“Yes?”
Darcy leaned closer and brought with her the scent of rain. Well, hell. So much for keeping a clear head. Mac realized the key was proximity. Though every instinct urged him to stay where he was, to keep her intoxicating fragrance at bay, he needed to keep his distance.
“Is something wrong?” Darcy asked when Mac jumped to his feet.
“Cramp,” Mac answered, lying through his teeth.
“Can I help?” Darcy seemed distressed. “Sit and let me massage your leg.”
“No!” God, no, Mac thought. Touch him? With her hands? Was she out of her mind? “The cramp will ease if I walk around for a few minutes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Making a show of shaking out his leg, Mac frowned. Other than the fact that Darcy smelled like his favorite thing in the whole world, she hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Don’t apologize,” he told her.
“No.” She was adamant. “I thought getting away from the office and into the open air would give us a chance to put aside some of our differences. Foolishly, I didn’t think about your knee injury. Was the hike too much? Or is the damp weather a problem?”
How was Mac supposed to respond in the face of Darcy’s genuine concern? He couldn’t tell her the cramp wasn’t real unless he wanted to confess the reason for his subterfuge. He ran the words through his head and grimaced. Admit that the way she smelled drove him crazy. What if he came off sounding like a pervert with a rain fetish? No way in hell.
“My knee rarely gives me any trouble,” Mac hastily assured her. “I probably overdid my morning workout. Too much exertion, not enough cool down. My calf muscle decided to punish me for my crime.”
Mac was relieved when Darcy bought his story. Too easy. He should have known he wasn’t out of the woods quite yet.
“I’ve been told I have magic fingers.” Darcy waggled the digits in the air. She patted the blanket. “Let me help.”
“I’m better.” To prove his point, Mac jogged in a circle. “See. Good as new.”
“If you’re certain,” Darcy said. Again, she patted the blanket. “Let’s eat.”
Careful to keep a safe, I don’t want to smell the rain on you, distance, Mac did as she asked. Perched near the end of the blanket, he decided he was either a fool or certifiably crazy. By the strange, silent look Darcy gave him, he suspected she had her doubts about his sanity as well.
“I wasn’t sure what you like, so I packed a variety.”
“I’ve never been a picky eater,” Mac assured her, relieved when his stomach rumbled. He’d rather worry about stuffing his face any day.
“Ham and cheese? Roast beef? Chicken?” Darcy spread the choices out before him before she unscrewed the lid on the thermos. “Hot vegetable soup. Yummy.”
Watching Darcy’s excitement over a cup of soup and the way she dug into her food with unabashed gusto made Mac smile. In the face of her overflowing cuteness, the unease he felt over his reaction to her melted away. He ate two sandwiches, one chicken, one beef. He passed on the soup but couldn’t say no a to a couple of giant-sized white chocolate and pecan cookies.
“I am full,” Mac groaned, patting his stomach. He flopped onto his back. “You can’t possibly eat that way every day, at every meal.”
“My metabolism runs fast,” Darcy said as she packed away the leftovers. “And, I run. Miles and miles.”
Closing his eyes, Mac felt the sun on his face and sighed. The more he was around Darcy, the more he marveled at the flight of emotions she inspired in him. Anger. Frustration. Confusion. Grudging admiration. Distressing desire.
Mac chuckled. Should he add contentment to the list? The calm that had settled over him seemed incredulous by comparison. Perhaps the calm before another storm or had they settled into a new normal? A place where they could co-exist without the need to charge into another bloodless, yet senseless battle.
For the first time, Mac was curious about Darcy. Who she was now and what shaped her into the woman she’d become? Nothing heavy—she might expect him to reciprocate and he preferred the darker parts of his past to stay in the shadows.
“Did you play sports in high school?”
“Regretfully, no.” Darcy shrugged. “My ambition began at an early age. Needed money. At the time, work was more important than extracurricular activities.”
Mac rolled onto his side. He propped his head on his hand, his gaze fell onto her face.
