“All right.” With that, the Suburban pulled out of the lot and Waverly felt a degree of acceptance that today she’d done the best she could for the struggling young man. Tomorrow he’d be back at the facility to fight his demons all over again.
She didn’t waste more time getting in her own car and hitting the road—except for the few minutes she took scanning the vehicles in the lot, curious—no, hopeful—that she’d see a certain man’s James Bond–sexy coupe among the remaining cars. When she didn’t, she continued on to Vegas and resolved to put Jeremiah and her questions about where he might be at this moment out of her mind.
Despite the late-night hour, her parents were wide-awake to greet her when she slipped inside the Bellagio villa.
“Joy to the world. The prodigal daughter has returned,” Joan said, her voice saturated with sarcasm as she unfolded her slim figure from where she’d sat curled up on the oversize sofa in a couture summer dress. Little things like how she refused to lounge around in comfortable clothes even in her own living quarters just to keep up appearances were what made Waverly sometimes think of her as a paper doll—beautiful but nonetheless two-dimensional.
J.T., seated on the coffee table in front of his wife, turned to study Waverly over his big rock of a shoulder. “Something wrong with your phone?”
“Dad, Mom, I’ve been working.” Oh, how she regretted the defensiveness, the uncertainty in her tone.
“This late?” her father asked, rising to his feet and turning to face her full-on.
“You could say I put in overtime.”
Joan squinted, as if she suddenly no longer recognized her eldest daughter. “Your hair… What happened? You…” She grasped J.T.’s sleeve, wrinkling his shirt. “This is a joke, right, J.T.?”
“It’s not a joke. I was looking after a player and a stylist braided my hair spur of the moment, and it’s not a big deal. Besides, I like it.”
“Me, too.” Aly poked her head around one of the large potted tropical plants near the full bar. She was disheveled from sleep but no less interested in what all the commotion was about. Exactly how it’d been when they were children and Waverly was torn a new one for some misdeed or another. Veronica and Aly would pretend to hide so they wouldn’t catch their parents’ wrath, but the two would manage to linger close enough to eavesdrop on every word of their big sister’s punishment.
“Go back to bed, Aly,” their mother said dismissively, as if Aly was five and not twenty-two.
“Whatever.” With a huff, Aly took heed. As she stomped off, she added in a singsong loud enough to stir the dead, “Waverly, you look h-h-hot.”
“Ignore your sister,” Joan told her, a queen giving precise orders. “A frivolous girl like that you take with a grain of salt. Come, now, Waverly. Why did you stand up Sam Pratt? Didn’t you get my message?”
“Mom, I had work to do.” And okay, perhaps a tiny part of the reason she’d leaped at the chance to watch over Omar Beckham was that she’d wanted a solid excuse to turn down another unwanted setup with a man she had zero interest in—professionally and especially personally. “If you want me to succeed in the job you hired me to do, then please don’t throw obstacles my way. Fighting off obnoxious man after obnoxious man is a distraction I don’t want.” She already had her hands full with a chiseled, wicked man who was the best—and worst—kind of distraction.
If she was going to get any sleep at all that wasn’t disrupted by the memory of Jeremiah teasing her with a view of his physique in the staff locker room, then she’d better get started on it now. “I’m going to bed.”
J.T. halted her with a frown. “You’re this dedicated, Waverly? You’re all in? Then I expect to see this level of dedication from you always. Nothing less.”
Waverly bit the inside of her cheek to keep her angry response to herself. As if she needed yet another reminder that just because J.T. and Joan Greer were her parents didn’t mean they wouldn’t take pride in being the bosses from hell. They would dangle what she wanted most—her career—in front of her and take glory in watching her jump to get it.
“Another thing.” Joan sidestepped her husband and smoothed her hand down Waverly’s head, from her crown to the ends of her braids, lingering on the red-beaded one. “I told Sam that you’ll have dinner with him next week at Grimaldi Royal Casino. When you meet him there, be the woman he expects to see.”
