Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Chapter 21

JACK

“The MRI isn’t great. You need surgery, Jack. It’s either that, or you’re going to take a hit on that shoulder, and the damage to your tendons might be irreparable.” Dr. Williams gives me a sympathetic glance, his hand holding my thick folder of records. He’s the best orthopedic in the state, well known for treating superstar athletes, from tennis players to baseball greats.

I came in last week for some x-rays and the MRI. Since the episode at the church, I’ve had another spasm that hit me while I was working out at the stadium. I was lifting when it hit, nearly making me pass out with the pain. Thank God Aiden wasn’t in the gym that day.

I exhale. “It isn’t even a football injury.”

He nods, taking a seat behind his desk and considering me. “Right. It’s an old wound, but the way you use your body isn’t like the average person. If you didn’t play football, you might never have had any issues, but as it stands, your tendons are being pulled away from your bone. I can reattach them, no problem.”

“Thank God.”

“Don’t get too excited. Have you had a particularly hard fall lately?”

I grimace, recalling the defender who yanked my face mask and slammed me down during the Super Bowl. The five interceptions that followed. “Super Bowl.”

He nods. “I’m assuming you still want to keep playing?”

I feel dizzy and grip the edges of my chair. “Hell yes. I still have good years left, Doc. I’m twenty-eight!”

He taps a pen on his desk. “I’ll be frank. I’ve done surgeries like this, and even when things go well, including rehab, some athletes never get back to full one hundred percent.”

My heart drops. I know the stats on shoulder injuries for quarterbacks. Even for a college player, once news of a shoulder injury reaches the NFL teams, it affects their draft status, pushing them down in the ranks. Few teams want to take chances on a player with an injury. For a seasoned player like me, it could be less playtime, early retirement. Fuck that. “I’m not most athletes. I’m the best. I’ve been using massage, needling, cupping, everything for the past few years. I even pay out of my own pocket for treatment. And those guys you’re talking about have the injury on their throwing arm. This is my left shoulder.”

“True, true. I just want you to know what to expect. If you take a hard fall again, even after surgery, you might injure it again.”

My stomach lurches. “Fine. Lay it out for me, then. What should I expect? Summer camp starts in June, and I want to be ready for it.” I pause. “Shit. I’m doing this play for the next month.”

“I saw that on ESPN. Nice touch.”

“Yeah. The fans like it.” Even though it makes me uncomfortable as hell, my image has improved slightly. I haven’t gotten any glares when I take my table at Milano’s lately. But fans are fickle. And if they knew I had a shoulder injury. Damn. They’d be ready for Coach to trade me in a heartbeat. They’d fall in love with Aiden. He’s poised and ready . . .

He continues. “Let’s pencil you in for early April. The first two weeks you’ll be moving hand to mouth only; then we’ll progress to driving around week six. After that, we’ll see about summer camp.”

“Damn.”

“I know you like to work out, Jack, but take it easy. Stick to running. It’s the off-season. Go on vacation like a normal person. Take it easy for a while.”

Take it easy? Yeah. Not gonna happen—not if I want to keep my spot.

“I’ll manage.”

He arches a brow. “You got someone to take care of you while you recuperate?”

Lucy, although I hate to ask her. She’d jump at the chance, but she has a new husband, and they’re planning a cruise around the world in April. There’s Quinn. I could ask Devon, too, but shit, he’s got his own life going on, and I hate for any of the players to see me weak, even him. Elena comes to mind, but I push that thought away. Not even going there.

“Yeah.” I stand up, feeling . . . shit . . . a little lost. Just the thought of not being able to play the game, to do what I do best in life, makes me feel like I want to barf. And I can’t even confide in anyone except Coach. I’m . . . alone.

The doctor rises up with me, and I guess he reads my face. “It’s not the end of the world, Jack. You still have some games left in you.”

“A Super Bowl?”

He laughs. “You come close every year . . .”

“Right. But never a trophy.”

He smiles. “Sure would be nice to have one for Nashville.”

I nod. “You do the surgery, and I’ll get us one.”

But as I leave his office and head to my car, I’m not nearly as confident as I sounded. Fucking Harvey. Even from the dead, he’s haunting me. My head goes back to that day, the memories tearing through me, those shots that took my mother’s life, the one he pointed at me. And he would have shot me again if I hadn’t somehow reached up and wrestled the gun out of his hand. I was so small then, a runt of a kid, a lot like Timmy, my muscles and strength not yet honed by dedication to football. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger, and when I opened them, he was dead, a bullet in his forehead. I swallow, fighting that anxiousness that rises up whenever I picture him and Mom on the carpet, blood seeping. I ran to her and screamed until the neighbors ran inside the house. Then I cried in the ambulance when they refused to tell me whether she was alive, and it wasn’t for the pain in my shoulder but anguish for the only person who ever cared about me.

