by Kendall Ryan
I gulp down the enormous lump in my throat. The locker room? You mean the place Wes just walked into?
I rack my brain for any excuse not to go in there, but I’ve got nothing that Flores would buy. He sends me in there to give messages to the players at least once a week. As the coach’s daughter, I’m practically a sister to those guys, and half of them have underwear sponsorships anyway, so all of America has seen them almost naked. It’s never been a big deal.
Until now.
Now it feels like a very, very big deal.
“I’ve got it,” I manage to say through a forced smile.
I square my shoulders, preparing myself for whatever I’m about to walk into. Just get in there, be professional, and get out. Nothing you can’t handle. Maybe you won’t even run into “he who shall not be named.”
I push open the heavy steel door and wander through the short hallway to the locker-room door. The double doors mean that no one can accidentally steal a peek of a player indisposed, but they also mean you can’t see who’s coming around the corner.
I must have pushed a little too hard on the door because it swings all the way open, thwacking a nearby player. “Oops, sorry!”
And by a nearby player, I mean Weston Chase. And by Weston Chase, I mean Weston Chase wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts slung low on his trim hips. Just my luck.
I can’t stop my mouth from falling open a little. I thought he looked good up there in his jersey, but that was nothing compared to the Greek god standing in front of me.
My gaze wanders from his broad shoulders to his smooth, defined pecs and perfectly carved abs. It’s like all the air’s been sucked from the room, and I can’t even speak. Definitely can’t raise my head and look into his eyes. I don’t want to know what I’d find there. Amusement maybe? Curiosity about me, about the woman I’ve grown into? Or worse, indifference?
I swivel on the heels of my leather pumps, desperately looking for someone else, anyone else, I can talk to.
“What’s up, Jane?” It’s Alex, our best linebacker, one of my closest friends on the team.
Thank God.
“Hi, Alex.” I sigh, every molecule in my body dripping with relief. “Could you send Colin out? The press wants a quote from him about . . .” I swallow the rest of the sentence, clenching my hands into fists to keep them from shaking.
Alex looks around the locker room, scratching at the scruff on his cheek. “Wes, have you seen Colin?”
Really, Alex? Really? Give me a fricking break. I don’t dare stick around to catch Wes’s response. I’ve got to get out of here.
“Just find him and send him out ASAP,” I rattle off in my sternest assistant-manager voice.
Alex shoots me a concerned look, his eyebrows knitting together. “You okay, Jane?”
I don’t bother answering, too worried that I might tell the truth. Instead, I push on the locker-room door and strut out with whatever pride I have remaining.
One press conference down, an entire season to go.
Chapter Two
Weston
Holy hell, the years have been good to her.
That’s the first thought that flits through my brain.
The second is little Janie Royce isn’t so little anymore. She’s all woman now, even more stunning than the knockout girl I first fell for so long ago. Her clothes hug every generous curve of her petite frame. Her honey-colored hair looks as temptingly silky as I remember. I used to run my fingers through it every time I kissed her, and the sight makes me itch to feel it again.
She carries herself with a confidence that makes her five feet three inches seem much taller. She’s totally in her element here, not at all intimidated by the pack of huge, musclebound men that crowd the locker room. They clearly know she’s just as much their boss as her dad is. It’s obvious that she’s earned their respect, and something inside me is pleased by that knowledge.
I’m so busy gawking I can barely hear what she’s saying to Alex Ivan, the team’s linebacker. I busy myself collecting my shower stuff so she won’t notice me standing there staring at her like a moron, but I still can’t stop myself from sneaking glances.
She’s dressed in black skinny jeans that hug her ass in the most distracting and mouthwatering way, and her hands move as she talks. Smirking, I remember how animated she used to get when she was passionate about something, and wonder what it is that’s got her so riled up. It’s obviously not me. She all but shoved past me with barely a second glance—like I didn’t matter at all, like she wasn’t in love with me all those years ago. Her dismissal stung more than I expected it to.
All too soon, she finishes and marches out of the locker room. My gaze stays glued to the sway of her round hips until the door swings shut behind her.
Just like in high school . . . whenever she’s near, all I can see is her. But she clearly doesn’t feel the same way about me anymore. Other than quick glances at the press conference and when she crashed into me just now, she’s barely looked at me, let alone talked to me. She’s acting like I don’t exist. It’s the polar opposite of the fawning adoration most women usually offer me, even when they don’t know I’m a starting quarterback.
No, Jane is all business, wearing her job title like a mask. It’s almost enough to make me wonder if she’s forgotten who I am . . . what we used to be. But her eyes could have frozen a volcano solid. She remembers me, all right, and not fondly.
I’m not an idiot—I knew it might be a little awkward joining a team where the assistant manager is my high school sweetheart. We were each other’s first loves, first everything. We gave each other our virginity, and after that, she gave me her whole heart. I gladly took it, and our breakup wasn’t easy.
At nineteen, freshly recruited to a top state school on a football scholarship, I was way too dumb and immature to juggle a long-distance relationship along with the pressures of competing at a college level and not flunking my classes. The teenage romance we’d believed would last forever ended up falling apart.
