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Changed how? Be unnecessarily specific.

Trevor

I vote tacos instead.

DJ

Seconded.

Kai

Third. I know the best little spot.

Colton

Perfect. We’ll interrogate Shane over chips and queso.

Shane

Not happening. Nice try, though.

Chapter 16

Shane

After six days on the road, the last thing I want to hear is the guitar intro to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” blasting from my penthouse while I’m still in the private elevator. I’m exhausted from a grueling midday game, air travel, and the drizzly motorcycle ride home. If I hadn’t been in such a rush getting to the airport after our courthouse wedding, I would have looked at the projected weather for today and driven my truck.

I try to control my rising irritation with a deeply drawn breath. Though I texted with Willow almost every day, it was mostly about logistical necessities. Had she connected with Sally, my personal assistant, and received her American Express Black Card? Did she meet with the courier to accept the expedited paperwork for her health insurance? Was my personal chef, Gabriel, creating nutritionally sound meals to her liking?

We never talked about midweek house parties.

The rush of annoyance pricking down my forearms is a welcome sensation. Every moment I wasn’t on the field, I spent thinking about Willow. Though I tried to keep my thoughts centered on ensuring that Willow was safe and comfortable in my penthouse, my mind would invariably end up replaying our wedding kiss.

I don’t think I’ve ever kissed someone like that, especially with an audience. I don’t even know what happened. I just…lost myself. In the moment. In her. Something about Willow just cracks me open, revealing parts of myself I wasn’t even aware of.

It’s a bit like tumbling headfirst down a very steep cliff.

It’s terrifying.

And it can’t happen again.

Not under any circumstances.

I rub at my chest as the elevator doors open, ignoring the dull ache that’s been there all week.

Setting aside my duffel bag, jacket, and helmet, I continue toward the living room as a wall of sound assaults me. A custom sectional anchors the room while the floor-to-ceiling windows are bookended by two marble fireplaces. Like all the furnishings left by the previous owner, the couch is minimalist with a modern edge.

Instead of finding dozens of people, there’s only Willow, jumping on the far end of the sofa while performing an air-guitar solo. Her eyes are squeezed tight in concentration, a bandana tied around her hair.

I lean against the mantel of the unlit fireplace, crossing my arms over my chest.

With her tank, athletic shorts, and knee pads, she looks like a volleyball—or maybe a roller-derby—player? But when Willow falls to her knees, really hamming it up, I realize there’s a very real possibility that she’s wearing the pads for this exact reason: to rock out at maximum capacity while protecting her kneecaps.

Despite my resolve to remain detached, my mouth curls upward.

“Only Willow,” I mutter.

Then she opens her eyes to switch from guitar to drums, swinging wildly and finally catching a glimpse of me.