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Chapter One

Alexei

“You need to be a ghost this season, Alex. A boring, well-behaved ghost.” Slate leans back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “No bar fights. No shoving reporters. No viral moments. Nothing.”

I drag a fry through ketchup and shove it in my mouth, chewing slowly. We’re at a steakhouse in the West Loop, leather booths, waitresses who pretend not to recognize me. My agent’s been talking for the better part of forty minutes about the new contract, the expectations, the razor-thin margin between me keeping my spot on the team and being traded to some bottom-feeder franchise in a city I’d never willingly set foot in.

Thirty million dollars. Three years. Sounds like a dream until the fine print basically says behave yourself or lose everything.

“I hear you, Slate.”

“Do you, though?” He sets his glass down and fixes me with a look—the one that says I’m not your friend right now, I’m your business partner and you’re the product we’re trying to sell. “Because the thing with Kemp at the press conference—”

“He shoved a mic in my face and asked if I juice. What was I supposed to do, smile?”

“Yes. That is literally what you are supposed to do.” Slate pinches the bridge of his nose. “Smile, say no comment, and walk away. Instead, you grabbed the guy’s phone and threw it into a potted plant.”

I fight back a smirk. That fern never saw it coming.

“Look,” Slate says, voice dropping lower. “The Hawks went to bat for you. They didn’t have to offer this deal. Half the front office wanted to let you walk. Coach Royce put his neck out because he thinks you’re worth the risk.” There’s a tension filled pause. “Don’t make him regret it.”

The humor drains out of me. He’s right, and I know it. I’ve been playing football since I was twelve years old—it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only thing that’s ever made sense. The idea of losing it because I can’t keep my temper in check makes my chest tight in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

“I’ll be good,” I tell him.

Slate studies me for a long moment, then signals the waiter for the check. “Good. Now go home and get some sleep. You’ve got practice at nine.”

We settle up and head outside into the freezing Chicago night. Slate hails a cab and disappears into the back seat with a final wave, and then I’m alone on the sidewalk with my hands shoved in my pockets and my breath coming out in white clouds.

I should go home.

My car’s parked a couple of blocks away. It’s a five-minute walk. I’ll drive back to my penthouse, maybe flip through the playbook for Sunday’s game, and be in bed by eleven. That’s what a boring, well-behaved ghost would do.

Instead, I start walking in the opposite direction.

I don’t have a destination. I just know that going home to an empty apartment right now isn’t happening. There’s this restlessness under my skin I can’t quite shake—this low-grade hum of dissatisfaction that no amount of training, game film, or expensive dinners has been able to quiet. It’s been building for weeks. The penthouse. The silence. The too-big couch and the kitchen I never use.

I’m twenty-eight years old. I have more money than I know what to do with. I’m in the best shape of my life. And walking through Chicago at ten forty-five on a freezing Tuesday night, I feel . . . hollow.

My older sister Tracey would tell me I need a girlfriend. My mother would tell me I need church. My youngest sister Valerie would probably tell me I need therapy because she’s seventeen and thinks she knows everything.

Maybe they’re all right.

The night air bites at my face, and my ears sting from the cold, but I keep walking. The neighborhoods shift as I move south—polished storefronts give way to grittier blocks, neon signs flickering above darkened doorways. Nobody looks twice at the six-foot-four guy in the black peacoat. In daylight, on game day, I’d be stopped every ten feet. Out here in the dark, I’m just another person trying to outrun his own thoughts.

That’s when I see her.

She’s petite yet curvy, with a nice ass and beautiful tits. But that’s not the first thing I notice about her.

The first thing that strikes me is that her coat isn’t warm enough for a Chicago winter.

It’s one of those thin jackets meant for fall—dark, cropped at the waist—and she has her arms wrapped tight around herself, shoulders hunched against the cold. She’s standing on a street corner discussing something with a man in hushed tones, waving her hands dramatically as she speaks. It’s late, and the street is almost deserted.

She has long dark hair, a trim build, and a full, pouty mouth. And she seems to be pissed off. Curious about her, I stalk closer and slow my pace.

“Fine. Tell me what it’ll take, sweetheart,” the guy says to her.

She stiffens and puts one hand on her hip. “I’m not for sale, asshole. I did my job, but that’s it. When you step outside those doors, the fantasy ends.”