The tunnel beneath the stadium vibrated under my feet, the cement floor humming with the sound of forty thousand fans screaming above us. Cold air drafted through the corridor, carrying the sharp scent of damp turf, sweat, and cheap concession beer.

I adjusted my helmet, pushing a stray blonde curl back inside the thick padding, and checked the strap under my chin. My fingers were steady, but the breath trapped in my chest. My pulse hammered violently against my ribs, a rapid, frantic rhythm that made my skin feel tight and sensitive.

"Don't trip over your skirt out there, Avery," a sneering voice drawled from behind me.

I didn't need to turn around to know it was Miller, our backup quarterback.

"Keep talking, Miller," I said, keeping my voice level, though my throat felt dry as sand. I turned my head just enough to catch him leaning against the concrete wall with his arms crossed. "If I go down, you’ll actually have to step onto the field and throw an interception in front of scout reps from six NFL teams."

Miller’s jaw clenched, a red flush creeping up his neck, but before he could spit out another insult, a heavy shadow fell across the concrete.

"Out of the way, rookies," a deep, rough voice cut through the noise.

The temperature in the tunnel seemed to drop five degrees instantly. The scattered offensive players parted like water as Knox Ellison stepped up to the line.

Star cornerback. Preseason All-American. My older brother’s best friend since high school. And, as of two weeks ago, the absolute bane of my existence.

Knox was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore his black and gold jersey like armor. His dark eyes swept over the hallway, skipping right past Miller before locking directly onto me. The sheer weight of his gaze made my breath catch in my throat, a strange, prickling heat sparking across my skin despite the chilly draft.

"Helmet strap's twisted, Avery," Knox said, stopping right in front of me. He didn't lower his voice, completely unbothered by the deafening roar of the crowd or the players watching us.

"I've got it," I snapped, reaching up to fix it myself, my palm clammy against the plastic.

Before I could touch the buckle, Knox stepped into my personal space. His gloved fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my jawline, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight down my spine. The warmth of his touch flared right through the physical barrier of my chest pads. He straightened the woven strap, clicking it back into place with a sharp, metallic snap.

"Can't have our star getting her head turned around on the first drive," he murmured, leaning down just far enough that his warm breath brushed the shell of my ear. "Your brother called me three times today. Promised he’d break my ribs if I let anyone land a clean hit on you."

"Tell Levi I don't need a babysitter," I muttered, taking a deliberate step back to break the heavy pull of his presence. "And I definitely don't need you hovering."

"Too bad," Knox replied, pulling his dark helmet over his head, the dark visor obscuring his eyes, though I could still see the arrogant tilt of his jaw. "Your safety's on my stat sheet now, Avery."

"I protect myself."

myself."

"We'll see about that when the blitz comes." He patted my right shoulder pad just a fraction too hard offering one quick wink through his helmet opening before moving toward the front of the line to lead the defense out.

A sharp, white-hot sting shot down my collarbone down to my elbow at the pressure on my pad. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth to suppress the gasp of pain. My right AC joint throbbed, hot and inflamed under my uniform. I’d spent all summer hiding the recurring injury from the training staff, icing it in secret, praying it would hold through the fall.

I pulled in a long, shaky breath, forcing the pain down into a tiny, contained box in my mind. Clear your head, I told myself, staring down the dark length of the tunnel toward the blinding stadium lights. Just play your game.

The official’s whistle blew, a high, piercing sound that shattered the waiting. The heavy metal doors swung open, and the stadium erupted into a wall of sound.

Stepping out onto the grass was like stepping into a blast furnace. The bright floodlights blinded me for a fraction of a second, reflecting off thousands of waving gold towels in the stands. Being the first female quarterback in Division I FBS history meant every lens in the building was focused on my face. Every mistake I made tonight would be broadcast across every sports network in the country.

I trotted out to the huddle, the grass soft beneath my cleats.

"Alright, listen up," I said, clapping my hands together. My voice sounded firm, hiding the trembling in my knees. "Trips right, Z-drive on two. Let's start fast."

We broke the huddle. I walked up behind the center, crouching low into my stance. Across the line of scrimmage, Michigan State’s defense was shifting, their linebackers creeping toward the line in a heavy blitz setup.

setup.

"Blue eighty! Blue eighty!" I shouted, scanning the field.

My eyes flicked to our left tackle, a senior who had spent the last month giving me the cold shoulder in the weight room. His stance was too high, his weight shifted back.

"Set... hut”

The ball slapped into my hands. I planted my back foot, dropping into my three-step rhythm.

It happened in a split second.

The left tackle barely put a hand on the incoming edge rusher. He let the defender slip right past his outside shoulder without even attempting a recovery block.

A wave of cold panic flooded my veins. Blindside.

I tried to step up into the pocket to release the ball to my tight end, but it was too late. The six-foot-four defensive end hit me like a runaway truck, slamming his entire weight directly into my right shoulder.

