by Kendall Ryan
“You look wrecked.”
I glance up to see Jane smirking, playful and maybe even affectionate.
“Thanks.” I chuckle. “I do my best.”
“You always do.” She sits down next to me.
“You sure you want to get that close?” I’m sure I stink. Whereas she smells amazing, as always. Like apple blossoms and crisp autumn wind and something uniquely Jane.
“I can handle a little eau de football. I’m used to it.” She deliberately scoots closer until our thighs touch, and I can feel her warmth like sunshine. Then she lowers her voice so the other players can’t hear. “You want to come over and do something on Friday night?”
Does she mean do something or do something? Either way, my answer’s the same.
“Yeah, for sure. What’d you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just hanging out. We can decide when you get there.” She fiddles with a loose thread on the hem of her blouse. “Maybe make dinner first?”
“As in, cook together?” That mental picture is so domestic . . . and appealing. “I’d be up for that. Although, I have to warn you. I’m totally useless in the kitchen.”
“Don’t worry, I am too. We’ll figure it out if we put our heads together.” She stands up. “Okay, I see Dad coming, which I think means it’s time for both of us to get back to work.”
I watch her walk away until she disappears inside the training facility.
Coach Royce approaches, and instead of sending us back out on the field, he rests his foot on the bench near me. Without preamble, he asks in an undertone, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, son?”
My heart misses a beat. I have absolutely no fucking idea what I’m doing, but I reply, “It’s under control.”
Coach studies me, his eyes as hard and sharp as nails, and I resist the urge to drop my gaze. Finally, he says, “I hope so. Because what happened last time . . . I’m not watching her go through that again, so either get out now or stay forever.”
He straightens up with a grunt and raises his voice to bark, “Break’s over! Get into formation for that new play I showed you at the morning meeting. We’re gonna run it until we get it perfect.”
I trudge back out onto the field, my stomach and heart and mind still knotted up at Coach’s warning, threat, guilt trip, whatever it was.
Just what did he mean by that? Of course I know Jane and I have a history. Of course I don’t want to hurt her again. I’m not some stupid asshole . . .
And yet here I am, fucking her anyway.
Someone yells, “What the hell are you doing, Chase?”
I’m right there with ya, buddy.
Then I realize what’s actually going on—I let what should have been an easy catch sail right by me and bounce off the turf.
“Sorry!” I call, but I can’t bring myself to truly care.
God, what was I thinking? She’s my ex and my coach’s daughter, and she was almost the teenage mother of my child. Holy shit, what’s wrong with me? Now I think we can just be friends with benefits and no one’s going to get hurt? Maybe I have been hit in the head too many times.
Everyone grumbles as we get back into position to run the play again. But I’m still too tangled up in my foul, mixed-up temper, and I barely do any better this time . . . or the next time, or the one after that. It’s over an hour before Coach finally tells us to hit the showers—more because it’s getting dark soon than because we’ve improved enough to satisfy him, I suspect.
The atmosphere in the locker room is more than a little deflated and grouchy. I’ve just finished toweling off and getting dressed when Alex taps me on the shoulder.
“Hey, Chase. Mind telling me what the fuck was going on out there?”
I repress a growl. “Yeah, actually, I do mind.”
“Was that shit show supposed to be football? I was on the other side of the field, and I could still see y—”
“Dude. I’m seriously not in the mood right now,” I grumble.
“What, like you’ve got more important things to worry about?” Alex pokes me in the chest. “You botched everything today, and it’s because you’re careless. Are you going to be that careless with her?”
My head whips up and I stare at him, my jaw dropped. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“I know something’s going on between you and Jane—I’m not blind. The hell is the matter with you?” He shoves his face into mine. “You’ve already made her cry too many times. Do it again and your ass is done.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times, but nothing comes out. Nothing works. Instead, I slam my locker and storm off.
Careless. Not good enough. As pissed off as I am, I can’t shake Alex’s words, and it makes me want to punch myself instead of him.
