Page 1 of Sidelined By Love

One

Grant

Idon’t need to see the jumbotron at my back to know that Zoe Peebles is in the owner’s suite. The stadium buzzes with excitement, and it’s not because Card is stretching on the twenty-yard line.

I glance his way, and the jerk winks at one of the reporters on the sidelines. She giggles and preens and generally melts at the mild attention. I’d be tempted to think she’s unprofessional, except that the row of grandmas in the front of the stands are also swooning at the guy.

All right, the buzz might be because of Card. He’s basically got his own cheering section-slash-fan club-slash-dating app. One my own sister wants to join. But the stands are louder than even team Card-nova usually inspires.

Not to mention the sidelines. Trainers are staring up at the suites, and two of the defensive coaches are elbowing each other.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I scowl anyway as I bend low, reaching for my left ankle and stretching my hip and hamstring. We don’t need this kind of distraction. Not after last week’s loss.

Images of the game flash across my mind as I swing to the right and work that side. We didn’t get outplayed. We shot ourselves in the foot. In fact, we set a new record for the organization. In penalty yards.

I push myself up on my knees, windmilling my arms, and almost smash into Ja’maar Harlin.

“Yo.” He laughs, bobbing and ducking out of the way. “We’re on the same team.”

I thump the purple eighteen on my chest that matches his jersey. “Thanks. I figured that out.”

He laughs again, pounding a fist on my shoulder pad. “Looks like we got a celebrity audience today.” His black eyebrows waggle, especially dynamic since there isn’t a single other hair on his round head.

I refuse to look in her direction. “We’re just going to play our game, right?”

“Yeah, but if we win, you think she’ll give me her number?”

I scowl at him, but he laughs it off.

“Come on, man, a guy can dream.”

“First, we have to win the game.” With a glance at the team warming up on the opposite end of the field, I frown. “Then, you’ll have to beat Card to it.”

Ezra—Card—Jennings jogs up to us, his helmet hanging from one hand as he runs the other through his cropped hair. His eyes are still on that reporter on the sideline. “Beat me to what?”

“Zoe Peebles.”

Card immediately loses interest in the reporter and whips around to Ja’maar. “Zoe’s here? Think I should shoot my shot?”

My tight end just lifts his chin toward the row of suites, and he and Card stand like statues, mouths gaping open. I don’t even know if they can see her. She’s probably hiding deep inside. I’d be looking for a hole to disappear into if my face was plastered across every tabloid in the King Soopers checkout line.

Well, every tabloid exceptThe National Enquirer. Probably because the story has too much credibility to make the notorious paper. Not that I think the reporters are writing the whole story.

I’ve known Zoe since the night I was drafted to the Fourteeners. Well,knownis probably too strong of a word. But we’ve been at the same party at least a few times a year. That’s one of the consequences of playing for her dad’s NFL team.

We’re on a casual first-name basis. A nod of the head. A grin in passing. A “we’ve met” every single year when Mr. Peebles’s lawyer tries to introduce us.

And even though I can count the number of actual conversations we’ve had on one hand, I’ve watched her from a distance. Not in a creepy way. But my eyes naturally wander to her. That’s just a consequence of her being the prettiest woman in any room.

I’ve seen the way she is with people—real people. The waitstaff. The valets. The ones everyone else in her circle ignores.

Zoe never does. She always has a smile and a word of gratitude. She treats everyone with respect—whether they can boost her career or not.

Whatever the tabloids are accusing her of, I can’t believe she’s guilty of half of it.

She usually steers clear of the Fourteeners and keeps her distance from the guys on the team. She sure deserves better than some gawking jocks.

Without thinking, my gaze swings toward the wall of windows. The reflection off the tinted glass makes it impossible to see inside, and the box seats on the stadium side of the windows are empty. They’re probably chugging Dom Pérignon inside just in case they don’t have anything to celebrate after the game.

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