Chapter 1 Sawyer
ONE
Sawyer
When I woke up this morning, I thought the plan was simple: check out a house I might move into after the season, politely nod at some crown molding, and catch a flight tonight for tomorrow’s game.
What I didn’t expect? Maybe for the body camera footage of me kissing Ellie Miles to be blowing up my phone while I stood in a musty living room.
Yeah. That Ellie Miles, the pop star with more number one hits than I could count, who got caught in some absolute shit show when a psycho decided to take her and my brother hostage. And somehow, I was the idiot who thought kissing her would help save them.
I'd had a pathetic crush on her for years. Nothing serious—background noise in my brain, really. I was sure she didn’t even know I existed, let alone know my name, so kissing her? Yeah, not exactly how I pictured making a first impression.
But there I was, watching as the video played on a loop, trailing behind my realtor, Suzanne.
She was seventy-something with pure white hair, sweet as hell, and probably guarding a banana pudding recipe so good, it could bring world peace.
Around us, the place smelled like mothballs, the wallpaper barely hanging on, the bathroom a shrine to mint-green tile horror—but all I could focus on was Ellie on that damn screen.
In the footage, I guided her behind me and stepped forward like some half assed bodyguard.
And then, I kissed her. I still don’t know if it was tactical genius or pure idiocy. All I know is, it worked. The guy froze, caught off guard, and they finally got him.
In my head, it had been this desperate move—kiss the girl, distract the serial killer, save my brother. But on camera? She'd gone completely still for a heartbeat, and then her hands had fisted in my shirt. When her eyes fluttered shut, it wasn't the look of someone just playing along.
Was she just following my lead to sell the distraction? Or had she kissed me back? Like—really kissed me back?
I couldn’t decide. So, what did I do? I watched it again. And again. And a-fucking-gain.
“Mr. James?”
I jerked my head up and dropped my phone to my side.
Suzanne stood in the living room, looking at me like I’d lost my damn mind. “What do you think of the fireplace? Beautiful, right?”
“Sorry.” I stuffed my phone in my pocket and stepped farther inside. “Yeah. It’s…great.”
And it was. It wasn’t shiny or new; it was worn-in, real, as if it had seen a hell of a lot and wasn’t about to pretend otherwise. There was dust thick enough to write my name in it, but underneath all that, this place had character and a hell of a lot of charm.
I wasn’t exactly looking for a fixer-upper, but if I found one, I could call in the Dotty cavalry. My sister would eat this kind of project for breakfast—lining up contractors, micromanaging tile samples while I finished out the season. Easy enough.
I took a few more steps, and a loose floorboard shifted under my boot with a loud clack. “What the hell?”
“Old house.” Suzanne shrugged. “Needs a little work.”
No kidding.
I crouched, tugging at the board. It creaked as it moved, revealing a hollow pocket beneath. When I peered in, something caught my eye—a small, worn, leather-bound book. I pulled it out and brushed off the dust. It had no title, just a single letter pressed into the cover.
L.
I flipped it open, just a page or two. The handwriting was tight, fast, and something about it hit me low in the gut.
“L?” I asked. “Any idea who that is?”
Suzanne leaned in a bit. “Could’ve been someone who lived here.”
I nodded but didn’t ask anything else. I just closed the book quickly and tucked it right back where I found it, pressing the board back into place.
No bad juju for me.
This house had history—not the kind you read in the listings, but the kind whispered about in town for years, the exact reason it sat empty for so long.
Somehow, that didn’t scare me. If anything, it made me feel…protective. This place didn’t need to be gutted and flipped. It deserved someone to love it.
I stood slowly, glancing around. The carpet was hideous. The windows needed replacing. Overall, it was a mess.
But still, it felt like mine.
“I’ll take it,” I said before my brain had a chance to catch up.
Suzanne blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ll take it. Don’t need to see any others.”
She stared at me a beat too long, probably doing commission math in her head. “Well, alright. We can head back to the office and start the paperwork.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I opened it to find dozens of texts, alerts, mentions, and ESPN notifications flooding my screen. Here it was, early December, and instead of talking about who was fighting for a playoff spot, everyone was replaying a damn GIF of me kissing Ellie.
Just like that, I was back in it: the adrenaline, the chaos, and the damn consequences of my own actions.
I was going to need a drink—a strong one.
Probably a call to my agent.
And definitely a plan.
“What the hell are we supposed to do about this?” Coach groaned, dragging a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair as he stared at the flat screen behind the desk in his office.
I shifted in my seat. “I mean…at least I look like the good guy, right?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, well, the good guy just kissed Ellie Miles on body cam footage that’s been picked up by every major media outlet in the country.” He dropped into his chair with a sigh.
“Sorry, Coach.”
He rubbed his temples and muttered something under his breath. We both turned back to the screen.
“Yeah, I don’t know if I can fix it, but I’m damn sure gonna try.”
“That’s the dumbest fucking line I’ve ever heard,” Coach said flatly.
“Hey, you try coming up with something better when there’s a crazy serial killer with a gun. It wasn’t a real kiss. It was just a distraction.”
“Real or not, the world thinks that—” he pointed to the screen where Ellie and I were still very much kissing— “is real, and coming off her breakup with that shitty actor? The headlines are already insane. The story still ends with you tangled up with a serial killer and making out with a pop star mid-standoff. This is the NFL, James. We want clean storylines. No drama.”
