Page 19 of Score to Settle (Oakwood Ranch #1)

TEN

JAKE

What a win! One we really needed. One I really needed.

For the first time in a long time, the ache in my legs and shoulders actually feels good as I step from the shower in the hotel bathroom.

Like I’ve got a hundred more games in me.

Our next game is at home against the Miami Tidalrunners on Thursday and already I’m feeling pumped for it.

I half wonder if having Harper at practice this week and the game tonight, knowing she’s there for me and me alone, made the difference. It’s a stupid thought. Harper is still closer to being a pain in my ass than a lucky charm.

I pull on my basketball shorts and throw myself onto the bed as I relive the game in my thoughts, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.

The hotel room is like every other mid-range high-rise in this part of Los Angeles.

Functional and sleek but lacking personality.

Doors bang from down the hall followed by the laughter and shouts of my teammates.

It feels strange not to be joining them.

How many nights like this have we hit whichever city we’ve been in, downing shots and beers and enjoying the flirting of the female fans who always find their way to the same bar?

I feel a stab of frustration that I’m not part of it tonight. But Coach Allen’s words from Monday are still ringing in my head.

I don’t have to tell you, Jake, that one more screw-up like last year and you’re done.

I can’t risk any more bad press. So here I am, alone on Thanksgiving night after the biggest win of the season so far, stuck in a hotel room while everyone else parties. I sigh and flip on the TV, trying to distract myself, landing on a rerun of Friends.

When the knock on my door comes a minute later, I kill the TV and ease my aching body up.

“Go to hell,” I say as I’m opening the door, expecting Billy or Rob wanting to coax me out.

Except it’s not one of my teammates. It’s Harper, wearing a pair of skimpy denim shorts and the red Stormhawks tee Mama gave her. Her sleek hair is up in a swishing ponytail and she looks just as hot as she did in her swimwear earlier this week.

“Good to see you, too.” Harper smiles but there’s an awkwardness to it, like maybe she’s having second thoughts about knocking on my door.

I realize she’s missing Thanksgiving with her family.

I can barely remember a time before I was playing football on the holiday, but I doubt this is Harper’s idea of a fun Thanksgiving.

And I’ve just told her to go to hell. Good one, Jake!

I smile, opening the door wide for her. She hesitates for another moment before stepping inside, filling my senses with her intoxicating perfume, like autumn rain and wildflowers.

She holds up a pack of four beers in one hand and a first-aid kit in the other. “I thought since you’re not allowed out, I’d bring the party to you.” She looks hesitant for a beat before adding, “Seeing as it’s Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing a beer from her. Our fingers touch for the briefest of seconds as she passes me a bottle, sending a zing of something unfamiliar up my arm.

We stand in silence for a long moment then Harper’s face lights up, eyes gleaming. “You were amazing, by the way.”

I’ll be damned if that praise doesn’t feel as good as all the fans in the Stormhawks stadium cheering my name.

“That catch you made was incredible.”

“That was all Billy and his throw, but spoken like a true fan, Cassidy.” I laugh and it suddenly doesn’t seem so bad to be stuck in this hotel room.

My gaze slides to Harper’s lips as she takes that first sip.

She’s wearing the red lipstick again. The one that makes me think about all the places I’d like her lips on me.

I need to get a grip. This is Harper Cassidy. The journalist out for my blood. Even as the thought lands, I’m not sure if it’s true. Maybe we’re not on the same team, but I’m not sure we’re pitted against each either. I have no idea where that leaves us.

Harper spins around, placing her beer on the table and unzipping a small green medical bag.

“Tell me you don’t travel with that everywhere you go?” I ask.

She throws me a glance, those red lips curving into a smile. “Nothing wrong with being prepared. Now sit down so I can fix that cut above your eye so it doesn’t scar that pretty face of yours.”

“You think I’ve got a pretty face?” I tease, dropping onto the edge of the bed. I refused to see the team doc tonight, waving away any concern, but I find I’m more than happy to have Harper’s hands on me.

“Shut up so I can concentrate.” She closes the gap between us in two steps, positioning herself between my legs. She’s so close I can feel the warmth of her breath on my neck and the heat radiating from her body.

My mouth is suddenly dry, palms sweaty. I can’t think of anything to say, so I do what I always do and deflect with humor. “I thought we agreed you’d be wearing a nurse’s uniform.” I lift an eyebrow and wince, remembering the cut Harper is trying to fix. It’s short but deep and stings like a bitch.

I can’t help but grin as Harper rolls her eyes at my joke. Even though she’s trying to act serious, I can tell she’s fighting back a smile.

“You know, most girls would be falling over themselves to play nurse for me,” I say, unable to resist teasing her some more.

