by RC Boldt
I go rigid with shock. “How’d you find out?”
She leans back to peer up at me with an affectionate smile with a tinge of humor in her expression. “You didn’t think I’d figure it out eventually?”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “You never let on.”
Her features soften. “You’ve always been the best brother I could’ve ever asked for.”
“I’d do anything for you.” To lighten the conversation, I muss the top of her dark hair playfully and grin. “Although, my job frowns upon bad press, so I can’t go and punch old Zach Weisman in the gut these days.”
I look at her flushed cheeks and eyes bright with laughter; it’s like the old Ava is back. With a light shove against me, she backs away a step and surveys me.
“If only Weisman could see you now in your amazing shirt.” Her grin stretches so wide, she’s practically showing all her teeth. She swats at me. “Such a suck-up. Always trying to be Mom’s favorite.” Turning, she heads to the kitchen doorway.
“That’s because I am Mom’s favorite.”
“Mom!” My sister stops at the doorway and calls out in a tone that’s reminiscent of when she’d tattle during our childhood. “Dax says he’s your favorite.” She turns to face me with the living room at her back and presses her lips together, quivering at the corners. She holds up three fingers and counts them down silently.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Young man!” our mother reprimands from the other room. My sister mouths each word perfectly in sync with Mom’s. “You know you’re both my favorites.” Ava continues with such precision that I’m holding my sides from the silent fit of laughter she’s sent me into. “A true mother can never have favorites, especially when she has two incredible children like I do.”
Ava finishes with a motherly nod, including the mannerisms of our mother, and I can’t take it anymore. I have to lean against the kitchen counter, I’m laughing so hard. She’s got tears in her eyes and has begun snort-laughing.
Once we finally manage to get ourselves under control, I wrap an arm around her shoulders and give her a quick hug.
“I love you, sis.”
“Love you, too.” She grins up at me before stepping out of my reach. Nearly around the corner, she turns back and whisper-hisses, “But I’m not letting you off the hook about your crush on your matchma— Ahhh!”
I’ve advanced, now chasing her through the house. By the time I snag her waist and tickle her sides, the others are laughing at our antics.
I’d be lying if I said the sound of Darcy’s laughter intermixed with my family’s didn’t make me happy as hell.
26
Darcy
Mondays are the devil.
Especially while trying to recuperate from a fun weekend.
Friday night at Dax’s got off to an oddly rough start with him acting strange about my bathing suit. I don’t know how anyone can possibly stay angry with him, though. When he apologized and asked me to forgive him with those light brown eyes, my defenses crumbled.
Not only that, but more and more, his house has begun to feel like an extension of my own place, and I’m becoming accustomed to being there. To hanging out with him. To having him cook or bake for me. Accompanying him on a visit to see his family. Having him to curl up beside while he watches SportsCenter. These are all things his future girlfriend and eventual wife will do, and I can’t afford to become attached like this. Too close.
Now, I’m heading to the coffee shop near my office to ensure I’m fully caffeinated for the workday. Dax has a meeting with the team’s new general manager, so I don’t expect to hear from him. I need to set up a date with Monica and be sure to work around his schedule, especially with regard to any away games.
After placing my order, I step to the side, and as I’m waiting for them to call my name for my large latte, I skim through the emails on my phone. I click on a few to star them so I can address those once I get situated in the office.
“Large hazelnut latte for Darcy!” the barista calls out.
I quickly slide my phone in my purse, adjust the straps on my shoulder, and step forward to claim my coffee. With a grateful, “Thank you,” I turn and push through the doors, ready to head two doors down to my building.
A dog walker who’s far busier chatting on the phone glued to her ear than she is ensuring the four leashed dogs aren’t in the way of others on the sidewalk becomes an immediate hazard. It’s one of those moments you see coming, but you’re useless to stop it. Everything happens so fast.
