When I Need You (Need You #4)

Brady held up his hands. “Whoa. Defensive much?”

“Maybe I am.” I squirted water in my mouth. “I’m sure the ‘where do we hide Jensen in the family business’ issue has come up if I’m released from the team. Unlike Jax, who’s been assured there’s always a place for him at LI when he’s done with hockey, I’ve never gotten that same promise from you, or the uncles, or even Ash and Nolan.”

Walker sucked in a breath. “That was harsh, Jens.”

“It’s true.” I pointed my water bottle at him. “He’s not denying it.”

Brady leveled his CFO stare at me that sent his minions at LI running for the exit.

I managed to stay put.

“Shifting the responsibility of your future after football onto LI? Dick move, bro. Especially since you’ve refused to tell anyone what postfootball career options you’re considering.”

“It isn’t like you haven’t had time to think about it while you’ve been recuperating,” Walker said. “There’s no shame in admitting you don’t have a fucking clue.”

I closed my eyes and tamped down my temper. “Sorry. It’s not your problem . . . I don’t know what I’ll do if the team cuts me. I’ve been superstitious that if I seriously consider postcareer options right now, the universe will see it as I’ve given up on my football career and it’ll be over.” I opened my eyes and looked at Walker first and then Brady. “I’m not ready to even think about moving on.”

“Although that sounds like the cosmic-consequences stuff that Dallas believes in, I do understand where you’re coming from.” Brady kept his gaze on me. “My door is always open to you when you are ready to talk about a career change, okay?”

“Okay.” I’d dreaded this conversation, taking the “it’s all good” tack whenever anyone brought it up. So color me relieved it was over—for now.

Walker and I gathered our stuff and said good-bye to Brady. Outside, Walker paused by my ZR1 before he headed to his truck. “What’s going on in your world this week?”

“Dante and I are meeting with the coaching staff today. He’s giving them the full report from my week in checkup hell. I have rehab training every day. Besides that, not much. What about you?”

“We’re slammed with renovations and we’re turning down more work than ever. Jase and I discussed expanding, but we’re clearing substantial profits as it is. For him, an increased workload would take time away from Tiffany and their baby girl Jewel. Given what he’s been through to finally have a family, money isn’t a driving force for him. For me either. I want to be with Trinity and baby T-Dub as much as possible.” He grinned. “So I’m an old married dude content to spend my weekends puttering around and being at my pregnant wife’s beck and call.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s what you’ve always wanted, so I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. Swing by and have a beer this week.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

I drove home and felt no guilt whatsoever crawling back in bed for a few hours. At least if I was sleeping I wasn’t obsessing over what would happen during my lunch meeting with the guys who held my football future in their hands.





Four


ROWAN




Calder woke up in a grumpy mood. Normally he was a sweet, easygoing kid so I wasn’t sure if he just didn’t get enough sleep or if he dreaded something at school. When I asked him about it, he mumbled into his cereal so I let it go.

I dropped him off at school—thank heaven for all-day kindergarten—and then backtracked to the University of Minnesota campus. This weekend we had tryouts for next year’s squads, and last year we’d had a thousand students try out for eighty spots. The dance routine was the same as last year’s; we changed it every other year. That one small thing made the tryout process easier—the current cheerleaders were familiar with the routine so they could help teach it to newcomers.

I helped with the choreography of the dances and cheers, but mainly I served as an athletic trainer, advisor and coach to the stunt groups. In middle school, I’d spent three years as part of competitive club cheer group, four years in high school as part of a traveling competitive cheer squad, and four years on the U of M elite all-girl competitive cheer squad. After discovering my pregnancy the last semester of my senior year, I had to quit the squad.

I’d been lucky to get hired by the U of M athletic department as a trainer after my college graduation. The other benefit of my job was the onsite day care during the school year.

As challenging as training was, I missed the actual cheering at a sporting event. Dante, my former mentor, had scored a job working for the Vikings, and he suggested I try out for the Vikings cheerleaders.

Right. Those women weren’t “real” cheerleaders. They were models. Probably empty-headed models, or dancers whose real job involved nightly pole work and lap dances. The supposed “pro” team didn’t even do stunts! What kind of a cheer squad couldn’t at least throw up a liberty a couple of times a game?

Dante checked my attitude. He reminded me of how hard cheerleaders had worked to overcome stereotypes and the dismissive attitude that we weren’t considered “real” athletes. I’d needed to get knocked down a peg. My driving purpose with the collegiate athletic department was to ensure that all athletes—male and female—received equal training opportunities.

Spending eight or more hours in the gym every day demanded that I keep up with my students on a physical level. I’d stayed fit during my pregnancy, and within four months of Calder’s birth I’d returned to my prepregnancy body. Even after Dante convinced me to attend an open practice session at the Vikings cheerleading camp, I doubted the organization wanted someone like me—a single mother with a one-year-old baby—to represent them.

Had I ever been happy to be proven wrong.

The cheerleader roster included women from age nineteen to thirty-four. From all walks of life—students, hairstylists, teachers, homemakers, nurses, personal trainers—all women who’d spent their lives cheering or dancing or both and hadn’t been ready to give it up. Were the women beautiful? Absolutely. But that almost seemed to be a secondary concern; the cheerleaders’ fitness mattered above all else.

I’d never been as nervous as I was the day I showed up for the first open practice. So many hopefuls had applied that they’d had to split it into five sessions of one hundred women in each session. I’d been sitting by myself, practically in the corner, when a brash blonde plopped herself down beside me and struck up a conversation. That turned out to be the best thing that had happened to me. Daisy and I became fast friends, and I wouldn’t know what to do without her in my life.