by Kendall Ryan
Dear Jane
Copyright © 2018 Kendall Ryan
Copy Editing by
Pam Berehulke
Cover Design and Formatting by
Uplifting Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Dear Jane
About the Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Also in this Series
Sneak Peek of Finding Alexei
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
Other Books by Kendall Ryan
About the Book
I broke her heart ten years ago and left town.
She hates me, and rightly so. It doesn’t matter that the rest of the country loves me, that I’m a starting quarterback with a multimillion-dollar contract. Because when I look in the mirror, all I see is a failure who was too young—and too afraid—to fight for what I wanted.
But I’m not that guy anymore, and all I need is one shot to convince her.
• • •
He has no idea what happened after he left. And now I’m supposed to work alongside him like we don’t have this huge, messy history?
But I’m older now, wiser, and I won’t let anything stand in my way of doing a good job for this league. Not even one overpaid, arrogant player who thinks we’re going to kiss and make up.
News flash, buddy: I am over you.
Chapter One
Jane
Nine times out of ten, when I tell people I work for a professional football team, they try to call my bluff. Usually, they make me repeat myself—”Come again?”—like they misheard me and I’m actually a manicurist or a dog sitter or something. Sometimes, they’ll quiz me on players’ jersey numbers or specific game plays, all of which I can answer without batting an eye.
I guess I can’t blame people when they don’t expect a pint-sized girl who loves heels and lipstick to be working in an industry of huge, muscular men pummeling each other into the turf for entertainment, but this world is all I know.
I was raised in a home where it was practically law that I was on the couch to watch the Hawks game every Sunday afternoon, and my love affair with the sport hasn’t stopped since. The fact that I get to work for the team I’ve been cheering for since I was in diapers seems almost too good to be true. Not to mention the fact that I have the most foolproof pickup line in any sports bar ever. Between traveling the country with the team and brushing shoulders with sports legends, football is my religion.
And then there are days like today. With all the paperwork falling off of my desk, you’d think a tornado hit the Chicago area and touched down only in my office. The season is starting in just over a week, and my to-do list is longer than the whole length of the field.
It doesn’t help that Mr. Flores, the general manager of the Hawks, is offsite all day at a meeting, so as his assistant manager, I’ll be picking up his slack. As if that weren’t enough, there’s a huge press conference tomorrow to get ready for. This day is going to require a refill on my coffee and a whole lot of gangster rap.
I slip in my earbuds and put on my best game face, envisioning the frozen margarita I’m going to order later as a reward. And then, just as I’m getting into the zone, there’s a knock on my office door and in walks the head coach. Or as I like to call him, Dad.
“Hey, sweetheart, is it okay if I bother you for a second?”
Despite what a lot of people think, my dad didn’t get me this job. He probably could have if I’d let him, but I’ve never wanted to use Dad’s position to my advantage. I’m perfectly capable of paving my own way without being given a leg up. So I served my time selling tickets before I eventually worked my way up to having my own office.
“Sure, if it’s important,” I say, glancing at my watch. It feels rude not to make a little time for my own father, even if I am totally swamped today.
Dad shuts the door behind him and plops down in the faux leather armchair across from my desk. “I’d say it’s pretty important,” he says, dodging direct eye contact with me. “But you’re not going to like it.”
I survey my mountain of paperwork and give Dad my best bring it on smile. With everything on my plate today, I came in to work ready for battle. It would take something pretty catastrophic to throw me off my game.
“We’re bringing on a new player.”
My eyebrows perk up in interest. It’s pretty unheard of to make changes to the roster this close to the start of the season. Plus, if the Hawks have been eyeing a potential new player, I should have been one of the first people to know.
“Really? Who?” I prop my chin in my hands, leaning in like a high school girl ready for the hot gossip.
Dad lets out a long breath, his lips tensing as he nervously adjusts his Hawks cap. “It’s, uh . . . it’s Weston Chase.”
My stomach bottoms out. I must have misheard him. There’s no way my dad just told me that Weston Chase—my first and only long-term boyfriend, the star of our school’s football team who shattered my heart and touchdown-danced all over the pieces—is joining the Hawks.
“Excuse me?” I’ll give him a chance to repeat himself and prove that I must be losing my hearing at an alarmingly young age. Please, please say another name. Any other name.
“Weston Chase. You remember him, right?”
“Are . . . are you k-kidding me?” I manage to sputter as my whole body locks up. My heart literally stutters in my chest like it’s threatening to stop.
This has to be a joke, some kind of preseason prank the guys on the team put him up to. Weston Chase is a thing of the past, a heartbreak nightmare I have left way, way behind me. What sort of terrible karma would bring him to the Hawks?
“I know it’s not great,” Dad says in what feels like the biggest understatement in history.
