When I Need You (Need You #4)

She leaned forward. “Nope. Still haven’t convinced me.”

Screw it. I drained my coffee like it was a tequila shot. “You’re right. Rowan is amazing. She’s smart. She’s so damn devoted to her son and for some reason I find that incredibly hot. She’s funny. And sweet. But she’s not a pushover. That red hair fits her fiery personality perfectly. She doesn’t act fake nice to me because I’m famous and rich and then she’s a raging bitch to everyone else. She’s genuinely nice.” I blew out a long breath and ran my hand through my hair. “Calder’s dad, a pro football player, screwed her over, so she’s all ‘pass’ when it comes to athletes—especially pro athletes. And worst of all, at least from my side, is that I didn’t have a clue that she’s been a Vikings cheerleader the entire time I’ve been part of the team. Oh, and she cheered for the U of M football team too.” I felt my cheeks heat. “So yeah. I’m the stereotypical egotistical football player who doesn’t see anything in the stadium beyond my teammates standing on the sidelines and the damn end zone. How would I ever make up for that dickhead behavior?”

“You can’t. But I think it’s great you’re trying to redeem yourself even when there’s no chance the two of you will ever have a romantic relationship.”

I bristled. Even my sister didn’t have faith I could overcome Rowan’s perception of me.

Annika pointed at me. “Oh, wipe the mulish look off your face, Jens. If you showed her the sweet, charming Jensen I know and love, she’d be all over you. I’m just saying it’s too bad the NFL has that stupid rule about cheerleaders and players not getting involved.”

As I’d gotten to know Rowan, I’d conveniently forgotten that rule. Which, now that I thought about it, bordered on infringing on personal freedom. Why did the national organization believe they had the right to tell me who I couldn’t date?

“Although technically,” she said slyly, “with you being on the injured reserve list, you’re not an ‘active’ player until the coaching staff officially deems you eligible.”

I stared at her. “You scare me sometimes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are unparalleled in finding sneaky-ass justification to get what you want.”

“Dude. I’m in PR. It’s all about the spin.”

No lie there.

“What am I contributing to camp?”

“Cookies. Or whatever Swedish treats you’re baking for Axl.”

“Done.”

I glanced at the clock across the room. “Thanks for making time to talk to me given your busy executive schedule.”

She waved me off. “I always have time for you. Here’s one bit of sisterly advice.”

“Shoot.”

“While this friendship is new and exciting to you, she has to do the day-to-day parenting stuff. Be her friend, but don’t insert yourself into their daily lives without a clear invitation that’s what she wants. Keep it cool and casual, okay?”

I hated to hear it because she was probably right. I needed to back off. “I get it.” I stood.

Annika followed me to the door. “Who else are you recruiting besides Lucy?”

“Dallas. Trinity. “

“My advice? Ask Trinity when the big, bad daddy-to-be isn’t huffing and puffing around, demanding she stay off her feet.”

“On it. I’ll keep you updated.”

? ? ?


I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had such a productive day besides having a great workout or making progress on my physical therapy.

Everyone I’d contacted about volunteering for camp had stepped up—that was one of the reasons we, Astrid mostly, had chosen Camp Step-Up as the new camp name.

I’d been texting with Rowan sporadically. I hadn’t asked her plans for the night—even when we needed to discuss camp specifics.

Tonight, I needed something besides flirting and conversation.

I needed action. Real action that I hadn’t had for over a month.

I made the call.

“’Bout time you came crawling back to me. The beer is cold, the joystick is hot and I am ready to kick your ass at Assassin’s Creed, baller.”

“In your dreams is the only place I’ll ever lose to you, puck-head.” I paused when Axl told me in Swedish to do something obscene to myself with a cruller. “Do you have food or should I pick some up?”

Axl snorted. “It’s sacrilegious not to eat pizza when we’re playing. We’ll order in. Bring more beer. And none of that cheap shit you billionaire Minnesotans insist on serving. The good stuff.”

Snobby Swede. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with Grain Belt beer. So that was what he was getting. “Be there in thirty.”





Eleven


ROWAN




I half expected Jensen to be lounging outside my door, bursting with news about the meeting with LCCO.

But I’d been home forty-five minutes and hadn’t heard from him. How much of an idiot did it make me that I missed him? I’d gotten used to him showing up.

The flurry of text messages from him surprised me. I hadn’t expected him to be quite so gung-ho about setting up an alternative camp, even when we were under a time crunch. But his follow-through gave me a bigger peek into what made him tick. So I added tenacity to the other fascinating facts I’d learned about Jensen Lund.

His personal space was meticulous. The times I’d been in his apartment I hadn’t seen a single thing out of place.

He lived in athletic clothes, which was awesome for getting a glimpse of his world-class body. But he didn’t flaunt his physique—even when he should have because it defined powerful. In fact, if I did happen to catch him without a shirt on, he immediately excused himself and covered up. Damn shame, really, but his body shyness? Completely unexpected.

He always wore a ball cap outside the apartment complex. He had such glorious hair that I hated his near-constant state of hat-head, but I understood that a cap gave him some camouflage.

He had few visitors. Because he came from a large family and was part of a football brotherhood, I imagined he’d have people over 24/7. Yet it appeared he preferred solitude. I snickered at that thought. Maybe he actually had a chance at solitude now with Martin away for a few months, because my brother could be a total pest when he was bored and alone.

Yeah, you haven’t done such a hot job leaving Jensen alone either. You find some reason—excuse—to see him every day.

Not that Jensen is any better, my conscience argued. He always had some kind of a reason for knocking on my door—even if that reason was lame like he “heard a weird noise in the hallway” and needed to check and see if we were okay.

But we were friends, right? Friends made time for each other.

Friends don’t make eyes at each other. Friends don’t send each other flirty texts. Friends don’t notice things like the difference between the scent of his body wash and his shampoo. Friends don’t waste time wondering if the scruff on his face would be downy soft or bristly against your cheek when he kissed you. Or how it’d feel on your neck, your chest, your belly as he kissed progressively lower.

I shook my head to clear it. Dammit. How had I veered into that territory?