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  She didn’t wince and didn’t waver to look Amber in the eyes when she replied, “It’s pretty bad, champ.”

  Amber shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “But you’re still beautiful.” Her words were so heartfelt and so devoid of pity that Amber felt tears threaten. “Now, pull yourself together. We have a very long night ahead of us.”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” she bitched, trying to follow Keira’s lead and lighten the mood. “Where’s Mark? I think I’m going to need his hat.”

  “Probably getting a keg from downstairs.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Amber made her way through the kitchen to find Mark, pulling her ponytail down as she went. She didn’t have much time and could only think of one way to hide her face.

  “Need your hat, dude,” she called down to Mark in the beer cellar.

  He didn’t answer, but his hat came flying up and almost smacked her in the face. Grabbing it, she ran to the restroom. Pulling her platinum-blonde hair over to her right side, she braided it so that it came over her shoulder and fell just above the swell of her breast. She pulled on the hat, which provided the shadow she needed. Looking at herself in the mirror, she could barely see anything, and with the dark of the bar, she figured she’d be all right.

  She ran back through the kitchen and picked up a premade garnish kit and a couple of sliced lemons and limes. Feeling pressed for time, she hustled back through the kitchen and out to the bar. Placing everything on the sleek surface, she slid underneath the gate and moved around the square until she stood in front of Keira.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Yep. You ready?”

  “Always,” she repeated for the second time tonight.

  Only, this time, there were no recriminations because she might not always be careful but as Keira could attest, Amber was always ready.

  Three

  The legend went something like this. Way back in 1993, the Kensington State football team, lamenting over their first full day of practice, had decided that what they needed was a night out. None of them had mentioned that it was only their first day of practice or had they bothered to state the obvious that it was merely the beginning of a very long season. Even back then, it was never clear who had come up with the brilliant idea. Whoever was responsible might well live in infamy in their small college town, but the secret had seemed to be well protected. Regardless, the team’s trip to the Bear’s Den had marked the beginning of a tradition that thrived now, almost twenty years later.

  “So, we aren’t really going to make any money tonight, are we?” Amber asked as the bar started to fill with the team. “I mean, they’re mostly broke college students.”

  Keira looked over at her as she filled a mug from the tap. “You would think that, right? But word’s gotten out over the years.” Shrugging her shoulders as she leaned across the bar to exchange the beer for money, she said, “It’s the other people who come to mingle with them that tip us well. I made bank last year—and the year before, come to think of it. It’s the Tank Howard Effect.”

  At Amber’s questioning look, Keira continued, “He’s a walking economic incentive for this town. After the whole signing day spectacle, I feel like the whole town showed up two years ago. And aside from all the controversy surrounding him, he’s worth coming out to see.”

  “Why’s that?” Amber asked as she headed to take an order from a customer.

  “Have you been living under a rock?” She quickly apologized. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking, but seriously, Amber, the man is hot.”

  Shaking her head, she replied, “Aren’t they all?”

  “You’ll see. He’s smoking hot—and nice, as far as I can tell.”

  After that, there wasn’t much time to chat. The crowd at the bar was three deep. Amber would fill an order, collect the cash, and move on to the next. The noises from the bar and the pounding of the music made conversation difficult. Even taking an order required either great lip-reading skills or a provocative lean across the bar.

  Briefly, Amber wondered how many more people Mark could admit without a citation for a fire hazard. But the rhythm of the bar didn’t allow her much time to think. Much like the seven-minute lull in a conversation, an unexpected break would hit when they could catch their breaths and look out with wonder on the scene.

  It was pushing up against midnight when Mark made the call to shut it down. They went one for one—one person out, one person in. Finally, with that move, things became manageable again, and they were able to take much-needed breaks.

