Dear Jane Page 3

  “Yo, Jane! Wait up!”

  Alex’s deep voice interrupts my clean getaway. He’s jogging my way with his helmet in his hands, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

  I scan the field and see that Wes is at a safe distance, talking with one of the assistant coaches. I can hang around for a minute or two and still be in the clear.

  “Work up enough of a sweat today?” I tease, and he shakes his wet hair like a dog, making me recoil to stay out of the splash zone. “You need a shower ASAP. What do you want?”

  He grabs a seat on the bleachers, but I make a point of remaining standing. I can’t hang around long with Wes only a few hundred feet away.

  Alex obviously senses my discomfort, because he cuts right to the chase. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Probably working, followed by a wild night of watching home-renovation shows and falling asleep early on the couch,” I say with a shrug. “Why, what’s up?”

  “The team is getting together around seven for dinner. Just a super-casual thing. You’re coming, right?”

  My gaze flicks to Wes. “The whole team?”

  Alex rolls his eyes. “Yes, Jane. The whole team. And you. It’s at Colin’s house. C’mon, you never miss a team dinner.”

  “Yeah, but I . . . I’m really tired, Alex. I haven’t even started packing for Philly yet. And I don’t want to interfere with team bonding, especially since we just brought on a new player.” I’m stringing together any excuse my brain can come up with. Maybe I can fake a phone call with Mr. Flores and pretend he’s asking me to work all night.

  “Look, Jane. You don’t have to bullshit me,” Alex says flatly. “Your dad already told me about your history with the new guy.”

  “He what?” I snap, a little louder than I’d like. I pretend not to notice that a few lingering second-string guys are looking over to see what I’m overreacting about. “He shouldn’t have told you that,” I say in a much lower, calmer voice, flashing my best everything is fine, please don’t look at me smile at the nosy players.

  “I think it’s cool that he wanted your closest friend on the team to know what was going on with you,” Alex says. “Plus, you were acting weird as hell around Wes, anyway. I would’ve figured it out on my own eventually. I know you pretty well. And I know he’s the reason you’re trying to skip out on dinner.”

  “Fine. I don’t want to see him. Is that a crime?”

  “Come on, Jane. He’s just one player. There’s a whole team of other guys who want to see you there.” When that doesn’t work, he gives me a stupid pouty look like a two-year-old who isn’t getting his way. “Pleeeease? For me?”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. But only so you’ll stop bugging me, and I don’t have to smell you any longer.” I wave my hand in front of my nose dramatically, which makes him laugh.

  “I promise I’ll smell much better tonight. I’ll text you Colin’s address, okay?” He jumps to his feet and slugs me in the arm before jogging off to the locker room.

  I check my watch—it’s already after noon, and I have work to do before this dinner. Now I really do have to book it out of here in a hurry. I dismiss the thought of trying to get work done from home, knowing that if I go back to my place, I’ll spend every minute I have picking out the perfect I tried, but not too hard outfit for tonight.

  I’ve got to be in my office if I have a prayer of getting anything done, so I head upstairs, log in to my computer, and refer to my ever-growing to-do list. If I can just get a few details worked out for the upcoming Philly trip, I’ll feel a whole lot better about taking the rest of the evening off.

  Unfortunately, there are a lot more than a few details to take care of. My in-box has at least twenty emails from staffers asking about details and assignments in preparation for our first away game. Time to crack my knuckles, put my earbuds in, and get down to business.

  I start responding to my first email, but I hardly get three words in before my mind wanders to what Alex said about me acting “weird as hell” around Wes. Did all the guys on the team notice that, or was that something only Alex picked up on because he knows me so well?

  I thought I had been doing a pretty decent job of acting professional, all things considered, but my actual interaction with Wes has pretty much been limited to accidentally hitting him with the door to the locker room after his press conference.

  Avoiding him at practice is easy enough. With his helmet on, the risk of making eye contact is low. And thank God it is, because those night-sky-colored blue eyes of his are hypnotizing. Not that it matters. No amount of hypnosis could make me forget what he did to me.

