Walking into the restaurant, I almost didn’t recognize Jake at first. He had shaved off his beard, and just enough scruff had grown back to be scorchingly sexy, uncovering such a strong, square jaw that I had trouble tearing my eyes away from. As cocky as he is, and as hard as it is to admit it even to myself, he’s incredibly hot, and it’s going to be a special kind of torture to have to be his nearly constant companion in this charm offensive Rose and the team owner have dreamed up. The whole time at lunch, I’m struggling not to just stare at him.
Which is why, when I get back to my office, I immediately grab my laptop and type his name into the search engine to call up all the photos I can find of Jake Ryland.
With the photos, of course, are news stories of various types. The headlines run the gamut: Jake Ryland One of the Fifty Top QBs of NFL History. Rockets sign Ryland as QB. Rockets Quarterback Involved in Brawl. Jake Ryland Linked to Pop Singer. I click on the last story in curiosity, and feel a frustrating stab of jealousy when the article opens up, complete with candid photos of Jake sitting in the stands of a basketball game with Megyn Browne, one of the biggest pop stars around. Holy cow. I glance at the date of the article, relieved to see it’s from last year.
Stop it, Rinn. Why do you care if he’s dating anyone?
Besides the fact that if he is, and he’s hitting on everything that move, he’s probably cheating on her, of course.
I shake my head crossly. If he does have a girlfriend he’s cheating on, that will make my life a lot harder, but if I’m honest with myself, that’s not why I’m upset. I’m upset at the idea of him being with other women.
Which is completely inappropriate, not to mention a very dangerous thing to let myself feel.
I click the browser window shut with an irritated sigh and turn my attention to planning out the rest of Jake’s calendar for the next few weeks: visits to hospitals; a photo shoot for a foundation ad that will go up on transit buses and billboards around the city; a fundraiser. I make a mental note to ask Jake if he has a tux for the fundraiser. It’s a formal occasion, a yearly event organized by Rose so that she and her friends can hobnob over champagne, canapés, and a multi-course dinner — and get their pictures sprawled all over the society page of the paper.
When six-thirty rolls around, I’m the last one in the office and my back is singing from the effort of hunching over my computer screen. I stand up, take a deep stretch, then grab my things and head out, locking the office behind me. I’ve been so busy this week that I’ve forgotten to make any plans for Friday night, so I spend the evening by myself, watching crappy TV as I pack my bag for the weekend with my family.
The next day, I make it to Holcomb just in time for lunch. My parents, as always, are thrilled to see me, and I bask for a minute in the warm glow of spending two days being cooked for and pampered, with no obligations.
“We’re just about to sit down and eat,” my mother says as my dad takes my bag from me. “Ted, will you go up and knock on Kerri’s door?” She looks at me and sighs. “I don’t know how that girl can stay in bed so late on the weekends.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure I was the same way at that age, Mom.”
She frowns, thinking. “Yes, you’re probably right,” she says. “Still, it’s crazy to me. She’s been sleeping for close to twelve hours straight!”
A couple minutes later, my dad comes back down the stairs. My sister Kerri trails behind him in a pair of sweats and an oversized T-shirt, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her brown hair, a few shades lighter than mine, is uncombed and messy.
“Hey, Rinnie,” she yawns. “How long have you been here?”
“Oh, at least four hours,” I say. Her eyes widen and I laugh. “I’m kidding. I just got here a few minutes ago.”
She flashes me a pout. “I thought I’d wasted all that time not seeing you,” she complains, and I feel a surge of affection for my little sister, who still gets excited to see me when I come home for a visit.
“I would have woken you up, Ker Bear,” I promise her. “So, what’s up at school?”
We sit down to eat, Kerri chattering about her life with a sixteen year-old’s sense of drama. Mom’s made chicken salad sandwiches on crispy sourdough bread and a green salad, and I compliment her on everything sincerely, knowing I’ll go back home tomorrow with plastic leftover containers of everything she makes.
