Chapter 2

“You’re Derek Fox, right?”

“That depends,” he said, brushing his brown hair out of his face.

“On what?”

“On whether or not you want to string me up by my balls.”

Melanie smiled softly. “No, I’m not interested in that.”

He held out his hand. “Derek Fox at your service.”

“Melanie Smith.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Melanie.” He lifted the beer in her direction. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” She watched him drink, trying to force her racing heart to slow. He was bigger in person than on television, his shoulders broad, his hands large. He had scrapes on his face, his knuckles were bruised, and his back was sloped, like it took too much energy to hold himself up. She could see the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders—the weight of an entire team’s loss, the weight of hundreds of thousands disappointed fans.

The weight of a ball falling to the soft snow.

“So you were at the game?”

“On the fifty yard line. I bought the tickets after the Wildcats won the sixth straight game.”