A tall man who looks familiar has stopped to check his phone near one of the coffee shop’s outdoor tables. He pockets his phone and steps onto the sidewalk a mere foot ahead of me, heading in the opposite direction.
At the same time, two of the obnoxious dog walker’s pups crisscross around his legs and trap his ankles, catching him off guard. When they each tug, he lurches forward slightly, and that’s when it happens.
The hand on his iced coffee clenches in response and shoots off the lid, gushing cold liquid all over the front of me.
“Holy sh—” He catches himself mid-cuss word. Handsome face in a worried scowl, he sputters, attempting to disentangle himself from the dogs’ leashes. “I’m so sorry.”
I pluck at the thin fabric of my blouse, attempting to allow some of the dripping caffeine to fall to the sidewalk instead of on my pencil skirt. At least I didn’t spill my hot coffee on myself. Small victories and all.
“Darcy?” My head snaps up, and I register a stunned Kyler Watson, Dax’s teammate. “Jesus,” he mutters. “I’m so sorry.”
“Watch where you’re going!” the dog walker snaps at him with a nasty look before stalking off, still talking on her cell phone.
“I’m so sorry, again.” Now free of the dogs’ leashes, he sets his now mostly empty cup down on a table to grab a wad of napkins from the dispenser. “I can pay for the dry-cleaning.” I accept the napkins to blot some of the liquid from my blouse. “Hell, I’ll buy you a new one. Or ten.”
The remorse in his tone and his rushed offers to make amends pull a halfhearted laugh from me. “It’s really not necessary.” I take a moment to look up at the man responsible for soaking me in cold coffee.
Holy crap, I guess I never realized just how good looking he is.
“It’s not necessary. It’s a Monday, after all.” I muster up a smile and place my drenched napkins in his cup.
He returns my smile, and wow, he’s ratcheted up from good looking to downright sexy.
But he doesn’t have a dimple.
I mentally shove that errant thought away.
“I’m just sorry you lost your drink on me.” There. That’s flirty, right?
Crap, I’m so rusty at this.
“Well, maybe you can let me make it up to you with dinner some night this week?”
Oooh, maybe I’m not so rusty.
I smile up at him. “That might be doable.” Yes, that’s better. Slightly flirty.
His blue eyes light up, and he actually looks a little shy. “I’ve got to be honest. I asked Dax if I could have your number.” He clears his throat. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you Friday night, but I didn’t want to put you on the spot.”
Dax barely left your side that night. That’s what Kyler’s not saying. I’d chalked Dax’s behavior up to him being weirdly protective of me.
He pulls out his phone with a sheepish grin. “If you’d like to go to dinner, I promise not to spill anything else on you.”
I carefully switch hands with my coffee to accept his phone in the one not completely sticky from an iced coffee spill. Quickly, I punch in my number, call it, and let it ring once. “There.” I hand it back. “Now, we’ve got each other’s number.”
“I’ll definitely be in touch.” He flashes a disarming smile. It’s one I’ve seen in commercials and on billboards when he’s posed with Dax.
The coffee spill has thrown me off. That must be why a swarm of butterflies aren�
��t fluttering in my belly from that smile alone. He could be my match.
“Well, I have to get going.” He hesitates as though he doesn’t want to leave. As if he really wants to hang out with me. Probably not with me smelling and looking like I tried to recreate the bucket-drenching part of the Flashdance movie—but with coffee instead of water—but still.
It counts in my book.
“Bye, Kyler.” I raise my coffee in a salute—carefully, I might add, and without any dangerous dog walkers in sight—before we head in opposite directions.
Two things cross my mind as I head to the office.
One: Holy shit, iced coffee drinks are ridiculously sticky.
Two: It’s too early to tell, but I think there’s a chance I may have found my own potential match.
27
Dax
First thing I notice when I enter the Jags offices for my meeting at 11 a.m. is the tense atmosphere. I only pick up on this because it was never like this with Rick around. Hell, the entire Mularkey family were fixtures around here before the news of Kara’s cancer hit them. Even then, this place never radiated this odd energy.
