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  As I raised the orange oval, I knew I was going to dominate these drills. Then again, maybe I was just overqualified.

  I mean come on; being a part of the second-to-last team in the league wasn’t exactly going to be a challenge, now was it!

  Who knew in the days and weeks to come, I’d be eating those words, and a lot more.

  HEAD GAMES

  Gillian Whitney

  I WAS LATE.

  Very late.

  And not just to practice, but also for my first NFL summer training camp as an athletic trainer intern. I’d missed check-in, the first big meeting, and even introductions.

  Although I’d been through the routine many times in my life, it had never been in an official capacity.

  My flight had been grounded due to hurricane-force winds. Then again, I supposed that was to be expected when you were flying out of the state of Florida in the summer.

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t had much of a choice. I was attending the University of Florida, and was one semester away from receiving my DAT. That’s my doctorate in athletic training, and I had to present my dissertation to the board before I could leave. Obviously, that was super important.

  Still, I really hated being late.

  The day was almost over and I was just setting foot in the training room. Ready to put myself to work, I glanced around.

  The training facilities at this college were nothing compared to those at Soldier Field. Back in Chicago, the Bears had massive hydrotherapy pools that were thirty feet long and eight feet wide. They ran both hot, for pre-practice, and cold, for post-practice. There was also a giant flat screen within viewing distance.

  In addition, the training room in Chicago was equipped with the latest in rehabilitation equipment. Not to mention, there was a machine that could measure baseline concussion scores to determine if players were ready to return to practice after suffering head injuries, which could be missed.

  With the lack of state-of-the-art equipment, the medical staff had to go back to old school methods, which was fine by me. I had just finished learning most of them and was ready to put them to use.

  One more glance around had me feeling nostalgic. Everything looked the same. I was really glad to be back. I loved this time of the year. The hustle and bustle that came with training camp was something I would really miss.

  Dallas Spears, the head trainer, wasn’t anywhere in sight. He must have been on the field. He’d been with the team for more than twenty years and was not only one of the best around, but also extremely dedicated to the players.

  I wasn’t alone though, the first assistant athletic trainer, Aiden Brantley, was here, and of course hard at work across the room.

  Aiden was in his thirties, single, wore his hair in a bun and a diamond stud in his ear. A bit on the wild side, he was the polar opposite of clean-cut, go to bed by nine, Dallas. Hey, Aiden liked to party with the players, and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  It just wasn’t my thing. I left that to the cheerleaders.

  Wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a tank top, he was standing at one of the tables, stretching out a player who looked extremely fatigued. The player was new to the team, either a draft or a free agent, I wasn’t certain.

  The sudden rush of running water had me turning my head, and a smile crossed my lips when I did. Drake was back. I didn’t think he would be. He had interned last year and we got along really well.

  Blowing his hair from his eyes, he wiped his brow as he cleaned the whirlpools. I knew first hand just what hard work that was. And I knew in the upcoming weeks, I’d be doing a lot of it.

  There were three students interning under Dallas this year, but I was the closest to becoming fully accredited. I was also the only female. In fact, I was the first female in this role for the Bears. I wasn’t ashamed to say I got the internship due to nepotism. Not to worry, I intended to do more than just prove myself to everyone on this team during training camp.

  After all, it would be my last one.

  This very real fact weighed heavy on my mind. It was a bittersweet ending. Growing up was so hard to do. Then again, this sport was like a part of my family. I’d been around football my entire life, and being forced to leave it behind felt like a loss. Something I knew I would mourn, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  You see, my father had been involved with football in various capacities since before I was born, and he still was.

  He held the prestigious position of first-string quarterback for the Bears when I was born.

  The circumstances surrounding my birth were nothing that he ever cared to recall. Because of this, he hardly ever talked about his days playing for this team, but I knew the story, or the condensed version, anyway.

  It was the middle of winter.

  The Bears were scheduled to play the Colts in Indianapolis. Because the NFL mandated that players be on the ground for an away game eighteen hours prior to kickoff, my father was already there when my mother decided to surprise him and drive to the game.

  Six weeks from her due date, she told him she was staying home, so he had no idea she was coming.

  My mother was driving on Interstate 65 when a tractor-trailer jackknifed and hit her car. After being airlifted to the nearest hospital, I was born early by emergency C-section.

  I survived.

  She, however, died before my father even made it to the hospital.

  I never knew my mother, but I know I got my strawberry blond hair from her. And my father says I have her drive and tenacity. But I think I got those traits from him. He’s dedicated his entire life to football and me. He’s been through a lot, and still, he’s the most driven man I know.

  After being traded to the Rams when I was two, my father played for six more years on the roster of three teams before he hung up his cleats for good.

  The plan had been to go back to Chicago and lead a normal life, but then he was offered an assistant coaching position for Houston, and our plans changed. This job was one he couldn’t turn down. He said just a few more years, and then we’d go back to Chicago. Have a normal life. We moved four more times before I turned sixteen.

  That was our normal.

