“No, he’s not dumb,” I murmur, wishing she’d change the subject, but she’s not about to.
“Plus, it’s not exactly going to hurt the foundation that he’s total man candy,” she enthuses. “God, have you seen the proofs for the new brochures yet? I think we might be the first nonprofit in history to send out mailers that women will put on their nightstands to fantasize about!”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then let it out. This conversation is not helping me put Jake out of my mind.
“So, what’s he really like?” she presses me. “I mean, obviously he’s got a reputation, but he actually seems sort of nice, in spite of his reputation. Is he nice?”
“Yes,” I say numbly. “He is nice.” Just don’t try to get close to him.
“He seems nice,” she coos again, her eyes dreamy.
“Yup,” I repeat.
“It’s too bad he’s a total man slut, from what I hear,” she chatters on. “But I guess you can hardly blame him, given how good looking he is. I mean, who would turn that down?” She raises her eyebrows and grins. “I sure wouldn’t.”
“No,” I murmur. “Nobody would.”
At lunchtime, I go out and grab the local papers to see if the coverage of the foundation gala is in them. I manage to find a copy of the Sunday Springville Daily, too, and see that they’ve done a half-page photo spread in the society section. Front and center is a picture of Jake at the podium, giving the speech that left hardly a dry eye in the house. My chest constricts as I gaze at it, the pride I feel for him overshadowed by a massive wave of sadness and loss.
Jake hasn’t called or texted me since our fight, and I’ve promised myself I won’t contact him, either, at least not until I have to. With the gala looming so large for the past few weeks, it was the last thing that we had scheduled on his calendar. So, one of the tasks I have this week is to start planning some more events and visits for him, to keep him in the public eye doing foundation work until the season starts. I’m dreading the inevitable moment when I have to contact him about it — and pretend that our relationship is only professional, and that the last six weeks never happened.
The one bright spot in my day, ironically, comes in the form of a call from Rose Fowler when I get back from lunch.
“Hello, dear, I’m calling to congratulate you again on how wonderfully the gala went on Saturday, and how perfectly you prepared Jake for his role as emcee,” she says, with a warmth in her voice that’s so unusual that for a moment I question if it’s even her.
“Thank you, Rose.” It’s effusive praise from her, so much so that I’m kind of shocked by it.
“I also wanted you to know that I’ve decided to put the item of choosing a permanent director for Give A Wish on the agenda of the next meeting of the board of directors,” she continues. “I think it’s high time that we move forward with that, for the good of the foundation. And I’ll be putting forward your name as my personal choice for the position.”
She doesn’t say it outright, but it sounds like the success of the gala convinced her that I deserve the job. I’m flattered, and I tell her so.
I almost consider calling Jake, to share the good news with him. After all, it’s partly because of him that this is happening.
But I can’t. I just can’t talk to him right now. In fact, even though I should be jumping up and down at the news that I’m finally getting the job I’ve been working so hard for, somehow it feels like a pretty hollow victory. So even though it’s the biggest thing that’s happened to me in a long time, I decide not to tell anyone. Maybe by the time the board makes its final decision it will actually feel like something I want to celebrate about.
Later that evening, as I’m sitting on my couch like a zombie staring at the television, my mother calls me.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer, trying to keep my voice from betraying how awful I feel.
“Hello, honey, I just wanted to call you and let you know how pleased your father and I were to have Jake over yesterday. We both enjoyed having him here so much.”
“Thanks, Mom.” God, is everybody in my life going to force me to talk about Jake today?
My dad says something in the background, and my mom answers him before turning back to the phone. “Your father wants me to tell you to let Jake know that he’s welcome at our house any time. We’d love to have him back again, whenever he’s free.”
“I’ll let him know,” I say dully.
My dad says something else. “Oh,” my mom titters. “And your father says to tell Jake he’s not going to forget about the tickets to the Rockets game Jake promised him the next time we’re in town.”
Great. Now Jake has an ongoing relationship with my parents. For the dozenth time, I curse myself for being stupid enough to bring him to Holcomb with me.
I force myself to chat with Mom for a few minutes more, then I tell her I have some things I need to do and say goodbye.
Because I do have things to do, after all.
For one thing, I have hours of moping and feeling sorry for myself to accomplish before bedtime.
24
Jake
I’ve been turning around in circles, completely fucking sick of myself, ever since my fight with Rinn on Sunday.
The whole goddamn thing felt like a slow motion car accident. You how they say sometimes right before a crash, everything looks like it’s moving in slow motion, but you can’t do anything but watch helplessly as it happens? I swear it was like part of me was watching and shaking my head as I blew up at her and basically told her to fuck off, when all she did was ask a question she had no way of knowing would set me off. There were a hundred ways I could have stopped it, a hundred different things I could have said or done differently. If I’d chosen any one of them, I wouldn’t be here now: sitting on my ass, alone on one of my outdoor couches. Staring at the lake, just like Rinn and I did the other morning as we watched the sun rise.