“What about you, Rinn? What’s new with you?” my dad asks. He’s in his late forties, with twinkling blue eyes and dark brown hair that’s just starting to gray at the temples. I’ve always thought he’s really handsome — in a dad-like way, of course.
“Well, something pretty interesting, actually.” I proceed to tell them about Jake, and how Rose has assigned me to remake his image as the public face of our organization — being careful to leave out any parts about how much I don’t want to do this or what a cocky jerk he is.
Dad tosses me a skeptical look. “That Jake Ryland is an absolute marvel as a player,” he says. “Best in the league. But he’s been nothing but a problem off the field since the Rockets signed him. You’re going to have a lot on your plate with that one.” He tells my mom and sister about some of the trouble Jake’s gotten into, including some stories even I don’t know.
While he talks, my sister has pulled out her phone and is looking Jake up online. “Wow,” she says, whistling. “He’s hot! Total eye candy — I’m so jelly!”
I snort. “Don’t be. He’s also a pain in the butt.”
She looks at me with wide, impressed eyes, completely ignoring what I said. “What’s he like?” she asks. “Don’t you just, like, freak out around him? God, I’d be a nervous wreck!”
“He thinks he’s God’s gift to women,” I say, my words inevitably reminding me of the last conversation I had with him. “Honestly, I think he’s going to be pretty hard to handle.”
“Well, I hope your boss gives you a nice raise or at least a bonus for taking this on,” says my mom supportively, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “On top of everything else you do.”
“I’ll just be lucky if I manage to keep him in line,” I reply. “He doesn’t seem particularly excited about working with the foundation.”
“You’ll do fine, honey,” my mom reassures me, patting my hand. “Now, who wants dessert? I’ve got Rinn’s favorite: chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream.”
I spend the rest of the day hanging around the house with my family: watching our favorite stand-by movies in the TV room, playing board games, and munching on popcorn. It’s all stuff that I used to think was completely boring when I was a teenager and desperate to get out of the house. Now that I’m older, these visits, with their reassuring sameness, give me a comforting sense of home that I definitely lack in Springville, where it’s a minor miracle if I manage to make myself a home-cooked meal. That night, even though my childhood bed is small and hard, I sleep better than I have in ages.
In the morning, I wake up to the smell of pancakes, bacon, and coffee. A few hours later is lunch, after which I’m completely stuffed, having eaten practically a week’s worth of calories in two days. Like every time I come home for a visit, I wonder how many pounds a person can pack on in one weekend.
In the afternoon, I’m feeling way too full to go for a run, but I decide I can at least manage a walk — or in my case, a waddle. I throw on some shorts and an old T-shirt from deep in my bedroom dresser and text my friend Anna, telling her I’m in town. A minute or so later, she texts back saying she’d love to see me and telling me to come on over.
Anna is one of the few people from home I’m still in touch with. She and I were best friends in high school, and even went to the same college. I majored in business management, and she went into nursing. After college, she came back to Holcomb and started work at a clinic, then got back together with her high school sweetheart and settled down to start a family. Anna and her husband Patrick have two kids, Cameron and Cassie, four and two respectively. They’re complete hellions, bu
t so cute that most of the time you can’t help but just laugh at their antics.
I walk over to Anna’s house, a little over a mile away, enjoying the beautiful summer day. Even with the front door closed, I can hear Cameron and Cassie on the other side, screaming and laughing as they tear around the house. I steel myself for the wall of noise and press the doorbell, which just makes the screams grow louder.
“Auntie Rinn!” Cassie yells as they fling open the door.
“Hi, kids!” I say, grinning in spite of myself.
“Did you bring us presents?” Cameron asks immediately, elbowing his younger sister out of the way to open the door for me.
“No, I’m sorry,” I confess. “I totally forgot.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “You can just take us to the park!”
I laugh at the childish logic as Anna comes down the hallway to greet me. Her long strawberry blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a loose tank top and yoga pants. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes as she blows stray tendrils away from her face. “They’re really keyed up today. I hope you’re up for it.”
