Sway (Keeping Score Book 6)

by Tawdra Kandle

  Sway

  Tawdra Kandle

  Tawdra Kandle Romance

  Copyright © 2019 by Tawdra Kandle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To everyone who has loved the characters and stories of the Keeping Score series,

  to all who have encouraged me,

  sighed with me,

  cried with me,

  and cheered with me.

  With love always.

  Contents

  Sway

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Sway Play List

  About the Author

  Also by Tawdra Kandle

  Sway

  Gideon Maynard is football royalty. Generations of his family have played the game, owned the teams, run the leagues . . . and so it’s no surprise that Gideon is the starting quarterback and star player for the Richmond Rebels. But underneath his aloof yet drool-worthy exterior, he’s nursing a bruised and skittish heart.

  Sarah Jenkins swore off dating athletes years ago. She’s completely committed to her career in politics and public relations and to life as a single woman, and that’s the way she likes it, thank you very much.

  When the two meet through friends, the attraction is instant and undeniable, but both Gideon and Sarah are smart enough to know that a relationship isn’t in the cards for them. Slowly, though, they find a way to friendship . . . and eventually, to something even deeper.

  But just as playing football takes more than talent and hard work, a lasting love requires more than steamy nights and passionate kisses. Forever means believing in scary ideas like trust and forgiveness.

  Is a happily-ever-after possible for two hurting, broken souls who are willing to risk it all for a love that won’t end?

  Prologue

  Another Disappointing Season for the Rebels

  The Richmond Rebels finished the regular season today with a record of 9-7. After a promising start, the team quickly ran into issues with injuries and some changes on the coaching staff, leaving fans in our city asking what needs to be done to make the Rebels championship material.

  Left tackle and team co-captain Corey Iverson spoke briefly with reporters after today’s loss. “We’ve got talent, and we’ve got some incredibly dedicated players. But we’re a young team, and to my way of thinking, that means we’ve still got a lot to learn.”

  When asked what he’d like to say to the ardent and yet disappointed supporters in Richmond, Iverson said, “Stick with us. I know it feels like a long road, but we’re not giving up, and neither should our fans. This team is only getting better, every game, every season.”

  Iverson’s co-captain is quarterback Gideon Maynard. Maynard, whose grandfather was the first owner of the St. Louis franchise while his great-grandfather was the second league commissioner, is in his fifth year with the Rebels. A first-round draft pick, he came to the city with a great deal of promise, and while he has delivered consistently on the field, there is some buzz that his demeanor off the gridiron leaves something to be desired.

  “Gideon’s . . . aloof,” a source close to the team told us on the condition of anonymity. “He’s not rude, and he doesn’t hesitate to work hard and train harder, but he’s definitely not one of the guys.” The source went on to note that while Maynard may have the respect of his teammates, he doesn’t socialize with them during their off-hours.

  “There’s something about him. He walks out of the tunnel on Sundays with this . . . swagger. Only with him, it’s not bravado, the way it is with some of the players who talk big. With Gideon, it’s more like an intensity. It’s a promise that he’s made, and he’s going to keep it. This is his house, and there’s no doubt that he doesn’t care about the consequence or cost—he’s going to stand his ground. And he expects the rest of the team to do the same.”

  When we reached out to Maynard for a response, he declined to comment.

  1

  Gideon

  “Fuck it all to hell.”

  Dirk Shepley, one of my wide receivers, slammed the heel of his hand against the wall of lockers, and the whole damn thing shook. Not surprising, considering the size and strength of the guy, but still, it startled all of us, even if we didn’t have the emotional energy for much of a reaction.

  “Dude.” Leo Taylor, the tight end who’d been making all kinds of waves for the past two seasons, spoke in a weary voice devoid of humor. “C’mon. Calm it down.”

  “I don’t want to be calm, and I don’t know how the fuck the rest of you can just sit back and take this. We let those fuckers slam their fucking dicks into us like we’re pussies, and then we stood up and said, ‘Thank you, may we have another?’ Like we’re fucking hookers or something.” Shepley kicked the bench and then grimaced.

  And that was when I knew we’d had quite enough of this. I opened my mouth to say so, but Corey Iverson beat me to the punch.

  “And the award for the use of the most f-bombs in a single paragraph goes to . . .” Iverson stepped back and swept out one arm. “Dirk Shepley!”

  A couple of the guys chuckled, easing the tension in the room. Dirk’s shoulders wilted, and he sank down onto the bench, dropping his head into his hands. That was the thing about Shepley; he burned hot, but it ended fast.

  I could’ve let it go. After all, his reaction—hell, the way all of us felt right now—was understandable. After an incredibly promising season, we’d just lost a game that would’ve taken us into the bright lights of post-season play, had we managed to hold onto the lead. To say I was disappointed and upset was a gross understatement. All of us were devastated.

