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Grant nodded and set off down field again. This time, Blake’s throw hit his target. “That was a great suggestion,” he said as he jogged back. “You’ve really got a gift.”
Blake scoffed. “Throwing a ball? Yeah. People tell me I could be a quarterback in the NFL.”
“No, dammit. I mean your leadership skills. Being a quarterback is more than just throwing a ball. You steer the team. You watch and help your fellow players become better. That’s as important as throwing a ball.”
“At least I have something.”
Grant frowned at him and tossed the football back. “Seriously, stop making light of this. I know you think that playing football is all you’re good at, but you’ve got more than that. You need to make the most of it. Not begrudgingly. Not as a last resort. Maybe it was fate that your knee got blown out.”
“Did you really just say that to me? Do you tell pe
ople after their house burns down that it was fate?”
“Of course not. But life doesn’t always work out the way you plan. Coming home to Rosewood and coaching the football team wasn’t what you had in mind. But did you ever think that you might be right where you’re meant to be? Maybe you’re meant to use your skills to help kids and train the next great football player. You can live out your dream that way.”
Blake swallowed hard. He was trying. He’d taken the job at Rosewood High, thankful he could fall back on his secondary education degree. He enjoyed coaching the kids. Was it the same as the roar of an NFL stadium? No. But at least he was able to put his knowledge and training to good use. He wasn’t ready to get all Zen about his situation, but he was working on it. Bloom where you’re planted and all that. Contentment wouldn’t just happen overnight.
“Okay, okay, all right. Point taken. Now go long and cut right.”
Chapter 5
It was a relatively quiet day in Hollywood.
And Nash Russell needed a story. His favorite gossip subjects had scattered. Some went to rehab, others to foreign film sets. A few had taken vacations or just disappeared entirely. It was the kind of day that forced him to write about a Kardashian or some singer’s new haircut.
He hated those days. Nash might not be up for a Pulitzer anytime soon, but he did like to tell a juicy story, not just shove celebrity nonsense down readers’ throats.
No one had gotten into a fight at a club, been seen making out with someone other than their spouse, or gotten pulled over for a DUI and played the “Do you know who I am?” card. Not even a single naked photograph of a former child star had surfaced lately. He was going to have to do a story on some celebrity kid going shopping with their nanny. That wasn’t the kind of tongue-wagging tale he liked to tell. He wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill paparazzo. He was a celebrity journalist. Though he wasn’t sure that distinction meant anything to anyone but him.
Sitting back in his chair, he stroked his graying blond goatee thoughtfully. He needed . . . he needed Ivy Hudson to come out of hiding. That girl had been Nash’s go-to since the day she burst onto the music scene and put her ex in his place. He got a kick out of uncovering who her songs were about. Breaking that first story about Blake Chamberlain had been the highlight of his career.
When confronted about Blake being the subject of her number one song, Ivy had smiled coquettishly and said, “No comment.” That’s why Nash loved her. She would stab a guy in the back with a song, then go on television looking all innocent and sweet. And romantic exploits aside, he always felt like there was more to Ivy’s story than anyone knew. If he dug deep enough, he had a feeling he would hit the tabloid mother lode.
The last few weeks the blogs had been buzzing with the Ivy Hudson–Sterling Marshall story. Once again, Nash was the first to figure out who the song was about, and he’d turned it into a scandalous headline. That was the news he lived for, but even that had fizzled out. Ivy was MIA. Sterling was in his third stint of private, and very expensive, rehab, but Nash had been paid more to keep quiet about it than he’d ever make reporting it.
Nash was happy to take the money and ignore Sterling Marshall. He’d rather focus on Ivy. Nash had made a career on her love life. Perhaps she’d found a new guy. Was there anyone stupid enough to still date Ivy Hudson? You were guaranteed to have a song written about you. And not a flattering one. But like clockwork, Ivy would be seen out and about with someone new. Nash supposed it was because she was hot. He was the first to admit that. It might be worth the embarrassment to get his hands on those curves of hers.
But right now, he’d just be happy with tracking her down. She hadn’t been spotted at her Malibu mansion or her New York apartment for several days. Ivy hadn’t made any appearances on television or granted any interviews. His unnamed source who helped him keep tabs on Ivy said she hadn’t even used her credit cards. The girl was underground. He’d called her managing agency and they’d confirmed that Ivy wasn’t scheduled for another appearance until that Rosewood charity gig in two weeks.
Nash couldn’t take the radio silence. Where the hell was this Rosewood, anyway? An Internet search brought up a map of Alabama. It took a few minutes, but he finally found the tiny pinpoint just northeast of Birmingham. It had slightly more than eight thousand residents. There was one high school and no Walmart for twenty miles.
Nash frowned. Had Ivy really come from a town like this? It was pretty hard to believe. Maybe that was the angle he needed for a story. If Ivy had secrets to uncover, her hometown was the best place to start. He was planning on going to Rosewood to cover the concert anyway. Maybe he could go early and dig up a little about Ivy’s life before she became the media darling. This tiny town could be a treasure trove.
Nash started searching for flights and rental cars in Birmingham. “Brace yourselves, Rosewood, ’cause here I come . . .”
“I never meant to hurt you.” Blake’s blue eyes were pleading with her. Begging her to forgive him. “I know I did and I’m sorry. But I still love you.”
He reached for her, his palm caressing her cheek. Ivy closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. She’d missed it so much. Blake gently stroked her skin, teasing at the soft line of her jaw and the sensitive hollow behind her ear. His touch was magical, stirring the desire for him that she’d long kept buried. The pad of his thumb brushed across her bottom lip, leaving it tingling and aching to be kissed.
Ivy looked up at him. Pinning him with her gaze, she took his hand in hers and brought it to her mouth, pressing a kiss into his palm. She moved the hand down to her chest, placing it over her heart. The rapid beating vibrated against her rib cage. “I still love you, too.”
Then she shifted his hand to cup her breast.
A ragged breath escaped from Blake’s lips. “You don’t know how long . . .” His voice faded, his fingers gently stroking her sensitive flesh. “Ivy, I need you so badly.”
“Then have me,” she whispered. And she meant it. She couldn’t hold back how she felt any longer.
Blake lowered his lips to hers, but stopped just short of touching her. “I need to tell you something first.”