  My phone buzzes and pulls me out of my head. It’s Alex, texting me the address for tonight, along with a message that says, See you tonight!

  • • •

  The second I walk through Colin’s front door, I’m greeted with the smell of men’s deodorant and pizza grease, the official smell of any Hawks gathering. Somebody should really talk to the marketing team about making a cologne. I’m sure there are plenty of fans out there crazy enough to buy it.

  “Hey, you made it!” Alex calls out, rising from his seat on one of the many couches in the enormous living room, which is filled to the brim with guys.

  Colin has a big house, but these are big dudes, so couches that are made to sit three or four people can only comfortably fit two players. Somebody else hops up from the floor and steals Alex’s seat right away, yelling, “He didn’t call seat check!”

  One of the second-string guys passes me a paper plate and points me in the direction of the kitchen as Alex pulls me into a side hug.

  “You hungry?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

  “Take me to the pizza,” I say, eager to get out of this room full of guys. I know Wes is somewhere in that mess of muscular dudes, but I don’t want to look for him. I’d rather just stick by Alex’s side and trust that he won’t steer me wrong.

  There isn’t a flat surface in the kitchen that isn’t covered by a pizza box. Nobody can eat quite like a pro football team. As I load up my plate with two slices of mushroom pizza, Alex grabs a whole box for himself. I love working with football players. They never make me feel like I’m eating too much.

  “Is there anywhere we can sit?” I ask, hoping that’s far away from Weston Chase is implied.

  “I’m sure I can chase a few second-stringers off a couch,” Alex says, surveying the living room for his target.

  I giggle, but my face immediately falls when I see Wes heading toward the kitchen to get seconds.

  “Um, I’m going to use the bathroom,” I say quickly, handing my plate to Alex.

  He gives me a knowing look but takes my plate from me. “Upstairs,” he says, nodding at the staircase.

  I dash off, taking the steps two at a time. After I give myself a quick pep talk in the mirror, I’m sure I’ll be all set to handle the rest of the night.

  The second floor of this house is just as big as the downstairs, so I get to work opening and closing doors in an attempt to identify which one is the bathroom. Unfortunately, before I can find it, someone else finds me.

  “Hey, Jane.”

  I freeze, my hand on the doorknob of yet another room that isn’t the bathroom. I’d know that deep voice anywhere. “Weston.”

  I spin around. Sure enough, there he is, all six foot three of him. My breath quivers in my lungs as I look for an escape route, but he has me cornered.

  “Can we talk? Clear the air so this isn’t so damn uncomfortable?” His voice is so rich and deep, yet soft at the same time. It hasn’t changed at all, and I hate that it still affects me.

  I’m praying someone else will come up the stairs and give me an out from this conversation, but there’s nobody. Just Wes and me. I can feel my face turning red, either in anger or anxiety, I don’t know.

  The thing is, I can’t do this right now. I can’t lash out at him in somebody else’s house with the whole team downstairs. I’m noth
ing if not professional, and I’ve never given this team a reason to doubt that.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” I finally manage to say.

  He does that little snort-laugh that I used to think was so cute, but now it feels like a punch in the gut.

  “So you’re still not over me. Is that what this is about?”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Get over yourself, Wes. If you think for even a second that I’m still pining for you after all this time, then you should get your ego in check. I have zero interest in even seeing you. The only reason I’m at this team dinner is for Alex.”

  “Oh, so you’re fucking him now?” Wes blurts, his nostrils flaring. “Guess you were always into football players, weren’t you?”

  “You don’t know me, Weston. You don’t know me at all anymore, and you have zero right to know who I’m fucking, as you so eloquently put it. You were the last player I ever dated, and I can promise you I’ll never make that mistake again. Now, do you want to keep making wrong guesses about who I am and what I do with my life, or can I go now?”

  I give him half a second to answer before walking away. He steps to the side, thank God, and lets me past him. He’s done with me, for now.

