Only for Tonight

Chapter One

Alexei

“You need to be a ghost this season, Alex. A boring, well-behaved ghost.” Slate leans back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “No bar fights. No shoving reporters. No viral moments. Nothing.”

I drag a fry through ketchup and shove it in my mouth, chewing slowly.

We’re at a steakhouse in the West Loop, leather booths, waitresses who pretend not to recognize me.

My agent’s been talking for the better part of forty minutes about the new contract, the expectations, the razor-thin margin between me keeping my spot on the team and being traded to some bottom-feeder franchise in a city I’d never willingly set foot in.

Thirty million dollars. Three years. Sounds like a dream until the fine print basically says behave yourself or lose everything.

“I hear you, Slate.”

“Do you, though?” He sets his glass down and fixes me with a look—the one that says I’m not your friend right now, I’m your business partner and you’re the product we’re trying to sell. “Because the thing with Kemp at the press conference—”

“He shoved a mic in my face and asked if I juice. What was I supposed to do, smile?”

“Yes. That is literally what you are supposed to do.” Slate pinches the bridge of his nose. “Smile, say no comment, and walk away. Instead, you grabbed the guy’s phone and threw it into a potted plant.”

I fight back a smirk. That fern never saw it coming.

“Look,” Slate says, voice dropping lower. “The Hawks went to bat for you. They didn’t have to offer this deal. Half the front office wanted to let you walk. Coach Royce put his neck out because he thinks you’re worth the risk.” There’s a tension filled pause. “Don’t make him regret it.”

The humor drains out of me. He’s right, and I know it.

I’ve been playing football since I was twelve years old—it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only thing that’s ever made sense.

The idea of losing it because I can’t keep my temper in check makes my chest tight in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

“I’ll be good,” I tell him.

Slate studies me for a long moment, then signals the waiter for the check. “Good. Now go home and get some sleep. You’ve got practice at nine.”

We settle up and head outside into the freezing Chicago night. Slate hails a cab and disappears into the back seat with a final wave, and then I’m alone on the sidewalk with my hands shoved in my pockets and my breath coming out in white clouds.

I should go home.

My car’s parked a couple of blocks away. It’s a five-minute walk. I’ll drive back to my penthouse, maybe flip through the playbook for Sunday’s game, and be in bed by eleven. That’s what a boring, well-behaved ghost would do.

Instead, I start walking in the opposite direction.

I don’t have a destination. I just know that going home to an empty apartment right now isn’t happening.

There’s this restlessness under my skin I can’t quite shake—this low-grade hum of dissatisfaction that no amount of training, game film, or expensive dinners has been able to quiet.

It’s been building for weeks. The penthouse.

The silence. The too-big couch and the kitchen I never use.

I’m twenty-eight years old. I have more money than I know what to do with. I’m in the best shape of my life. And walking through Chicago at ten forty-five on a freezing Tuesday night, I feel . . . hollow.

My older sister Tracey would tell me I need a girlfriend. My mother would tell me I need church. My youngest sister Valerie would probably tell me I need therapy because she’s seventeen and thinks she knows everything.

Maybe they’re all right.

The night air bites at my face, and my ears sting from the cold, but I keep walking.

The neighborhoods shift as I move south—polished storefronts give way to grittier blocks, neon signs flickering above darkened doorways.

Nobody looks twice at the six-foot-four guy in the black peacoat.

In daylight, on game day, I’d be stopped every ten feet.

Out here in the dark, I’m just another person trying to outrun his own thoughts.

That’s when I see her.

She’s petite yet curvy, with a nice ass and beautiful tits. But that’s not the first thing I notice about her.

The first thing that strikes me is that her coat isn’t warm enough for a Chicago winter.

It’s one of those thin jackets meant for fall—dark, cropped at the waist—and she has her arms wrapped tight around herself, shoulders hunched against the cold.

She’s standing on a street corner discussing something with a man in hushed tones, waving her hands dramatically as she speaks.

It’s late, and the street is almost deserted.

She has long dark hair, a trim build, and a full, pouty mouth. And she seems to be pissed off. Curious about her, I stalk closer and slow my pace.

“Fine. Tell me what it’ll take, sweetheart,” the guy says to her.

