Dear Jane Read online

  Sure, I forgot to text her sometimes, and I had to flake out on a few phone dates. And even when we did hang out, I talked mostly in monosyllables and grunts . . .

  Okay, so I acted like kind of a dumbass back then. But it’s not that I didn’t care about her. I just had so much on my plate—my head too full of homework and football plays, my body too tired from practice drills and late nights studying.

  Still, I can’t deny that I neglected her. From her point of view, it must have felt like we were drifting apart. Hell, maybe she even thought I was getting bored with her. Gearing up to move on.

  That’s ridiculous. Jane could never bore me.

  But did she know that? Plenty of long-distance relationships fall apart in that exact way. Especially when people are at college, surrounded by new responsibilities and distractions.

  That whisper in my mind is starting to sound less cruel and more wise, but I still make one last attempt to defend myself.

  Of course she knew I loved her. I told her she was my best girl all the time.

  The sweetest words are still just words, though. When it came time to put my money where my mouth was, when she was lost, begging for help, scared out of her mind, I blew her off. And for what? A fucking party. At the time, that initiation ceremony seemed like the most crucial event in history, my best opportunity to network and become a real part of the team . . . but fundamentally, it was still just a party.

  I didn’t listen. As the truth dawns on me, my insides turn to ice. Of course, I hadn’t realized she was trying to tell me something important, because all I’d been thinking about was getting to that stupid party on time.

  She wasn’t the one who didn’t give me a chance. It was the other way around.

  God, no wonder she felt like I didn’t give a shit about her. No wonder she decided to cut her losses. No wonder she’s been so pissed at me ever since I joined the Hawks.

  “You still with us, bro?” Colin asks.

  I nod, even though he’s on the other side of the wall and can’t see me. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  It’s everything, and I’m terrible. And Jane must feel a hundred times worse right now.

  “If you say so. Long as you don’t have a concussion.” Colin sounds skeptical, but he’s a live and let live kind of guy, not the type to pry. “I’m gonna go back to the hotel and get dinner before we roll. See you there?”

  “Nah, I’m not hungry.” I just want an excuse to shut myself in our room and not have to talk to anyone.

  Colin whistles some pop song off-key as he walks back to his locker.

  I have to fix this. But my mistakes have festered in her heart for so many years, I really hope I can figure out a way. I can’t stand it when Jane is upset. I need to win her approval and forgiveness in a way I’ve never felt before. I’ve missed her so much, and it’s all hitting me right now.

  I shut off the shower, still feeling dirty. A hard, bitter lump forms in my throat, and I feel like puking. I almost wish I would, just to get rid of this feeling. I know that won’t help, though . . . but I know what will.

  As I get dressed, I text Jane.

  Can we talk?

  • • •

  She hasn’t answered.

  Of course not, stupid, did you really expect her to? I stuff my phone back in my pocket.

  I’m losing my mind. It’s been a long twenty-four hours, but I don’t feel any better now that we’re back home.

  Colin hits PAUSE on the remote. “Dude, I don’t know what’s going on with you, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, but can you at least sit still? You’re missing the best part.”

  “Shut it,” I reply.

  I set my phone facedown on the coffee table to attempt to focus on the movie he’s showing me—according to him, the best horror action comedy ever made. But I have no idea what’s going on, because I’ve been checking my phone every five fucking minutes like some kind of lovesick teenager instead of watching.

  My attention soon starts wandering. I sneak another glance at my phone. Maybe just one more . . .

  It dings, and I almost launch my bowl of popcorn across the room.

  “Jesus!” Colin yells, startled. Spilled beer spreads over his shirt. “What the hell, man?”

  “Sorry.” I toss a roll of paper towels at him and fumble for my phone to read the message I’ve been waiting for.

  You free now?

  Hell yes, I am. I could be getting eaten by a grizzly bear right this second, and I’d find a way to see Jane.

  Yeah, where are you?

  Just got home. Had to deal with some paperwork.