We decide to get out of the house and let the kids blow off some steam, so Anna packs up some snacks and other stuff moms always seem to have with them, loads it into the back of a stroller just in case Cassie gets tired of walking, and we head out to the park. She and I sit on a bench as the two of them race around the play area, screaming and yelling like coked-up savages.
“How long are you in town for?” Anna asks me as we watch them run.
“Only until today,” I say. “I’ll probably leave right after dinner tonight. That is, if I can still move.”
She laughs. “Is Grace trying to fatten you up?”
“I don’t even know if she does it on purpose,” I say. “She just gets so excited whenever I come home that she tries to make every single one of my favorite foods and make sure I eat them all. She must think that there’s no food in Springville.” I laugh as Cameron tries to climb backwards up the slide. “How are things with you and Patrick?”
“Oh, fine,” she sighs. “Except we seem to never get a moment alone. We’ve turned into parent-bots. But,” she continues cheerfully, “It’s what we signed on for. Having two toddlers is pretty rough, but everyone tells me this is one of the hardest times. I keep reminding myself that pretty soon, Cameron will be in school, and then Cassie, and then I’ll be going back to work full-time. So when they’re both driving me crazy, I try as hard as I can to take the long view and realize that some day I’ll actually miss this.”
I laugh.
“How about you, Rinn? Are you seeing anyone?” she asks. Anna knows that I recently broke up with a guy, though she doesn’t know why.
“No, no one,” I reply casually. “At any rate, I don’t really have time for a relationship at the moment.” I tell her the bare bones version of my new assignment as a quarterback minder.
“Wow, Jake Ryland?” Her mouth hangs open. “Wait until I tell Patrick. He’s a big fan.”
“Well, that makes one of us,” I scoff. “He’s about as easy to handle as Cameron and Cassie together, unfortunately.”
A few seconds later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Jill, the public relations person who sent me the files on Jake a few days ago. It’s nothing but a web link, which I click on.
“Oh, my God,” I groan when I see the article she’s sent me. “I take that back. I’d take on a dozen Camerons and Cassies single-handedly in exchange for washing my hands of this.”
8
Jake
“Jello shots?!” she explodes. “Off a woman’s stomach? What are you, twelve?”
“What kind of twelve year-olds do you know?” I counter with a grin. “And anyway, I didn’t order them to be served off her stomach. She just… materialized.”
It’s true. I just went out on Saturday night with a couple guys from the team and for some reason, it came up that Reed had never had a Jello shot. So, just for the hell of it, I ordered a round. The fact that one of the waitresses decided to make herself into a human serving board had nothing to do with me.
“Good God, are you trying to be kicked off your team?” she fumes. We’re sitting in Marinda’s office on Monday morning and I’m waiting for her to be done reading me the damn riot act. I’ve already heard it in various forms from Coach Porter, Bull Molinari, and Jill the PR chick. The fact that I’ve done nothing illegal seems to be escaping all of them. Hell, I didn’t even take anyone home that night. All I did was go out for a night of fun with my buddies.
How the hell was I supposed to know some stranger would take a picture of the jello shot thing and give it to the local paper?
“I swear to God,” she’s saying, “If you end up damaging the reputation of the Give A Wish Foundation, I’ll…” she stops, clearly at a loss for words.
“You’ll what?” I challenge her. “Come on, Marinda, it’s no big deal. There’s nothing wrong with a football player going out to a bar. It’ll blow over. Especially once you re-make me into a saint who lives only to help people.” I flash her my most panty-melting smile.
“I don’t know if the pope himself could remake your image!” she cries. “Look, Jake. You’re going to have to get used to the reality that as of today, you are representing not one, but two organizations: The Springville Rockets and the Give A Wish Foundation. If you don’t take this seriously, you’re going to fail on both fronts, and embarrass yourself twice as badly.
“Jeez,” I whistle. “Okay, okay. No more Jello shots.”
