Out of Bounds by Lauren Blakely Page A

management,” he says, and the stark but realistic way he puts it reminds me once again to keep my eye on the prize. The field. Only the field.
    That’s what I do.
    My first and most important love is football. It needs my full attention. My devotion. That’s what I give it.
    When I step onto the field that weekend, I savor the smell of the grass, the thunder of the crowd, the rush of the adrenaline pumping through my blood. In the huddle, I’m all business, and the Knights are as crisp as crisp can be.
    We win the game, and somehow we pull off that wonderful feat again the next Sunday too when we pummel Dallas on their field.
    Four for four.
    “Talk about a fucking streak,” Elkins shouts when I enter the locker room after the game. He high-fives me, and a bunch of the other guys do too.
    I hold my arms out wide. “All I do is throw ’em. You’re the one who has to catch ’em,” I say, because Elkins is killing it in that department, and he made it into the end zone twice in today’s game.
    We ride that high on the jet home with fist bumps, struts, and shit-eating grins galore as we reach our cruising altitude. I sink into the cushy leather seat, happy as a clam, since I just can’t complain about a 4–0 record for the first month on the job. The only thing that would make it better is a good woman.
    But I’ll take what I can get.
    The next week, it’s more than I expect.

Chapter Nine
    Drew
    “I’m going to school you again!”
    The taunt comes from Taylor, the kid I’ve been battling in whack-a-mole.
    “Don’t count me out yet.” I lift the mallet and send a wooden mole back into oblivion.
    “You can’t catch up,” Taylor says again, a huge grin on his thin but gleeful face, as I chase the vicious little moles in the game. I’m at Santa Monica Pier for an event to benefit the children’s hospital, and the new wing that just opened there. The team donated a huge amount to have it built. I’ve played arcade games with a few kids, and I’m going head-to-head in yet another round of whack-a-mole with this tenacious ten-year-old who has kicked cancer’s ass.
    He’s beaten me nearly every single time. And this time too. As my round ends, I raise a hand and high-five him. “Taylor, you are the king of whack-a-mole,” I say, thrusting his fist high in the air.
    From across the arcade, a photographer snaps a shot. I don’t mind, but I wasn’t playing this round for the sake of the picture. I was playing it because Taylor is a fun kid and deserves to have a good time. He’s a fierce competitor too, and I admire the hell out of that. I knock fists with him, and tell him as much. “Now listen, Taylor. When you get back to fifth grade, I want you to tell everyone you kicked my butt at whack-a-mole. Can you do that, my man?”
    He beams. “I can do that, and can you win again next weekend against San Francisco?”
    I laugh and clap him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna do my best.”
    He heads off to join his parents, and I return to the game for a quick solo round.
    As I clobber a mole, a pretty voice floats into my ear. “Careful. You don’t want to get an NFI.”
    Slamming the padded hammer down on the wooden weasel, I answer with a grin. “You’re right.” The next mole submits to my speed with the hammer. “Can you even imagine the ridicule I’d suffer for a whack-a-mole-induced injury? That’d be one helluva nonfootball injury.”
    Dani steps closer to the game and rests her hand on the back of the console. “So much ridicule. It would be the talk of the town,” she says with a playful shudder. I sneak a glance at her and my jaw drops. Hell, if she doesn’t look hot tonight. So hot, in fact, that I miss the next five whacks. Maybe ten. But the woman is wearing a goddamn red dress. It’s a tight sheath that hits above her knees, and she looks good enough to eat.
    All I want to do is eat her.
    “I thought you were a whack-a-mole pro,” she says, a teasing little lilt to her tone as