But after ten frigging years, I didn’t expect such naked hostility. I didn’t think our history would still be sitting right there on the surface, raw and ugly . . . especially since Jane was the one who dumped me.
So, why is she still so pissed off? And what the hell should I do about it?
Even after I’ve showered, toweled off, and dressed, I’m no closer to an answer. It doesn’t help that her beauty is still spinning in my mind, or the thought that I’ll have to work closely with her for the foreseeable future.
“You almost ready to head home?” Colin asks.
“Huh?” I look up to find him standing next to me; I didn’t notice him walk up. “Oh, yeah. Just gotta put on my shoes. You’re already done with the reporter?”
“I’ve been done for twenty minutes, dude. Hurry up so we can get some dinner before my stomach eats itself.”
On our way through the exit hall, I spot Jane talking to an old man in a gray custodian uniform. Her professionalism has softened. She’s smiling, her blue eyes sparkling, just chatting away, and I feel a stab of jealousy that she pays more attention to the damn janitor than me.
Oh, come on, Wes, you’re being stupid.
She’s the assistant manager—maybe she’s discussing a work issue with him. Hell, even if she isn’t, she’s a grown-ass woman who can talk or not talk to anyone she wants. But it still stings, and suddenly I need to know just how far she’s going to take this cold-shoulder routine.
As Colin and I walk past, I offer a friendly, but not too friendly, “Good night.”
She blinks at me, her smile vanishing into a carefully neutral expression. She lifts her chin. “Weston,” she replies, her voice clipped and formal, before striding away.
My full name. When she’s always called me Wes.
Fuck . . . I don’t like this at all.
• • •
Colin drives us to his house. I sold my car in Philly and haven’t gotten a chance to buy a new
one yet; guess I need to rent one. All I brought to Illinois was a couple of duffel bags of clothes.
I take advantage of riding shotgun to find the number of the pizzeria he recommended earlier and order two extra-large pies with all the trimmings. When we arrive home, we plop down on the couch and crack open a couple of cold beers to drink while we wait for our food to be delivered.
“Thanks again for adding me to your lease. I was so glad not to have to fuck around with apartment hunting on top of everything else,” I say.
We’ve kept in touch ever since college, and as soon as Colin heard I was transferring, he offered me one of his spare bedrooms. Fully furnished, with very reasonable rent too. He’s a stand-up guy—genuine, hardworking, down to earth, mellow. He isn’t even mad that I got a starting spot when he’s been a backup kicker for years.
“No problem, bro. I’m stoked to be roommates with you again. It’ll be just like old times.” Colin grins. “Except now I won’t have to smell your godawful laundry. Or kick you out every time I want to get laid.”
I chuckle. “You’re remembering wrong. I was the one kicking you out all the time.”
He punches me lightly on the shoulder. “Ah, fuck you, man. The point is, sharing a dorm room is one of the things I definitely don’t miss about college.”
“Got that right.”
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door. We collect our pizzas and set them on the coffee table. For a while, we focus on inhaling the food while it’s still hot, washing down every few bites with swigs of beer. When only a couple of slices remain, Colin leans back with a satisfied burp.
“Damn, that hit the spot. I’m always starving after training.” He sighs, then shoots me a sidelong glance. “So, back in Philly . . .”
“What about it?” I ask suspiciously. I don’t like his hesitation.
“A few months ago, you mentioned you and Trista were engaged. But now you’re living out here. So, what’s going on with that?”
Dammit. I might as well get this shitty story over with as fast as I can. “The short version is Trista cheated on me, and I broke it off.”
Colin winces. “Fuck, dude, that’s terrible. Sorry I asked.”
“Nah, I figured it would come up sooner or later.”
I’m actually surprised he hasn’t heard the rumors before now. It wasn’t exactly a secret. That shit spread through the league pretty fast considering she cheated with a player from my team.
We drink in silence for a minute or two. But Colin is restless, clearly itching to say something.
Finally, I say, “Spit it out.”
“So, who was she cheating with?” he blurts.
I grimace. “Another Ranger.”
Colin’s eyes go wide. “One of your own teammates fucked your fiancée? Holy shit. Backstabbing assholes, both of ’em.”
“I think they’d been fucking since before we were engaged, but yeah. That’s why I wanted to get the hell out of Philly. No way could I keep working with that guy.”
He shakes his head in dismay. “I don’t blame you . . . damn. I would’ve pounded him into paste as soon as we got out on the field together, and I’d end up suspended from a game.” He sits forward. “How did you catch them? And what did she say? Did you confront the other g—”
“Can we just drop it?” I snap.
Colin blinks at the sudden interruption, then leans back on the couch, looking sheepish. “Sorry. Got carried away.”
“It’s cool. I just . . . I’m pretty done with thinking about that whole thing.”
“I don’t blame you.” Colin takes another sip of his beer, searching for another topic. “So . . . how was it seeing Jane again?”
This topic isn’t much of an improvement. At least I don’t have to tell any more painful stories, since Colin had a front-row seat to our breakup in my freshman year.
“Like a kick in the balls.” I sigh. “From the way she’s acting, I think she still hates me. I mean, it’s been ten years. If I can get over it, why can’t she? What the fuck else does she want me to do here?”