  As Amber made her way to kitchen, where she could take a breather, she decided she appreciated being behind the bar because trying to get through this crowd was like a mouse trying to weave through a herd of elephants. The football players’ big bodies took up more space than the average person and blocked the small opportunities for light that bars made available. And the girls. Draped on virtually every player, a scantily clad girl fussed and fawned. Amber saw more skin on the way to the kitchen than she had at the beach.

  Her leg was sore, and her head was pounding. She’d worked up a sweat, moving through the crowd. She could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Putting her hand on the small of an enormous human’s back, she stood up as far as she could and yelled, “Excuse me,” so she could slip past him and through the double doors to safety. It was the wrong thing to do.

  The female on the other side of him must not have heard what she’d said. Before Amber could even react, a large woman, dressed in tights that obviously hadn’t come with a warning label, wrenched Amber’s hand off the back of the guy in front of her. The sudden jerking was too much for Amber’s tired right leg. It crumpled and even though she fought to regain her balance, she hit the floor.

  Tank stood in the midst of the crowd, chilling with Marsh and Tilly. He’d been available for a while, mingling with everyone at the bar. Not that it was a chore. He loved the fans, loved their enthusiasm and their gratitude. Not one to analyze his feelings, he imagined that, if he spent sometime thinking about it, he’d admit that he liked being in the spotlight. He enjoyed being the go-to person, and for this town, he was it. And that meant he had to mingle.

  Cy would make him do all sorts of stupid bullshit that he supposed most people wouldn’t enjoy. But Tank liked meeting the donors and the bigwigs, liked chitchatting with the president of the university. Franco would give him a hard time, but Tank wouldn’t take it too seriously because he knew that Franco was the master of mingling. Most of the time, the bullshit he had to attend, his coach would have to attend, too.

  But tonight was about the team and tradition. Tank had done his part and now, he was tucked away from the crowd with the insulation his teammates provided. It was nice, having friends who weighed over three hundred pounds. Tended to keep one safe.

  There were some token cleat-chasers hanging around, but it wouldn’t be a party without them. Tank had learned how to keep himself insulated from that, too. He indulged, like the rest of them, but he tended to think that he was smarter than everyone else about keeping himself in line. Most of his teammates didn’t have Chantel Jones to mother them, so he chalked it up to her.

  The team knew most of the girls who hung around, who were sometimes like flies you wanted to swat. So, the girl with the platinum-blonde hair who came charging through like she was on a mission caught him off guard. When he saw her reach her hand out to Marsh, visions of his conversation with Franco and Cy about tonight flashed through his head. Cynthia, Marsh’s girlfriend took no shit from no one and wouldn’t take kindly to the spindly Gwen Stefani–looking girl touching her man.

  Briefly, he wondered if they would get in trouble for a girl fight.

  Could they post that on Instagram if they weren’t in the picture?

  He stepped forward, hoping to thwart Cynthia, when the blonde went down—hard.

  “What the fuck, Cyn? Are you crazy?” Marsh asked, showing that he had a pair of balls.


  But Tank knew better. Marsh would be sucking up to Cynthia for the next couple of days after talking to her like that. Trying not to smirk, Tank glanced at Tilly and rolled his eyes before dropping to his knee and scooping up the sprite.

  Tilly’s gold teeth flashed as he caught Tank’s expression.

  Shrugging his shoulders as he lifted her, Tank nodded to the kitchen doors behind them, and Tilly pushed them open for the three of them to go through.

  “Think she’s okay?” Tilly asked, still smiling over Marsh’s peril.

  “She’s out cold.” Tank didn’t want to lay her on the ground. Spying the clean stainless steel countertops, he moved toward the wall and laid her down.

  Looking her over, he took note of her almost skinny frame. Her head fell to the side, and he was struck still by the angry red scar that pulled down the corner of her mouth spanning out like a web on the bottom part of her chin along her jawline and down her neck.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Tilly followed his gaze.

  “Looks like a glass shattered around her head,” Tilly observed.

  “Wearing a Bear’s Den shirt. Wanna go get Mark?”

