I wait until Jasalie disappears from my driveway, and then I barely make it inside the front door before I drop to my knees.

The tears fall harder than I can remember crying in years. I don’t typically lose control of my emotions. Part of being an MVP quarterback is staying calm in all situations. Part of being a good public figure is never letting your feelings show.

But right here, right now, in the private confines of my home, I fucking lose my shit.

I bawl like a baby at what I just did. I curse loudly as I stand up and hurl my sweatshirt through the foyer, followed by the football lying on the ground. It narrowly misses the window, but I don’t stop there. Not until I’ve torn apart the entire living room, and tossed couch cushions and pillows and anything in my path, do I collapse onto the chair in exhaustion.

Then I rewind in my mind what just happened in here, less than an hour ago, when I broke up with the love of my life.

What you’re really saying is that I’m not worth the risk.

That fucking crushed me.

Jasalie’s expression was filled with pain when she said those words, and I felt it, too. My father never thought I was worth the risk, and I know she suffered far worse in her own childhood. To think I cut her that deeply destroys me.

But the way she said it was so calm, the way a league scout would announce that his team had decided not to draft me. Except I was drafted high in the first round, and I wasn’t disappointed with any part of that day. Draft day was the fulfillment of my dreams.

I’ve always prided myself on being able to accomplish whatever goal I set out to achieve. But my dream of turning this affair with Jasalie into something permanent? That hasn’t worked out so well. I screwed up in the worst way possible—I ended things with the only person who makes me feel whole. And it’s all because I put her in the line of fire with the weekend photo ops in Tucson. Yes, I did that for my charity, not for some selfish motivation. But using her like that, even if it was a mutual pact, was the greatest mistake I ever made. I made her vulnerable to the public, and that’s something I can never forgive myself for.

I’ve lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And fighting for her isn’t an option right now. I can’t give her what she deserves—a life that’s safe and secure—and so I can’t have her at all.

Once I’ve pulled myself together, I drive into downtown and pick up enough stuff for the next couple of weeks. I send a group text to my cousins letting them know I’ll be off the grid for a while. I confirm with my security team that Jasalie got home safely, and Dale assures me he’ll guard her with his life. Then, with security following me closely, I head home to Malibu. I need to hide out and think. The only woman I’ve ever loved just walked out my front door, all because I asked her to, and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do next.

“So what’s this all about?” Lilla asks me the next morning as we meet for coffee before work.

“Dylan and I had a fight. A big one.” I lean my cheek on my hand. “We broke up.”

“What? Why?”

Glad I cried out all my tears last night, I stay calm as I tell Lilla about the death threat. “And so now he’s decided I’m better off without him. He ended it.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Jase.”

I glance out the window of the coffee shop and glare at the security detail waiting for me to emerge.

Yes, Dylan kept true to his word about hiring protection for me. The guys freaking follow me everywhere. Last night when I left the apartment for frozen yogurt, this morning when I stepped outside my door to get the mail, and now…as I sit with Lilla and try to talk about him, his damn security guards are stationed feet away. They can probably lip read and are deciphering everything I say about their boss.

Well, fine, they can decipher this then.

I turn my attention back to Lilla. “The issue is that Dylan and I both have to put our hearts on the line, or it won’t work.”

“Because you love him?” she asks me.

“Yes.”

“What?” She stares at me in shocked silence. Then she starts to yell. “Oh, my God! You love Dylan!”

She reaches over and throws her arms around me.

I push her off of me as best I can. But I’m weaker than usual. I didn’t sleep all night, and I’ve hardly eaten. At this rate, I’m going to be completely strung out on coffee by the time I get to work.

“This is like a fairy tale,” Lilla squeals. “A fairy tale with the perfect ending.”

“Did you miss the part where he dumped me?”

“No, I heard you. But I don’t buy it. Dylan can’t stay away from you, Jasalie. Mark my words—he’ll come crawling back and beg you to forgive him. Give it a few weeks.” She glances out the window. “He’s still staying close to you right now through his security team. They’re probably supposed to report back to him at least once a day, so make sure you keep a happy face in their presence. Men hate it when we thrive in their absence. Makes them come back even quicker.”

