"Michael!" I plugged one finger into my ear and screamed at my idiot agent. "What the fuck is wrong with you!? This was a giant waste of my fucking time!"

He was insane. It was the only logical explanation.

I preferred that today continued as it started, me naked in bed with Candace sucking my dick. With a girlfriend as hot as mine, not fucking her was a criminal offense. After her surgery, then mine, we abstained for a painful, left-hand-tugged six weeks.

Worth the wait. The tits I bought her were phenomenal. Instead of motorboating the fuck out of Candy's new fun bags, I was...here. Bum fuck middle of nowhere. Rattlesnake county.

Right when Candace's tongue flicked over my slit, my cock-blocking agent called. He'd scheduled me to meet a company of accountants, not my accountant but the foundation. Other than kissing my ass, I had no clue what the fuck their presentation covered. None of their numbers made sense. Behind the adoring fan smiles, they skimmed their greedy share of my charity proceeds.

Candace's dirty, suggestive texts of where we picked up once I got home surged my irritation the longer that meeting dragged on. My dirty, dependable girl sent me enough spank bank material for next season's away games. For the first time since college, cracks appeared in our rock-solid relationship, but I'd make it up to her.

A laughable impression of a breeze cut through the wall of humidity outside. If my parents weren't so stubborn about staying in Dallas, I'd move us to a more pleasant off-season location. One that didn't make me sweat a shower just by standing outside. I dragged my hand across my sweaty forehead and flicked the drops off.

"Improving your image is never a waste of time," Mike's cool, even tone grated my ears. "Especially yours."

Why had he insisted I wore a full suit? Perspiration ringed my armpits and collar, and I palmed the top of my car, frowning behind my sunglasses. I removed my rings, another stupid Mike suggestion. "Can't resist, can you?" I gnashed my teeth at the pointless conversation he looped on repeat since the accident. My rings pressed indents in my palm. "Back-to-back Super Bowl rings brought to this big-market, bottom-feeding team wasn't enough. Putting the entire postseason performance on my shoulders, bringing respect to the franchise, record ticket and jersey sales–"

"And we both know that one MVP season doesn't mean shit at the start of the next one." My nostrils flared at Mike's correct response. "Which, for us, starts now."

I shook each leg to free the fabric stuck to my inner thighs. Fuck, I sweated my balls off. "Like my being here, is there a point, Mike?"

My only shred of entertainment during this pointless outing was pissing off some local, hot-ass chick. Behind her black sunglasses, she pretended to be disgusted at my oral insinuation. She squirmed during the meeting, eyeing me from under her lashes. Embarrassed by the heat in her cheeks, she kept her head down, showing her small, straight nose bridge. A few black strands fell across her forehead, which she ignored. Toned calf muscles in her beautiful, endless legs flexed and elongated with each flick of her black heels.

I left her speechless, seated eye-level with my crotch and full, pouty lips parted. Later tonight, she would recall our exchange in a much more personal, pleasurable version. Probably came while wearing my jersey or pulling up my picture online. She should thank me for the clit-flick material. Wouldn't be the only one. The entire room eye-fucked me.

My car's reflection in the car next to it caught my eye. "What the fuck–"

"Sam, do I need to use slow words again?"

I frowned at a keyed line on the passenger's side. Fuck, my MC20 was two weeks old. Candace got her implants, and I spent another year with my rusty pickup and her A-cups before pulling the spending trigger. Sleek as fuck, the Nero Enigma color gave it a liquid appearance. Correction: it had that look. Fucking local punks. It still had the new car smell. Also, like Candy's tits, I hadn't given it a test drive. Yet.

"Sam, you're a PR nightmare." My agent poured on his schmooze, the cool, even tone he normally reserved for securing arrangements that worked in my favor, not against it. "We're all behind you. I'm committed, Jeremiah's committed, Ashley's committed. Simone's even on board with your image makeover."

"Because I fucking pay y'all to be behind me." I trailed the pad of my thumb over the scorching hot key mark. It was impressively straight. "And I don't need an image makeover!"

"Let's see." Rustling paper sounds crinkled in my ear. "Samuel Pearson, Houston's Golden Quarterback, found–"

"Shut up, Mike." I dragged a hand through my damp hair and got in my car with a grunt. "Shut the fuck up."

"What should Ashley lead the media with, you blowing three hundred grand on a car and breast implants?" Mike's unusual forwardness continued as my phone synced to my car. "Do I need to remind you about the accident parts Ash ensured weren't reported?"

