Touchdowns and Tiaras: The Complete Boxed Set

by Sosie Frost

  When this season ended and my locker was cleared for good, I’d take home the final piece of my career.

  A championship ring.

  And we were working hard to get it.

  Jack lined up the offense, keeping us past the scheduled AM practice slot. The coaches allowed it, and the players didn’t complain. No one wanted to be the first to admit they were exhausted after a full morning of drills.

  “Let’s run through the game plan again.” Jack huddled us together. “I know I’m being a hard ass.”

  “No one’s ever complained about that ass,” Lachlan said.

  “And no one ever will.” Jack pointed the ball at him. “Don’t get jealous, Charming.”

  “Just saying…one of us is the actual tight-end.”

  The ball was pitched at his head. Lachlan didn’t duck in time.

  “Here’s the deal,” Jack said. “I’m not sure how this season’s gonna go. Last year we…had some trouble after all that cheating bullshit. Apparently, that intel did help us win some games. We suffered without it. But not this year. We’re going to be prepared. We’ll practice these plays until they’re muscle memory. We’re gonna work together until all you see at night is my face. You’ll dream football. Eat football. You’re not gonna drill your girl without hearing my cadence in your head.”

  “Fine by me,” I said. I dunked a cup of water over my head. Was it always this hot on the field, or was the headache screwing with me? “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  Jack grinned. “All-Star, you’ve probably forgotten more about football than we know.”

  He wasn’t lying.

  “This is a new offense. Gotta learn the ropes.” I nodded to the linemen clustered behind Jack, my guardians on the field. I’d owe them plenty of steak dinners by the end of the season. “I want to make sure I’m working well with all you fine gentleman.”

  “He’s such a sweet-talker.” Lachlan laughed. “Dude, you’re Jude Owens. Ain’t no one gonna stop you…unless she’s got a lab coat and clipboard.”

  I followed his gaze. Rory joined the trainers on the sidelines, swiping some information into an iPad and asking questions of a defensive player.

  She glanced over, caught my gaze, and dropped her iPad. She conked heads with the safety as she tried to pick it up, groaned, then clutched her stomach. She bolted off the field and threw up behind a bush. Hidden from the team…but in full view of the fans seated in the stands.

  No tears though.

  This was an improvement.

  “I wouldn’t mind a little TLC from Doctor Honeybuns.” DeSean, the center, winked at the linemen. “No offense, Daddy.”

  Jermaine, our left guard, offered a thrust of his hips. “He’s been playing doctor himself.”

  I hated anyone disrespecting Rory, but I let the comments pass. The guys needed to have some fun.

  “Doctor/Patient confidentiality, boys,” I said. “Come on, let’s get this done so I can get home for my check-up.”

  The offense hooted, but Jack pointed at me and Lachlan. “You two. You’re my fucking world this year. I’m gonna rely on you.”

  “Just give me the ball,” I said. “I won’t stop running until we’re in the damn championship. I’m getting my ring.”

  “And we’re gonna win it for you,” Jack said.

  He called the team to huddle up and checked the play with the offensive coordinator.

  I breathed deep, loving the scent of the grass, the sweat, the stale plastic of the pads. I’d give everything for a championship. My knees. My head. My pride.

  This was my chance.

  I wished I could say I was prepared for it. But lining up in the sun, sweating my weight in water and aching with a migraine, I was lucky I could even hear the play call or the coach’s whistles.

  After eleven years in the league, I could rely on instinct. My mind might have fogged in the pain, but I watched the plays—how Jack planted his foot, where the line pulled, how they shifted, when the gaps appeared. My strength pulled me through the plays and got me where I needed to go.

  Problem was I didn’t always recognize where I ended up.

  Jack called the play, a quick run up the middle with an audible. He snapped the ball, I surged forward, taking the handoff. I cut once, and, had we faced a real defense, I’d have found daylight to run.

