Page 3 of Score to Settle
Then another thought occurs to me—a tiny spark of an idea. Tim wants me to go beyond the sound bites to what really makes Jake tick, but Tim doesn’t care if the feature is good or bad for Jake. Tim doesn’t care if my story saves Jake’s career or destroys it—as long as it’s a damn good article. A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips.
Jake Sullivan has broken a lot of hearts over the years. But I’m pretty sure mine was the first. And that’s the other small detail I should’ve told Tim just now. I might not know anything about the NFL, but I sure as hell know Jake Sullivan.
Looks like I might finally get my revenge.
TWO
JAKE
DYLAN:Mama’s looking for you, J. Where are you?
DYLAN:She’s pissed!
CHASE:What’s he done now?
DYLAN:He was supposed to be home by now. The reporter is here.
CHASE:LOL
DYLAN:Real helpful, Chase. Haven’t you got a coach to impress?
DYLAN:Jake, are you on your way?
DYLAN:???
The door at the back of the Stormhawks stadium gives easily. I ignore the “No Exit” sign and the one below reading “Door Alarmed” and stride into the parking lot and the late-afternoon sun. This late in November my breath plumes in a white cloudfrom my mouth as I heave a long sigh. I’ll get a grilling on Monday about this, but right now all I want is to be in my truck and driving home. Plus, sneaking out the back means I can avoid the pep talk from Coach Allen.
No amount of backslapping is going to change how much I sucked today. My passes were off, my catches clumsy. I just couldn’t get in sync with the team. I’m a tight end. I’m supposed to be versatile. It’s why I love the position. I’m a big receiver and a blocker. When I’m on, I’m the glue between the line and the skill players. I’m the safety valve for the quarterback when things go south. I’m the guy who can throw a chip block to spring a run or catch a tough pass. But today? I felt like dead weight. Every route, every block—it was like my brain knew what to do, but my body was running a second behind.
It’s only one practice. Everyone has an off day. But withsix games left to win our conference division and secure our place in the playoffs, plus contract renewals around the corner, I can’t afford to give anything less than my best. Not to mention the Stormhawks haven’t made the playoffs for the last three years, finishing second in the AFC West last year, narrowly missing out to the Kansas City Trailblazers by two points. Heads are gonna roll if the Stormhawks don’t make it for a fourth. And considering the shit I’m already in with my reputation, I can’t give them any more reasons to put my head on the block.
I pull my phone from the back pocket of my Levi’s, groaning as an ache stretches across my lower back. I try to remember the last time everything didn’t hurt and almost laugh. I’m twenty-nine years old not a hundred. But in football terms, I’m already old. I’ll be lucky to get five more years on the team and that’s only if I can stay injury-free. My mind flashes to Dylan, but I shut it down before the queasy guilt hits the pit of my stomach.
There are two missed calls from Oakwood Ranch. I briefly wonder if she already knows how badly I sucked today. She mustbe pissed if she’s asking Dylan to message me. Joanna Sullivan—known to the world as Mama Sullivan—might be the sole reason Dylan, Chase, and I play football as well as we do. She might be our agent and the driving force behind our pro careers, the reason I’m playing for my home team. She might be one step ahead of all of us, all of the time. But Mama doesn’t text.
I cross the empty parking lot. On game days this whole area and every block for a five-mile radius will be jammed with vehicles. Banners and grilled burgers and shirtless men drinking beers from coolers.
My old pickup is sitting alone in the middle of the lot. It was ancient when I bought it a decade ago and I keep thinking about trading it in. It’s not like I don’t have the money. Thanks to Mama’s unflinching negotiation skills, all three of us Sullivans are among some of the top-paid players in the NFL. But I’m not in this for the money and I like the way the seats of my truck are dipped and molded to my body, and how climbing in feels a little like being home.
I spot a small group of female fans leaning against the driver’s side door and sigh inwardly. Some of the team brush the fans aside, but I always remember the eight-year-old me standing beside my dad, holding out my Stormhawks jersey for the legendary Mike Callaghan to sign. That scribble, followed by a hair ruffle, made my whole year. So I push aside my exhaustion and paste on a smile, giving them the full Jake Sullivan experience. I pose for selfies and sign posters and pieces of paper and flirt a little too.
I’m almost done when a blonde in cowboy boots and a tight denim shirt hands me a Sharpie before nodding to her cleavage.
I laugh, cocking an eyebrow. “Really?”
“You know it, baby.” She grins and gives me the take-me-to-bed eyes I’ve seen a thousand times before. Then she unfastensthe next button on her shirt, revealing the top of a black lace bra and a hell of a lot of breast to sign.
I shrug, never one to disappoint. As I lean close, I catch the scent of sweet perfume.
“Anyone ever tell you, you could be Rhysand from ACOTAR?” she says in a breathy whisper.
I frown, none of those words making sense to me. “Who?” I ask.
“Don’t worry.” She laughs. “It’s a compliment.”
I give her the roguish grin she wants and press the nib of the pen to her plump, tanned skin. Then a shout carries across the lot. “What the hell, Kelly?”
I turn in time to see a red-faced, angry-looking man charging toward me. He’s half my height, skinny as fuck, and has a man bun, but his fists are bunched and he’s coming at me swinging.
