Chapter One #2
Jackson glanced down at Bishop, panting at the end of his leash. “She’s never going to let me live that down.”
No one was, apparently.
“Who are you talking to?” Harper demanded. “You are not to date anyone down there, remember? The sole purpose of your tenure is to reinvent yourself. No fast cars, no fast women. No trail of broken hearts in your wake. Period.”
“I assure you, there are no datable women here. Not a single one.” His experience in the town was still limited, but he’d seen enough to make a fair appraisal.
Besides, he truly wasn’t in the mood for romance.
Not with his knee a mess and his future up in the air.
“I’m talking to a dog—a wheezing, snorting hot mess of a dog who these people expect to be my new roommate. ”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten about the mascot clause in your contract.” The sudden amusement in her voice set Jackson’s teeth on edge.
His jaw clenched. “You knew about that?”
“Of course I did. So would you, if you’d read the contract.” She cleared her throat as if to punctuate her point. “I’m liking the dog thing, though.”
Funny. He would’ve pegged Harper as more of a cat person. Not that it mattered since Jackson was about to put this entire town, dogs and cats included, squarely in his rearview mirror.
His agent went on, oblivious. “Dogs are incredibly endearing. People love them. Try and get some photos of you two together, the sooner the better.”
The principal glanced at Jackson from the sidelines and made a big show of gesturing at his wristwatch. He needed to get to the point of this call.
“No can do.” Jackson turned his back on the field and the principal’s now-flailing arms. “I need you to get me out of this.”
Bishop peered up at him with red-rimmed eyes, and a tiny prick of something that felt an awful lot like guilt tugged at Jackson’s stone-cold heart.
Ridiculous. He didn’t even know this dog. Or this school. Or these people.
After a beat of silence that stretched on long enough for Jackson to wonder if his call had been dropped, Harper finally spoke. “No.”
He felt his head draw back like she’d just splashed a glass of ice water in his face. “Excuse me?”
That wasn’t how their relationship worked. Jackson was the client. Sure, Harper liked to throw her weight around on occasion, but it was always in his best interest, and Jackson trusted Harper with his life. When push came to shove, though, he made the final call on all decisions.
“I said no. I realize that word might be foreign to you, so you might want to look it up,” she said tersely.
He truly couldn’t believe his ears. “Harper, I—”
“Listen up,” she huffed, and that’s when Jackson realized his recent troubles were even worse than he’d thought they were.
His agent had always stood by him through thick and thin, no matter what.
If she’d finally cracked, it was because, at long last, he’d pushed too far.
He’d broken her, just like he broke everything else.
“If you break that contract, your career is over, and I’m not just talking about the headlines that will make you look like a complete and utter jerk for pulling the rug out from under a bunch of small-town kids who probably hero-worship you. I mean, our relationship is over, too.”
He turned her words over in his head, trying to figure out if she was bluffing. Something told him she wasn’t. Either way, he couldn’t risk it. Harper and her agency were all he had left. Until his leg healed, assuming it did, he didn’t even have football.
Jackson was decidedly lost—lost in a way that had nothing to do with the spot he currently occupied on a map. Although he’d be hard-pressed to identify that at the moment, as well.
Was this what rock bottom felt like?
He glanced down at Bishop and felt a sad affinity for the ugly dog. It didn’t seem right that the creature was passed from coach to coach instead of having a real home.
He sighed. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Harper repeated.
“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll stay,” he said, and Bishop wagged his tiny nub of a tail.
What on earth was he getting himself into?
“Excellent. I think—scratch that, I know —you’re making the right choice, and not just because you’re already contractually obligated to be there until the end of the regular season. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even end up enjoying it.”
“You haven’t seen this place. Trust me, I’ll be out of here the instant football season is over.” He was already getting a tension headache, and he still had to sit through a parade and the press conference that followed. Assuming he didn’t get gored by a longhorn first.
Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Depending on the state of his injuries, Harper might let him go home if that happened.
“Don’t forget the rules while you’re there,” she said.
“Lots of dog pics. No broken hearts.” He nodded and waved at Principal Dean to let him know he was wrapping things up. The man was Jackson’s boss now. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. “I have to go. They’re throwing me a parade.”
“Try not to sound so excited about it,” Harper said, and he could practically hear her eyes rolling clear across the country. “Goodbye, Jackson.”
“Bye.” He ended the call and told himself to just think of the next few hours as an afternoon on the football field. All he needed to do was put his game face on and get through it.
But first, he needed to get the poor panting dog out of the sweater.
Jackson winced as he lowered himself to his good knee and tried to wrangle the bulldog’s bowed legs out of the garment’s arm holes, which was easier said than done. Bishop was cooperative enough, but Jackson had never undressed a dog before, and this particular dog was built like a tank.
“Ahem.” A throat cleared nearby, and its bell-like quality told him it definitely didn’t belong to the agitated school principal.
Jackson’s hands stilled with one of Bishop’s front legs still stuck inside the sweater. He hadn’t realized anyone was in the vicinity. Then again, he’d been a little distracted. Despair could do that to a person.
He glanced up to find a woman leaning against the locker room door with her arms crossed.
She had waves of tumbling blond hair gathered over one shoulder with bangs skimming her eyelashes.
She was dressed in a flippy little denim skirt, paired with cherry red cowboy boots that perfectly matched her lipstick.
Notably, her ensemble didn’t include a stitch of Bishop Bulldog green-and-white, which thus far appeared to be a mandatory part of the town dress code.
“They’re all waiting for you out there, you know,” she said in a flat tone that made Jackson wonder how much of his phone call she’d just overheard.
He gingerly rose to his feet and aimed his most charming smile at her. “I’m aware. Thanks for the reminder, though. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jackson Knight.”
He offered her his hand, which she ignored entirely.
“I know who you are,” she said blithely.
Whatever she’d heard, it had clearly been enough to know how Jackson felt about her hometown.
“You’re the guy who’s about to be honored with a parade when you just tried to get your agent or manager or whoever that was to book you on a fast flight out of here. ”
Super. This day kept getting better and better.
“And you are…?” he asked, cranking up the charm another notch with a lopsided smile—the one he always used for his pictorial in the annual Men of the League calendar.
“Not datable.” She pushed off the wall and strode past him, and Jackson could swear he felt an ice-cold breeze smack him in the face, along with the scent of sun-ripened strawberries and warm vanilla.
Jackson dropped his gaze back to Bishop waiting patiently for someone to finish untangling his leg from the armhole of his doggy sweater.
“What do we think?” he muttered as he bent down to finish the job. “She heard it all, didn’t she?”
He lifted the sweater from the bulldog’s massive head, and once free, Bishop turned grateful eyes on Jackson. Then he snorted, which Jackson took as a sign of agreement.
“Yeah, me too.” He sighed, then rose to his feet and lifted a hand to let Principal Dean know he was on his way.
Game face , he reminded himself as he strode back toward the turf with Bishop waddling alongside him. There was no way that staying here and coaching for a season would be anywhere near as difficult as real football. He could do this.
He had to do it.
But somewhere deep down, beneath his carefully crafted smug exterior, Jackson had a feeling he might’ve already messed it up beyond all repair.