  Seriously, right after an away game? She works too hard. As I debate whether I should invite her here, another message appears.

  Come over?

  I type on my way and stand up. “I gotta go.”

  “What, right now? Why?” Colin looks confused and sounds annoyed, a rarity for the most laid-back guy I’ve ever met. “The movie’s almost over.”

  “I have to go meet Jane. It’s important,” I say, already halfway to the door.

  His eyebrows fly up and he nods sagely. “Oh.”

  I’m not sure what he’s imagining, and I don’t really care. I snag a bottle of wine from our fridge on my way out. I can pay Colin back later.

  A talk like this needs a peace offering.

  • • •

  As soon as Jane opens her apartment door, I blurt, “I was a massive dickhead.”

  She blinks owlishly at me. Still in her travel-rumpled work clothes, she apparently wasn’t kidding about just now getting home.

  “Uh . . . that’s a good start. But maybe come in before you start yelling cuss words, so the neighbors don’t call the cops?” She steps back to allow me inside, then shuts the door behind me and locks it.

  I hold up the bottle. “I brought wine.”

  She accepts it without smiling. After pouring two glasses, she puts the bottle in the fridge.

  I head to the living room. The last time I was here, I was so preoccupied with her, that I barely took the time to notice, but the walls are plastered with Hawks jerseys, helmets, autographed posters, newspaper clippings, pictures of famous players shaking hands with her dad, and every other kind of memorabilia imaginable.

  Jane turns and thrusts a glass at me. “Here,” she says, her tone neutral.

  I take it and follow her to the couch. Things are still tense, and Jane sits as far away from me as possible. My gaze wanders to the end table, where there’s a framed family photo. It takes a minute to recognize Ken, her dad, with a full head of hair, and I haven’t seen Nancy since high school. But Jane’s mom looks just like the Midwestern housewife I remember—calm brown eyes, a round, kindly face, the honey-colored hair that Jane inherited. A tiny Jane, maybe six years old and wearing a flowered romper, sprawls giggling over their laps.

  I suddenly wonder if our baby would have looked like that.

  “So, what were you wanting to say?” Jane asks, thankfully pulling me away from that uncomfortable, but strangely compelling thought.

  I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. I handled this whole thing really badly. I should’ve listened and been supportive, but instead I just stormed out. I wasn’t thinking.” I’m not sure if I mean I wasn’t thinking last night or ten years ago. Probably both.

  Jane swallows hard, not meeting my eyes. “I get it. You were just . . . shocked, so you . . . overreacted.”

  More like devastated and blamed the real victim in this whole situation.

  “Yeah, I was, but that’s no excuse for just storming out. You were trying to tell me something really personal and painful and tough, and I made it all about me.” I huff out an exhale. “Seems like I have a way of doing that. But now that I’ve had some time to think, I understand why you did what you did.”

  She finally looks at me. “You do?” Her tone is ever so slightly hopeful, but her eyes are still wary. Vulnerable.

  “I mean, I don’t know exactly how y
ou felt, but it must have been horrible. You were trying to get through school when suddenly this huge, terrifying thing happened, and I made you feel like you couldn’t count on me . . . like you had to face it alone.” Almost without thinking, I reach out to rest my hand on hers. “I can’t imagine going through something like that.”

  For a minute, she doesn’t move. Whether she wants the touch or just tolerates it, I don’t know. But she doesn’t push me away, and that’s a hell of a lot better than before.

  Then she swallows hard. “Wes . . .” Her voice is raspy, choked. Her eyes glisten, and she blinks rapidly. “Thank you.”

  “I’m only saying what I should have said last night—I’m so sorry. I hate that I wasn’t there for you.”

  Jane’s face crumples. She lets me pull her into my arms and burrows her face into my chest. God, it’s been so long since I’ve held her, yet somehow it still feels so fucking right.

