Chapter Two
Jet
Harte McKinney. Here in Appleton Falls.
Damn.
I’d recognized the ex-football player the second I’d spotted him in Marvin’s General Store.
Over the years we’d had our share of celebrities move into the area, but they mostly kept to themselves.
They’d be shopping in town or go out to one of the lakes, fishing or simply relaxing.
People left them alone, allowing them the peace and solitude they’d come for.
McKinney might not have risen to the star quality that Devlin Summers had, but he was a solid player with good stats, and I had followed his career, as we’d gone to the same college.
More importantly, Harte McKinney was the reason I’d realized I was bisexual.
In high school I’d been a star player and had dated a swath of cheerleaders.
I lost my virginity at sixteen in a car, in the Blue Bird Diner parking lot, with one of the waitresses.
I’d never thought of being with a man and I’d had a steady girlfriend my senior year of high school.
Cherie and I broke up when I left for college, and while I hadn’t missed her in particular, I’d missed sex.
Harte was a senior and I was a freshman.
My first time in the locker room, seeing him naked had made my insides coil with a breath-stealing lust I’d never experienced with Cherie.
He’d had a perfect body—all sinewy muscle, flat, ridged abs, and a big, thick dick.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it or him.
It had freaked me out so badly, I’d gone to a cheerleader party after the game and let a girl whose name I didn’t know give me head.
And yet I’d wondered what it would feel like to have Harte on his knees, sucking me off.
None of my other teammates did it for me, and I’d kept my secret to myself, jerking off in the shower after every practice. Other guys did the same, but they’d joke around and say they were letting off steam.
Me? I’d played along, all the while unable to stop thinking of Harte.
His gorgeous smile and big blue eyes. Those full lips on my dick.
My mouth on his. Of course, as a graduating senior and starting quarterback of a nationally ranked team, he’d barely known I existed, as I was on the bench more than the field—the freshman quarterback who had to wait his turn behind the others playing in my position.
Each and every game we’d play, I’d lust after him. It had been pure fantasy, as his beautiful girlfriend came to every game, and I’d heard they were probably going to get married once he got drafted. Watching her kiss him, I’d wish it were me.
Then Harte graduated and left for the pros.
We went on to play a few bowl games and even won a national championship, but I didn’t have that star quality to get picked by the scouts who’d come to watch us play.
After graduation, all I wanted was to go home.
My father had died when I was a junior in college, and my family needed me.
I didn’t have the drive or dedication for a football career.
I became a deputy sheriff and coached peewee football.
Dated a few women, but nothing stuck. My mother despaired of me ever getting married.
At home, after I’d get off tour, I’d occasionally look through dating apps, but no man would catch my eye.
A few years earlier, Morgan Cantrell, a guy I’d gone to high school with, had sparked a bit of interest, but he’d come with an overprotective boyfriend who’d seen right through me and had let me know Morgan was off-limits.
Eventually, I’d gone out with a few men and had sex because I’d wanted to know.
I enjoyed the physicality of being with a man—the muscles and rough skin on mine were a turn-on—and yet…
nothing compared to the all-encompassing desire that consumed me seeing Harte on television.
I became a Bisons fan because of him and changed allegiance to the Brooklyn Kings after he was traded.
And now he was here. In my hometown.
It wasn’t hard to feel pity seeing him lying hurting in the hospital bed. Bruises had already spread from his eyes and nose, which I was certain was broken. A nasty bruise marked his shoulder where the seat belt had dug into him from the impact.
“I’ll stay with you,” I said and watched his brows rise, then knit in puzzlement.
“What? Why? No, that’s silly. You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” Confusion clouded his eyes that were still the same beautiful, clear blue I remembered. “No one should be alone in the hospital.”
I could see he still didn’t understand, but he gave me a tentative smile. “Uh, well, thank you. That’s very nice to do, especially for a stranger.”
It was time to tell him. “Well, we aren’t really strangers.”
Brow furrowed, he cocked his head. “We aren’t? I’m sorry, I don’t remember meeting you…” He trailed off, obviously embarrassed.
I chuckled. “It was a long time ago in college. We both played for Michigan. My name’s Jethro Saunders—Jet, for short.”
The wheels turned for a second before his memories seemed to click into place.
“Wow, oh yeah. Damn. I remember now. We won the Cotton Bowl that year. I’m sorry.
