When I Need You

by Lorelei James

  “Calder is six. It’s a little early to be fitting him with shoulder pads, a helmet and instilling that aggressive attitude. Besides, he’s a dancer. That’s what he loves.”

  Jensen studied me and I braced myself for the “dancing is for pussies” response. So he surprised me when he said, “You ever bring him to the games with you?”

  “It’s not like I could keep an eye on him. We’re busy an hour before and after the game, not to mention we’re in constant movement during the three hours we’re on the field.”

  “Get someone to take him. Like Martin. Cheerleaders get guest passes for every game, right?”

  “Uh, no. Not even one.”

  “Seriously? That’s not fair.”

  I lifted a brow. “You really don’t want me to go off on a tangent about the unfairness of that, do you?”

  He held up his hands. “Nope. Let’s change the subject.”

  And he was scrutinizing me again. “What?”

  “Are you sure you’re not a gamer?”

  “I’ve never had time to play. Martin has promised to show Calder the ropes when he’s older so he isn’t video game illiterate.”

  “Lucky for Calder. Martin constantly kicks my ass. The only game he can’t beat me at is Madden.”

  “You weren’t bullshitting me about hanging out with Martin all the time.”

  “When I took over Axl’s place, I was in recovery mode from surgeries and had a shit ton of free time. Verily was gone a lot competing, so we ended up hanging out.”

  “Now it makes sense why he wasn’t calling me three times a day complaining of boredom.”

  “You never visited him here?”

  “He always had bongs sitting out, or his rolling station. I don’t get the appeal, but this is—was—Martin’s sanctuary. Asking him to hide all that . . . not cool. It was easier for him to come to our place.”

  “What did they do with all of their stuff?”

  “It’s in storage.” I didn’t tell Jensen that Martin had opted for the six-month plan with the option to renew for a year. Part of me wondered if he planned on coming back. “I just realized that I told you why I was at the Vikings corporate offices today, but you didn’t tell me why you were there. Training camp doesn’t start for a while.”

  He reset the professional distance between us. “They wanted a status update on my injury since I spent a week in Florida with the doctor’s team. Everything is still inconclusive and will continue to be until training camp.” He stood. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.”

  “It’s okay. I was just going over last-minute schedule updates.”

  “For what?”

  “Collegiate cheerleading tryouts are this weekend. I’m coordinating the stunt groups, which can be a challenge if we’re out of balance on the number of bases and side bases to flyers, not to mention rotating guys in for the coed squad. It’s two and a half days of cheer drama.”

  “That long?”

  “It’s super competitive and intense.” I launched into an explanation of the different squads and the level of experience the athletes needed to have for intercollegiate competition.

  He’d paused in the doorway during my spiel. “You bring Calder along?”

  “I’m too busy to watch him. My mom and dad pick him up from school Friday and take him for the weekend. I don’t see him until Sunday night, which sucks, but tryouts only happen once a year.”

  “Do your parents live in the Cities?”

  “Two and a half hours northwest in Fergus Falls. They have apple orchards, so Calder gets to ride on the tractor and run wild.” When he didn’t respond, I realized I’d been babbling instead of letting him leave. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Going on and on and boring you.”

  His eyes darkened and his gaze dipped to my mouth. “The last thing you are, Rowan Michaels, is boring.”

  When he loomed over me and I caught the scent of his skin—his cologne, or shaving cream, or even his laundry detergent, whatever it was I just wanted to find the source and breathe him in.

  What is wrong with you?

  I stepped back. “Thanks for the gift jackass.”

  That blue gaze turned sharp.

  Dammit. “I meant, thanks for the jackass gift.”

  “My pleasure. Now that we’re being neighborly, remember, if you need anything, a cup of sugar, or even eggs”—he grinned—“I’m right across the hall.”

  “Good night, Jensen.”

  “Sweet dreams, Rowan.”

  Five

  JENSEN

  Early Friday afternoon after Dante had tortured me and he was in a fine mood because of it, I said, “So the cheerleading team tryouts at U of M. You have access to that this weekend?”

  “You mean am I helping out? No. If you mean do I have access to the training center? The answer is yes. Why?”

  “I wanted to check it out. See Rowan Michaels in action, educate myself, given I was such a tool about who she is and what she does.”

  Dante leveled his death stare on me. “Really. That’s how you’re playing this, Rocket? Taking an ‘academic’”—the asshole even made air quotes—“interest in what Rowan’s job entails at the U of M?”

