The air feels like it’s crackling with electricity just standing near him. And I know it’s insane, but there was this moment at the last practice where I thought Jake might kiss me. And I wanted him to!
I realize I still want him to and it makes my chest feel fizzy.
Oh God, this is mortifying! I’m a fangirl!
But those eyes of his, and those lips, they’re a sucker punch right to the heart. I just can’t help myself.
“I, um, have to grade papers tonight,” I suddenly stammer out, knowing my best option is to remove myself from temptation. “You can take this from here, can’t you?”
“Sure,” Jake answers before cupping his mouth and calling toward Ryan. “Tell Miss Davis goodbye, kid.”
“Bye Miss Davis!” Ryan calls dutifully, barely looking at me as he beams up at his uncle.
Does Jake see how much Ryan cherishes him?
I can only hope so.
I wave and start to head to my car but Jake catches my wrist and tugs me back. The skin where he’s gently grasping me burns, making my throat tighten.
“I just wanted to say thank you, Stacy. On behalf of Ryan, too. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“You’re welcome,” I whisper breathlessly, turning and running from him before he can see how red my cheeks are.
Head swimming, I press through the lines of fans and paparazzi that are being made to wait on the outskirts of the field by the park security that finally showed up.
When I arrive at my apartment, to my surprise, the lights are all on when I walk inside.
“Stacy!” Morgan cries, pulling me into a hug.
“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming home today!”
“Surprise!”
We haven’t seen one another in weeks with how often she and Eric are traveling for their jobs. We still talk on the phone all the time though. I fill her in on my boring life and she tells me about the amazing modeling jobs she’s been on in the Bahamas and California while Eric is rocking packed stadiums.
The rockstar himself is nearby, his feet on the coffee table as he plays on his phone.
“What’s up,” he says distractedly.
“Nothing much,” I shrug, grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge and sinking down beside Eric before playfully swatting his feet off the table.
“Nothing much?” Morgan gapes. “Nothing much? No way, girl. You’re not getting off that easily. Tell me how your date with Mr. Football was!”
“It wasn’t a date, Morgan,” I answer with a roll of my eyes. “I take his nephew to soccer practice. And this was only the second time.”
“Oh, that’s right. You gotta keep it hush hush.” Morgan winks. “He has a reputation to protect.”
“Who’s the mystery man?” Eric asks, newly intrigued by the girly gossip.
Morgan answers before I can even start to form a sentence. “Stacy’s been seeing Jake Eckhart! Can you believe it? Our studious little Stacy is dating an NFL legend!”
Eric whistles. “Eckhart? Damn. He’s a touchdown king. That guy singlehandedly won me my fantasy football league last season. He was my first-round pick. Donovan thought I was crazy for drafting a tight end that early.” Eric cackles, reliving the thrill of defeating his best friend in fantasy football.
“We’re not dating,” I correct firmly with a roll of my eyes. “But I’ll be sure to pass on your man-crush.”
Morgan arches an eyebrow. “So you’re not dating but you’re seeing him again?”
“I'm just helping him with his nephew,” I insist, though heat begins to creep up my neck. “Jake’s a busy guy, so I take Ryan to his soccer practices. He’s my student. I'm obligated to help out.”
A furrow of concern creates a small canyon in Morgan’s unblemished brow. As if they can read one another’s minds, both she and Eric exchange a glance that only lasts for a second but feels as though an entire conversation occurred in that short time.
I hate it when they look at each other like that, but that’s only because I’m envious. I want to be on that level with someone someday.
Both Morgan and our old roommate Chloe are so in love.
When will it be my turn?
“Just, uh, be careful. Okay, Stacy?” Eric finally says, Morgan nodding along.
“Why?” I ask, taking a slow sip of my water.
“Eckhart’s got a reputation as a player.” Eric leans forward and pats my arm. “He’s not called The Hartbreak Kid for nothing.”
Chapter 7
Jake
I thought I was prepared to handle the rest of soccer practice on my own since Stacy had to leave. After all, how hard could it be to cheer Ryan’s name and remember to clap every now and then?
Everything went smoothly for the remainder of Ryan’s practice, up until the point when he and I were starting to leave.
We were walking side-by-side, making jokes about how another one of the kids had accidentally kicked the ball into the wrong goal, when a torrent of cameras came flooding toward us. The paparazzi and fans who had been restrained on the sidelines were let loose. They ran forward, practically barreling over the other children and families in their hurry to snap pictures of me.
“Jake! Jake!” they call out, each one dragging my attention in a different direction.
I feel like I’m watching a tennis match, but the ball never lands in one place long enough for me to focus on it. I try to smile at all the cameras, but Ryan’s tugging on my hand between each of the reporter’s catcalls, desperately trying to get me to listen to his story about some cartoon that he and Stacy had been discussing.
“One sec, Ryan,” I whisper, waving at the fans and paparazzi.
I have to keep these ravenous admirers appeased. They’re the foundation of my career, even more so than my talent on the playing field. If they aren’t supporting me, I won’t get the paycheck or the sponsors that I do.
