Luke rolled his right shoulder, feeling the ghost of the brief, excruciating pain that had burned through it.

He couldn’t argue with his friend’s decision. DaShawn had a wife and two sons, and a powerful dedication to the foundation he’d started to help kids from disadvantaged backgrounds go to college.

Luke had football.

“At this hour of the night, I’m betting it’s a woman.”

Startled, Luke looked up, but the man at the bar was talking to the quiet drinker on the far side of the room.

“I know what his problem is.” The man on the stool jerked his head toward the corner where Luke sat. “He threw an interception with five seconds to go against the Patriots.”

It was inevitable. Pissed off, Luke locked his gaze on his glass.

“So am I right?” the barfly asked the other man.

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

Luke gave the scotch drinker kudos for refusing to play the game.

The barfly laughed. “Everything’s my business. I’m a writer.”

Luke raised his eyebrows. The fellow must be one hell of a bestselling writer if he belonged here.

“What do you write?” the other man asked.

There was a moment of silence. “Novels,” the writer growled.

The connection snapped into place in Luke’s brain. He’d seen the author’s photo on the back of his paperbacks. “You’re Gavin Miller. I read your Julian Best books on planes.” The fast-paced spy thrillers helped him unwind after games. Miller made a half bow from his stool in self-mocking acknowledgment. “When’s your next one coming out?” Luke asked.

“My original deadline was three months ago.” Miller turned a humorless smile Luke’s way. “I missed it. My deadline extension was today. Missed it, too. Writer’s block.”

That explained why Luke’s assistant hadn’t been able to find him a new Julian Best novel for the past six months.

“So what happens when a writer misses the deadline?” the other man asked.

“The same thing that happens when a quarterback throws a bad pass. The coach isn’t happy. And I get no royalties.” Luke kept his face impassive as he mentally cursed the novelist up, down, and sideways. Miller gulped some more of his drink. “But there’s nothing they can do about it, because I don’t have a backup.”

“No ghostwriters?” the other man asked.

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it, but I have enough respect and gratitude for my readers to believe I owe them my own efforts.” Miller shook his head. “The truth is, I could keep myself in style on the residuals from the Julian Best movies for the rest of my life and beyond, but good old Julian has become a small industry in his own right. The editors, directors, actors, film crews—hell, even the movie theater ticket takers—all depend on him.”

Luke felt an unexpected flash of sympathy. He carried the same burden every week of the season.

“So we’ve established who two of us are. What about you?” the writer asked the third man.

“I’m just a businessman.”

“Not if you belong within these hallowed walls.” The writer tipped his glass at the fancy paneling, which had come from some English manor house that was being torn down. “Frankie Hogan doesn’t allow ‘justs’ in her club.”

The other man gave up dodging Miller with a shrug. “Nathan Trainor,” he said.

“Computer batteries,” Luke filled in.

Miller gave Luke a mock salute. “So you’re not just a dumb jock.”

Anger surged again like hot lava, but Luke quashed it. Miller had clearly had too much to drink even before he’d arrived at the club.

He dismissed the writer by turning his attention to Trainor. This was a man he wanted to talk to. “I’m considering an investment in Trainor Electronics stock,” Luke said. “No one has ever figured out how to make a computer battery as long lasting as yours.”

“We’ve diversified,” Trainor said. “Just in case they do.” He took another swallow of scotch, as though the idea made him unhappy. Then he gestured to the table where he sat. “Why don’t you all join me? That way we won’t have to shout at each other.”

The writer slid off his stool with a slight wobble, saying, “Don’t mind if I do.”

Luke considered the idea. Trainor didn’t seem interested in football, and Miller was too drunk to be much of a problem. So he hauled himself out of the chair, his muscles protesting, and carried his water glass across the room. Miller had dropped into the only other chair at Trainor’s table, so Luke spun one around from a nearby grouping and eased into it.

“It’s the beginning of a bad joke,” Miller said. “A writer, a quarterback, and a CEO walk into a bar.”

Luke waited, expecting something sharp and funny from a bestselling writer. Miller just sat there, staring into his empty glass. “What’s the punch line?” Luke asked.

Miller shook his head. “I have writer’s block, remember? That’s why I missed my deadline.”

In Luke’s world, blocks involved huge, violent men wearing cleats and pads. No one was standing between Miller and his keyboard. Annoyance put an edge in Luke’s tone. “What does that mean, having writer’s block? You can’t type?”

Miller slashed a look at him. “Why’d you throw a pass nowhere near your wide receiver?”