Page 80 of Score to Settle
“I mean it,” he says as he drops into the chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a ton of bricks landed on my neck, but the doc says I’m good.”
He nods. “You always were a lucky son of a bitch.”
“Yeah.” Something makes me think of Dad in that moment. How he saved my life the night of the storm but lost his in the process. The memory consumes me in a familiar grief. Like always it’s tangled with a raw, unforgiving guilt. I’m the reason my father died. Harper’s voice plays in my mind.
I bet anything, even if he knew the outcome, he’d still have done it a thousand times over.
Her words are a soothing ointment, despite everything going on between us. I take a shuddering breath and let the guilt go for now.
Beside me, Dylan shifts in the chair, his hulking frame looking out of place in the small room. He clears his throat, eyes darting around before finally settling on me. “Look, Jake, I owe you an apology.”
I raise my brows. Dylan apologizing? That’s a first.
He rubs a hand over his face, the scruff of his beard rasping against his palm. “I’ve been a real asshole to you. Ever since my injury, it’s been easier to blame you than accept what happened. Seeing you out there tonight, watching you go down, I was terrified you were injured. It made me realize how awful I’ve been.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. I want to brush off his words, make a joke like I always do, but something in his eyes stops me.
“I finally talked to Coach while we were waiting for news on your neck,” Dylan continues. “He told me what really happened with the cheerleaders. How you were trying to help them and it blew up in your face. I should’ve known better than to believe the stories in the press. I should’ve had your back.”
“Yeah, you should’ve,” I say, the words coming out harsher than I intend.
Dylan nods, accepting the jab. “You’re right. I let my anger cloud my judgment. Then when Coach moved you to tight end, I felt like you’d stolen my dreams.”
“It’s not like I had a choice. I didn’t ask to be tight end.”
“I know. But all I kept thinking was, even if I make it back from this injury, I don’t have a position to come back to.”
“Coach had to fill it, Dylan.”
“Yeah. I’m not saying my thoughts were logical, alright? I’m just trying to explain.”
I ignore the shooting pain and clap a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, too. I wanted to protect you in that game.”
He shrugs. “Could’ve happened anyway and we both know it. I’m sorry, Jake. Truly. And hey, if things go to plan, we’ll be playing together again next season.”
I study my brother’s face, the sincerity in his eyes. Then I smile. “If I’d realized all I needed to do was get my neck crushed for you to stop being the world’s grumpiest ass, I’d have done it months ago.”
He laughs. A deep, booming chuckle I’ve missed hearing. “Well, that and Harper giving me shit.”
“Harper?” Even her name has my heart lurching.
A smile tugs at Dylan’s mouth. “She didn’t tell you? We bumped into each other in the kitchen the other night at the ranch and she gave me a talking to. God knows why, but she’s crazy about you. Really has your back.”
I think of the notes I read and our fight, and the thought of her having my back rails against me. But then I think of the hurt in her eyes as she walked out the door earlier. My heart sinks with shame as I realize I’ve done the same thing Dylan did to me—I pushed Harper away. Blaming her for my own failings, or for something nobody could have helped.
“Where is she?” Dylan asks, glancing around the room as if he expects her to materialize out of thin air.
I look down at my hands, regret burning through me. “I might’ve made it sound like I blamed her for me getting injured.”
Dylan shakes his head. “You fucking idiot.” He stands and makes his way to the door. “Well, are you coming? Or are you going to sit here and wallow all night?”
I ease myself from the bed, gritting my teeth to the throbbing ache in my neck. And that’s when I see Harper’s notebook sitting on the edge of the bed. Her words from earlier this week whisper in my ear.
Look at the rest of the notebook. Look at what else I’ve said about you.
Tentatively, I lift the cover, skipping past the first pages of her anger, and read on. The words swim in front of my eyes. Pages and pages of stories I told her and observations.