  The feel of her slender body encircled in my arms brings back a flood of memories I’m not prepared for. Memories of stolen moments and hot kisses, and more first times than I can count on two hands. Of starry nights and football games, and I-love-yous exchanged under the bleachers. Memories of my fingers fumbling with the clasp of her bra, her eager noises when I finally dared to slip my hand into her panties for the first time. The flush of her cheeks and the wetness between her legs, and the smug satisfaction that I’d done that to her made pride blossom in my chest, even more than when I threw a touchdown pass to win the game.

  I possessively worked her toward orgasm, issuing my own deep groan of pleased satisfaction when I made her come for the first time.

  I was an overexcited sixteen-year-old with a new driver’s license and the hottest girlfriend in school. But Jane never made me feel like anything less than a man. I recalled the determined look in her eyes when she popped the button on my jeans that first time. My helpless plea when she ran the palm of her hand over the length of my hard shaft, looking down at me in wonder.

  During the awkward fumbling as she tested the weight of my cock in her hand, I bit back a groan, more than happy to let her explore.

  “Show me how to do it,” she whispered.

  I licked my lips and kissed her once more, taking her right hand in mine and curling it around my shaft.

  That night I learned the bliss of someone else’s hand jacking me. But not just anyone, the girl I loved.

  “We need to stop, or I’m about to make a big fucking mess,” I groaned.

  Jane didn’t stop, though, didn’t let up, and then I came all over her hand in a hot, sticky mess. She balled up her tank top and handed it to me. I wiped myself clean, and she went home that night wearing my sweatshirt with nothing else underneath it.

  God, it feels like just yesterday in some ways. I tug her closer, those familiar possessive feelings stirring inside me as her cheek nestles against the side of my neck.

  Even though she’s stopped crying, I know all of this is my fault, and I wish I had a time machine, But still, something inside me unknots. The world just feels so much more right with her in my arms. I want to stroke her back, but I don’t know if that would be weird, so I just hold her securely until she’s ready to talk more.

  She gives one last sniff, loud and wet, then sits back. “Sorry for being such a girl.”

  “Don’t worry, that’s one of the main things I like about you.”

  She shoots me a weak smile. “Now what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we can . . . start over? Go back to being friends, like when we first met?” It’s not really what I want, but I don’t trust myself to give her more right now. I’ve just gotten traded to this team in what could be my biggest and most demanding season yet. I can’t lose my focus.

  Jane weighs my words. Just friends.

  Last night’s incredible kiss aside, there’s no way she wants—or can trust—anything more intimate from me. As much as it hurts to accept it, that chapter of our lives is closed, and I’d rather have a platonic relationship with Jane than none at all. She owned all of my first times, and that will never change. But if friendship is all I’m going to get from her now, I’ll have to try and accept that.

  “I . . .” She takes a deep breath and wets her lips. “I think I can do that.”

  I place my big, warm palm directly over her flat stomach and rest it there. Neither of us speaks for a long time after that. This is huge for us. Just being in the same room and having her not wanting to kill me is a big deal. Her accepting my apology and agreeing to be friends is icing on the cake.

  A little while later, our moment of contentment is interrupted by her stomach growling, and I laugh. “How about we kick off our new friendship with dinner?”

  “Oh my God, food sounds amazing. I haven’t eaten since those little pretzel packets on the plane.” She grabs a tissue from the end table and blows her nose. “You mind if we order delivery? I’m too tired to go out into the world again.”

  I don’t blame her. After a long day of playing and traveling, followed by history’s most intense conversation, I’m pretty beat too. “Sure. What do you want?”

  “Uh . . . I dunno, surprise me. There’s some takeout menus on the fridge door.” She gets off the couch. “I’m gonna go put on sweatpants. If I have to wear these clothes one more second, I might just climb out of my skin.”

  I snort, already dialing a Chinese restaurant. She soon reemerges, and while I order, she turns on the TV and starts browsing through her Netflix queue.

  When I hang up the phone, she asks, “What kind of movies do you like?”

