Chapter 6
6
Jake’s cell phone jangled in the dark, quiet room like hell’s doorbell. He woke with a start, groping around blindly for the offensive item, the noise like a hot needle in his temple.
“This better be good,” he growled as he punched the answer button.
“Good, you’re awake.” Pete’s chipper voice grated along nerve endings that already felt like they’d spent the entire night on the rack.
“What the hell time is it?”
“Two.”
Jake turned his head toward the sliver of light he could see through a gap in the heavy black-out curtains covering the window. “Twop.m.?”
Where the hell was he? A bunker? A dungeon? A coffin?
As much as it hurt to think, he searched back into the abyss that was last night. There was poker. And drinking. And a girl. He reached out a hand and came in to contact with a warm naked thigh. The woman attached murmured something and rolled toward him, draping herself across his chest, her hand sliding down to the flat of his belly.
Crap!
“Uh huh. You have to be at the school in an hour.”
Jake groaned. He wanted to crawl into a corner somewhere and die. He did not want to run around a football field with a bunch of rag-tag high school amateurs. At the moment, getting out of bed seemed way too big an effort.
But then a picture of Ella’s strained face at Cameron’s insult the other night floated through the ninety-proof quagmire of his brain and he sighed. “Okay. I’ll be there.”
“Cool.”
Jake squinted into the darkness. “Er, Pete? I don’t suppose you happen to know where I am?”
Pete laughed. “Sure, I dropped you and fan-girl back at her place last night. Would you like me to come pick you up?”
Fan-girl’s hand moved lower and he grabbed it before it reached ground zero. “Hurry.”
Jake winced as he climbed into the passenger seat of his car and was greeted by an unbearable blare of noise that was the musical equivalent of fingernails down a blackboard.
He reached for the dial and turned it down. “Jesus, Pete.”
Pete grinned. “I hope we practiced safe sex?”
Jake glared at him. “What are you, my pimp?”
“Actually.” He laughed. “I think I am.”
Jake contemplated murder as Pete’s laughter ricocheted like jackhammers inside his head. “I should have left you on the streets,” he muttered.
Pete laughed even harder. “We’re late. Ella’s going to be ticked.”
Well, Ella could get in line. He was pretty annoyed at himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d written himself off enough to cause amnesia.
Maybe two years ago when the Founders had given him his marching orders?
Had he practiced safe sex? Hell, had he even had sex? He’d woken up with his clothes on and somehow, he seriously doubted he’d have been capable…
Christ, he’d never not been capable.
Jake shut his eyes, his head throbbing double-time the harder he tried to remember. Unfortunately, not even the combination of closed lids, an ultra-dark window tint and his aviator sunglasses was able to block the stab of harsh afternoon sunlight filtering through the smoky glass into his eyeballs.
They felt as if they’d been ripped out, stood on, rolled in shell grit then stuffed in back to front.
His head sank back gratefully into the spongy luxury of the leather interior as the powerful engine of his BMW surged forward. Thankfully, Pete didn’t try to communicate any further and the construction crew in his head downed tools for a while.
He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed when the car glided to a halt, but he knew he was going to need a hell of a lot more to even begin feeling human again. He peered out the window at a poorly maintained field. The grass was patchy and mostly weeds. Large areas were totally bare. The posts had rust stains and the score board was peeling and listed to one side.
He was a long way from the Super Bowl.
A large crowd sat on derelict wooden bleachers as he turned to Pete. “How do I look?” he asked, taking his glasses off.
“Like crap. And you stink of booze. Here.” He rifled around in a backpack and passed over a can of deodorant.
Jake lifted his shirt, the action turning the bolts in his temples a little tighter, and sprayed. The car filled with a truly sickly smell, like Old Spice and Brut had a fight to the death and they’d bottled the festering remains.
“Jesus! What the hell do you call this?”
Pete dropped his voice an octave. “Metrosexual Mojo.”
Jake half-laughed, half-snorted both at the name and the delivery and then instantly regretted it.
“Laugh away, boss, but the ladies go crazy for it.”
