PROLOGUE
SERENA
Six Years Ago, The Hay Barn, New Year’s Eve
“You’re the most beautiful woman in this place, Serena.” Gordon’s breath is beer-warm against my ear, and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes right out of my skull. Gordon is a rookie linebacker for the Denver Stormhawks. Blond. Built like a fridge. Cocky in that frat-boy-got-drafted kind of way. And, most importantly, not Chase.
“You know the cheer team are off limits, Gordon,” I say, sidestepping my way out of his reach, only to bump into someone else. New Year’s Eve and The Hay Barn is packed. We’re shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the Stormhawks team, cheerleaders, fans, and half of Denver.
The place is alive tonight—sticky floors and country music thumping from oversized DJ speakers, and enough Stormhawks memorabilia on the walls to stock a merch store. The owner, Flic, is behind the bar in her signature black tank top and jeans, twin braids down her back, pouring liquid into shot glasses with one hand and popping beer caps with the other.
I spot the sleek dark hair of my friend and roommate, Liv, across the bar. She raises a brow in question, silently asking ifI need a wingman. I give a small shake of my head and she smiles, mouthing, “Go on.” She’s the only one I’ve told about my plans tonight. Suddenly, my pulse starts to pound. It’s almost midnight. Almost time to ruin everything. Or finally make it right. I can’t decide which.
Gordon moves closer like he doesn’t give a damn about the rule. The cast-iron, no-wiggle-room, football-players-and-their-team’s-cheerleaders-can’t-fraternize rule that’s written in black and white in all our contracts. “What I can’t even give you a compliment now?” he asks, eyeing my outfit.
I can’t blame him for looking, but his aren’t the eyes I want admiring me. I’m wearing a black halter-neck dress that clings to my body—the perfect mix of curves and slender lines thanks to years of cheer practice and early morning workouts, and a low-calorie diet I feel like I’ve been on my entire life. My long blonde hair falls in loose waves down my back. Even if the dress and the hair scream low IQ to some of the meatheads in here, Gordon included. But I’m used to people underestimating me. Let them. I like the way I look. A little cute. A little sexy. And tonight, a little brave.
“You can,” I say sweetly. “Just aim it at someone who hasn’t already seen you hit on every woman in this bar.”
He laughs like I’m flirting back. I’m not. Gordon might not take the rule seriously, but I do. And I’m not throwing my life away for a back-of-the-bar fumble with a rookie whose best move is a wink and a protein shake. Because Gordon has no idea that behind the glossy hair and my practiced smile, I’m running on fumes. I’m all in, trying to keep my dream alive with everything I have, including working two jobs, starting at six a.m., four mornings a week teaching Pilates to the pre-work lawyers and accountant-types. Then it’s straight to my day job—behind the reception desk at a health spa—where I smile sweetlyand hand cucumber water to the ladies-who-lunch crowd, all manicures and gossip. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills.
And when the day’s done, I swap the neat uniform and polite smiles for hours of sweat-drenched cheer practice. Add my night classes for a meteorology degree, and yeah, my schedule’s a mess. I probably should’ve chosen something sensible to study, like business. Something that could land me my own nine-to-five job when I can’t cheer anymore, but I knew if I was going to work my ass off with barely a moment to breathe, then it had to be for something I love. And I love the weather. I have ever since I was eight, standing in my grandparents’ yard in Kansas, staring at my first tornado. Since then, I’ve studied weather patterns with the same ferocity as I’ve chased my dreams. That’s to say, with unrelenting enthusiasm, no matter how tired or broke or bruised I am.
So yeah, I work two jobs, study for my degree, and train like my body’s already twenty years older than it is, all so I can stand on the fifty-yard line and cheer for the Stormhawks. That dream is worth every aching muscle, every late night and bleary-eyed early morning, every cup of cheap coffee keeping me upright. Even if, at twenty-two, I’m already feeling the pressure of the younger cheerleaders breathing down my neck.
Besides, Gordon isn’t the football player I want whispering in my ear tonight. Not even close. The man I want doesn’t wear Stormhawks red, which means there are no rules in the way, just the small matter of my own cowardice, and the knowledge that once I lay it all on the line, I can’t take it back.
