Page 18

Chapter Eighteen

Jake

July 5th

T he walk starts off casual.

Low-key.

People are flooding the sidewalks, and neon signs flash from block to block.

Music spills out of every open door—guitars, steel drums, bass thumps from the rooftop clubs.

Nashville feels alive tonight.

We keep close, not touching but moving in sync.

A few fans recognize me as we stroll.

Some ask for selfies, and a few want to shake my hand.

I take the photos, sign a cap, and other available items.

Tahlia hangs back, letting me work the crowd, but I catch the way she watches—curious, almost amused.

She doesn’t rush me.

Doesn’t shrink, either.

She’s just…

there.

And I like that more than I want to admit.

We start walking again, the noise from the crowd fading as we slip into a quieter stretch of the street.

Tahlia glances sideways at me, her voice dry but curious.

“You always stop for strangers like that?”

I shrug.

“If they ask nice.”

She lifts an eyebrow.

“That all it takes?”

“Nah.” I glance down at her, then back at the sidewalk.

“Sometimes people just wanna feel like they matter, even for a second. Doesn’t cost me anything to make that moment count.”

“That’s actually kind of sweet.”

I smirk.

“Don’t tell anybody. It’ll ruin my image.”

“Too late,” she murmurs.

I nudge her with my shoulder.

“You saying I’ve lost my edge?” I think back to what Troy and I talked about earlier.

She looks up at me, that smirk pulling at her mouth.

“I’m saying the guy who signs autographs for toddlers and grandmas probably isn’t as intimidating as he thinks he is.”

“Oh, I’m intimidating,” I say.

“You just haven’t seen me pissed off yet.”

“Then I guess I’m doing something right.”

I let the silence hang for a second.

“Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

“The fans.”

She shrugs.

“Not at all. I know you're used to all the attention. Especially from the adoring female fans who bat their eyelashes like they're trying to fan your ego.”

I slow my steps just enough to fall in sync beside her.

“Tahlia, if it wasn’t evident in that kiss last night, you’re the only one I want.”

She’s quiet for a beat.

Not teasing.

Just…

taking it in.

We keep walking, a breeze slipping between buildings, cooler now that the sun’s dropped.

I see the bar up ahead, tucked between a boot shop and a neon-lit candy store.

I nod toward the door.

“This one okay?”

She glances at the sign, then back at me.

“You picked it. If it sucks, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair.”

I reach for the door and hold it open, letting her step inside first.

And yeah, I look.

She knows it, too.

And doesn’t say a word.

We settle at a high-top near the back.

I order a beer; she goes for a rum and Coke, smooth and unbothered.

The bartender slides them over, and we fall into a comfortable pause.

Talk comes easy.

That’s the thing with her—she never forces it.

She tips her glass toward me.

“Is it still weird walking around with people whispering about your ribs?"

I shrug. “It comes with the job. People will whisper about anything when you’re in the limelight.”

I sip my beer, then lean in just enough to lower my voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already are.”

“Why are you single?”

Her eyes flicker, amused. “Wow, that was direct.” She sits back, the smirk still there but softer now. “I think I scare most guys off.”

I raise an eyebrow. “By existing?”

“By having ambition,” she says, swirling the ice in her glass. “By not needing a man to validate me. Some men don’t like that.”

I nod slowly. “Sounds like their loss.”

“Guess so.” She smiles and takes a slow sip.

The speaker hums, and Luke Bryan’s Play It Again glides over the crowd like it knows where we’re headed.

Tahlia tilts her head toward the speakers, then looks at me over her glass. “I like this one.”

“Yeah?”

She sets her drink down, then stands. “Come dance with me.”

I blink. “You serious?”

“You scared?”

I shake my head and push to my feet, careful but steady. “Only of stepping on you.”

The floor’s not crowded—just a few couples swaying in the soft glow of the string lights above. She takes my hand, and I curl mine around her waist, the other lacing with her fingers.

Her body molds to mine as if it's meant to be there. Her other hand rests on my shoulder, and I keep my hold loose. My ribs remind me to take it slow, but nothing about this feels forced.

We sway, barely moving, as if the rest of the bar has faded out.

Like it’s just us.

“I’m not great at this,” I murmur.

“You’re doing fine,” she whispers. “Just don’t stop.”

And I don’t.

Because in this moment, her head tucked against my chest, the rhythm carrying us in a lazy circle, nothing else matters—not the pain, not the cameras, not the recovery schedule taped to my fridge.

Just her.

And the part of me that’s been waiting for this exact kind of quiet assurance.

