Myst conversation with Sloane is still in my head when I catch the red-eye to California after practice on Thursday night. The team isn’t flying to L.A. until tomorrow, and while I could theoretically take the team flight and make it from LAX to the Willow by one in the afternoon, I’m not about to leave what could be my only date with Sloane in the hands of fate and freeway traffic. Especially not in Los Angeles.

    Since I’m in L.A. early, I spend Friday morning running on the beach. I may be a Texas boy, born and bred, but there’s something about the Pacific that’s always struck a chord in me. That’s probably why, when I had my choice of colleges and schrships, I chose Cal. Even if the ocean didn’t call to me, the fantastic weather would have.

    It’s ten thirty in the morning, and it’s barely seventy degrees outside. When I left Austin at close to tenst night, it was still over ny.

    But as I run, I can’t get ourst conversation out of my head.

    “This is going to get very messy.”

    I know Sloane’s had a rough time with the guys she’s dated, and I know she’s looking for any excuse not to give something between us a shot. But what she doesn’t get is that, for me, it’s never been anything as simple as a feeling.

    Not just lightning bolts and butterflies—though there were a few of each—but recognition. A reflection I never expected to see staring back at me.

    We’ve both hurt. We’ve both got cuts we pretend don’t ache anymore. And while something tells me hers are deeper than I can ever imagine, I think the masks we wear are what we recognize in each other. Because even broken pieces shine when the light hits them right.

    It doesn’t matter how messy this gets. It doesn’t matter how much of that mess sshes on me. All I care about is making sure she’s okay when the dust settles. And that she knows she’s worth fighting for.

    Because she is. Every damn time.

    After my run, and with a certain pep in my step, I stop by a flower shop and pick up a mixed bouquet of ca lilies and peonies before returning to the hotel to get cleaned up. I want to make sure I get to the Willow before Sloane, so she doesn’t have to walk through the throng of paparazzi alone.

    I take a quick shower, then dress in jeans and a ck T-shirt. Gotta match Sloane, obviously. On my way out the door, I grab the flowers and head down to the lobby to catch an Uber with plenty of time to spare.

    Which turns out to be a good n, because cutting through the photographers and the Sloane Walker fans to get to my ride takes longer than I expected. Apparently, staying at the team hotel was a bad move on my part. It makes me way too easy to find.

    Live and learn.

    That’s always been my motto, but something tells me the learning curve is gonna be pretty steep from here on out. I’ve only just adjusted to being football-star famous, but mega-star famous is something else entirely. It’s not just a different game, but a whole different sport.

    The fact that my Uber driver nearly gets in a wreck because she keeps sneaking peeks at me in the rearview mirror makes that very clear. All while ring Sloane’stest album to really hammer it home.

    This kind of attention isn’t something I ever wanted or even thought about. I keep a pretty low profile most of the time, especially during the off-season, and I like it that way. But I want to be with Sloane, and thises with the package, so I’m going to do my damnedest to get used to it. To get good at it, goddamn it, so I can keep her from getting hurt.

    When we finally pull up at the Willow, the Uber takes me up the circr drive to the front door. There’s a roped-off area to the right where folks with cameras are allowed to take pics of the restaurant’s famous guests arriving and leaving. From what I understand, most days there are only four or five people in the designated area at any given time, but today it’s full to bursting. And not just with paparazzi, either. Reps from real news media are here as well: local TV stations, newspapers, and magazines.

    No real surprise there. But the fact that they’ve had to set up another whole area for fans behind the media section? That, I didn’t anticipate. Hundreds of fans are crowded into another area manned by two security guards. They’re mostly dressed in Sloane Walker ck, but there are a few in Twisters blue.

    “Thanks for the lift,” I tell the driver as I add a huge tip to the fare. “I know it’s been a bit of a wild ride.”

    “That’s okay,” she tells me, eyes wide. “But could you tell Sloane I’m a huge fan?”

    “I sure will.” I grab the flowers and the pink concha pastries abu Ximena sent for Sloane, smile at the driver one more time, and prepare myself for who the fuck knows what as I climb out of the car.

    The screams start the second they see my face, and theye from the paps and fans alike.

    “Look over here, Sly.”

    “Give us a smile.”

    “When is Sloane getting here?”

    “Can youe over for a close-up?”

    “What’s in the box?”

    “Hold up the flowers so we can get them in the photo!”

    “Are you and Sloane an item now?”

    “When’s thest time you talked to Sloane?”

    “How about another smile?”

    The questions and requests go on and on. I do what I can: I lift the bouquet, smile for the cameras, wave hello to the fans. But then I hightail it inside to make sure there’s a table ready for when Sloane arrives.

    Of course, I should have known better. Not only is there a table, but it’s directly in the center of the dining room. Correction, the packed dining room. Whatever goes down between the people at that table will be in clear view of everyone, and I mean everyone.

    Learning curve, I remind myself as I grit my teeth and smile at the ma?tre d’ who escorts me to our table. I know the whole point of this date is to be seen, but there’s being seen and then there’s being watched. This is definitely thetter.

    I feel awkward as fuck settling into my chair. I put the flowers and the pastry box near Sloane’s seat before ordering a bottle of sparkling water for the table. The things I read online say Sloane’s a big fan of bourbon, but I have no idea which one to order.

    My phone buzzes with a message from Sloane.

    Sloane: ETA, 4 minutes

    Sloane: Are you there yet?

    Me: Yep. At the table

    Sloane: Is it right in the middle of the room?

    Me: I see you’ve done this before

    Sloane: My team asked for something inconspicuous

    Me: Looks like the message was lost in trantion

    Sloane: It usually is. I’m going to do the pap walk, then I’ll be in. Try not to do anything rash in the next five minutes

    I don’t answer her, partly because I’m already getting up and heading for the front door, and partly because that’s not a promise I’m willing to make.

    I know she’s got way more experience doing this than I do. She dated Jarrod Bowers, for fuck’s sake, and negotiated her way through everything that came after he died. But her wealth of experience doesn’t mean I have to leave her on her own. They let me off easy when I got here, and I still feel like I’ve run through a damn gauntlet. I don’t want to think about what they’ve got in store for her.

    It’s that thought more than any other that has me pulling my phone back out, tucking my head, and making just-in-case arrangements as I maneuver my way through the crowd. If we don’t need them, I’m out a few hundred bucks. But if we do… If we do, it’ll be the best money I ever spent.

    I make it to the street as a ck SUV with heavily tinted windows pulls to a stop right where my car did, and a huge guy in a suit gets out of the passenger seat. He moves to open Sloane’s door, but I beat him to it.

    Where I’m from, you step in when it matters. It’s about time everybody realizes that I’m not here to y. Sloane included.

    “I’ve got her,” I tell the guy, sliding between him and the door. I may be a quarterback, but I do know how to make an interception.

    At first it looks like he wants to intervene, but he backs off quickly enough when he recognizes who I am. He smiles what I would be hesitant to call anything but a shit-eating grin.

    Which leaves me to pull the car door open and meet Sloane’s surprised eyes with my own.

    “Well, hello there, corazón,” I say with a grin. “You’re looking awful pretty today.”