“Jake!” Ryan cries again, yanking so hard on the sleeve of my practice jersey that the fabric almost rips.
“What was that for?” I yell, startled at the kid’s sudden temper.
He scowls up at me, gripping his soccer ball hard before hurling it onto the ground and then kicking my shin. “You never pay attention to me!” he shouts. “You’re always too caught up in other people! You’re a bad uncle! I hate you!”
Then he turns and runs away, though he has no choice but to head for my waiting sports car.
Ryan reaches the passenger door and sits down on the ground, circling his knees with his arms.
I'm suddenly hyper-aware of all the eyes and cameras on me, taking in what just happened. I gulp and stare at the reporters and fans whose expressions are a mixed bag of horror and disappointment.
Great. Of course this had to happen in front of everyone.
I scoop up his soccer ball and rush after Ryan, not saying anything aside from ordering him sternly into the backseat of the vehicle. Waiting until he buckles himself in, I careen out of the parking lot and back toward our penthouse.
I have no idea if I should yell at Ryan for kicking me. Should we hug it out? Or should I just pretend it didn't happen? I keep looking at him in the rearview mirror, but he’s ignoring me.
Stacy would know what to do.
I’ll give her a call as soon as I get home and have a chance to step away from my nephew. Hopefully he just needs a few minutes to breathe and calm down.
He’s staring out the window, his arms crossed over his little chest that rises and falls in infuriated pants. When he catches me watching him in the mirror, he gives a grunt of disgust and inspects his flaring nostrils in the window’s reflection.
We are definitely fighting.
It’s the first real argument between us that I can remember. I hate this feeling, like I’ve disappointed him and hurt his feelings all at once. I know why he’s acting out, he’s mad that I was paying attention to the cameras and not him.
But what can I do to make him understand that’s my job?
/> “When we get home, we can watch a movie and chill out for a bit. Does that sound good?” I offer uncertainly, knowing that Stacy would probably have some comment about how I'm sweeping Ryan’s temper tantrum under the rug, but right now I just want the poor kid to calm down.
His stiff body relaxes a little and though he doesn’t say anything, I sweeten the deal with some popcorn and he almost cracks a smile.
“Okay,” Ryan agrees, and after a few minutes he’s even cooled off enough to sing to whatever pop song is playing on the radio.
Phew. Crisis averted.
When we arrive back at the apartment, I instruct him to get the movie rolling while I make the popcorn. I listen as he flicks through channels on the living room television.
“Uncle Jake!” he says suddenly, giving a little gasp. “We’re on TV! And so are all my friends from soccer!”
Oh, hell no!
“Turn it off, Ryan!” I call out. God only knows what those people will say.
Forgetting the popcorn in the microwave, I rush into the living room just in time to see some entertainment channel anchors watching the video of Ryan kicking me and shaking their heads.
On a loop behind them, they replay the moment my nephew told me what a terrible uncle I am over and over. Ryan initially thinks it’s funny, but his faint giggles fade quickly as the reporters rip into our personal lives.
“You know that poor boy lost his mother last year,” the heartless anchor announces. “And now he’s stuck with The Hartbreak Kid as a guardian? I can’t imagine Jake Eckhart is ready for that role. I mean look at how they interact. Jake is not meant to be a parent.”
“His sister must be rolling in her grave,” another says.
“Maybe they’ll take the boy away from him.”
“Serves him right.”
The anchors continue their judgmental banter while Ryan and I stare at the television screen. Their voices meld into a chorus of ridicule that pours rage through me so suddenly I can no longer hear anything above the pounding of my heart.
Somehow, I remember I can move, and I wrench the remote from Ryan and turn off the television, but his expression has crumpled. His hands are limp at his sides, tears streaking his face.
“Ryan, they don’t know what they’re talking about,” I whisper, trying to pull him into my arms for a hug, but he wriggles free and rushes to his bedroom, slamming the door.
I stare after him, my entire heart hurting.
This is not good. Not good at all.
I can’t even imagine how Ryan must be feeling right now. I know how I feel . . . I want to punch something.
What the hell do I do?
Do I talk to him? Do I give him space?
I walk over to his door, slumping against it. I open my mouth to tell him I love him, but when I hear small sniffles coming from inside the room, I clamp my lips together as my heart caves in. I wish to God I knew how to fix this, but I’m so damn afraid of saying the wrong thing and making things worse. Look at the mess I already caused.
I close my eyes and slide to the floor.
I'm sorry, Ryan.
I'm sorry, Jenny.
Numbly, I fumble my phone out of my pocket, navigating to the last texts Stacy sent, the ones with more nanny information. I ignore those messages, about to call her when the doorbell rings.
I shoot to my feet and stumble over to my door, hoping that somehow Stacy knew I needed her and miraculously showed up. She has such a nurturing presence, one that calms not only me but Ryan as well. When she’s around, I feel less lost when it comes to parenting. I feel like I can actually accomplish things.
When I open the door, however, it’s not the petite brunette teacher, but my quarterback, Brenton.
“Hey, man!” he says with a laugh and a shake of his head. He has a case of beer tucked under his arm, the bottles clinking together. “The news reports running about you today are something vicious. Thought you might need a little pick me up.”
