Page 36 of Score to Settle
CHASE:Maybe you can find a gorgeous reporter to kiss your bruised ego better.
JAKE:Dick!
The away team locker room in the Atlanta Skychargers stadium is quiet, the air heavy with the tang of sweat and failure. We take our grilling from Coach Allen with our heads hanging low. He rubs salt into the wound for five minutes before pivoting to his usual speech about learning from our mistakes and coming back stronger.
When it’s over, I strip off my sweat-soaked jersey and shoulder pads, wincing as I peel the tape off my knees. I canalready feel the bruises forming from the hits I took out there tonight. A hot shower in the stadium before I leave will help soothe my aching muscles, if not my ego.
Dylan is right, we should’ve won. Under the spray of water, I replay the game in my head, analyzing each play and pass, each missed tackle or blown coverage. We really were close. If only Billy hadn’t overthrown that deep ball to Rob in the fourth quarter. Or if the refs had called that blatant pass interference when the Skychargers corner yanked Rob’s arm before he could go for the catch on the last scoring drive.
We should’ve played better. Too many missed passes. Not enough momentum or drive in our plays. But “should” means shit now. And it’s pointless to throw blame and dwell on the “if only” thoughts. All we can do as a team is regroup and focus on the next game. We still have a shot at the playoffs if we can pull off wins against the Las Vegas Desertraptors and Chase’s Kansas City Trailblazers. Both are home games, so we’ll have the crowds to lift us. Then we’re away for our final game against the New York Steelguards, who haven’t lost a game all season. We still have a shot at winning the AFC West and making the playoffs, but with the sting of defeat throbbing in my muscles, I’m not sure we can do it. Based on the grumbles and silence from the team as we board the bus to the hotel, I’m not the only one who thinks so.
I push in my earphones and allow the beat of my favorite album to soothe my exhaustion and frustration. By the time we reach the hotel, I’m feeling better. There’s no use dwelling on what can’t be changed. Win or lose, I left it all on the field tonight. I need a cold beer, a burger, and sleep.
The hotel is another boring high-rise, decorated in neutral tones. Ahead of me Gordon, Billy, JT, and Dwight pile into the elevator, heading up to their rooms. There’s space for me, but I slow my pace, hanging back. The last thing I want is to hearGordon running his mouth on the ways he thinks we all let the team down tonight.
The lobby is busy with fans and parents and kids standing in groups or sitting on the gray couches. The air smells of something synthetic and floral being pumped through the AC. There’s the buzz of talk and laughter coming from a dimly lit bar in the corner. I think about grabbing a beer alone, but in a place like this, it will be seconds before a fan wants to buy me a drink and give me their analysis of the game. I love the energy of the Stormhawks fans, but right now I want some peace.
I’m stepping toward the elevators when my gaze snags on the front desk, curving in a modern crescent shape, with perky-looking staff members in navy suits. And standing on the other side of the desk, looking somehow both sexy as hell and stressed, is Harper. And she’s arguing with the desk clerk. My pulse kicks up a notch and I pause, thinking of my realization last week that the time we’re spending together has given me a teen-like crush. Another side effect of being single for so long, no doubt.
My mind drifts to that moment in the park on Saturday. The heat between us in the underpass. I can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if Buck hadn’t chosen that moment to interrupt us. I’m used to women who are dazzled by my fame and eager to please. Harper seems thoroughly unimpressed by my NFL star status.
She’s also the first woman I’ve taken to my Saturday mornings in the park with the bereavement group. I told myself when I woke that morning that I was doing it to show Harper I could give her more of myself after she threw that comment at me during our fight and I then spent all of Friday ignoring her, proving her right. But deep down, my wanting to show Harper that part of me had nothing to do with the feature she’s writing.
Three weeks in, I’m finally starting to let my guard down. But since the moment in the park, things between us havebeen strained. One moment it’s effortless and fun. Walks with Buck and evenings in the kitchen with Mama telling every embarrassing story from my childhood. Me groaning every time the family photo albums make an appearance. Even Dylan’s mood lifting long enough to tell Harper the story of him and Chase stealing my clothes at the lake and me walking back to the Ranch butt naked while Mama held meetings with college football scouts. The more I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole, the harder Harper laughed, promising me she’ll be selective with what she writes.
Then other times it’s still prickly and tense. Like when I drove us to the airport this morning and we went from something that felt light and even flirty to her accusing me of not taking the feature seriously.
“I hope you brought your nurse’s uniform in that suitcase, Cassidy. I might be inclined to get another injury.” I flashed her my most flirtatious grin.
Her eyes narrowed on me, but she was smiling too. “Not a chance.”
“What if—” I began in my teasing voice again when she cut me off.
“Seriously, Jake,” she said, the smile dropping. “If you want this feature to really show who you are and change the narrative around your reputation, you need to give me more than cocky quips.”
The tension was instant. My grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I am giving you access. Hell, I took you to the park on Saturday, didn’t I? We’re talking, aren’t we? What more do you want?”
“I want you to drop the act. To stop deflecting with jokes and actually talk to me.”
“I am,” I growled. “But you’ve got to stop pushing me. I’m getting there, OK?”
“Not quick enough,” she shot back. “We’ve only got two weeks left together. I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface. We still need to talk about?—”
“Not now.” I cut her off and turned the radio up loud, driving the rest of the way in silence.
From across the hotel lobby, I watch Harper unleash an exasperated sigh. I know I should head to my hotel room rather than risk another fight between us, but even as the thought lands, I’m crossing the lobby and leaning against the desk beside her.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
Harper whirls around at the sound of my voice. “Nothing. It’s fine,” she says, her tone saying otherwise.
The desk clerk flashes me a smile that tells me she knows exactly who I am. “It’s like I was just telling your… friend?” she continues and I don’t miss the question in her tone or the spark of interest in her eyes. “The booking for her room was canceled this morning and we’re now fully booked. We’re looking into whether this was done by the booker themselves or if our computer system may have malfunctioned. Unfortunately, it appears another guest had the same issue yesterday. But right now, there’s really nothing I can do. I’m very sorry.”
The clerk glances behind us to a long line of impatient guests and I take Harper’s arm and guide her away.
“But I didn’t book the room. My colleague did. And if she canceled, I still need—” she starts to say.
“They’re fully booked. Arguing isn’t going to change that.”
