The Pop Star and the Playboy Quarterback

*Ophelia*

"Miss Lane!" a voice bellows.

I don’t stop to check over my shoulder at the stout man with a wiry mustache pursuing me.

"Don't you dare run!" he snaps, the threat hanging heavy in the air. His companion is close behind him as they follow me through the busy bar.

They are after me for my debt, and these particular collectors are a nasty breed…

I finally find my way to the restroom hallway. As I glanced over my shoulder again, I pushed the door open without checking the gender on the door.

Inside, a man stands at the urinal, his mind focused on the task at hand. But his concentration shatters as I burst through the door, and with a frantic gesture, I implored him to keep silent.

"Get out," he hisses, his voice a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.

“Please,” I beg quietly. “I need help!”

"No, you shouldn’t even be in here," he declares, his tone firm as he turns away from me, determined to wash his hands of the situation.

Before I can respond, voices sound from outside the door.

“I think she went this way!” one of the debt collectors says.

I don’t think as I grab the man and push him into a stall door, swiftly shutting it behind us. He stands close to me, his breath hot on my neck. Now is probably a horrible time to realize how alarmingly handsome he is. His brown eyes watch me as I stop myself from glancing down at his unzipped pants.

I don’t think as I reach and zip up the fly.

The man's eyes widen in shock as he realizes what I did. "You just touched me," he says with a smirk.

Quickly withdrawing my hand, I shoot him a withering glare. "Pervert," I accuse, though my voice wavers with uncertainty.

He scoffs. "Who's the pervert? You burst in here and grabbed me.”

Our argument is abruptly interrupted by the sound of the restroom door swinging open, followed by the heavy footsteps of the debt collector. My heart hammers against my chest as I hear his boots walk across the floor. They pause at the stall door, and my breath hitches. I stare up at the man in front of me.

His brown eyes watch me for a moment longer before he calls out, “Hey, unless it isn’t blatantly obvious, this stall is taken.”

The debt collector lets out a cough. “Sorry, man, my bad.”

His footsteps fade, and we hear the bathroom door swing shut.

As the tension begins to dissipate, I let out a relieved sigh. The man turns to me with a mischievous grin.

"You owe me for this," he teases, stepping closer with a playful glint in his eyes.

But I’m not in the mood for jokes. With a swift kick to his shin, I shoot him a pointed look before slipping out of the stall and disappearing into the busy bar, leaving him behind with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment.

*One week later*

*Asher*

“Let’s go, Ozarks!” Mark screams from the window as we drive by others still exiting the stadium. I honk my horn towards the people, and they respond with their own cheers.

I replay the final play from tonight, seeing an opening and rushing into the endzone to win the game, taking the score to 27-21. It was a challenging game, but we persevered. However, as happy as I am to start off the season 1-0, I can’t help but think of the look on AJ’s face when the team lifted me into the air.

“A honky-tonk bar?” I ask curiously as we pull into the parking lot. “I don’t even like country.” I can hear the distinct sound of the music genre coming from inside.

He shrugs.

I’ve never been to a honky-tonk before, so the atmosphere when I walk in is pretty different than the usual bars Mark, the team, and I hit up after games.

We’ll be here in Nashville for a few days before we have to head back for practices next week, but in the meantime, Mark’s been looking to have some fun. We’ve been running drills for weeks, practicing until our feet bled, and I’ve thrown so many footballs to teammates that I swear my arm is starting to feel stiff and sore.

We push our way into the bar, mostly unoccupied, and we grab a table.

“I heard the headliner is super-hot,” Mark tells me, looking over at the empty stage.

I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like country music?”

“I don’t,” he shrugs.

I nod, not sure what he wants me to say.

“Okay, what the hell is wrong with you?” Mark huffs, rolling his eyes.

It’s embarrassing to admit the truth to my best friend. He doesn’t understand the pressure I’m under, even without last year’s Stadium Cup win. But trying to explain any of that to Mark is a lost cause.

Mark narrows his brows. “If you don’t tell me, I will start screaming as loud as possible. Do you want that? You want me to make a huge scene after our win tonight?”

“Dude, calm down, that’s so immature.”