Rainy days aren’t great. Fast food tacos aren’t great. My ex-boyfriend stomping back into my life and turning my dream job into a nightmare? That’s a fricking disaster.
Dad has no idea what really happened with Wes and me all those years ago. Almost no one knows. About the baby, about my heartbreak . . .
“I wanted to keep it under wraps in case it didn’t end up happening,” Dad explains, fiddling with the fraying edge of his hat. “I didn’t want you getting all worked up for nothing. But Weston is meeting with the general manager today, so it looks like things are pretty set in stone. We’re going to announce him as our new quarterback at tomorrow’s press conference.”
Tomorrow? So I have less than twenty-four hours to prepare to face the douchebag who shattered my heart into a million tiny pieces?
Just two minutes ago, I was ready for the day to fly by, eyeing my frozen margarita on the other side, and now I wish everything would just freeze for a second so I can stop my head from spinning. It’s not lik
e I didn’t know Wes was a professional football player, no matter how hard I tried to block out any and all news about him since he was first drafted.
“Are you going to be all right, sweetie?” Dad asks.
I realize I haven’t said anything as I stare into space. I’ve got to get a hold of myself.
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” I grumble through clenched teeth, rubbing my temples to ward off an impending stress headache.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just figured it was best you heard it from me. I didn’t want you bumping into the guy for the first time in almost ten years without a little fair warning.”
Holy shit, almost ten years? Has it really been that long? Nearly a whole decade since I’ve seen Weston Chase.
It feels like just last week we were sneaking a bottle of wine out of his mom’s pantry and making toasts to his football scholarship in his backyard. That was the night before he left for college. We caught our first buzz off that wine, kissing and promising we’d talk on the phone every single day until he came home for Thanksgiving.
It seemed so perfect at the time. Now it just feels like a load of bullshit.
“Why the Hawks?” I ask, waving off that memory like the sour smell of a used jockstrap. “Can’t he go play for literally any other team?”
“He was playing for another team. We’re getting him from Philadelphia.”
“And he couldn’t have stayed there?” I snap, my sassy tone biting.
“Jane, let me get through the whole story, would you?”
I let my gaze fall apologetically to my desk, like a puppy who just got scolded. I shouldn’t be taking out my frustration on Dad. The truth is, I’m glad he thought to come to me about this.
He’s quiet for a second, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, probably trying to figure out the best way to go about it. When he speaks again, his tone is soft and careful, like he’s treading through a minefield, worried I may explode at any second.
And I just might.
“You know our starting quarterback is out for the season with that ACL injury. Yeah, we have our backup, but you and I both know he’s not good enough to carry us to the playoffs. And things weren’t going great for Wes in Philadelphia. His fiancée cheated on him with their star linebacker. It was a real messy situation, Jane. He needed out of there, stat.”
Is it bad that hearing that Wes got cheated on makes the corner of my mouth threaten a smile? I try to keep my best poker face, act like I’m not secretly pleased that Weston Chase got what was coming to him, but Dad notices the snicker I’m holding back.
“Look, I don’t know exactly what went down between you two,” Dad confesses, putting his hands out in front of him in surrender, “and I don’t want to know. Some things a father just doesn’t need to know about. But I know you walked away with a pretty bruised-up heart.”
More like limped away, or maybe crawled. Dad is making it sound like Wes and I ended on polite terms, like I made a full recovery after a few pints of brownie ice cream and a good cry or two. I wish it were that simple.
“It was . . . complicated,” I admit, my throat going tight. I squeeze my eyes shut, pulling myself together the best I can. One way or another, I’m going to have to get through this. After a deep breath, I add, “But it was a long time ago.”
He considers this for a moment, studying me closely. “You want me to bench him?”
I smile at Dad and shake my head. You don’t bench players like Wes. Not in a million years. There are football players and then there are quarterbacks, and among the country’s most elite quarterbacks, Weston Chase is firmly at the top. It would be crime against football to bench him. Dad knows that as well as I do, but it’s still sweet of him to offer.
Dad gives me his signature half smile that I know means he’s proud of me. “You’ve got this, kiddo. And besides, this really is the best place for Wes. Back close to home, close to his mom and all. Plus, our backup kicker, Colin, is an old college buddy of his. He’s the one who gave us the lead on recruiting Wes to the Hawks. I guess they used to live together, and he—”
I hold up a hand in protest, cutting Dad off from sharing any more details of Wes’s life. If I’m going to be professional with him, I’ve got to stay far, far away from any of the personal stuff. “Need-to-know basis, Dad.”
He gives me one firm nod. “Understood.” He drums his fingers one last time on the chair and I glance at my watch again, silently ushering him out the door and ending this father-daughter moment.
“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to scale your mountain of paperwork,” he teases, gesturing to the chaos that is my desk.
