Tackled

Chapter One

Arabella

There's something intoxicating about the quiet.
Not silence—no, that's different. Silence is cold and hollow. But quiet... quiet has a pulse. It hums beneath the surface, soft and steady, like the low thrum of a heartbeat. That's why I'm here, tucked into the corner of this off-campus café, clinging to the illusion that I can escape the noise of my own life—even just for a little while.

The clink of spoons. The whisper of steam. The occasional cough. It's all so... gentle. Predictable. Safe.

I like it here. Maybe a little too much.

I wrap my hands around the warmth of my coffee cup, letting the heat ground me, letting the scent of espresso swirl around me like a cocoon. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I'm not me. Not the girl with the infamous last name. Not the girl who trusted the wrong boy. Not the girl who loved football once—deeply, recklessly—and had it shattered in the most personal way.

My name is Arabella James. And I'm the daughter of Jackson James—former star quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys. The legend. The icon. The myth.

Which makes me... what? His legacy? His shadow?

Or maybe just his mistake.

No one at this university knows who I am. Not really. They don't connect the dots. And thank God for that. Because after everything with him, anonymity is the only thing I have left.

Tanner Knox. Quarterback. Charmer. Strategist. Liar.

My ex.

He used me. He used my name. My father. My family. And I let him. I believed him—his sweet words, his empty promises, his charming little smirks. He said he wanted me, but what he really wanted... was the jersey. The spotlight. The legacy.

He wanted to be the Cowboys' next quarterback.

But he wasn't good enough.

Second round draft. To the Eagles, of all places. Not even close to the legacy he chased.

The first overall pick? Grayson Creed.

The name alone sounds like a threat. Like thunder before a storm.

I've never met him. Not really. But I've seen the headlines. The commercials. The photos. The narrowed eyes. The signature scowl. The barely restrained fury beneath every stare.

And my father—of course—adores him.

"He's got the cold for it," my dad said once, sipping his bourbon like he was giving away prophecy. "The league doesn't want nice boys. It wants killers. Creed's a killer."

Whatever that means.

I try not to think about any of it, especially now. Especially sitting here in this café, hiding from the football world like a coward. But I had to get out of that house. I live in the university's girlfriend house—yes, that's a thing—where all the football players' girlfriends hang their jerseys and their egos. My roommates are all dating players. The house smells like aftershave and testosterone, and last night was game night. Which means the team practically moved in.

So here I am. Recharging. Pretending. Breathing.

My phone buzzes against the table. FaceTime.

Jules.

I swipe to answer, and there she is—my stepmother in all her warm, soft glory. Behind her, my little sister is trying to balance a cereal bowl on her head while my eight-year-old brother screams "Touchdown!" with a foam finger twice his size.

"Arabella!" Jules beams. "Still planning to come this weekend? It's BBQ night."

My throat tightens. "I am."