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?