Dear Jane Read online

  “No way. I can’t believe they’re still playing this song on the radio. It’s practically ancient,” I say with a laugh.

  Wes turns up the dial. We both know the words, so it looks like this one will be a duet. Neither of us is exactly an undiscovered singing sensation, but that doesn’t stop us from belting out the chorus at the top of our lungs.

  Halfway through the second verse, I realize that this whole evening, I’ve totally forgotten to hate Wes. I don’t want to admit it, but I actually had a really good time with him. Somehow, he turned a stupid run to Walmart for a pair of athletic socks into a really fun night.

  As the song dies down and the radio DJ’s voice blares through the speakers, Wes shuts the radio off. “We’re ending on a high note,” he says. “No song is going to top that performance.”

  We ride in comfortable silence for the last minute back to the hotel. Our lucky-sock rescue mission complete, we strut victoriously into the lobby, which is completely empty. Normally, there would be players still running around, chatting up jersey chasers at the hotel bar.

  I check my watch. Shit, it’s already eleven? We’re way past curfew, but this was totally worth it.

  We slink through the lobby to the elevator, my fingers ultra-crossed that no coaches see us, especially my dad. Now this really feels like high school. Luckily, we make it into the elevator completely unnoticed.

  “Do you want to come over to my room for some snacks? I can’t eat all these Doritos myself,” Wes says as we step off the elevator and onto our floor. He pauses for a second to laugh at himself. “Well, actually I can,” he admits, “but I’m cool with sharing.”

  I admit I’m tempted by the offer, more so because of Wes than because of the Doritos, but somehow, being in his room with him seems like a bad idea. I said I’d stay far away from him, and that doesn’t involve alone time behind a locked hotel room door.

  “It’s already past eleven.” I tap the face of my watch for emphasis. “That’s past team curfew, and we’re going to be exhausted tomorrow. We’d both better play it safe and get some shut-eye.”

  Wes nods, then reaches into the bag and hands my oatmeal cream cookies to me. “I’ll get this special delivery to Brad. No way has that moron fallen asleep while he’s still stressing about his lucky socks.”

  I smirk. “Thanks. Have a good night, Wes.”

  “You too. Thanks for letting me come with you.”

  I feel like I’m the one who owes him a thank-you. Thank you for such a fun evening; thank you for not being the douchebag I thought you were. But it’s late, and I’m too tired for that conversation.

  My keycard unlocks my room with a soft click, and with a gentle wave of my fingers, I slip behind the door, then watch Wes walk away through the peephole.

  Maybe this season won’t be so bad after all.

  Chapter Six

  Weston

  The horn blares for a time-out, and everyone on the field skids to a halt. I hear several of my teammates swear, and at least one of them spikes their helmet into the turf. I’m pretty tempted to do the same.

  Fourth quarter has ended . . . and the score is still tied. Which forces us into overtime.

  I take off my helmet and look over at Jane, sitting in the first row of the press box reserved for media, PR, and important people connected to the team. The disbelief and gnawing worry on her face reflects my own.

  I grind my teeth. How the fuck did this happen? Analysts favored the Hawks to win easily against the Rangers, but they came after us with a vengeance. Somehow, we ended up in a dead heat.

  The ref motions to us for the coin toss. Alex, our defensive captain, and Luke, the special-teams captain, join me on the walk to the fifty-yard line. I stare stonily into the Rangers’ captains’ eyes, not letting my tightly wound nerves show. It’s all come down to one last play. Anything could happen . . . but I vow not to let it.

  I’ve been thinking about pivotal moments like this one since I was eight years old and first learning the game, sitting starry-eyed in front of the TV, cheering my idols to victory and fantasizing about one day standing among their ranks. I should be used to it by now.

  I’ve been playing professional football for six years. I’ve thrown thousands of passes, run hundreds of plays, won more games than I can count. But every time always feels brand new, because I’m always competing with myself to up my game. Working my ass off to train harder, run faster, throw farther, set new records just to smash through them later. It’s a rush like no other. An addiction. A dream come true.

