THE LOOK ON her face pushes my cock harder against the zipper of my shorts. Her eyes are closed and her beautiful lips partially open in ecstasy. I've accomplished everything I set out to do this evening.

"You're not into him, are you?" I ask as I run my fingers along her calf.

"Into whom?" she moans.

Whom, I love it. "Lane," I clarify.

"Is that what this is about?" She peels open her eyes and gives me a glare. I dig into a small ball of muscle and her eyes close again.

I change the subject. "If Kelson becomes a problem, at least talk to Morely. If I hear through the grapevine that you're putting up with shit and not reporting it, I'll handle it myself."

"You will, will you?" She doesn't bother opening her eyes this time.

My fingers dig in and travel farther up her leg. She smells heavenly. Once I've reached the stopping point, I skim my fingers across the crotch of her shorts. Her eyes pop open and I lean up and kiss her. Her moan into my mouth is better than the others combined. I slide my fingers beneath her shirt until her breasts fill my hands. She doesn't stop me and it takes everything I have to pull back.

Her long lashes drift down over her languid hazel eyes. I adjust her shirt so it's covering her breasts, lean forward, kiss her pert little nose, and stand. Seeing her lips swollen from my kisses is more than I can take, so without sinking into her sweet mouth, I head to the door. "I provided dinner, so I'm leaving you with the dishes."

"You jerk." She laughs and sits up. I fight the need to rejoin her in bed.

"Believe me. I need to leave right now or neither of us will sleep tonight." I close the door behind me and head back to my room. Kelson is kicked back on his bed watching TV. I strip down to my boxer briefs and climb under the covers. I roll away and shut my eyes. Neither of us has made any effort to talk since our first year of rooming together at training camp. I'm thankful tonight is no different.

The relief I feel that nothing is going on between Jordan and Lane allows sleep to invade my consciousness; one minute I'm awake and the next the world is dark.

***

Two weeks charges by without weekends putting a stop to our torture. The only time I see Jordan is at dinner. She and Lane stick close to each other. Lane is now sitting at my table when I'm in the hotel's restaurant and Jordan joins us. Our first preseason game is tomorrow and most of the team is eating dinner out of their rooms this evening. I feel for the guys who have everything on the line. Three more weeks to prove themselves or be cut in preseason's slimming of the roster.

Nervous energy fills the dining room. I'll play a series or two tomorrow, but for most of the game I'll look on from the sidelines. This gives Kelson a chance to shine. Won't do him much good in the long run but we need a solid second-string QB and he's the best we have. If I'm injured during the season, the ball passes to him.

"Patrickson, make your damn toast so we aren't jinxed this year," Randy Byer shouts from the table next to mine.

I had actually forgotten about the yearly pregame toast. Hell. I stand and lift my water to the shouts of hear, hear. "Pronghorns," I say loudly. "We're weeks away from regular season and it's time to leave everything you have on the field. Look to the players on either side of you." I give everyone a chance to glance at the players sitting beside them. "You or a player beside you won't be here in a few weeks. This is as real as it gets. Kick ass and take no names." I drink my water to shouts from around the room.

I sit down and slide my hand beneath the table giving Jordan's cold fingers a squeeze. She has her position and doesn't need to worry about someone breathing down her neck to steal it. Her problems are actually larger than the other players'. She has something to prove to the world.

***

We fly out at five o'clock the next morning. In regular season we travel a day early. With the tortures of preseason traveling a day early is a luxury we don't have time for. This might not be a true game but it's still game day and we have our game faces on. Thick tension fills the air. Some players have earbuds in and are zoning out with pregame music. Laughter is what's lacking. We're paid a lot of money to win and we take that seriously. Even in preseason.

I'm two seats back from Jordan. She's one of the players with headphones. I would love to listen to music, but my job never ends and I review plays and scenarios in my head during the flight. I lean my seat back and close my eyes while spreading my fingers on the armrest and picturing a football in my hands. I grip the rippled leather, spin, and hand off to the running back, who fires the ball to the tight end. Is Jordan nervous? Of course she is. "Hell," I mutter and snap my mind back to pregame mental preparations.

