I REMEMBER TURNING twenty-three and beginning my first season as a starting quarterback. The powers that be considered twenty-three young for a starter. Now, three years later, I feel old. From the wear and tear on my body and my mental state from losing game after game, I don't have the same excitement as I've had in the past.

As team captain, it's my job to pump up the players for the coming season. I'm hoping the new kicker the front office signed will help us out. The entire process has been shadowed in mystery for some ungodly reason. We have a player or two who are gay. They keep it on the down-low. I truly don't give a damn about who they have in their bed. Play your position, give it your heart, and screw anyone you want. With consent, that is.

This doesn't mean all the players feel this way. By my thinking, the idiots need to get over it and move on. I haven't seen a sexual pass in the locker room or heard of one. Maybe the new kicker is openly gay and the organization expects some backlash from players. Again, I don't care if he's green with three eyes. If the man can kick a football through the goalposts, that's all that matters.

"Mornin', Aiden," Jim the security guard says as I walk through the front doors of corporate.

"Good morning, Jim."

"Winning's in the air, boss," he adds as I head to the elevator. God, I hope he's right.

The building isn't tall, four stories only, and meetings on the fourth floor are always important. The first practice of training camp is in three days. Maybe my energy level will pick up then. We've made some good trades since the end of last season, and our defensive line should be able to hold their end of things this year. My body is suffering and the sacks are getting to me. Something needs to give. With a new offensive guard and tackle weighing more than three hundred and twenty pounds each we have a shot.

I rotate my shoulders in the swanky elevator. No pain. At least for now. I'll check in with that in a couple of weeks. The doors open and I walk down the hall to the double doors leading into a large conference room where the meeting is taking place. Rick Dove, the chairman and owner of the team, is sitting at the head of the table. Kendal Gillum, our legal counsel, and his assistants (whose names I can't remember) are on either side of him. Chris Palco, the western regional scout; Buck Mitchel, the head coach; and Roger Morely, the special teams coach, take three of the other eight chairs.

This is unusual, and suddenly, I don't feel so good about the situation.

Rick waves me over. "Welcome, Aiden. Have a seat. Our new kicker won't be here for another five minutes or so and we want to be sure we're all on the same page."

Rick is in his early seventies, in good shape for his age, and someone I like. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and never played football. Lacrosse was his sport. His family money allowed him to build the team once the league expanded. I've never doubted his love of the game or his decision-making abilities even without a football background. Unfortunately, we've had injuries to key players and we can't seem to bring ourselves out of the string of bad luck we've faced.

"Yes, sir," I say and nod at everyone in turn. I take a seat one down from Roger. I expected Rick, Buck, and maybe Roger. Meeting with legal counsel is never good in my opinion and having three in the same room is downright scary.

"We're excited about this, Aiden," Rick begins.

I look around the room and the last thing I feel is excitement. "We've needed a decent kicker for a long time," I say, keeping my tone steady while I play along.

"We need you to be the calm one in this situation, Aiden." Rick pauses and then continues when I give no response. "There will be media attention that we haven't seen since our first kickoff." He gives a short chuckle. "Scrap that, this will be bigger." He looks down at the large folder in front of him. "Does the name Jordan Givens spark any memories?"

The name does, but for the life of me I don't know why. It's not a football name I'm familiar with. Even thinking about the new crop of seniors in college leaves a blank. For some reason, my mind moves to soccer. It would make sense, though I doubt one of their pansy-ass players could handle the football grind, even a kicker's job.

"No matter, here she is now."

I turn and his words don't register because my dick immediately comes to attention at the sight of the woman walking through the door. This doesn't happen to me. I'm not some cross-eyed, orgasmic teenager, but Christ this woman is an eyeful. Her brown hair is free and wild around her shoulders, her suit jacket, which is way too hot for our weather, hugs her curves. She has the face of an angel with rounded cheeks giving her an innocent quality. Long eyelashes accent large expressive hazel eyes. And lips. Hell. Plump and prissy is the only way to describe them. They beg to be kissed-no, bitten. There's nothing angelic in the lush, red curves of those lips. I want them wrapped around my. Hell, I need to stop this.

