Page 3 of Score to Settle (Oakwood Ranch #1)

TWO

JAKE

DYLAN: Mama’s looking for you, J. Where are you?

DYLAN: She’s pissed!

CHASE: What’s he done now?

DYLAN: He was supposed to be home by now. The reporter is here.

CHASE: LOL

DYLAN: Real helpful, Chase. Haven’t you got a coach to impress?

DYLAN: Jake, are you on your way?

DYLAN: ???

The door at the back of the Stormhawks stadium gives easily.

I ignore the “No Exit” sign and the one below reading “Door Alarmed” and stride into the parking lot and the late-afternoon sun.

This late in November my breath plumes in a white cloud from my mouth as I heave a long sigh.

I’ll get a grilling on Monday about this, but right now all I want is to be in my truck and driving home.

Plus, sneaking out the back means I can avoid the pep talk from Coach Allen.

No amount of backslapping is going to change how much I sucked today.

My passes were off, my catches clumsy. I just couldn’t get in sync with the team.

I’m a tight end. I’m supposed to be versatile.

It’s why I love the position. I’m a big receiver and a blocker.

When I’m on, I’m the glue between the line and the skill players.

I’m the safety valve for the quarterback when things go south.

I’m the guy who can throw a chip block to spring a run or catch a tough pass.

But today? I felt like dead weight. Every route, every block—it was like my brain knew what to do, but my body was running a second behind.

It’s only one practice. Everyone has an off day.

But with six games left to win our conference division and secure our place in the playoffs, plus contract renewals around the corner, I can’t afford to give anything less than my best. Not to mention the Stormhawks haven’t made the playoffs for the last three years, finishing second in the AFC West last year, narrowly missing out to the Kansas City Trailblazers by two points.

Heads are gonna roll if the Stormhawks don’t make it for a fourth.

And considering the shit I’m already in with my reputation, I can’t give them any more reasons to put my head on the block.

I pull my phone from the back pocket of my Levi’s, groaning as an ache stretches across my lower back.

I try to remember the last time everything didn’t hurt and almost laugh.

I’m twenty-nine years old not a hundred.

But in football terms, I’m already old. I’ll be lucky to get five more years on the team and that’s only if I can stay injury-free.

My mind flashes to Dylan, but I shut it down before the queasy guilt hits the pit of my stomach.

There are two missed calls from Oakwood Ranch.

I briefly wonder if she already knows how badly I sucked today.

She must be pissed if she’s asking Dylan to message me.

Joanna Sullivan—known to the world as Mama Sullivan—might be the sole reason Dylan, Chase, and I play football as well as we do.

She might be our agent and the driving force behind our pro careers, the reason I’m playing for my home team.

She might be one step ahead of all of us, all of the time. But Mama doesn’t text.

I cross the empty parking lot. On game days this whole area and every block for a five-mile radius will be jammed with vehicles. Banners and grilled burgers and shirtless men drinking beers from coolers.

My old pickup is sitting alone in the middle of the lot.

It was ancient when I bought it a decade ago and I keep thinking about trading it in.

It’s not like I don’t have the money. Thanks to Mama’s unflinching negotiation skills, all three of us Sullivans are among some of the top-paid players in the NFL.

But I’m not in this for the money and I like the way the seats of my truck are dipped and molded to my body, and how climbing in feels a little like being home.

I spot a small group of female fans leaning against the driver’s side door and sigh inwardly.

Some of the team brush the fans aside, but I always remember the eight-year-old me standing beside my dad, holding out my Stormhawks jersey for the legendary Mike Callaghan to sign.

That scribble, followed by a hair ruffle, made my whole year.

So I push aside my exhaustion and paste on a smile, giving them the full Jake Sullivan experience.

I pose for selfies and sign posters and pieces of paper and flirt a little too.

I’m almost done when a blonde in cowboy boots and a tight denim shirt hands me a Sharpie before nodding to her cleavage.

I laugh, cocking an eyebrow. “Really?”

“You know it, baby.” She grins and gives me the take-me-to-bed eyes I’ve seen a thousand times before. Then she unfastens the next button on her shirt, revealing the top of a black lace bra and a hell of a lot of breast to sign.

I shrug, never one to disappoint. As I lean close, I catch the scent of sweet perfume.

