“That sounds wise. If you need anything while you’re resting, let me know.” With ringing sincerity, she added, “Thank you again for a truly memorable day.”

He wanted to have done something real to earn her gratitude. “You’re welcome. And that’s the last word on it.”

“If you say so.” He heard amusement in her tone, and then she disconnected.

He stepped out of the elevator and walked into the living room. Trevor was sprawled on the couch in front of the flat-screen television, his bare feet propped on the glass top of the coffee table. Beside his feet sat a bottle of Gran Patrón tequila, a dish of salt, a plate of limes, and two shot glasses, one of which held a few drops of clear liquid.

Trevor pointed the remote at the set, muting the sound before he turned to his brother. “You were quite the hero in the last minutes of the game, bro. Such poise and precision. But then, you’re the Iceman. Nothing shakes you out of your cleats.” He leaned forward to pick up the bottle of tequila, filling both glasses. “We should celebrate your win.”

Anger spilled through Luke so fast and hot that it shocked him. He swallowed it back down. “Thanks, Trev, but you know I don’t drink during the season.”

His brother gave him a look of exaggerated surprise. “You were pretty loaded on Monday night, so I thought you’d loosened up on that rule.”

The anger simmered. “That was a mistake.” In more ways than one.

“So you can drink with two strangers, but not with your brother. The hell with you.” Trevor pinched up some salt to sprinkle on the back of his hand. He licked the salt off and tossed back the tequila, finishing up by sucking on a wedge of lime. He slammed the shot glass onto the table so hard that Luke thought it would break. Miraculously, both table and glass stayed intact.

Luke combed his fingers through his hair as guilt pricked at him. “How about we take the party out to the fire pit?”

The guilt jabbed even harder when Trevor’s face lit up. “Now, that’s more like it. You gotta celebrate the good times in life.” Luke could hear the slurring in his brother’s voice now. He checked the level of the tequila and figured his brother had had several shots already. Luke needed to get some food into him.

“But you can’t drink tequila without salsa and chips. And maybe some quesadillas.” Luke headed for the kitchen. His housekeeper made fresh salsa for him, and he could throw together chicken and cheese on a whole wheat tortilla.

Trevor followed him, bouncing off the door frame into the kitchen before he plunked down at the table. “You know, there were two SI swimsuit models in the box with us,” Trevor said. “Man, their legs just go on forever.”

Luke winced as he rummaged around in the refrigerator. He hadn’t known who else had tickets for the box he’d put Trevor in. He should have been more careful after the incident on Monday, but his brother had never been such a letch before. “Yeah,” he said, setting out quesadilla ingredients. “They’re paid to have long legs.”

“Probably paid by the inch,” Trevor said, snorting out a laugh. “You ever dated one of them?”

“Once or twice, maybe.” In those heady early days of fame, he’d dated actresses, models, and the daughters of very rich men. None of them had interested him as much as football.

“That’s as often as you date anyone,” Trevor pointed out. “Once or twice. Have you ever made it to three times?”

“Not in a while.” Luke shrugged. “I have other things to focus on.”

“And I don’t?” Trevor’s tone was bitter.

“You’re married, Trev. You found the right woman.”

“Sometimes I’m not so sure.” Trevor stared down at the shot glass in his hand.

“What’s going—” Luke’s cell phone rang. He dropped the cheese grater and pulled out his phone. It was the head coach. “Damn, I’ve got to take this. Be back in a few.”

He swiped “Answer” and walked toward his office. “Hey, Junius.”

“Stan called.” Junius’s voice was brusque. “He says you got more banged up by Rodney D’Olaway than you let on.”

“It stiffened up on me.” Luke kept his tone easy. “It’s just bruising, though. I got it looked at.”

“I want you to give it a rest so you can heal faster.”

Now Luke had to read from the script. It was easy, because he’d said the same things before when he meant them. “I’ll heal fine without any rest.”

“You’re taking the week off, including the game.”

Shock ripped through Luke like a barbed wire fence. “No way, Junius. It’s a bruise. I’ve played with worse.” He was no longer faking his objection.

“When you were younger and less valuable. I can’t afford to have you get seriously injured because you’ve been slowed down by this one.”

Well, at least Junius had called him valuable. But old.

The coach continued. “We’re playing the worst team in the conference, so it’s a good time to give Brandon some game experience.”

It was hard to argue with either point. Brandon Pitch was the backup quarterback—a young, talented, but inconsistent player whom they’d drafted in the second round a year ago. He needed some game exposure. It might settle him down.

Luke cursed mentally. “It’s your call, Coach, but I’m capable of playing right now. How about I take two days to rest and practice on Wednesday?”