I dip my head closer to hers. She doesn’t move away.

We stay like that until the song fades.

Then I kiss her temple.

Not for show. Not for the crowd. Just because I need to.

She looks up and smiles like she’s seeing something real.

We’re leaving the dance floor when some guy near the bar staggers past, shoulders bumped out wide like he owns the room. His gaze cuts to me, then to her, stopping at our side.

“No fuckin’ way,” he slurs, pointing. “That’s Jake Reynolds.”

I let go of Tahlia’s waist, body tightening.

He stumbles closer, drink in hand, grin too wide. “Man, you got wrecked that last game, huh? Took one right to the ribs. Brutal.”

I force a polite nod. “Appreciate the support.”

He turns to Tahlia, eyes sweeping over her way too slow. “Damn. This your girl? Is she the reason you're hurt?"

Tahlia stiffens beside me. “Excuse me?”

“You look like trouble,” he says, leaning in too close. “Bet you kept him up all night before that game, huh? Can’t blame him.”

“Back the fuck off,” I snap.

The bar patrons are looking on, and I'm sure cameras are rolling.

But he doesn’t. He laughs, real ugly. “What? I’m just saying. Bitch probably cost you the season.”

Tahlia steps forward, fire in her eyes. “Say that again.”

I move faster than I should, knowing the consequences that are going to come from my actions.

One punch. That’s all it takes. Clean and right to the jaw.

He drops like a bad habit.

The music cuts. Glass hits the floor. A bartender yells something I don’t hear.

Tahlia’s already in front of me, hands on my chest. “What the hell, Jake?!”

“He called you a bitch.”

“He was drunk!”

“And he was out of line.”

The tension cracks like lightning. She grabs her bag. “Let’s go. Now.”

I don’t argue. I follow.

Outside, the air is thick, loud, humid with sweat and traffic noise.

She doesn’t say a word the whole walk back.

And for the first time since I met her…

I don’t know if I should.

She doesn’t say a word the whole walk back.

Not one.

Her heels click fast on the sidewalk.

My steps drag. I’m not limping from the ribs. I’m just… trailing. Trying to read her from the back. The set of her shoulders. The way her fingers clench around her clutch as if it’s keeping her from swinging at me.

When we reach her door, she unlocks and opens it without even looking at me, and doesn't even wait.

I follow her inside, and as soon as the door clicks shut behind me, it starts.

"What the hell was that, Reynolds?" she snaps, spinning around.

“He was out of line.”

“And you knocked him out cold in the middle of a bar. I’m sure it’s already trending on the socials.”

No sooner than she finishes that statement, my agent calls. I send him to voicemail because this right here is more important.

“He called you a bitch, Tahlia.”

She scoffs. “Do you think that’s the first time I’ve been called that?”

I stare at her. “I wasn’t about to let him talk to you like that.”

“You’re not my bodyguard, Jake.”

“No, but I’m your man and I’ll be damned if I let someone disrespects my woman.”

That hits her right in the feels, causing her to take a step or two back.

I step forward, reclaiming the space between us.

She throws her hands up, pacing toward the kitchen and back. “It’s not about me. It’s about you risking everything you’ve built over some drunk idiot who wasn’t worth the oxygen he was wasting.”

I exhale through my nose. “I didn’t think. I just?—”

“Exactly. You didn’t think.”

That one lands harder than I expect. I press my tongue to my molars, jaw clenched tight.

“I’m not apologizing for standing up for you,” I say, my tone hushed.

“Good. Because I’m not asking for one.” She crosses her arms. “But I need you to realize what you risked. What you walked into.”

I shake my head. “You think I don’t know?”

She looks at me, and something in her expression softens just enough to break my chest wide open. But she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just lets the silence stretch.

“I’m gonna get my stuff,” I mutter.

She doesn’t stop me.

I head down the hall, ribs flaring with every breath I don’t want to take. Grab my duffel, toiletries, and clothes.

When I return, she’s standing near the couch, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

I step past her toward the door.

I don’t wait for more. Just walk out, close the door behind me, and try not to let it feel like something just broke.

Troy: I need answers now.

Not even a second after sending that message, my agent sends another.

Troy: Link attached.

A sense of dread washes over me, as I stare at the URL preview, my finger overing over it out of pure reluctance. With a deep breath, I finally open it, and take several moments to digest it all.

Tahlia was right.

And not just kinda right.

Loud, headline-making, viral-right. The punch is all over the internet.

