Getting the DOWN (A Bad Boy Sports Romance)

by Daphne Loveling

  We stop at the door to one of the rooms. It’s half-open, and Marinda raps softly on it and pushes through. Inside, the walls are decorated practically from floor to ceiling with crayoned drawings on construction paper that I realize are probably from his friends from school.

  “Hey, Jacob!” Marinda says.

  “Hi, Rinn!” comes a soft voice from the bed.

  I look at the thin, almost skeletal boy who’s lying there, covered from the waist down by thick blankets. His face is so young, so fragile looking, that it makes my chest constrict. Chemo treatments have robbed him of his hair, and his skin has the unmistakeable pallor of a late-stage cancer patient, but there’s a light in his eyes that grows brighter as he sees Rinn sit down next to him.

  The boy’s parents are there, too, sitting on an institutional-looking love seat covered in blue vinyl. The dad is a tired-looking guy who’s probably about my age, though fatigue makes him look older. Next to him, his wife smiles up at me tremulously. Her hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and no makeup adorns her face. Everything about her says there’s no time for unimportant things like that in her world.

  “Thank you for coming,” she murmurs at me, rising off the love seat and stretching out her hand. I take it awkwardly, not sure what to do, then let go of it when Marinda calls me over to the bed.

  “Jake, this is Jacob,” she says, smiling down at the boy.

  “Hey, Jacob.” I force my face into a grin that I’m sure looks pasted on, but I don’t know how to relax the muscles.

  “Hi,” he says back. His eyes widen. “Are you really Jake Ryland?”

  “I am,” I nod. Suddenly, I realize I should have brought him a football to autograph. But then, wouldn’t an autographed football just be a reminder to him that he’ll probably never throw one again? Jesus, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I feel like there are goddamn land mines all over the place.

  “Thanks for coming to see me,” Jacob says in a small voice.

  “Of course. “Marinda…” I look up at her. “Rinn said you could use some cheering up.” Fuck, was that the wrong thing to say?

  “Rinn’s my friend,” he says, smiling widely and looking up at her. “She always comes to see me.”

  “She’s told me a lot about you,” I reply. “Especially because your name’s Jake, like mine.”

  “My name’s Jacob,” he says stubbornly, frowning. I feel like I’m seriously fucking this up.

  “Sorry. Jacob.”

  “Anyway, I know why you’re here,” he continues.

  “Yeah? Why’s that?” I smile at him.

  “Because I’m going to die,” he says.

  I freeze. “No you’re not,” I say automatically.

  “Yes, I am,” he nods. He’s so matter-of-fact about it that any response I can think of freezes in my throat.

  “You can’t know that, Jake,” I try.

  “Yes, I can.” He looks over at his parents, then back at me. “Because I already got my wish. Rinn gave me my trip to Chicago. And now you’re here. So this extra wish means they know I’m going to die.”

  Panic lodges in my throat. I look over at Marinda, who’s staring at me like she’s trying to telepathically send words into my head.

  “That’s not true,” I lie. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  Jacob stares at me for a long moment. “I’m tired,” he says finally. “Can you go now, because I want to take a nap.” Before I can answer, he’s turned away from me and closed his eyes.

  The odors of disinfectant and bland food are starting to get to me, and I pull at my collar, dying to go outside and get some fresh air. “Sure, sport,” I whisper, and stand up, feeling sick. Over on the love seat, Jacob’s mom collapses into his dad’s shoulder and begins sobbing quietly. Marinda’s mouth is opening and closing in shock as I stumble out of the room and into the hallway.

  I turn and stomp away from her down the hall toward the elevators. When the doors finally open, I punch the button for the first floor, aiming for the nearest exit. I need some fresh air, air that doesn’t smell like sickness. But mostly, I just need to get the hell out of here.

  Chapter 9

  Marinda

  I watch in disbelief and anger as Jake stalks away from me toward the elevators. Then I go back to Jacob’s room to apologize to his parents.

