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The screech of the screen door creaking open shocks me back to reality. Quiet time with Cam is up—Coach is home.
“Sloane! Whose Rover’s in the driveway?” My dad’s big voice booms through the small house and then he’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen in his Thunder Creek High uniform of dark blue polo and khakis, the ever-present orange whistle dangling from his neck.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Is that Cam Crawford, wide receiver for Chicago, sitting at my kitchen table?” My dad squints at us before rushing over and slapping Cam hardon the back, embracing him in a side hug. “You in town for a visit, son?”
Cam shifts awkwardly in the chair. “Not exactly, sir. It’s kind of a long story.”
My dad’s eyes narrow. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got time. It’s Friday afternoon and I’m staring down the weekend. That means it’s officially happy hour. Let’s grab a beer and catch up out back. Hey, baby.”
My dad drops a kiss to the top of my head on his way to the fridge, pulling out two bottles of beer. Popping the lids from both, he hands one over to Cam and then heads out back. Cam follows, leaving me alone in the kitchen, wondering if he ever read the email.
CHAPTER 3
CAM
Shit.
What am I doing back here in Thunder Creek? After all these years, this isn’t the triumphant homecoming I dreamed of.
But after the dustup in Chicago with the team, the only logical move I could come up with was coming home. Sure, I could have flown to Denver and stayed with my parents, but what can they do? They can’t help me get my mojo back. And the last thing I need right now is a lecture from my sister Ansley on positivity. Hard fucking pass. I’d rather go get my tarot cards read or visit a psychic before I build a ‘manifestation board.’ That’s some new age bullshit right there.
No, this is where I need to be, I feel it in my bones.
And in my dick, but now’s not the time to focus on Sloane and how breathtakingly fuckable she is. I shouldn’t fixate on those wide, hazel eyes, brighter and more sultry than I remembered. How her T-shirt slipped off her shoulder to reveal her smooth, tanned skin. The way theGeorgia humidity curled up the chocolate brown wisps of hair around her heart-shaped face. That tiny strip of ass peeking out at me as she sashayed barefoot through the kitchen.
Kinda wrong to be lusting after Coach’s daughter, sitting out here on his deck, drinking his beer and acting all innocent. Like I hadn’t been fantasizing about peeling off his daughter’s clothes back there in the kitchen ten short minutes ago.
Like, all kinds of messed up.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“So, son—what’s really going on? And don’t sugarcoat it, either. You’ve gotta tell me the God’s honest truth, or I won’t be able to help you.”
Coach levels serious hazel eyes on me—the same mossy shade as Sloane’s—and it’s a little disconcerting. The question, coupled with the stare, has me stiffening and shifting uncomfortably in the hot sun. I pick at the label on the beer bottle, my toe tapping as I carefully select my words.
“I screwed up.”
Wow. Real enlightening.
“I gathered as much. How bad we talking? You in trouble with the law?”
“What? No, nothing like that.”
“Okay, then, so it’s nothing permanent that can’t be fixed. Get someone pregnant?”
I blanch at his bluntness, squirming. “Uh, no. I mean, not that I know of.”
“I would hope you’re smart enough to always use protection. In this day and age—and in your position—you have to keep things locked up. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yessir, absolutely. Every time. Not that there have been many times…” I stammer, my face heating. Coach chuckles, shaking his head.
“Sure, son. This isn’t a confessional, no need to go into all the details.”
My gut churns and I silently pray he’ll move on to a new topic.
“So it’s not the law, not a woman. Trouble with the ball then?”
“Sort of?—”
