The Perfect Pass (Texas Forever After #1)

Chapter One

J ackson Knight really needed to start paying more attention to the fine print.

In his defense, he had people for that sort of thing.

He had his manager, his lawyer, his publicist and—perhaps, most important of all—he had his agent.

Notably, his agent was the only one who’d stayed by Jackson’s side during the recent hullabaloo, hence her superior ranking in the pecking order.

Technically, Jackson didn’t have people anymore. He had a person, singular.

But Jackson didn’t care to think about that.

Besides, the point was that top-rated NFL players rarely took the time to read their own contracts. They rarely took the time to do their own laundry or make their own protein shakes, either—two indignities that Jackson was prepared to handle on his own now that he’d been banished, but this…

Jackson regarded the snuffling beast at his feet, who’d just been introduced to him as Bishop, the team mascot of Bishop Falls High School.

That sounded fine, although he was a bit surprised to hear that a high school football team had a mascot that was a live animal instead of a nerdy underclassman donning a furry mascot suit that reeked of sweat and mothballs.

But the Bishop Bulldogs were ranked number two in the entire Lone Star State, so a little excess was to be expected.

Again, fine.

What wasn’t fine was the way the school’s principal had just shoved the dog’s leash at Jackson and his casual reference to “mascot caretaking” as part of Jackson’s responsibilities as the new head coach of the Bishop Bulldogs.

“I’m sorry.” Jackson shook his head. Boy, am I sorry. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever been quite this sorry in his life. Which was really saying something, considering all the apologizing he’d been doing lately. “What did you just say?”

The principal, a harried-looking man with bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows and an emerald green polyester blazer straining at its brass buttons, eyed Jackson up and down.

His expression said he’d rather be following Bishop around the practice field with a plastic poo bag than interacting with Jackson in any way, shape or form.

Not a sports fan. Jackson’s ordinarily laid-back smile was growing more strained by the second. Understood.

“Bishop lives with the head coach. It’s tradition,” the principal said, as if that explained everything.

Jackson glanced down at the animal again.

A long string of drool hung from the bulldog’s jowls, and his low-slung belly was mere millimeters from dragging the ground.

Jackson wondered what other disturbing visuals might be hidden under Bishop the bulldog’s green-and-white varsity sweater, which seemed like a questionable choice in the warm Texas climate.

And then he reminded himself that it didn’t matter, because Jackson had zero intention of living with this dog.

Nor did he plan on staying in Bishop Falls long enough to ride in the official welcome parade that had just been sprung on him completely out of nowhere. Just like he had no interest whatsoever in coaching the kids who went to school in this one-horse town.

This was a mistake.

Bishop sneezed, and the string of drool separated from his sagging jowls and landed on the pristine white toe of one of Jackson’s sneakers.

The shoes had been gifted to Jackson as part of a lucrative sponsorship deal he had with a major athletic apparel company, until said sponsorship deal vanished overnight, much like the aforementioned manager, lawyer and publicist.

A big, huge whopper of a mistake.

The dog sneezed again, and it sounded like one of the kids from marching band blowing into a tuba.

“Bishop is allergic to Astroturf,” the principal said.

Of course he was.

Jackson shifted from one foot to the other on the sidelines of Bishop Falls High School’s stadium.

It was a nice facility; he’d admit that much.

Much nicer than the school itself, which could’ve used a top-to-bottom scrubbing and a fresh coat of paint.

He’d only been on school property for about half an hour, but that was long enough to realize the error of his ways.

He’d accepted this job offer on a whim. He realized that now. Jackson routinely gave more thought to what cereal to have for a late-night snack than he’d given to signing on that dotted line.

It had seemed like such a great idea at the time, though.

Thanks to his torn anterior cruciate ligament and subsequent surgery, Jackson was stuck on his team’s injured reserve list—likely for the entire season.

That alone would’ve been upsetting, but coupled with the fact that his most recent adventure had landed him in hot water with the league, his coaching staff and pretty much any and every member of the general public who had a Wi-Fi connection and access to TMZ, he was in deep trouble.