” He grimaced. “I have a terrible memory, plus it was chaos as we were graduating and all the scouts…Jesus. Jethro Saunders. Freshman quarterback, right?”
“Yeah. But most of my time was on the bench. I didn’t play much until after you graduated.”
“Right, right. We had Doug Wright as my backup, and he was pretty good.”
“Better than me.”
At my remark, Harte made a face. “It’s not as glamorous as you might think. And this is your home? You grew up here?”
“Yep. I came back after graduation, and since I didn’t have the talent for the pros, I had to figure out what to do with my life.”
“Something to be said for small-town living,” he mused. A self-deprecating grin kicked up his lips. “Except for driving at night in the snow.” His lashes lowered, and he sighed. “Thank you for hanging around. I appreciate it. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“Not really.”
He hesitated. “No wife or girlfriend?”
I met his gaze. “Nope. No one. My mother doesn’t stop nagging me about getting married. She wants more grandchildren, and my sister only has one—a little boy named Connor.”
Harte stared into the distance. “Maya and I never had kids. Probably better now…we’re not together.”
“She was the girl you dated in college. I heard you got married right after you were drafted.”
“Yeah. Everything was fine as long as I was the starting quarterback, but once I got traded to the Kings and became backup to Devlin Summers, she checked out. If I wasn’t first string, she wasn’t interested, so she bailed.”
“Oh, jeez. I’m sorry.”
Two orderlies showed up, pushing a gurney. “Harte McKinney?” one of them asked, checking his chart.
With some effort, Harte raised his hand and wiggled his fingers. “That’s me.”
“The quarterback?”
“I was.”
“Cool. I watched you play.” The football-fan orderly placed the wheeled bed next to Harte’s, while the other circled to the opposite side. “We’re going to transfer you onto the gurney now.”
The two pulled him by the sheet, and I watched Harte pale under his stubble. I hurt for him. I’d cracked a rib once when I played football with the guys on the force, and if that was what it was, the pain was a bitch.
But even with dark shadows circling his eyes and extensive bruising on his face, Harte was still gorgeous, setting my heart on fire as if I were eighteen all over again. Old emotions I’d buried years ago roared to the surface, and I struggled for control.
“Hey, Harte?” Halfway out the door, he turned toward me. “I’ll be here when you get back. Promise.”
“Thanks,” he murmured, and they rolled him away.
I remained by his bedside. My phone buzzed, and it was my partner and friend, Emerson Kane.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“That’s what I’m calling to find out. Heard Harte McKinney was pulled from a wreck. What’s the deal? Was he drinking?”
“Why the fuck would you say that?” I snapped, angry at the assumption.
“Whoa, chill. I’m just saying. You know how these athletes are. Hard partiers.”
“Maybe that’s true of some, but not the ones who live up here. For the most part, they’re all pretty mellow and just want to live their lives. You know that.”
Emerson chuckled. “Sounds like you’re taking it pretty personally.”
“I don’t like maligning people for no reason,” I grumbled. A nurse stood at the door to the room, her smile bright and hopeful.
“Hi, Jet.”
“Hey, Carmela.”
Emerson groaned. “Oh, crap. Dude, get while the getting is good.”
My lips twitched. Carmela and I had dated for a while, but I told her I didn’t want to get married and we broke up.
I found out she would call Emerson, asking where I was and if I was going out with other women.
In his late twenties, living the single life and loving it, Emerson grew tired of her interrupting his dates and threatened to get a restraining order if she didn’t stop bothering us.
“Don’t worry,” I told Emerson. “I’ll talk to you later. I’m staying here until I know what’s going on with Harte.”
“Since when are you on a first-name basis?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow. See you.”
I tucked my phone into my jacket pocket. Carmela waited, and now that I’d finished my conversation, she entered the room and perched on the edge of the bed.
“Did you come to see me? I get off in about an hour.” She twirled a curl around her finger. “We could get coffee, or we could go back to mine and I could make us something—”
“Whoa, no. Sorry, Carmela, but I’m here on official business.”
Doubt creased her smooth brow. “Official business? You’re not even in uniform.”
When we’d dated, she’d always resented me taking extra time to check up on victims or helping them after their cases were closed. I couldn’t help it, and she would scold me that I couldn’t take the problems of the world on my shoulders.