  Alex is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and by the look on his face, he heard every word. “You want to go outside for a second?”

  I nod furiously, clenching my jaw to keep from screaming. We step out onto the back deck, and I release the longest breath of my life, letting my balled-up hands unfurl.

  “I am so, so sorry, Jane,” he says, staring down at me and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I shouldn’t have made you come tonight. I really didn’t know things were that dicey between you two.”

  “They’re not,” I say, running my fingers nervously through my hair. “I just lost my temper, I guess. I don’t know. I’m sorry too.”

  We stand there in the silence for a second, which feels nice compared to what I just went through. Eventually, he squeezes my shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort. My face feels like it’s faded from bright red back to its normal color, and my breath is evening out.

  “Are you going to be all right?” he asks, and not just out of courtesy. By the way Alex says it, I can tell he honestly isn’t sure. Frankly, I’m not really sure either. But I also don’t have a choice.

  “I’m fine,” I say on an exhale. “I can handle it.”

  Or at least, that’s what I have to keep telling myself.

  Chapter Four

  Weston

  Jane leaves the party soon after we blew up at each other. I don’t even have to search or ask anyone to know; I can just tell she’s gone.

  I wander around restlessly through the dense sea of laughing, chatting players. I don’t feel like eating or drinking anymore, but just to have something to do, I grab a fresh beer and go sit on the couch.

  Suddenly, loud rock music blasts through the house. Someone must have found Colin’s stereo. One guy whistles loudly, and a chorus of others join in with hollers and whoops. The party turns more upbeat around me as I sit alone, nursing my beer and the bitter taste Jane left in my mouth.

  A woman plops down beside me. “Hi, Wes,” she coos. “You having a good time?”

  I glance at her. She doesn’t ring any bells. Young, maybe early twenties. Her body is scrupulously taut and tanned. Her tight pink crop top and microscopic denim shorts expose a bellybutton ring surrounded by miles of midriff. On the other side of the room, a similarly dressed woman is talking to one of our defensemen. He’s grinning and puffed up, and she’s giggling, cocking her head in a cutesy way, touching his arm.

  So they’re jersey chasers. That explains why a total stranger knew my name. Every major team has a gaggle of groupie girls who follow them around like lost puppies. Still, how did they even find this party? Tonight was supposed to be a private team dinner.

  “Just fine,” I grunt out.

  She either doesn’t hear or ignores my grouchy tone. “I’m Jess. It’s so great to meet you—I’m such a huge Hawks fan. I watch all your games.” Starry-eyed, she scoots closer.

  Ironic that she’s trying to chat me up when I haven’t even played a game as part of this team yet. But for some girls, all it takes is that “QB” after my name to send their panties flying.

  “Thanks for your support,” I say, like some kind of canned publicity statement.

  She practically shoves her cleavage against my shoulder. “I’d love to hear some good football stories. But it’s kinda hard to hear in here. Want to find somewhere . . . quieter?”

  Normally, I’d at least consider taking her up on it. I don’t go out of my way to score, but if a good-looking woman comes to me with an offer, why not?

  But for some reason, the idea is totally unappealing. Worse than unappealing.

  “Hello? I said—”

  I get up so quickly, she almost falls over. “Sorry,” I mutter. Even I can tell I sound unconvincing. “I’m not interested.”

  “Fine, jeez.” She flounces off in a huff, probably to try her luck with another player.

  That was rude of me, but I can’t bring myself to care too much. I can’t take one more second of this noise, this crowd. I don’t know why I feel so awful.

  I dump the rest of my beer in the sink and retreat to my bedroom. I lock the door, lie down on my bed, and shove earplugs in my ears to block out the chaos still raging downstairs.

  But sleep won’t come. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

  Jane and I used to lie like this all the time on the grassy hill behind our high school. Not saying much, just holding hands, warmed by the sun and each other’s closeness. She’d look over at me with a soft, beautifully peaceful smile, and I’d be lost forever.