“Why football?” he asked. “Was your mom a fan? Your dad?”
“No.” She laughed as at his suggestions. “I came to love the sport on my own.”
Intrigued, Mac sat up.
“And?” he prompted.
“Another time,” she said.
Mac was a man who appreciated a person’s privacy. Their right to keep their secrets was something he could relate to. But when he remembered what Riley Preston told him, how the genesis of Darcy’s love for football was an unusual and interesting story, he couldn’t stop himself from pushing her a little to share.
“What’s wrong with now?” he asked. “There’s no one to overhear—unless you count a nosy squirrel or two.”
“I’d rather play a game,” she said, sidestepping his question.
“A game? Like, hide and seek?” Mac looked around before he raised an eyebrow. “Now I know what your plan was all along. Lure me out here. Ply me with food until I can barely move. Then, leave me in the woods, never to find my way back.”
“I confess. Caught in my web of lies.” Darcy’s blue eyes sparkled with good humor. “If I promise you that my game is far less nefarious than you imagined, will you play along?”
“Tell me the rules first,” Mac said.
“Nothing complicated,” she assured him. “We ask each other questions We have to be completely honest.”
“Honesty” Mac scoffed “This from the woman who thirty seconds ago wouldn’t answer when I asked why she loves football?”
“I didn’t lie,” Darcy said.
“Just to clarify?” Mac tilted his head to the side. “We can refuse to answer?”
“You can, but why would you?” Darcy wanted to know. “The only questions I plan to give you concern the Knights and the upcoming season.”
“Oh. We can’t ask anything about the other person?”
“Sheesh. We aren’t on a date,” Darcy said rolling her eyes.
“Did I suggest we were?” Mac snorted. “Did you hear me say anything about a date?”
“You don’t have to be quite so adamant.”
Darcy had the nerve to sound offended as though he brought up the subject, not her. Sheesh, indeed.
“Do you want to argue about something so preposterous?” Mac demanded.
“No.” Darcy scrubbed a hand over her face. “Let’s reboot. Pretend the last five minutes never happened. Okay?”
“Okay,” Mac agreed. He had the feeling where Darcy Stratham was concerned, he would need to reboot regularly.
“Think of the forest as an extension of my office.” She flung open her arms. “Only without walls.”
“Or any of the frou-frou decorations.”
“My office is tasteful and serene,” Darcy informed him. “Each item carefully selected to lend an air of casual elegance.”
“Right,” Mac said, the word dripping with sarcasm.
“Unlike your mess of an office, I—”
“My office is comfortable,” Mac interrupted before she could belittle his taste. “Wait. When did you go into my office? I’ve come to you for all our meetings.”
“I dropped by the other day,” Darcy said with a sniff. “You weren’t there.”
“Yet, you took the time to nose around?”
“Nose around? I’ll have you know I—” With a groan, Darcy massaged her temples. “So much for leaving the headache behind. The problem isn’t where we have our meetings.”
“No kidding,” Mac said.
; “The problem is you.”
“Me?” Mac shot to is feet. “I… You…”
“Never mind,” Darcy said with a wave of her hand. “Women are more adaptable than men. Leave it to me. I’ll figure something out.”
“Freaking hell. You, Ms. Stratham, are a major pain in my ass.”
Darcy blinked. Then, smiled. To Mac’s amazement, she looked pleased.
“Shall we start the game?”
At a loss for words, Mac’s head fell forward until his chin rested on his chest. He now knew how Darcy had worked her way up to general manager. She hadn’t stepped over, outwitted, or outmaneuvered her competition. She’d simply worn them out.
“Sure.” Mac sighed. “Whatever.”
“Good. See this tree,” Darcy asked as she pointed to the nearby evergreen.
“Hard to miss,” he said.
“We will call it The Tree of Truth.”
“Sure. Make sense.” Nothing made sense, but Mac had lost his will to argue.
“You sit on one side; I’ll sit on the other. The theory is, if we can’t see each other’s face, we’re more likely to relax and be spontaneous.” Darcy wrapped the blanket around the trunk, providing them with protection from the damp ground. “When I ask a question, you answer—immediately and truthfully.”
