And sit bolt upright with a little squeak as the article comes up about last night’s skirmish at the marina, complete with a photo of the bearded jerk from Centro slugging some guy.
The picture is grainy, clearly shot from a cell phone at night, but it’s definitely him. I recognize instantly the way his black T-shirt stretches tautly over his wide shoulders, how his faded jeans hug his muscled ass and thighs. He looks angry in the picture, his eyes glinting from the reflection of the flash.
PR nightmare is right.
And now, he’s my nightmare. Until Rose decides he’s not.
I spend most of the rest of my day trying and failing not to think about Jake Ryland, and how he’s just been dropped unceremoniously into my life. My mind keeps flashing back to Centro last night, and how that jackass had the nerve to call me sweetheart, of all things.
“Sweetheart?” I say. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you always such a pig to women, or am I just special?”
“Look, you were the one making eyes at me, after all. I’m just helping you out since you seemed a little intimidated,” he smirks.
I laugh, disbelief turning to anger. “Why the hell would I be intimidated by a jerk like you? Good Lord, you’re full of yourself, aren’t you?”
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he grins.
“No,” I challenge him. “Why, should I?”
“That depends. Do you live in a cave?”
Apparently, I do live in a cave. But it’s a cave I’d happily stay in if it didn’t have Jake Ryland in it. I admit, I’m not a big sports fan. I went to some high school and college games, back in the day, but mostly just for the socializing. In the five years since I moved to Springville after college, I’ve never been to a single Rockets game. And to be honest, I’ve never really felt like I was missing out on anything — even though my dad, who’s a fan of the team, thinks I’m crazy.
I snort to myself. God, wait until I tell my parents about this. Dad will be thrilled that I’m going to be hanging out with Jake Ryland. At least I’ll get some sympathy from my mom and sister, who are as clueless about sports as I am. I realize I haven’t called my mom yet about coming down this weekend to celebrate my birthday, and make a mental note to do that when I leave work, which as it turns out isn’t until after seven that evening.
On the way home, I make a quick call to my favorite Chinese takeout and place an order to pick up, then punch in my mom’s number. On the third ring, my father answers.
“Hey, honey, you’re mom’s arm-deep in cooking dinner. She says to wait a moment while she washes off.”
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”
“Oh, fine, fine. How are things in the big city?”
“Good. Busy.” I decide not to get into the events of today on the phone. I’ll have plenty of time to tell them all about it in person.
“Okay, then, here’s your mom. Bye,” dad replies brusquely. His hatred of talking on the phone is the stuff of legend in our family.
I laugh. “Bye, Dad.”
A second later, my mom’s voice comes up. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”
Sweetheart. I grimace, thinking of Jake.
“I’m fine, Mom. I just wanted to let you now I probably won’t come up to Holcomb until Saturday morning. I’ll probably be pretty swamped with work until Friday night.”
“Okay, we’ll be here whenever you get here. Any requests for meals while you’re with us?”
I smile to myself. Mom’s a great cook. I miss her food. “No, anything you make will be great with me.” I shift the phone to my other ear. “How’s Kerri?”
“She’s fine. Off playing tennis tonight.” My sister, at sixteen, is a much better athlete than I ever was. During the school year she plays basketball and tennis, and in the summers she teaches private tennis lessons at a local rec center.
“Tell her I said hi, and I’ll see her Saturday,” I say. Suddenly, my phone buzzes once with a text. “I should probably get going, Mom.”
“Okay, honey. We’ll see you Saturday.”
I take the phone from my ear and see a text from a number I don’t recognize. I pull it up and read:
Hello, this is Jill Michaels, public relations for the Springville Rockets. I’ve arranged for you to meet Jake Ryland for lunch tomorrow at Glasshouse, 12:30. Reservations will be in Mr. Ryland’s name. Sending over necessary documents to your office in the morning by courier.
Glasshouse. Impressive. Well, I hope at least he’s paying, I think to myself. I may as well get some perks out of this crappy assignment, after all.
6
Jake
I can’t fucking believe this. My punishment for taking a swing at a guy who actually deserved it is to have my own personal babysitter to hold my hand like a little kid.
Apparently, the idea is to make sure that basically any time I’m not working out, I’m visible in public being a stand-up guy whose only desire in life is to help sick kids.
They couldn’t have picked a tougher assignment for me if they’d tried. It’s like they’re trying to tap into the shittiest, most painful part of my past, just to dig the knife in and twist it around. But of course, they can’t know that.
As I sit mutely in Bull’s office, staring blindly at the sheet of paper he’s given me, he calls in one of our PR chicks, Jill, who explains what Knute’s expecting of me. Apparently, I’m supposed to redeem myself in the eyes of the fans and taxpayers by throwing myself into philanthropic work, showing my dedication to helping kids with life-threatening illnesses by visiting them in the hospital, making appearances at fundraisers — and above all, making sure pictures of my generous and earnest face are spread all over the city.