Maybe everyone is right. Maybe I’m not up to the task of being with Jane. Dating a professional football player is a hard road to walk. I’ve seen so many relationships broken up by the game’s relentless demands of time, energy, travel, focus . . . not just mine and Trista’s, but also those of countless other players and their girlfriends.
Jane already got hurt by that life ten years ago. What kind of man would I be if I dragged her back into it?
I don’t want to face it . . . but deep down, I know what I have to do.
Chapter Fifteen
Jane
When the Hawks’ newest quarterback happened to be the longest-standing person on my shit list, I knew I was in for a long parade of the unexpected: unexpected run-ins, unexpected rumors circulating, unexpected crying fits in my office. I could have bet money on all of it.
But never in a million years did I think I would be picturing myself as Weston Chase’s girlfriend. It’s one thing to expect the unexpected. But falling for Wes isn’t just unexpected; it’s out of the question. And yet that’s exactly what I’m doing.
No, we haven’t had the define-the-relationship talk. But based on the last few nights we’ve spent together, it seems like Wes and I are in the same boat, that boat sailing steadily toward commitment. Nothing about us feels casual, that’s for sure.
Besides, if Wes were looking for something casual, there are a hundred and one fangirls drooling over him at every turn who would be happy to crawl into bed with him. Yet I’m the one who has been granted the privilege of waking up to that brilliant smile and sleepy dark blue eyes the past few days. So if he’s not interested in anyone else, and I’ve officially cast him as the only leading man in all of my fantasies, why not call it what it is?
As I sit on my couch, sipping my coffee and watching the morning sun climb in the sky outside my apartment, I picture him here with me. I imagine him frying eggs in the kitchen, his cheeks still flushed from an early morning workout, humming along to a hip-hop song on the radio while I watch him quietly with a cup of coffee. And I know that this is what I want. He is what I want.
There’s a reason why, after a full decade, I never quite got over Wes, never quite shook the thought of us being together. It was easier to hate him than to address the heartbreak. But now, as we teeter on the edge of being an official couple again, I’m somehow ready to dive in headfirst.
It’s insane.
I swallow a big gulp of coffee, the caffeine sending my daydream of playing house with Wes fizzling away, much to my dismay.
But maybe it doesn’t have to be a daydream. Maybe we will make it a reality. A romantic night in with an amazing home-cooked meal sounds like just what the doctor ordered. I’m more of a takeout girl since I know about as much about cooking as most girls know about football, but if I could whip up one of Wes’s favorite dishes, he’d definitely be impressed. I’ve got a kitchen full of untouched ingredients and a full day with no plans. Sounds like the perfect recipe for a romantic evening.
I rest my half-empty mug on a coaster and reach for my cell phone, shooting Wes a quick text to ask if he’s free tonight before opening up my contacts. I haven’t cleared out my phone in ages; I’m almost positive I sti
ll have Mrs. Chase’s phone number in here somewhere. We always got along back in the day, so hopefully it wouldn’t be too out of line for me to give her a call.
There she is, Shirley Chase, listed with both a mobile and a landline. I push my thumb against the mobile number, and it hardly rings once before a bubbly voice picks up the line.
“Well, who would’ve guessed it, if it isn’t little Miss Jane Royce. Boy, am I glad to hear from you.”
Her high-pitched voice is just as sweet as I remember it. She was always so overly enthusiastic, the embodiment of the “Midwest nice” stereotype.
“Hi, Mrs. Chase, it’s great to talk to you too. How have you been?”
“Just fine, sweetheart, and I’ve gotta tell you, I am so proud of you. Big important job as assistant manager to the team.”
“Thank you.” I chuckle nervously. Her son is the starting quarterback for one of this country’s best teams, but she’s sweet to compliment my role on the team. “I’m actually calling for a bit of a favor. I’m on a mission to find out Wes’s favorite food.”
