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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

F
or Dustin
, my high school sweetheart. My past, my present, my future. Thanks for always finding me, even when I didn't realize I was lost.

P
AIGE

When my first love, my only love,

Elijah Witter was forced out of my life, 

I thought I'd lost everything.   

Never thought I'd feel whole again.  

B
ut I learned
that if you want something, 

You work your ass off to get it.    

And now, I've got everything I ever wanted. 

I'm curvy, confident, successful, and determined.

As an in-demand physical therapist,    

Nothing can stop me.   

B
ut when I
finally find Elijah again,   

And caress his torn and football battered body, 

I realize that I don't have the most important thing,

The only thing that matters.

E
LIJAH

A
s a wide receiver
, you have to be ready for anything thrown at you.   

Unfortunately, I learned that the hard way.               

After my mom died and my dad took over,                

My life was no longer my own.                                

I love playing pro ball,   

Love the thrill of the game and physical exertion, too.                   

I just don't love all the bullsh*t that comes with it. 

B
ut now
, things are about to change.                    

Paige Sullivan is back in my life,

She's intoxicating, sexy, and gets my adrenaline going,

Way faster than football ever could.

And nothing--or nobody--is going to make me fumble the ball.

This time, I'm holding on for good.

I
pull
the corner of his towel down, his tight muscles tensing up even more under my capable fingers. “It’s all right,” I remind him. “I’ll go easy on you.”

He lets out a soft moan and shifts on the table before relaxing again. “Ah, that’s good. Right there, but harder.” His voice is breathless.

I smile to myself and listen to him, grateful that this one isn’t so quiet. I love it when they talk. It makes things
so
much easier.

“Oh God, right there. Yes.
Yes
.”

“One more thing,” I say to him, now pulling the towel down to right about his mid-ass. “My finishing move.”

I maneuver my hands just so and let my memory of pulse points take over. Only moments later, he tenses up one last time before letting out a long sigh and relaxing, completely done. I adjust the towel, careful to maintain my professionalism and not stare at him for too long.

Damn, it’s
so
hard not to look at his back, his arms, and especially his ass and thighs . . . I mean, usually, it’s not a problem, but liver spots
kind of
freak me out.

Mr. Anderson, my seventy-years-young and spry patient, wraps the towel tighter around himself and eases off the table, looking exhausted but relieved. “That was amazing. I’ve never had someone attend to me like that. Kind of makes me wish you were around when I was fresh out of the war,” he says, winking a blue eye at me.

“I’m so glad I was able to help. We on for next week?”

“You’d better damn well believe it. Thanks, Doc,” he says, gathering up his clothes.

Not quite. I clear my throat. “I’m um, not a doctor. Just a physical therapist. But I look forward to it.”

After taking care of him, I survey my lobby area, chewing on my bottom lip. Now that I think about it, maybe the ‘greige’ color would work best in here. I head into the tiny break room of my brand new office, unable to keep my cheerfulness at bay. We’re in the process of painting everything, so I wanted to take on a few appointments today before starting. But Jack Anderson was my fifth client for the day, and it’s only noon.

I sit down with my lunch, searching for the remote to my old box set sitting on the end of the long table. The TV flickers on without any help from me, and I realize Stacey has the duct-taped remote in her hand.

“Hey, I was getting ready to watch something.” It’s almost embarrassing how whiny I sound when I’m talking to my big sister.

She purses her lips together to keep from laughing at me. “Oh yeah? What were you wanting to watch? You know there’s never anything good on during this time of day. Just stupid court shows and local news,” she says as she yanks the remote further out of my reach. “Besides, you always get to choose.”

I sigh. “It’s my office, Stacey. You’re the one who wanted to come work for me, remember? Speaking of which . . . I think I want to go with that gray-beige color for the lobby. It says, ‘Come in. We’re professional, but we still know how to relax.’ Right?”

She shrugs her shoulders and pretends to ignore me instead. Typical. I refuse to let her rudeness get under my skin and resign myself to eating my tasteless grilled chicken salad, frowning at the candy bar that Stacey’s putting away with no problem.

Even with putting the past behind me, I still struggle sometimes with the jealousy. I look down at my sister’s dainty wrists and the dozens of bangle bracelets she always wears, wondering how genes can be so cruel.

Stacey snorts, pulling me out of my suddenly somber mood. “Oh my God, it’s one of those ridiculous Old Sugar soap commercials again. This must be a new one. I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

There’s a man dressed as a king, in full regalia, talking to a squirrel while holding a bottle of body wash. I raise my brow. I swear. The things advertisers will do to try to score some views.