  At seventeen, I left for college, where the only time I ever took off was the six weeks before Labor Day to be with my father during training camp.

  I hadn’t missed one—ever.

  Sadly, like I said, this would be my last. After graduation in December, I’d have my doctorate, and it would be time to join the workforce, which meant no more six-week summer breaks.

  It would be that normal life my father always spoke so fondly of.

  He hoped I would get a job at either the Mayo Clinic Sports Medicine Center or at the Northwest Sports Center.

  I wasn’t sure what I hoped for.

  Football wasn’t an option, though. Even if I could get a permanent job in the field, my father insisted I stay away from it. He didn’t want me spending anymore of my life on the road. The guilt he felt for the years we’d done just that was enough to make me agree, even if begrudgingly so.

  Personally, I’d loved every minute of it.

  But he wanted us to put down some roots, which was why he took the head position for the Bears two years ago. But if he didn’t turn out a winning record this year, he would probably be let go. He said if that happened he’d retire for good because he feels like he’s come full circle, and Chicago is in his blood.

  I dropped my stuff on the table and hurried to where Aiden was now using his shoulder to apply pressure to the player’s upright leg. “Hey. Sorry I’m late,” I said.

  He glanced over his shoulder and gave me a huge smile. “Hey, Gillian, good to see you. Welcome back.”

  I was watching as Aiden tried to relieve the tension. “What happened to you?” I asked the player.

  “My leg cramped up,” he scowled.

  I raised a brow. “Already?”

  “Tell her why,” Aiden said.

  “Dehydratio
n.” He was clearly annoyed, and obviously with himself.

  “Yikes.”

  “I already got the lecture,” the player said, a little dejected, and then he held his hand out. “I’m Dylan Kutchner.”

  “Hi, nice to meet you, Dylan,” I said.

  “Girl, call me Kutch. And before you start in on me, I’m sure I’m not the first rookie to get his ass chewed out for eating two bananas for lunch and losing ten pounds.”

  Raising a brow, I took his hand. “No, I promise you, you’re not.”

  He was pretty tall and big all around. Over six-foot five, was my guess, and probably at least two hundred seventy-five pounds. I could see how he had dropped that weight.

  “I’m Gillian,” I said. “And you’ll be back on the field tomorrow, but I bet you’ll never get dehydrated again.”

  It was common, and it only took once.

  He shook his head as if disgusted with himself. “Girl, you better believe it.”

  With a smirk, I refocused on Aiden. “What can I do?”

  Before he could answer, Drake interrupted. “Waters need to be filled up at least two more times before practice is called. And guess what? You’re up, Whitney.”

  “Whitney?” Dylan echoed.

  I nodded, hating the fear in his eyes, but more than used to it. Ever since I developed breasts, small as they were, it had been that way. No longer the cute ball-cap-wearing little girl, it was as if the team saw me as off-limits. Even at twenty-three years old, players were still going to see me as the forbidden coach’s daughter, and that was never going to change.

  Turning toward Drake, ready to scold him, I couldn’t help but notice his grin. There was no fear there, but he had missed me.

  Last man or woman out on the field every morning got assigned water cart duty for the day. It had been that way since the beginning of time, and much to my dismay, I would be the last one on the field.

  “Sure, I’m on it,” I responded, not scolding him for referring to me by my last name . . . for now.

  In my orange staff t-shirt, khaki shorts, and Nikes, I twisted my long hair back and headed down the hallway for the cart, where I eagerly pushed it out the tunnel.

  At four in the afternoon, the second practice had only started about an hour ago. The players looked fairly fresh still as they did various drills in groups across the field.

  Holding the cart like a wheel barrel, I started to jog down the center of the practice field, picking up speed once I’d made it half way.

  To my right a group of players were sidestepping cones, nothing out of the ordinary. To my left another group of guys had started running through a series of agility tests, some of which at times could be downright funny to watch.

  The offensive coordinator loved Taylor Swift and sometimes he’d blare her music over the field and make the guys do some kind of dance to facilitate their balance.

  Right now, the music was more hard rock, and I knew the defensive coordinator was running the show. None of that pop music for him. His words, not mine.

  I knew everyone pretty well.

  This was, after all, my third summer on this campus, with this team. Sure, there were some new faces, but I’d get to know them soon enough.

  Looking around, I spotted defensive tackle Warren Gerard right away—all three hundred and thirty pounds of him. He had a wife and two kids, who my father and I spent Thanksgiving with last year.

  Over on the sidelines stood the team’s general manager. Terrance Hines was wearing a baseball cap that was severely bent and sucking on a red lollipop. As he observed the first day of practice, it was hard not to notice the way the pockets of his cargo shorts bulged with what could only be more candy. More than likely the waxy wrappers of those he’d already finished were packed inside there as well. The players joked he had an oral fixation. In truth, he had a nervous habit.

  Up ahead of me a guy broke out of one of the drill patterns and started side stepping in my direction. With that messy, dark, sexy-as-hell hair that fell over his forehead and flipped out at his ears, he was hard not to notice. But with the tight coil of muscles that marked his arms and legs and made him look as if were made of steel, he was impossible not to gawk at.