Except Rinn’s not here. And after the way I fucked things up, she’ll probably never be here again.
The worst part is, I know there’s a way I could salvage this. I could probably manage to get her to talk to me again. I even know how I could do it.
I could say I’m sorry.
Because I am. I’m so goddamn sorry it’s killing me.
The problem is, if I apologize to her, I’ll have to tell her why I blew up in the first place.
And I just can’t open up that part of me. Not to her, not to anybody.
I don’t see or hear from Rinn for days. We never scheduled anything on my foundation calendar for after the charity thing, so I’m expecting her to contact me about setting up some more stuff, but she doesn’t. I wonder whether she’s somehow managed to convince her boss not to use me anymore, but I figure I’d know about it by now if that was the case.
So, I try to put the whole damn thing out of my mind, and throw myself into training. We’re entering Phase Three of the off season, which means offense and defense no-contact drills, in preparation for camp in July. I try like hell to get my head completely focused on football and ignore everything else. In the past, it was all I needed — my whole life, really. But this time, it’s not enough. I’m restless, I’m pissed off, and I don’t know what the hell to do with myself whenever I’m not on the field or in the weight room. And I can’t be on the field or in the weight room twenty-four seven.
It’s been a few days since I’ve been to Southshore to see Caitlynn, partly because I know she’s gonna ask me to show her the picture I took of me and Rinn at the gala. Finally, I decide I can’t put it off anymore, so one day after practice I shower up and head on over in the F150. I’ve made the drive often enough now that it’s starting to feel like a routine as I pull into the parking garage, find a spot close to the elevators, and ride up to the oncology floor. But when I get to the hallway where Caitlynn’s room is, for a moment I think I’ve taken a wrong turn.
The bed inside is stripped. There’s nothing there. The whiteboard o
n the wall has been wiped clean.
A sick feeling starts to grow in the pit of my stomach. I go to the nurse’s station and hear myself ask an older woman in a purple uniform where Caitlynn is.
“Oh,” she says, looking at me with eyes full of sympathy. “I’m so sorry, sir. Caitlynn passed last night.”
I blast out of the parking garage like it’s on fire, my foot pounding on the accelerator so hard I almost clip the gate arm before it’s all the way up. I floor it out of the lot and barely hear the tires as they squeal in protest.
I’m too late.
I never got to say goodbye to her.
I never showed her the picture of Rinn and me.
I promised her.
I promised her.
I drive blindly, mindlessly for a while, not knowing where I’m heading and not giving a fuck. I’m at least twenty over the speed limit, knowing I’m being a dick as I weave in and out of honking cars, but I have to keep moving, because at least if I’m driving I have to concentrate on keeping the fucking car on the road, and if I stop it’ll just be me, and my thoughts, and I’m afraid I’ll fucking lose it.
But after a while even driving isn’t enough to outmaneuver everything I’m trying to outrun, so I push the button on the dash that communicates with my phone. “Call Chad Evanson,” I bite out.
A few moments later, there’s a single ring, and then a click. “Hey, fucker, what’s goin’ on?” Chad’s voice drawls over the speaker.
“I’m lookin’ to get a party together, man,” I say. “You in?”
There’s a bark of laughter. “Good to have you back, man. Yeah, I’m in.”
25
Marinda
The morning of the board meeting where Rose plans to propose naming me as permanent director, I spend at least half an hour trying to figure out what to wear. After trying on pretty much my entire professional wardrobe, I finally decide on my favorite navy blazer and a pair of light gray pants, with a silky white shirt that’s as comfortable as it is flattering. Before I leave for work, I spend some time going over the report I’ll be giving on the gala, including how much money we raised from the event and some ideas for how to improve on our success next year.
I drive into work feeling confident and only a little nervous. It’s been over a week since I’ve heard from Jake, and I tell myself that after Rose names me director today, I’ll pull myself together and start making up his schedule of foundation events for next month.
When I get into the office, Cara has already set up the conference room for the meeting. There is a box on the side table with an assortment of pastries, and two carafes she’s filled with coffee. Minutes from the last meeting and the agenda for this one sit in front of each chair around the table.
“Hey, boss,” she greets me cheerfully. “Are you nervous about the meeting this morning?”
Somehow, the rumor has gone around the office that I might be named permanent director at this meeting, though I have no idea how it got started.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Cara,” I say smoothly, and try to keep my face completely neutral.
“Riiight,” she says slowly, and winks in such an obvious manner I’m tempted to ask her if she’s having a problem with her contact lens.
Half an hour later, all the members of the board have arrived except for Rose, and I set up the screen for the presentation as people fill their coffee mugs and choose their pastries. I’m just starting to wonder what’s keeping Rose when she walks in and takes her habitual seat.
“Thank you all for coming,” she says, in the habitual grande dame voice that she uses for board meetings. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
She calls the meeting to order. They vote to approve the minutes from the last meeting, spend a few minutes discussing two items of old business on the agenda, and then move to new business.