  Jake’s first visit on behalf of Give A Wish could hardly have gone worse. I can barely believe how badly he’s managed to screw it up. By the time I get downstairs and find him sitting on a cement retaining wall outside the hospital entrance, I’m seething.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss, my hands going to my hips.

  “What the fuck did you expect me to do when a kid tells me he knows he’s dying?” he sputters back.

  “Well, you don’t lie to him!” I shake my head in disbelief. “God, Jake, what were you thinking?”

  “Why not?” he challenges me. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Yes, Jacob, you’re right, you’re dying. You’re probably not going even to see your next birthday.’ Are you kidding me?”

  “Oh my God!” I look up at the clear blue sky in frustration. “He knows he’s dying, Jake. You pretending otherwise just makes him trust the adults in his life less. And he needs to trust them. He needs some stability in his life.”

  “Well, how the hell was I supposed to know?” He rakes a hand roughly through his hair. “Look, I’m fucking sorry, okay? I have no idea how to talk to kids, much less sick ones. I didn’t ask for this bullshit.”

  A stony silence hangs between us as Jake takes us back to the foundation. His driving is angry and jerky. When we get there, he pulls up to the front and throws the truck into park, not looking at me.

  I realize he’s dropping me off. That he’s not planning to come in.

  “So, that’s just it?” I choke.

  “Do we have anything else on the calendar for today?” he asks, cold and distant.

  “No, but…” I’d planned on debriefing on Jacob’s visit, and going over some other upcoming events with him.

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His voice is flat. Everything in his voice tells me he’s done with this conversation.

  I sigh in exasperation. “Fine,” I say, and pull the handle. I slide down the ridiculously high seat to the ground, and have barely slammed the door behind me when Jake pulls away, his tires emitting a slight screech.

  Holy cow. What a disaster.

  The whole afternoon, I’m having a series of imaginary angry conversations in my head with Jake where I dress him down and tell him how wrong he was and why, in every way I can think of. In every one of them, he’s initially defensive, but then eventually realizes how right I am and apologizes profusely as I feel the thrill of triumph and righteous indignation. It’s exhilarating, and the only way I can get my mind to process how horribly the visit went.

  Jacob’s parents were very distressed at first, but they’re wonderful people, and they eventually calmed down after I told them that this was Jake’s first visit on behalf of the foundation. I told them that I should have realized he wasn’t up to such a sensitive task, and even though they were still upset, they said they understood.

  The thing is, though, as I talked to them, standing there outside Jacob’s hospital room as he slept, a tiny seed of doubt sprouted in my gut. I realized that the words I was saying to his parents weren’t just an excuse — they were the truth. And as much as my angry fantasy conversations try to push the thought away, as the day goes on, that seed begins to grow, and eventually I have to admit to myself that I put Jake in a terrible position. I should never have brought him to see a child who was so close to nearly certain death for his very first visit. It wasn’t fair to him, it wasn’t fair to Jacob’s parents, and it wasn’t fair to little Jacob.

  By the end of the day, my righteous indignation has been replaced by a sick feeling in my stomach from the guilt that I have over making such a terrible, rookie mistake. Somehow, J
ake’s self-assured, infuriating cockiness made me forget that in front of a seriously ill child, he’s just as helpless as the rest of us to make it all better for them.

  I hate admitting I’m wrong about this, even to myself, but I owe Jake Ryland an apology.

  The next day, Jake comes to my office in the morning, just as the schedule says. Cara taps on my door and opens it to let him in, flashing me a wide-eyed oh my God look as she does. It’s clear that she’s not going to get over having, as she says, a “world class hottie” coming into the office regularly. I roll my eyes at her. Very professional, Cara, I telegraph to her.

  Unlike yesterday, today Jake is dressed in faded jeans and a broken-in gray T-shirt with the Rockets logo on the front that looks almost molded to his upper body. He hasn’t bothered to shave, and the shadow of his beard outlines his square jaw in a way that’s distractingly sexy. His dark brown eyes are flashing with suppressed anger, and his face is set and tense as he strides in and takes a seat across from me.

