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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

Cover Design by Michele Catalano Creative

Cover Art by Wander Aguiar

Dedication

This one is dedicated to women who love to watch hot men play sports and to the hot men who love to play them.

Fletcher

Gray skies and snow flurries greet me as I reach for the handle to exit my old truck. “Boomer, Brady, you fellas stay. You hear me?” Two sets of sad eyes and two wet black noses crowd me by the door. It’s a miracle we all fit in the front seat. I can’t figure out how my dad does it. When I was getting ready to drive into town, no sooner had I opened the truck door and they jumped inside. No amount of coaxing would get them out.

After I park and open the door, Boomer tries to nudge his way out. “Boomer, stay. I’m running across the street to buy you some food, you doofus. You eat like a horse.” Brady, Boomer’s best friend, doesn’t like that, so he lets out a yap, and then both of them are making such a ruckus, everyone on the street stares at us.

“Would you guys keep it down? I’ll be right back.” Pushing Boomer’s large furry face back inside, I close the door and lean on the truck for a second. You’d have thought my dad would have stocked the house with at least more than one day’s worth of food for his ravenous pups. But no. Here I am, six thirty at night, running out to buy them more chow.

I navigate the slippery streets while taking a glance or two back at the yipping dogs in my truck.
This should be a quick trip
, I think to myself.

Twenty-five seconds. That’s all it should’ve taken me to cross the street and get inside. Maybe not even that. In the time it takes to huddle, get set up, and snap a ball, squealing tires and the roar of an engine change everything. Glancing in the direction of the sound, I see headlights barreling down on me a second too late. I feel like I’m stuck in the mud, my feet cemented to concrete slabs, as I’m blinded by the beams.

Pain explodes in my leg before gravity is no longer a factor, and I’m flying like fucking Superman. Instead of being straight, I’m flipping end over end, before I slam back down to earth—or rather a car—as my shoulder, or as my agent would say,
my million-dollar-throwing arm
, connects with the windshield
.
Something cracks. And then for seconds, minutes, hours—there’s nothing. I have no idea until I blink because the sound of people yelling from somewhere off in the distance pulls me back. Apparently, after that last hit, I tumbled off the car and slammed into the street.

No one has to tell me this is bad or that my right arm is completely fucked. In twenty-five seconds, my entire life is altered, ripped away, and reconstructed into something I’d never expected, didn’t plan for, and certainly didn’t want. And worse, the shouts increase as the motherfucker that hit me reverses with spinning tires before he peels off like Dale Earnhardt, Jr. And how I remain conscious and can recall this with brutal clarity, I have no damn idea.

Lightning strikes every nerve ending in my body, igniting it with fire. I know pain more than I care to admit. As the starting quarterback for the Oklahoma Rockets, I deal with it nearly every day. But this is an entirely new level. I can’t begin to pinpoint its origination because it’s coming from every-fucking-where. I feel like the guy at the bottom of the pile holding the ball everyone’s scrambling to get.

In the distance, there are shouts to call 911. Not much later, I can hear sirens in the distance. But not for long. Everything dims, and the next thing I recall is waking up in the hospital with my Aunt Shelly staring at me.

“What’s …?” I try to say, but my throat scratches like sandpaper.

“Fletcher, honey, you’re awake. Do you know what happened?” When I only groan, she adds, “You got hit by a car and are in the hospital. But you’re going to be fine. The doctor will be here shortly.”

Fine
. That’s easy for her to say because I don’t feel
fine
at all.

“Did you drive here all the way from Raleigh?” Which was a dumb question because, of course, she did.

“Yes, and I should call your parents.”

“Don’t,” I grumble.

“They should know,” she protests.

“I’m not a child. I’m here to watch their house while they’re on a much needed long vacation. Besides, they need to spend time with my brother, which they rarely have the opportunity to do. No need to worry them.”

She sighs and opens her mouth to gripe at me some more. But as if she’s conjured him, the doctor strides in, and then I wish he hadn’t. He’s not exactly smiling when he enters.

“Mr. Wilde, I’m Dr. Logan, and I have good news and bad. The best is that you are alive.” I huff because I don’t exactly believe him, not if he says what I’m expecting to hear. “And you’re lucky that your head, neck, and spine were spared. You’ll have no lasting effects from the accident. You’re going to feel pretty sore for a while, though, because you took a definite beating. However …”

And I know the shit ain’t good, like the view of a three hundred fifty pound lineman barreling down on me just as I’m about to throw the ball. The way the doctor’s eyes pull down tells me more than what I’m prepared to hear.

“You sustained a very severe shoulder separation that will require surgery, along with an ACL tear that we’ll have to repair. We need to wait for the swelling to subside before we do anything, though. We can do that here, or you can elect to have it done by a surgeon of your choice. But I wouldn’t suggest waiting. It can be done here in a week or so. We’ll send you home tomorrow, and you can come back for the other procedure. It’ll be outpatient. And because I know who you are… I’m afraid it’s probable that you will be out for most, if not all, of the coming season.”