“
Well, don’t take my word for it. What about his
?” the king says to the squirrel, pointing to another man off-screen. The squirrel looks over, and it cuts to an insanely gorgeous, beefy looking guy wearing a San Antonio Longhorns helmet and a pair of those tight black pants, showering under a waterfall, from what I can tell. The man is washing his perfect washboard abs with the body wash in slow-motion, and even I have to make sure I’m not drooling. He removes his helmet and looks at the screen dead-on.

“
Elijah Witter
?” you hear the squirrel’s cartoonish voice say. “
The football player
?” Something about this guy sets off alarms in my head, like rusted gears cranking to a start.

“
That’s right. And you should use Old Sugar’s new Manly-Man body wash. Because nothing says manly like smelling good
,” the football player says, giving the camera an overly exaggerated wink that oozes cheesiness.

My heart stutters. The camera has zoomed in on his face, giving me a good look at the football players’ hazel eyes, the shape of his nose, and the dimple in his chin. I look at the jersey that’s hanging on a rock next to him, displaying the name,
WITTER – 11
.

The commercial fades out, and I’m stuck sitting here, trying to piece it together. “Did they say that guy’s name is Elijah? Is he really a football player, or was he just acting?” I keep my tone neutral, although my insides are churning.

Stacey finishes her last bite and thumbs through one of the magazines. “Yeah—Elijah Witter. He’s a real football player. Rafael is a big fan of them, I think. At least, he’s always screaming for the Longhorns when they’re playing on TV. He gets a little—”

“Are those names like their real names? Witter isn’t a nickname or anything, is it?”

She chuckles. “Wow. No, Paige, they use their real names. I love you, hon, but you are hilariously unaware at times.”

I want to roll my eyes, but something’s holding me back. Witter. Elijah Witter? I don’t know an Elijah
Witter
. But I did know an Elijah once. One with those same soulful hazel eyes and dark mop of hair, and even that same chin that he used to joke on. This is one of those moments when a live DVR box would be so helpful. Then I would be able to rewind and pause on him.

The blood drains from my face. No. I don’t need to rewind it, because I know that face. I may not recognize that body, but I
know
his face. He’s older, way taller, and well, he’s beyond freaking gorgeous. But underneath all that lies the same twelve-year-old boy who stole my heart all those years ago.

I struggle to stand, the dizzying effect making it more difficult. It’s like all the air has been pulled from my lungs. “Oh. Oh God.”

Stacey pulls her attention away from the TV to look at me, her eyes going wide. “Jesus, Paige. What’s wrong?”

I swallow against the growing lump in my throat, my hands splayed out and bracing myself against the table. “It’s Elijah. It’s him.”

She looks confused. “You’re going to have to be a
wee
bit more specific—”

“Elijah! You know . . . my best friend?” Which is utterly ridiculous of me to even say, considering that boy and I haven’t spoken in fifteen years or so.

It takes her a moment, but she slowly gets it and cocks her head at me, reminding me of a bird. "Wait a second. You mean to tell me that Elijah Witter is
the
Elijah? Your summer boy from when you were a kid? Didn't you go full-emo after he moved away?"

I collapse in my chair, my head in my hands. "Don't remind me."

My sister leans her head against mine. I'm grateful that at least someone else in this world actually gets it. This isn't some little crush that ended easily. Elijah was my whole world for what felt like forever. And the summer feels like forever when you're only eleven years old.

"Wow. That's . . . I don't even know what to say. What are you going to do about it?" she asks me, placing her hand on my knee just like she always does when I'm upset. She may be bitchy to me when the mood strikes her, but thankfully, she tends to be more supportive now that we’re adults.

"Do about it? There's nothing
to
do, Stacey. He's probably some big goalie, and I'm just me. Doing my own thing here. Doesn't he live in Texas, anyway?" I groan as I hunch over and cover my face with a freckled arm.

"Wide receiver."

I raise my head and lift a brow at her. "Come again?"

“He’s a wide receiver. Goalies are in soccer and hockey, babe. Not football.”

“I honestly couldn’t give a shit less,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I’ve waited years to see him again, and now . . . now, he feels even further away.”

Stacey is finally quiet, looking down at her hands thoughtfully. I’d worked so hard to put myself in a position of acceptance and positivity. I made it as a physical therapist and even opened up my own office. After letting stupid shit get to me for far too long, things were looking up for me for the first time in forever. Yet here I am, facing the huge wrench that’s just been thrown in my life.

