Touchdown Fever (All-American Men #3)

Chapter One

The Blonde Problem

The blonde hairs draped across my pillow don't belong to me.

Neither does the soft snoring of my human alarm clock that woke me up twenty minutes ago.

A sexy alarm clock, but still. I lie here staring at the ceiling, counting the same few faint stains I've memorized over the three years I've lived in Portland.

I try to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach.

One-night stands aren't exactly my style, especially not with cheerleaders from my own team.

But here I am. Doing something I swore I'd never do.

Tiffany---or is her name Brittany?---shifts beside me.

I'm going with Brittany. Her warm body burrows deeper into my sheets like she's planning to hibernate there.

Her mascara is smudged, creating raccoon shadows that somehow don't diminish her cover-girl looks.

She is one hot tamale, for sure. But that isn't why I'm wincing.

I feel like a sack of rotting, slimy, garbage.

Yeah, I'm a prick. My ex dumped me, and I responded by doing things my conscience can't handle.

A ghost must've inhabited my body last night, urging me to fuck a girl just because she begged me to do it.

Last night had been her idea. After our team beat the Devils, we all had a little too much to drink.

And the way Brittany trailed her fingers up and down my arm at the bar after our win got my dick excited.

Her whispered suggestions in my ear, her giggle when I finally gave in and suggested we leave.

..I should've gone home alone. The guys had whooped and hollered as Brittany and I slipped out, like I was fulfilling some quarterback stereotype I'd always sworn I was above.

But she'd been persistent, and I'd been...lonely, guess. But not heartbroken. Nagging emptiness has been my constant companion since Chandra packed her bags and walked out three months ago.

My bedroom smells different this morning The lingering evidence of our lust for each other is obvious---used condoms and the scent of Brittany's cream.

The pile of laundry I'd meant to fold yesterday lies on the dresser while a playbook sits open on my desk.

The framed jersey on the wall suddenly seems like I'm trying too hard to remind everyone what I do for a living.

Like bringing home a Portland Bigfoots cheerleader wasn't reminder enough.

Her breathing changes rhythm. Should I wake her up?

Nah, not yet. Her hair is tangled around her face, and one smooth, tanned leg has escaped the covers.

She kicked them off during the night. I guess she's a hot sleeper.

I file this information away uselessly, knowing I shouldn't catalog these details if I don't plan on a repeat performance.

Not because there's any official rule against players and cheerleaders hooking up---there isn't---but because he expects better from me. He always tells me, "Focus, Hannigan. Your head's not in the game lately."

Get outta bed, Hannigan, and send the girl packing. Politely.

Coach Barnes would have my ass if he knew what I'd done. I've always called him Coach Ernie, though nobody else does. He's like a second father to me, but even Ernie Barnes would be ashamed of me now.

Chandra's face floats into my mind unbidden---golden skin and dark, fathomless eyes, and thick, sexy lips.

I remember the way she used to curl against me in the mornings, never snoring, always waking with perfect makeup somehow.

The way she left, citing my "emotional unavailability" as if she'd been reading it from a therapist's clipboard.

Brittany stirs beside me, stretching like a cat. Her foot brushes against my calf, and I tense up. The girl deserves better than a guy who can't remember her name with any certainty and is mentally comparing her to his ex.

"Mm," she murmurs, and I realize she's awake now, blue eyes blinking open to focus on me. "Morning, superstar."

I wince. Christ, I hate that nickname. It's what the fans scream, what the local sports anchors call me, what Chandra used to purr when she wanted something.

Brittany clearly wants round two in the sheets.

I don't. But I didn't exactly treat her like a person with dreams and a name last night.

We used each other. Consenting adults and all that shit.

"Morning," I say. "Sleep okay?"

"Mm-hm." She stretches again, making no move to cover herself as the sheet slips lower. "Better than okay."

Her smile seems genuine with no hint of regret or morning-after awkwardness.

That makes one of us. I force myself to smile back while my brain scrambles for what comes next in the one-night stand playbook.

Breakfast? A quick goodbye? The clock on my nightstand reads 7:15 AM.

We both have places to be soon, responsibilities waiting.

The team won't wait for their quarterback to sort out his messy personal life.

"I could make coffee," I offer, already planning my escape route to the kitchen.

"That sounds perfect. Can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah, sure."

Standing in my kitchen wearing nothing but last night's boxer briefs, I rummage through my fridge like I'm searching for the meaning of life instead of breakfast ingredients.

The coffee maker gurgles behind me just as Brittany emerges from the bathroom.

She pads across the tile floor in her bare feet, now wearing her short-shorts and Portland Bigfoots T-shirt from last night.

She wiped away the makeup smudges too. Somehow, she looks perfectly tousled rather than like a rat's.

Some people just win the morning-after lottery.

I grab a milk carton along with some butter. "I could, uh, whip up eggs and bacon for breakfast."

"Oh, don't bother." She waves a dismissive hand. "My boyfriend's waiting for me at home. I'll grab an Uber."

She has a boyfriend? Since when?

Brittany leans against the counter, all long legs and easy smiles. She reaches for the mug of coffee I've poured her, takes a sip, and makes a little sound of appreciation that hits me somewhere below the belt.

"I should get going soon." She gathers her clothes and dresses quickly. "Practice starts at nine, and Coach Miller will have us doing extra laps if anyone's late."

"You sure? It's no trouble." I'm almost disappointed, which is ridiculous. Isn't this how one-night stands are supposed to go? Quick exit, no strings?

She crosses the kitchen to stop my nervous egg-carton fidgeting. "The coffee's perfect. That's all I need."

I nod, relieved and oddly let down at the same time.

She hands me my shirt, neatly folded. "Thanks for the loan, superstar."

"No problem." I clutch the shirt like it's evidence. "Let me just throw on some clothes, and I'll walk you out."

I dress quickly, not bothering with a shower yet. That can wait until she's gone. When I step back into the living room, Brittany is checking her phone. "My Uber's three minutes away. Perfect timing."

"This was fun," she says, saving me from myself. "No pressure or anything, but we should hang out sometime. You know, when you're not celebrating a big win and I'm not three margaritas deep."

I laugh, surprised by her directness and lack of pretense. "Yeah, maybe."

Her eyes narrow slightly, reading between the lines of my non-commitment. "Or not. No big deal either way, Mike."

A car pulls into my driveway---her Uber, right on time.

I open the front door, watching as she walks down to the ground floor, smiling and waving, waiting for her car to arrive. "Bye-bye, Mike!"

"Yeah, uh...bye, Brittany."

"That's me," she says unnecessarily, tapping something on her phone to confirm. "Thanks for..." she waves her hand vaguely between us, "...all this. And good luck at practice today. That last-minute touchdown pass on Saturday was insane."

I feel my face warm at the compliment. "Just doing my job."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Right. Because any quarterback could've made that throw. Take the compliment, superstar."

There's that nickname again, but this time it doesn't sting as much. She steps closer, rises onto her toes, and presses a quick kiss to my cheek before turning toward the waiting car.

"See you around, Hannigan," she calls over her shoulder as she slides into the backseat.

I raise my hand in a half-wave as the car backs out of the apartment complex's driveway. "See you around."

Her Uber already turning onto the street, carrying her away to cheerleader practice and away from whatever this was.

I stand here longer than necessary, watching the space where the car had been.

My cheek still feels warm where her lips touched it, a ghost of connection that's already fading.

Somehow, I know I won't be calling her, and she knows it too.

We used each other to fill spaces in ourselves that can't really be filled that way---not permanently, anyway.

With a sigh, I turn back toward my empty apartment.