Page 8 of Score to Settle
The worst of it is I should’ve had his back and protected him from that tackle and we both know it. The whole world knows it. Since the injury at the end of last summer Dylan has thrown his walls up. He can’t take a joke anymore, but I keep trying. Thosewalls are higher for me than anyone else. I get it, but I miss my brother.
Dylan’s injury was a complete ACL tear. It looked like his football career was over. But after two operations and months of sitting with his leg up, he’s got a shot at a full recovery and being back on the field. He’s thrown himself into a grueling physical therapy and weights routine set by the Stormhawks trainers and private physical therapists Mama’s hired for him, including stretching exercises in ice water. He even broke up with his long-term girlfriend, Kate—a fitness instructor in the city—so he could concentrate on his recovery. I get the dedication, but I swear he wouldn’t be so grumpy if he gave his dick even a fraction of the attention he’s giving his recovery.
Although I’ve hardly been my usual self with women either, since his injury. I never used to care that every move I made with women blew up my socials, but now that it comes with a grilling from Coach Allen and Mama, it’s not worth it. Especially when most of the rumors about me aren’t even true.
“What’s up with you today anyway?” Dylan asks, wading back to the shore. “Bad practice?”
I think about telling him how shit I was today, but Dylan is the last person I can complain to about my clumsy catches. We both know how lucky I am to be playing when he’s stuck here. I know it eats at Dylan that Coach Allen moved me into his position as tight end after his injury. It’s become an unspoken wedge between us. But what was I supposed to do—turn it down? The team needed a tight end and considering how close I’d come to being cut from the team last year, I had no choice but to take it. Someone had to fill Dylan’s role. It’s not like I don’t feel terrible about it every time I step onto the field.
Buck barks beside me, nudging a wet face against my leg, but I’m lost in thought and not quick enough. In the next second, he’s jumping, all seventy pounds plus the wet fur, bounding intome. You’d think I’d be used to being tackled like this, but he catches me off balance and suddenly I’m falling back on my ass with a, “Hey.”
He barks in my ear while standing on top of me, dripping wet and panting breath. I laugh and rub my hands over his damp golden fur. Then just as fast he’s darting from my arms and I turn to see Harper a few feet away.
She arches an eyebrow in amusement. “Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” I say at the same moment Dylan steps out the water—a giant hulk of a man. Taller than me by an inch, with a thick beard covering half his face. His hours pumping weights in his bedroom have paid off. The man is ripped. I catch Harper having the same thought, eyes flicking over him in appraisal, and feel another stab of annoyance that she’s here. But Dylan is already shaking his head and grabbing a towel.
“Not interrupting at all,” he says.
“How’s the injury?” she asks him, nodding to the support Dylan is wrapping around his knee.
I wait for Dylan to explode in his usual anger like he does with me when I ask this question. It’s not fair, but I’m looking forward to watching someone rip into this woman who’s not only invaded my life but, based on what I’ve seen and heard so far, is out to ruin it. But of course Dylan is nice to Harper. Any frustration he feels at the question is hidden beneath that big beard of his.
“It’s improving slowly,” he says.
“That’s great.” She smiles.
Great is not the word for it. The longer Dylan is out with injury, the less chance there is he’ll make it back, which is why he’s working so hard and why he’s so fucking miserable. He has nine months until the next team selection and pre-season. If he can’t get back by then, he’ll have been out too long and will likelynever make it back. Something Harper should know as a sports journalist.
Dylan gives a short nod and moves away. “I’m going for a shower. He’s all yours.”
And just like that I’m alone with Harper Cassidy. She fixes me with a look as though this whole thing is a colossal waste of her time.
I’ve never cared what people think of me. If they want to believe that all I’m about is fucking women and playing football, that’s fine with me. And it’s not like I haven’t earned that reputation in the past. It never used to matter, but then the story hit about me spending time in my truck in the stadium parking lot with three cheerleaders after practice last September. The story took on a life of its own. Threesomes and cheating stories flew out of corners everywhere. There was even a story about a secret love child.
No one seemed to care that the Stormhawks, like most NFL teams, have strict rules against players dating cheerleaders. I was benched for one game, but I wasn’t dropped from the team because the stories were total bull. Even Coach Allen could see that. But since then, my reputation has become its own thing that I can’t get a hold of. I can’t go anywhere without being linked to a woman or slammed for a drunken night I wasn’t even drunk on.
One stupid move and over a year later I’m still paying for it. People can’t see beyond the reputation. The Dodge driver’s comment runs through my thoughts.I know all about you and your ways.Even so, it annoys me more than it should that Harper thinks this way too. I thought a journalist fromSports Magazinewould be supportive. Or at the very least have an open mind.
Neither of us speak as we stare over the lake. I’m more than happy with the silence. There’s a rustle from the undergrowthnearby making Harper jump back and then laugh at her own reaction as Buck appears by her side again. I watch her toss her brown hair over her shoulder before taking a long inhale like she’s preparing herself for battle.
“I thought we could make a plan for tomorrow,” she says. “For us to spend some time together. It would be good to get a bit of background. What you do when you’re not playing football, that kind of thing.”
My jaw clenches and I see my weekend ruined. “I’ve got plans tomorrow.”
She’s silent for another moment, and then she says, “I’ll join you.”
I swallow down a groan. “I’m hiking Golden Gate Canyon in the morning. Me and Buck. Just the two of us.”
“I hike,” she says.
“Not based on those killer heels I saw in the kitchen earlier.”
She rolls her eyes. “Staring at my legs, Sullivan? What a surprise.”
“The only surprise is that you think you’re fit enough to hike with me and Buck in the mountains.” I sigh. Why am I letting this journalist get under my skin? “I’m going early and I’m going alone. We can talk at lunch.”
“Early works for me,” she says, like I haven’t just spoken. “Shall we leave at seven? And for the record, I’m not one of your fans or your bar hookups. I can handle anything you throw at me.”
