Page 1 of Fearlessly Us

PROLOGUE

DREW

Six Months Ago

“That was a really great goal you made today.”

The voice is low, sultry, and pure sex, just audible over the pounding bass of the music in the New Orleans nightclub where I landed with most of my team earlier tonight to celebrate our Super Bowl win. I turn as a small hand sweeps across my lower back and look directly into the face of a heavily made-up blonde wearing the tiniest tank top I’ve ever seen and a skirt so short there’s no possible way she can walk without flashing the entire room whatever she has on underneath. If she has anything underneath at all.

In my experience, they often don’t, and that’s fine by me.

Leaning back against the bar, I rest my elbows on the cool, smooth mahogany surface, empty beer bottle dangling from my fingers. “Goal, huh?” I ask with a grin.

The woman takes a step forward, standing so close her tits are practically pressed to my chest, and she looks up at me, blue-eyed gaze full of heat. “It was so hot, the way you just ran away from everyone. So…fast.” She runs her index finger down the buttons of my shirt, coming to rest just above my belt.

This is the moment my dick would usually get involved. The moment it would decide this woman is the one it wants for tonight. Always only for tonight. Never for tomorrow. No repeats. No feelings. Sometimes not even any names.

That’s the way I want it.

The way I prefer it.

Feelings are messy. Names are complicated.

If there are no repeats, there’s no risk that one day they’ll leave. That I’ll be left to pick up the pieces of a heart I’m not sure is even whole enough to crack.

As the veteran wide receiver of the Pittsburgh Renegades, I have it all. The money. The fame. An endless parade of women. At least, that’s what it looks like on the outside. But on the inside? Well, those are thoughts best left for a night that isn’t meant for celebrating my second Super Bowl ring.

Maybe my last Super Bowl ring.

I immediately shove the thought away—the idea of walking away from football making my palms sweat and my heart pound even as a tiny kernel of relief lodges in my chest. Tonight isn’t the night for teasing apart those complicated feelings.

Maybe tomorrow.

Or never. Never sounds good.

The woman standing in front of me seems like a good way to do never. Or at least she would be, if I could conjure a single spark of interest.

Come on, buddy, don’t fail me now.

I wince inwardly because when did I become someone who addresses his cock as buddy and begs it to get interested in a pretty woman who quite clearly wants me? I’m always interested in the pretty woman who wants me. I’m interested in taking her to whatever flat surface is available and spending whatever time I have making us both feel good. If I’m feeling good, I’m not thinking big thoughts, and anything that keeps me from thinking big thoughts is my favorite way to spend my time.

Until tonight, apparently.

I would blame the alcohol except all I’ve had is one single actual beer and about twelve root beers, so it’s definitely not that.

Does winning the Super Bowl maybe come with a personality transplant?

I ponder this question as I glance around the crowded club. My eyes find Tyler Hansley, the Renegades’ hotshot quarterback and one of my good friends, right in the middle of the crowded dance floor, dancing his heart out and grinning maniacally while waving so enthusiastically to his best friend Sophie he practically topples over. Then I see my long-time best friend and teammate Cam Lowry, his back to the room as he kisses his girlfriend, Renegades’ Director of Sports Psychology Maddy Wright, like the world is ending.

Totally in character for those guys. So nope, looks like my personality is the only one that’s been transplanted.

Love that for me.

I snap back to attention as the woman’s fingers drift just a little lower. If my dick was hard, she would definitely be grazing my tip right now, but that asshole is stubborn tonight.

“So, any chance you want to…get out of here?” she asks. Eyes locked on mine, she drags her tongue over her lower lip in a move that does it for me one hundred percent of the time.

Until right this minute apparently, because my interest in this woman, or any woman actually, remains determinedly out of reach. My brain searches for a way to let her down easily and maybe leave the club altogether in favor of my quiet hotel room and the book waiting for me on my nightstand when I’m interrupted by a voice from down the bar.