  “What’s on the agenda today?” he asks in a cold voice. Clearly, he does not want to be here, and he wants to make sure I know it.

  I take a deep breath and look at him. “Jake,” I begin, “I want to apologize for yesterday.”

  Nothing registers on his face. “Okay,” he says, but his tone tells me it’s anything but okay.

  I sigh. He’s not going to make this easy on me. And I hate that he deserves to feel that way. I try again.

  “I was really angry at you after the visit with Jacob, but afterwards I realized it was my fault.” I meet his eyes, trying not to think about how incredibly handsome he is, and force myself not to look away.

  “I know it can be really tough meeting a child with a terminal illness. It’s hard to know what to say, how to act. I should have prepared you better for it beforehand. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have started you out with such a tough case.” I look down and shake my head, a wave of emotions pushing up inside me. “It’s just… Jacob is a really special little boy. I’ve known him for a number of years. When his cancer came back last year, it just about broke my heart.” I glance back up at him as tears begin welling up in my eyes, and will myself not to blink. “I just wanted him to have another special visitor, before he…” My voice breaks, and I swallow. “Before he dies,” I finish, and one of my tears escapes and rolls down my cheek. “Damn,” I swear softly, and open my drawer to rummage for a kleenex.

  All this time, Jake is staring at me wordlessly. He waits as I find a tissue, dab my eyes and blow my nose. Finally, when I’ve gotten control of myself, a muscle moves in his jaw. “Okay. I accept your apology,” he says simply.

  It sucks to get so emotional in front of a man I barely know, especially one who pisses me off so much. But I’m grateful that he just accepts my words without further comment. “Thank you,” I reply, giving him a brief, tremulous smile.

  “So, are you gonna at least tell me what to do before you throw me to the wolves next time?” he asks, just a hint of humor in his voice.

  I clear my throat. “Yes. Of course. And today’s visit should be a lot easier. We’re going to the McMarshall House, to visit a group of kids. So, no one-on-one visits today. It will mostly be just like any other group of kids you’d talk to as a player for the Rockets. We even have some hats and footballs for you to sign, sent over by the team’s PR people.” I don’t tell him yet that the team is also sending over a photographer to take pictures of Jake with the kids, to send out as press releases. I’m hoping that by the time they arrive and start to set up, he’ll be comfortable enough not to be too bothered by them.

  Realizing that I need to do a better job of preparing Jake this time, I talk to him a little about the McMarshall House. He’s heard of it but doesn’t really know what their mission is, so I explain that they provide a place to stay for families with kids who are in the hospital with serious illnesses, so they can be close to their child, and that they also have events for kids so that they can get out of the hospital environment and feel normal for a little while.

  “I think you’ll end up enjoying this, honestly, Jake,” I say. “The only thing you need to remember is to be prepared for the fact that some of them might be thin, or have lost their hair to chemo, or may be connected to an oxygen tank. But their smiles are just like the smiles of any kid.” I look at him, the beginnings of my own smile coming through at the thought of some of their sweet faces. “They just want to smile, and laugh, and have fun. And that’s something you can do for them.”

  “Okay, I can do that.” He nods, and his face softens just the barest, tiniest bit. When I see it, my chest unclenches a little, which is a surprise because I hadn’t even realized I was so tense.

  I stand up from my desk, a little dizzy with relief, and say, “Okay, let’s go. They’re expecting us at the McMarshall House before lunchtime.”

  As we walk downstairs, Jake tells me he’s parked on the street today. I follow him outside, scanning for the F150. Instead, he heads across the street to a late-model red Camaro.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  He flashes me a grin. “I figured we should take this one today, since you have so much trouble getting into and out of the truck.” His eyes wander down my body briefly, and I realize that I’m wearing a dress. I blush at the thought that I might have had to try to climb up into that monster in a skirt with Jake watching.

  “You have two cars?” I stammer, trying to shift the conversation away from me.