There’s an exaggerated gasp on the other end of the line, followed by a satisfied chuckle. “I knew you two were seeing each other again. Well, I just think that’s the sweetest.”
My mouth spreads into a tight smile in reaction to her use of the phrase “seeing each other.” It’s so old fashioned. I’ve done a whole lot more than just see Wes these past few days, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Grabbing a pen and an old takeout napkin, I jot down the recipe Mrs. Chase relays to me for Wes’s favorite: chicken parmesan. She reminds me multiple times to at least triple the recipe for Wes, muttering that “the boy could eat the whole Christmas ham before you were done saying grace, I swear.”
I thank Mrs. Chase profusely for the recipe, which she insists is a simple one. Thank goodness.
We say our good-byes, and when I press the screen to hang up, a text from Wes pops up.
No plans tonight. You got something in mind? I’d love to see you.
Although I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, just reading the word “love” from him makes my heart threaten to thump out of my chest.
Slow down, Jane. It’s just a text, not a love letter.
But that doesn’t stop my fingers from jittering a bit as my thumbs rush to respond.
My place at 5? I’m cooking up something special for us.
I grab my mug and finish the rest of my coffee without taking my eyes off the screen, awaiting his reply. Within moments, I’ve got a text back.
Sounds perfect. See you then, beautiful.
There’s that thumping in my chest again. Something about the big, strong Weston Chase being soft and sweet has always made me feel all gooey inside.
Once I’ve hooked my phone up to my speaker, I put on my best hip-hop playlist and pile my hair into a messy bun. Step one is getting this apartment date-night ready. Everything is already fairly clean and organized, but tonight, I’m not going for sub-par. I’m going for spectacular.
After vacuuming every square inch of the apartment and dusting every shelf into submission, I venture into the back of my hall closet to see what I have on hand to spruce up our dining experience with a little ambience. There’s got to be something in here that’s a bit fancier than the current stack of unread mail decorating my kitchen table.
Out of an old cardboard box, I scrounge up a red linen tablecloth and some gold candlesticks from when I hosted Thanksgiving for my parents and me a few years back. Those will work nicely.
I spend all morning making everything just right before running to the grocery store for the few ingredients I’m missing for the chicken parm. While I’m there, I buy a bouquet of white roses to use as the centerpiece, just like the ones from my senior-year prom corsage. I wonder if Wes will remember that they’re my favorite. Maybe a few delicate touches of our past won’t hurt.
It’s a long afternoon of struggling through this recipe, and by the time I slide the chicken parm into the oven, it’s already half-past four o’clock. Jeez, if Mrs. Chase said this recipe was simple, I don’t want to know what a difficult recipe would look like.
The pile of dishes in my sink makes me want to swear off cooking for good, but imagining the look on Wes’s face when he sees I’ve slaved over his favorite dish is enough to power me through washing every single one.
• • •
Finally, once I have a clean kitchen and dinner in the oven, I’ve got very little time to get ready. Here’s to hoping Wes isn’t as early tonight as he is for every practice.
I shower off my day of cooking and cleaning, pick out a slinky maroon dress I’ve been saving for a special occasion, and curl my honey-blond hair into a waterfall of messy waves. A nude lip and a thick coat of mascara is the perfect I tried, but not too hard look.
I check the time on my phone—5:06 and no word from Wes. He’s probably looking for parking, which means I have enough time for some finishing touches. And I have just the thing.
Swinging open the door of my medicine cabinet, I dig through the boxes of Band-Aids and old hair products until I find what I’m looking for: the beautiful blue glass bottle of perfume Wes gifted me so many years ago. My former signature scent. I couldn’t bear to wear it after we broke up, but it broke my heart too much to think of throwing it away.
Now, as I spritz the sweet, light perfume onto my wrists and neck, I know why I held on to it. After ten years of burying it in the back of my medicine cabinet, I know when Wes presses his lips against my neck tonight, he’ll breathe me in and remember how in love we used to be, how in love we could be again.