  Tilly nodded and left the kitchen. Tank continued his perusal down her neck to her ample chest, small waist, and very long legs. She’d looked tiny on the floor, but she appeared taller than he’d first thought. She was hot, even with the scar. His gaze worked its way back up her body to her scar. As he stared at it, he wondered not about how it had gotten there, but about what color her eyes were.

  He didn’t have to wonder. He looked up, right into a pair of dark chocolate eyes.

  Smiling, he said, “Good. You’re awake.”

  Scowling, she replied, “Did you get a good enough look, perv?”

  Still smiling, Tank nodded. “Great, hostility. I’ll chalk that up to getting knocked on your ass and hitting your head. Do you feel okay?”

  Seriously? That was her first thought. Her second was, I have the luck of the damned.

  Without needing an introduction, Amber knew she was staring into the light-green eyes of one Tank Howard. Although she wasn’t sure how her body would react, her dignity and pride demanded that she sit up and break out of the damsel-in-distress role. Swinging her legs over the side of the counter at the same time as she sat up, Amber pulled her braid over her neck in an attempt to cover the scar. Bracing herself for the dizziness she knew would hit her, she secured her hands on the side of the counter and held on.

  “I don’t think you are supposed to move that fast after you lost consciousness,” Tank observed.

  His damn smile drew her attention to his mouth and the dimples in his cheeks.

  “I’m fine,” she replied while fighting the dizziness that threatened to win. Inhaling sharply, she slowly looked up and met his eyes. “A friend of yours out there?” she asked with a glint in her eye.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Nice girl.” She noticed that he stayed close, and she knew he was waiting for her to topple over. Over my dead body, she thought. “Does she know those pants come with a weight limit?”

  “Wow!” he exclaimed. He threw his head back and laughed. “Should we ask her? Or how about you ask her, and I watch? I’m supposed to keep the guys out of trouble tonight. Think my coach would be okay if we just witnessed a catfight? I thought about it right before your head hit the ground. Then, I got distracted.”

  “Yeah, into necrophilia much?” She paused. “Need a dictionary?”

  “Ah, dumb-jock jokes. Very original. So, you have anyone who can claim you, so I can get you off my hands?”

  As if on cue, Keira and Mark burst through the kitchen doors with Tilly in tow. Keira rushed over to Amber while Mark stopped to clasp Tank’s hand.

  “Thanks, man,” he said.

  Keira spoke softly to Amber, “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just need to get out of here. I’m fine.” To prove she was okay, Amber jumped down off the counter without flinching.

  “Keira, it’s starting to die down out there. Why don’t you take Amber home?”

  “All right,” Keira agreed.

  “It’s okay, Mark. I can drive.”

  Keira, Tank, and Mark all said, “No!” at the same time.

  Conceding defeat, Amber shrugged her shoulders. “Fine. My stuff’s at the bar.”

  Still leaning on the counter, Amber watched as Mark left with Keira to retrieve their bags. Left alone with Tank and Tilly, Amber knew she needed to thank them.

  Amber looked up into those amazing green eyes. “Thanks for the white-knight routine.”

  Rolling his eyes, Tank moved toward her. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  He reached out to shake her hand. Like a politician, he was too smooth and shiny to be trusted. Meeting him halfway, her hand slid into his. His large hand engulfed her small one. All at once, the slimy feeling melted away as a shocking warmth stole through her. Her eyes widened as they clung to his. But, just as quickly, she slid the shutters closed, the electricity doused before the spark could ignite. And they were once again just two people who had happened to meet.

  Tank released her hand, and with an irritated sigh, he walked away.

  “See ya around,” Tilly said as he followed Tank back out through the swinging kitchen doors.

  Four

  Molly Magee listened to the message on her voice mail with some trepidation. There wasn’t a Compliance Director in the country who enjoyed getting a message from the NCAA, but when it involved a Heisman Trophy candidate, dread couldn’t begin to explain it. When it was over, she listened to it again. And, just to be sure, she listened to it a third time. Unfortunately, it was short on details.