I mentally thank my busy schedule for providing me with a good distraction from this Wes stuff.
“Thanks, Dad. Love you,” I say, wiggling one hand in a wave as the other reaches for my to-do list.
Just as Dad twists the doorknob, he pivots and adds one final thought. “This might turn out to be a good thing, sweetheart. You never know.”
I fake an enthusiastic smile, then grab a pen and scrawl one final item onto my to-do list.
Stay far, far away from Weston Chase.
• • •
One of the best things about being the Hawks’ assistant manager is that the spotlight is never on me. I have no interest in being the center of attention, so I’m happy to slip out of the shot when the cameras flash on Mr. Flores. And with the announcement of our last-minute roster addition, every reporter, blogger, and talk-show host in the country is clamoring to get a quote from him. Probably for the best that no one cares to hear my opinion on the matter, because I’d have a few choice words on our new player if any news outlet gave me the mic. And I don’t particularly feel like getting fired today.
After our usual pre-press-conference routine of running a few practice questions in his office, Mr. Flores pulls two ties out of his lower desk drawer, holding each one up to his chest so I can get the full image.
“I know I’m being ridiculous,” he admits. “But you know the room is going to be packed with reporters from every major news outlet.”
Glad I’m not the only one dressing to impress today, I smirk, pointing to the navy tie in Flores’s right hand. “Team colors.”
I’ve got on my personal brand of battle gear—high-rise black skinny jeans with an army-green blazer, dark red lipstick, and the sexiest underwear I own. Not that anyone is going to see this little lacy black number, but just knowing I have it on is a major confidence boost.
And this press conference is going to take every ounce of confidence I can dredge up. I have half a mind to throw on a football helmet too, so maybe I can get through this press conference without Wes noticing or recognizing me, but I know I can’t hide from him forever. If I don’t face him now, I’ll just have to do it tomorrow or the next day. No use putting it off.
And the last thing I want him thinking is that I’m cowering in the corner, fearful of him.
Mr. Flores gets one last look at himself in the reflection of his window, smoothing out his suit jacket and giving himself a nod of approval. “Ready?” he asks, tightening the knot of his tie.
“As I’ll ever be.”
I follow Mr. Flores down the hall to the elevator, which takes us straight to the media room. As soon as the elevator doors slide open, the familiar flash of cameras greets us. I recognize all the usual photographers but see at least a dozen unfamiliar faces. I guess bringing on Wes really is a big deal. A $50 million big deal, if the rumors are true.
As Mr. Flores heads to the table to take his seat next to my dad, I slip to the back of the room. There’s one empty chair onstage, but I know it won’t stay empty for long. As if on cue, the locker-room door swings open, and in walks my own personal blast from the past.
It pains me to say it, but Weston Chase looks damn good. Tall. Insanely fit. Cocky swagger.
But this isn’t the high school heartthrob I fell for anymore. Ten years of weightlifting and endurance training have d
one him quite a few favors. He still has the same short brown hair, which is styled with gel, and his tight smile is as familiar as ever. All the things I loved about him haven’t changed, and I’m sure that means all the things I’ve hated are the same too.
I inhale sharply and watch as he stalks toward his spot between my father and Mr. Flores. He holds up one hand to greet the crowd before taking his seat. Dad gives him a friendly slap on one broad, sculpted shoulder, which makes me twitch a little. It feels like a high school football game all over again with Wes in his jersey and me in the crowd.
And then it happens. He sees me. I should have blended in with the reporters, or at least kept from staring at him for so long, but it’s too late. He spotted me, and he’s not looking away.
Shit. Fixing my focus on Dad, I force myself to do my best impression of someone who gives zero fucks about Wes’s presence in this room, nodding along with my dad’s answers as if I’m catching more than every third word. I sure as hell can’t focus with Weston Chase’s stare burning a hole in my cheek.
Even as the reporters turn their attention to Wes, I never once feel his eyes drift away from me. He answers in that same low, maple-syrup voice that I used to love. That same deep voice that used to whisper against my neck how beautiful I was, how good I felt. It makes every hair on my body stand at attention.
Don’t. You. Dare. Look. At. Him.
I force another breath into my oxygen-deprived lungs and try not to act like my whole world wasn’t just shaken.
What I’m sure is a twenty-minute press conference feels like a century, but things finally come to a close. As the room clears out, Wes disappears into the locker room in the blink of an eye. Finally.
I take a much-needed pull of oxygen. I did it. I survived.
“Jane! Over here!”
I scan the room for the source of the request—it’s Mr. Flores. He waves me over as he chats one-on-one with a perky blond reporter.
“Jane, can you do me a favor? This woman from the Times wants to chat with Colin Crosley, number forty-one. He was Weston’s roommate in college, and she’s looking for a quote. Could you pull him out of the locker room for me?”