“At best, you can play another—what?—four years. I have to look to the future of the team. I need to bring a new quarterback along.” The coach locked his gaze on Luke. “I will never have the opportunity to work with another athlete of your caliber in my lifetime. But Pitch could be good enough. With your help, he might even be excellent.”

Junius was trying to play on his vanity. Except he didn’t have any when it came to coaching. He didn’t want Junius’s job. Luke would work with Pitch, but the rookie had to find the mental focus and drive to succeed inside himself. “I’ll do my best.” Luke stood again.

“He’ll never be you, no matter what,” the coach said, throwing him a bone.

“We’ll see how close we can get him.” The coach nodded and picked up a sheaf of papers, so Luke strode to the door and jerked it open.

As he walked down the corridor, fear sent cold tentacles snaking through his chest. One injury and his coach was writing him off. And Junius didn’t even know about the shoulder pain.

This week he’d been forced to ease off on training, but next week he would go back at it full throttle. He had to make sure no one thought he was slowing down.

The fear joined with a dark cloud of regret as Luke faced another truth. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d been hoping he could play football and keep Miranda in his life, but that was off the table now.

Unlike Pitch, he knew how to focus.

Chapter 21

At 6:10, Miranda stood at the private entrance to Luke’s elevator foyer. She drew in a lungful of the crisp evening air and let it out slowly, allowing her mind and body to shift gears. The assistant concierge scheduled for the afternoon-into-evening shift had called in sick, so Miranda had been insanely busy all afternoon. She’d barely had time to change into the clothes she’d brought from home before she bolted from her office to avoid being asked to stay.

She’d spent a lot of time choosing the rose-colored, open-worked lace top and matching camisole that allowed lots of peeks of her skin. Below those were slim jeans and a pair of black stiletto ankle boots. She’d pulled her hair out of its ponytail to hang in long waves over her shoulders.

She inhaled again. Knowing this was her last evening with Luke made it seem important. She wanted him to like her clothes, to know she’d chosen them for him. No, what she really wanted was for him to break his rule about dating during the football season. It was a ridiculous dream, because he’d had some of the most beautiful women in the world in his bed, and he’d kicked them out when training camp began.

She swallowed the stupid tears threatening to clog her throat and typed the code into the security keypad. The lock clicked and she swung the door open. She took two steps into the small marble-lined foyer and stopped.

Leaning against the open elevator door was Luke, looking like a pinup cowboy in a tan Stetson, leather chaps over faded jeans, and tooled-leather cowboy boots. Even better, he wore no shirt, so she could see every muscle of that magnificent torso, as well as the technicolors of his healing bruises.

“Hey, sugar,” he drawled, pushing away from the elevator and sauntering toward her.

“Should I call you Tex?” she asked as Luke’s slow smile banished all thoughts of future problems from her mind.

“You called me cowboy on the phone.”

“Did I?” She was having a hard time even remembering her own name, much less what she’d said earlier.

He stopped scant inches from her, so she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin and catch the fresh scent of his aftershave.

“So you’re here to fulfill all my Old West fantasies?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah, and all mine, too.” His voice was a low rasp as he threaded his hands into her hair and bent to kiss her, the brim of his hat creating an intimately enclosed space. When she ran her hands over the bare, warm skin of his shoulders, a low groan rumbled in his throat. He pulled his mouth away from hers. “Let’s get in that elevator.”

He locked one of his arms around her waist and swept her into the walnut-and-brass-paneled space. The doors closed behind them, and Luke flipped a switch before turning to slip her bag off her shoulder and drop it in the corner.

“The elevator’s not moving,” she said.

“I’ve got it on hold.” He began to unbutton her coat. “I didn’t want to rush through your fantasy.” He lifted his eyes so she could see the burn in them. “We’re taking it slow this time.”

“Oh,” she breathed as he pulled the coat down her arms and tossed it on top of her purse. Desire was already rolling through her in waves. “I thought cowboys liked to ride hard.”

“Hard doesn’t have to be fast.” His fingers traced along the low neckline of the camisole that showed through the lace. “I like this. I can feel you through it.”

The brush of his fingertips against fabric and skin sent little tendrils of sensation dancing over her nerve endings. Such a light touch from such a powerful man. As his fingers glided down to skim over her already-hard nipples, she shuddered, arousal spreading through her like licking flames.

When he slipped one of his hands under the hem of her camisole and around her waist to hold her steady, she decided to take advantage of that tempting expanse of bare, muscled chest right in front of her.

She placed her palms against his pectorals, relishing the way they jumped under her touch. There was a light sprinkle of glinting blond hair over his smooth skin. She found the surgical scars on his shoulder and ran her fingertips over them. Skimming downward, she walked her fingers over the washboard of his abdomen, marveling that this was a living, breathing body and not the carved marble of an idealized statue. Except for one thing. “Your bruises have turned a lovely shade of purplish green.” She gently traced just outside the edge of the discoloration. “Do they still hurt?”