Page 14 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

“I keep on messing everything up,” I say instead.

“You don’t mess anything up,” Dad says sternly.

The women I hooked up with would disagree.

But maybe that’s what it means to be a real man. Maybe you’re supposed to squash any rogue emotions that come up that aren’t directly leading to your perfect life.

The ache in my chest that’s accompanied me ever since Vinnie and Evan first announced their couple status to the team is stronger now.

“I have to go,” I tell Dad.

“Okay.”

I end the call before Dad starts expounding on vacation places or something similarly ridiculous and I slide my phone into my pocket. I allow myself to imagine soft white sand and gentle warm waves and palm trees. Is any place in the world warm now? It’s fucking freezing in Boston. Early March is gray and grim with its crunchy, smog-topped snow, smeared with the exhaust of thousands of cars.

I can’t go on vacation though.

No way.

What would journalists say if I did that?

But journalists make me think of Cal, something else I try not to think about. At least I won’t have to see him in these next two weeks.

The doorbell rings, and I open the door.

It’shim.

The person I least want to see. The person who even invades my dreams at night because he’s that fucking irritating.

Cal Prescott.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jason

I consider slamming the door in Cal’s face, but there’s no way. One look at his brown eyes, and my limbs are melting. Instead, the door collides into me. I grip the handle tightly.

He’s not sixteen anymore. Neither am I.

But my body goes fluttery like it did after that kiss.

I widen my stance. He’s not here because of that. He’s probably forgotten.

“Who are you?” I ask.

His face falls.

Good.

I ignore the pain in my chest and the way it reverberates through my body. I give him my best smile, like when my elderly neighbor knocked on my door because she lost her keys, and I invited her into my living room and helped her unpack her bag completely, until we found them. “Can I help you?”

“My name is Callum Prescott.” His voice is professional. His Tennessee tang is softer now than it was in high school, but it’s still present, lingering on his vowels. I wonder if he still drops consonants. “I work for Sports Sphere.”

I keep my face neutral. He doesn’t affect me.

Besides, why would I recognize him? Last time I saw him, he was wearing a hockey jersey, and now he’s in one of those ridiculous puffer coats that become as essential to Bostonians in winter as armor was for medieval knights.

Slabs of crunchy snow fall from his boots onto the floor.