Another time check—5:10. It’s unlike Wes to be running behind, but I don’t want to be too clingy and text him over a ten-minute delay. Instead, I opt for the liquor cabinet, dressing up two tall glasses with limes for gin and tonics. I promise to nurse mine, swearing I won’t finish it before Wes gets here. I grab a seat on the couch and take a slow, measured sip from my glass, setting Wes’s out for him on the coffee table.
I think about that night in his apartment when he reached to swap his full drink with my empty one, his arm intentionally grazing my thigh and making every hair on my body stand on end. God, whatever this man does to me, he does it well, and I can’t wait for him to arrive.
When my slow, measured sips bring me to the bottom of my glass, I do another time check. It’s almost six o’clock, and still no word from Wes. Did he lie down for a nap and forget to set an alarm or something?
Dinner is already done, waiting for us on the stovetop. It’s going to get cold if he doesn’t arrive soon, and my hard work won’t taste nearly as good reheated. Annoyed, I snatch up my phone and call him, but after two rings, it goes to voice mail. I hang up and try again, but I’m met with the same results. Really?
Another half hour crawls by as I stare at the wall, finishing off the second gin and tonic. Nothing. Not a word. I call him twice more. Radio silence.
Fuck this.
I stomp into the kitchen, eyeing the now cold chicken parm. All that hard work for what, to be stood up? What a load of shit. I turn on the faucet and flip on the garbage disposal, which gargles and snarls to life as I dump my hours of effort down the drain.
Good-bye, chicken parm. Good-bye, romantic evening. Hello, night of crying on the couch.
I reach for my phone and press Alex’s name just as my throat tightens and the tears start to roll. He picks up on the first ring.
“What’s up, Jane? I’m surprised you’re not with Wes.”
Wrong thing to say, Alex. A pitiful sob escapes from the back of my throat.
“Shit, okay,” he says quickly. “Are you at home? I can be there in ten. Do you need me?”
I muster up a yes to both questions, and before I have a chance to decide what romance movie I’m going to cry over tonight, I hear his voice in my foyer. I can always count on Alex to let himself right in.
“All right, do I have to kick some quarterback ass or what?”
/>
I wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. “No. Sort of. Maybe just a little.” I sniff. “He stood me up, Alex. He didn’t call or text or anything.”
“Shit, Jane. I’m so sorry.” Alex takes the spot next to me on the couch. “The place looks great. He’s missing out. What were your plans?”
“I made this big fancy dinner. And then I just had to . . .” I trail off, gesturing at the sink that served as the chicken parm’s burial site. “What a waste. Of food, of a day. A total waste.”
“You dumped it?” Alex’s eyes widen. “Dude, we totally could’ve polished that off together. You want to order Thai food or something? My treat.”
When I nod, he picks out a place that delivers and orders half the menu.
As soon as it arrives, we scoop up heaping helpings of noodles and rice onto paper plates, and my phone buzzes on the coffee table. We both know without even looking at the screen that it has to be Wes.
“You sure you want to read that?” Alex asks, chopsticks in midair. “I can just delete it if you want.”
“No, I want to read it.”
I set my plate down and grab my phone, take a deep breath, and open the text, hoping for the excuse of a lifetime. Instead, I get this:
I’m not the guy you need. I’m sorry. You had it right all those years ago. Good-bye, Jane.
I read it once, then twice, then ten or twenty times over. Is this some sort of joke? I stare at my phone, waiting for some kind of a follow-up text, a “just kidding.” Maybe another teammate stole his phone again like last time. But nothing comes.
“You okay?” Alex asks hesitantly.
I shake my head and slam my phone facedown. The Thai food looks delicious, but I feel like I could throw up. Just like he did all those years ago, Wes has left me high and dry.
“Let’s just forget it,” I say, shaking my head. My stomach tosses and turns as I grab one long noodle with my chopsticks and hold it up in front of me, assessing whether or not I can choke food down.