Because what people see, their perception of me, is all that matters, right?
“Your friend Khloé McBride sent a congratulatory bouquet. It’s in the kitchen. She turned out to be a good egg. Isn’t she engaged?” Not expecting an answer, Joan tapped J.T.’s wrist and together, as one, they moved past their daughter toward their sleeping quarters. “Good night, Waverly.”
Waverly had anything but a good night and had wasted an hour of it dwelling on things she should’ve said to her parents in the heat of the moment but knew she never would.
She left for camp in Mount Charleston just after daybreak. Utilizing the training facility’s jogging path didn’t do the wonders for her mind that her usual route at Cathedral Rock did, but she was ready to pour plenty of energy and concentration into the first full-squad day.
Midway through morning warm-ups, invitation-only media personnel invaded the practice fields, and as columnists and photographers milled across the sidelines tossing comments and questions to anyone who’d pay them any attention, the coaches and players completed the drills uninterrupted.
“Coach,” Waverly said when Finn called a break and the sweat-drenched men scattered across the field. She sprinted over to him and lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head, though he kept his firmly in place. He was working on his second pair. The first he’d broken earlier when their new quarterback, Brock Corday, botched a snap. “Those defense guys have been cooling their heels for a while. I want to try something.”
Finn turned his face in the direction of the men chatting on the sidelines. “What?”
“Yoga.” When he rolled his shoulders and seemed ready to shoot down the suggestion, she rushed on because taking initiative meant sometimes crossing invisible boundaries. Implementing yoga into the daily workouts and diving deep into head-injury and helmet-safety research were her immediate plans and she didn’t have time to waste. “Several teams in the league have incorporated yoga into their training routines. These guys are tough, yes, but they’re men, not machines. It’s not in their best interest for them to sit idle in the heat for long periods of time. They should use the elements. They should stretch and focus on strength as well as strategy.”
After a moment he lifted a corner of his mouth. “Go get your boys. But run it past Whittaker first. Then maybe we can chat with the strength-and-conditioning guys.”
“Whittaker…” she repeated, craning her neck to locate the head trainer, Whittaker Doyle, among the throng of people. And there he was, in a conversation with Jeremiah.
All of a sudden she was ten degrees hotter, feeling as though she were trapped in a steam room rather than the fresh outdoors of Mount Charleston, which offered cool gusts of mountain air that Las Vegas didn’t. She mumbled thanks to Finn and approached the men, reminding herself that she couldn’t realistically avoid Jeremiah and it would be no one’s fault but her own if she let tension and nerves affect her professionalism.
As she joined them, she tripped over the turf but maintained balance. Even so, Jeremiah sprang to catch her biceps and murmured, “You okay?”
Polite and collected despite the arousal that shot through her from fingertips to toes at the contact, she ducked away with a stilted, “Of course. I want a word with Whittaker.”
When she shared her idea with the trainer and asked for his input, there was a skeptical pause before he replied, “What the hell, give it a shot. One shot, and we need to see results.”
“If it works, would you support me in proposing yoga as a permanent part of the team’s workout regimen?”
“I’ll consider it.”
> That was a start. Excited, she adjusted her sunglasses, grinning at both men. Well, she couldn’t alienate Jeremiah without someone noticing. Only, he didn’t return the amicability—just watched her as if she were a puzzle to be figured out.
“Will we see you on the court later?” Whittaker asked her.
“The court?”
“Jeremiah’s idea. Basketball tonight—staff only.” The man frowned slightly in confusion, likely wondering why she seemed to be in the dark.
Their truce wasn’t meant to be a one-way street. Jeremiah wasn’t going to get away with ignoring her by excluding her from something as innocuous as a staff basketball game. “I’ll be there.”
After convincing all but two of the available defensive players to try yoga, she was chased down by a cable-network sports reporter who complimented the statement Waverly’s hairstyle made and demanded commentary on Omar Beckham’s health all in the same saccharine sentence.