It doesn't work because I can't help wondering if I'm interfering with her zone. The faint stirring of air and her scent make me open my eyes. She brushes past me without looking. I don't turn and watch as she heads down the aisle. That would be too obvious. I wait a few minutes before heading to the back of the plane. She's coming out of the lavatory at the same time I arrive. She glances up and sees me.

With a faint smile, she moves aside but I stop her with a hand on her forearm. "You doing okay?" I whisper. This will be an easy game for me. A few plays and they'll pull me from the game. Jordan, on the other hand, will be kicking when she's needed without backup to take some of the slack.

Her lips purse delightfully. "I'm good," she replies and then looks nervously down the aisle.

No one is paying attention to us, so I crowd her a bit and lean in so I'm whispering in her ear. "Good luck," I tell her. I inhale the delicious scent at her throat and my dick responds. Hell. Hard-ons on game day are not good. I give my own cursory glance to see if anyone has taken notice of us and then take her hand and give it a brief squeeze. I slip into the lavatory without watching her walk back to her seat. I need my hard-on under control before I leave the restroom.

We land in Seattle and head out of the terminal. I notice the reporters as soon as the area past security is in sight. They were a no-brainer. What I hadn't expected were hundreds of girls of all ages and all with something in common.

Pink footballs.

Larry Modiess steps up to Jordan as soon as she's clear of the security line. He hands her a permanent marker and says something to her that I can't hear over the reporters and excited girls.

"Will you sign my football?" a young girl asks me. She's maybe six years old and has curly hair and rosy cheeks.

"Sure," I tell her with a smile. "I need to find a pen."

"I's has one," she says with a cute lisp and hands me her pen.

I take a knee and prop her pink football against my leg while I sign it. "You like football?"

She shakes her head. "I be a kicker too." She points at Jordan, who is completely surrounded by girls while she signs their pink footballs. The look of worship on the little girl's face is impossible to miss. "I be just like her."

Something snaps in my brain. It literally happens that fast. I remember dreaming about playing pro football. I wasn't any older than the little girl standing before me. I look into her eyes and hope shines up at me. This young girl has a shot at any future she chooses, even football, and there is no way I would say differently.

I turn to the girl's mother. "May I take her to Jordan and get this signed?" The woman is an older version of her daughter. "Please, and thank you."

"What's your name?" I ask the little girl.

"Shaywee."

"Shaylee," her mother clarifies.

"Okay, Shaylee. Let's go see Jordan." I hold out my hand and her little fingers grab mine. I walk her through the sea of reporters and lead her directly up to Jordan. "This young lady's name is Shaylee and she wants to be a kicker too."

Jordan's smile is priceless. "Thank you, Shaylee. Kicking is hard work and fun too. You'll make a great kicker."

I hand Jordan Shaylee's football. Jordan's eyebrows lift when she spins the football around and sees my signature. Below mine, she writes, "Kick like a girl," and signs it Jordan Givens. Jordan hands the football to Shaylee and takes another from a waiting fan as I lead Shaylee back to her mom. "Are you coming to the game?" I ask her mom.

Her smile drops just a bit. "No, not this one. We'll try to later in the season."

"Give me your name and I'll have tickets waiting at will-call. How many do you need?" I ask her.

"Oh gosh, that's wonderful. Two, just two."

"Your daughter seems to be the only girl interested in my signature, so it's the least I can do." I smile at the shy mom.

"She loves football."

I put her name in my phone and turn back to Jordan after Shaylee and her mother leave. The reporters have moved back slightly so more girls can have their footballs signed. Larry walks over and stops next to me. "A local radio station gave out a thousand pink footballs in honor of Jordan's first preseason game. Too bad Mike Goodwyn is such an ass. He could do the same thing in Albuquerque and be part of history."

Mike Goodwyn continues being an asshole and knocking Jordan along with the entire franchise every chance he gets. I actually hope Jordan isn't following his news stories. "Goodwyn is an ass," I affirm.

We stand silently and watch after that. The rest of the team does the same thing. It's rare to go to another team's hometown and have fans wanting autographs. To have this many show at the airport is unheard of. I'm guessing the Pronghorns now have a whole group of new female fans from around the country.

I've been put decisively in my place.