When I Need You

  “Lenka,” I repeated. “The woman who lives in the last apartment before the exit to the stairs? Long black hair, pale skin and is rocking the vampire vibe?”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Briefly. Why?”

  “Did she offer you her oral expertise as a ‘Welcome to Snow Village’ gift?”

  I choked on my wine. Then I studied him for a moment. “You’re not joking.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “I imagine you’re no stranger to offers like that.”

  Jensen shrugged. “I imagine a smokin’-hot professional cheerleader isn’t a stranger to propositions either.”

  “You’d be wrong. No guy is interested in landing fifth on my list of life priorities.”

  “You have a list of ‘life priorities’?”

  “Yes. Don’t you?” Doesn’t everyone? hung in the air unspoken.

  He laughed. Hard. Then he said, “My life motto is ‘just wing it.’”

  “Well, I’m not the type to wing it. My life revolves around lists.”

  “So let me see if I can put your life list in order. Obviously Calder is first. Work is second. Training—cheer, et cetera is third. Dating is . . . fifth? What happened to slot four?”

  “That’s for friends. It’s a short list so it deserves its own slot. Besides, I can’t even remember the last date I had.” It didn’t matter if Jensen knew this about me; we’d already established a friendship line.

  “None of the meathead college guys who train at the athletic center have hit on you?” he said skeptically.

  “Sure they have. I ignore them. If they get persistent, I impart my dating rule and they back off because they realize the futility of even trying.”

  “What rule is that?”

  “I don’t date athletes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. It’s ironclad. No exceptions.”

  He cocked his head. “Meaning . . . you don’t date college athletes. To avoid the potential conflict of teacher/student involvement?”

  “No, I mean no athletes. Doesn’t matter if he’s an amateur, a pro, a competitor in the senior games or in the Paralympics. No athletes. Period.”

  “Harsh stance, Ro.”

  Ro. I liked his use of my family nickname as much as I’d liked him calling me Coach Michaels. I shrugged. “Once burned . . . one thousand times smarter.”

  “While I understand your logic, and the egotistical part of me wants to demand a chance to change your mind about athletes—football players in particular—I’m not the guy to take up the challenge.” Jensen smiled and held out his beer bottle for a toast. “It’s a good thing we’re sticking to being friends, Coach.”

  I touched my wineglass to his bottle. “Very good thing, Lund.”

  “So . . . friend. Wanna watch a movie with me?”

  “Only if it has lots of gratuitous violence and sex, an abundance of dirty words and explosions . . . and not a single animated character.”

  Jensen snatched the remote. “Deadpool it is.”

  • • •

  Somehow, I ended up spending Saturday night hanging out with Jensen too.

  Friday night after I learned he had excellent taste in movies, we swapped cell numbers. On Saturday afternoon when I’d gotten a break to check my phone, I saw two text messages from him.

  JL: Movie nite part 2. Have you seen the latest Judd Apatow flick?

  JL: Or Transformers?

  I texted him back.

  Me: You can find something better than those! I’ll be done around 8.

  He responded immediately.

  JL: Picky woman. Fine. Nothing cool. Just knock.

  I didn’t show up until nine.

  He asked me how tryouts went, as if he was genuinely interested.

  This friendly neighbor thing with him . . . I liked it. A lot. He wasn’t an egomaniac—we didn’t discuss his football career. I didn’t talk incessantly about my son. We just jokingly bickered and had normal, adult conversation. I couldn’t even compare it to hanging out with Daisy. With Daisy I wasn’t distracted by things like massive flexing muscles, a deep, masculine laugh and dimples bracketing a perfect pair of full, smiling lips.

  Yes, Jensen Lund was one hundred percent prime alpha male and one hundred thousand percent off-limits.

  Although he’d slip in sexual innuendo given the chance, it caused me to roll my eyes, not feel creeped out like with some guys. He had no problem voicing his opinions or questioning mine. I liked his oddball sense of humor. Every once in a while I’d get a glimpse of his cockiness, but not as much as I’d expected from a man like him who literally had it all—and what he didn’t have he could buy.