“Have you ever leaned up against a pine tree,” Mac asked as he took his seat. “The bark feels like razor blades cutting into your flesh.”
“Colorful description,” Darcy said. “And a complete exaggeration. However, since your skin is so delicate, I have a suggestion.”
“Head home?”
“Don’t lean against the freaking tree.” Under her breath, Darcy added, “Dickhead.”
“I heard that,” Mac told her.
“You were meant to,” she countered. “Ready to begin? I’ll go first.”
“Hit me with your best shot, Ms. Stratham.”
“Don’t tempt me, Mr. McClain.”
Mac realized halfway through their latest exchange that his lips were curved into a wide, goofy grin. Was he a glutton for punishment? Or, as he suspected, did he simply enjoy that in the arena of verbal sparring, Darcy could give as good as she got.
“Question number one. What do we need to add to make our team more competitive?”
Mac didn’t hesitate.
“Defense.”
“Agreed,” Darcy said with equal speed. “Your turn. Ask me a question.”
Shocked, Mac tried to look around the tree, but the trunk was too big.
“You agree? With me? Since when?”
“One question at a time. Simple rules. How hard are they to remember?”
Mac could hear the sigh of impatience in her voice. He stifled a chuckle when he realized she’d been hoisted on her own petard.
“Not difficult at all. My turn.”
“Hey. My question didn’t count,” Darcy protested.
“Just playing by your rules, Ms. Stratham.”
“Fine,” she said. “Go ahead.”
Mac was so pleased with one-upping Darcy—and his use of the word petard—he had to take a second to think of a relevant question. She was sharp, her football brain impressive. He wouldn’t waste his turn on a lame question.
“Should we trade for a new center?”
“Yes.” Darcy was emphatic. “Wes Upton still has a few good years left, but isn’t worth the money he’ll ask next year in free agency.”
“Agreed,” Mac said.
They fell into a rapid-fire rhythm of questions and answers. Thoroughly engaged and massively entertained, Mac lost track of the time. When Darcy called a stop to the game, he was surprised to see how low the sun had fallen into the western sky. A chill had settled in the air. He didn’t want to leave.
“One more,” Mac cajoled.
“Okay,” Darcy said with a good-natured laugh. “A slight alteration to the rules. I’ll ask, but we both answer on the count of three. Deal?”
Mac liked the idea.
“Deal,” he said.
“Does our starting quarterback have the skill set to win a Super Bowl?”
Damn, Mac thought. He was impressed. Darcy wasn’t afraid to ask the hardest question of all. He counted to three. Together, they answered.
“No.”
“Shit,” Mac muttered.
“Double shit,” Darcy agreed.
Clearing his throat, Mac gathered up the picnic basket. Darcy folded the blanket. She cast a look his way before heading up the trail toward the car. They walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts, though it wasn’t hard to guess the subject on both their minds. Monte Oliver, starting quarterback for the Seattle Knights.
Darcy opened the doors and waited until Mac deposited the basket in the back before she climbed before the wheel. She fastened her seatbelt and started the engine.
“I shouldn’t have asked,” she said, her fingers gripping the steering wheel.
“Didn’t we agree to complete honesty?” Mac asked. “Look. The last GM drafted Oliver four years ago because, on paper, he had all the tools to be a superstar. Hell, the guy looks like a freaking recruitment poster for the position.”
“Tall. Strong. Big hands. Fast and able to throw from the pocket or on the run.” Darcy ticked off the standard list of qualifications for what the experts once considered perfect quarterback material. “Trouble is, Oliver isn’t very fast, his range is poor, and he can’t scramble for his life.”
“Teams have won Super Bowls with less talented leaders,” Mac said. “Not often, but you never know. Sometimes you catch lightning in a bottle.”
With a sigh, Darcy rested her head on her heads. Turning, she looked Mac in the eyes.
