from his plate .

"You know I have the deepest respect for your saintly girlfriends, and wife." I nod at Kevin. "But I don't need to be set up. I don't want to be set up with anyone. Finding a partner is literally the least important thing on my to-do list right now."

"But it is on your list," Kevin concludes amiably. It's not a question. "You've never been shy about dating."

"Well, yeah." I want to find someone perfect for me someday. Someone to share my life with. Of course I do, so I've looked plenty. I've tried as much as I possibly have been able to. "But not right now. So you can tell them all thank you, but no thank you."

I breathe a sigh of relief when they nod in unison and drop the subject.

There are two things I'm completely uninterested in discussing with the three best friends in existence. My dad, and whatever fucking stand-off I have with my dick.

Weird way of describing it, I know, but that's how it feels.

It's not ED, I know that since I get hard... sometimes. Just not when there's a naked woman in front of me.

Or man—I've tried that too. Not publicly though. I think men are just as pretty as women. I'm attracted to as many men as I am women, but I've never gone out publicly in Vegas with a man. I don't think I'm ready for that, since I haven't been in an actual relationship.

Every date goes great until they expect more and I just can't deliver. For almost two years now, I haven't gone on a single date. Ever since I decided I needed to get my shit together when it comes to my game, and then I can focus on my love life again.

I thought for a while that maybe I was just absolutely one hundred percent gay, but I've gotten hard when I've seen a very beautiful woman. Also when I saw Chris Hemsworth without a shirt on in one of the Thor movies, but strangely, not the other ones.

So, not totally straight here.

That's not an issue. I haven't told anyone, but I don't have any hangups about being bi—I'm pretty sure—and I don't think my friends would either. The issue is, I just never want to... do anything about it. About any of it. Other than holding hands, cuddling, kissing, spending time together... nothing.

I have fun on dates, all of that is perfect. It's when the sex part comes in, when it's expected, that things go south with me.

It's been like that since I was eighteen and Marcy, my high school sweetheart, made it very clear she wanted to have sex on prom night. I was a nervous wreck for weeks before. Not because of any kind of anticipation, but dread.

When the moment came, I just couldn't make myself go through with it. Not when she was so full of anticipation and nerves. Not when there wasn't anything inside me that wanted to go through with it.

She didn't react well—an understatement.

I've tried a dozen times more since then, to no avail. The one thing that stumps me the most, is that I'm not even a little bit ashamed about being a twenty-eight-year-old virgin.

I've always had a chip the size of Texas on my shoulder. Always did my best to fit in, in high school, at college. Always hiding how shit my life actually was back in Texas. But I've never felt the need to have sex just so I can fit in with my teammates or to pretend I do have sex, they always assume, and I never correct them, but I've never lied and told anyone I have had sex.

It's helped that I'm in a team owned by someone who doesn't tolerate shit being talked about anyone who's different. No one has ever asked about my sex life or "conquests." My friends are interested in my dating life because I've talked about it with them, but they don't pry.

I come back to the present when the waiter brings our food, and focus on hearing what's going on with my friends now that they're back from their vacations.

They really are great men. The best at their positions on the team, of course. The best I've played with, and in my opinion, the best in the league.

Not that it's gotten us anywhere in recent years.

It will this year , I think with determination. It has to, otherwise Gab will probably do what everyone says she should do now and cut me from the team.

I won't let that happen.

I ring the doorbell like a civilized person, like I've done every time, except when I thought I was gonna get fired. I smile, remembering how Gab mocked me for thinking that a few months ago, and how focused she's been ever since on working to get us another ring.

My experience in the NFL isn't the typical one. There are very few players who win two Super Bowls in their first six seasons, hell, in their whole career.

Winning is fucking hard. Every game is, but the whole thing? Yeah, I got lulled into a false sense of security when I won on my rookie season. Especially because the season after we barely made it to the playoffs.

I drive up to Gab's house and frown when I see an unfamiliar red Explorer parked right by the steps to the front door .

I get out, wondering if I got my times mixed up and maybe Gab's not expecting me. But she just opened the gate for me so...

The door opens and a man walks out even as he's looking behind him.

"I'll be here on Wednesday." The deep, melodic voice makes something in my brain malfunction. I'm frozen. Then he turns around and I see a sweetly rounded face. Messy, curly brown hair, and big, round, green eyes hiding behind thick, orange-rimmed glasses. Full cheeks and an even fuller lower lip. All those things have my brain going from malfunctioning to shutting down completely.

Beautiful, he's absolutely beautiful.

That biteable lower lip drops when his gaze moves down to me.

I can only look up at him as he stares down from the porch. My mind fills with kisses, with hugs, with whispered words, and intertwined fingers. Normally, when I meet someone I find attractive I have better game than just gawking at them, but there's something different about this man.

He seems familiar somehow, but I would remember him if I'd met him before, right?