Off-Limits Quarterback

July in the deep south was less of a season and more of a suffocating blanket.

Inside Field International Airport, the air conditioning fought a losing battle against the midsummer heat. Joanne Vance wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, wrestling with a luggage cart that had a wheel stubbornly locked in place. Two oversized suitcases wobbled precariously on the rack, their tags swaying with her name printed in bold letters: Joanne Vance.

She pulled her long dark hair up, twisting it into a light, casual top-knot to beat the humidity. Dressed in a white tank top, denim cutoffs, and a red flannel shirt tied loosely around her tiny waist, her fair skin and delicate features drew more than a few lingering looks from passing travelers.

Catching her reflection in the tinted glass of a nearby coffee shop, Joanne quickly looked away and pulled out her phone, pretending to be busy.

She was trying desperately to forget the embarrassing flight. To fight off jet lag, she had spent the long hours from London watching lighthearted teen romance movies. Just as she had been woken up by the steamy sounds of the lead characters making out in a car, she realized her seatmate—a burly, middle-aged man—had been staring intently at her screen with a wide, satisfied grin, even asking if he could share her headphones. She had shut him down instantly; the sultry moans in her ears were certainly not something she was willing to share.

Shaking off the memory, Joanne opened the text message her father, Marcus Vance, had sent two days ago:

JoJo, my truck route ran long today and Susan has a show to shoot. Arthur will pick you up. Their practice usually wraps up around four. Give him a call if anything comes up, but he doesn't carry his phone during practice. Here’s the number for Hayden, the team’s assistant manager.

Joanne’s parents had divorced back in elementary school. Her mother, Gwen Miller, had taken her to live in the UK, while her father stayed in the US as a truck driver, eventually remarrying and building a new family. Her name, Joanne Vance, was a blend of both her parents' surnames—a silent wish for peace and safety.

The guy coming to pick her up today was Arthur Feller, her stepbrother in name only.

Before today, Joanne had only visited the States twice.

The first time was three years ago after graduating middle school. During a three-week summer camp, she had met Susan—then just her father’s girlfriend—and her son, Arthur. During those three weeks, she only saw Arthur twice, but his attitude had been crystal clear: he completely ignored her. To him, regardless of whether their parents married, they were nothing more than strangers.

The second time was last summer, after Marcus and Susan had officially married. Bound together for three weeks as nominal siblings, Joanne had initially tried to be nice. She understood his resentment; his parents' divorce was fresh, his family suddenly shattered, whereas she had grown up accustomed to her father’s absence.

But her goodwill yielded zero returns. Arthur refused to treat her like a sister. After a week of his icy shoulder, Joanne stopped caring. She called him an arrogant jerk to his face and deliberately poked at his temper whenever their parents weren't looking.

So who could have guessed that he would be the one assigned to pick her up today?

Her flight had landed early, and customs had been a breeze. It was only three in the afternoon—prime practice time for the football team.

Joanne dialed the number her father had provided.

"Hey, Hayden here. Who’s this?" a young male voice answered.

"Hi, Hayden. I’m Joanne—Arthur’s... friend. Is practice over yet? I need to reach him."

"Oh, not yet," Hayden replied, unfazed by another girl calling his phone for Arthur. "The coach set up a scrimmage with another team today, so we're running late. Are you in a rush? I can pass him a message."

"No, it's nothing urgent. I’ll try him later. Thanks, Hayden."

Hanging up, Joanne pushed her cart toward the airport exit, intending to catch a cab straight to her father's house. It was only an hour's drive; she could just call Arthur once she arrived.

Then the cold reality hit her: she didn't have a house key.

Her father had assumed Arthur picking her up would be a great way for them to bond before they both attended DM University in the fall. Marcus thought having a star quarterback for a stepbrother would make Joanne’s college life smooth sailing under his protective shadow. But her father hadn't thought far enough—if Arthur didn't come to get her, she couldn't even get through the front door.

Resigned, Joanne loaded her heavy luggage into a taxi and gave the driver the destination: DM University Stadium.

By four o'clock, the sun was a blinding, merciless force. The open-air stadium felt like a giant heat furnace, radiating intense waves of warmth.

"Man, they're taking this scrimmage so seriously. Arthur’s work ethic is insane!"

Overhearing the name, Joanne looked up. A surprisingly large crowd of fans had gathered along the sidelines just to watch practice. She dragged her suitcases along the concrete walkway, weaving through the packed crowd for ten minutes before finding a secluded, empty corner near the railing. There was no shade, and the faint breeze offered no relief.

Squinting through the glare, Joanne searched the field. Two teams in purple and dark yellow jerseys were locked in battle, their faces hidden behind heavy helmets. As she scanned the field, her eyes were suddenly snagged by a player wearing a purple #7 jersey.