  God, she once filled my whole world. It was so long ago, it should be strange to think about, but the memories are so crystal clear, they make me ache. We were each other’s first crush, first kiss, first everything. We’d planned on being each other’s last too . . . until I screwed it all up like the dumbass kid I was.

  I was just too young. I know that now. I let my newfound college freedoms and pressures get the better of me. Wiser now, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice. But there would never be a “twice.”

  That one chance was all I got, and understanding how it went wrong doesn’t make my regrets sting any less.

  • • •

  Even though our flight to Philadelphia isn’t until two in the afternoon, half the players are still bitching about their hangovers. As soon as the seat-belt sign turns off with a ding, my phone lights up with a message from Colin.

  U ready to wreck the rangers, bro?

  Hell yes, I type back.

  A lot of people have been asking me if I feel conflicted about playing my first game for the Hawks against my old team, but even though I mostly got along great with my fellow Rangers, Philly holds too many bad memories to feel sentimental about. And right now, I’ve got something way more pressing on my mind.

  From my seat far in the rear of the plane, I can just barely see the back of Jane’s head if I lean forward. The uncomfortable knot in my chest grows every time I catch a glimpse of her.

  I really should apologize for cornering her last night. Hell, I want to apologize, which doesn’t happen very often. But somehow, I just can’t make myself stand up and get my ass over there. We’re surrounded by Hawks players and staff. Talking to her now would air our dirty laundry in front of everyone we work with. I’d never hear the end of it.

  Berating myself for being a coward as well as a douchebag, I decide to apologize the instant I can get her alone . . . which, let’s be real, probably won’t happen anytime soon, given how determinedly she’s been avoiding me.

  In the meantime, I need to stop driving myself nuts. I deliberately tear my gaze from Jane and look around. The guys seated to my left and right are tapping away on their phones . . . on Tinder, to be exact.

  My lip curls. Seriously, already? They
can’t even wait two hours until we touch down to try to set up their next conquests in Philly? And while it’s harder to tell what the guy across the aisle is doing, what little I can see looks a lot like the same thing.

  The sight sours my mood even further. I’ve witnessed all kinds of messed-up shit on the road. Guys treating away games like marathon frat parties, getting so wasted they could barely play the next morning, chasing hookups whether they were single or not. I even had a teammate once who had a wife at home and a girlfriend in another city.

  The whole thing is sickening. We’re here to win the goddamn game and that’s it, not run around on pussy patrol. And we’re definitely not here to break hearts.

  I pull up our playbook on my phone and review our strategy for the umpteenth time, just so I don’t have to look at what my teammates or Jane or anyone else is doing.

  It’s well after dark by the time we’re all checked in and settled at our hotel. Colin waves our room’s welcome packet in my face.

  “Where do you want to get dinner?”

  “I dunno. This place has its own restaurant, doesn’t it?” Most of the Hawks have wandered off to find food, and probably girls, but I actually care about keeping curfew and getting a decent night’s sleep before our game.

  Colin shrugs. “Sure. I don’t give a crap so long as I get some food ASAP.”

  We head downstairs, get a table, and order a feast. I’ve almost polished off my roast chicken and fries when Alex walks up to us wearing a dark scowl. Alexei “Alex” Ivan isn’t someone you want to fuck around with. He’s easily six foot four, and his reputation as a badass linebacker is well-deserved.

  “I want to talk to you, Chase,” he growls.

  I take my time chewing and swallowing before I reply with a terse, “Yeah?”

  Maybe he’s not sleeping with Jane, like Colin said, but I still don’t have to be gleeful about the fact that he gets to hang out with her while I get jack shit. Especially not with that obnoxious look on his face that makes it clear he’s here to pick a fight.

  Alex crosses his beefy arms over his chest, as if he can intimidate me with his size, when I know I could take him if it came down to it. “Jane was about ready to lose her shit last night. What the hell is wrong with you? Where do you get off talking to her like that? Who do you think you are?”