“This? This gets you laid?”
“Never fails.”
Jake pushed his sunglasses back on, wondering what the hell was wrong with women these days. “Were the women of your generation born with malfunctioning olfactory centers?”
Pete laughed and sprayed some more deodorant in Jake’s general direction, ignoring his boss’s protest. “It sure as hell beats your Eau du Alcohol Poisoning.”
Jake wasn’t entirely sure about that as the sickly aroma intensified in the close confines of the car. “Let’s just get this thing done.”
“You’re late,” Ella hissed as he approached.
Jake winced, her tone just the right frequency to twang his already fragile neurons. And frankly, it irritated the crap out of him. He was here, feeling like death warmed up, doing her a favor, saving her ass.
A little gratitude wouldn’t go astray.
Squinting at his watch through bleary eyes, he said, “Ten minutes.”
“These kids don’t give you ten minutes.”
Jake looked over her shoulder at the motley collection of students. They were watching him curiously but there was a wariness to their gazes he wasn’t used to seeing. Usually, crowds surged forward, smiling and talking all at once. They slapped him on the back, shook his hand, shoved bits and pieces of paraphernalia at him to autograph.
These kids looked at him with a guardedness that was beyond their years. Jake rubbed his temple. “Tough crowd.”
“You have no idea,” she muttered.
Even through the pounding at his temples, Jake couldn’t mistake the dejection and disappointment in Ella’s voice and his self-loathing raised another notch. “Hey,” he said, lifting a hand to cup her face. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
For a moment she seemed to soften, lean into him before recoiling. “Jake!” She stepped quickly back and his hand fell away. “You stink.”
Her raised voice slammed into his brain and Jake reached for his temples. “Ella. Do you think you could keep it down?”
She stared at him like he’d grown another head. “Oh my God!” she hissed, snatching at his glasses, whipping them off. “You’re hungover!”
“Ella.” He snatched them back and shoved them on his face.
“How could you?” She stepped closer, her voice noticeably lower. “What kind of example are you setting for these kids?”
“They won’t know.”
She snorted. “You smell like a collision between a brewery and a cheap perfume factory.”
“Hey,” Pete protested.
Ignoring Pete, she eyed Jake with a level of disgust that made him feel lower than a snake’s belly. “Trust me. They’ll know.” She shook her head. “Shit Jake, I didn’t think I’d have to give you a code of conduct. I mean really?—”
Unable to stand one more hissed syllable, Jake placed two fingers against her mouth. “Shh. Please. Just shh.” His head felt like it was going to explode and her low, angry whisper was throwing petrol at the fuse.
Even hungover as he was, Jake felt the transient pulse of awareness as the softness of her mouth and the sigh of her breath against his fingertips streaked straight to his groin. He wanted to press harder, use his finger to smear the gloss off. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out she’d probably bite him if he tried right now.
Dropping his hand, he used it to rub a temple that was bitching at him instead. “Just go and introduce me, Ella.”
She looked like she was about to argue but decided against it, turning on her heel and walking toward the crowd.
“Okay, everyone.” She raised her voice to hush the few murmurs that hadn’t stopped as she’d approached. “I’m sure to many of you, he will need no introduction, but I’d like you all to meet Jake Prince.”
She gestured vaguely in his direction and Jake took the cue, smiling and waving beside her.
“Jake apologizes for being late, he’s… been unwell and dragged himself out of his sick bed to make this first session.”
Jake grimaced at the paltry claps and cheers, realizing that his tight-end rep alone would not be enough to win these kids over. They were clearly not easily impressed and his tardiness had ruined any idolizing he’d come to expect as his due.
Today he definitely had feet of clay.
But he just didn’t have the patience for niceties today. So he was late. So they were pissed at him. He had a few months to win their respect. Today was not the time for pleasantries. Today just had to be endured.
“Can I have—” Jake stopped as the effort to raise his voice caused a stabbing pain at the back of his head. He continued, his voice quieter. “Those students interested in trying out for the team head over to the end zone.”