  My level of comfort with him was such that I conked out during the movie.

  Rough-skinned fingers caressing my cheek roused me. I awoke to see Jensen stretched out a mere foot away—not on the opposite side of the couch where he’d started the evening.

  His lips curved into a sinful smile. “I hated to wake you, but woman, you snore like a bulldog. There’s no way I could catch up on my beauty sleep with that racket, so I hafta toss your cute butt outta my crib.”

  I snickered. “Catch up on your beauty sleep? I oughta do womankind a favor and keep you up all damn night, because the last thing you need is to look better than you do right now.” As soon as the words fell from my mouth, I chastised myself. I started to blame my lapse in judgment on sleep brain, but he reached out and gently placed his finger across my lips.

  “Don’t.” His eyes had lost their teasing sparkle and burned with intensity. “Don’t take it back or explain it away. Let me have that one thing from you tonight.”

  Not what I’d been expecting at all.

  But Jensen didn’t back away. Instead he feathered his thumb across my lips. “You’d better go before I give you a reason to stay.”

  He moved his hand when I started to speak. “Cocky much?”

  “Only when it’s warranted. I’m very good at two things that begin with the letter F, Ro. The first is football. The second . . . doesn’t have a damn thing to do with being friends.” He bestowed that dimpled grin on me. “I’ll leave that one to your imagination.” He rolled across the couch and did the one-armed dismount thing. Then he offered me his hand.

  “Pass.”

  “Don’t be suspicious of my motives, friend.”

  “You flatter yourself. My leg fell asleep and if I tried to stand right now I’d fall at your feet, and dude, I’d never live that one down.”

  Jensen laughed. “I never know what the hell is gonna come out of that sassy, sexy mouth of yours. That’s why I had a great time hanging out with you this weekend, Coach.”

  The pins-and-needles feeling had subsided, allowing me to scramble over the edge of the couch. “Back atcha, Lund.”

  “So we’ll do it again sometime?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t know what else to say so I left it at that.

  Jensen stood in the doorway and watched as I unlocked the door to my apartment.

  I turned and said, “Good night, Jens.”

  “Sweet dreams, sweetheart. See you soon.”

  Seven

  JENSEN

  After spending two nights hanging out with Rowan Michaels, I knew exactly why Martin hadn’t mentioned his sister.

  She wasn’t my type.

  She was nothing like the easy chicks that vied for my attention.

  Nothing.

  I liked blondes.

  She had fiery red hair.

  I avoided confrontational women.

  Rowan slamming the door in my face the very first time we met should’ve irritated the piss out of me. Her dressing me down in front of my trainer—the very next day—should’ve reinforced the not-your-type mantra.

  Instead of going with my usual response of blowing the whole thing off, I’d bought her an apology gift.

  The next afternoon I’d shown up at her place of employment—in disguise, nothing stalkerish about that.

/>   I’d given her a mini backrub. In public no less.

  Then I’d demanded she have dinner with me. And stay to watch a movie.

  The following night, I insisted we watch another movie together. She showed up late, bitched about my movie choice, complained about my microwave-popcorn-making skills. Which led to more arguing, more teasing, more laughing and a popcorn fight.

  Then we both rather innocently fell asleep on my couch.

  Not an innocent thing on my mind when I woke up and saw her lying next to me, softer, more beautiful than ever relaxed in slumber. She looked as if she belonged there.

  I had no idea what was happening to me.

  I liked—no, I loved—my solitude.

  In the year I’d lived in the apartment, I’d had my sister over twice, my mom over three times and my sisters-in-law over once. Other women? Never.

  In the four days I’d known Rowan? She’d been over to my house every single day.

  Four times in four days.

  I’d known her four days and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. That curvy little body, that brusque attitude, that sneaky, sexy smile.

  It was perfectly normal to think about shoving my hands into that flaming red hair, staring into those expressive hazel eyes as I took those lush lips in a deep soul kiss, right?

