His Tight End

“The Alpha’s aren’t like that, and if anyone gives you trouble or anything you don’t really, let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re going to be my protector?” she asks, touching my forearm on the armrest.

“Damn right, little girl.”

“You know, I don’t need a protector, but I’ll take it,” she says, teasing me with her fingers. Her nails are short, I am assuming to keep them from breaking while she’s playing, but the shocking hot pink is definitely not something I’ve seen on a teammate.

“You may not need it, but you’ve got it. I mean it, you need something, just let me know.”

“I will,” she says, moving her hand back to her lap. The stadium is only seventeen minutes from the corporate office, so we get there quickly.

“Thank you for the ride, Brandon,” she says softly.

“No problem. Did you get set up in your place yet?”

“No. It’s not ready yet. I’m at the Hilton in Portland until it is.”

“I’ll take you back after practice.”

“Thanks,” she says and jumps out of the car.

I grab my bag and follow her into the stadium. I don't know what I was expecting, but I know I'm not prepared for her. She's wearing an oversize sweatshirt and tight yoga pants. She whips off the sweatshirt revealing a hot pink sports bra. The bra matches the criss-cross of strings on the back waistband of her pants.

Fuck, I think as all heads turn to her. I’m gonna beat someone up today; I just know it. Thankfully, after the initial shock of seeing her wears off, the guys are all business.

Coach blows the whistle, and practice begins. We split into teams, and I watch Sasha dominate the field. Typically a tight end works with the tailbacks, but she can receive and run the ball too. She scores touchdown after touchdown, and I can do nothing but stare at her. The other guys do too.

By the end of practice, I begin to wonder how we made it this far without her.

“I’m starving,” she says as soon as we are back in the car.

“I could whip us up some chicken and rice.”

“Like at your place?”

“Yeah, unless you have a kitchen at the hotel? Or we could go to a restaurant if you’re more comfortable with that.”

“Your place is fine,” she says, smiling at me sweetly.

Have you heard the one about the quarterback who wanted to marry his tight end after just three hours of knowing her?

You’re about to.

Chapter Two

Sasha Joiner

Everything I’ve ever done has brought me to this point in my life. My father wanted sons, and instead, he got three girls. My older sisters are already married with kids. They wouldn’t give my dad or sports the time of day. I, on the other hand, played every sport known to man with my dad coaching. In eighth grade, I stumbled on football and never looked back. Now, I’m sitting in Brandon freaking Meyers’ kitchen, watching him cook me dinner.

“I have soda pop, water, tea,” he says, opening the fridge door.

“Sure. Ice water is just fine,” I reply. He hands me the Oregon Alphas cup. I'd definitely say he needs a woman's touch in here, but he's just too darn cute with his use of free merchandise as his dishware.

“Thanks,” I say before taking a sip.

“So tell me about yourself,” he says.

“There’s not much to know. I pretty much told you everything already.”

“What about your family?”

“Oh, right. My parents live in Lincoln, Nebraska. My sisters and their families live there as well. I did too until yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yeah, Coach Caz came to my house and brought me here. I'm still reeling from all of the excitement, to be honest. I had to sue my school board in order to play in high school. I never, ever thought playing collegiately or professionally was an option. I'm grateful for this opportunity and pray I don't screw it up. My family will be here for the game on Sunday. This is the first time I’ve ever been away from my parents for more than a night.”

“That’s tough. I was born and raised in Portland. I’ve been on the team for six years now. I have an older sister, Hilda. She just got married to the team lawyer, Warren. I have a younger sister, Eloise, as well. She’s been married for six years now.”

“I met him this morning.”

“I imagine so. He’s a good friend of mine.”

“Yeah, he seemed nice.”

“He is.”

“Your sister must be so happy,” I say wistfully. I hope I don’t sound deranged or desperate. Other than playing football, I took ballet and modern dance. Since this career wasn't on the table, I earned auditions at Juilliard and Yale for their dance programs.

“She is. She writes romance novels. Never had been in love before.”

“Oh my God, your sister is Hilda Meyers? The Hilda Meyers?” I exclaim. For some reason, I can imagine meeting her and not keeping my cool. Mega embarrassing, but I'd get to meet her. That would outweigh any embarrassment for sure.