Chapter One
“Touchdown!”
Callahan Stuart freaking loved that word.
It meant he was up. Time to shine. Time to save the day.
The best part of being the kicker for an NFL team? Yep. He got to save the day.
Whether it was adding the extra point to a touchdown or three points via a well-placed field goal, plenty enough times to give him a hell of an ego, Callahan was the one who ensured the Portland Mountain Lions won the game.
It would never get old. Never, ever.
The best part after that best part? Since he was a kicker, that meant he hardly ever got tackled, which meant he could keep doing this a whole lot longer than most of the other guys.
Which was good because he had no freaking clue what he would do with his life when his NFL career was over. He was more than happy to put off that decision as long as he possibly could.
In the meantime, it was time to save the day.
He bounced out of his stretch, grabbed his helmet, and shoved it onto his head, snapping the chin strap as he jogged out onto the field.
Callahan loved his routines. They grounded him, which he needed to execute the perfect kick.
First, he shook hands with the punter. Then he took a moment to determine exactly where he wanted the ball placed so he could execute yet another perfect extra point.
He slid his foot to that spot. When he moved away, the punter pressed his hand to the turf, and Callahan knew he wouldn’t move it until the ball was snapped.
He stepped into position, paused, took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders.
The punter caught the ball, set the pointy end on the turf where his hand had been, held it with two fingers. Callahan ran, kicked, lifted his arms into the touchdown position. He knew before it even sailed through the uprights that it was good.
It was always good.
The crowd cheered, loud AF since they were playing at home. Callahan jogged off the field, accepted high fives and ass slaps from his teammates, and settled back to wait for it to be his turn to save the day.
Again.
With another W tucked under their belts, Callahan and his teammates headed to the locker room, to the showers, to the post-game interviews.
He rarely got tagged to do the interviews.
Coach said he was too cocky. Also, he had a tendency to flirt with the reporters—all of them, any of them—and Coach said that made people uncomfortable.
Hey, his personality got him out of doing those post-game interviews, so Callahan took it as a win.
The chime announcing a text message hurtled him back to reality. No, not reality—this was his reality now—more like hurtled him back to his past. The last place he wanted to be.
And yet he was powerless to resist looking at his phone.
Oh, gee, a double whammy this time. Texts from Mom and Dad.
Lucky him.
He knew what Dad’s would say. His texts said the same thing after every game. Even when they lost. Even on that very, very rare occasion when Callahan missed the field goal.
Good game, son.
Mom was the wildcard in this situation. Mom was the wildcard in every situation. He loved his parents, but they were a lot to manage. And after Cameron died and after his mother’s second breakdown and the subsequent divorce, well, yeah, Callahan had developed avoidance as a coping technique.
He hesitated with his finger hovering over the screen. All he could see was, “I watched your game today!” He knew there was more. There was always more with Mom.
He wasn’t in the mood for more. Not that he ever was, in truth, but tonight…tonight he wanted to just enjoy his life. No stress, no worry. No dealing with his unfixable mother.
He pressed the button to darken the screen. Threw his shoulders back. Nodded to no one.
Time to turn it off. He had a hot date with Jalen and a few other guys, a bottle of superb rye whiskey, and Jalen’s gaming system.
He stepped out of the locker room, and the first thing he heard was, “Oh, we should totally use Callahan.”
Curiosity, piqued.
Standing directly across from the doors to the locker room were the team’s PR manager, Diana Jenison, and her old college roommate, who had recently been hired as the team photographer.
Emma Munising. With her disheveled blonde hair, juicy, pouty lips, fresh-faced beauty. Emma with her lean, muscular body that had fit far, far too perfectly against his on that dance floor a couple of months ago.
He didn’t know much about her beyond the fact that she seemed smart, she was hot, and she was an amazing dancer. She’d been a professional photographer for pretty much her entire adult life, and she took fucking amazing pictures.
Which he’d never told her, mostly because she intimidated the hell out of him—especially after that smokin’ dance they’d shared at the club after the first game of the season.
His girlfriend at the time, Aubree, had wanted to go out dancing, and he hadn’t wanted to argue over it, even though he’d had zero interest in the clubbing scene that night.
So they’d gone and he’d drank—a lot. Enough to chat up Emma and Diana, and the next thing he knew, Aubree had stormed off and he and Emma had plastered themselves together like they were trying to fuse their bodies into one.
It had been the hottest few minutes of his life, and all they’d done was dance. No kissing, no sex, not even a hand brushing over a boob or a crotch. If he hadn’t been dating Aubree, all of the above might have happened.
But it hadn’t—thank Christ.
Because he was not—repeat, not—attracted to Emma Munising.
Callahan wasn’t attracted to smart women.
Well, he was, but he was also intimidated by them. They tended to have their shit together, didn’t need someone to save them. And Callahan had a savior complex.
He knew it, he recognized it, and he was powerless to do anything about it. Which meant he could not possibly start up a relationship with a woman who did not need him to save her.
That was assuming she wanted anything at all to do with him, which was doubtful. Emma wasn’t the kind of woman who was attracted to a guy like Callahan.
No, he tended to attract the crazies.