She stiffens and puts one hand on her hip. “I’m not for sale, asshole. I did my job, but that’s it. When you step outside those doors, the fantasy ends.”

They’re standing outside a dingy club, the kind of place that smells of rancid smoke, cheap beer, and meaningless sex.

I should know. I’ve been here once or twice for bachelor parties and those kinds of things.

My friends would call it a titty bar. But my friends are mostly pro football players, and their manners leave a lot to be desired.

The place isn’t really a strip club, more like a topless bar where beautiful women serve drinks in their underwear. It all seemed flirtatious enough until now… until a sinking feeling washes over me as I watch this woman get propositioned in the street as she’s trying to leave work.

The guy laughs, the sound abrasive, like he doesn’t believe her. “Three hundred bucks. Come on, baby. It’ll be fast.”

She chews on one of those pouty lips as she weighs his words, contemplating what looks to be a life-changing decision… and not life-changing in a positive way.

Don’t do it, lady… just say no to what this asshole is offering you.

Part of me knows I need to mind my own business.

This guy just wants a quick transaction, and she’s a grown woman who can make her own choices.

Who am I to play hero at midnight on a random street corner?

I’ve got my own problems: a contract to protect, a coach running out of patience, an agent who literally just spent an hour telling me to keep my head down and stay out of trouble. To be a ghost.

Walk away, Alexei. This isn’t your fight.

But the other part of me—the part that grew up with three sisters, the part that watched my father work double shifts to make sure his girls were safe and warm and never, ever put in a position like this—that part won’t let my feet keep moving.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and I catch the slight tremble in her shoulders. She’s freezing. And this guy isn’t budging.

I walk over, my legs moving of their own volition.

“Excuse me,” I say, interrupting them.

Her gaze swings over to mine, and the guy she’s with does a double take. I tower over him by at least half a foot. Now that I have a better look at him, I see the guy is middle-aged, round in the midsection, his hair graying at his temples. I also know I can take him if it comes to that.

He shoots me a look that’s half pissed off that I interrupted his bargaining session and half panicked that I may kick his ass.

The latter is definitely what he should be more concerned about if he tries any shit.

I may just decide to do it anyway, despite the fact I just promised my agent I’ll behave myself and not end up on any more tabloid news sites.

So much for being a ghost.

“The lady said to leave her alone. I suggest you get out of here.” I glare down at the guy—not even flexing, just using every inch of my height and the width of my shoulders to make a point.

His eyes narrow, but he takes a step back and holds up his palms. “Fine. Going.”

He takes off down the street and disappears around the corner, leaving me standing across from the woman.

She’s probably no more than five foot three, a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet.

No way she could have defended herself against someone his size.

More importantly, she shouldn’t have to defend herself from that prick.

“Were you really going to go home with that guy?”

She shakes her head. “No. He didn’t want to take me home. Just wanted a little private show in the back seat of his car. Use your imagination for the rest.”

I wait to see if she’s joking, but sadly, I can tell what she’s saying is the truth. She delivers it so matter-of-factly, like this is just another Tuesday for her, and that bothers me more than the actual words.

Then she looks at me, with the prettiest shade of blue eyes I’ve ever seen, and my heart almost stops. “For the record—guys are gross.”

I chuckle at her surprising honesty. “Not denying that.”

Men can be real creeps. I’ve seen the evening news. Sadly, there’s just no arguing against her logic. Some of us are still good guys, but I don’t say this to her. I just let her believe what she wants.

“I’m Alexei,” I say, offering her my hand.

I have no idea why that name comes out of my mouth.

Everyone in my life calls me Alex—my teammates, my agent, the media, every interviewer and fan and woman I’ve ever taken to dinner.

Everyone except my mother and my sisters.

Alexei is the name my parents gave me, the one whispered over my crib in Russian, the one my mother still uses when she’s proud of me or angry with me.

I haven’t introduced myself that way in years, and I have zero explanation for why I’m doing it now, standing outside a dingy club with a woman I met thirty seconds ago.

For a second, she just looks at my hand, and I don’t think she’s going to take it. But then finally, after deciding that she can trust me—at least for something as simple as a handshake—she places her small palm in mine.