  His eyes travel back up to my face, more slowly than I’m comfortable with. He cocks his head and gives me a mocking smirk. “Do you know how much money the average quarterback for the NFL makes?”

  He has a point, I guess. Sheesh. I’d never really thought about it before, but I guess Jake Ryland is probably rich. Like really rich. I briefly consider looking up NFL salaries when I get back to my office, but immediately push the idea from my mind. Even if Jake is rich as Midas, I don’t want to know.

  Jake opens the passenger door for me and I climb in, but this time, the problem isn’t how high the car is, it’s how low. I try to get in left leg first, but I’m wearing a pencil skirt, and I can’t reach far enough. Finally, I turn around and back in, falling into the bucket sea with an awkward oof as my backside hits the leather. I pull my legs in and wait as Jake shuts the door behind me, trying to gather up what’s left of my dignity.

  Jake gets into the car and fires up the ignition. The car responds with a loud vroom, which tapers off to a soft purr. I start to tell him the address of the McMarshall House, but he stops me. “McMarshall House, Springville,” he says out loud, and the screen in the center of the dashboard lights up with a map. A softly-modulated female voice starts to give him directions, but he presses a button to mute it. This thing is a far cry from my Toyota, I think.

  When we get to the McMarshall House, the director, Pam Turlington, is there to greet us. I introduce her to Jake, who immediately begins flirting with her. Pam is one of the most no-nonsense women I’ve ever met, so I expect her to shut him down immediately, but instead her voice goes up half an octave and she actually starts to giggle. I stare at the two of them in wide-eyed amazement as Jake peppers her with questions about the House and she answers like they’re on a particularly good first date. It’s weird, and in spite of myself I start to get irritated, then impatient… then verging on angry.

  Then it occurs to me. Watching Pam as she all but bats her eyes and flutters her fan at Jake, I’m actually feeling almost… jealous.

  Good God, Rinn. Get a grip on yourself. Pam has to be at least fifty. Jake’s just being polite, after all. It’s not like he’s making a play for her. Though, he could be. Pam’s a very attractive fifty year-old…

  I almost literally shake my head to stop myself from being completely ridiculous. So what if Jake is making a play for Pam? It’s not like I want him to be flirting with me. For one thing, he’s an ass. For another, we have a professional relationship to maintain. And I’m not about to
jeopardize my job and my career by getting too informal with a scandal-prone professional ball player.

  “Well,” Pam chirps, her hand going unconsciously to her hair. “Let me show you to where the children are waiting. Right this way, Jake.” She takes his arm, completely ignoring me, and I follow the two of them down the main corridor to the community room. “Children,” she announces. “This is Jake Ryland, the quarterback for the Springville Rockets!”

  It’s clear that many of the kids know who he is, and that they’ve been waiting for him. A couple of them are wearing Rockets jerseys. I start to step forward to help Jake ease into this, but as the kids cheer and start to crowd around him, he seems to instantly just slide right into his element. He grabs a chair and takes a seat in the center of them all, then introduces himself and starts to ask them their names one by one. For each of them, he has a special word or two — how one little girl has a pretty name, or how another little boy reminds him of one of his teammates. It’s a complete transformation from yesterday, and I can hardly believe it even though it’s happening right in front of me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see three people come through the door of the community room. One is carrying a large mesh bag of footballs, one has an expensive-looking camera around his neck, and the third is lugging some lighting equipment. Jake glances briefly up at them but keeps talking to the kids, keeping them distracted as the photographer and his assistant set up the lighting and start snapping candids.

  “Who wants an autograph?” Jake says then, and of course all the kids go wild. He takes a marker from his back pocket and starts signing jerseys, hats, footballs, casts, and anything else the kids present to him. With each one, he writes something different, signing his name under their special message with a flourish. It goes on like this for over an hour, with the photographer taking photos and even shooting some video the whole time. By the end, I practically have to drag Jake away from the kids as they protest and clamor for him to stay longer.