He was built impeccably. Surrounded by massive, heavy-set linemen, his physique was lean, sculpted, and dangerously athletic. He moved across the turf with the fluid grace of a hunting panther—a predator at the top of his game.

Joanne felt her face flush, fanning herself with her hand. It was definitely the weather—it had to be the heat. It certainly wasn't because she had just noticed the thick, flexed lines of his thighs under his football pants, or because her mind had involuntarily traced those curves upward.

He looked brimming with raw power, as if no amount of weight could ever make him stumble.

Focus, Joanne scolded herself, pressing her chin against her arm on the railing. She didn't understand football, and since she couldn't spot Arthur, she needed a distraction.

Her gaze remained locked on #7. He was too far for her to see his full face, and the shadow of his helmet cast a mysterious veil over his features, revealing only his sharp, handsome jawline. His lips were curved in a confident, devil-may-care smirk.

He looked like the classic bad boy of every American college movie she’d watched on the plane—the golden boy the guys followed, the playboy who changed dates every week...

Wait, no. He stood back, orchestrating the play rather than charging blindly forward. He might not be the loudest guy on the field, but he was definitely the kind of bad boy at a party who made every girl’s heart race. The kind who had everyone orbiting around him, while his intense, heavy gaze stayed fixed entirely on you... dragging you upstairs into a dark room to kiss you breathlessly, asking why you were running from him...

Stop!

Joanne slammed her eyes shut. She wasn't a daydreaming teenager. Her only mistake was watching those cliché romance movies on repeat during the flight.

"I dreamed about Arthur last night."

The female voice nearby snapped Joanne out of her thoughts. Two white girls her age had squeezed into the quiet corner beside her, late to the practice.

"Oh yeah? Spill. What did you do to him in your dream?"

"I don't remember the beginning," the girl in the light blue tank top shook her head, groaning. "But right when I was about to kiss him, my alarm went off! Ugh! I was so mad. Just one more second! But I woke up, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fall back asleep."

"No wonder you dragged me here to see Arthur today. You’re just trying to get a better look for round two tonight."

"Don't judge me. The second I mentioned Arthur’s name, you agreed to come too. Half the school wants a piece of him."

Hearing girls discuss her acquaintance as the star of their erotic dreams felt bizarrely awkward. Joanne muted her brain's internal translator, resting her chin back on her arm, staring blankly at the game.

"What a long pass!"

"Did you see Neil catch that? So cool!"

A brilliant pass triggered a roar of cheers from the crowd.

Was it really that impressive? Joanne thought, recalling that the ball had come straight from the #7 player.

She watched as the mysterious #7 gathered the team for a huddle. As he turned his back to her corner of the stands, Joanne finally caught the bold white lettering printed across his purple jersey: FELLER.

What?!

The mysterious veil was violently ripped away. The guy whose physique alone had held her captive for the last twenty minutes was her 'brother'—Arthur Feller.

Wait... isn't #7 standing way in the back? How could he be the team's most important quarterback?

Joanne had ruled out the possibility of him being Arthur from the very beginning! Even with her limited knowledge of the sport, she knew the quarterback was the core of the offense. Why would the most important player hide behind everyone else like a coward, protected by the rest?

Unless... he's the core precisely because he's the brain of the attack, making him the primary target for the opposing defense.

That was why the entire team functioned as an impenetrable wall, throwing their massive bodies in front of him to guard their most valuable asset.

"Come on, Arthur! You're the best!"

"Lightning, Go!"

The sun burned hot, and the air was still and dry. Standing at the edge of the university stadium, Joanne took a deep, shaky breath.

It hit her all at once. Since this was going to be her university for the next four years, Arthur wasn't just a guy she knew.

He was her quarterback.

This wasn't a teen drama playing on a tiny airplane screen. This was reality. And the most popular guy on campus was her... brother.

The play unfolded right before Joanne’s eyes in a blur of terrifying violence.

Executing a flawless play-action fake to the running back, Dustin, Arthur drew the entire opposing defense toward the right sideline. Before anyone realized the ball was still tucked firmly against his hip, Arthur sprinted left, cutting through the open turf with terrifying velocity.

He dived straight into the end zone, sliding hard into the dirt directly in front of where Joanne was standing.

Up close, without the distance of the high bleachers, Joanne felt her breath catch. His purple jersey was smeared with turf stains and mud. Beneath the dark visor of his helmet, his breathing was heavy, his chest heaving under the pads. He didn't look like a high school boy anymore. He looked like an unstoppable, adrenaline-fueled beast.

He’s terrifying, Joanne thought, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. She took a instinctive step back, suddenly terrified of getting too close to hi