I splash some water on my face and try to take deep, calming breaths in a lame attempt at steadying my heart, which is still beating erratically in my chest.
The second Jack exited the field, I flew out of my seat and headed straight for the restrooms. I needed a minute to myself. Now that I’ve been hiding in this bathroom for the past twenty minutes, I realize that I’m even more affected by Jack than I thought I would be. I need to pull myself together. I’m not here to revert back to that silly girl who was convinced her first love would be the love of her life. I’m here to do a job. Looking in the mirror, I give myself a mini pep talk and then head back to the stands.
When I arrive at my seat, I can see that Jack has been cleared to play for the second half of the game after the medics gave him an exam during halftime. Since he’s back playing, I’m assuming they didn’t see any signs of a concussion, but they still seem to be keeping an eye on him as he finishes the game. Every time he comes to the sidelines, a medic is there to check in with him.
The Wolves win by a touchdown, and the stadium is buzzing with the excitement and energy that comes with a home game victory. I follow the crowds as people leave their seats, and I make my way toward the locker rooms, where they’ll be holding the postgame press conference.
I show my press credentials to the security guard and then proceed down the hall that leads to the locker room. There’s a small crowd of reporters waiting outside the doors. It’s standard policy that the players have fifteen to twenty minutes after the game before the press can invade.
I’ve always wondered how they feel about having cameras in their business while some of them are only wrapped in towels. Most tend to throw on a T-shirt in exchange for their jersey and pads and wait to shower until after the media departs. Or at least that’s what our sportswriter in San Francisco used to tell me.
A media consultant ushers us all into a room right across from the locker rooms for the formal postgame interviews with the coach and one player—in this case, Jack. I tuck myself in the back, hoping I can take some time to just observe him and find my composure before I have to ask him any questions.
I thought I was prepared, but my breath catches in my throat when Jack enters behind his coach. That old pain works its way into my chest until the ache feels so real, I press a hand above my heart hoping the pressure will ease it. Cameras flash all around me as he makes his way to the table set up at the front of the room. His ass has barely touched the chair when voices start shouting questions. He throws them a panty-dropping smirk. “Alright, everyone. We’ve got lots of time. You’ll all get a chance to ask your questions, but why don’t we start one at a time, okay?”
Several reporters laugh and then one shouts out, “Jack, it looked like you were struggling at the start of the second half after that bad hit you took. Were you evaluated for a concussion?”
Jack gets a weird look on his face that I can’t quite name, almost like he’s disappointed. “I was evaluated and cleared, which is why I was playing the second half. I think we were playing a really strong team and they made us work for our win. I can respect that, but I wouldn’t necessarily say we struggled. We won, after all,” he says with a grin.
Another reporter shouts out, “Any chance you’ll get back together with Bella Linn?”
My attention shoots to that reporter, then back to Jack just in time to catch his face completely shutter. Gone is the charismatic grin that he had on his face only moments ago.
I’m still stuck on the idea that he dated Bella Linn, the Victoria’s Secret model. How did I miss that news?
Several more reporters start shouting similarly personal questions. I watch Jack closely and notice the subtle stiffness that seems to overcome his whole body. I’m not even sure he’s breathing at this point; he looks so still. He slowly leans toward the mic.
“I will answer any questions you have about football,” he emphasizes, “but my private life is private. One more question like that and this press conference will be over. Now, are there any questions about the game?”
There’s a moment of silence while the reporters all try to keep from asking the invasive questions they clearly all planned to ask and attempt to come up with something focused on the game. Jack looks ready to get up and leave.
“There’s talk that you’ll be named the NFL’s MVP of the Year. How do you feel about that?” I hear myself ask.
I can feel the weight of the stares from the other reporters, but my eyes are laser-focused on Jack. The second his gaze meets mine, his jaw drops, and his eyes go wide. We simply stare at each other for a moment, as if there’s no one else around us. Finally, Jack seems to remember where he is. He takes a deep breath and then responds to my question.
“Well, that’s usually an honor that goes to a player on the team that wins the Super Bowl. I’d love to make it to the Super Bowl this year, and I think we’re on track to do just that.”
He smirks at me, his eyes lighting up as they take me in. He subtly shakes his head like he can’t believe I’m actually standing here and then answers a few more questions before wrapping up the interview. He exits, and the reporters follow, several going into the locker room to do smaller interviews with other players from the team.
I’m one of the last to exit the room and am barely out the door when a hand grips my elbow. I turn back, ready to chew someone out when my voice catches in my throat.
Jack stands before me, his eyes roaming from my head to my toes and then back up. I can’t stop my own gaze from doing a similar perusal. God, why does he have to look so fucking good? His thick biceps are covered by a short-sleeved T-shirt with the Wolves logo on it. His hair is a disheveled mess, and his face is still flushed from the physical activity he just completed. I’m annoyed and frustrated with my body’s complete betrayal at wishing his physical activities were more of the horizontal variety.
Ugh. I told myself during my bathroom pep talk that I wasn’t going to let him affect me, and yet, here I am, my heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings and a tingling starting at the apex of my thighs.
Damn him.
“I can’t believe you’re really standing in front of me right now,” he whispers. “I almost thought I had imagined you sitting in the stands earlier.”
“Nope. I’m really here.” We both stare at each other for a moment, words seemingly difficult for both of us. “It’s been a long time,” I whisper.
He nods. “It has. Too damn long.”
I can’t hide the surprise in my expression at his statement. What is that supposed to mean? How am I supposed to take that?
I cross my arms and compose my face to a more neutral expression—one I’ve perfected over the years when interviewing people. It has always helped me focus on the task at hand. But even with my body language screaming at him to keep a distance, my stupid heart is still pounding away at a breakneck pace in my chest.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do an interview for an old friend,” I ask, trying to add some small playfulness to my tone that I don’t feel.
His typically vibrant blue eyes dim, his brows furrow, and his mouth sags at the corners. When he speaks, his voice is not as confident as it was before. “A friend, huh? I remember you being a hell of a lot more than that.”
I divert my gaze to look at our feet. “That was a long time ago. We’re both very different people now.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, when I can no longer take the silence, I look back up to his face and am surprised to see misery in his gaze.
What does he have to feel miserable about? He’s the one who ruined us to begin with. He’s the one who came to visit me after months apart—months that were some of the hardest of my life because of how much I missed him—and then kissed me goodbye at the airport and sent me a text when he got back home saying that he couldn’t do the distance anymore. He’s the one who broke his promise to fight for us. He’s the one who broke my fucking heart into smithereens.
Fuck him and his misery. He doesn’t get to feel miserable. He made us this way.
I need to wrap this up. This is too much. I should’ve followed my initial instinct that I wasn’t ready for this. Seeing him, being this close to him, is torture. It’s bringing up too many feelings that I’ve long kept buried. I’ll come back again and do my job once I get my head straight and my emotions under control.
“I should really get going.” I take a step backward, fighting against my body’s pull toward Jack.
“Wait!” He extends his arm like he wants to grab me, but then clearly thinks better of it and drops it to his side. “We should catch up. Maybe grab some dinner or something.”
He looks desperate for me to say yes. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this look on him before. But I can’t. While my body may be trying desperately to remind me how wonderful we were together, my self-preservation instincts are fully kicking in. The reporter in me is screaming that this is the perfect opening, but that damn seventeen-year-old girl that I’ve hidden away is clawing her way to the surface. I know myself well enough to know I need to step back from him if I have any hope of firming up my defenses before he barrels right through them.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Take care, Jack.”
I turn around, quickly exiting the hallway and ignoring his voice calling my name.