  “Given the fact that she cheered for me my freshman and sophomore year, I think I owe it to her to see why I hadn’t paid attention.” That sounded plausible. Hopefully he bought my ain’t-no-big-thing attitude, when in truth, Rowan interested me far more than any woman I’d met since before my injury last year.

  “You owe it to her,” Dante repeated. “That better not be Jensen-speak for wanting a piece of her, because I have a major problem with that.”

  For the first time I gauged him as competition. Good-looking guy with dark hair and olive skin that indicated his Italian ancestry. Dude was a total bro, built like a freight train with the smarts to back up his ambition. But he was a player, so it annoyed me that he thought he had the right to warn me off. “Something going on between you and Rowan?”

  He snorted. “I’ve known her since her senior year in college. She’s like my little sister so naturally I’m gonna warn off a guy like you.”

  A guy like me who’d lived like a freakin’ monk the past year. After I returned home from the hospital, several of my hookups vied for a chance to “help me out.” But they started to equate—confuse?—my need for a quick bout of sex with a long-term commitment, so I put a halt to all of it. No dating. No clubs. No team parties. While a small part of me missed the rush of locking eyes with a woman, knowing I could have her on her knees or on her back with just a sexy smile, the truth was random sexual encounters weren’t enough. In my lonely self-reflection, I realized I wanted more.

  “Got nothin’ to say to that, Rocket?”

  I shook off my melancholy. “Give me some credit. She violates all three of my rules.”

  He tried—and failed—to intimidate me with silence. Finally he sighed. “Fine. I’ll get you in. But all you’d have to do is give your name at the door and you’d be golden.”

  “Except I don’t want anyone to know I’m there.”

  Dante’s eyes widened. “Not cashing in on your celebrity? You are serious about the educational-pursuit angle. I thought The Rocket loved being mobbed.”

  I used to. Now I avoided it whenever possible. “Just get me in and I’ll blend.”

  He clapped me on the back. “Buddy, you’re six foot five, built like the pro football player you are and your ugly mug has been in the news since you were sixteen years old—you don’t know how to blend.”

  I flashed my teeth at him. “Watch me.”

  • • •

  An older sister with a love of theater had served me well. Not only did I rock Halloween costumes, I’d learned that a couple of adjustments could change my appearance—or at least other people’s perception. I left the dark blond scruff on my face, tucked my hair up in an old U of M ball cap and slipped on a pair of glasses with clear lenses that I ke
pt around to go incognito.

  I wore a stained pair of black sweatpants, the elastic bottoms pulled up below my knees, and a pair of white tube socks shoved down to the tops of my hiking boots. My teammate Devonte had left a size 6XXL quilted flannel shirt here a few weeks back. Defensive ends were massive so the shirt was oversized even for a guy my size. Shuffling with my shoulders hunched and my head down, I appeared a few inches shorter.

  When I squinted in the foggy bathroom mirror, I felt confident no one—not even my own mother—would recognize me in this getup.

  I climbed into my Hummer. Halfway to the campus MOM popped up on my digital screen. She’d keep calling if I didn’t answer, so I accepted the call. “What did I do wrong that warrants a phone call from my beautiful mother on a Friday afternoon?”

  “Why do you assume you are in error?”

  “Because I’ve been home a few days and haven’t seen you?” She’d ignored the flattery, which wasn’t a good sign.

  “I suppose I should be happy that you made time for your brothers.”

  “You and Dad are welcome to work out with us at five in the morning,” I offered.

  “When you are up with the hens, there is so very much of the day left to contact people, yah?”

  That had backfired on me. I didn’t even point out that she’d mixed up hens with roosters.

  “You need a personal assistant to organize things. Then when my youngest son doesn’t have time in his busy schedule for his mama, I can blame her and not feel like meddlesome botherer.”

  Once my mother got past slathering on the guilt, she was sweet, funny and thoughtful. “I’m sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “Help me with two things. First, attend the Lund family brunch on Sunday. Bring a date if you wish.”

  I deflected on the date. “I’ll be there.”

  “Second, you’ve considered my proposition for your Lund Cares Community Outreach project this year, yah?”

  “Your suggestion is not a good fit for me. I told you that.”

  “Since when is football not a good fit for you, Jensen Bernard Lund, tight end for the Minnesota Vikings?” she demanded.

  My hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Since I’m on the injured reserve list and if I damage myself in an activity that is not directly related to football practice or training with my coaches’ approval, I’m in violation of my contract.”