Only she hadn’t cared enough to leave him.

I hate that I came last with her.

I hate that her love killed her.

Who needs that kind of emotion? Nobody. Especially me.

“Stop torturing yourself with that game. I have news.” Lawrence sits across from me inside my apartment as I watch the video from the Super Bowl. He showed up after my doctor’s appointment, wanting to get the lowdown.

“Yeah? It better be good.” I’m tense, watching the screen, preparing myself for that last interception I threw. Shit. I wince as I fire the ball to Devon, overthrowing his outstretched arms, a Pittsburgh lineman catching it and running it all the way downfield for the touchdown that ended the game for us.

“Sophia reached out to me this morning.”

Flinching, I turn to look at his smug expression. “What the hell did she want?”

He grins. “Seems she’s broken it off with the hockey player.”

I arch a brow. “Am I supposed to care?”

“She wants to see you.”

I frown. “Why? We’ve skillfully avoided each other for a year.”

He shrugs. “She says she wants to make amends. Make her apologies. There’s a charity gala next week, and she’d like to be your date.”

I bark out a laugh. “Amends? Hard to take back a book she published, Lawrence. That deed is done. We are done. I care nothing about seeing her again.”

“Hmm, but she’s still dangling that Cosmo article. She says you might be able to convince her not to write it. Weird, right?”

Very. I ponder it. I can’t trust anything she says. “She’s up to something. Tell her to find some other sucker.” I flick off the TV and stand, heading into the kitchen to grab a Gatorade and chug it down.

He follows me. “All that is true. She’s not worth your time, but if the media could see you together . . . being friendly . . . well, it might put some of those rumors of you beating her up to rest.”

Elena pops in my head. She believed me when I told her that I didn’t hurt women.

We’ve spent the week rehearsing together, and she’s been polite, yet keeps her distance, her only emotion the feelings she puts into Juliet when we’re on stage together. Last night Laura made us go over the balcony scene three times until we got it right. My hand clenches as I remember how I stood beneath her balcony window the prop guys had made, hearing her profess her love for Romeo. My heart pounded as I listened to her words, even though I knew they weren’t for me. We were face to face, our eyes clinging to each other, saying those flowery lines, and shit, shit, I felt every one of them like a prick to my heart.

But as soon as those lines were done, she pointedly didn’t look at me, talking to everyone but me. I like her ethics. I like that she knows what she wants and doesn’t play into my hands.

But . . .

I can’t stop thinking about if this were a different world, and I could let myself just . . . let go.

A long exhalation comes from me.

“Are you even listening to me?” Lawrence asks, eyeing me quizzically. “You’re thinking about that play again, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“So what about just walking in with Sophia at the gala? I’m not saying you have to get cozy, but I’ll sneak some pics, and we can spin it as ‘Old lovers now turned friends.’”

“No.”

“Dammit, Jack! It would help, and I’m sure you can turn on that charm of yours and convince her to not write that article. Would it kill you to pretend like you like her?”

I throw my Gatorade in the trash. “She ruined any trust I have. Never going there again.”

He crosses his arms and is about to speak when a knock comes at the door.

I march over and open it, shaking my head at the person there. “Shit, Aiden, don’t you have better things to do than annoy me? And how did you get my address?”

“Hello to you, old man.” He barges past me and enters the den, taking in the spacious apartment, the modern leather furniture, the artwork of the city skyline on the wall, my Heisman Trophy on the bookcase along with several MVP plaques. He does a circle, looking at photos of me in high school and college. He faces me. “Nice digs. I need a decorator. Moved in across the hall this week, by the way—couldn’t resist the proximity to the stadium. I was surprised when the real estate lady said she sold you yours a few years back. Guess we both have great taste. And before you go all ballistic on me, I didn’t know you lived in the same building. There isn’t a lot of upscale real estate close to the stadium. I got lucky. Devon around?”

I walk in after him. “You moved into the building? Good God. You stalk me in the gym and now here? You need a life, Alabama.”

He snorts. “We both know all I want to do is work out. And I want you to help me.”

I snort and cross my arms. “Why would I help you?”

