Chapter Eight
JENNA
Ihad such high hopes for this hookup.
Not in terms of being my happily ever after because—let’s be honest—that’s not in the cards for me. My hopes were more centered around orgasms and this guy’s confidence that he could deliver them.
But here’s the thing: despite what my mom always told me, I don’t see sex as a sacred act I should only share with that one special person in my life. If I did, then I’d still be a virgin at twenty-seven, and no one wants that.
And while I’m not expecting fireworks to explode in the night sky behind us, I would like to at least bury my face in the duvet, preventing any neighbors from overhearing my rip-roaring high.
If Mr. Right isn’t out there for me, then the rest can at least bring the goods in his absence.
The trouble with one-night stands is, they’re rarely exciting, mostly awkward, and the more of them I have, the clearer that harsh reality is becoming.
Trying not to wake the guy whose name I can’t recall—even though he promised me I’d be screaming it nonstop last night—I slowly peel out of his bed and grab my bag and clothes, which I slung over the end of the frame, and make my escape.
After our major win last night, we have three more games before the end of the regular season wraps up in November.
Keeping a clean sheet against our rivals, Pittsburg, was fundamental in our pursuit to lift the shield this season—something our club has never done and sits right at the top of my career bucket list.
With that in mind, along with our four to zero win, I figured I’d stay out with a couple of my single teammates—since the vast majority of the team has partners and families to return home to—and celebrate my best performance of the season so far.
When will you learn that when it comes to their talents in bed, men are liars, Jenna?
As I speed through my hookup’s living room, pulling on my jeans and sweatshirt as I go, I catch a glimpse of myself in the ridiculously large mirror he has hanging above the side table next to his front door.
I look like shit and deserve to be hungover even though I was as sober as a judge the entire night.
With hair sticking out of my day-old ponytail, a smudge of mascara under one eye, and a stain right in the center of my sky-blue top, any semblance of guilt for leaving yet another guy to wake up alone soon diminishes.
No one can see me like this.
Thankfully, my knee-high boots are right by the front door and not in the bedroom, and I slip them on and slowly do up the zips.
Sliding the dead bolt, I carefully twist the lock and pull the door open, checking to make sure I haven’t left anything behind when my cell starts ringing, and I quickly hit Accept on Holt’s call, closing the front door gently.
“Talk about timing,” I whisper-hiss.
“Do I even want to know why you sound like you’re hiding?” My brother’s gruff voice acts like a warm blanket around me.
I wouldn’t exactly describe my childhood as lonely, but I would argue there were better parents out there, ones who didn’t favor one sibling over another. Ones who didn’t sacrifice their kid’s needs in pursuit of their own. Ones who didn’t operate like they were still living in the 1920s.
Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t my parents’ favorite. That honor was bestowed on my thirty-something-year-old brother. Aside from my girls, he’s the greatest friend I’ve ever had, and he’s also my hero.
When I was twelve and Dad left my mom, disappearing into the sunset with a younger woman, Holt stepped up to help care for me since Mom lost her shit entirely, finding daily solace in local casinos.
Holt had only just turned eighteen and got himself a job at a local restaurant, waiting tables in between rugby practices and games.
He declined a dream scholarship at a prestigious English university, and instead, entered the draft system at a local college no more than an hour’s drive from home.
All because he couldn’t leave his baby sister.
He drove me to soccer practice and helped Mom pay for my kit. He beat up the bullies I had in high school because I wasn’t one of the cool kids with the latest Nike sneakers or iPhone.
He protected me.
He advocated for me.
He knows everything about me—past, present, and future.
I only wish he still lived close to me. As soon as I was old enough to attend college, Holt moved to Europe to pursue the dreams he’d put off for my benefit, and he’s been there for the past nine years.
I won’t lie and say it’s been easy. Being without him has been the hardest time, and these past nine months since he was last in the US have somehow felt almost as long as the whole time we’ve been separated across different continents.
Money has always been an issue for us since neither sport pays super-high wages, meaning expensive international flights are hard to afford.
Holt makes way more than I do, but trying to find the time in a ten-month-long rugby season to travel halfway across the world brings a whole new set of challenges.
I’m down the steps of my hookup’s brownstone and heading for one of my favorite bakeries, Rise Up, when I finally answer my brother, chewing over what version of the truth to give him this time.
