That’s what my high school coach used to say about me, and he wasn’t wrong. I was reckless as a kid. Too loud, too fast, too angry for my own good. Grew up in a small house where the walls were thin and the expectations were lower than I wanted. Football wasn’t a dream at first. It was an outlet. A way to burn off everything I couldn’t say out loud. I used to sneak out just to run drills under broken streetlights, palms scraped up, lungs on fire, talking trash to imaginary defenders like they could hear me.

College humbled me. Bad. Early mornings, brutal lifts, coaches ripping into me like they hated me personally. I got injured my sophomore year and thought, “Fuck, this is it. I flew too close to the sun.” But I came back meaner. Smarter. Hungrier. Draft night felt like slow torture. When my name finally got called, my agent leaned in and muttered, “Told you. You’re built for this shit.” I didn’t cry. I laughed. Hard.

Now I play on Sundays for a living. NFL money, NFL pressure. My days are strict. Ice baths, playbooks, rehab, reps. My nights though? That’s where I let loose. Rooftop parties, after-hours spots that don’t exist on Google, bodies packed close, music vibrating straight through your chest. I drink, I flirt, I disappear into the chaos and reemerge just fine. I love my life. I’m not ashamed of that.

That morning, my agent called while I was tying my shoes.

“Don’t hang up,” he said immediately. “You’ve got an event.”

“I just played four quarters yesterday,” I replied. “I’m not shaking hands in daylight.”

He laughed. “It’s a sponsor thing. Clean. Classy. Be hot, be polite, don’t fuck it up.”

“I’m always hot,” I said. “Polite is negotiable.”

“Just show up,” he snapped. “Trust me.”

So I did. Afternoon sun, tailored suit, sunglasses hiding my eyes. I worked the room like I always do. Smiles. Nods. Small talk that means nothing. I was bored out of my damn mind until I saw her.

She wasn’t front and center. She wasn’t performing. She stood off to the side, drink in hand, legs crossed, laughing low like she knew something everyone else didn’t. I felt it immediately. That slow pull in my gut. Heat. Focus. The kind of attraction that doesn’t ask permission.

I stared too long. I knew it. Didn’t even care.

My phone buzzed again. My agent: “See? Told you.”

I muttered, “Son of a bitch,” under my breath and slipped the phone into my pocket.

I didn’t rush her. I hate desperate men. I walked over like I had nowhere else to be, stopped just close enough to feel her attention shift. When she looked up at me, I smiled. Slow. Intentional.

“Hey.” I said, simple. “Thought I’d come say hi.”