Chapter 1

Growing up, I was a huge sports fan. Baseball, basketball, football—it didn’t matter. I loved the energy, the competition. I still do. The problem is my wife, Sarah. She finds sports boring, a “waste of time,” and she makes sure my time is never wasted on them. I’m lucky if I catch a few games a year.

It wasn’t just sports. I was never a party animal, but I enjoyed grabbing a few beers with friends. Sarah doesn’t drink, which, I quickly learned, meant I don’t drink. I’ve made these sacrifices for her because I love her. But it’s frustrating, asking year after year if we can just watch one football game or go to one sports bar, only to be shot down every single time.

I look at her, and I understand why I put up with it. Sarah is stunning. She’s 5’5”, thin but with dangerous curves. She has long, straight dark hair that frames a face with dark, almond-shaped eyes and full, pouty lips that always seem to be set in a permanent little frown. She has large, heavy breasts and a firm, high bubble butt. She’s gained a little weight since college, but it’s all settled in the right places, making her look even sexier, more womanly.

I, on the other hand, have let myself go. I’m tall, six foot, but I’m pushing 250 pounds, most of it a soft belly that hangs over my belt. I’m still handsome, I guess, but I’m not the kind of guy anyone looks at twice. Especially not when I’m standing next to her.

That’s why I was floored when she announced she was going to a football tailgate. We live in my old college town, and I’ve dreamed of taking her to a game. But this invitation wasn’t from me. It was from “Chad,” an old friend from high school. His team was in town, and he’d invited her.

I was furious. She’d go with him? But I swallowed the anger, focusing on the upside: I was finally going to a tailgate. I could almost taste the beer and smell the barbecue.

As we were getting ready, I made the mistake of asking if she planned on drinking. She immediately got defensive.

“Of course not, Mark. You know I don’t drink. It’s just seeing an old friend.” She then gave me a pointed look. “And since I’m not, you won’t be either. One of us has to be responsible.”

The moment we stepped out of the car, the energy hit us. The air was thick with smoke from hundreds of grills, the sound of music blasting, and the general roar of thousands of people. It was exactly as I remembered, and I felt a jolt of excitement. Sarah, however, looked overwhelmed ... until she spotted him.

“Chad!” she shrieked, her voice hitting a pitch I hadn’t heard in years.

She took off at a near run, weaving through people. Chad, a tall, broad-shouldered guy who looked like he’d never left his fraternity, opened his arms with a grin. She launched herself into them, wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug that went way past “old friends.” It was a full-body embrace, and it lasted. And lasted.

I shuffled over, feeling like a spare part.

“Hey, I’m Mark,” I said, holding out a hand when she finally detached.

“Right on, man,” Chad said, giving my hand a quick, crushing grip before his attention snapped right back to Sarah.

They were immediately lost in their own world, laughing about old times. I was an accessory, the tag-along husband. Fine. I gave them space to “catch up,” and my eyes landed on a beautiful sight: a group of guys huddled around a portable TV watching the early game. I drifted over, and as the commentator’s voice filled my ears, I finally relaxed. This was my heaven.

I was absorbed for maybe an hour, nursing a single, precious beer, when a high-pitched giggle cut through the noise. It was Sarah’s laugh, but not. It was the laugh she used with bartenders when she wanted a free drink in college, a laugh I hadn’t heard since we’d gotten serious.

I looked over. She wasn’t just with Chad, she was on him. His arm was draped possessively around her waist, his hand resting on the small of her back. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, and she was looking up at him, twirling a strand of her hair. This wasn’t my wife, the one who sighed when I tried to hold her hand on the couch. This was a different person.

As I watched, Chad’s hand dipped lower, a slow, casual slide down over the curve of her ass. He gave her a little squeeze before moving his hand back up. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t seem to notice. Or she didn’t care.

They stopped at a cooler surrounded by Chad’s friends. One of them held up a plastic bottle of vodka and a sleeve of plastic shot glasses.

“C’mon, Sarah! You’re with us now!”

I felt a knot in my stomach. Oh, no. She’s not going to ... Sarah giggled again, held out her hand, and took the shot glass.

“Well, when in Rome!” she shouted, and tossed it back.

They all cheered. My god, I thought. She’s taking shots. The most she ever drinks is half a glass of wine at weddings, and she complains about the taste. She’s a total lightweight. This is going to end badly. I felt a familiar wave of dread about having to take care of her, but it was mixed with something else ... a strange, detached curiosity.

They finally made their way over to me, Sarah stumbling slightly. Chad was holding her up. The smell of cheap vodka hit me before they were even in arm’s reach.

“Having fun?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

Chad just smirked. “Oh yeah. Sarah’s great. She was just telling me how she hasn’t cut loose like this in years.”

Sarah giggled, then her eyes focused on the beer bottle in my hand. Her entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The fun, flirty girl was gone, and my wife was back. As she squared up to confront me, my eyes dropped. The top button of her denim shorts were undone, and the zipper was pulled down about an inch, just enough to show the white fabric of her panties underneath.

My gaze snapped from her unzipped fly to Chad’s face. He was watching me, a slow, cocky smirk playing on his lips.

“Mark! What are you doing? I can’t believe you’re drinking!”