“No more bars, period,” she corrects me. I open my mouth to protest, but she stops me. “I mean it, Jake. You have got to stay out of the public eye except when you’re doing something that will endear you to Middle America.”
There’s no arguing with her on this, I can tell. And as much as I want to call bullshit, I realize she’s only doing what she’s been told to do. She got this gig dumped on her because her boss knows my team owner, and if I know anything about how things like this work, she probably wasn’t given the opportunity to say no.
“Okay,” I concede grudgingly. “No more bars.” Hey, I can handle partying at home until all this blows over, right?
“Thank you,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. She turns to her computer and begins to type. “I don’t get paid nearly enough for this,” she mutters to herself. I don’t say anything, figuring she’ll calm down quicker if I don’t try to argue. For a few moments, she punches furiously at the keys, disapproval fairly radiating from her as she glowers at the screen. Finally, she slams the laptop shut. “Okay,” she sighs. “Let’s do this, I guess.”
We’re on our way to the hospital to make my first visit to a sick kid as a spokesman for the Give A Wish Foundation. I’m driving, because most cars are too small for me to sit in comfortably and because I hate being a passenger. We make our way to the parking garage closest to the GAW offices, and I lead Marinda to my black custom Ford F150. Opening the door for her, I suppress a grin as she has to work to climb up into the truck. “Why are these things so high off the ground?” she complains.
“You’re kidding, right?” I haven’t had a lot of women in my truck, so I guess I didn’t realize it would be so inconvenient to get into and out of. I try and fail not to stare at her ass as she hauls herself up, wondering if I should be helping her or if touching her is a no-go. Eventually she manages to get in and slides into the passenger seat. “Lots of reasons. Being able to see over other cars. Higher suspension so you can load it down.”
“You sure it’s not just to make you look big and manly?” she says sarcastically.
That, too.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I wore pants today,” she points out, looking at me.
So noted. Next time, I’ll drive the Camaro. I close the door for her, then trot over to the other side and get in.
“Okay, where are we going?”
“Greenlawn,” she replies.
I start the engine, and as I pull o
ut of the parking space, memories of smell of cleaning supplies and antiseptic start to churn my stomach. I push it all down and concentrate on driving, wishing I could fast-forward to two hours from now.
On the drive over to the hospital, Marinda tells me about the kid we’re going to see. His name is Jacob, and he’s nine years old. He’s been battling cancer of the brain and spinal cord since he was five. She says they originally thought they’d cured him, but about a year ago, the cancer came back, and he’s not likely to live too much longer. She reminds me of what she told me about this kid at lunch the last week: that his Give A Wish wish was a trip to Chicago to see his favorite baseball team play. “I’m not sure if he’s a football fan,” she says, “but his parents were excited to hear that you were coming, so my guess is he definitely knows who you are.”
I try to speak around the giant cotton ball in my mouth. “Okay,” I manage.
We get to the hospital, and Marinda directs me to a special parking area that the hospital gives the foundation access to. She hands me a swipe card and I hold it in front of the reader. “You spend a lot of time here?” I ask her.
“I’m here several times a month,” she replies, turning toward me. “Sometimes to visit the families of children we’ve already worked with. Sometimes to do a first visit and find out what we can do to fulfill a child’s dream.”
Marinda’s eyes are shining as she talks, and the light in her eyes makes her even more beautiful than usual. It’s hard not to just stare at her. I can’t tell if the unshed tears are from sadness or pride in her work. Maybe both. I haven’t known her for very long, but I have to admit, she’s really passionate about this stuff. She’s obviously in the right line of work.
The bar lifts and I drive past it and into the garage. I maneuver past the gray concrete pillars and down the rows, looking for a parking spot. Finally, I spot one big enough for the truck and pull into it. “Okay, come on,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt. I get out and cross over to her side, but by the time I get there she’s already opened her door and is sliding awkwardly down off the seat, in momentary free-fall until she reaches the ground. Damn, I guess the truck really is high off the ground.
PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3) Page 5
