When I Need You (Need You #4)

None.

Thankfully I’d had the best year of my career prior to the injury, so I’d been placed on the injured reserve list. The big bosses assigned me a sports medicine therapist/trainer. Dante was a cool guy. He knew when to push me and when to back off. He and I spent a lot of hours together, yet I never forgot where his loyalties were. He’d accompanied me to Florida for my one-year postsurgical checkup—so he could accurately report the doctor’s diagnosis back to the coaching staff. I guess they didn’t trust that I’d be totally honest.

After the week in Florida, Dante tagged along with me to Mexico. While he sampled tequila and women at the exclusive resort, I spent hours walking on the beach and staring at the ocean, trying to figure out what to do with my life when playing football professionally was no longer an option. Because I could be facing that decision in as little as three months.

Right now I was exactly where I claimed I’d wanted to be the past two weeks: sitting on my comfy couch in my apartment. So why was I so restless? Why was I lonely?

I tipped my head back on the cushion and stared at the ceiling.

You’re lonely? Call your brothers. Or your sister. Or your parents. Or your cousins. They’d be here, or ask you to meet them someplace in a heartbeat.

But my feet didn’t move. My will was as lazy as my body today. When I held out my hand toward my suitcase, my phone didn’t magically fly into it like Harry Potter’s broom did when he called out, “Accio!” That’d be a cool power. It’d be even cooler to have a magic wand that fixed everything.

I shifted the ice pack on my groin. I must’ve been sitting there longer than I’d been aware of because the gel had become gooey and warm.

Don’t be a brooding asshole. Do something productive.

Maybe my neighbor Martin would be up for a video game marathon. If nothing else, the dude made me laugh, especially when he talked about the things he’d seen and heard around the apartment complex. I’d bet he knew who the nut-smashing kid belonged to.

Since Martin lived across from me, I didn’t bother to put on a shirt before I stepped in the hallway. If he bitched about me being shirtless, I’d point out that my brother-in-law Axl—former tenant of my apartment—had strolled around buck-ass naked most of the time. At least I had my bottom half covered.

One other thing about my buddy Martin? He took mellow to a whole new level on account of he liked his weed. He never pressured me to smoke with him, not only because I had random drug testing through the team, but I suspected he preferred a higher-end product and wasn’t inclined to share. But Martin was a great guy and a nonjudgmental friend. He wouldn’t demand the details about my medical visit in Florida; he’d just be happy I was back.

I knocked. And waited.

And waited.

Sometimes forcefully pounding on the door was the only way to catch Martin’s attention when he had his earbuds in. But if he didn’t answer within a reasonable time frame, I figured he and his lady, Verily, were banging the headboard.

So I knocked louder.

No response after several long moments.

Rather than returning to my apartment, I used both hands, rapping my knuckles against the wood in staccato bursts—machine-gun style.

I heard the chain on the inside of the door rattling and couldn’t stop my enormous grin, or from saying, “It’s about fucking time, man,” when the door started to open.

But my grin vanished when I realized the person framed in the doorjamb wasn’t Martin, but a redheaded woman with fire in her eyes.

What the hell? Who was this chick answering Martin’s door? I gave her a very thorough head-to-toe inspection—lush lips, killer rack, curvy hips molded by a tight black skirt and bare toes—before my gaze zoomed back up to meet her angry eyes.

I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Who the hell are you?”





Two


ROWAN




Jensen Lund didn’t have the first freakin’ clue who I was.

Not that I should’ve been surprised. He was exactly like every other high-achieving jock I’d dealt with: exuding an air of entitlement and ignoring the “little people” outside his sports stratosphere.

“Who are you?” Jensen demanded again.

I’d had a crap day and all I wanted was a few moments of peace while my son watched Netflix. I didn’t owe this man anything. Especially given his rude behavior.

“I’m none of your damn business. Don’t bother me again or I’ll call the building manager and report you.”

I slammed the door in his face.

It felt good. Maybe more dramatic than the situation called for, but good nonetheless.

Still . . . it did surprise me that The Rocket lived in this apartment complex.

Maybe he’s slumming while construction on his mansion is under way.

That had to be it.

Besides, my brother would’ve told me that the lauded Vikings tight end was his neighbor. Then again, my rocky past with another football player might’ve convinced Martin not to even mention it to me.

No matter. We’d probably never see each other, and that suited me just fine.

As a single mother with two jobs, I needed a mental reset at the end of my workday to switch from dealing with college students to becoming Mommy to my six-year-old son. I felt zero guilt for letting Calder watch cartoons for fifteen or twenty minutes while my transformation took place.

After I slipped on my wireless headphones and hit play on my cell phone, I opened the sliding glass doors and stepped onto the balcony. Spring had definitely arrived in Minneapolis. Buds on the trees. Tulips, crocus, hyacinth and peonies poking up from the ground. Grass greening up. Birds twittering. I drew in several deep breaths. Music. Fresh air. I could feel the tension seeping out from my pores.

I’d already started dinner when Calder finished his TV show and scrambled onto the barstool, setting his elbows on the breakfast bar. “What’s for supper?”

I finished chopping the onions and slid them into the pan. “Right now it’s just cooked hamburger so the options are endless. Spanish rice, goulash, tacos, beef and rice or sloppy joes.”

“Sloppy joes.”

“Excellent choice, Chef Michaels.”

He giggled.

That sound always made me smile. I glanced up, noticing for the first time what he had on. “Why are you wearing that?”

He shrugged. “I was playing ninja-samurai.”

“With who? Alicia?” Alicia worked for me as a nanny during the week, picking Calder up from school and staying with him until I got home.

“Didja know these pants make a cool flapping noise when I run really fast?”

“I imagine so, but where were you running really fast?”

A beat of silence. Then he answered, “Uh, around.”

“Around where?” This apartment was much smaller than our last one and there wasn’t room to run.