  I think a bit of drool slid down my chin.

  Normally, I was immune to good-looking players. In a setting like this, they were everywhere, all the time.

  When I was in my teens, the old adage you can look, but not touch seemed appropriate. Now though, I was the same age as a good majority of these guys, so technically I could touch.

  However, I was no longer a teen. I had grown up, and my career mandated I come in contact with the players. So now when I looked at them, I didn’t take notice of anything except abilities and injuries. It was much safer that way. After all, my professional reputation was on the line.

  The player smiled at me, and when he did, I felt the strangest pitter-patter of my heart. Ignoring it, I nodded, and slowed a bit. That smile didn’t waiver. It was an easy smile, one that made me a little weak in the knees, and I felt a blush creep up my neck.

  The truth was I wasn’t used to players paying attention to me. Nor was I used to them actually looking me in the eye. Most avoided eye contact—the whole fear thing. This player obviously had none of that.

  It was refreshing.

  When his lips tilted further, I couldn’t help but notice just how good-looking he was. Paired with that smile and those penetrating blue eyes, he made me a little breathless.

  “Hey, there, Strawberry Fields,” he said, with a wink.

  He was flirting with me. Players never flirted with me. So shocked by this, I smiled back. But when I felt that thump of my heartbeat go a little crazier, I picked my speed back up. This worried me, and I knew I should hurry past him and forget I even noticed him.

  It was about that time that he’d stopped right where he was to bend over and tie a shoelace.

  That’s when everything went terribly wrong.

  Unable to slow fast enough, I couldn’t stop what was about to happen, not even with my horrified scream of terror. “Watch out!”

  It was too late, and I hit him with the tremendous force of the three-hundred-pound cart. The point of contact was the crown of his head, and he was propelled backwards, landing flat on his back.

  At first, my heart stopped beating, but then my instincts kicked in and I dropped my hold on the cart to hurry over to him.

  His eyes were closed.

  This was bad.

  Very, very bad.

  It might have been a freak accident . . . but it would be one that would change both of our lives.

  Forever.

  FIRST DOWN

  Lucas

  TALK ABOUT BEING knocked off your feet.

  This was not what I had in mind when I moved in her direction. Not by a long shot. For being blindsided though, I wasn’t in terrible shape. Sure, my head was killing me, and I was seeing stars, but at least I wasn’t out cold. Not only could I hear the sound of players doing drills, I could feel the breeze and the hot sun, and I could smell the wet dirt.

  There was however, an iron taste in my mouth that really sucked. With no mouth guard, I hoped like fuck I still had all my teeth in place. I’d been sacked by some of the fiercest defensive ends, but never had I gone down like this.

  “Are you okay?”

  I tried to nod, but couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” The voice was sweet, like honey.

  It must be Strawberry Fields.

  Small hands with the smoothest of skin held my shoulders still. “Stay right here. We’re going to move you off the field.”

  After another second or so, I lifted my lids and found myself looking into two very green pools of concern.

  Trying to prop up on my elbows, I stopped right away because those damn stars came back. “Don’t move,” she whispered, so close to my face I could feel her warm breath on my skin.

  I probably should let her know I was not seri
ously injured, that I was not compromised in any way. With that intention, I moved my arms and my legs in a way that indicated I was trying to get up, but she kept a firm grip on me, holding me in place. “I said, don’t move,” she ordered.

  I wasn’t going to say I was unhappy that she was holding me down, but I didn’t really like it either. Then again, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to get up.

  I grimaced and reached for my forehead. “What just happened?”

  “I hit you with the water cart,” she said, panic clear in her voice.

  “The water cart,” I groaned, dropping my arm to my side.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

  Hearing the apology in her voice didn’t sound right. “I’ll be all right,” I reassured her, and hoped like fuck that was going to be the case.

  Behind her I could see the medical wagon heading my way, and both Dallas and Coach Whitney were on it.

  Shit!

  They came to an abrupt stop and rushed from their seats.

  Jack Whitney stood six-foot-three and with the span of his shoulders, he looked like one intimidating motherfucker, even to me.

  Dallas was much smaller than him and had dark hair, but was also neatly dressed in khaki shorts and a polo shirt and cleanly shaven.

  “I think he might have a concussion.” It was Strawberry Fields, and whether she knew it or not, she was about to fuck me.

  And not in the way I wanted her to.

  “No, I’m fine,” I argued, and immediately popped up.

  If Dallas enacted the concussion protocol, I would be off the field until I underwent a full evaluation and then put through the rigors of the return-to-participation protocol.

  Can you say fucked for the season?

  “Did he lose consciousness?” Coach Whitney asked.

  “No, but—”

  Strawberry Fields was standing up in order to get out of the way while trying to relay what she saw, but I cut her off. “I’ll be all right. I just got the wind knocked out of me,” I said, and somehow got to my feet before she got to her own.