I liked him better when he kissed my ass, except, again, he was right. One mistake could cost my entire NFL future. Blue ball irritation and unwanted pokes in my personal life aside, they bailed my ass out of an even worse PR situation. I was also lucky Candace stayed with me, another reason for me to get home and fuck her brains out. The ache in my dick agreed.

"Sam." His exhale crackled static in my car's interior. "I want what's best for you, which is not the direction you're headed. Take a good, long look in the mirror. You'll know I'm right."

Following Mike's suggestion, my eyes flipped up to the rearview mirror. Lowering my glasses down the bridge of my nose, a nine-figure, athletic, handsome devil smirked back.

"What we all need is you, on the field, drawing attention to how much you deserve a contract extension. Houston's draft–"

"I know who they drafted." I smashed the remote start. "My benchwarmer."

"Your backup," he snapped. "And potential replacement, with a sparkling reputation the entire franchise is embracing to cover up your piss poor judgment."

Where was his tough-love approach coming from? I didn't know, but I didn't like it and hit the wheel. "It's my fucking franchise!"

"It's yours to lose, along with your endorsements," Mike clipped in a tight voice. "Which you will, if you don't get your shit together this offseason. Jeremiah pitched some alternatives, but I think a change will give you some...mental clarity."

Mental clarity? What the fuck, Mike? I palmed the shoulder in question. "Jer says I'm almost there."

After a long pause, hesitation soaked Mike's voice more than the shirt clinging to my torso. "You're not there yet, Sam."

I removed my suit coat and tossed it onto the seat. The number of non-arguments I had seeped under my skin, festering discomfort.

"The numbers don't lie, Sam," his voice turned as serious as during our post-accident call. "Jer's four-week assessment says your supraspinatus mobility isn't what it used to be. And that's with physical therapy."

"I'm trying," I snapped harder than I meant to, but I dove through every hoop those two placed in front of me with no hesitation or second-guessing. "What else am I supposed to do!?"

A glance down proved Jer's conditioning cut me in the best shape of my twenty-six years. My suit, custom for my height, strained to split around my muscles. My six-pack was now eight, and my thighs deserved a zip code.

For a guy four weeks post-shoulder surgery, I was ripped. I earned it. Along with alcohol and carbs, I gave up all my usual weightlifting in favor of Jer's plyo. It was horrible. One box jump at a time, he popped sweat out of pores I didn't know existed. A sweat 'stache was as gross as it sounded, but I was hellbent on proving wrong every fucking person who doubted my recovery.

"You're making great progress," Mike cooed as if I was a baby. "And we don't want to derail that progress, more balance it out. Consider it a personal favor."

If it was anyone else, I would've ended this lecture ten minutes ago. His dad was my idol, but Mike acted in my best interests before I became a household name at Baylor. Houston drafted me first overall, but he secured my four-year contract, structured with signing and performance bonuses. Securing seven other sponsor deals, working for two percent lower than any other agent offered me, my net worth was nine digits because of him.

Michael Hayes was available twenty-four/seven for whatever shit I hurled at him. Admittedly, my recent Super Bowl celebration threw a lot of PR stress at his team. Not my best decision going into the last contract year.

Before I asked what 'balance' he referred to, Mike sighed. "I've scheduled a contract negotiation meeting with Sparks before preseason camp. You focus on rehabbing that shoulder. Consider all alternatives so I can come to the table with no doubt in his mind."

"Makes sense," I grumbled and peeled out of the parking lot. Noticing the time, I could catch Candy before her girl's lunch.

"Taking your silence as agreement, I'll text you the details. Get another fitness test with Jer Friday, and we'll discuss it after."

Relief in his voice drew my eyebrows together, and a scoff tickled my throat. "Friday!? No fucking way, Mike. Candace and I have–"

"I have a feeling you'll be free on Friday," was all he said and hung up, leaving me blinking at my phone screen.

***

Mike's lecture and cryptic request bothered me during the drive home. Knotted with tension, my shoulders relaxed when my home came into view. My quiet oasis. Past the two-story, all-brick house, I drove up the driveway. Stomping my foot, I screeched my tires at the heart-shaped ass welcoming me home.

Stroking my beard, I took a moment to appreciate the view. Hinged over her fire engine red Camaro, Candace's slender legs looked endless in her tiny jean shorts. The gap between her tan thighs called for my face to be buried there, offering a view straight up the sliver of white panties covering her sweet little cunt.

Vaulting my pants, my deprived dick cried like she hadn't sucked it dry this morning. Within three steps from my car, I traced the curve of her right ass cheek with my palm. Warm from the sun, her soft, smooth skin contrasted my always-present, rough calluses.

