Chapter One

There was a reason Gavin Scott rarely drank.

He was bad at it.

As in, face-planted on the carpet while reaching for the bottle bad. And too drunk to see in the dark so might as well stay down bad.

Which is why he didn’t get up when his best friend and Nashville Legends teammate, Delray Hicks, pounded on the door to his hotel room, a fourth-floor state of depression that reminded him every minute that he could at least screw up like a champion.

“Izz open,” Gavin slurred.

The door swung wide. Del flipped on a blinding overhead light and immediately swore. “Shit. Man down.” He turned and spoke to someone else. “Help me.”

Del and another giant human lumbered toward him until their four massive hands grabbed his shoulders. In an instant, he was upright and leaning against the shitty couch that had come with the room. The ceiling spun, and his head fell back against the cushions.

“Come on.” Del smacked his cheek. “Look alive.”

Gavin sucked on air and managed to lift his head. He blinked twice but then ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I’m drunk.”

“No shit,” Del said. “What have you been drinking?”

Gavin lifted his hand to point at the bottle of craft bourbon on the coffee table. It had been a gift from a local distillery to every member of the team at the end of their season a few weeks ago. Del swore again. “Shit, man. Why not just pour grain alcohol down your throat?”

“Didn’t have any.”

“I’ll get some water,” said the other guy—whose blurry face sort of resembled Braden Mack, owner of several Nashville night clubs, but that made zero sense. Why would he be there? They’d only met once at a charity golf thing. Since when were he and Del friends?

A third man suddenly walked in, and this time Gavin recognized him. It was one of his teammates, Yan Feliciano. “Como es el?”

How is he? Gavin understood that. Holy shit, he could speak Spanish when he was drunk.

Del shook his head. “He’s about one shot away from listening to Ed Sheeran.”

Gavin hiccupped. “No me gusta Ed Sheeran.”

“Shut up,” Del said.

“I don’t stutter when I’m Spanish.” Gavin hiccupped again. Something sour came up with it this time. “When ‘m drunk.”

Yan swore. “Que paso?”

“Thea asked for a divorce,” Del said.

Yan made a sound of disbelief. “My wife said there was a rumor about them having trouble, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Bleeveve it,” Gavin groaned, dropping his head against the couch. A divorce. His wife of three years, the mother of his twin daughters, the woman who made him realize there really was a thing called love at first sight, was done with him. And it was his own fucking fault.

“Drink this,” Del said, handing Gavin a bottle of water. And then, speaking to Yan again, said, “He’s been staying here for the past two weeks.”

“She kicked me out,” Gavin said, dropping the unopened water.

“Because you’ve been acting like a douchebag.”

“I know.”

Del shook his head. “I warned you, man.”

“I know.”

“I told you she’d get sick of your ass if you didn’t get your head...