Football players s*ck.

A bunch of cocky, lying cheaters who think they’re god’s gift to women, just like my dear old dad. I’ve managed to avoid them my whole college career, until now. I just got assigned to be wide receiver Callum Samskevitch’s physical therapist. Pro: It will be great to add to my resume. Con: I have to see him. Every. Single. Day. Which would be fine... if he wasn’t so dang sexy.

Cal: Football is all I’ve got, so when Coach saddles me with some frumpy PT student with a chip on her shoulder, all I can think is, doom. I don’t have time for this. Not now. Not when my dreams are on the verge of being crushed. All that should matter right now is ball. So why can’t I stop imagining what Bee Mitchell is hiding beneath those baggy sweatshirts?