Jill’s all buttoned-up professionalism as she explains all this, but there’s a gleam of satisfaction in her eye that I know I’m not imagining. I’m guessing she’s enjoying seeing me twist in the wind. She’s been kind of a bitch to me ever since we hooked up a few months ago, which apparently she didn’t realize was just a one-night thing — even though I thought I’d made it pretty clear I don’t do relationships. When it’s all over, Jill hands me a printout of a restaurant reservation and tells me I’ll be meeting the director of the Give A Wish Foundation for lunch tomorrow.
“Make sure to turn on the charm, Jake — I’m sure that’s not beyond your capabilities,” she says with a small sneer. “And shave the beard. You look scruffy and unprofessional.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I explode, looking at Bull. “It’s a beard, for Christ’s sake. And it’s the off season.”
“Lose it,” Bull says flatly. “From now on, you’re clean-cut Jake Ryland. Bleeding heart and do-gooder.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter to myself as I stomp out of Bull’s office. I am pissed, a wound-up ball of tight muscle and frustrated energy. I want to go straight to the weight room and take out my frustrations before I smash my fist into a wall, but I’m too angry to be around people that might ask me what’s up. So instead, I go back to my place and pound the hell out of my own weights for an hour, then strip off my sweat-soaked clothes and head out naked to my swimming pool in the back. I swim laps for another twenty minutes, hoping the cool water will clear my head, and it does a little bit, but not nearly enough. It doesn’t help either that my usual ways of blowing off steam — partying, raising hell and screwing — are exactly what I’m supposed to not be doing. Apparently, forever, or at least until I’m not a goddamn Rocket anymore.
Fuck my life.
I spend the rest of the day turning around in circles in my house like an animal in a cage, not knowing what the hell to do with myself. Finally, in the evening, I throw myself down on the couch with a bottle of beer and the remote, and watch training videos until I’m tired enough to go to bed. Eventually, I manage to fall asleep, and dream about fighting my way out of a house with rooms that never seem to end.
The next day, I haul my ass out of bed, go for a run, grab a shower and leave the house just i
n time to show up at this swanky-ass place in the city called Glasshouse. At Jill’s insistence, I’m dressed well, in a pair of gray pants and a royal blue button-down shirt. I realize as I walk in that I all I know about the director of this foundation is her name, which is not Miranda but Marinda. Marinda Blake.
I give the hostess my name and tell her I have a reservation, and she leads me to a table by one of the large windows with a great view of downtown. I order a club soda even though I want something stronger, and just as the waiter brings it to me, I look up to see a woman in her mid-twenties walking toward me. She’s wearing this brown, tan, and gray dress that fits her perfectly, and her long, straight coffee-colored hair frames a heart-shaped face and offsets her full, glossy red lips. She’s wearing a pair of sexy librarian glasses, so at first, I don’t recognize her.
Holy shit.
It’s that hot, uptight bitch from Centro.
And the smirk on her face tells me she’s not surprised to see me.
“So, I guess the rest of your night was downhill after I left the club.” Her smirk gets bigger as she takes a seat across from me and sets a manila folder down next to her.
“I thought you said you didn’t know who I was,” I frown at her.
“I didn’t,” she says mildly. “Luckily, you managed to make a public ass of yourself, so I got to read about you in the papers.”
She’s cocking a perfectly arched brow at me, looking at me like I’m a kid who’s been grounded. It’s pissing me the hell off.
“You shaved your beard,” she says.
“Orders from on high,” I mutter.
She nods, a corner of her mouth twitching. “The picture of respectability.”
I snort. “That right?”
“Well, it’s a start, anyway,” she muses, cocking her head.
The waiter comes up to us and hands us menus. Marinda orders a diet Coke.
“So,” she begins as her eyes scan the pages. “You’re in need of an image makeover, apparently.”
I snort again. “Apparently the owner thinks my public image is getting in the way of his stadium financing.”
She turns a page. “Do you actually know anything about the Give A Wish Foundation?”
I shrug. “I know you help sick kids. I guess the management thinks photo ops with cancer patients is the fastest way into the public’s heart.”
Marinda glances up at me sharply.
“You know what?” she hisses, her voice tight. “I did not sign up for this babysitting job, okay? And the last thing I want to do is listen to you demean the children that this foundation serves. They are human beings, okay, not photo ops! I know you’re here to redeem your image, but the least you could do is to take the work seriously while you’re doing it.”
“Whoa,” I say, holding out my hands. “Look, I didn’t mean — “
“I know exactly what you meant,” she grits. “You’re just some cocky football star who thinks that everyone exists just to admire you. God, it’s written all over your face,” she scoffs, a look of disgust on her face. “These kids are fighting for their lives! And a lot of them are going to be so excited to see you, they’re going to look up to you. Don’t you dare treat that lightly, Jake. Don’t you dare.”
Holy hell. Her eyes are flashing, just like the other night, but with a fury and passion that take me completely by surprise. It’s obvious she cares deeply about her job, and concern for the rough plight of the sick kids the foundation helps fairly radiates off her. She’s so furious I don’t know what to do, and God help me, the sight of her flushed cheeks and the way her chest rises and falls as she talks causes my dick to start stirring in my pants. I feel like a jerk, but part of me is pissed, too. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She doesn’t know me at all. She has no right to judge me for shit she knows nothing about.