I spin away from Gordon and down the last of my drink as I scan the bar, grateful for every inch of my five-foot-ten frame plus the three-inch heels, giving me a much-needed height advantage over the sea of bodies and glittery cowboy hats. For a moment, I can’t find him. And then he’s there. Center of the dance floor, bathed in neon lights. That wide grin that practicallybegs for trouble. Chase Sullivan. In a fitted white tee and jeans that do unforgivable things to his ass. His head is thrown back in laughter, arm slung around his older brother Jake, while his other older brother, Dylan, argues with the DJ like he’s offended by the lack of Johnny Cash in the rotation.
And even though Chase was adopted into the family when he was two years old, all three Sullivan men are NFL football players, insanely good-looking, loud as hell, and impossible to ignore. But Chase… Chase is the one I can’t help but stare at. He’s six foot three, with broad shoulders and huge biceps, perfect for those long throws he makes as quarterback.
The tight black curls he had when we met and became instant best friends, way back in third grade, have been replaced with a close shave that only adds to the kind of hot that has every woman in the place salivating, myself included. And while Jake and Dylan play for the Stormhawks, Chase was drafted in the first round to the Kansas City Trailblazers. Four months into his first season as rookie quarterback, he’s killing it. And I’m so damn proud of him, even if he does leave for Kansas again tomorrow.
At least we’ve got tonight. My whole body is buzzing with anticipation, and I can feel the weight of every second dragging me toward midnight. Because this is the night when I kiss my best friend, and tell him I’ve been in love with him since he bounced into my homeroom aged nine with that same troublemaker smile he’s wearing now.
Of course, he tripped over the teacher’s desk, sent the day’s lesson plans flying, landed flat on his face, and still managed to break a smile that had Miss Fenton forgiving him on the spot. Ten minutes later, he whispered a joke about the math poster on the wall that only I laughed at. While some of our classmates stared, whispering behind their hands, questioning how he could have two white brothers, I’ve only ever seen Chase.We’ve been in sync ever since that first day. Inside jokes and late-night texts, and him knowing my coffee order and the week I need extra syrup. Me knowing that he rubs his shoulder when he’s lost in thought and listens to sad country ballads when no one’s around.
I remember the exact moment I felt the shift. When I realized we were more than best friends. The day I realized I was madly, insanely, secretly in love with Chase. It was my sixteenth birthday, and we were in the backyard of my parents’ cookie-cutter house in Idaho Springs. My dad was setting off fireworks that fizzled and popped against the Colorado sky, my big sister, Elle, was carrying the birthday cake she made me in the shape of a storm cloud with sixteen tiny candles flickering while Mom filmed it all on the old camera.
Chase slung his arm around my shoulders, leaned in close, and whispered for me to make a wish. I felt the warmth of his body pressed to mine, the rasp of his breath at my ear, and suddenly it was like the fireworks were going off inside me.
I tried to ignore the feelings. I told myself it was a blip. Hormones messing with my head. I even tried to date other guys a few times, but at some point, it just felt stupid to be with anyone else when I was weak at the knees with every look and every touch from Chase. I dream of growing old with him, side-by-side rocking chairs and a house full of grandkids.
And tonight is the night I tell him. I’m putting my cards on the table. Betting my heart, my soul, and my future in one hand.
I’m all in.
On the dance floor, Chase throws an arm around my shoulders, sending a pulse of want straight to my core. He smells like sandalwood and vanilla and something rough-edged and masculine that has me leaning in.
“This DJ sucks,” Chase shouts, smiling down at me. Because even though I’m tall and I’m wearing heels, he still towers over me.
“I think you’ll find it’s your taste in music that sucks,” I tease.
“Just saying, if I picked the playlist, everyone would be happier.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re only happy when a DJ plays boy bands and breakup ballads.”
The next song starts to play and of course it’s a boy band. We both laugh, and Chase tugs me into a spin I’m not prepared for, leaving me dizzy and giddy and reminding me I’m a little drunk. OK, a lot drunk. Brave drunk. Midnight-kiss-your-best-friend-and-tell-him-you-love-him drunk. Because I’m so tired of being single. So tired of longing for this one man from afar. And Chase hasn’t gone past a first date with anyone since college. And he’s leaving for Kansas again tomorrow. It feels like a now or never moment. It feels right.