We stand. I drag my eyes away from the woman who's causing me mental and physical havoc and try to make sense of the man who is old enough to be my father standing beside her. Is he her father? He's our new kicker, and I place my hand on the table to keep from swaying. I can't believe we've sunk this low. He must be paying us to play and he's in the worst shape of any player I've ever seen. Where did they find him? The grandfather league?

Rick walks forward and takes the gorgeous woman into his arms for a quick hug. She appears startled by his behavior. His hands on her pisses me off, which is the dumbest reaction I could have. Rick turns to our new kicker and puts out his hand for a quick shake before placing his arm around the woman.

"Aiden," he says to me while walking the woman forward, "meet the first female kicker in pro football."

For a minute, the world shifts on its axis and my testicles immediately recede. They climb so far up inside me I need to swallow them back down. He can't be serious. Can he? Female kicker? My mind is playing tricks. Her gaze stays glued to mine and I realize I've blown the Mr. Cool reaction I'm known for. Get your shit together, Patrickson, I admonish myself.

"I'm Larry Modiess, Jordan's agent." Larry puts his hand out and we shake. "You're with Neil Bronson. He and I go way back." He doesn't wait for a reply and continues shaking the hands of the other men in the room while I stare at Jordan. She holds my gaze and a moment later, anger replaces her stilted smile. It's obvious she doesn't care for my stunned regard, and her shoulders stiffen. Her unforgettable lips purse and draw my attention. My cock comes back to life.

"There's the man we've been waiting for," Rick says.

I peel my eyes away from Jordan and notice Jim Blevins, the media relations manager, walking into the room. "Sorry, Rick. I was held up in traffic." He glances past me. "Jordan, how does it feel to be a Pronghorn?"

Thank God he's not asking me. Right now I think it feels like I jumped into a pit of vipers. I need to hold onto my shit until I can process what's happening.

"Nice. Real nice, Jim." Her low, sexy voice brings me out of the hole I've been slowly crawling into. No one seems to give a damn that I haven't said a word. Wait until the team finds out. The front office will have a herd of raging bulls running through here. Or, more likely, mass exodus. A female is the last thing this team needs.

Jim speaks again and I try to follow what he's saying. "I'm glad to hear that, Jordan. Let's all have a seat and I'll go over our press release and what's expected of you at the press conference I have planned for tomorrow." He waves toward the table and everyone begins to sit.

A minute later, I'm the only one standing and I realize I look like a complete ass, so I take a seat beside Jim. I'm sitting opposite Jordan and her agent. Everyone at the table knew about this and somehow kept it quiet.

I glance at Buck Mitchel. He's in his mid-sixties with wavy, white hair and a beard that always needs a trim. He's a decent coach but we have our moments and don't always see eye to eye. He played professional football thirty years ago. It was in a different era and sometimes he thinks backtracking in coaching philosophy is the way to go. His clenched jaw and hands fisted on the table give away exactly how he sees this mess too. This is his team and it's apparent he's no happier than I am about our new player. I can't even imagine the meetings that went on before today or how they talked him into this ridiculous scenario.

I sit through an hour of bullshit media plans while trying to maintain a small amount of self-control. Hell, if Mitchel, one of the most explosive-tempered coaches in pro football, can handle this, so can I.

"You'll be in charge of the team dynamic, Aiden. They'll stay focused if you lead them like a good captain should."

Jim is speaking to me, and it takes a few seconds to recount what he just said. "I'll do that," I finally answer. I glance around the table before meeting Jim's eyes again. "Have you thought about the psychological aspect of what you're doing? Maybe you should consider having a psychologist or therapist on hand."

Jim smiles and his large teeth flash like the weasel he is. "I didn't think that would be necessary for a group of big, badass football players, but we can address it if you think it's needed."

I smile back with my own set of white teeth flashing. "I didn't mean for the team. I meant for Miss Givens."