He gives me a wry twist of his lips. “That sucks . . . but try not to worry too much about it. For Jane, the job always comes first. No matter how she feels about someone, she never treats them different from anybody else. So just act normal, and she’ll do the same.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Yeah, that sounds like Jane.” Tough but fair, level-headed, disciplined, dedicated to her work. Those qualities were part of what drew me to her in the first place. It’s funny to see how much she’s turned out like her dad.
Colin shrugs. “I wish I had something more useful to say, but getting on with your life is the best I can do.”
“It’s not bad advice.” I pick at the label on my bottle. “Just out of curiosity, is Jane, uh, seeing anyone?”
He scratches his chin in thought. “Not that I know of. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen her with a guy . . . except for Alex, but I’m pretty sure they’re just friends. They go out for nachos, stuff like that.”
That’s a far cry from how I acted when we broke up. I went on a bender all throughout college, girl after girl after girl. It took me six years to settle on Trista, and another three years to propose to her, thinking that I’d finally found my forever. Look how that brilliant fucking idea turned out.
Out of nowhere, Colin asks, “Are you really over her?”
I give him a bewildered look. “Who, Trista? Of course. She—”
“No, stupid. I meant Jane.”
I almost have to laugh. The truth is you don’t ever really get over a woman like Jane. For me, she’ll always be The One Who Got Away.
But what I say is, “Absolutely. I came here to win, nothing else. I intend to play the best football of my goddamn life, and if I’m gonna do that, I have to put all my focus on the game. I don’t have time for any distractions.”
No matter how gorgeous that distraction might be. This team and this city are supposed to be my fresh start, and I’ll be damned if I blow this second chance.
“Fuck yeah.” Colin laughs, slapping me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Rack up some nice big Hawk victories for us.”
“You can bet on it.” I stand up. “Speaking of which, I should probably start getting ready for bed.”
He squints at the clock in confusion. “Already? It’s not even nine yet. I was just about to ask if you wanted to fire up the Xbox.”
“Didn’t I just tell you I was going to eat, sleep, and breathe football from now on?” I give him a raised-eyebrow smirk. “And I’m not the only one who has to be on the practice field at the crack of dawn, y’know.”
Colin groans. “Don’t remind me. Fine, I’ll kick your ass some other time.”
I snort at him and head off to brush my teeth, half of me hoping I won’t see Jane tomorrow . . . and the other half unable to stop wondering if she’ll be watching me train.
Chapter Three
Jane
If someone had told me a week ago that it was going to be difficult for me to hate Weston Chase, I would have laughed that person out of my office. I have a well-stocked arsenal of material that gave me every reason to believe that I would have no trouble giving this asshole the cold shoulder for the entire season. And I was ready to do just that.
The problem is, my ten-year-old evidence of Wes’s douchebaggery just isn’t holding up to the player I see at practice every day.
He’s always the first one at the training facility in the morning, sometimes even before my dad, and he’s consistently the last to hit the showers. And it’s not just a sometimes thing. It’s an every-single-practice thing. He’s made an admirable effort—I’ll give him that.
“Chase!” Dad barks. “You better not be throwing like that at the Philly game! We’re not ending on that note. Run it again!”
We’re almost at the end of the longest practice we’ve had all week, and for a lot of the players, it shows. One by one, they’re getting burnt out, dr
opping more and more F-bombs each time Dad calls for another run of a play.
Except for Wes.
Obviously, he’s getting pretty worn out. His throw isn’t looking as good as it did first thing this morning when practice started. But mentally, he’s still 100 percent in it. I’ve never seen a player this driven, this passionate about improving.
The receivers bitch to the coaches and toss a little friendly trash talk Wes’s way for his lousy throw, but Wes doesn’t say a word. He just adjusts his helmet and runs back to the line, prepping to restart the play.
The high-pitched screech of Dad’s whistle pierces the air, and this time, Wes throws a flawless spiral right into the hands of a wide receiver. Perfection.
And perfection is exactly what the coaches are expecting with our first away game coming up. Two days from now, we’ll be landing in Philly to play the Rangers, a game that every sports blogger in the country has been ramping up since we signed Wes last week.
The rivalry between the Hawks and the Rangers is already one of the most famous in the league, but with rumors flying all over social media as to why Wes left the Rangers at the last minute, the buildup to his first game against his old team has been insane.
I’ve seen how that kind of media coverage has affected players before, making them quick to snap at the coach or just completely shut down, refusing to take direction or run drills. But not Wes. Somehow, he works harder and harder at every practice.
“Attaboy, Chase! All right, guys, huddle up, huddle up!”
As the players and assistant coaches circle to wrap up practice, I desperately fight my instincts to check out Wes’s butt in those skintight football pants. Did I leave my self-control at home this morning? Or is it that sitting in the bleachers and watching Wes play puts me right back in girlfriend mode?
Either way, I’d better slip out of here before the players do to avoid any possible run-ins. I stuff the playbook and my water bottle into my laptop bag and sling it over my shoulder, standing up and eyeing the exit just as the players start to disperse.