  “Visitor calls,” the ref says.

  “Heads,” I say.

  The ref flips the coin into the air, catches it, and reveals heads. “Hawks take possession.”

  Letting out a long exhale, I turn to confer briefly with Alex and Luke, then tell the ref, “We’ll receive.”

  The ref points to the Rangers’ special-teams captain. “Then you’ll kick.”

  Ignoring the captain’s poisonous glare, I turn and walk back to the visitors’ side. I need this to go one way—our way.

  All game long, I’ve been trying to tell myself that this is any other game, that I’ll play hard and win because it’s what I do. Only the truth is, it’s not just any game. This is my first time playing against this team since I was traded to the Hawks. My first time back on this field since I caught my fiancée cheating with a teammate. Fittingly, number sixty-nine.

  As the Hawks circle for our final huddle, I push all other thoughts out of my head. This might be a personal vendetta for me, but the only thing that matters is winning. We’ve been playing hard for hours, but we can’t afford to be tense and tired now. We need to play smart and make the best possible use of the other team’s exhaustion.

  I bring my hands together in a decisive clap. “I played with the Rangers for years. I know how these guys operate, their strengths and weaknesses. If we let them, they’ll drag this out for as long as humanly possible, just to wear us down.”

  Alex eyes me. “You better know what you’re doing.”

  “As long as you and your guys are there to ram the living shit out of anyone who so much as looks at the ball.”

  That gets a chuckle out of him. “Why the hell am I letting you talk me into this?”

  Taking that as agreement, I quickly outline a strategy that makes Luke smile in approval. Even Alex is reluctantly nodding.

  Then we go to work—perfectly executing that plan until somehow, the ball is squeezing past their men and into the end zone.

  Everyone freezes. A hush falls over the crowd as the two refs confer by the goalposts. Then one of them raises his arms vertically above his head.

  Touchdown, baby.

  The visitors’ side of the stadium erupts in applause and howling cheers.

  Throat-tightening emotion washes over me, chiefly pride. I’ve worked so hard for this moment, and now it’s here. Showcasing my talents, everything I was trained to do, in front of thousands of fans and millions of TV viewers . . . well, there’s nothing else like it.

  Even Alex slaps me on the back, laughing joyfully, his grudge about Jane apparently forgotten. And Jane herself is dancing like a maniac in the press box, stomping and cheering in victory right alongside us. Her ecstatic zeal makes me feel like I could fly.

  • • •

  By Monday, we’re back to business as usual. Since we won the game, Coach Royce doesn’t review tape with us. Instead, he just holds a quick team meeting to outline our agenda for the next week, and then congratulates us on all our hard work.

  Afterward, I head to the weight room to train, more than ready to get back into my morning routine. I’ve just completed my last set of dead lifts and am about to move on to side planks when heavy footsteps approach behind me.

  “What’re you still doing here, Chase?” Coach Royce asks. “When I gave everyone the rest of the day off, that included you.”

  I lift the barbell back onto its rack with a loud grunt and turn to face him, wiping a towel
across my damp forehead. “Can’t slack off on strength training or I’ll lose my gains. I’ll go home as soon as I’m done.”

  He chuckles. “You haven’t changed one bit. Always so deadly serious.”

  “Being serious is what wins games, Coach. Isn’t that what you always used to tell me?” I take a swig of water.

  “That it is, son.” He gives me a proud smile. “And you’ve been doing amazing ever since. Especially in yesterday’s game.”

  I duck my head. “Couldn’t have done it if I hadn’t had such a great coach.”

  He snorts at me, but the sound is familiar and fond. “Still humble too.”

  “No, I mean it. I don’t know where I’d be without your help. Thanks for taking a chance on me.” Both taking me into the Hawks and teaching me the basics all those years ago.

  “Acquiring one of the country’s best quarterbacks is hardly taking a chance. If the Rangers weren’t already kicking themselves for losing you to the Hawks, they sure as shootin’ are now.”

