Paws on the Playbook (Mile High #2)

Chapter 1

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question. If not, well. We could be here a while. But considering I just met this woman, I doubt she wants a list of my more unique qualities.

What set her off? It was probably when I said something about how the heel of her foot scratched my leg, and I gave her the name of my podiatrist. While we were in bed.

She’d made it clear she was a sure thing, and I’d gone against my better judgment by agreeing to accompany her back to her place.

I’d made the comment before anything really happened, so at least I can be thankful for small miracles there.

Was I eloquent? No. Considerate? Well, I thought it was.

Apparently, Monica … Maven? Moira? Crap. Whatever her name is, she kicked me out of her apartment before I even had my shirt on.

This is why I rarely date. Or have sex. Ever.

Because they think they’re getting Jameson Wahlberg, NFL superstar quarterback, two-time Super Bowl MVP, but in reality, they’re getting the guy who hyper-focuses on sensations way too much, and has the ability to read signals from women about as well as a rock.

I can read signals on the football field just fine.

But if the other team were amassed of all women, asking something of me?

I’d run the other way, screaming, with my tail tucked between my legs.

“Dude, you’re —” a guy says as he rounds the corner by the stairs, but I interrupt him.

“No, I’m not.”

He laughs awkwardly. “I’m pretty sure you are. Were you at Misha’s apartment? Better get checked for everything, man. That girl gets around.”

Well, isn’t that just great. I can’t get an STD if my pants were still on, can I?

I nod as I shuffle past the guy, yanking my shirt over my head.

The minute the fabric hits my skin, I shudder.

It’s on inside out, and I can feel every letter of the emblem rubbing against me.

It’s like I’m being slowly electrocuted under each letter, and I can’t focus on anything else until I remove the shirt, flip it around, and put it on in its proper position.

I pop on my Coyotes hat, pulling it low over my brow, hoping no one else notices me.

As I exit the high-rise apartment building south of downtown Denver, I pull out my phone and open the Notes app.

I’m totally adding this building to my ‘Don’t Ever Come Here Again’ list. It’s a list of places that have bothered me in one way or another.

While not necessarily a list of places to avoid because of specific people, it has definitely served its purpose in that way.

I have the entire Denver metro area memorized, and I know where to avoid.

Maybe it’s because lots of athletes live in a certain area, or a place I got food poisoning.

Honestly, once you’ve thrown up for forty-eight hours due to undercooked chicken at a Chinese restaurant, you pay closer attention to the department of health and what they rate restaurants.

Had I known that specific Chinese place scored a C, I’d probably have steered clear of it. Oh well. Live, barf up a lung, and learn.

Walking the two blocks to the closest RTD station, I grab the E train to head home.

At this time of night, I’m alone in the train car.

Looking at my watch, I let out an exhale of relief.

I’m on the last train heading toward my neighborhood.

While I know I could easily get a rideshare, I’d rather not put myself in a position where someone has control over where we’re going, and finds out where I live in the process.

It took me quite some time to figure out where I wanted to live when I moved to Denver.

Many of my teammates and friends like living downtown, not only for the proximity to the stadium and arena where we all play, but also for the restaurants and nightlife.

I’m the exact opposite: I wanted to be as far away from the crowds and chaos as possible.

I must have looked at over one hundred properties before I finally chose one.

My previous coach suggested Cherry Hills Village, but checking out one house there made me veto the entire area.

Way too snobby. Old money. Median home prices over three million.

I hated it the minute I got out of the car, and that feeling only continued when my realtor and I stopped for lunch at a popular — but by invitation only — spot in town.

I felt like I was cattle, being led out in front of a line of farmers, ready for one to bid on me.

But instead of farmers, it was married women with nothing better to do than spend their husbands’ money and have quiet affairs.

What goes on in someone’s marriage is their business, until it involves me.

Since I was raised in a home where infidelity ran rampant, and watched my mom slowly drink herself into a stupor every night because she actually loved my dipshit father, I will never participate in breaking up a marriage.

Don’t even get me started on my own volatile relationship with each of my parents.

It’s no wonder I’ve been in therapy for the last decade.

So, I settled on a neighborhood that borders Highlands Ranch and Greenwood Village, suburban areas south of Denver, known for good schools, outdoor activities, and family-friendly areas.

Could I have picked an even more upscale part of the Denver metro?

Of course. But I like the fact that I can blend in here.

My home is my safe haven. The place where I can be me, with no judgment from anyone.

I mean, my two cats enjoy judging me, but they’d do that no matter where I lived.

Maverick and Goose were a bonded pair of tuxedo cats I happened upon one day while dropping off some donations to one of the humane societies here.

I don’t know why I decided to go into the cat room that day.

But as soon as I saw them, I knew they had to be mine.

Who wouldn’t want a pair of cats named after the dynamic duo from Top Gun?

Maverick is the more affectionate of the pair, while Goose is the more vocal one.

After every road trip, Maverick happily makes biscuits on my chest, whereas Goose bitches at me from at least ten feet away.

I’d never known the sound of a yowl before I brought him into my home.

It’s much louder than I ever thought possible.

Thankfully, I have a pet service that checks on them every day whenever I’m out of town, and I have cameras set up all over my house so I can check in as well.