  I shake my head with a smile. “No way. I picked what we eat, so you have to pick what we watch.”

  With a sly smirk, she flips to a pink-colored movie cover that screams chick flick.

  I throw my hand over my eyes like I’m annoyed. “Aagh!”

  Jane actually giggles at my melodramatic act. I haven’t heard that sound in forever, and it eases something inside me.

  She continues scrolling until we get to some sci-fi thriller-looking thing. Soon, we’re flopped comfortably on the couch with our food. The atmosphere is finally casual.

  I let out a sigh and unwind against the cushions. It’s so nice to be around her again without all the tension from when I first got here.

  Jane’s a catch . . . a smart, tough, level-headed woman who gets football but isn’t a groupie. She’s also drop-dead gorgeous, but I try not to notice that.

  All too well, I remember why I first fell for her, but I firmly remind myself that it’s over between us. Considering how badly I blew it—both ten years ago and last night—this outcome is pretty damn lucky. Somehow, we’re sitting together as friends, watching TV while shoveling spicy noodles into our faces, getting over a messy past I never thought we’d put behind us.

  Even though she sits on the opposite end of the couch, a respectable platonic distance, I swear I can feel her warmth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jane

  It seems like everything in the world reminds me of Weston Chase.

  Eating dinner at my parents’ house later that week, I think about how Wes and I had our first kiss in this kitchen. Mom asks me to pass the pasta, and I wonder how many servings Wes would have to eat to be full. Dad brings up work, and I jump at any chance I get to bring up Wes’s amazing work ethic. It seems like no matter what I do, I can’t get him out of my head.

  “Janie? Are you there?”

  I snap out of another Wes-inspired fantasy and look up to find my parents staring wide-eyed at me.

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry. What did you say?”

  “I asked if you were feeling all right,” Dad says. “You seem a little all over the place tonight. Work got you caught up?”

  “Something like that,” I say, twisting the last bit of pasta onto my fork. “But things are fine, Dad. I promise.”

  Better than fine, actually. Ever since Wes and I talked things through and cleared the air about what happened all those years ago, it feels
like I’ve had ten years of weight lifted off my shoulders. An honest apology from him was exactly what I needed, and now that things are patched up, I’ve found myself letting go of my hesitation.

  Maybe Wes really has left his douchebaggery in his teenage years, and something could work between us after all. He suggested we go back to being friends, but after the way he kissed me? A girl doesn’t just forget about a kiss like that. And our texts all week have definitely erred on the side of flirty. There’s no denying that.

  A smirk tugs up my mouth as I wiggle my phone out of my back pocket and fire off a quick message.

  What are you up to tonight?

  Aside from dinner with my parents, I have no other plans for the evening. I wouldn’t mind another one of those delicious back massages, especially if it ends in a steamy kiss like last time.

  “Texting at the dinner table?” Mom scolds playfully. “I think that means you’re doing dishes tonight.”

  Returning my phone to its rightful place in my pocket, I pop out of my chair and start gathering our dirty plates.

  “Leave mine,” Dad says, nodding at his plate. “I’m going in for another round of that salad. Only your mother could make salad taste that good.”

  He shoots Mom a wink, and she rolls her eyes, giggling. They’re still so in love after all these years. I want a love like that.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, which I can only hope means a response from Wes. Plates stacked high, I shuffle off to the sink, quickly dropping them in the soapy water to free my hands. My stomach flips at the message on my screen.

  Bouta be balls deep in a couple of jersey chasers, wbu?

  You’ve got to be kidding me. My stomach twists into a painful knot.

  Is this what he had in mind when he said we should be friends? Him telling me about him fucking other girls? He hasn’t changed at all since we broke up. In fact, he’s gotten worse. How could I be so stupid?

  I slam my phone onto the counter, the screen facing down, and grab the sponge. Might as well take my anger out on the pasta sauce encrusted on the dinner plates. Before I can start in on the first , my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a call.