“I wasn’t … at home.”
I can visualize his eye roll right now. When it comes to the opposite sex, Holt and I couldn’t be more different. I can count on one hand the number of women he’s slept with—two of them long-term girlfriends.
“You scare the shit out of me, Jenna. Please tell me you knew this one before you went home with him?”
Now only a block away from Rise Up, I round the corner just as my stomach rumbles, hungry for raisin toast and caffeine.
All a part of my nutritional plan.
“I mean, partially,” I reply, crossing the road opposite Rise Up. “But my question to you is this, would you be so concerned about where I was last night if I were a dude?”
Holt releases a sigh. “I’m putting you on speaker so I can continue cooking, but fair warning, Ryan is sitting right behind me, and he can hear all you’re saying.”
Like a freaking schoolgirl, I release a small giggle.
Ryan is Holt’s hot British teammate and also roommate, who I’ve met on a couple of occasions when I visited my brother in France. Unfortunately for most of Europe, he also isn’t single.
Lucky bitch.
“For the record,” Holt continues while he loudly chops food and I pull the phone away from my ear as I push into Rise Up and wave to the owner, Ed, “yes, I would be saying the same thing to you if your name were Jeremy and not Jenna.”
“Jeremy?!” I squawk. “That would not be my name if I were a male.”
When the chopping stops, sizzling begins, and my stomach protests again. Holt’s the best cook I know.
“I hate to burst your bubble, sis, but Jeremy is the exact name you’d have been given. Mom told me once.”
“I agree with Jenna,” Ryan yells in his posh accent. “Jeremy would not suit her at all.”
I nod along with Ryan and tap the glass in front of me, ordering two slices of raisin toast and a cappuccino to go.
“Did Mom tell you what you would’ve been named if you were a girl?” I ask, a small knot forming in my stomach.
I rarely have conversations with my mom, let alone this kind.
She’s always wished for a girl who was cutesier and less tomboy.
Even today, we barely speak, and I seldom go home for the holidays.
I can’t remember the last time I saw or spoke to my dad.
I’m not even sure I’d recognize him if he were sitting in this café.
“Madalyn,” he replies.
“See!” I say, then mouth, Thanks, to the server before spinning around with a brown takeout bag and coffee, my phone pinned between my shoulder and ear. “That’s a much nicer na …” I trail off.
“What’s up?” Holt eventually asks, figuring out I’m likely not going to finish my sentence.
“Nothing,” I reply quickly, staring up at a towering Tommy, who smells freshly showered with wet hair styled in his usual way, wearing gray sweats and a dark blue Blades hoodie. “I actually have to go,” I tell Holt.
He grumbles something inaudible before clearing his throat. “I’m thinking of coming home for Christmas this year and spending a week with you in Brooklyn. What do you think?” he asks.
“Sounds great,” I say, still staring up at Tommy.
He smirks at me, brown eyes moving to my phone as Holt continues speaking about dates and flight prices. I don’t know if Tommy can tell it’s my brother, but he can probably hear it’s a male voice, even over the low music playing in the café.
“You didn’t take any of that in, did you?” Holt asks.
“December 23 through the 28.” I repeat the dates Holt just confirmed back to him. “Return flight prices are good right now.”
My brother chuckles. “All right, cool. I gotta go as well, to be honest. This bourguignon won’t finish itself.”
“Okay, speak later,” I reply brightly, trying not to sound like the guy who landed a punch on him earlier this year is standing right in front of me, looking all delectable.
“Your brother?” Tommy wastes no time asking as soon as I disconnect the call.
I pocket my phone in my jeans. “If you must know, yes.”
He scratches at the back of his neck as people move around us in the café. “I thought we were declaring a truce?”
“We are,” I reply, pointing to the door. “But I only stopped by for breakfast, and I really need to go.”
Tommy folds his arms across his chest, leaning down to my height. “So, your bratty attitude is your default personality and not something you reserve especially for me?”
I deadpan, “Would it make you feel more special if I told you it was just for you?”
He nods and points to a table set behind him. “Yes, it would. I also just ordered breakfast. Why don’t you come join me? I was actually on my way over to your place anyway.”
I sound surprised as I respond, “Why?”