“Well, Dylan will have to have one hell of an apology speech planned if he’s even thinking of contacting me again. I told him that dumping me was essentially saying I wasn’t worth the risk.” I remember his expression when I said those words to him. “He hated when I said that part. He broke up with me, but something about what I said broke him. I wish I knew what it was.”

“Is it like some football insult?” Lilla asks.

“Maybe, but I imagine it goes deeper than that.”

“You know what—maybe you should show up at his house, possibly in only a towel—oooh, that might do the trick…” Her eyes glaze over.

“Lilla, I can’t do that.” I swallow down the rest of my coffee. “Dylan Wild made his choice. He chose himself. So now I’m going to choose me. Anyway, now I have plenty of time to focus on my art.”

We leave for work, but the whole walk there, with security trailing closely behind us, Lilla suggests idea after idea for how Dylan’s going to try to woo me back into his life.

“He could have a DJ play you his apology with a love song,” she suggests. “And he could be standing outside of your door when you forgive him.”

“This isn’t Hollywood, Lilla.”

“Au contraire, Ms. Gordon,” she says. “We’re in the middle of Hollywood. And I think this deserves a major happy ending.”

A happy ending? I’ve stopped believing in one.

When I arrive home after work, I remember Lilla’s advice and wave politely to the security car parked streetside by my apartment. I keep my head held high and a smile on my face as I walk past and head for my building.

As soon as I step inside my apartment, though, I drop the façade. My head hurts from sadness and lack of sleep, and the aching in my chest feels like it may never disappear. Keeping people at a distance for most of my life was far easier than losing someone I love. I broke my own rule by getting so involved with Dylan, and now I’m paying the price.

Desperate for a distraction, I head for the closet and take out all of my sculptures. I lay them on my living room rug, one by one. All but my most recent pieces are already fired and painted. The Tucson sculptures and the one I did at Dylan’s are the only ones unfinished. They’re rough and uneven.

I look closely at the sculpture of death, the one I made just before Dylan broke up with me. It’s like my soul knew something was about to die in my life when I instinctively sculpted this piece.

I box up the pieces and go research what to do next.

Three hours later, I have lots of information on how to start a business selling my art. Exhausted, I head for the kitchen to boil some water for pasta.

While I’m eating dinner in front of the television, Dylan shows up on my screen in that same deodorant ad. As soon as I get a glimpse of his face, I’m hooked. I’m starved for the sight of him, and every nerve in my body is a live wire. I grip the remote as I desperately flip through the channels. It takes me all of five minutes to find him again. I know I can always count on those sports shows.

Even though it’s offseason, one channel is airing a special of important football moments from last season. A top ten list is part of the show.

Dylan’s in four of the top ten. One of them isn’t a positive for him—a linebacker sacks him at the one-yard line. The rest are his top three heroic moments.

It’s not until the show goes to commercial that I realize I’ve moved off the couch and am sitting about one foot away from the TV screen. I come to my senses and return to the couch.

But as soon as I see another quick shot of Dylan throwing the football, I’m back on the floor, my eyes glued to the TV.

When the show ends and he disappears off my screen, I’ve got one hand wrapped around the remote and the other on the necklace he gave me. Even though we broke up, I haven’t had the heart to take it off. He said we could be each other’s home, and I wanted so much to believe him.

I fight back the tears that threaten to come. Searching for something to look at other than the TV, my gaze lands on the letter from the casino.

I walk over to the table and pick it up. This letter is what brought Dylan and me together in a way. And according to him, it’s what drove us apart—our pact to have a “public” fling brought danger to our lives.

So now we’re both safe. But lonelier than ever.

“What a fucking mess,” I mutter as I fold the letter back up and slip it into my purse.

I know what I need to do next.

Bill’s on a high because Hal Cotton officially signed the Cougars on as a client, so I won’t catch any flak from him about taking a personal day tomorrow.

Which is good because tomorrow is the day that I’m finally going to do the thing I’ve wanted to do for twenty-three years—I’m going to see my mother.