She presses the antiseptic wipe a little harder than necessary, making me flinch. “If there’s a line of girls waiting to take over, then maybe you should call one of them.”

I chuckle, enjoying our back and forth. Harper isn’t like any woman I’ve ever known. She challenges me, calls me out on my bullshit, and right now it feels more playful than judgmental.

“No, thanks, I like you patching me up just fine,” I say, holding her gaze, feeling myself getting lost in the gold flecks in her eyes.

The sarcastic retort she was clearly planning dies on her lips as the air between us becomes charged, like it could ignite at any moment.

Harper clears her throat and looks away first. “You’re all set.” She swipes her beer from the table and drinks deeply before taking a seat on the opposite side of the room.

I touch my fingertips to the Band-Aid above my eye. “Good as new. Thank you, Nurse Cassidy.”

She fixes me with that same look I remember from the kitchen a week ago when I walked in and found her sitting at the table in her sky-high stilettos. “Don’t push it, Sullivan,” she says, but there’s a lightness to her tone.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I take a long pull from my beer bottle.

“So what was it like being drafted for the Stormhawks and playing alongside Dylan?”

And just like that she’s back in journalist mode and leaving me reeling.

“The best feeling in the world,” I reply.

“Obviously it was a dream to be drafted to my home team, but more than that, playing with Dylan, that was the best. Before Dylan was injured, he was totally unstoppable. He was tight end and I was his strongside linebacker. It was my job to protect him and it was easy because we’d played together so long, I could sense his moves before he made them. ”

“When did you start playing as a tight end?”

“I’d been moving into the role for a while.”

My answer is purposefully vague. If Harper notices, she doesn’t say. I realize where this is heading. Dylan’s injury. The night I was benched. And the reason why. I know we’ll have to talk about it, but right now all I want to do is enjoy my beer and Harper’s company.

“So tell me more about this hard-hitting journalist dad of yours,” I say, steering the conversation to safer waters. For me at least, I think, catching the hardness in Harper’s eyes.

“I haven’t seen him for six months. But he’s back in Denver in a couple of weeks to collect a lifetime achievement award from the National Journalism Association.

It’s black tie and compulsory attendance for his proud daughter.

” There’s an edge to her voice and a hell of a lot more to this, but I don’t press further.

“What were you working on the other night when I came into the kitchen?” I ask instead. It’s been bugging me how different she looked sitting at her laptop, like she was free in a way she isn’t most of the time.

She makes a face, sipping at her beer. “I thought I was asking the questions.”

“That isn’t an answer,” I reply.

She pushes her hair away from her face and smiles at me. “Promise not to laugh?”

I grin. “Nope.”

She lifts her fingers, drawing them across those perfect lips like she’s locking the words inside, making me grin.

“Fine,” I say. “I promise not to laugh. Tell me.”

“OK, but don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s just something I started as a way to distract myself from feeling like shit after I came back to Denver.” She takes a breath and I can tell she’s nervous. “I’m writing a novel.” She makes another face, like she’s waiting for me to make a joke.

“Why would I laugh? Writing a novel sounds pretty impressive to me. What kind of story is it?”

Her smile widens as her cheeks flush. “It’s a vampire story. Like Twilight but more adult and set in ancient Egypt.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Adult as in…” I wink.

She laughs and covers her face with her hands. “Yes.”

“Why are you embarrassed? I think it’s great.”

She’s quiet for a moment, picking the label on her beer bottle.

“I remember my dad once said that people who can’t handle real deadlines or hard stories run off to write novels.

I just… I don’t want him to think I’ve given up.

Plus I know how hard it is to get a book published. Only the best books make it.”

“Why wouldn’t you try, though? If you love it.”

She gives a small smile before shaking her head. “I do love it, but… people will think I’m selling out.”

“So? The way I see it, people are going to think what they want, Harper. You do you.”

She rolls her eyes again but she’s smiling.

“Considering you’ve landed yourself in the kind of trouble that means a pain in your ass journalist is following you around for the next four weeks, I’m not sure you’re the best person to give advice on not caring what people think. You’ve done too much of that…”

I laugh. “I’ll give you that.” I’m aware this is the kind of exchange that could easily turn into another argument and I want to keep things light and maybe even a little flirty too, now the buzz of beer has hit my bloodstream.

But then Harper places her empty beer bottle on the table and stands. “I’d better go. Plenty of notes to write up.”

She starts moving to the door but stops as she passes where I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed, her bare legs a whisper away from my own, as she reaches a hand to my face. Her fingers press gently against the Band-Aid above my eye and she gives an approving nod.

“That’s better.”

And with that, she’s gone. Then it’s just me and the giant fucking hard-on I hadn’t felt creeping up on me. Except this feels like more than just my dick reminding me how long it’s been since I got laid…

Bad idea, Jake! Very bad.