  “Good!” Coach Thompson joined the offensive coordinators and took over the drill. “Run another audible, Carson.”

  He did as the coach asked. We set for the play. Jack shouted the audible.

  “Two-Fifty-Five!”

  I listened.

  “Dumbo Simba!”

  It was a pass.

  No—

  A run.

  “Hercules Red!”

  My mind blanked.

  The fog drowned my thoughts, memories, emotions.

  I blinked. Nothing.

  The play was gone.

  And so was everything else.

  The time. The day. The fucking team I played for. My migraine fractured icy nails across my temples. The pain blitzed as the ball snapped.

  I froze.

  What the hell was I supposed to do?

  My body moved absent of my mind. I dragged my feet, but they rushed forward. The steps were wrong. I knew they were wrong. But I couldn’t stop myself.

  I collided with Jack. He sprawled one way, I fell the other, and the ball popped out.

  Whistles blew.

  And I waited for the fog to lift.

  It was starting to take a little too long to clear.

  I sat up slow, but Jack was already there. He helped me to my feet.

  “You all right, man?”

  “Yeah…” I choked. His name didn’t come to my lips. It fizzled in the grey nothing of my head. I faked a smile. “Just ran the wrong route.”

  “Simba’s a pass. Red meant I needed you to block on the right.”

  “Yeah.” I’d never remember that. Not without flash cards, silence, and a night alone with my playbook. How the hell was I supposed to do that with Rory so close now? “I’ll get ya next time.”

  He thunked my helmet with his hand. Not helpful. “We got this, Jude.”

  “Hell yeah.”

  I hoped.

  The coaches dismissed the team from the heat and exhaustion. A shower helped to clear the last of the cobwebs, and a fist-full of Aleve was my normal after practice cocktail. The guys cleaned up and dressed. Jack caught me as I fit my t-shirt over my head.

  He tucked a sports jacket over his shoulders. My memory was hazy, but even a couple years ago, the Jack Carson I knew wouldn’t have been caught dead in a suit. Dead in a ditch, maybe, but not a suit.

  But I respected a man who took responsibility for his life.

  I also respected the hell out of his wife’s patience.

  “Feeling good?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Knees okay?”

  “Fine now.” I grinned. “Ask me again when I wake up tomorrow.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Jack hesitated. “I’m just, checking. You know?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m excited for this season.”

  I nodded. “Me too.”

  “It’s going to be a tough year.”

  I knew where he was going with this. “I’m good to play, Jack. The coaches say I’m good. The doctors say I’m good. Team neurologist says I’m good—and she’s a hard ass, believe me.”

  “I don’t care about them,” he said. “I want to know if you think you’re good to play.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “No one can get into your head and really look around—only you.”

  “You don’t think I’m healthy?”

  “I can’t make that call. You can. You tell me.”

  This wisdom was coming from a man who once had the worst reputation in the league—a partier, a drunk, a womanizer. But I’d been around long enough to see hot-shots come and go. Jack had honestly reformed, but I
doubted even he understood the challenges I’d faced, conquered, and still feared.

  “Believe me. I’m ready to play.”

  “And the drill on the field today?” Jack asked. “You didn’t run the wrong route. Your head glitched. You ran the same play twice.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “How many of those mistakes do you make in a day?”

  I didn’t need a lecture. “You do your job, Jack, and I’ll do mine. All we need to worry about is getting the ball in my hands.”

  “Bullshit. You have plenty more to worry about. You should be scared shitless.”

  “Why?”

  “You have a kid on the way, All-Star. You need to be thinking about the baby.”

  I quieted. The baby wasn’t just getting real to Rory today. Genie was suddenly a very real part of my life.

  “I have this under control,” I said.

  He didn’t believe me. “How do you manage the memory problems? Crib sheets around the house? You’re a quiet guy, so people probably don’t notice when anything’s wrong. Do you cheat by calling people man or buddy or sport?”

  “I’ve never called anyone sport.”