I head over to Jackie’s office but falter when I see the door is closed and the blinds are also shut. Jackie is not one to close her door. Although her job title assigns her main duties to support the GM, she’s always been invaluable here, helping out others. Everyone loves her, and anyone with any sense can tell she’s a genuine go-getter with a hell of an impressive work ethic.
That said, she’s always had an open-door policy. And in the past few years she’s been with the team, I’ve never witnessed her blinds closed.
Footsteps pad along the carpeted floor within the office, and I turn to find Delia, an admin assistant who’s been here since I joined the Jags, striding along. She’s one of those women who ages gracefully—I still refuse to believe the woman is a day over fifty—and refuses to be promoted, continuously claiming she’s happy where she is.
“Hey, Dax!” She smiles when she spots me. Her eyes dart to Jackie’s closed door before bouncing back to me, her smile faltering. “Are you waiting on Jackie?”
“I’ve got a meeting with Garner that she set up.”
Her smile tenses, becoming brittle. “I believe he’s in there with her.” Something indecipherable flickers across her features. “Feel free to knock. I’m sure it’s nothing important.” She sidesteps me with a rushed, “Gotta run. Take care!”
I twist around to watch her haul ass down the hallway as fast as her heels can carry her. What an odd reaction…
But if she said to knock and that I wouldn’t be interrupting anything important, Delia would know. She’s got her finger on the pulse of everything that goes on here.
I step forward and rap my knuckles on Jackie’s door. Immediately, hushed voices and a loud thud sound. I lean in closer. “Are you okay, Jackie? It’s Dax.”
The door jerks open, and I’m faced with the sight of the always impeccably dressed and wrinkle-less Jackie who’s agitatedly smoothing down her wraparound dress.
The same dress that appears a bit rumpled.
My eyes fly over her shoulder to our new GM. Then back at Jackie. Were they…? No. Not her. She wouldn’t do something like this at work.
Would she?
Garner steps up. His tie is noticeably askew, and he’s busy straightening it. He stops directly beside Jackie, and she noticeably stiffens with a brittle smile pasted on her face.
“I’m sorry, but I was told to knock,” I say slowly, eyeing each of them curiously.
“Son, you should know when doors are closed and blinds are shut, something very important is going down.”
I narrow my eyes on him. First of all, I’m not even remotely close to being young enough to be called son—especially by a man four years younger than me. Not to mention, his tone and the insinuation in his words make my damn skin crawl.
I focus on Jackie, who has edged away from him as much as possible.
He sets his hand on her shoulder, and she goes immediately still, her body rigid. “Luckily, Jackie and I can finish everything up later.” With that smarmy-ass smile fixed on her, he prods, “Isn’t that right?”
Jackie’s answer is nearly robotic sounding. “Yes, sir.”
He pats her shoulder once, as if commending a young child. “That’s right.”
“Are you ready to meet with me?”
“I sure am. Let’s head to my office.”
I step back to allow him to exit the office, and before he leaves, I catch the odd look of warning he slides Jackie’s way. As soon as he steps into his large, cushy office, his back to us, I catch Jackie’s eye.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
She nods quickly, a brittle smile pasted on her face. “I’m fine.” She shoos me, her smile ratcheting up a notch. “Don’t worry about me.”
I hesitate, casting her one more concerned look before heading into Garner’s office. Jackie’s response doesn’t sit well with me, but I respect her enough not to press the issue.
When I enter the GM’s office, he gestures for me to take a seat in one of the chairs across from his desk. Settled into his leather chair with his elbows resting on the desk, he steeples his fingers while assessing me with an unnerving look.
“I was going through your endorsements as well as the commercials set for local stations here, promoting our team.” He continues to study me, and the way he does it manages to somehow come off like he’s looking down his nose at me. As if I’m beneath him.