What can I possibly do? And even if I did do something, which just sounds nuts to begin with, why would Elijah care? I excuse myself and lock myself in the bathroom, staring myself down in the mirror. My red tangle of hair sits messily on top of my head, my blue eyes clear for now until the past creeps further in. It’s hard to look at myself, especially with the hard work it took me to accept and even like myself. My eyes drift downward, taking in the way my curves stick out unapologetically. Well, I like myself on most days.

Am I reading too much into this? Maybe I should just let everything go and move on. Still . . . Elijah’s was a face I prayed a thousand tear-filled nights to see again. How can I just sit here and
not
want to do something about it?

H
ere we go
with the same old bullshit posturing—with maybe one or two actual legit questions thrown in the mix for GP. If I had my choice, I would easily skip all this noise and head back to my place to enjoy a beer or three.

But of course, I have no choice, not when I sign my name on the dotted line. They own me, literally and figuratively. I slip the special edition jersey over my head and lean back in the chair, dying to get the hell out of here.

Johnny Maine points to one of the reporters with their hand shot in the air like an overeager kindergartener.

The guy stands abruptly, and a dozen cameras focus on him. "There was some talk that you were looking to be traded to a team out east before the contract was drawn. Is that true?"

It takes all the strength I can muster to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I clear my throat and lean forward to talk into the mic, my deep voice suddenly booming through the room. "I was considering all of my options. But I think I made the right choice today by staying with the team that's helped bring me to where I am now."

My vague answer seems to irritate most, but I really don't give a fuck. Johnny Maine might own my ass, but
they
sure as hell don't. I give the sea of faces and flashing bulbs a smug smile and casually glance at my watch. Damn. We still have fifteen more minutes to kill.

More questions are thrown my way, and I answer them all with the ‘careless charm’ I’ve been pegged with since the beginning of my career. I wouldn’t exactly call myself charming, but whatever floats Maine’s boat, I guess. He’s the one signing the checks.

I glance over at the man, wondering what’s going through his mind right now. If it’s anything like last time, he’s probably going through a list of potential new sponsors in his head. Everyone knows I’m on Johnny’s short list of favorites, probably only second to the legend himself, Mitch DuPont. But since his old ass hasn’t been on the field in over twenty years, I’m the next big thing. Or so Johnny likes to claim. Me, personally? I don’t give a rat’s ass what they say. I made it to the pros, which is basically all I was meant to do. So now that I’m here, it’s whatever to me.

Johnny thanks everyone for coming out, spouting off thanks to our sponsors and ‘God’s own state of Texas.’ He catches my gaze, giving me the look. It’s my cue to stand up and smile and wave at everyone like a goddamn beauty pageant queen. He knows how much I hate all this fanfare, but it’s all necessary business to him. I’m to do what I’m told, so I do. Dozens of lights flash, and I head down the steps completely exhausted from the day.

“It wouldn’t kill you to at least look like you care, Witter.” Johnny is right up on me, squeezing my shoulder. “You’ve gotta give the press something to work with.”

I sigh. There’s never any satisfying the wealthy owner of the Longhorns. Much like someone else I know. “Sorry, Johnny. I thought the $105-million-dollar contract was giving them something to work with.”

I want to say more, but I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to sound ungrateful. He narrows his eyes at me, but I’m off the hook. For now.

The banquet room is straight ahead, the smell of expensive catered food calling out to me. I walk inside with Johnny to meet up with the other five players who renewed their contracts today.

“Go make some friends this time around. Got it?” he demands. I give him a stiff nod and immediately head over to the open bar while he goes to schmooze with the other rich men. I mean, I guess I can’t really say anything about rich men, considering I am one . . . but I’m every bit as different from them as I can be.

I ask the bartender to pour me a glass of whiskey, ready to unwind. I wouldn’t have to drive myself home tonight, so why not make it worth my while?

“I should’ve known I’d find you over here, brooding into your booze. You’ve gotta work on your predictability, man,” someone says from behind. I instantly know the voice.

“Yeah, I guess I have a lot to work on lately,” I grumble. “Did you enjoy yourself out there, twinkle toes?”

Kevon’s my only real friend on the team. I mean sure, I shoot the shit with other guys on the team, but there’s no one I really want to hang out with outside the locker room. Except Kevon, one of the other first-string wide receivers. Lazur Ahmed is our third main guy, getting bumped up from benchwarmer last season by the two new kids playing back-up.

Kevon laughs at me, showing off his gap-toothed smile. “People ate that shit up, man. Can you blame them though? I mean, damn, look at this fine specimen,” he says, bringing his right arm up into a bicep curl flex. “This baby was my ticket to that sweet seventy mil, and all I had to do was throw on the t-shirt and hat and a big ass smile on my face. It’s a good day, Wit.”

