Chapter 15
Honey: Sorry I missed your calls earlier, Chris took me to watch his hockey practice, and the ice rink has no signal. Good luck with Jacob! Call me after your dinner, I want to hear all about it. Love you, Z.
I read the message. Then again. Okay, I read it a third time.
Chris. The ice rink. Practice?
This text has turned me into a Neanderthal because what the fuck is she doing there?
My grip around the phone tightens and I fight every urge to text back exactly how I’m feeling. Of course, the minute I leave her alone that preppy asshole has to step in, and Honey falls right for it because they’re friends.
Fuck me. She went to his fucking practice?! When I have to beg her to come to mine.
What the fuck is going on?
Taking a deep breath, I set the phone down carefully, resisting the urge to throw it across this pretentious restaurant and accidentally knock a waiter out.
Honey wouldn’t cheat. Not after what happened to her. She went there for a reason, and he was there to help her.
I talk to myself, but it’s having no effect on my mood.
He helped her. Not me. Not her fucking boyfriend.
I crack my neck and blow out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Get your shit together, Evans,” I whisper to myself. “Jacob Miller doesn’t invite a college quarterback to fancy restaurants because he’s feeling charitable.”
This dinner is too important to blow off because I’m spiraling over a text message from my girl. One I’m adding my own annotations to without getting the full facts.
I glance around, trying not to gape at the place Jacob picked.
It’s not some candlelit five-star deal—it’s a sports bar.
Well… an exclusive sports bar with leather booths, flat screens bigger than Honey’s dorm room, and jerseys framed like museum art.
The orange and yellow hues of the skyline shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but what really throws me is the crowd.
There are Carolina pro athletes everywhere.
I could’ve sworn I bumped into Tate Sorenson and Grayson Hawk of the Carolina Catfish before I walked in, and I had to act like I wasn’t freaking the fuck out over it.
These are guys I grew up watching and I can’t believe Jacob wanted to take me here.
I should be reveling in this opportunity and networking with the guys, but instead, I’m worrying about a hockey player stealing my spot back home.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mumble. If Honey was really doing something with Chris, she wouldn’t outright tell me, would she?
It sounds rational, but I can’t stop imagining her sitting in the stands, watching Chris glide around the ice with those damn giant heart eyes she gives me.
She wouldn’t be wearing his jersey. She wouldn’t cheer the way she does with me, but did he—
“Zach fucking Evans!”
I look up to see Jacob Miller slipping what looks like a folded bill to the waitress before heading my way. He’s in a white shirt and Ardent Jeans—no surprise there since he’s their ambassador—and the grin on his face lights up the whole damn room.
I stand, shoving my phone into my pocket and forcing a smile. “Mr. Miller. Good to see you again.”
He waves off my hand. “Please. It’s Jacob.” Then he pulls me into a bro hug, nearly squeezing the life out of me. “Look at you,” he says, stepping back to give me a once-over. “Packed on some muscle since summer camp. Coach Summers got you running laps until you puke?”
“Every damn day,” I admit, dropping back into my chair. “But it’s paying off. We’re still undefeated.”
Jacob lets out a low whistle as he sits across from me. “So I heard. Breaking some of my records too, you little shit.” He grins, but there's pride behind it. “That throw against Covey U last week? Pure art, man.”
“Thanks, that means—”
I stop when someone clears their throat next to our table. “Really? You guys too busy talking to say hi?”
My pulse jumps when I realize who’s here.
Drew McCallister.
Drew McCallister strolls in like he owns the place.
Which, considering the level of money dripping off this sports bar—private booths, floor-to-ceiling TVs, leather everything—he probably could.
Pro Bowler in his first season and the face of the Santa Monica Rattlesnakes.
The guy’s start to his career is everything I dream of.
“Sorry I’m late,” Drew says with an easy confidence rolling off him. “Traffic was hell.”
Jacob stands and claps him on the back. “Drew, meet Zach Evans. The kid I was telling you about.”
“Oh, I know all about him,” Drew says, taking me in.
Jacob gestures between us. “Hope you don't mind—I invited him since he’s only in town tonight. Figured it’d be okay.”
I knew they were friends. Reese told me as much when I started at St. Michael's, but I didn't realize they were, “let's have dinner for my only night in town” close.
“Sure,” I say, wondering how I got so fucking lucky to be able to have dinner with two of the best quarterbacks in the league.
I nod my head vigorously, ready to stand again. “Of course. Mr. McCallis—”
Drew raises his hand. “Drew. Mr. McCallister makes me feel as old as Coach Summers, and that guy’s ancient.”
