Page 38 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

His smile softens.

"And if they're your family..." I step closer. "They're mine too."

He stares at me. "They're idiots."

I grin. "But families still stick together.”

He lets out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like relief.

"I don't want you to choose between football and me,” I say. "I want all of it."

"The teammates?”

I “nod. The crazy schedules."

"The interviews?”

“And the cameras." I cup his cheeks in my palms. “I choose all of you, Cal."

His eyes shine.

"You really mean that?"

"I really do."

He covers my hands with both of his. "So..."

"So?"

"May I kiss you?"

I smile through my tears. “You can probably stop asking.”

“Never.” He smiles too.

Then he kisses me. Slowly. Tenderly.

And I know. The cameras, the headlines, the leaked texts.

Everything that tries to pull us apart will never stand a chance. Not when we’re playing on the same team.

EPILOGUE

CAL

The reporters crowd around with their microphones and recorders shoved in my face.

I blink against the bright lights. More than a decade in the league, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to being surrounded by cameras.

Especially not when I’m standing in the locker room stripped to my waist.

Fortunately, for the PR team, I’ve learned a thing or two about playing nice in the past couple years. These days, I answer with full sentences instead of single words and grunts.

“Calhoun,” one of the reporters calls out. “Your team made quite a statement in the second half, coming back from behind to win the game. How did you do it?”

“Second-half adjustments,” I say.

See? I’m using more than one word.