Aiden loses some of that charm on his face, color rising on his cheeks. “Because you said I fucking hesitate! I can’t stop thinking about it, and if you don’t help me, then I’m going to be knocking on your door every damn day until you tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

I smirk, plopping down on my leather armchair. “You have a quarterback coach for that, punk.”

“He’s on vacation! And no one’s as good as you.”

I smile. “I know.”

He sits down on the couch. “Come on, Hawke, don’t make me beg. Let’s watch some tape.”

“You just missed it. He was just watching the last game,” Lawrence adds, eyeing us both. Probably figuring out how he can get Aiden for PR. “Did Adidas sign you?”

Aiden’s teeth grind. “No. I’m not big enough for them, apparently. Word is they’re going with the Pittsburgh quarterback.”

“Damn,” I mutter. “Assholes.”

“I know, right!” Aiden sits up straighter. “Look, turn that TV back on, and put it on where I was on the field. I’m serious, Jack. I’ve watched the tape a thousand times, and to me, I look spot on, but shit, maybe I’m missing something.”

He scrubs his face. I take in the sweat on his face, the workout gear. I grin because I got in his head, and he’s worried. Damn. He reminds me of me at his age, eager and dumb . . .

“You partying all the time, Aiden?”

“No, sir!”

“Good.”

He nods eagerly. “Right. Won’t make your early mistakes.”

“Watch it, Alabama.”

He holds his hands up. “Right, right. You’re cool now. Cold as ice. And I don’t believe anything that girl said about you.”

Hmm. I study his face.

I shrug, thinking back to how he throws. “Look, it’s just instinct—that you get from experience. You have to learn to read the players, know where the lines are going to break apart, and react. Takes a hundred professional games to get there, Alabama. This isn’t college anymore.”

He gets up and paces around. “Right. I know you like being number one, and that’s cool—I can accept it—but you know my time is coming. You’ll be gone someday, and what if I still don’t have it?”

“I am not going anywhere.” My voice is hard and firm. Not until I get that trophy in my goddamn hands. I refuse to think about my surgery.

He levels me with a hard look, scrutinizing me from head to toe. “Missed you at the gym today, and that is weird. Busy working on those lines for the play? Been seeing that girl from the VIP room, the one you followed out of the club? Gotta tell ya, that isn’t like you. She’s giving you a run for your money, I bet. I like girls like that. Make you work for it.”

I put a bored expression on my face, not rising to his bait. “I can do all those things and still never hesitate.”

He blows out a breath. “Dude. I’m begging you! Come on—just a few pointers.”

I ease back in my chair, enjoying the hell out of this. An idea looms. “You got a girlfriend, Alabama?”

“Who has time?”

I nod. “Right. But I need some help, you see, and you just might be able to help.”

“Tell me.”

“Sophia Blaine. Seems as if she’s free and looking for a hot footballer on her arm at a gala.”

“Jack, she wants you—” Lawrence starts.

I hold my hand up. “Not really. She wants a superstar—doesn’t really matter who it is.”

Aiden has paled. “That chick who wrote that stupid book about you?”

His street cred just went up a notch in my book. “Yep.”

He runs both hands through his hair. “All I need to do is take her out?”

I nod. “And convince her not to write some stupid article. Get it in writing.”

Lawrence snorts. “Dude, that will not work . . .”

“No, Lawrence. Look at him,” I say. “He’s young and handsome, and she doesn’t know he didn’t get the Adidas deal. Play that up, Alabama. Show her a good time, and get her to agree that you don’t want anything written about your hero, Jack Hawke. Can you do that?”

“Hero? Ah, shit.” He grimaces.

I laugh. “Your hero. You adore me. You love me so much.”

“I feel sick,” he mutters.

Lawrence brings up a photo of Sophia on Instagram, although I’m sure Aiden remembers her at parties with me. I lean over and check out a selfie of her at the beach, pouting at the camera with pink glossy lips as she lounges back on a chair wearing a bright-yellow bikini. I feel nothing when I see her—not even an inkling of missing her.

Aiden shoots me a look, clear interest in his eyes. “You gonna be pissed if I fuck her?”

“Your life, not mine.”

He mulls it over. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Warning. She bites.”

He lets out a long sigh. “Okay.” He glances at Lawrence. “How do we do this?”

Lawrence shakes his head. “Son, I hope you know what you’re signing up for. She’s a snake.”

Alabama grins. “I’ll wear some big boots.” He plops back on the couch. “Now turn on the TV, and tell me what the fuck I’m doing wrong.”