“All your years in the league, did you ever play with a great quarterback?”
“No,” Mac said, knowing where she was headed.
“How many championship rings do you own?”
“None.” Mac sighed. “Think on the bright side. Oliver might report to training camp in the best shape of his life.”
“He tends to get a little flabby around the middle,” Darcy said. For a second, she brightened. “What about Levi Reynolds?”
“He’s a friend.” Mac held up a hand. “Don’t worry, my personal feelings won’t impact how I manage a game.”
“Levi is thirty-two years old. He’s bounced around the league as a professional backup QB.” Darcy nodded. “He hasn’t played a competitive down of football since college.”
“Even if we used one of our picks to draft a quarterback, this year’s class isn’t very deep,” Mac reminded her. “The chances anyone we bring in would beat out Oliver is slim to none. He’s our guy.”
“We need a team that’s built to play to his strengths,” Darcy said. She shifted the car into drive. “I need to get to work.”
“We need to get to work,” Mac said, not sure when he’d changed his tune.
“Partners?” Darcy asked, holding out her hand.
“We’re in it together.” Mac bumped his fist against hers. “Sink or swim.”
“Don’t worry,” Darcy said with a grin. “I won’t let you drown.”
Looking out the window, Mac shook his head in wonder. Partners with a woman. Not any woman. Darcy Stratham. Damn, he thought. Maybe miracles were possible.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
▲ ▼ ▲ ▼ ▲
DARCY SAT AT her desk. Calm on the outside, inside she was a powder keg ready to explode at the first spark.
Closing her eyes, she tried to find her happy place. For the life of her, the blue skies and meadow covered in bright yellow daffodils would not come into focus. Instead, black clouds and the crash of lightning filled her head.
Angry. Frustrated. And scared. Yes, to herself, Darcy would admit she was frightened. To the two people who sat opposite her, she shrugged off any hint that she wasn’t in complete control of her emotions.
“You can’t go,” Riley Preston said
without preamble.
“Riley is right. The best course of action is for you to stay in Seattle where we can monitor the situation.”
Darcy smiled at Lieutenant Malachi Bronson when all she wanted to do was scream. Tall, dark, with vivid green eyes and a face designed to make women swoon, the man looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ, not sitting behind a desk in a dingy police station. She knew he meant well and wanted to help. Right now, he was in the way of her doing her job.
“Monitor me from Indianapolis. My plane leaves in three hours and I plan to be on it,” Darcy said. She turned to Riley. “What kind of general manager would I be if I missed my first NFL combine?
“I value your safety above anything else.” Riley nodded toward the letter on Darcy’s desk, the one sealed in a plastic evidence bag. “The threat was specific this time. This psycho mentioned Indianapolis and the hotel where you’re booked to stay.”
“My itinerary is public knowledge,” Darcy pointed out. “We all know the chances of something happening to me are low. The letter is filled with empty threats. Besides, if this person’s threats are serious, what difference will it make if I’m here or at the combine?”
“I can’t believe you’re so blasé about your safety,” Riley said. “Death to the bitch? That was bad enough. This time, he outlined your demise in graphic detail. Sick and twisted is an understatement.”
Darcy swallowed, willing herself not to break out into a cold sweat. When she read the latest letter—delivered in the same unmarked envelope as before—she wanted to jump into bed, pull the covers over her head and never come out. But she wasn’t the type to run and hide. She was a fighter. A survivor. If she canceled her first major event since taking over as the Knights’ general manager, the creep who wanted to terrorize her would win.
“If you’re in Seattle, we can control the situation,” Lieutenant Bronson said.
“He’s right, Darcy.” Riley's concerned frown deepened. “Stay home. The team has plenty of eyes and ears at the combine. Our head coach, his staff. Your staff. Our scouts. They’ll do fine without you.”
“Why have a general manager at all if I’m superfluous?” Darcy demanded. “Why pay me to do a job then tell me what I do is no big deal?”
The Devil Wears Blue Jeans (One Pass Away: A New Season Book 1) Page 9