As shitty as I feel about contract-signings, Kevon has a way of putting things into perspective. “Yeah, yeah. And the ladies will be lining up around the fountain-feature driveway,” I reply before he has a chance to give his usual answer to everything.

He claps me on the shoulder. “That’s right.” The bartender slides him the beer he ordered, and Kevon gives me a once-over, frowning. “You look like you just ate some rank pussy, son. What’s up with you?”

Leave it to Kevon to turn anything into a conversation about the fairer sex. “Just done dealing with all the congratulatory bullshit. We have to kiss every sponsor’s ass and then thank them for letting us. I hate doing that shit, you know?”

He rolls his eyes as hard as he can, leaning back for emphasis. “Oh shit, here we go again. You about to do that whole
woe is me
bull, aren’t you? Man, you need to get your ass laid, my friend. Maybe then, you’ll stop moping and crying into your hundred dollar bills and shit. Buck up. Save the melodrama for when you’re old and wrinkly like Maine’s nutsack.”

I snort, unable to help myself. “Thanks for that image, Kevon.”

He opens his mouth to say something else but shuts it really quick, twisting his mouth tight when he catches sight of something next to me.

“Hey, hey!” Dad says, shoving into my arm with his elbow. “Your name is looking pretty good on that big contract, son.” He looks over at Kevon, giving him a smile. “Yours too, Williams.”

Kevon nods before motioning to me that he’s going to go. “We’ll catch up later.”

As soon as he’s gone and I’m left with my father in the corner, he rounds on me, dropping all the pretense. “I don’t suppose you were at least careful not to bad-mouth your sponsors in front of anyone else?”

I take in a deep breath and exhale slowly, not even trying to deal with the hard-ass and his praise Lombardi philosophy right now. “No. I was just letting off some steam. It’s been a long day.”

“Good. Remember that I’ve . . .
we’ve
worked too hard for this. You can’t just go easy on yourself now.”

I’m pretty sure I can very well do that, but I nod along with him. The last thing I need is to hear more of the old man’s shit about pride and the game, and blah-blah-fucking-blah. I’ve gotten as far as he pushed me practically my whole life, and he still isn’t satisfied.

“Look, I just want to kick back and have a drink. Can’t you let me chill out for the night?” I ask, interrupting his same old lecture. I’m sure I’ll pay for it later, when he bangs on my door at four in the morning to get me out the door and doing sprints. And I’ll do it, because I’m apparently a good little boy.

Dad straightens up and looks around us before his eyes fall back on me. “No more of that idiotic talk. Maine’s in your pocket, so make sure to keep him that way.” Always with the dramatic parting remarks. It’s like he was born to be an actor or something, even though he thinks anyone in the entertainment industry is a piece of shit, useless gold-digger who gets paid way too much to do something so easy. How utterly ironic.

--

I’ve found a spot away from most of the crowd, having put in my fifteen minutes with the coaches and my teammates. A waitress in a tight, short black uniform comes over to the dark corner I’ve staked a claim on and gives me a fake polite smile. “Can I get you anything else, sir? Another glass, perhaps?”

I’m already on my third glass, enjoying the electric buzzing along my veins. I tip the drink toward her. “Sure thing.”

She steps away, and that’s when I really notice her. She’s slight, with long red hair that’s done in a braid down her back. Instantly, the room goes fuzzy around her.

There’s always that fraction of a second when my heart slams against my ribcage, trying to break free each time I see a redhead who looks to be the same age. After all, our birthdays were only six weeks apart, even though I had the disadvantage of being held back a year. And it’s every time I see a woman who, for the briefest of moments, reminds me of
her.

There was a time when I thought we’d see each other again, crossing paths in our lives at just the right moment. But that kind of hope no longer exists in me. I’ve given up on feelings pretty much altogether, and aside from the one-night stands I’ve encountered, I don’t see many women in general, much less her.

Fairytales are for chumps, and I have way too many things going on in my life to let myself worry over someone else’s. Hell, she’s probably married with a bunch of kids and writing books for a living or something. She was always such a bookworm. If I ever did have the chance to see her, I’m sure I’d try like hell to fuck her, thanks to my many,
many
teenage fantasies about a sexy reunion with her, but then I’d have to leave her all over again.

I run my thumb along the neck of the bottle, and like a devout person trying to drop an addiction, I allow myself a few minutes to think about her before slamming the door shut on the memories that stirred in my head.

Before I close it off until the next time, I say her name, just to feel it with my mouth. “
Paige
.”