  Yes.

  Jesus, Jensen. Justify much?

  Logically I wanted her because I couldn’t have her.

  Rowan Michaels broke every single one of my dating rules.

  Every.

  Single.

  One.

  So it was a good thing we’d come to an agreement. Just friends. Nothing more.

  And yet it made zero sense that I’d Googled Rowan’s asshole baby daddy within five minutes of her leaving my place that first night. Somehow I’d convinced myself I needed this information about her and Calder since we were neighbors.

  It wasn’t that hard to figure out the douchebag’s name, since only five guys had gotten drafted from U of M into the NFL during my undergrad years.

  Me.

  Ryan Rickhert. Center for the Browns.

  LaShawn King. Running back for the Titans.

  They were both offensive players—and African American—which put them out of contention.

  Bart Kuehn. Safety for the Buccaneers. Not exactly the big-ass defensive guy Rowan had described.

  That left one guy.

  Hardy Morell—nicknamed “Hardly Moral”—the asswipe defensive tackle who had a rep for playing dirty on and off the field.

  I couldn’t imagine beautiful, smart, feisty Rowan putting up with blowhard Hardy, or the stuff he’d bragged about doing with coeds. Some of which I’d seen him doing firsthand, much to my complete disgust—then and now.

  But even I could admit that things that happened in college didn’t necessarily define a person for the long term. So I might’ve given him the benefit of the doubt . . . had I not known Hardy was the same dirtbag cheater in the NFL that he’d been in college.

  He led the league the past six years in penalties. Last year he’d gotten suspended the last two games of the regular season thanks to an illegal late hit that sent a Ravens running back to the hospital.

  So what kind of man had he become off the gridiron after he’d abandoned his pregnant college girlfriend?

  A DUI his rookie year.

  Fines for nearly every pro game he’d played.

  Ejected from the neighborhood where he lived in Jacksonville for repeatedly breaking the morality clause in his homeowner’s association by throwing ABC (anything but clothes) parties at the community pool house.

  He’d been romantically linked with a female sportscaster from ESPN. Then with a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Then with Miss Florida. It appeared that he was the same partying frat boy.

  No doubt Rowan and Calder were better off without him.

  But ultimately, I understood the real reason that Martin hadn’t mentioned his sister: He’d put me in the same category as Hardy Morell.

  But the only thing I cared about was that Rowan didn’t put me in the same category.

  Because we were friends.

  Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

  • • •

  Sunday morning I was tempted to blow off my workout.

  But I figured there’d be great brunch food at Uncle Archer and Aunt Edie’s house and I’d rather feast guilt-free.

  No surprise I wasn’t the only player at the training facility. Throughout my injury season I’d kept up my training—as much as my condition allowed. The roster changed every year with the exception of the guys considered franchise players. That term had been applied loosely to me, not because I was an irreplaceable key player, but because if my injury was deemed career ending, I would have spent my NFL career with the Vikings franchise.

  Not exactly the type of franchise player I’d hoped to be.

  “Hey, Rocket, whatcha doin’ here, man?” Devonte asked, pulling me out of my brooding.

  “Hoping to learn from you the secrets about becoming a two-time Pro Bowler—despite your rep for being a slacker.”

  He grunted. “Just for that, I’m gonna deadlift you, smart-ass.”

  A chorus of oohs rang out.

  Mitchell, the third-string tight end, moved in beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Think that’s his way of calling you dead weight, Rocket?”

  “Probably. I can’t outlift you, D, but I sure can outrun you.”

  “You sure?” Devonte switched the toothpick in his mouth from the left to the right side. “You ain’t been runnin’ any sprints as far as I’ve seen or heard.”

  “Maybe I’m waiting for the right time to show off my improved technique.”

  “Or maybe you lost your mojo,” Richards, the cocky cornerback, yelled from the end of the bench.

  I flipped him off despite the uncomfortable tightening in my stomach.