Full Contact (The New York Nighthawks #15)

Chapter 1

MICAH

Idragged myself through the early August heat.

Preseason or not, Coach had decided today’s practice should feel like fourth-quarter trench warfare—Oklahoma drills until somebody threw up, then red-zone install on dead legs.

My body was built for collisions, but by the time we broke huddle and hit the showers, fatigue had snuck up behind my shoulder pads and started gnawing.

The ride from the practice facility out on Long Island blurred as I piloted the SUV on muscle memory more than anything else.

By the time I reached Manhattan, I had one mission—food.

Eating at The Tight Line would kill two birds since I liked to personally check in at least once a week at the delicatessen Raiden and I opened.

The moment I stepped through the glass doors, the fatigue eased, the way it always did when I walked into the place my best friend and I had built from scratch.

Stainless counters gleamed, fresh turf-green booth cushions waited beneath framed jerseys, and a huge chalkboard play diagram covered the back wall above the pass-through.

STACKED.

PRESSED.

ALWAYS IN FORMATION.

The scent of hot rye bread, roasted brisket, and a hint of garlic butter clung to the air. My stomach growled loud enough to punch through the rock music piping from the ceiling speakers. The perfect soundtrack for a linebacker who’d just spent three hours flattening rookies in the summer humidity.

The lunch rush had thinned, but plenty of tables remained filled.

I meant to do the usual owner’s circuit—handshake the line cooks, eyeball ticket times, and sign whatever delivery slip got missed.

My gaze made a lazy sweep, a habit from a lifetime of reading offenses, but everything in me braked hard when I spotted someone new.

She shot out of the kitchen doors, balancing three steaming plates on her forearm, a fourth in the other hand.

Tall enough to catch my eye, maybe five-eight.

Thin, but with subtle curves. She wore one of our cheap black aprons and a stubborn little smile.

It was the kind that said the world might be heavy, but she could carry the weight.

When she turned my way to take another order, I noticed the fatigue that shadowed the skin under her hazel eyes. A sign of too many late nights and not enough sleep.

Strands of brown hair, kissed by the sun so they were the color of dark honey, had escaped a ponytail and kept sliding forward across her cheek.

She blew at a wisp, laughed an apology to a customer when a french fry skidded, then tucked the strand behind her ear without breaking stride.

Then she leaned to set a Reuben in front of a tourist dad who murmured something I couldn’t hear, making her laugh again.

The sound floated over the room like a note from a song.

My first thought wasn’t poetic. It was primitive. Mine.

I was thirty years old, six-five, and two-sixty pounds of controlled violence.

I was paid an obscene amount of money to diagnose plays in half a heartbeat, but one sunshine-sweet server almost dropped me to my knees.

The reaction was so sudden, it hit like helmet-to-helmet contact, rattling my ribs and echoing between my ears. Immediate, visceral, and undeniable.

Whatever fired inside my chest while I watched her hustle across the floor didn’t feel temporary.

It was a bone-deep certainty that this was the woman who would end the long stretch of nothing that had encompassed my love life.

My heart didn’t race for just anybody. And every other part of my life—football, family, friendship, and business—was plenty full.

I wasn’t chasing random thrills. I wanted forever, same as my parents back in Alabama. Same as Raiden and Marissa, Prentice and Naomi. I wanted the Sunday-morning coffee, argue-over-paint-colors, hold-my-hand-when-we’re-ninety partner.

In the past few years, I’d figured maybe that wasn’t in the cards for me. Too picky, the guys said. I didn’t see it as picky. I was just refusing to settle.

They loved to bust my balls about it, calling the women I considered dating Mrs. Right Now, but I didn’t mind.

Better than lying to a woman about interest I didn’t feel.

It only took one conversation or the occasional dance at a club for me to bail because the spark just wasn’t there.

No need for second chances when first impressions already answered the question.

I hadn’t even made it to a first date in years. Hell, I was starting to think my radar was busted. Then the new server rounded the corner with a tray balanced like a gymnast, and every circuit in my body lit up at once.

Yeah…my radar works just fine.

I took a slow breath, rolling sore shoulders and grounding myself in the floorboards so I didn’t move on instinct. Linebackers weren’t subtle, and we couldn’t exactly float across a room without notice, so a pair of tourists recognized me. A raised hand and a quick grin bought me privacy.