“A few sources said you’d be an authority on Beckham’s physical condition.” The reporter tilted her mic toward Waverly, awaiting a response.
“As a trainer I can share that we’re all committed to ensuring our team is healthy and capable. If you want further comment, please have a conversation with a member of the coaching staff. Otherwise, stay tuned for an official statement from Beckham’s publicist or the Villains’ PR department.”
The reporter gave her a shuttered look, clearly unhappy with Waverly’s version of a give-nothing-away answer. Changing tactics, she inquired, “What is the workplace dynamic with rivals among the Villains training staff? Are you and Jeremiah Tarantino playing nice?” She added a laugh, but her demeanor came off as facetious.
Waverly was glad to see Whittaker waving her over but couldn’t resist having the final word. “We don’t play. We work.”
Even engaging in a game of basketball with Jeremiah was going to be less about play and more about working toward some level of compromise for the good of the team—and their careers. She had to remember the big picture.…
Which was excruciatingly difficult to do later when all she could see as she made her way to Desert Luck’s outdoor basketball court was Jeremiah. Shirtless under the twilight sky, his gray athletic shorts revealing a pair of leanly muscular legs. It didn’t take much to imagine him naked. On the court. Fucking her.
God, she was in trouble.
About a dozen or so men had shown up, and upon her arrival the singing and cursing and sly talk and horsing around came to a stop.
Don’t take it personally. Even though it’s personal. Because you have a vagina. The thoughts wouldn’t leave her. Not when she was chosen last out of the lineup. Not when the designated ref ignored her shout of traveling against an opponent. Not when she went in for a layup only to be swatted down like a fly.
“Foul,” Jeremiah growled as she hit the pavement and grunted from the sting across her torso where she’d been struck.
Waverly blinked, stunned to see him pushing past the wide-receivers coach, Royce Davis, to offer her a hand up. They were on opposite teams, but her men were more interested in mopping their faces with their shirts and guzzling energy drinks.
“That wasn’t a foul,” Royce protested to Jeremiah. “I blocked her shot. What she did was flop.” He glowered at her. “But if you want your free throws without any big bad men getting in your way, then let’s call it a foul and get on with the game.”
“Forget it,” Waverly said to Royce as she let Jeremiah haul her upright. “No foul.”
“Are you okay?” Jeremiah asked, near enough that he could drop his voice for her ears only. “Tell me if you’re hurt.”
A sizzle danced over her flesh, and her mind spun. First he wanted to exclude her. Now he wanted to protect her. She couldn’t quite figure out how to handle him when he continued to nudge her off balance at every turn.
“No harm. No foul.” When a teammate passed Jeremiah the ball, she drove the point home by proceeding to try to strip him of the ball.
Covering him was no easy feat. The man could move—pivot, fake, dribble. When he reared up to shoot, her arm tangled with his and his back met her front, two currents of heat colliding. The ball fell away in a succession of echoing bounces and others scrambled to rescue it from landing out of bounds.
Waverly was so close to Jeremiah that she knew the second his body tensed.
“That’s it,” Jeremiah announced to the group in a strained voice, and was immediately answered with objections. “Play if you want, but I’m out.” Already he was walking away.
Bewildered by his sudden change, Waverly stood still on the court until someone tweaked her shirtsleeve on his way past her.
“Hear the man? The game’s over.”
Maybe the game on the court was over, but as for the one that was just between Waverly and Jeremiah that had no clear rules or definition?
Far from it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Be firm.
Easier decided than done when the person Waverly needed to be firm with was her own mother. Almost out the villa door for an arranged date with Sam Pratt at the Grimaldi Royal Casino, Waverly froze in the foyer with the keys to her Fiat in hand. Even at this degree of frustration, she couldn’t justify walking out and slamming the door with Joan calling after her.
“Waverly! The driver informed me that you canceled his services for tonight,” Joan said, sweeping into the foyer. “Is Sam picking you up here?”