I shake my head but Brenton just winks and rips a beer free and passes it over.
“Believe me, this will help,” he says. “Besides, it’s been way too long since we partied. I’ve been missing you at the clubs. Have a drink with me, man.”
Even though I'm not in the mood for a beer, I don’t want to say no to him. I haven’t hung out with any of my teammates in forever. I was always the life of the party before taking Ryan under my wing. It’s been an adjustment for all of us.
Before I know it, we’re sitting on the couch together and I'm three drinks in when the doorbell rings again. A few of our other teammates flood in, each one with a date who invites more and more people. Brenton hands me another beer.
What could it hurt? It is starting to take the edge off.
A few more drinks in and suddenly my penthouse is crammed with bodies—only a quarter of which I actually know. Ryan is still locked in his bedroom, and I have a steady buzz.
I stand up, intending on telling everyone to get out of my home, but the room sways. My eyes meet the photo of Jenny on the wall. Guilt stabs me in the gut as I meet her familiar brown eyes.
I’ve messed up big time.
This has gotten completely out of hand.
But what do I do?
I’ve always been the partier of the team and these aren’t just my teammates, there are fans here too. If I make the wrong call, it might tarnish my reputation, which is half the battle in the professional career of an athlete.
I'm stuck between the person I have to be for my career and the person Ryan needs me to be.
How can I be both at once?
A lamp suddenly crashes, exploding on the floor in front of Ryan’s bedroom where Brenton has a woman pressed against the wall, his hands all over her, his mouth on her neck. In the heat of the moment, they almost knock down the portrait of Jenny.
That’s it. Enough is enough!
“Out!” I shout, losing my temper. “Everyone, get out! The party’s over!”
I follow them, still shouting at the stumbling herd of drunkards to get out when I see the front of my apartment building on the television. Some vulture is streaming a live feed of the people exiting my home. The ticker scrolling across the bottom of my screen reads: Broken homes and broken promises. The Hartbreak Kid, breaks the heart of deceased sister’s kid.
I can already see the stories that are going to spread like wildfire. I’m going to be labeled a perpetual partier who can’t get my act together for my nephew.
I click off the television and fall to my knees, burying my head in my hands.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this.
No matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to do anything right.
Chapter 8
Stacy
I stroke a distracted thumb over a stain on my favorite pair of cozy pajama bottoms. They have green and red apples printed on them and I’ve had them since my undergrad days. They’re still my favorite pair even though I’ve stained them with pizza sauce and red wine.
I’m eating pizza now, so it seems fruitless to worry about the stain when I’ll probably add another. I shrug and abandon the stain, choosing to take another buttery, garlicky bite of the pepperoni pizza I’ve ordered for myself. It’s delicious, and just what I need to get through another grading session of my students’ math homework.
The problems are easy but the handwriting is hard to understand and my brain feels like it’s ten thousand miles away.
The apartment is quiet tonight, the only sound coming from the neighbor’s adjoining unit. Morgan and Eric went out for a lavish date night. I’m not sure if I’ll even see them before their next big adventure. Eric can afford a date night in Paris now, and this wouldn’t be the first time he whisked Morgan away on a private flight to somewhere elegant.
Jealousy again gnaws at me, but I refuse to let it bring me down. Instead, I lament that I should have gotten fried mozzarella sticks with my pizza and maybe some garlic knots.
I groan at
my own lack of resolve. Carbs are my kryptonite.
I don’t mind being alone, but I do miss the company of having someone to share these quiet moments with. As good as this pizza is, it can’t cure loneliness.
It seems like just yesterday both of my best friends were here every night and we were all laughing and talking together.
Now they have their own lives, which is beautiful‚ but when will I have that too?
They’ve both found men that complete them in perfect ways so that they bring out each other’s inner strengths. Every time I see Chloe with Donovan, and Eric with Morgan, they each look so blissfully happy. I'm sure not every second is paradise but having someone to lean on when life gets rough must be so comforting.
I push away the stack of papers, losing interest, and scoop up the pizza box.
I almost don’t know why I even bother grading my students’ homework. Principal Walton insists that I'm not allowed to give a letter grade below a ‘C’ in case it infuriates one of the parents who might withdrawl their child and their tuition checks.
But still, I go over every single word and problem that my students turn in so that I know exactly what they’re struggling with and what they’re excelling at. I won’t let the principal totally smother me. I can’t. Even under his watchful eye, I still have to keep some sort of dignity in my job.
Easing down onto the corner of the couch, I flick on the television just so that there’s some sort of noise in the apartment. Maybe if I don’t feel so lonely, I’ll be able to concentrate on my work.
I wish it was only loneliness which distracted me now, but it’s not entirely that.
It’s also that every time I blink, I see Jake’s beautiful brown eyes against the backs of my eyelids. I swear I can almost smell his cologne even though all I should be smelling is the tomato sauce from the pizza I’m devouring. Speaking of, I need some wine to wash this down.
When I stand up to head to the kitchen, the commercials end and the familiar name echoing from the speakers makes me spin curiously back around to face the television.
Jacob Page 5