  I laugh and let the conversation trail into a moment of comfortable silence. I haven’t really kept in touch with Coach Royce since college, and it’s good to spend time together again. But there’s something I want to know, even if it ruins the mood.

  “So, uh . . . how’s Jane?” I ask.

  After our pregame sock-hunting mission that turned out to be such unexpected fun, I let myself hope that maybe the tension between us was starting to ease. But Jane spent the entire return flight next to her dad. She didn’t so much as venture out of her seat, let alone come down the aisle to talk to me.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s right there.” He points across the room to where Jane is peeking through the barely cracked door.

  It’s a good thing I’m not holding a weight anymore, because I might have dropped it on my foot.

  Coach’s mouth twists like he wants to laugh. “I’ll be in my office. Gotta finish some paperwork before lunch.” He winks and strolls away. “You kids have fun.”

  Jane slips through the door, and I can’t tell if her slightly sheepish look is real or if I’m just projecting my own awkwardness. How long has she been watching us? Or was she watching me?

  I walk over to her, feeling like I’m back in our high school gym and trying to work up the courage to ask her to dance. “Hey there.”

  “Hi.” She sounds almost shy. “Congratulations on the game. That was quite a play.”

  “Thanks.” I rub my neck.

  She doesn’t say anything else, but she also doesn’t leave. The idea that she might be reluctant to go is probably too much to hope for. Is she waiting for me to say something? If so, what?

  “Do something with me tomorrow,” I blurt.

  She blinks. “What?”

  Well, that wasn’t exactly how I would have wanted to say it, but the words leaped out of my mouth on their own, and now here we are.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s just, Tuesdays are our only day off, so . . .”

  “No, I meant what as in, what did you have in mind?”

  I’ll be damned . . . she actually sounds interested. Encouraged, I forge ahead. “How about that arcade we used to go to in high school?”

  She shakes her head, frowning sadly. “It closed. That building’s a bowling alley now.”

  “Even better. I love bowling. What do you say?”

  “I say . . .” She taps her lips, considering. Then she flashes me a devilish smirk. “I say I’ll destroy you.”

  I grin back at her. “Oh, really? If you’re so confident, let’s bet on it. We’ll meet up at noon tomorrow, and if I win, you have to . . . hmm . . .” I rub my chin theatrically. “Do my laundry.”

  “Ew!” But she’s giggling even as she wrinkles her nose. “And what about if I win?”

  “I’ll leave the prize up to you. Anything you want.”

  She hesitates, and for a moment I think she’s going to tell me to fuck off. But then she surprises me yet again by nodding.

  “All right. It’s a bet.” As she turns to open the door, she adds, “Don’t be late for your ass-whooping appointment.”

  “Oh, you are so on,” I call after her. I wait until she’s out of sight before I pump my fist.

  Two big victories in two days . . . nothing can stop me.

  Chapter Seven

  Jane

  The old arcade may be a bowling alley now, but nearly every other detail has remained precisely the same. There’s the same geometric-patterned neon carpet beneath my wedges, the same suffocating smell of nacho cheese in the air, and the same quarterback waiting to meet me, filling my stomach with butterflies.

  One quick scan of the room, and I spot Wes. He’s already laid claim on a lane and has one foot up on a seat, trying to put on a bowling shoe that is clearly too small for his giant foot.

  It’s never exactly a game of “I Spy” trying to pick Wes out of a crowd since he’s well over six feet tall. But today, there’s no crowd to pick him out of. This place is a complete ghost town. I guess noon on a Tuesday isn’t exactly a peak bowling hour.

  Since Wes has his back to me, I gladly take the opportunity to take in the way his worn gray T-shirt hugs his perfectly carved back muscles. God, it’s not even fair how ripped he is.

  My mind wanders back to how he looked in the locker room, those shorts hanging off his waist, those deliciously defined abs on display as I tried not to stare. I’m surprised my jaw didn’t hit the locker room floor.

  But those daydreams will have to wait for now. I didn’t come here to drool over Wes. I’ve got a bet to win.