Jacob lets out a little laugh. “Glad I didn't invite him for dinner tonight as well, then.”
Drew shakes his head. “I think Coach Summers would rather walk on hot coals for the rest of his life than ever have to see my pretty face again,” he drawls out sarcastically.
I tilt my head. “Did you guys end on bad terms?”
“Something like that,” Drew says, and it’s clear that’s the end of the conversation.
The waitress swings by, and Jacob doesn’t even let me open my mouth. “We’ll take three steaks—medium rare. And waters all around.” He shoots me a wink. “Trust me, rookie. Best thing on the menu.”
As the waitress leaves, Drew leans in, his green eyes sharp with intensity. “You thinking about the draft?”
“Trying not to,” I admit, forcing my focus back on them instead of checking my phone to see if Honey has sent me any more messages. “Summers says just win games and everything else takes care of itself.”
Drew snorts. “Classic Summers. Guy talks like a motivational poster. But he’s not wrong.” His tone hardens. “Still—you need to start prepping now. The process is brutal.”
“How brutal?” I ask, leaning in despite myself.
For the next half hour, they strip away every fantasy I had about it.
Psych tests designed to mess with your head.
Interviews where they throw out questions like whether you’d fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses—and actually expect a serious answer.
Combine drills where one off day can cost you millions.
“The league’s changing too,” Jacob adds as the waitress sets down plates big enough to feed a family. He grins. “Teams want quarterbacks who can extend plays. Make something out of nothing when the pocket blows up.”
“Which plays right into your strengths,” Drew says, pointing at me with his fork. “I’ve watched your tape. You know when to bail, when to hang in. That’s instinct. Can’t coach it.”
“Summers drills pocket awareness into us constantly,” I say. “Tells us if we don’t feel pressure coming, we’ll be eating turf sandwiches all year.”
Drew laughs. “Sounds like Summers. Man's got a way with words.” His expression shifts slightly. “How is the old bastard anyway?”
“He's good,” I say carefully. “Tough as hell, but fair.”
“Yeah, real fair,” Drew mutters, glaring at his plate.
Jacob laughs and claps a hand on Drew’s shoulder. “Have you spoken to Coach Summers since you’re both in Charlotte?”
Drew’s mouth pulls flat. “Pretty sure I’m the last person Summers wants to see. Haven’t spoken in over three years. Not since the incident.”
The incident?
The way he says it makes me think there's a hell of a lot more to that story, but I'm not stupid enough to push. You don't interrogate an NFL quarterback about his college drama on your first meeting.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I can’t help myself. I glance down quickly.
Unknown: Interesting company your girl's keeping these days. Wonder what else she does with the hockey team when there's “no signal.”
I frown, my jaw clenching as I reread the message.
“All good, Rookie?” Jacob asks, catching the tension in my jaw.
“Yeah, sorry. Just…” I shove the phone back in my pocket before I crush it in my hand. “Team stuff.”
I wish it were team stuff. I wish this wasn’t making my mind whir over all the implications. I’ve never received a message like this before, but I get why it makes Honey feel some kind of way. The worst part is, I can’t even talk to her without looking like an obsessed boyfriend.
I force a bite of my steak while Jacob turns to Drew. “Who’s next on your schedule?”
Drew clears his throat. “The Dallas Dune Devils, but it’s in London.”
“London?” Jacob leans back, letting out a laugh. “I forgot you were doing that series.”
“Yeah,” Drew sighs. “The team's signed a deal to go back for the next four years.”
Something unspoken passes between the two of them. Then Jacob tilts his head. “Are you going to see her?”
Her? My ears perk up.
“I’m gonna try,” Drew says, his voice low as he looks a little unsure. “Haven’t seen her in over two years.”
“Damn,” Jacob mutters. “That long?”
Drew nods. “We’ve texted, off and on, but it’s been… a while.”
“How long’s a while?” Jacob presses.
Drew smirks without humor. “Long enough I’m not even sure the number I’ve got is still hers. I’ll roll the dice.”
“You want me to ask Coach Summers when I talk to him tomorrow?” Jacob teases.
That makes Drew snort. “And give him the chance to feed me the wrong number on purpose? Hard pass.”
“Think she’s seeing anyone?” Jacob asks.
“Probably. Bella’s hot shit. I’m sure the British guys are all over her—same way I was.” His words carry an edge sharp enough to cut the steak in front of me.
Bella? That’s when it all snaps into place.
“Wait—Bella?” I blurt. “As in Coach Summers’ daughter?”
“Can’t deny the kid is quick,” Jacob says sarcastically.