  So I could’ve realized that Dirk was just letting off steam and ignored what he’d done. But the fact of the matter was that I was not only the quarterback, I was also the team captain, and that title came with certain responsibilities. I never forgot that.

  “Listen.” I barely raised my voice, but the locker room went silent, everyone pausing in the middle of undressing, their eyes turning to me. “This was—it was a bad loss. I know there are no good defeats, but this one sucked. I get it. If any of you think I don’t, then you haven’t been paying attention. But it’s over, all right? It’s done. And I know you need to express your feelings or whatever shit they tell us these days, but do it smart, please.” I cuffed Dirk’s arm. “Don’t go beating on walls or defenseless benches, because if you accidentally break your foot or tear an ACL, that impacts us next season—and right now, next season is what we’re looking at. It’s all that matters.”

  There were some bobbing heads around the room, and when they realized I was done proselytizing, everyone slowly got back to the business of cleaning up and getting ready to leave.

  “Good speech.” Iverson bumped his shoulder against mine. “Some of them need to hear it, for sure.”

  “Thanks.” I sat down to begin untying my cleats.

  “You coming out with us after?” Corey leaned over to tug at the bottom of his pants. “Ellie and Morgan set up a pri
vate room at the Coral, down in Shockoe Slip. Bunch of us are heading that way, after the press conference.”

  I grimaced, my heart sinking. Dammit. For a minute, I’d let myself forget the obligatory meeting with the media, the excruciating moments when I had to face the cameras and explain why we’d lost the game. I hated this part of the job.

  “No.” I shook my head now, in response to Corey’s question. “Thanks, but no. I’m not in the mood to celebrate, and the last thing any of us need to do is to drown our sorrows in booze.” I kicked off my cleats. “This season is over. The next season, for us, starts now. There’s no time to wallow.”

  “Hey, man, no one’s talking about wallowing.” Corey wagged his head. “We’re just saying we’re going to raise a toast to a damn good year, even if everything didn’t go our way in the end.”

  “Yeah, well . . . you enjoy that.” I tugged my jersey over my head. “Just make sure no one gets stupid or ends up injured. Because we’re back on schedule for conditioning on Monday.”

  “Gideon.” Iverson laid a hand on my shoulder and stared at me. “No one’s going to be up for that. Coach told me we’re off for the rest of the month. Everyone needs a break. We’ve been working hard for a long time—and we need to take it easy for a little while.” He heaved out a long breath. “Time enough to jump back into everything after the new year.”

  “Whatever you say.” I stood up and reached for my towel. “Coach can say what he wants. I’m not slowing down. I don’t have that luxury.”

  I stalked away toward the showers before Corey could answer me again. I wasn’t interested in what he might have to say, anyway.

  We’d lost. The season was over. And that was a hurt that wasn’t going to stop smarting for a long time.

  The room was filled with reporters and photographers, and the moment I stepped into view, flashes exploded, enough of them that I was momentarily blinded. But I'd been through this crap before, and I knew to cast my eyes downward and avoid the worst of the glare. Climbing onto the dais, I took my seat in front of the microphone and gazed out at the faces watching me expectantly. They looked like a pack of cynical vultures, just waiting for the chance to pick clean my exhausted bones.

  It was always more difficult to appear composed and inscrutable in the face of defeat than it was to be magnanimous when we were victorious.

  I took a moment to pull the microphone slightly closer to me and waited for the first question, my jaw tensed. Morgan, knowing me as well as she did, called on one of the older reporters who had been covering the Rebels for decades. He always went a little bit softer on us than some of the newer, more brash journalists did.

  "Gideon,” the reporter began. “This was a tough loss. Do you feel that your team didn't work hard enough? Do you feel that you weren't prepared?"

  I took a deep breath before speaking, even though I already knew what I was going to say. My response was well-rehearsed; it wasn't exactly the first time I'd made this speech.

  "This team—our team—was as prepared and as talented as the other team." I paused a second to let that sink in. It was the sound bite that I wanted to go out over the waves, no matter what else I managed to convey. "When two talented teams walk into a stadium, we all know that only one will walk out with the victory. That's just the way things go. What decides who leaves smiling and who doesn’t . . . well. Some of it is circumstance, and for those of you waiting to write that I was making excuses, trust me, I’m not. There are a million different factors that affect each player on that field, and when you think about the eleven men making the plays, that's a whole lot of variables that we have to consider." I took another beat. It was important to stay calm, not to appear rushed or upset in any way. That would only get me labeled as a sore loser or someone looking to blame others.

