Chapters (48)
- Cover
- PRAISE FOR ALEXA MARTIN’S PLAYBOOK SERIES
- Titles by Alexa Martin
- Dedication
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Epilogue
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“Why’d you make us get here so early?” Marie’s freckled arm stretches in front of me to nab one of the cheese-covered nachos in my lap. “I’m going to burn to hell and back.”
I made her apply sunscreen in the car, but even so, she’s right. She’s still going to burn. She burns just thinking about the sun. When we took a trip to Vegas for her twenty-first birthday, she burned so bad at the pool that I thought she needed to go to the emergency room.
“Because, if we didn’t get here when we did, the parking would’ve been impossible, the lines to the concessions would’ve been a mile long, and you would’ve been complaining that you were hungry and needed beer when I wanted to watch the game.”
“Okay, but now the team’s about to come out and I’m almost out of beer and you’re not being a good nacho sharer, so I’m going to complain anyways.” She grabs the last cheesy nacho in the tray and shoves it into her mouth before I can steal it back. And, because I work for the organization, I can’t punch her in the arm like I really want to. Maybe if I was a trainer or something that sounded a little more aggressive, I could get away with a light swat. But, since I work in public relations—aka the department that extinguishes fires, not ignites them—it’s probably not the best idea.
In my next life, I’m so going to be a wrestler.
“Asshole,” I mumble beneath my breath, which turns out to be unnecessary because that’s the moment the announcer decides to let his presence be known.
“Denver, Colorado! Get on your feet! Let’s hear it for your Denver Mustangs!” Jack, the announcer the Mustangs have used for the last five seasons, shouts through the speakers. I met him this week; he was kind of obnoxious, but I guess that’s perfect for his job.
The metal floor rattles beneath my shoes with synchronized anticipation as everyone jumps to their feet.
Everyone, that is, except for me.
This is the first professional football game I’ve ever been to. I’ve wanted to come to one of these games forever and I promised my dad that he’d be by my side when I did. We were going to celebrate his remission with the best seats and all the beer he could drink.
Grief is such a bitch.