Page 12 of The Perfect Pass
Until football.
The sport had saved him, and while he’d never been an angel, he’d straightened up his act enough to graduate and go to college on an athletic scholarship. He’d been a first-round draft pick when he’d gone pro, and by any standard of measurement, he’d been an asset to his team for as long as he’d been on the roster. But no matter how many franchise and league records he smashed, he’d never been able to outrun his upbringing. Everyone still expected him to be a screwup, especially the press, who covered every single one of his mistakes like it was the end of football itself.
And he’d definitely made his share of questionable choices—especially during his rookie year when life as a pro had been shiny and new. He’d spent his money as quickly as it had come in. He’d partied between games instead of resting. He’d dated…a lot.
But then his brother, Ryan, had come to visit, and Jackson could see how disappointed he was with the way Jackson was behaving. They weren’t the Knight boys anymore. It was long past time to grow up.
So that’s exactly what Jackson had done. He’d turned himself around and made the Cyclones his number-onepriority. Apart from Ryan, they were hisonlypriority. But after a year of making an idiot out of himself, the press was only too happy to keep running negative stories. These days, a lot of them weren’t even true. As for the others…
Certain things were just private. Even Harper didn’t know the whole truth, and if Jackson could help it, she never would.
Silence stretched over the phone line as the coffee maker spit out a dark, foul-smelling sludge. Even the appliances in this town hated him.
“Are you dropping me as a client?” he asked, head pounding.
“No,” she said, and at last, he heard a note of sympathy in her tone. “Not yet, anyway. But that press conference was a complete disaster. You need to fix this.Immediately.”
“Will do.”
“I’m serious, Jackson. You need to find a way to get back in that local reporter’s good graces,” Harper said. “The one with the brother.”
“Her name is Calla. Calla Dunne,” he said as the memory of those long legs and red cowboy boots floated through his mind.
Why did he get the feeling that getting on her good side was going to prove all but impossible?
A firm knock sounded on the front door before he could contemplate that question, and Jackson’s head snapped up. Who on earth could that be? The greater population of Bishop Falls, intent on tar and feathering him before he found a decent cup of coffee?
“I’ve got to go,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair as he strode toward the door. “Someone’s here.”
“Fine. Butfix this. I mean it, Jackson,” Harper said. Then she ended the call without bothering to say goodbye.
Jackson shoved his phone into the pocket of his jeans—the same ones he’d been wearing since he’d landed in Texas. He’d slept in his clothes since he hadn’t bothered to open his suitcase yet. Possibly, he never would. There was always a chance the knock at the door wasn’t Calla at all, but Principal Dean or the athletic director, coming to fire him in person.
Part of him—the delusional, optimistic part that was more often than not outweighed by his self-destructive tendencies—hoped that wasn’t the case. He was here, wasn’t he? He may as well stay…
For now.
Anyway, if he didn’t clean up this mess, there wouldn’t be anything left for him in Chicago. Or anyplace else.
He let that sobering dose of reality settle in the pit of his stomach as he swung the door open and found a guy about his age dressed in a green Bishop Bulldogs jacket and matching baseball cap standing on the welcome mat. The khakis and athletic shoes he was wearing, coupled with the bulldog gear, made Jackson think he might be a fellow member of the coaching staff.
On the flip side, maybe not. Was there anyone in this town whose wardrobedidn’tconsist primarily of the school colors?
Just one, apparently,he thought as a fresh wave of shame washed over him.Calla Dunne.
“Hey.” Jackson cast a wary glance at the stranger. A school identification tag hung from a lanyard around the man’s neck, along with a whistle. Definitely part of the football program.
He’d thought the guy looked vaguely familiar. The other coaches had been seated onstage behind him during the press conference. He’d only gotten a quick glimpse of them when he’d taken his place behind the podium, and since everything had soon devolved into a chaotic mess, Jackson had yet to formally meet his staff.
“Hey.” The guy offered his hand to Jackson for a shake. He didn’t exactly smile, but the cordial greeting had to be a somewhat good sign. Perhaps he hadn’t been sent to escort Jackson out of town. “Cade Montgomery. Offensive coordinator and quarterbacks coach for the Bulldogs.”
Jackson clasped his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jackson.”
“Yeah, I know.” Cade laughed under his breath. “We didn’t get a chance to formally meet yesterday, but I thought I’d swing by in case you needed to see a friendly face this morning. Or at least a face that’s not outright hostile.”
“I appreciate it.” Jackson nodded as Bishop panted his way toward them and plopped his sizable rear onto one of his bare feet. His gaze cut toward the dog and then back at the other coach. “Honestly, I’ll take any face that doesn’t belong to this monster.”
Cade’s face cracked into a grin. “Any chance you’re up for a cup of coffee before school starts? I can fill you in on a few things.” He glanced at his smartwatch. “We’ve got about forty minutes before first bell.”
