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This all felt bizarre. Nobody was asking him anything. It seemed to him that this meeting wasn’t a conversation but marching orders. Apparently they’d decided his fate without any input from him.

Boris tapped another stapled report that had pink highlights and some yellow tabs stuck to it, flagging specific pages. “This is the last one from that Reynolds broad. Look at these numbers… EKG. Reflex times. Oxygen uptake. Range of motion. Heart rate. You’re feeling great, seems to me.”

“No.” Tyler uncrossed his arms and sat up. “Not great. Not even good, if you want the God’s honest truth. I’m stronger, Mr. Jarlson, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for a couple thousand pounds of meat thrown at me tomorrow.”

Coach Fawcett raised a hand and tried to interrupt the owner’s flow. He closed his lips, and his mustache moved as he tried to put something into words. “Boris, I think Tyler is trying to keep our expectations reasonable.”

“Reasonable. Who’s reasonable? A billion-dollar game chasing a pointed ball isn’t reasonable.” Boris held out his hand toward Tyler. “He’s a godsend is what he is. Have you seen the press numbers?”

Jarlson’s assistant slid a folder to him. “You have those right here, sir.”

Tyler felt isolated and numb. Somehow he’d walked into this room off balance and determined to be cautious, and now they were rushing him right into the most dangerous of all the options. He wanted a time-out, a break to regroup and reset his dislocated brain.

Around him the flacks and staff murmured excitedly, already floating promos and hashtags. Tyler felt his stomach twist into knots.

Just then Zack, the team’s head publicist, piped up. “Tyler, my team and I just want to thank you. Your interviews last week generated tremendous buzz. And the library campaign angle did wonders for our brand image too. A lot of goodwill aimed your way. Definitely keep that book crap up.”

“Uhh. Great. It’s really important to me.” Tyler managed a weak smile. “I wouldn’t call it crap, exactly.”

“No. Oh! Right… absolutely.” He made an awkward face and continued. “Books are great.”

A gushy blond at Zack’s elbow nodded and raised a finger. She said, “Hi. Image management here. Don’t underestimate the body stuff. All these shoots you’ve done the last couple weeks.” She spread her fingers wide, just shy of jazz hands. “Golden! Any stills of you showing some skin are extra useful. Especially featuring that beautiful butt. I guarantee the TMZ piece and Sports Illustrated will have you trending on porn sites for a month at least.”

“I— That doesn’t— Why?” Tyler started to feel like he was short-circuiting. “Porn? You want pornography?”

Her eyelashes fluttered as though he’d paid her a compliment. “Not porn of you, but porn searches for you. Amazing. Swimsuit shots. Locker room. You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

She spread her fingers close to jazz hands again. “PG stills and freeze-frames. Gifs of grabs, ass taps, you getting tackled. We’re seeing a lot of high-value facial expressions too. And that’s going to stir up serious fanfic, of course, which is excellent for your numbers.”

“Fan what?” Tyler blinked and turned to face her fully, which seemed to make her blush.

“Fiction. Fic. Stories people write.” She beamed at him like she’d won a prize. “About you and… Josh? I think his name is. Mr. Ayres. A few sites dug up a few photos of him on some swim team, and I got to say, the stories are bonkers. Really hot.” She fanned herself and tipped her head conspiratorially, eyes wide with glee.

“About Josh.” Tyler swallowed, his heart rate so high he started to feel faint. “Fans are writing about Josh and me?”

“Totally tracks.” She nodded. “You’re, like, magical now. Because of the heart attack. I mean, just this morning we got offers on you from producers pitching Jock of Love and one of the Kardashians who needs a hot boyfriend for a show. But love triangles score poorly in most markets.”

Tyler blinked at her. He felt like a rumbling volcano of bewilderment and anger. Any second now, he’d blow. Had they called him in here to trigger a psychotic break?

She misinterpreted his silence. “We said no. They weren’t willing to pay half our ask.”

Zack, obviously sensing imminent disaster, weighed in again to shut down the blond and shift gears. “With you headed back out on the field, people have practically forgotten about last season’s, ahem, unpleasantness from some of your teammates. That time-share scam with Timmons, Ira’s coke scare in St. Louis, everything else has dropped to the second page of searches. You’re pure gold.”

Tyler chewed his lip. Is that all he was to them? Soft soap to wash off the dirt? A hot ass? They were even pimping out Josh. The team, the fans… they expected a performance. And Tyler didn’t know if his heart could take it.

He thought back to Josh’s advice about finding his path first. You get where you’re going one step at a time. But what if there wasn’t a path to find? How could he find anything when he felt so lost?

Tyler fidgeted in his seat. Think like a musketeer. He should have brought his agent, his lawyer. The Swells brass had ambushed him, and he was only just now waking up.

Coach Ojibwe tried to slow things down. “Tyler, we don’t want to rush you. We’re just laying out a few options. A couple different contingencies depending on how things play out.”

“Based on this report, we think you’re ready to start playing in some scrimmages,” Boris declared, gesturing toward the rest of the table. “Fantana, we know you got the spirit. We just want to see how you perform against some real competition before making any big decisions.”

Tyler’s heart raced at the thought of finally getting back on the field. But he also felt a twinge of anxiety at the risks involved. He knew they were right—he was an experienced player and had proven himself time and again on the field—but he still couldn’t shake his fear of his heart giving out on him during a game.

“When?” he asked, torn between worry and excitement.