  “That’s a good nickname to remember, if you can.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t have to explain myself to Jack Carson. So why was I still trying?

  “My last concussion was a bad one,” I said. “But I’m here to play. I have a job to do. We can either be a team about this, or you can borrow Rory’s lab coat and play doctor too. I appreciate the concern—”

  “Do you?”

  No, but I was more of a gentleman than him. “I’m well enough to play. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And even as I said it, even as the irritation bubbled quicker and fiercer than it had any right to flare, I hated myself for considering that he might have been right.

  But nothing would stop me from playing this season.

  Not my head. Not my medical history. Not even a shit memory.

  I wasn’t worried about a little fog. As long as I could see the field, I’d figure out which way to run. The regular season started in three weeks, and I’d sell my damn soul to play and win those sixteen games before the playoffs.

  I just hoped I could remember the win.

  I grabbed my bags and stormed from the locker room. I hopped into my Jeep, but my hands hesitated over the keys.

  It did feel like I was forgetting something.

  Something important. Something I shouldn’t have left behind.

  Oh well. It didn’t matter.

  Whatever it was would come back to me sooner or later…

  7

  Rory

  “Has anyone seen Jude?” I covered my eyes as I asked the question. “He’s supposed to take me home.”

  Two linemen had opened the door to the locker room for me, but I wasn’t stepping foot into that testosterone-muddied swamp without protective eyewear and a healthy dose of hand sanitizer.

  DeSean offered to check inside for Jude, but he returned with a shrug and kept his distance. I was a good doctor, but even I couldn’t take an MRI of their head with a single glance. The guys were safe.

  Jude was not.

  “He’s not in the locker room,” DeSean said. “Sorry, Doctor Merriweather. I can check the weight room if you want. Ma’am.” He panicked as my eyebrow rose. “Not that you’re a ma’am. Don’t look a day over a miss, especially for someone who’s knocked up.”

  Such formality. I kinda liked it this late into the day. I nearly sent DeSean to search for Jude. My feet were killing me, and I could hardly keep my eyes open, but I had to prove I could handle a full day on the job, even if the day was hard.

  Before the fellowship, my life consisted of libraries, study sessions, and classes. That big fiery ball in the sky? I thought it was a myth, some sort of melanoma-spreading monster. Spending the summer days on the sidelines was a challenge. The heat made everything worse…or did pregnancy just come with more sweats in places I never knew sweated? At least chasing the trainers and players over the field kept me moving. Last thing we needed was for me to leave any puddles.

  I so wished pregnancy had come with a warning. Take lots of folic acid, get plenty of rest and water, and don’t forget—you might toot in front of your friends, accidentally pee while sneezing, and you’ll use the word discharge in ways never before imagined.

  And I was done. The long day was made longer trying to find Jude.

  Maybe he was waiting for me? I dared to hope that Jude parked outside the entrance, eager to race home to air-conditioning, Netflix, and another night of me awkwardly staring as he rubbed ice over every perfect bulge and muscle on his body.

  Was it sad to be excited about carpooling? Great for the environment, not so awesome for my self-esteem.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about our kiss, and all the little pecks and cute touches we gave each other when in full view of the team. My spreadsheet worked perfectly to grant the allusion of love and commitment, but I knew the truth. The only thing keeping Jude at my side? A Jeep racing at fifty-five miles an hour to make it to practice.

  And I’d take every minute in traffic the city of Ironfield could gift us.

  But no Jeep waited for me out front.

  Fantastic.

  I searched the parking lot. No Jude, but I watched the happiest family this side of the fifty-yard line greet each other after a long day.

  Elle cradled her baby as a little blonde boy leapt the front stairs and nearly tackled Lachlan.

  Lachlan hauled the kid over his shoulder and greeted his wife and baby. “Heya, Bast! Hi, Nick!”

  “Lachlan!” Bast shouted. “Can I go on the field? I wanna see the end zone! Can we go for ice cream? Tag, you’re it!”