There were a few moments of shuffling and low murmurs before a couple of boys peeled hesitantly off followed by more and then more. “If the rest of you want to watch on the sidelines, you’re most welcome. We’ll be here every afternoon at three.”
Jake headed toward the boys who were waiting for him, Pete trailing behind. Every step reverberated through his brain, kicking his headache up another notch. If he stood very still for the next hour maybe his head would still be on his shoulders by the end of it.
“We need between twenty and thirty guys,” Jake announced to the assembled boys. Professional teams had a roster of fifty-three and most high school teams had around thirty. The final number would depend on how much raw talent was standing in front of him.
He turned to Pete. “How many here?” The realm of counting was beyond him.
“Fifty.”
Jake nodded, the action jarring through his temples and he wondered again how the hell he’d been roped into this. Then he spotted Cameron among the hopefuls and side-eyed Ella.
Well… hell.
“Right. This week is the selection process. Pete here” – Jake slapped Pete’s back – “is going to put you through your paces and next Monday I’ll announce the team.”
Pete looked at Jake with startled eyes and turned his back to the assembled students. “Err, Jake?”
“You got this,” Jake assured. “You live, eat and breathe this stuff and have been to every public Founders training session since you were twelve years old.”
Pete stared at him for a long moment before nodding. “Okay.”
“Good,” Jake murmured. “Run them into the ground.”
Pete smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s it?” Ella demanded as Pete rallied the troops.
Jake grimaced. “Yup.”
“What? No pep talk? No encouraging words from The Prince ?”
“Nope.”
She glared at him and Jake felt it all the way down to his balls. “As much as I enjoy monosyllabic conversations, would you care to elaborate on your game plan here?”
Jake would rather give up one of his Super Bowl rings than admit he had zero game plan right now. “I’ve got to cut fifty to twenty something.”
“And is there some sort of criteria for that?”
“Run their asses off for an hour and keep the ones still standing at the end of each day.”
She blinked. “Is this strategy from the hungover school of coaching? Don’t you need kids with specific skills?”
“Skills can be taught, practiced. Stamina is paramount.”
“But aren’t?—”
“Ella.” Jake cursed under his breath as he massaged his temples. “Please shut up .”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re hungover. I’m just trying to help?—”
“Ella,” he interrupted again with a wince. “If you want to help you’ll go find me something, anything , to ease the sledgehammer pounding in my brain.”
“I thought jocks could hold their booze?”
“It’s been a lot of years since I mainlined tequila.”
“What on earth possessed you?” She shook her head. “Did coming here today scare you that much?”
Jake gritted his teeth at her insight. He’d deliberately gone out last night to get wrecked enough to forget about this hare-brained scheme. Sure, it had been under the guise of a poker game but deep down he hadn’t wanted to be alone in his apartment with nothing but thoughts of today.
“Yes.”
He didn’t know why it did, it just did. Whether it was Ella or returning to football or the ghosts of two years ago or even further back to Trently – he didn’t know. But at least it was enough to halt Ella’s relentless questions.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll go find some Tylenol.”
Jake watched her walk away, her hips swaying in her long brown skirt, that ponytail of hers swinging. She was wearing a cream shirt of thin cotton that sat wide on her shoulders and through which he suddenly realized he could see her bra strap.
Goddamn! He must be hungover to the point of near death to have missed that when she was closer and facing him.
He returned his attention to the field in time to see a couple of boys run into each other as they checked out their hottie principal rather than watching where they were going and he smiled for the first time since waking up with a splitting headache in a strange woman’s bed.
Maybe this day wasn’t all bad.
Minutes later, Ella was back, Tylenol in hand, exceptionally conscious of Jake tracking her progress across the field despite the dark tint of his aviators. He was looking better than any man – let alone a hungover one – had a right to in tight blue jeans, tight black T-shirt and a growth of overnight stubble that’d surely leave one hell of a beard burn.
Which was definitely not an appropriate thought to be having in the middle of a high school. Especially about a guy who’d shown up late and hungover.