Half the city followed the Nighthawks, but most New Yorkers respected personal space as long as you respected their time. Tourists were a crapshoot in that arena, but it seemed luck was on my side today.

The object of my attention hustled back toward the counter, apron strings fluttering, hips swaying just enough to draw the eye and punch the breath from my lungs.

Her section wrapped around toward me. I watched her carry drinks, fetch ranch, and kneel beside a kid to cut a grilled cheese sandwich into quarters.

She had a soft voice, a quick smile, and a posture made for grace despite the exhaustion smudging those little shadows.

And she moved like she’d grown up juggling chaos, like someone who learned early to keep plates spinning because dropping one wasn’t an option.

I claimed the first empty booth in her area, sat on the inside so she’d have to step close to reach me, and forced my breathing under control.

Pads-off Micah was calm. Collected. Not the same guy who dripped adrenaline onto the turf every Sunday.

I was the guy Raiden trusted to watch the deli’s margins.

I reminded myself of all that when she turned toward my booth with her tray balanced high, and a spark jumped the gap between us.

My pulse jackhammered because she was looking at me, and I hoped I was the only one who could hear the pounding.

Her steps slowed half a beat, and recognition flickered behind those hazel eyes.

Instead of launching into gush-mode the way most people did, she gave a polite nod and finished dropping checks.

Professional. Guarded. And all the more interesting.

She slid the tray onto an empty table, straightened, and headed over with a pad in hand. Up close, she was…hell, I had no words.

Soft freckles across her nose and high cheekbones, collarbones delicate as blown glass, and her apron pulled snugly over small but perfect breasts that rose and fell a touch too fast. Nerves or exertion, I couldn’t tell.

“Afternoon.” She pulled a pen from behind her ear. Her voice was low, throaty, roughened at the edges from too many shouted orders and not enough water. “Welcome to The Tight Line. I’m Rylin. What can I get you?”

Rylin. The name landed like a punch under my sternum. I repeated it in my head, tasting how it might feel sliding across my tongue in the dark. Then I forced air out of my lungs.

“Micah,” I answered even though she obviously knew. “Good to meet you.”

Her smile twitched, polite but cautious. “Likewise. You look like a man who could demolish an entire menu. Want the Shaffer Stack?”

I grinned. “Hell no. I’m starving, not suicidal. I can’t eat shit like that until the season is over.”

I didn’t need to see the menu to know what she was referring to, not just because Raiden and I had created it, but because I had an eidetic memory.

That particular sandwich was two pounds of thick-cut turkey, maple-glazed bacon, sharp cheddar, arugula, and honey Dijon aioli on toasted sourdough.

Named after my best friend and co-owner.

He’d also chosen the tag line, too—Big. Balanced. Dangerous in the red zone.

Not that I had any room to judge since I’d used The linebacker of melts. Heavy-hitting and unforgettable for Micah’s Monster Melt.

“Give me The Tight End.”

Grilled chicken, smoked gouda, crispy pancetta, roasted red peppers, and basil pesto on ciabatta. Lean. Solid. Built for speed.

She jotted notes with quick strokes and looked at me from under lashes darker than her hair. “Anything to drink?”

“A gallon of iced tea if you’ve got it.” I smiled crookedly so she’d know it was half joke, half truth. “Practice was brutal.”

Her lips quirked. This close, I could see how thin she really was under the apron—lean muscle wrapped around a frame that looked like it’d skipped more meals than it should.

I felt heat crawl beneath my sternum, half anger at whatever situation wore her down, the other part a desperate need to fix it.

“I’ll bring you a pitcher.” Her voice softened by a degree. “Kitchen’ll be quick.”

She turned to go, and I heard myself speak before the thought cleared. “Rylin?”

Her ponytail swung as she looked back at me. The smile she gave me punched like a late hit. Sun breaking through tired clouds, fleeting but bright. “Yep?”

“You’re new?”

“Started last week.” Her pen tapped against the ticket pad with an unconscious rhythm, as if she were full of nervous energy. But her face remained locked in a polite expression. “Trying not to drown in sandwich lore.”

“Seems like you’ve got it handled.” The words felt inadequate for how hard she was working, but they earned me a real smile, quick and bright enough to light the whole fucking city.

My ribs went soft. Shit.