Page 54 of Score to Settle
“Yes, Coach,” Jake calls back before disappearing into the mob of his teammates and their celebrations.
The locker room door closes and I lean against the wall, my face aching from smiling. I swear I’m as happy as every die-hard Stormhawks fan tonight.
“You’ll keep an eye on him?”
My head shoots up and I find Coach Allen standing before me. He’s a bull of a man. An ex-player who still looks like he pumps some serious iron in the gym. His bushy gray mustache twitches as he speaks. “Trouble always finds that boy,” he adds.
I nod, hoping Jake won’t mind me tagging along as a babysitter, but any fears are swept away when the team bundles from the changing rooms fifteen minutes later and Jake makesa beeline for me, wearing his familiar Levi’s and a black fitted sweater that clings to his biceps.
“Enjoy the game?” he asks, his voice a warm caress as he throws an arm around me and leads us through the throng to the parking lot.
“You were incredible,” I reply as heat radiates from his touch. It feels so right to be tucked into his side, and yet I force some distance between us, aware of how many people are watching. I feel Jake tense and want to explain that no matter what is happening between us, we have to keep it quiet.
But then Jake relaxes, flashing me an easy grin. “Iwasincredible tonight, wasn’t I? You really are my good luck charm, Cassidy.”
“You don’t need luck with those moves,” I smile. “Look, Coach Allen asked me to tag along to keep an eye on you tonight, but I don’t want to cramp your style. If you want me to go…”
The intensity returns to his gaze and suddenly my mind is pulling me back to the moment Jake laid me on the couch in the living room of the ranch and stared at me just like he is now. His eyes darken like he knows where my mind has gone.
“Come with us,” he says, voice gravelly from the shouting on the field. “Not to babysit. Come because you want to celebrate with me.”
I blink and nod. “OK.”
The parking lot is flooded with fans in Stormhawks jerseys waiting to catch a glimpse of their heroes. They shout Jake’s name and his face breaks into an easy smile as he signs autographs while the rest of the team hurries toward their vehicles, eager to start the celebrations. I tighten my jacket against the bitter chill of the night air. Overhead, the clouds look swollen and heavy, threatening more snow that doesn’t look like it’ll disappear this time.
Jake throws a glance over his shoulder, a crease forming at the sight of me shivering and the line of his fans still waiting for their turn to greet him. When I chose the tight black jeans, white Stormhawks top, and Mia’s leather jacket, it was with Jake’s lingering gaze in mind. But my outfit is doing nothing to ward off the cold.
“I’m fine,” I mouth, forcing myself not to shiver.
He’s about to turn back when he catches the eye of two of his teammates. “JT, Billy, take Harper with you to the bar. I’ll be five minutes behind you.”
“Sure thing,” one of them calls.
Jake gives me a nod, telling me to go. “They’re good guys,” he says. “They’ll look after you.”
“Well, I am. I’m Billy Vargas, the quarterback you saw throwing that awesome pass to Jake tonight,” he says and I laugh at his confidence. He has a head of black curly hair, a cheeky smile, and a vibe that makes me instantly like him. “You’re the journalist, right? How’s the feature on our man Jake going?”
“It’s going well.” I smile. It’s true. I think of the pages of notes filling my notebook. They’ve gone from bitter and scathing to something far richer. They paint a portrait of a complex man navigating a high-pressure world with all eyes on him, judging his every move. A man who, despite the headlines, has a good heart. A man who makes my pulse race with a single smoldering look.
“Well, if you need some juicy stories, we’ve got you covered,” Billy shouts.
“Don’t listen to them,” Jake calls over his shoulder, but he’s laughing. Relaxed. These are his friends. He trusts them.
“Yo, Vargas,” JT says from the other side of me. “Hope there’s room in the truck for your ego.”
They tussle a little as we walk across the parking lot. JT is the Stormhawks kicker. He’s tall and muscular like Jake, but not as broad. He has short brown hair, a mustache that looks right out of an eighties TV show, and twinkling eyes. The drive to the bar is short but filled with laughter. Billy regales me with story after outrageous story about Jake—how he once came to practice wearing nothing but a jockstrap and the time he got stuck in the laundry chute after a dare. I can’t help giggling, though I wonder how much is true.
By the time we arrive, the lot is already full and JT finds a space a way down the road. A biting wind whips down the street as we hurry into the warmth of the bar, which is heaving with fans and players. The jukebox is loud, the laughter louder. I see Flic behind the bar with three other staff. She flashes me a smile and nods her appreciation for my white Stormhawks top.
We join the huddle of those waiting to be served and I try not to watch the door for Jake. I long for him to walk in and throw his arm around me again like I belong in that space beside him. Even if I know we can’t be seen like that together.
Billy and JT push to the front, and a minute later an overflowing glass of white wine is being pushed into my hands and I find myself wedged in with nowhere to go. Before I know it, Gordon is beside me.
“Hey, Harper, how’s it going?” he asks.
I take a sip of wine. It’s cold with a sharp tang that leaves me wondering if I should’ve stuck with a light beer. “Good,” I reply. “Congrats on the win.”
“Thanks. It was a team effort. Couldn’t have done it without Jake playing like that tonight.”