Fuck. Maybe Watson was onto something.
“As captain of this team, I expect you not to simply toe the line but to represent the best we have to offer. The fans deserve only the best.”
He pauses, and I remain silent because I honestly don’t have anything to add. It seems like he’s hinting that I’m not up to par in representing the team as captain—which is utter bullshit. I keep my nose clean, stay out of tabloids, don’t touch illicit or performance-enhancing drugs, and never drive under the influence. No parties with hookers, no gambling addiction. Nothing. It’s not that I don’t like partying, but I never want to do anything to bring embarrassment to my family. They’re my biggest fans.
When he doesn’t get the reaction or response I assume he expected, he drops his hands to his desk and interlocks his fingers. “I’m aware that you’ve employed a certain… service.” Fuck me, he makes me hiring Darcy as a matchmaker sound like I’ve been dabbling in prostitution.
Somehow, I keep my cool.
“Yes, sir. It’s a reputable business. Her resume is impressive, considering the successful couples she’s brought together. I’m grateful she’s taken me on as a cli—”
He waves me off dismissively. “That’s enough.”
My muscles tense with irritation at his tone and the way he acts. As though I’m a child he’s reprimanding. Like I’m beneath him.
“I’m sure she impressed you.” He smirks, and I get the feeling he’s implying something else entirely. “But the fact of the matter is, you need to tread carefully as captain of this team. Word gets around.” His narrowed gaze bores into mine. “And word has it you’re getting a little friendly with the owner of Hitched.”
“With all due respect”—I practically grind out the words—“as long as I keep my nose clean, what I do on my own time is my business. Especially since it doesn’t affect my work or the team.”
A tic in his jaw is the only indication of his irritation at my words. “Just tread carefully. The morals clauses in your endorsement contracts with Old Spice, Under Armour, and Gatorade specifically maintain that your public image should be free of anything that could reflect poorly on the image of those companies. They’ve dealt with more than their fair share of athletes who made waves and sent tongues wagging. Everyone’s trying to steer clear of that risk and subsequent fallout.”
He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, so I merely offer a curt nod.
Guess that’s not the reactio
n he was hoping for. His eyes grow squinty, his voice dropping to an even frostier tone. “You’re also a free agent, and there are never any guarantees with this kind of career.”
I cock my head to the side, biting back the first response that comes to mind. Instead, I infuse a calmness in my tone before saying, “I appreciate your concern.”
With what I hope is a casual, nonchalant look, I hold his gaze, refusing to chase after the bait.
His lips press into a firm, thin line before he continues with a gleam in his eyes that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “As I’m sure you’re well aware as an ERFA, if you don’t show, shall we say, an initiative to be the kind of player and captain we expect, then you would have to either sign your contract at the one-year league minimum salary or end up benched for the entire season.”
I’m well fucking aware of the ins and outs of my being an ERFA—exclusive-rights free agent. I’m also aware of his underlying and not so subtle threat.
This isn’t exactly how I hoped to start a season—with my new GM on my ass like white on rice.
These are the moments it sucks ass, plain and simple, to take one on the chin and play the game. The game, in this instance, is playing nice with this asshole who’s on some high-geared power trip.
I lean back in my seat, attempting to exude a casual, confident stance, and offer him a practiced smile. It’s one I’ve used over the years during interviews and at events where paparazzi are begging to snap their perfect shot of you.
“I’m well aware, and I’m sure if you ask not only the coaches and staff, you’ll understand that I take my job very seriously and never do anything to put my career in jeopardy.” I glance at the clock on his far-left wall. “I apologize, but I have a meeting with Coach Hartson in less than five minutes, and he hates when I’m late.”
It’s a fucking lie, but he has no way of knowing that. Coach has an open-door policy, which means he works around his schedule to fit in necessary chats with players. Sure, Garner could check, but right now, I’m banking on him being irritated enough with my lack of response to his subtle threats that he’s ready to be rid of me.