"Ahh!" A sharp, loud shrill scream ripped out of her. Candace bolted upright, blue eyes round and blazing. A few blonde strands fell from her messy bun, which she brushed behind her ear and stood upright.

"Sorry." My tongue slacked from the pitching motions of her stacked tits. Cleavage spilled out the V-cut of her pink tank top, the same color pouting on her lips, and I wanted in. "I–"

"You weren't supposed to be home yet." Her chin jutted with her mumbled words.

I gaped at her trunk full of suitcases and small boxes and palmed my hips. "Again, Candace?"

Third time pulling this packing up shit. Last resort, my ass. Both times, foolish me groveled. Her car never budged, and her things went back inside.

"It's serious this time." She crossed her arms, pushing up those implants I paid for. "I'm staying with my parents. Don't contact me."

"Dallas?" My jaw dropped so fast it almost unhinged. Four hours away? My feet filled up with cement, but I pointed inside the garage. "Please, let's go inside and–"

"And what?" Her hip jutted out, and her lips pressed into a firm line. "Fuck? That's all we do, Sam. Don't you dare suggest that we talk."

"We need to talk." How wasn't that obvious to her? I clenched my teeth so hard my molars rubbed against each other. "Technically, we haven't fucked in six weeks."

"You're such an ass, Sam." She reached up to her trunk, arching her back and jutting out her ass. The slam shut jiggled her breasts. "I'm tired of giving you chances to regain my trust. All you do is act like I'm supposed to accept what you say, gratefully spread my legs open, and pretend you didn't cheat on me."

"Pretend!?" My nostrils flared. Being together for four years with no cheating despite the tabloids' best efforts screamed infinite chances. "Hold your tits, Candy. I've been home, with you, before and after the accident. I didn't–"

"Stop calling it that!" Her hands balled up by her sides.

Since the day we met, Candace's temper flared faster than lit-off fireworks. Stupid me found it hot. Fuck, I still did, going off the stiffness remaining in my pants. Stupid me also assumed one should trust their partner when they told the truth. In full anger mode, red flushed into her cheeks, down the sides of her neck, and fanned across her chest. Her red nail jabbed the air between us with her finger.

Angry sex would help. My dick throbbed with interest until she banshee screeched, "Those two in your car when you wrapped it around a tree were no accident! Neither was the girl you flirted with before leaving with those desperate sluts."

The reminder that she wasn't there burned the truth on my tongue. Probably not best to point out that was the last time she ended us, which is why I drank myself into a stupor.

Mike was right. Ashley spun one of the worst nights of my life the best she could, and Candy knew the truth. Two months later, I accepted my mistake, but she either never believed me and my team or was tired of the cheating rumors. I eyed her hand on the closed trunk. She was too calm, too relaxed and casual. "You planned this today, didn't you?"

Her eyes lowered to my Houston lapel pin on the suit coat draped over my right arm. "I didn't plan to be here when you got back. There's a note in the bathroom."

Frustration burned inside me worse than this damn heat. Red spots dotted my vision, blurring Candy's impassive, bored expression. Four years. Electric pulses rushed through my veins and threatened to burst through the sides of my neck. My nostrils flared, and I clenched my jaw until my molars ground. I wanted to break something with my bare hands, but I settled for stepping back.

Glad to know four years was good enough for a fucking note. I should have yelled, fought these bullshit accusations, dropped to my knees and begged, or assured my feelings again. But I no longer fucking cared. My fuse burst into waves of indifference. If she was done, so was I. "You want to toss away what we have?"

Her arm was small and warm in my palm. She parted her lips, irritation brightening her eyes. Black and thick, her lashes blinked twice. "And what is that, Sam? What's left? Love? Waiting for you to get your shit together and adult up? Being with you is like shooting a loaded pistol straight up in the air and dodging the raining bullets." Her voice dropped to a hoarse, thick whisper.

What the fuck does that even mean? Candy's unspoken thoughts surfaced, dimming the blue in her eyes, and her body slacked under my grip. My spitfire girlfriend had nothing to offer, no fight left, and quit.

I was tired of being the one who apologized, put in the effort, and tried while she glared down from an unreachable pedestal of judgment. Exhausted, I was done.

"We drifted apart a long time ago," she answered in a low, steady voice, refusing to meet my gaze by staring at my chest. "I'm done, Sam."

The finality in her voice spoke volumes over any protests I had. I took her house keys, nodded at the end of the driveway, and let her go.

Oh boy, Sam... He's got some room for improvement, eh?