  Yep. He was definitely Lachlan’s family, but he had a good idea.

  Ice cream sounded delicious. Something cold and fruity and decadent, lathered in whipped cream and globs of gooey chocolate…

  “I know that look,” Elle said. “Baby needs a dessert. Stat.”

  I pretended she wasn’t half-psychic. “No, I’m okay. The cravings aren’t that bad.” Said the woman contemplating stuffing tortilla chips into a strawberry sundae. “I’ll survive until Jude takes me home.”

  Lachlan stopped swinging the laughing boy around like a nunchuck long enough to frown. “Jude? He left, like, fifteen minutes ago.”

  Missiles armed. “He left?”

  “Yeah. I watched him go.”

  Target acquired. “Jude left without me?”

  Fire!

  “Oh no.” Elle was quick to my side. “Don’t worry, Rory. We can give you a ride home.”

  My perfect vision of a perfect relationship was crumbling before we had even faked it for two weeks. I was not letting it end now.

  I tapped my head. “Oh, wait. He must have gone to get dinner while I finished up. Tonight is…pizza night.” I hated fibbing, but if we did order a pizza, it wouldn’t be a total lie. “He’s probably picking it up so we could go straight home.”

  Elle grinned. “What a guy.”

  “Yeah. He’s perfect. I’ll just wait for him here.”

  Elle and Lachlan said goodbye, and I almost regretted missing out on a ride home.

  I’d be okay as long as I didn’t see ice cream and pizzas in the shimmering mirage across the parking lot.

  But Jude? He’d have a lot to answer for.

  I grabbed my phone and checked for messages. Nothing. I called him instead.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  And my stomach grumbled as it rang again.

  No Jude.

  But of course he wouldn’t answer. He drove a Jeep without doors or windows. He’d never hear his phone ring. I left a short and sweet message instead.

  “Jude…did you forget something? Call me back.”

  That spent the last of my patience.

  The players’ parking lot emptied
. The guys left after practice to get home to their families, dinners, and central air. No sense melting on the cement stairs. I’d hide in my office until Jude returned with the Jeep and one hell of an apology.

  I had a little work to do yet. And I owed Clayton the Rivets’ weekly assessment.

  Hadn’t answered his last email either. A single line, a single warning.

  We need to discuss Jude Owens.

  It was out of the question. Clayton had already showed me too much preferential treatment. I refused to endure any more of his presence than was strictly necessary. He’d get his health assessments of the players—Jude included, but we weren’t discussing anything else.

  Not that he had wanted to talk before the fellowship began, even when it was important.

  I grabbed the door.

  It didn’t budge.

  I patted my pockets, my purse, my laptop bag.

  No…

  Where the hell was the fob?

  I thunked my forehead against the glass. Pregnancy brain must have been a real thing. I’d never forgotten my keys before. Never forgotten anything before. My step-mother made sure of it—carelessness was the bane of perfection. Then again, only one person was perfect in this world, and, sure as hell, Christ would defer the title to Doctor Regan Merriweather.

  This sucked.

  My stomach rumbled and lurched.

  That was worse.

  I hadn’t eaten all day, but the heat made me nauseous. And sweaty. And miserable. The only thing I wanted to gnaw on was ice, and that probably meant I was anemic. Or melting.

  But maybe…

  I perked up. Training camp wasn’t just for the players anymore. Thanks to Leah Carson, the whole camp was one mega-festival, complete with vendors and food and children’s events. I spent my day wandering the sidelines—shouting over cheering crowds, avoiding the wafting stench of gyros, and watching kids dive into Rivets themed bouncy castles.

  Maybe I could still find a food vendor behind the field?

  I braved the heat and circled the parking lot, hopping the roped off corridor separating the team from the visitors. Most everyone had left after the early afternoon practice, but a few vendors remained, wiping down their trucks.

  And then I saw it.