  "As the quarterback and as the captain of this team, I can tell you that no one works harder, no one is stronger, and no one is more dedicated to the success of this team than every single member of the Richmond Rebels. We eat, sleep and breathe this game. Whether we're in training, or conditioning, or even during the off-season, our minds are constantly on how we can improve. Even when our bodies are resting, our minds are on that field, replaying every down. We always—all of us—give a hundred and ten percent every time."

  "If all that's true . . ." Another reporter called out without waiting for Morgan's nod. "If all that's true, and if these players are so talented, then why aren't you heading into the off-season?"

  I allowed myself a slight smile. "As I said, somebody's gotta be the winner, and somebody's got to be the loser. I could sit here and go through the game with you, play-by-play, and point out where we made one decision that affected the outcome, or made another decision that didn't make any difference. The point is that in the end, circumstances and choices led to today's final score—not a lack of preparation, talent or focus. I can't ask any more of the players or coaching staff or anyone else who is part of the Rebels family. The only person I can ask more of is myself." I tapped on my chest. "And that's what I intend to do during these months while other teams will be going into the playoffs, and then ultimately into the big game. I'll be asking myself every day what choice I could have made that might have made a difference. What I learn from those questions and answers will make me a better player when the new season opens." I pushed back a little from the table and then leaned forward once more for one final comment.

  "And that's really all I have to say about today's game. If anyone has specific questions, you can send them to our publicist, and I will be happy to address them. Next week." I stood up and exited the room, leaving behind the flashes and the shouts and the sound of my name being called. I kept my back stiff and straight and pushed through the door into the empty hallway. I walked through the bowels of the stadium through the dim light, my footsteps echoing, until I reached the exit.

  Just beyond the door, a black sedan idled, waiting for me. The rear passenger door opened the minute I stepped out into the frosty December air.

  "Get in, son, get in." My father slid over to make space for me on the backseat, and my mother, on the other side of him, leaned forward, her smile warm with just a touch of worry as she patted my knee. The minute the car door closed, the sedan began to glide forward, carrying us toward our destination—which, I imagined, was the Richmond Grande, the hotel where my parents always stayed when they were in town.

  Next to me, my father let out a long breath.

  "Well, son," he began. "That was a hell of a game. No one can say that you didn't play your heart out. No one can say that your guys weren't in it for every last second. But you know—”

  "Someone's gotta be a winner, and someone's gotta be a loser." I finished the sentence that my father had been repeating to me since my very first peewee game when I was four years old. "I know that, Dad. As a matter of fact, if you’d tuned into the postgame press conference, you would have heard me say that exact thing a few minutes ago."

  My father chuckled. "Actually, your mother and I were listening to it on the radio. There was a little bit of a hubbub when you left after answering only one question. But I told your mother, I said, our Gideon covered everything he needed to say, and once he was done, there was no sense in hanging around to rehash what happened. That was a good move, to leave when you did. You handled yourself well."

  I shrugged, lifting one shoulder as though it didn’t matter, although I felt some small sense of relief at my father's reassurance. "I'm glad you feel that way. Not sure how the front office will take it. They’re always after me to be more responsive, to give the press more of what they want."

  "But that's not your job." My mother's words were quiet and sure. "Your job is to go on that field and give every ounce of energy, intensity and talent that you have, and no one can say that you don't do that every week, Gideon. Dad and I are proud of you. I hope you know that. The whole family is."

  I was numb and exhausted, and although I appreciated my mother's loyal sentime
nt, I didn't have any more to give tonight. I gave her a quick nod and settled back against the leather seat. We rode in silence for a few moments, until my father cleared his throat.

  "We have dinner being sent to our suite," he announced. "I assume that you'll join us?"

  Even though he’d phrased it as a question I knew the invitation was really more an expectation. But tonight, I just didn't have it in me to make small talk. I wanted to be by myself.

  "I'm sorry, Dad." I shook my head. "If you and Mom don't mind, I think I'd like to just go home and hit the hay. I’ve been keeping some pretty late hours, getting ready for this game, and I'm not sure I could stay awake long enough to justify the excellent food that I'm sure you're going to eat." I managed a smile. "Can I have a rain check on that one? Maybe when I head up to New York for the holidays?"

  It was my mother who answered. "Of course, you can go home, sweetheart," she replied. "You get all the sleep that you can. It's time to recover for a little bit, and we know that we’ll see you in a few weeks." She cast my father a sideways look. "Isn't that right, darling?"

  My father sighed, but finally, he nodded. “Of course.”

  "Thanks. I really appreciate you guys being here, and I hope that you'll pass on my gratitude to the whole family. It's just…" I struggled to come up with a rationale that wouldn't worry them. "I just need a little bit of quiet. I just need a little bit of time to digest everything."