I even have this fancy device that will toss out treats when I want it to.

Whenever I’ve had a bad day, it’s calming to see them lounging on the massive cat tree located in my loft. Even though they know the camera is there, every time I speak into it, my voice scares the hell out of them. Can’t help but laugh at that.

I haven’t been back inside any adoption centers since I brought my two cats home, which I’m sure suits them just fine.

I make donations around the city once a week when I can, and I have a spreadsheet to track where I’ve donated, what I’ve donated, and which locations are in dire need of specific items. Animal well-being is a passion project of mine, and I even have a foundation linked to a nondescript LLC where I’m able to make large donations to organizations across the country.

As I step off the train, I begin a steady jog west toward my neighborhood.

Serves me right for listening to Jax Mitchell and leaving my car at home.

Jax is one of my closest friends in Denver.

We’re quite opposite, with him being the extroverted hockey player to my quiet quarterback, but we balance each other out.

He convinced me to head out tonight, determined to get me to break out of my shell.

“You’re grumpier than normal, QB,” he’d commented.

“Really?” I’d asked. I wasn’t acting any differently than usual.

“Yeah. You’ve got this surly expression. Like you’re already pissed about how tonight will go.”

I shrugged. “Just tired, I guess.”

“It’s March. You don’t have football for four more months.”

“So? I can be tired in the off-season too, you know.”

“What’s really going on, Jamie? I know you. This ain’t normal,” he’d said.

I sighed, lost for a way to explain my thoughts. “I don’t know. Kind of feeling stuck, I think. Wondering how much more I have left in me.”

Jax nodded, understanding my thoughts. Hockey and football are brutal on the body, but for somewhat different reasons.

In football, a player is more likely to get head injuries, whereas in hockey, players are subjected to pucks traveling upwards of eighty miles per hour.

And the whole skating on a blade thing, which is why I was never meant to be a hockey player. Jamie and ice don’t mix.

“Whatever happened to that last girl you were dating?” Jax asked, jarring me with how quickly he’d changed subjects.

“Susan? Nothing. We just stopped talking. Never really ended things.”

“And that was, what? Six months ago?”

I did the math. “Closer to nine.”

“‘Bout the time I met Becca,” he’d said, a lovesick expression covering his face.

“I guess.”

“Is that the last time you got laid?”

“Jesus, Jax. You ever heard of the expression ‘don’t kiss and tell?’”

“I’m trying to figure out if part of your crabby-ass mood is because you need to get laid. There’s a girl who hasn’t taken her eyes off of you since we sat down, but I’m not gonna play Cupid if I don’t need to. I know you’re pretty particular about women.”

Once Jax realized it had been nine months since I’d gotten laid, he played matchmaker anyway.

Which is how I’d ended up at Maven/Moira/Monica’s apartment.

And how I ended up running home, dodging snowdrifts and piles of sand leftover from recent winter storms. And yes, I mean sand.

The plow trucks dump a mixture of salt, sand, and other chemicals.

Salt alone will corrode asphalt. Did I know this before moving to Denver? Nope.

Once in my neighborhood, I slow to a jog as I pull my phone from my pocket.

Opening the security app, I open the gate at the end of my driveway as I approach, then quickly close it behind me.

I’m not dumb. I know there are probably thousands of Coyotes fans out there who know exactly where I live.

I protect myself with twenty-four hour surveillance, a six-foot privacy fence, and a film on every window that provides a layer of reflection, as well as a security measure that strengthens the glass.

I unlock a side door that leads directly into my spacious mud room, toeing off my shoes as I pspsps to let my cats know I’m home. I hear Maverick meow in return, then a guttural yowl sounds from somewhere upstairs. “I was gone for all of five hours, Goose. Chill.”

Another yowl. Sounds like he’s looking through the metal spindles on the walkway that overlooks the two-story foyer and great room.

As I walk into my large gourmet kitchen, I can see Goose with his head through the spindles.

Shaking my head, I grab a can of soft food, pulling the tab until the lid opens.

A loud slam echoes throughout the house, followed by a disgruntled meow, and Goose gingerly walks in from the great room. “Jesus! Did you jump?”

He stares at me in response, but I swear Maverick shakes his head in disgust. Chuckling, I separate the food onto two plates, setting them on the ground next to my cats. I know they’ll happily ignore me until they’re done, so I head upstairs to my bedroom.

I love my house. But it’s big and empty.

I pass three empty bedrooms before walking into the primary bedroom, thinking about how I figured I’d be married with a couple of kids by now.

While I’m sure I could have married a model, or influencer, who would blatantly use me for my name and bank account, I couldn’t stomach that.

I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t actually like me for me.

And once women get to know me a little better, they usually run for the hills.

I’m incredibly type-A, and everything in my life has its place.

I don’t deviate from most things that are part of my everyday schedule.

I take a quick shower, washing off the night.

It felt off from the moment I stepped into that girl’s apartment.

I should have left right then. Should have faked an emergency text, or just barreled out of there.

My mind was elsewhere, and I wouldn’t have been able to come without fantasizing about someone else.

As I watch the suds cascade down my legs and into the tiled drain of my too-large steam shower, I’m acutely aware of how alone I am, and how I don’t want to be anymore.

But I don’t know how to be any other way.