When I Need You (Need You #4)

“To clarify, Rocket, when I asked what was going on with you, I meant in your life outside of football training. In the past month, I don’t hear from you aside from texts asking about the workout schedule. We used to hang out. We used to go out. Now, it feels like you’ve cut me out.” He paused. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed. When was the last time you spent time with your teammates? You used to make an effort. Hell, Jensen, you used to be fun. Clubs, parties, women, you were up for anything, anytime. What happened to that guy?”

“That guy doesn’t exist anymore.” I finally met Dante’s gaze. “And good fucking riddance to him. What I find interesting is that you noticed after our Florida and Mexico trip that I’d changed. Know why? Because you kept your distance from me after my injury. You and everyone else on the team. There’s no reason to invest time in a former player and teammate, right?”

“Not true, bro.”

“Totally true, bro, because I lived it. There’s no need for a ‘feel sorry for me’ conversation, and I’ve never brought it up for that reason. My family hired the best doctors to fix me. My family aided in my recovery. My family rallied around me. My family reminded me that I was more to them than a football player. Somehow along the way, I’d forgotten that.

“Ever since I was drafted, I get the superstar treatment. While it’s great, it’s not real. And my teammates, as you pointed out, always counted on me to be part of the posse. Booze, women, elite clubs. These players have multimillion-dollar contracts. So why did I end up footing the bill for most of those wild nights? You know why? Because I’m a nice guy. I’d rather just pull out my credit card than bicker about who had how many shots of Hennessy. Not a single one of them noticed . . . until I stopped going. It wasn’t me they missed as much as my wallet. Like I said, I’m not whining. I’m not bitter. What I am? Is wiser. That doesn’t change the fact that I will go to the dirt for these guys when we’re on the field. But as soon as that uniform comes off, I’m not The Rocket. I’m finally grasping the fact I have a lot more to offer the world than my celebrity—as fleeting as that may be.”

I didn’t wait for his response. Instead I returned to my locker, stripped and hit the shower. The hot water loosened my muscles. The steam cleared my head. As a shy kid, I’d had a hard time speaking up for myself. Growing up as the fourth kid in my family, I found it easier to let my siblings speak for me. Around age sixteen, after Annika had gone to college, and Walker had moved to Sweden, and Brady was killing himself in grad school, I had no choice but to learn to assert myself.

I hated it. It took me a few years to be comfortable with it and not apologetic. The only place I had no problem asserting myself was on the football field. The women who hang around athletes are the aggressors, and I happily let them be. To say I didn’t have to work hard to get laid? Massive understatement. I hated when I had to become an asshole to get them to leave me alone. I’d learned my lesson there, but much later than I probably should have.

After I dressed and was on my way out, I noticed Dante waiting by the exit for me.

Great. Now I’d have to listen to his rebuttal. With my twenty-minute shower I’d given him plenty of time to come up with one.

Maybe if I just walked past him without making eye contact . . .

“I wondered if you had drowned in there.”

No such luck on ducking further conversation. “Nope. I’ll see you Monday, D.”

“Hold up.”

I kept walking.

He followed me. “Who is she?”

“Who is who?”

“The woman you’re seeing.”

“What makes you think I’m seeing anyone?”

“Come on, Jens. This is me. There’s a woman you’re trying to impress by staying on the straight and narrow. Fine. Whatever. But who is she?”

So, nothing I’d said in the locker room had resonated with him.

That’s because if it had, he’d have to shoulder some of the blame for your attitude. It’s easier to blame his shortcomings on someone else. You’ve known this about him. That’s why you’ve kept your professional distance, even when he has no idea you don’t consider him anything more than just your trainer.

It still made me sad, though, that my honesty counted for nothing.

Good thing I had my sunglasses on; that way he couldn’t see the total bullshit in my eyes. I faced him. “You busted me.”

He grinned. “I knew it. So who is she?”

“Her name is Astrid. You don’t know her.”

“She sounds hot. I’ll bet she’s as fiery as an asteroid between the sheets, amirite?”

I said nothing. But I didn’t need to.

Dante clapped me on the back. “Anyway, I’m happy to hear that. Part of me worried that you were hooking up with Rowan Michaels.”

“Why would you give a shit about that?”

“Because she is one hundred percent off-limits, man. She and I are friends, and I’d hate to see her fired because you can’t keep your hands off her pompoms.”

Took all my willpower not to take a swing at him. “You’re full of shit, D. Why would she be fired?”

“Because they can’t fire you. They’d fine the hell out of you for breaking the no-frat rule, but her? Gone. It’s not like anyone would notice.” He snickered. “You wouldn’t notice. There are a dozen women ready to slip on those tiny white booty shorts and go-go boots and shake their T and A for the crowd. But there’s only one Rocket.”

In my mind’s eye, I’d cracked him a good one in the jaw and as he lay sputtering and bleeding on the blacktop, my tires spit gravel on him as I drove off.

Dante proved how much of a tool he was when he said, “Call me. I wanna meet this Astrid chick you’re filling with rocket fuel.”

? ? ?


Unwanted thoughts created a logjam in my head. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to go home. I needed some distance from Rowan. Maybe for her own good.

I drove to Brady’s place. I had the code for his private gym and an open invitation to use it whenever I wanted. Shooting hoops would be a great waste of time.

Once I was inside the cavernous space, I grabbed a basketball. Sitting on the bench, I messed around, dribbling and bouncing the ball. Then I headed toward the hoop.

I’d shot maybe four times from the free throw line when I heard the door open that separated Brady’s living space from the ultimate man cave/garage.

“So the Vikes cut you and you’re brushing up on your basketball skills to try out for the Timberwolves?” Brady said as he descended the metal staircase.

“What little faith you have in my recovery, bro.” Four bounces. Shoot. Swish.

“Jens. You know I was yanking your chain.”

He stopped beside the line and I gave him a once-over. “Nice suit. You wear one even on a Saturday? Dude.”

“FYI: I had a business breakfast meeting, so of course I wore a suit. I’ve only been home an hour and I hadn’t changed yet. Dick.”

I laughed. “Speaking of dick . . . your fly is undone. You’re not wearing a belt and your tie looks like one of my day campers put it on you. I won’t even get into what a mess your hair is, Mr. Perfectly Coiffed.”

Brady flashed me a cocky grin. “What can I say? My wife can’t resist me when I’m wearing Tom Ford. Especially on the weekend.”

“That explains why you guys are late to brunch most Sundays.”

“Yep.”

“I didn’t show up looking for company. I sure didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t. Lennox went back to sleep after I wore her out.” Brady snatched the ball from my hands.