“Anyone ever tell you, you could be Rhysand from ACOTAR?” she says in a breathy whisper.

I frown, none of those words making sense to me. “Who?” I ask.

“Don’t worry.” She laughs. “It’s a compliment.”

I give her the roguish grin she wants and press the nib of the pen to her plump, tanned skin. Then a shout carries across the lot. “What the hell, Kelly?”

I turn in time to see a red-faced, angry-looking man charging toward me. He’s half my height, skinny as fuck, and has a man bun, but his fists are bunched and he’s coming at me swinging.

“Get your hands off my lady, Sullivan.”

It would take zero effort to flatten this guy, but in a blink I see the story blowing up my socials.

The backlash coming my way. A year ago, I wouldn’t have cared, but I’m trying real hard to keep a low profile.

Besides, I’m still sore from the cheerleaders thing last year no one will let me forget.

So I hold my hands up in the universal sign for peace and give my best apologetic smile—the one even Mama softens at. “Just doing as your lady asked,” I say.

His reply is a growl. “Well, don’t. I know all about you and your ways.”

The comment stings a touch but I say nothing as the man leads his girlfriend to an electric-blue Dodge, leaving in a roar of exhaust. It’s a beauty, but no good for my wide shoulders and six-foot-four height.

I sign a few more posters before hopping in my truck, and with a final wave, one more wink, I’m gone.

My phone buzzes with another message. If I was late leaving the locker room, I’m in real trouble now.

And yet as I pass the sign for the exit that would take me into the city, I briefly consider stopping by The Hay Barn on the way home.

A cold beer and banter with Flic at her bar sounds pretty appealing.

But then a full-body wax would sound like a dream compared to what’s waiting for me at the ranch.

The Sports Magazine feature was Mama’s idea. A way to keep the Stormhawks management and Coach Allen happy. I’m playing for my dream team. My home team. It doesn’t get better than this, and yet I’m fucking it up. She’s worried about my career. We both are.

I know she’s looking at Dylan. His words from the hospital bed after he busted his knee last year haunt her as much as they do me. If all I have is football, and I don’t have that anymore, then what’s left? I’m being unfair. If anyone can shake an injury that bad, it’s Dylan.

I get that I need to do better. Change my reputation. I am. Or I’m trying to. It would help if the gossip sites gave me half a chance. But the Sports Magazine feature and a reporter jammed up my ass for five weeks—that’s something I could seriously do without.

This is our one bye week—the only week in the season we don’t have a game—and all I want is some peace and quiet. Walking Buck in the hills, some time at home at my family’s ranch, halfway between Denver and Idaho Springs—surrounded by ranch land and state park and the distant Rockies.

I used to have an apartment in the city.

I’ve lost count of the parties and fun I had there, but when Dylan tore his ACL and moved home to Mama and the ranch last year, I gave up the apartment and did the same.

It was supposed to be temporary. A way to keep Dylan company and keep a low profile after the story broke about the cheerleaders in my truck.

But over a year later, I’m still there. The truth is, I like being home.

I like remembering my dad training the horses for the rodeo in the paddock by the barn and how perfect our lives were before he died and Mama sold the horses.

I get it. Running the ranch with three unruly boys wasn’t easy, even with Dad around.

He died when I was ten and I still miss him, but I miss the horses too.

A ranch without animals just doesn’t feel right.

I keep telling myself I’ll get my own place in the city again, but when I’m away with the team most weekends and for pre-season, Oakwood Ranch is the only place I want to come home to.

Dylan will be on my back this weekend like always.

Mama too, although at least she’ll be feeding me at the same time.

I wish Chase was visiting. I haven’t seen my little brother much this season.

He’s a quarterback for the Kansas City Trailblazers—our biggest division rivals—and even though he could get away with murder in Mama’s eyes, I miss him.

I make a mental note to give him a call tomorrow.

I resist the pull of The Hay Barn. A long, hot shower in my own bathroom and five minutes for some self-care would go a long way to easing the tension in my body.

I’m playing again on Thanksgiving, away to LA Wildhorns.

They’re bottom of the AFC West and it’s a game we should win, but I’ve been playing long enough to know there’s no such thing as an easy victory.

It’s my favorite time of year—this stretch from Thanksgiving to New Year when the pressure mounts with every game but there’s still everything to play for.