When I Need You (Need You #4)

“Only when it’s warranted. I’m very good at two things that begin with the letter F, Ro. The first is football. The second . . . doesn’t have a damn thing to do with being friends.” He bestowed that dimpled grin on me. “I’ll leave that one to your imagination.” He rolled across the couch and did the one-armed dismount thing. Then he offered me his hand.

“Pass.”

“Don’t be suspicious of my motives, friend.”

“You flatter yourself. My leg fell asleep and if I tried to stand right now I’d fall at your feet, and dude, I’d never live that one down.”

Jensen laughed. “I never know what the hell is gonna come out of that sassy, sexy mouth of yours. That’s why I had a great time hanging out with you this weekend, Coach.”

The pins-and-needles feeling had subsided, allowing me to scramble over the edge of the couch. “Back atcha, Lund.”

“So we’ll do it again sometime?”

“Sure.” I didn’t know what else to say so I left it at that.

Jensen stood in the doorway and watched as I unlocked the door to my apartment.

I turned and said, “Good night, Jens.”

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart. See you soon.”





Seven


JENSEN




After spending two nights hanging out with Rowan Michaels, I knew exactly why Martin hadn’t mentioned his sister.

She wasn’t my type.

She was nothing like the easy chicks that vied for my attention.

Nothing.

I liked blondes.

She had fiery red hair.

I avoided confrontational women.

Rowan slamming the door in my face the very first time we met should’ve irritated the piss out of me. Her dressing me down in front of my trainer—the very next day—should’ve reinforced the not-your-type mantra.

Instead of going with my usual response of blowing the whole thing off, I’d bought her an apology gift.

The next afternoon I’d shown up at her place of employment—in disguise, nothing stalkerish about that.

I’d given her a mini backrub. In public no less.

Then I’d demanded she have dinner with me. And stay to watch a movie.

The following night, I insisted we watch another movie together. She showed up late, bitched about my movie choice, complained about my microwave-popcorn-making skills. Which led to more arguing, more teasing, more laughing and a popcorn fight.

Then we both rather innocently fell asleep on my couch.

Not an innocent thing on my mind when I woke up and saw her lying next to me, softer, more beautiful than ever relaxed in slumber. She looked as if she belonged there.

I had no idea what was happening to me.

I liked—no, I loved—my solitude.

In the year I’d lived in the apartment, I’d had my sister over twice, my mom over three times and my sisters-in-law over once. Other women? Never.

In the four days I’d known Rowan? She’d been over to my house every single day.

Four times in four days.

I’d known her four days and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. That curvy little body, that brusque attitude, that sneaky, sexy smile.

It was perfectly normal to think about shoving my hands into that flaming red hair, staring into those expressive hazel eyes as I took those lush lips in a deep soul kiss, right?

Yes.

Jesus, Jensen. Justify much?

Logically I wanted her because I couldn’t have her.

Rowan Michaels broke every single one of my dating rules.

Every.

Single.

One.

So it was a good thing we’d come to an agreement. Just friends. Nothing more.

And yet it made zero sense that I’d Googled Rowan’s asshole baby daddy within five minutes of her leaving my place that first night. Somehow I’d convinced myself I needed this information about her and Calder since we were neighbors.

It wasn’t that hard to figure out the douchebag’s name, since only five guys had gotten drafted from U of M into the NFL during my undergrad years.

Me.

Ryan Rickhert. Center for the Browns.

LaShawn King. Running back for the Titans.

They were both offensive players—and African American—which put them out of contention.

Bart Kuehn. Safety for the Buccaneers. Not exactly the big-ass defensive guy Rowan had described.

That left one guy.

Hardy Morell—nicknamed “Hardly Moral”—the asswipe defensive tackle who had a rep for playing dirty on and off the field.

I couldn’t imagine beautiful, smart, feisty Rowan putting up with blowhard Hardy, or the stuff he’d bragged about doing with coeds. Some of which I’d seen him doing firsthand, much to my complete disgust—then and now.

But even I could admit that things that happened in college didn’t necessarily define a person for the long term. So I might’ve given him the benefit of the doubt . . . had I not known Hardy was the same dirtbag cheater in the NFL that he’d been in college.

He led the league the past six years in penalties. Last year he’d gotten suspended the last two games of the regular season thanks to an illegal late hit that sent a Ravens running back to the hospital.

So what kind of man had he become off the gridiron after he’d abandoned his pregnant college girlfriend?

A DUI his rookie year.

Fines for nearly every pro game he’d played.

Ejected from the neighborhood where he lived in Jacksonville for repeatedly breaking the morality clause in his homeowner’s association by throwing ABC (anything but clothes) parties at the community pool house.

He’d been romantically linked with a female sportscaster from ESPN. Then with a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Then with Miss Florida. It appeared that he was the same partying frat boy.

No doubt Rowan and Calder were better off without him.

But ultimately, I understood the real reason that Martin hadn’t mentioned his sister: He’d put me in the same category as Hardy Morell.

But the only thing I cared about was that Rowan didn’t put me in the same category.

Because we were friends.

Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

? ? ?


Sunday morning I was tempted to blow off my workout.

But I figured there’d be great brunch food at Uncle Archer and Aunt Edie’s house and I’d rather feast guilt-free.

No surprise I wasn’t the only player at the training facility. Throughout my injury season I’d kept up my training—as much as my condition allowed. The roster changed every year with the exception of the guys considered franchise players. That term had been applied loosely to me, not because I was an irreplaceable key player, but because if my injury was deemed career ending, I would have spent my NFL career with the Vikings franchise.

Not exactly the type of franchise player I’d hoped to be.

“Hey, Rocket, whatcha doin’ here, man?” Devonte asked, pulling me out of my brooding.

“Hoping to learn from you the secrets about becoming a two-time Pro Bowler—despite your rep for being a slacker.”

He grunted. “Just for that, I’m gonna deadlift you, smart-ass.”

A chorus of oohs rang out.

Mitchell, the third-string tight end, moved in beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Think that’s his way of calling you dead weight, Rocket?”

“Probably. I can’t outlift you, D, but I sure can outrun you.”

“You sure?” Devonte switched the toothpick in his mouth from the left to the right side. “You ain’t been runnin’ any sprints as far as I’ve seen or heard.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for the right time to show off my improved technique.”