Waverly jangled the keys. “I’m driving myself. Thought it’d be lovely to have some semblance of control over this evening, which you thoroughly arranged without my input or permission. Mom,” she went on when her mother’s eyes narrowed in offense, “you have to realize it’s not healthy for you to set me up with men. I can throw a rock and hit a man. Really.”
Joan assessed her critically from her slicked-back bun to her one-shouldered fuchsia satin dress to her strappy high heels. “Actually, I doubt it’d take even that much effort. You look sensational.” She sighed as if to say, “More’s the pity.” “Finding men isn’t your problem. You’re your problem. You’re choosy and stubborn and bitchy—”
“And not divorced, like Veronica. Or obsessed with collecting guys to prove how popular I am, like Aly.” This time it was Waverly’s turn to sigh. “You act as if my being single is a nail in your coffin when the truth is you want to control what and who I do.”
“Don’t be crude. I’m not impressed.”
“No news there. Nothing I’ve ever done has impressed you. Look, all I’m saying is right now I could choose a man to be with and you would hate my choice.” Fuck, where’d that come from? Logically she had no right to even think she could choose to be with Jeremiah Tarantino, though she wanted him for a bazillion reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with bringing him home to meet the parents.
“Who would you choose, Waverly?”
“Forget it. I’m leaving now, in my car, because even though I’m doing this whole arranged-date thing with Sam Pratt, I will come and go on my own terms.”
Joan watched her silently for a long moment. “Give my best to Sam. His mother’s a friend and she’ll want to know that my daughter is a civil person who doesn’t make a habit of standing up perfectly eligible men. It’s de mauvais goût.”
“Mom.” Waverly reached out, grasping Joan’s arm to reassure herself that her mother was still real and not truly as far away as she seemed. “I’m going to slip up now and then. But you have to trust me to make my own choices. And I love you. Dad, too. Okay?”
Joan smoothly twirled in her designer pastels, disengaging herself. “The builder’s waiting for me to call him back. Fingers crossed, but the house just might be finished before midseason.”
At least Waverly had stayed firm. But driving herself to a casino for a date she didn’t want was a small victory compared to her failure to get confirmation that yes, at the end of the day her parents still loved her.
The Grimaldi was a top-tier black-tie casino. Fro
m the chandeliers dangling overhead to the overabundance of leather and crystal in the Mahogany Lounge, the place screamed money. Waverly considered partaking in a lively blackjack game but wasn’t feeling particularly risky and bypassed the gambling rooms to order a Scotch neat at the tinted mirrored bar.
When the bartender added a potent shot of flirtation with her drink, Waverly pretended not to notice and turned on her stool to face the room. Men in suits, women in dresses and jewelry—they all appeared to have come here for a high-stakes experience. There was something about the casino—maybe the lighting or the dark-colored walls or all the opulence swirling in the atmosphere—that encouraged you to be daring.
Waverly decided she liked this place. With a silent toast, she nursed her Scotch.
“He was hitting on you. The bartender.” A blonde in a lower-than-low-cut silver halter dress settled on the stool beside Waverly and crossed her legs. “In case you didn’t realize that.”
“Oh, I did,” Waverly clarified conspiratorially, “but I don’t have the best luck with bartenders.”
“Too bad.” The woman subtly glanced back at the man, then faced forward as Waverly had done. “He’s attractive. They say once you’re engaged, you’re technically not allowed to notice other men, but this ring wasn’t quite sparkly enough to take away my eyesight. Not to mention my fiancé’s too preoccupied high-rolling in the VIP room to notice I left. So, what are you in for?”
“Waiting for a date. Journalists are said to value punctuality, but he’s late…which actually doesn’t surprise me.” According to her mother, Waverly had stood Sam up. That he might return the favor wasn’t too far-fetched. Yet she was curious to find out if he’d called, and she unzipped her handbag to root around in the dark for her phone.
“This might help,” the woman said, retrieving a pink pig key chain from her own purse. With a press of a button, the thing oinked and flashed a beam of light.
The Penalty Page 10