“Technically, I didn’t even know the guy.”
“I don’t care,” he snapped. “Right now, the media’s making you look good. Keep it that way. Don’t let this swing the other direction. I heard she’ll be at the game tonight. Use that.”
Coach was right. Over the last twenty-four hours, I’d scrolled through every post, comment, and headline. They all said the same thing—that I was brave. As if I’d done something heroic and hadn’t reacted on impulse, unsure of what the hell I was doing.
I didn’t feel brave. In that moment, all I’d felt was fear. Well, and something else I didn’t want to name.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Coach said.
West stuck his head in. “We’ve got twenty, James.”
Coach nodded. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.” I shut the door behind me.
West’s brow furrowed. “What the hell was that about?”
West was one of the few people I considered a real friend.
I got along with almost everyone, but when it came to close friends, I kept my circle tight.
Funny enough, he actually grew up in Shadow Ridge—just outside Woodstone—and was a few years older than me.
We never crossed paths until we ended up on the San Francisco Rebels together.
“I might’ve gotten myself into a little…pickle,” I said.
“A pickle? What the fuck does that mean?”
“You remember what happened a couple of months ago?” I asked. “When my brother’s girlfriend’s ex tried to kidnap him and Ellie Miles?”
He tugged at his shoulder pads as his brown hair fell messily over his forehead with that same arrogant grin he always had. “Kind of hard to forget.”
“Well…during all of that, I kind of…kissed Ellie?” I winced. “As a distraction, and now, the body cam footage is out for everyone and anyone’s viewing pleasure.”
He blinked. “Hold up. You kissed Ellie Miles?”
“Uh…” I scratched the back of my neck. “Yeah. I did.”
“Holy shit, dude. Nice. She’s hot.”
I punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Oh, big SJ kissed his crush, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I didn’t know what it was. Her voice, her goddamn eyes, her kindness to the world. Whatever it was, it had me in a chokehold for years.
“So, the world’s shipping you two now…or did she slap you after?” He pulled out his phone. “Wait, don’t tell me. I wanna see for myself. How have I not heard about this until now?”
I snatched the phone from his hand, but he quickly stole it back.
“She’s gonna be here tonight,” I said.
“Oh, hell yeah. You should blow her a kiss or something. Really get ‘em going. You know how many fans we’ll pull if you get the Ellie Miles crowd behind us? Those fans go hard. I wouldn’t mind seeing a few of them in the stands.” He winked.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Hey, at least I’m not going around kissing pop stars for funsies.”
I glanced down to see his phone playing that moment.
Great.
“It was to save—you know what? Never mind. Let’s just get out there and play a good game.”
West grinned and gave me a fake salute. “Yes, sir.”
The crowd roared to life—shouts, stomps, something that might’ve been a kazoo as West called out the count, but none of it was louder than my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
It was always like this. Not nerves, exactly. More like adrenaline coursing through my veins at the chance to play the game I loved for a living.
We were up by seven points with only a few minutes left and possession of the ball. Things were looking good, but I never wanted to get too comfortable.
I chanted the same mantra I’d carried in my head for two decades.
Show up. Play hard. Don’t screw it up.
My job was simple: protect West and give him the time to work his magic. And I was damn good at it.
“Set—hike!”
I exploded forward, slamming into the opposing team’s defensive end with a solid blow to his chest. My hands locked in place, and I pushed him back with every bit of strength I could—which was quite a lot, considering my size.
Everything about the play was standard. Same formation. Same footwork. Same muscle memory firing in rhythm. I had the guy locked up—hands solid on his chest, knees bent, weight balanced perfectly over the balls of my feet.
But then suddenly, a helmet slammed straight into my side.
Motherfucker.
My breath vanished. One second, I was upright; the next, I was falling straight down. My helmet hit the turf with a thud that rattled through my spine.
Voices rose around me—whistles and someone yelling my name—but it was like I was hearing everything from yards away.
The world tilted sideways, and darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.
I tried to move, just enough to prove I was fine, but my body refused to cooperate. My head felt nailed to the turf.
My thoughts tumbled and scattered. No order, no sense, just broken pieces drifting too far out of reach for me to comprehend.
I didn’t know how long I stayed down—flat on my back, drifting in and out—when someone knelt next to me.
“Stay down. We’ve got you.” The words came from a trainer’s voice, one I recognized.
Everything in me wanted to get up, shake it off, and get back in the damn game.
But I knew I couldn’t.
The next few minutes were a blur of medics swarming and assessing me. I think the crowd cheered when I finally made it to my feet, a man braced on each side, helping me to the sidelines.
When I looked up at the big screen, it was showing Ellie in one of the suites. Her hands were pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide.
God, she was fucking beautiful, even with her expression all adorably scared. She was a dream in a sea of jerseys and stadium lights.
I couldn’t leave her looking like that, worrying about little ol’ me.
So, I summoned whatever scraps of bravado I had left and did exactly what West said to.
I blew her a kiss.
Followed it with a wink that probably looked a little more like a twitch, considering I could still barely stand with the pounding in my head.
The crowd lost it, cheering as if I’d scored the winning touchdown instead of getting my ass knocked into next week.