My head snapped back as my body slammed violently against the turf. The breath burst out of my lungs in a harsh sob. A sickening, sharp pop echoed in my collarbone, followed instantly by a searing wave of white-hot agony that made my vision blur into static.

The ball popped loose, tumbling across the grass as a whistle blew the play dead.

"Stay down, girl," the defender spat, standing over me before a referee shoved him back.

Pain radiated from my shoulder down to my fingertips, hot and breathless. I rolled onto my left side, my teeth digging so hard into my mouthguard I tasted the metallic tang of copper.

Get up, my brain screamed through the haze of agony. If you stay down, they win. Miller wins.

Using my left arm, I pushed myself off the field, my right arm hanging unnaturally stiff at my side. I forced my posture upright, swallowing down the nausea threatening to choke me, and dragged myself back to the huddle before the training staff could run onto the field.

From the sideline, near the bench, I caught sight of Knox. His helmet was off, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. His dark eyes were locked on my right arm, watching the way I favored it, his jaw so tight the muscles twitched under his skin. He knew.

I grit my teeth, tucked my right hand into my belt, and called the next play.

An hour later, the grueling reality of post-game procedures was over. I had survived the remaining drives on pure adrenaline, throwing two short touchdown passes to secure the win while silently enduring every hit, taking ice baths, and dodging reporters who only wanted to ask what it felt like to play "with the boys."

All I wanted was a long, burning hot shower and my bed.

I dragged my duffel bag over my uninjured left shoulder, pulling my dark hoodie low over my face as I stepped into the quiet chill of the athletic housing parking lot.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out with my left hand, the screen illuminating my face.

Coach Vance: Check your email when you get to your room. House assignment changes were finalized today. No exceptions.

I frowned at the text, my thumb tapping open the university portal. Due to constant security breaches and media crews camping outside the women’s athletic dorms, Coach Vance had promised to arrange off-campus housing for me with a private entry.

I scrolled down the official confirmation PDF, my eyes scanning the bold text at the top.

Property Address: 402 Oak Street.

It was a quiet, two-story brick building off campus, usually reserved for upperclassmen or specialized housing. I tapped the map link, loaded my bag into the trunk of my sedan with one arm, and drove over through the quiet, darkened streets of the college town.

The house was completely dark when I pulled into the driveway at 11:30 PM. The front key was inside the lockbox next to the porch light, exactly as the email stated. I punched in the code, grabbed the brass key, and unlocked the heavy front door.

I stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind me, and dropped my heavy duffel bag onto the hardwood floor with a ragged sigh.

"Finally," I whispered to the empty room, kicking off my sneakers.

The house was spacious and fully furnished—couches, a wide flat-screen TV on the wall, and an open-concept kitchen with granite counters. It was quiet, peaceful, and blissfully free of reporters or flashing cameras.

I picked up my bag with my left hand and walked down the short hallway toward the master bedroom at the back of the house. I pushed the door open, reaching my good hand out to flick the wall switch.

The overhead lights flickered on, illuminating a king-sized bed, unpacked duffel bags scattered across the floor, and a tall figure standing near the open closet.

I froze, the blood running cold in my veins.

Knox stood there. He was wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants that hung loosely off his hips. Water droplets glistened on his broad chest, tracking down the sharp outline of his abs toward the waistband of his pants. A dark towel hung loosely around his neck, and his dark hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends.

He didn't look surprised at all. He slowly crossed his bare arms over his chest, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across his face.

"Nice of you to finally make it home, QB," he drawled.

My brain completely short-circuited. I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing before I managed to force out words. "What... what are you doing in my house?"

Your house?" Knox chuckled, gesturing with his chin toward the kitchen counter where a printed document lay flat under the light. "Check the names on the lease, Avery. Vance put us here together."

"No. No way." I pulled my phone out with a trembling left hand, opening the full housing attachment I had skimmed earlier.

I scrolled straight down to the bottom page.

Co-tenants: Avery Hale & Knox Ellison.

"He said it was for security purposes," Knox said, taking a slow, deliberate step toward me. His bare feet made no sound against the floorboards. "Media’s camping outside the dorms. Your brother wanted you somewhere private, Vance wanted someone who could keep the press off the lawn, and I needed a place off campus."

"I am not sharing a house with my brother's best friend," I said, my voice rising as panic and exhaustion warred in my chest. "Especially not one who walks around half-naked!"

Knox stopped right in front of me, bringing the scent of clean soap, cedar, and rain with him. He reached out, his long fingers catching the strap of my heavy duffel bag and gently sliding it off my left shoulder, taking the weight from my hands.

"You'll get used to it," he murmured, his dark gaze dropping down to my lips before rising slowly back to lock onto my eyes. "Welcome home, roomie."