One minute he’d be flirting with some hot chick across the bar, the next minute she was confessing some drama or another that was somehow adversely affecting her life.
And then he was waking up next to her, usually after decent but not spectacular sex. And then she was leaving her toothbrush in his bathroom, and he was freaking out because a whiff of commitment tended to do that to him.
When he’d try to put on the brakes, the hot chick’s crazy would come out.
He’s had (ultimately fake—thank Christ) pregnancy scares despite diligently using protection.
He’s had a girlfriend announce their engagement on social media, even flashing a ring with a picture of him photoshopped into the shot.
For the record, he’d never proposed to anyone, ever, not even way back in kindergarten when Tommy Harrold dared him to ask Molly Fitcher to marry him.
Tommy and Molly were now married, so clearly, that whole setup had involved ulterior motives.
Aubree, the most recent girlfriend, whom he’d only just disentangled himself from, had been okay if pretty vapid.
The problem with her had been her brothers.
She had two of them who were huge Mountain Lions fans and had blatantly used her connection to Callahan to get tickets to games, to hang out in the suites, to get into VIP sections on the club scene.
Even that wouldn’t have been a big deal; that kind of shit happened to every celebrity.
The issue had been the middle brother, who had some really inappropriate tendencies that made the team’s cheerleaders and many of the female staff uncomfortable.
Not to mention the guy was constantly trying to get close to Morgan Gentry, who was a big-time famous movie star.
She was also engaged to Royce Kacey, the team’s center, who didn’t appreciate some asshole creeping on his fiancée while she was trying to watch the game.
Hell, would anybody?
The first time Callahan had asked Aubree to tell her brother to chill, she’d insisted he wasn’t that bad.
Then Callahan pulled up the guy’s Instagram account and showed her the videos he took of Morgan, of Jillian, of cheerleaders coming out of their locker room, and she’d burst into tears.
Callahan was shit at dealing with a woman’s tears. He’d backed off.
And so the cycle began.
Dante had bullied the brother into leaving the cheerleaders alone, had sicced security on him.
So the brother got more stealthy about his stalker tendencies.
For the longest time, Morgan didn’t say anything about how uncomfortable he made her feel, but last season she finally conquered her own demons, which helped her stand up to creeps like Aubree’s brother.
After that, proof of the brother’s stalking pretty much dried up, but Callahan wasn’t convinced.
So he refused to give the brothers VIP tickets to the games this season.
And Aubree came to him crying, and seriously, he hated the damn tears. He also hated that she kept defending her brother. He appreciated that she had her family’s back, except one guy in her family was a creeper who, frankly, was lucky someone hadn’t pressed charges against him.
So Callahan, in a rare moment of making smart relationship decisions, had called it quits with Aubree. Who became distraught. Which made him feel so guilty that he proceeded to get more trashed than he’d ever gotten in his life.
He felt like shit for two days afterward, but at least he was no longer tethered to Aubree. And he vowed to stay that way.
That was almost two weeks ago. He’d been girlfriend and drama free for thirteen days, and he had to admit, he liked it.
“Use me for what?” he asked, sauntering up to Diana and Emma, a cocky grin on his face. Sure, he was currently enjoying the single life, but he was also a consummate flirt. So long as he kept it to strictly flirting—with all women, not just these two—there was no harm, right?
The celibacy aspect of the single life might get old eventually, but for now, his hand was getting the job done.
“Are you sure?” Emma asked, her gaze raking over him like she was assessing a horse for its stud potential.
He wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable or turned on.
Maybe both.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked, letting his voice drop an octave.
She shook her head. “Definitely no talking. It’s just a photo opp.”
Her job was to take phenomenal pics that the marketing department could use to promote the team, and by all accounts, she was excelling at said job. He’d seen some of her action shots online. Plus that giant picture in the 49ers stadium. And the one hanging in Diana and Amil’s condo.
The woman had talent.
He spread his arms wide. “You’ve never taken a bad photo of me. Anything you need, you got it.”
Emma rolled her eyes and pointed at the iPad in Diana’s hand. “Mark him down. That’s it. Those are the twelve.”
“Can you be at the humane society Tuesday at”—Diana glanced down at her tablet—“four?”
“Probably,” he responded, while Emma’s gaze swept him up and down again.
Was he living up to her expectations? It was an odd thought for him. Normally, he had confidence in spades.
At least he did a bang-up job of acting like he did.
It was both hot and intimidating that this woman made him question his confidence. Which, he reminded himself, was exactly why he stayed away from smart women.
Well, in his personal life, anyway.
At work? Hell yeah, he loved being surrounded by smart women. They tended to make him and the rest of the team look good. Elevated them to the next level.
“All right, we’re all set,” Diana announced, clearing the screen on her iPad. “Let’s go get a drink.”
Callahan watched them hurry down the tunnel. They barely remembered to glance back and give him a wave goodbye.
He was weirdly disappointed that they’d not invited him to wherever they were going, even though he already had plans.
Whatever. He didn’t care. His team had just won their eighth game of the season and he was going to while the rest of the evening away gaming with his buds.
He was all good.
Happy.
His life was perfect just the way it was.
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