  By the time I saunter over to our lane, Wes has moved on to the second shoe. It looks like they’re probably a size and a half too small. Two extra-large plastic cups from the snack bar sit on the table nearby, and since there’s no one else in sight, I can safely assume they belong to him.

  “Feeling extra thirsty?”

  Wes looks up from his bowling shoes, his eyes flickering as they meet mine. “Unsweetened iced tea,” he says, nodding toward the table. “Still your drink of choice or what?”

  I reach for one of the oversized Styrofoam cups and take a big, long sip from the straw, a desperate attempt to cover the giddy smile threatening to spread across my face. How did he remember that?

  “Hope you left room in your car for my big ol’ hamper of dirty laundry, Royce,” Wes says with a smirk, returning to loosening his laces. “Go get your shoes. I already paid for them.”

  The middle-aged guy behind the shoe counter has an eagle eye on me from the second I start heading his way. When I tell him my size, he leans over the counter like he’s about to give me top-secret information. Not like there’s anyone around to hear him.

  “Hey, is your boyfriend Weston Chase, the new quarterback for the Hawks?”

  I don’t know what’s more unnerving—the fact that this guy thinks Wes is my boyfriend, or how my palms tingle when he says it. I spent so many years introducing him with that title. My boyfriend. Now, I’m not even sure if today counts as a date. But I don’t think the shoe-rental guy is the one to discuss this with, so I just play along.

  “Yep. He sure is.” I smile over my shoulder at Wes, who finally has his shoes on and is sizing up the racks of bowling balls, waiting for one to speak to him.

  “Damn,” the shoe guy says, shaking his head in disbelief as he sets my size sevens on the counter. “You’re one lucky lady.”

  I tuck the shoes under my arm and hurry back to our lane, where Weston is holding a red bowling ball in one hand and a blue one in the other.

  “Hawks colors,” he says, obviously a little proud of himself. “Which color do you think is luckier?” His tone doesn’t suggest a hint of sarcasm. Is he really going to take bowling as seriously as he takes football?

  “Luck will get you nowhere, Chase,” I say, playfully grabbing the red ball out of his hand. “But I know there’s no way I’m washing your smelly laundry this week.”

  He cracks a smile that mak
es my knees buckle. “Bring it on, big shot.”

  Full disclosure . . . I can’t even remember the last time I so much as stepped into a bowling alley, so I’m not sure why I talked such a big game yesterday. I’m relying solely on the handful of pointers I got on my two dates with the captain of the bowling team in college. Still, I put my bowling ball in the ball return and lace up my shoes like I do this every Tuesday. Fake it till you make it, right?

  “Athletes first.” I gesture to the lane as I slide into a seat, the bowling alley equivalent of watching Wes from the bleachers. I cup my iced tea in both hands, enjoying the view of Wes’s butt in those dark-wash jeans as he lines up his shot and proceeds to roll the ball directly into the gutter.

  I explode into a fit of giggles. “I’d better start thinking about what my prize is going to be,” I call over the pop song blaring through the speakers.

  Wes shoots me a glare, but he can’t fool me. His mouth is twitching into a smile.

  If there were a competition to hit the fewest number of pins, Weston Chase would be the MVP. Frame after frame, he rolls gutter balls like clockwork. Something in me isn’t completely convinced that he’s really this bad of a bowler. Maybe he’s letting me win.

  Either way, the game itself isn’t half as fun as teasing him, joking that maybe he should have pursued a career in professional bowling instead of football. With every subsequent gutter ball, our laughter fills up every nook and cranny of this empty bowling alley. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard.

  It’s not until I roll my last frame that it occurs to me that I haven’t even glanced at the score the whole game. There’s no point. Just about any double-digit score would have been enough to clinch my victory.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not a kicker. I don’t think we’d make a single field goal with that aim,” I tease as Wes snags the seat next to me. The side of his thigh brushes against mine, but instead of pulling it back, he keeps it there, pressed snugly against me.