She’d been torn between kissing him for showing up and throwing the stupid football at his stupid head when he’d finally arrived. This morning at assembly the student body had greeted her announcement with the kind of skepticism only those who had been let down by life could perfect and she’d spent all day assuring her students that yes, they were fielding a team in the comp and yes, The Prince was going to be the coach.
The weight of utter depression as each minute had slipped by without Jake’s presence had been hard to bear.
Hell, did he think he was the only one who was scared? Being around him scared her, too. Jake who knew her. Who knew all about her. Her mother, the smears, the humiliations, her loneliness, her isolation.
Not even Rosie knew her as well as Jake.
And here she was betting all her chips on him. The one person from Trently – from her past – who knew all her dirty little secrets.
“Nice blouse,” he commented, his voice heavy with appreciation as Ella reached him and wordlessly passed him the pills and a bottle of water.
She looked at him for a long moment, hating that she couldn’t see his eyes behind the tint of his glasses, itching to remove them from his face. The fact he could see her but she couldn’t see him made her feel even more vulnerable.
“Thought you were hungover,” she said, drily.
“Hungover. Not dead.”
Ella felt a funny pull down low. What was she supposed to say to that? Thankfully, she didn’t need to say anything as an excited squeal came from behind.
“Jake! Jake!”
Ella turned surprised to find fifteen-year-old Miranda Jones hurling herself at Jake, clinging to his neck and jumping up and down, chattering excitedly about the team and the comp.
She’d taught Miranda math in eighth grade. She was a nice kid, well brought up, smart and motivated. Not really the football groupie type.
Ella frowned as the hug continued. Clearly, they knew each other, but it was hardly appropriate behavior for a schoolgirl with an adult male and she was annoyed that Jake didn’t seem to get that. Although to give him his due, he did seem to be trying to settle her, if only to stop the incessant squealing that must be playing havoc with his headache.
Uncharitably, Ella hoped the noise was a particularly virulent form of torture.
“That’s enough, Miranda.”
A familiar woman, blonde and petite and about Ella’s age approached and Ella searched her memory banks to place her.
Trish Jones, Miranda’s mother.
The similarities between the two were amazing. Miranda was a tiny blonde, like her mother. Cute as a button with a perky smile and a personality to match.
“Hey, Jake.”
Jake set aside Miranda more than a little gratefully, Ella thought, as he wrapped Trish up in a hug.
“Oh God, Jake.” Trish pulled away, clearly alarmed. “You stink. Are you hungover?”
“ Mom !”
Ella laughed at the look of horror on the teenager’s face as the other woman turned and said, “Hi. Trish Jones.” She held out her hand. “I think we’ve met once before.”
Miranda’s mother had an easy smile and an open, friendly face. “Yes, we have.” Ella shook the proffered hand. “At a parent–teacher night. Ella Lucas.”
“Don’t mind Miranda. Jake and I go way back – she’s known him since she was born. She was so excited when she called me earlier to tell me she had to come back to school straight after her dentist’s appointment to watch Cameron try out and that Jake was going to be here.”
Cameron? Ella blinked. Her Cameron? Could this be the Miri from the phone the other night? Mature, articulate, Miranda Jones? The straight-A student?
Ella didn’t get a chance to process the information before Jake butted in. “This is Deluca High?”
“Yes…” Ella frowned. “I assumed you knew. You got here, didn’t you?”
But he didn’t get a chance to answer. “This is a great thing you’re doing, Jake,” Trish said. “Really amazing. Haven’t I been saying you should coach?”
Rather than intrude on a private conversation, Ella forced herself to concentrate on Pete putting the students through their paces. Searching for Cam, she prayed he wasn’t among the boys who had already fallen by the wayside. He was beefy, all muscle, built like a tank. Built for endurance, not speed.
But, thankfully, he hadn’t faltered.
Trish laughed and Ella’s attention was drawn back to her and Jake. What exactly was their relationship? Trish had said they went way back and their familiarity was palpable.
Had they been lovers? Were they still?
And why did that make the sad, lonely, Trently girl that still existed deep down inside, want to curl up in a ball and cry?