The video may be grainy and shaky, but it’s clear enough to see my fist land and the guy’s head snap back. It has already racked up over two million views. I made the rounds on three sports accounts before midnight. Someone slowed it down and added dramatic music, and there’s already a meme.

Troy continues to call until I answer.

He chews my ass out so hard I swear my other ribs start hurting.

“What were you thinking?”

“What happened to not doing something stupid?"

“You’ve got appearances in days, Jake. Days.”

“You’re lucky the guy didn’t hit his head on a table. You’d be dealing with a lawsuit on top of everything else . ”

I just let him rant until he got it all out of his system.

Texts from the team come at different times, all saying basically the same thing.

Kelton: You good, man? TMZ’s got the footage. Not a great look.

Diesel: You gotta walk away next time.

D’Andre: Please tell me you iced after.

Each message is more disappointing than the last.

But nothing— nothing —hits harder than the call from my parents.

They call it “unnecessary.” Say, “You know better. Your name means something now, Jake. Don’t give the world a reason to use it against you.”

One punch. One damn punch and now everyone’s watching again—waiting to see if I’m the guy they warned the team about. They’re right. I should’ve walked away.

Instead, I’m pacing my floor, wrist throbbing from the punch, head pounding from knowing I messed up something that matters.

I’ve showered. Rewrapped. Tried to sleep, and none of that works.

I try to game—the first time in a long time—but my hand stops that from happening. I put ice on my hand and ribs; that’s enough to cool them, but not me. I try to distract myself with music, but the first song that plays is the one she was playing when she was cleaning earlier, and all I could see was her in those shorts that nearly threw my recovery out the window. Needless to say, that doesn’t work either.

I grab my phone, thumb hovering over her name wanting to call her, text her, something.

Fuck it.

Me: You up?

It takes four minutes to get a response, but I at least get one.

Tahlia: Unfortunately.

Me: I need help with my wrap. Can you come by?

Another pause, but this time it's a little longer than the last.

I almost type never mind when the typing dots appear.

Tahlia: Give me a second.

I grab the note card and fold it once, my handwriting messy but clear. I tuck it under the bouquet of flowers I ordered earlier when I got home—figured I will need a peace offering.

Twelve long-stemmed roses. Deep red. Full bloom. No cellophane. Just wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. The florist calls it understated.

It still feels like too much and not enough at the same time. I’ve never bought flowers for anyone other than family.

I hear the knock, and my chest tightens from nerves.

I open the door, and there she is.

Bonnet on. My Terrors hoodie and pajama pants.

Where are the booty shorts?

Her arms are crossed, and her expression is unreadable.

Her eyes fall on the flowers and the note card.

She doesn’t say anything.

I shift my weight. “I didn’t know how else to say it.”

She steps inside without a word and walks past me to the kitchen island. Fingers trail across the petals. She lifts the note and reads it once.

I’m sorry. I saw red and forgot what mattered most. You.

When she looks up, her eyes are glassy—but steady. “You really expect flowers to fix it?”

“No.” I swallow hard. “I expect you not to be here. But you are. And I’m not gonna waste that.”

She stares at me for a long second.

And walks right up to me.

“Turn around,” she says, voice soft but firm.

I obey.

Her fingers peel away the wrap gently, and her touch is all business. I feel it anyway.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Jake.”

“Don’t know what to tell you. Better get used to it.”

“Why? You gonna hit someone every time I get insulted?” she murmurs.

“Only if they do it in front of me.”

The wrap falls to the floor. I hear the crinkle of a fresh bandage being opened. Her hands skim my waist. I close my eyes.

“This is reckless,” she says.

“Not as reckless as letting you think I didn’t care.”

She finishes rewrapping and lets her palms settle on my back for a second longer than needed.

I turn to face her.

Her eyes flick down to my chest, up to my mouth.

We don’t talk about what’s coming next.

I just lean in.

And this time, when I kiss her, it’s not gentle.

It’s everything I’ve been holding back. Her fingers knot in my shirt. My hand finds her hip. The heat flares fast and undeniable.

She pulls away, her breath ragged.

“Still think I’m the reckless one?” I whisper.

She stares at me and nods.

“Yeah, but I’m staying.”

“Here? At my place?”

She nods again.

My jaw relaxes with relief. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes, softer.

She steps around me, heads for the couch.

“Come sit before I change my mind,” she mutters.

I follow. No argument.

By the time I stretch out beside her, her head is on my chest, and one hand rests just above the wrap she’s just fixed.

The roses stay on the counter.

The apology’s in the silence.

And neither of us needs anything else tonight.