But I’ll be damned if I let her know that she’s getting to me. So I shrug my shoulders, giving her my best unconcerned look. “Jesus, calm down, okay? I’m gonna do my job here. Just tell me what I’m supposed to do, and I’ll do it.”
She eyes me darkly, her brows knitted into a tense frown. “God,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”
The waiter comes back to take our orders. Marinda decides on a salad with poached salmon, and I order a steak. When the guy leaves, I look back at her to see she’s composed her face into a mask of careful professionalism.
“What you’ll be doing for the foundation will be primarily visiting sick children, but also providing a public face to aid in fundraising and visibility of the charity.” She opens the folder and pushes a piece of paper toward me. “I’m working on a complete schedule of activities for you, but this is what I’ve got so far.”
I pick up the sheet and scan it. Marinda has scheduled events for most days of the next two weeks, excluding weekends. “I don’t have time for all this,” I say, shoving it back at her. “I’ve got conditioning programs, on the field workouts, team activities, stuff like that. Sorry, this isn’t going to work.”
With a smug grin, she slides it back to me. “That’s not what I’m hearing from your coach. I’ve already cleared this schedule with him, Jake. If you’ve got a problem with it, take it up with him.”
I resist the urge to shove that damn paper right back at her and glance down at it again. “It says here the first thing is Monday,” I note grudgingly.
“Yes. A hospital visit to a terminally-ill boy with a brain tumor. He’s not doing well, and is likely to only have a couple more weeks. The foundation paid for a trip to Chicago to see his favorite baseball team play, but I thought it would be a nice thing for him to have a visit from a local sports celebrity.”
Shit. A wave of dread starts to well up in me, but I push it down. “What, uh… What am I supposed to say to the kid?” I ask, my throat dry.
She eyes me with a frown. “Just talk to him. Tell him you came to see him because you heard he’s a strong little boy and you wanted to meet him.” Her expression softens momentarily. “They’re such sweet kids, and they’ve suffered so much. They deserve to have someone make them feel important, you know? Like they matter. They spend so much time in the hospital, deprived of all the normal stuff other kids their age get to do, anything that will take their minds off it all is good for them. It helps them fight harder. Even…” She clears her throat. “Even when it’s not a fight they’re going to win.”
Our food comes. I don’t know what to respond to what she just said, so I don’t say anything, and we start eating in silence. I steal glances at her when she’s busy with her food, my eyes running down her body from her face to her breasts, and my dick thickens in response as I imagine cupping their fullness in my hands. I wonder what her nipples look like, imagining rosy pink buds, and I envision lowering my mouth to tease them with my tongue. I wonder what kind of noises she’d make, what she’d taste like.
Marinda raises her eyes to mine, catching me mid-thought. “What?” she asks a tad impatiently.
I give her my most disarmingly sexy grin. “Nothing. So, how long have you been director of the foundation, anyway?”
“About six months,” she replies. “I’ve been working there for almost five years, though.”
“You’re not what I pictured when I imagined the director of a non-profit.”
“Oh?” She eyes me skeptically. “What did you picture?”
“Some middle-aged woman with a bad haircut and no fashion sense,” I say. “You look more like… I dunno, like that chick in The Devil Wears Prada. The one who works for Meryl Streep.”
She stares at me, a slow smirk of disbelief on her face. “You’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada?”
I shrug. “I spend a lot of time on planes. Eventually, boredom will get you to watch pretty much anything.”
She laughs, just a little bit, but it makes my pulse quicken to hear it.
“Well,” she says, just the hint of a teasing tone in her voice. “It doesn’t surprise me at a
ll that you’re a jock.”
“Because of my smokin’ hot body?” I ask with a grin.
“Because you’re an arrogant and cocky and think you’re God’s gift to women,” she tosses back.
My voice deepens, and I lean toward her. “Sweetheart, don’t judge until you know.”
She blinks, and leans back, looking flustered. “Are you seriously coming on to me right now?” she murmurs.
I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t be. But there’s just something about her that makes me want to see just how far I can take this conversation. Just how far I can go before she pushes back. “Depends,” I say finally.
“On what?”
“On whether you’d like to find out whether I actually am God’s gift to women.”
Her eyes grow darker as she draws a sharp intake of breath.
“Mr. Ryland,” she says, leaning back in her chair and drawing herself up to her full height. “This is a professional relationship. My job is to help you rehabilitate your tarnished public image. Don’t you think hitting on me is kind of a bad idea?”
I smirk. “Only if it doesn’t work.”
7
Marinda
If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I must have done something really, really bad in a past life to deserve having to be Jake Ryland’s handler for the indefinite future.
I don’t know how Rose and the owner of the Rockets think there’s any way I can control this man. Not only is it obvious he’s completely unmanageable, but he doesn’t even take the work of the charity seriously. And I can already tell he’s going to spend all of his time trying to get me into bed with him just because he thinks he can.
The worst part? Apparently, my body seems to agree with him.
PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3) Page 4