  “Oh pigwash. Tiny boys in peewee football can’t hurt big offensive player like you.”

  “You mean hogwash?”

  “Yah. Whatever. You stand there to clap and yell encouragement. Maybe you wipe a few noses, clean off dirt, patch up scrapes—all just standing on the offside.”

  “Snot, blood and mud is supposed to sell me on this idea, Mom? Sorry, but no.” I paused. “And offside is a penalty, not a place. You meant standing on the sideline.” Which she well knew.

  “See! You know all the important terms and rules. Naturally you are teacher.”

  I could not win with her. So I did what any desperate son does: I lied my ass off. “Helping with football camps, even through a charitable and respected organization like LCCO, is prohibited because it is in direct competition with the local and national athletic programs set up by the NFL. So I’ve done research on other options for my annual LCCO project. I’ll let you know as soon as I have a solid idea, okay?”

  “Do not delay or Priscilla will bring up that bachelor auction idea again since Ash hasn’t committed to his annual LCCO project either.”

  “Bachelor auction.” I snorted. “Wasn’t that popular in like 2000? Isn’t the idea of that laughable now?”

  “Yes. I think Priscilla is in midlife crisis. She keeps bringing up the auction because she wants to stare at young, beautiful, built men and pretend it’s for a good cause.”

  “Mom. That is way too much information.”

  She laughed. “With that . . . my work is done. Have fun with whatever you are doing that you do not wish to tell me about. Love you. See you Sunday.”

  • • •

  Since I’d spent four years on the U of M campus, finding the training facility wasn’t a problem. The football team hadn’t trained in this building, and that was just another reminder of how segregated we’d been from the other student athletes.

  The flannel shirt roasted me, but I had to keep it on. I shuffled up to the registration table and two college girls, one blonde, one brunette, stopped gossiping long enough to acknowledge me.

  The blonde wrinkled her nose at me. The brunette kept a bland expression when she said, “You need a pass to get in here.”

  “There should be a pass left for me by Dante DeLillo.”

  The brunette sighed and pawed through the D section. “Are you Richard Head?”

  Richard Head? Aka . . . Dick Head? Seriously? I’d expected something more creative. “That’s me.”

  She all but threw the lanyard. “That pass is only good for the bleachers section.”

  “But I can sit anywhere I want in the bleachers?”

  “Gee, do ya think?” the blonde retorted. “Just don’t talk too loud or bother anyone or we’ll ask you to leave.”

  “Okay.” To further annoy them, I said, “Are you both cheerleaders?”

  “Duh. Why else would we be here?”

  In my experience that snotty attitude was a prerequisite to becoming a pompom waver. I walked away but still heard them snicker behind my back. But then all sound faded. The room darkened. All I could see was her, as if she’d been pinpointed in a spotlight.

  Rowan moved with grace and style that set her apart from every other athlete on the mat. Smooth transitions with her body as she precisely executed arm motions and the smile on her beautiful face never faded. She’d pulled her red hair back into a stubby ponytail, and she wore maroon-colored yoga pants with a mustard-yellow athletic tank top, both pieces sporting the U of M logo.

  Holy shit did the woman have a hot body—toned, muscled and yet curved in all the right places.

  Clapping her hands, she stepped out, raising her arms above her head, mirroring her upper and lower body in a V shape. Then she did a hip-hop dance move, bringing her legs together for a moment before she threw herself back, executing a somersault in the air. Pivoting, she performed a cartwheel/back handspring combo, landing facing forward in the splits with her arms above her head, still smiling.

  Amazing.

  I started to applaud until I noticed no one else was clapping. Definitely didn’t need to draw attention to myself. Turning away, I scaled the bleacher seats, choosing to sit in the center. I scanned the area. There weren’t many people watching the tryouts—maybe thirty. But the sections where the competitors waited were completely full.

  I’d just settled in when the music started—a mash-up of the peppiest parts of various songs—and once again Rowan was demonstrating, but she had a partner.

  No. Way. Her partner was my cousin Dallas—who’d graduated from college last spring. In tandem they performed the same series of movements that Rowan had done solo.

  I attempted to keep an objective eye. Dallas was a damn good cheerleader. She just wasn’t as good as Rowan. Rowan had that extra . . . sparkle, for lack of a better description.

  I wondered if she was still cheering because she craved the spotlight.

  Maybe you should stop making assumptions. Isn’t trying to change your preconceived ideas the reason you’re here?

  It was. But watching Rowan Michaels sauntering around in skintight clothes, bending her incredible body this way and that .