His agent had assured him that this coaching job was his path to redemption, and Jackson had bought it, hook, line and sinker.

That was before he’d caught sight of the town of Bishop Falls, Texas. Or Bishop the bulldog. Although, in truth, he’d already had one foot out the door before he heard about the mascot-caretaking clause in his contract. It had simply been the final straw.

Jackson had nothing whatsoever against Texas, in theory.

He’d played in dozens of stadiums here, dating back to his college days on the gridiron.

But those stadiums had been located in cities like Austin, Dallas, Houston and San Antonio.

Bishop Falls was a world away from any of those places, as evidenced by the three-hour drive from the nearest airport and a downtown area that consisted of little more than a half-mile stretch of shops and mom-and-pop businesses along Bulldog Avenue.

For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine where, exactly, the welcome parade was supposed to take place.

It had to be the shortest parade route in history.

Or it would be, if only Jackson could force himself to climb onto the tractor trailer where he and Bishop were supposed to assume the place of honor behind the high school marching band and a half-dozen riders in cowboy hats sitting atop longhorn steers.

Not horses, but steers …with horns that spanned six feet.

Someone was going to get gored, and it was not going to be Jackson.

He tore his gaze from the procession, ready and waiting for him in the parking lot just beyond the stadium gates and aimed a conciliatory grin at the school principal.

“If you’ll excuse me, Dan,” Jackson said.

“Dean,” the principal corrected. “My name is Dean.”

“Right. Yes, of course. Dean.” Jackson nodded. He was terrible with names. Yet another reason why he shouldn’t be coaching a team of forty high schoolers. “I need to make a quick call.”

“But the parade is scheduled to start in—” Principal Dean checked his watch “—six minutes.”

“It won’t even take half that long,” Jackson said.

How long could it possibly take to tell his agent to get him out of this and booked on the next flight back to Chicago? He’d be done in a matter of seconds.

“I’m just going to head over there for some privacy.

” He pulled his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans and waved it toward the shaded area behind them that led to the field house containing the locker room and the office that Jackson was expected to occupy with the rest of his coaching staff.

Jackson’s flight had been delayed, so he was more than two hours late to campus. He’d yet to meet the other coaches or basically anyone, besides Principal Dean. The parade took precedence over anything and everything else.

It was just as well. For all his faults, Jackson hated disappointing people.

He liked to be liked. The fewer people he met face-to-face before he hotfooted it back to the airport, the better.

He’d send the school a box of signed jerseys and footballs once he got back home.

Enough for everyone on the team and then some.

It was all going to be fine. Maybe he’d even send a case of Benadryl for poor Bishop.

The important thing was to pull the plug and get out now, while he still could.

Dan… Don… Dean… whoever …had mentioned that a press conference was scheduled directly after the parade.

Jackson obviously couldn’t participate and then bail on this job right afterward.

The optics would be terrible—the exact opposite of the schmaltzy, do-gooder reputation he was supposed to be trying to cultivate.

There had to be an easier way to rehab his image.

He wasn’t Ted Lasso, for crying out loud.

He never would’ve agreed to this if he hadn’t been bored out of his mind from being cooped up postsurgery.

The procedure had been six weeks ago, and while his knee still wasn’t sufficiently healed to get him back on the roster, he was mobile enough for the stir-craziness to set in.

First he’d gotten rid of the crutches, and then the cane.

All that was left now was a brace he used during workouts and what little remained of his sanity.

Clearly the latter was in short supply if he’d thought he could survive here until he was ready to play.

“Jackson, tell me you’re calling from Texas.” Harper Alden, senior agent at Elite Sports Group in Manhattan, answered on the first ring.

“Of course I’m calling from Texas.” Jackson squinted against a beam of white-hot sunshine reflecting off the metal bleachers.

That was another thing—this place was warmer than the surface of the sun.

His shirt collar was soaked through already.

The pumpkins in the autumnal displays he’d seen lining the sidewalks downtown had to be artificial.

Actual produce wouldn’t stand a chance outside in this heat. “Where else would I be?”

“I can think of a lot of places.” Harper’s voice had an edge that Jackson didn’t much care for. “Vegas, for one.”