“First, we’ll have a report on the annual gala by our interim director, Rinn,” Rose says to the table.
I stand and begin my presentation, taking the members through a slide show that gives them a recap of the event, complete with a number of pictures for those who didn’t attend. Through it all, I notice that Rose is not looking at the screen, or at me, but instead seems thoroughly absorbed by whatever it is she’s looking at on her tablet. I try to ignore it, and instead focus on the other board members. They nod soberly while I recount the record amount of money we raised at the gala and conclude with two or three ideas for next year’s event.
When I’ve finished, there’s a strange, unusual moment of silence as I click off the projector and sit back down. I don’t know what I’m expecting, exactly, but given how successful the gala was, I would have thought that at least the board would be congratulating me, or Rose, or something.
“Thank you, Rinn,” Rose says dryly as I take my seat. “Any questions?” No one says anything. “All right, then, let’s move on to the next agenda item.”
This is the discussion of the director position. I briefly wonder if I should leave the room so they can talk freely without me there, but Rose plunges ahead before I can ask about it, so I keep my seat and try not to feel awkward.
“As you all know,” Rose continues, “We’ve been operating with an interim director for the past six months, since our previous director Candace stepped down. It seems in the best interests of the foundation to discuss moving forward with naming a permanent director.”
A number of the members nod or murmur their agreement, so Rose continues. “Given the importance of such a position for the health of the foundation as a whole,” she says, “I’d entertain a motion that we move forward with doing a full external search, beginning immediately.”
It’s not what I’m expecting. Not at all. I turn to look at her in astonishment, but she’s staring straight ahead, a slightly sour look on her face.
“I so move,” says Burt Ebersoll.
“Second,” adds Joan Demarco.
Then, as I sit there shocked and confused, the board votes unanimously to do a search to fill the job I’ve been working my ass off to have for the last five years.
The rest of the meeting goes by in a blur. I’m too upset, too humiliated to even hear what else they talk about. I want to leave the room, to go lock myself in the bathroom and cry, or scream, or something, but I can’t make myself get up, can’t stand the thought of all their eyes on me as I flee.
When Rose accepts the motion to adjourn, I slide my chair back mechanically and turn to go.
“Rinn.” Her voice is completely devoid of emotion. “I’d like to speak to you for a moment, please.”
“Under the circumstances,” Rose is saying, “Jake’s being so high-profile at the gala was clearly a mistake.”
“Wait,” I say. “Under what circumstances?”
“He clearly is not up to being such a visible public face of a foundation whose very existence depends on its reputation,” Rose says coldly. “Children and their families, not to mention our donors, need to be able to think of Give A Wish as a charity they can trust. A charity that does not make them think first and foremost of a disreputable player whose face is all over this city now as a result of all your hard work.” Her voice drips with sarcasm as she says these last two words.
“But…” I stammer, “I don’t understand. Putting Jake in front of people as a spokesperson for the foundation is what you asked me to do.” Am I seriously being punished for my success?
“What I assumed,” Rose bites out, her eyes cold with suppressed anger, “Was that you had the good judgment to evaluate whether Mr. Ryland was ready for a larger role. You decided that he was. Now, his face is all over this city, with the words ‘Give A Wish’ right next to it, because of your poor judgment. I’m sorry, Marinda, but I cannot have a director whose judgment I can’t trust.
“I am not firing you,” she sniffs as I gape at her. “Perhaps I should, but I’m cognizant of the fact that the gala you organized brought in a record amount of money for us this year. So, y
ou will continue to serve as interim director until we find a permanent replacement, at which time you will step back into your former position in communications.”
I’m too stunned and confused to protest more as Rose says a perfunctory goodbye and leaves. I walk robotically back to my office, ignoring Cara’s expectant smile and closing my door behind me. At my desk, I sit still for a minute, staring blankly into space. I wait to see if I’m going to cry, but more than anything, I feel too numb to even know what I’m feeling. Finally, I pull my laptop toward me and type in Jake’s name, then click on the news button to see what I’ve missed.
It turns out, I’ve missed quite a lot.
One of the first articles that appears is from this morning’s Springville Daily. Apparently, while I was getting ready for the board meeting, Rose and the board were reading the story of how Jake got into a drunken brawl outside a club downtown a couple of nights ago. According to the story, one of Jake’s teammates got in a fight with a guy when he hit on the guy’s girlfriend. From what I can gather, Jake stepped into the fight and was drunk and belligerent when the police showed up. He was charged and released for public intoxication, but since it’s his first offense, it’s likely he’ll only receive a fine, and not jail time.
Lucky him.
By the time I’m finished reading the article, tears are streaming down my face. But they’re not tears of sadness. They’re tears of rage. I’m furious — furious with Jake. For ruining this, for being such a fucking idiot, such a selfish asshole, for not giving a shit about anyone but himself.
But even more, I’m furious at myself. For falling in love with him, when I knew he didn’t love me, and for letting him wreck my career just like he wrecks everything else.
PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3) Page 16