Fuck me. Football is my life, my reason for being. I can’t imagine sitting on the sidelines just as my career is really taking off. And what the hell am I going to tell my agent, coach, manager, the president, and owner of my team?
Hey, guess what? Your QB got hit by a car while buying dog food
. Then I start laughing. Of all the things in my contract that I can’t do, such as snow skiing, riding a scooter, a dirt bike, or mountain biking, one of the things they forgot to add was crossing the street to buy fucking dog food.

“Fletcher, are you okay?”

I want to say
what in the fucking hell do you think?
Instead, I shake my head and say, “I’ll survive.”

Aunt Shelly pats my good arm and says, “Don’t worry, kiddo. It’s only one season, and you’ll be back better than ever.”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing my bitterness. What they don’t know is this is my contract year. If I sit out, I’ll get royally screwed right up the ol’ ass. And all because of a bag of fucking dog food.

“Mr. Wilde, now that you’re awake, the police are here to ask you a few questions. They’ve been waiting.”

“Police?”

“Yes,” the doctor answers. “Since you were hit by a car, and the driver left the scene, it’s considered a felony.”

“I see.”

The doctor stands there and stares. Then it registers that he’s waiting for me to give my permission. “Yeah, fine. They can come in.”

He opens the door, and a couple of guys in uniform shuffle in. They tell me how sorry they are about the accident and then ask me what I remember. Closing my eyes, I give them my twenty-five second replay of the ugly scene. All of the important facts, such as the make of the car, the color, and the license plate number are nonexistent in my mind. Basically, I’m no help whatsoever. After shaking my left hand, they leave.

As time passes, it doesn’t take long for everyone to see that I’m a dick—a fucking assface and a terrible overall patient. After Aunt Shelly gets me back home, it only takes a day for her not to want to put up with my sorry ass anymore and ends up firing herself as my nurse. She hightails it back to Raleigh and her family once she hires someone to take over for her.

Now I have Rita, a tiny woman who could fit inside a shoebox, taking care of me. And I’m six and a half feet tall. Not to mention that woman is a saint. I don’t know how she puts up with my jackhole moods, but she does. I’m cranky and foul-tempered as I struggle with needing someone else’s help.

“No, Mr. Fletcher, you mustn’t—” she wags a finger at me when I try to get out of bed the day after my surgery.

She must be deaf, because she never flinches when my foul mouth runs off as I get back in bed hating life. I think it’s the dogs she stays for. She probably feels sorry for Boomer and Brady. And weeks later, during my recovery, it’s easy to see the bond the three have formed. Won’t they be sad tomorrow when she’s gone? It’s her last day since I’ll be cleared to drive. After my ACL repair and recovery, I’m finally ready to begin physical therapy.

Rita scares me. One afternoon she threatened if I threw any more plates on the floor she would beat me with the broom she was holding. That shut me up real fast. Now she’s driving me to my PT session, and that frightens me even more. Her speedy turns that feel like we are tipping on two-wheels have me pressing my imaginary brake, wondering if we’ll make it there alive.

“Where’d you learn to drive again?” I ask for the millionth time.

“Why?” She looks innocent.

“You’re scary. You’d make a fighter pilot sweat bullets.”

“Good. I hope you sweat a lot.”

That was the extent of our conversation. I’m sure she’s had more than her fill of me already, too.

Now I just keep my mouth shut and eyes closed, praying we’ll make it to my destination in one piece.

Sitting in the waiting room, I’ve finally finished filling out all the crazy paperwork for my appointment when a voice with a familiar ring to it calls my name.

“Mr. Wilde.”

Struggling to stand, I hobble toward the back, taking great care on my newly repaired ACL, ready to be put through the ringer. No one has to tell me how grueling this is going to be. My focus is on my feet, so I don’t pay much attention to the blonde-haired therapist until she stops and spins around.

“Hello, Fletcher.”

What the fuck! My head snaps up in disbelief. Almond-shaped hazel eyes, the very same ones I used to get lost in for hours at a time, peer at me beneath a feathering of thick lashes. Her gaze takes a lazy trip up and down the length of me, scrutinizing me as though I were an insect, or some other undesirable life form. I get the distinct feeling if she were taller than her five foot seven inches, she would be staring down her cute little nose at me in a haughty manner. Even still, she is every bit as gorgeous as she was the first day I saw her in high school. Scratch that. She’s better—more mature in a refined way. But as usual, it’s her pouty-lipped mouth that holds my attention the longest. Images of what that mouth can do—wait! What the hell am I thinking? “No. This isn’t going to work.”

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