“One,” he starts, counting on his fingers. “Two…”

“God, you’re the worst!” I snap, growling. “It’s about AJ, okay? Are you happy?”

“Your brother? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Seriously, are you blind? What team did we play tonight?”

“The Shoremen?” he asks, clearly still clueless.

“Mark, the Portland Shoremen, my brother’s team. Does any of this ring a bell?”

“No need to get touchy with me, Mom,” he groans. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to what AJ was doing. I was focused on us winning our first game.”

“Bro, you’re my best friend. If anyone were to understand me right now, it’d be you. We have a legacy to live up to.”

“A legacy that only you two can fulfill, being the son of Frank Slater. After all, it’s all anyone can talk about. ‘Which Slater son will become the best, and which will fall flat on his face? The world is dying to know!’”

He’s mocking me, and I’m going to kick his ass.

I narrow my eyes. “Dude, have like an ounce of compassion? AJ is good at what he does.”

“He’s also seven years older than you are. Why worry about the competition?”

“Because he’s the best brother any football-obsessed kid could ask for, and I’ve always looked up to him. You know this.”

“Yeah, I do know this. But I also know he’s a coach, and you’re a quarterback—the same one who won us the Stadium Cup yet again! I mean, how many times do you have to win before you realize there’s no competition? You’ve been on the team for how long? You brought us home four wins and won MVP again last year! You’re the better brother. Everyone thinks so.”

While I ponder my thoughts, Mark gets the attention of a waitress, ordering the two of us beers. She smiles, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, and quickly walks to get our drinks.

“Damn, looks like she’s a fan,” Mark croons.

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Seriously, you need to stop.”

He shrugs as the waitress returns with the beers. “Here, we’ll start a tab. And make sure to keep that pretty little smile on.”

She turns bright pink and runs off with his credit card, and I can’t help but roll my eyes once again. “You have got to cut that—”

But I stop mid-sentence, a voice calling in my ear. I look up to see the entire honky-tonk is now packed with people. They’re all watching the stage, and my eyes make their way to it.

Mark had said that the headliner was popular, or rather, was hot, and the room was quiet besides her voice.

I don’t know what compels me to get up, but it’s a feeling. It’s dragging me towards the stage, and her voice—angelic, pure, kind—every perfect word to imagine a voice like this.

“Oh my God, Asher Slater!” I hear a voice scream.

In a rush, several fans, men and women, turn to me. Their eyes grow wide, and they start pushing one another to reach me.

“Can I get an autograph?”

“Asher, over here, selfie!”

“I love you, Asher!”

“Hey, Asher, great game tonight!”

“My sister’s going to freak out when she sees I met you tonight.”

Each person’s voice swallows me, pushing me further from hearing her singing. I can see her on the stage, her eyes shining as she sings to the crowd, her heart into her entire performance. I’ve never heard someone’s talent so strongly that it forced me into this desire to meet her, to know her. To hear her name.

I try to give everyone around me the pictures and autographs they request. I don’t want to be rude and ruin someone’s night by not saying hi to everyone. But the woman…she’s so far, and her singing continues to pull me along like a puppet on strings. How can I ignore this angel?

After the last girl smiles wide at me and thanks me for taking a picture with her, I start pushing some people out of my way, determined to get close to the stage. For the first time, I notice my throat going dry as I get closer.

It terrifies me and, at the same time, makes the inside of my chest grow warm, and my heart begins to pound heavily on my ribcage.

Finally, with a lot of force, I make it to the front of the stage, the beauty finishing up the final words of the song she’s been performing. She happens to look across the entire room as she smiles into the final notes.

The room bursts into applause, and the stranger takes a bow. I am about to gain her attention when the crowd rushes to the stage, jostling me around so quickly that the wind knocks me out. I’m not a small man by any means, but the crowd was so unexpected that I nearly fall over. It takes a moment to get myself together as the people around me continue screaming and shouting.

I look back up at the stage, where she stood, not even a moment ago. But she’s gone. I frantically search the room, looking for her glossy red hair, shining eyes, and perfect voice. But it’s no use. The honky-tonk no longer holds the angel.

She’s gone.