  Heaving a long sigh, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  She knew she had to call them back, if for nothing else to satisfy her curiosity and assuage some of her anxiety. It could merely be a courtesy call. She still had friends in Indianapolis. But she didn’t immediately pick up the phone because, once she made that call, things would become chaotic. No matter what they did, there would be no way to keep the situation from spiraling out of control.

  She decided to savor her ignorance, and thus tranquility, for just a little bit longer. Rather than reaching for the phone again, she pushed out of her chair, deciding to head out to practice. Without saying anything to the her tiny staff, she made her way out of the office, out of the building, and over to the football field.

  Waving to the security guards who gave her free access, she strolled over to the sideline and took up her usual spot.

  Molly had been here for almost three years, the same three years in which the football program had begun its meteoric rise. From consistently being in the top five of their conference over the last three years, the Bears had become a BCS spoiler. They still hadn’t captured the elusive national recognition and credibility, but after an undefeated finish last year, they could taste it.

  They’d come in together—she and Mike Franco. The way she figured it, when the decision had been made to hire Franco, someone had realized that they probably needed a compliance person who knew their way around the NCAA manual—not that anyone thought Franco would cheat, but he’d want to do more than the previous coach. He’d want to push the envelope. They needed someone who could tell him no. Better yet, they needed someone who knew whether or not to tell him no. The previous compliance director didn’t know the difference between a head count and equivalency sport. She’d have never been able to figure out if they could direct message on Facebook or send a notecard with a picture of a player on it.

  And if Molly were really honest, she’d admit that Franco was smarter than most compliance people. If she cited a bylaw that told him no, he’d ask her to check the interps. What frickin’ coach even knew about the NCAA interpretations? He’d make her find loopholes to some of the most formidable rules. And the shit part of it was, he was right more than he was wrong, which only fed his enormous
ego. At this point, Molly was fairly certain that Franco challenged everything she said because he liked sparring with her. Or maybe that was her ego talking.

  Looking in Franco’s direction, she saw him throw his hands up, not liking something he’d seen. Pulling Tank away from the line, he directed the player to do something. She couldn’t tell what he was saying, but he looked frustrated. Tank nodded and then sort of hung his head in acquiescence. She saw a look of confusion skirt across Franco’s face before he bent over, focused Tank on him, said something, and then rapped him on the side of the helmet. Stepping up to the line, they ran the play. Tank delivered the perfect pass to his new freshman receiver, and then he looked back at Franco, who merely nodded his approval. And they ran it again.

  When Molly had arrived on campus, she hadn’t figured that she’d spend a lot of time at practices. Some of her peers had suggested she show up every once in a while—not to spy really, but just to be aware of what was going on. Once the coaches got over their wariness of having the Compliance Cop on their sideline, they’d pretty much embraced her presence. Of course, she’d had to earn their respect and trust along that way, but she’d had to do that to be good at her job. Three years in, they trusted her.

  A basketball girl herself, she’d thought that was where she’d spend a lot of her time. She liked football okay—you didn’t work at a Division I college if you didn’t like the sport—but it wasn’t what she loved. She hadn’t known the difference between the spread offense and the I formation. She did now, of course. When one had Tank Howard to watch, one learned to love the game—although, it wasn’t Tank she loved to watch as much as his coach.

  There wasn’t a woman, age twenty-eight to sixty-five, who could resist the appeal of Mike Franco—okay, and the looks. Franco was hot. Putting Franco and Tank together had been brilliant. It was a Hollywood version of college athletics right here on her campus. Add that to an almost undefeated record for two years, and you had something. She certainly had something. A big-ass crush. It didn’t stop her from saying no, and it certainly didn’t stop her from challenging him at every turn, but it lurked within her. Sometimes, she thought he felt it, too—this low-level sexual tension. But then she’d see him smile at the next girl, and she remembered his charm. She was sure Franco got as much play as Tank.