The Rush

by Piper Westbrook

  But she wasn’t so easily discouraged. “A contract with another team can resurrect your career. You were not Mr. Congeniality on the Villains. The temper, the fines, the disrespect for authority? How many times did your coach chew you out last season for going rogue and disregarding his plays?”

  “Disregarding bullshit plays, you mean,” he growled. “Yeah, America thinks I’m an arrogant dick, but the truth is that the plays I wouldn’t follow are the ones that would’ve screwed the team worse than it already was. I’m talking about a hell of a lot more turnovers and injuries. I’m talking about shit that only makes sense now that we know there were players and coaches on the take.” His eyes burned like blue fire, and there was almost no trace of the flirt who’d teased her on the terrace. “You weren’t out there. You don’t know, Veronica. I know. So trust me.”

  “What you’re wanting me to do…I just can’t, Simon.”

  “Then step aside.”

  Veronica stopped him with a hand on his arm, but when he wrenched it back, her fingers slipped. Somehow her hand tangled with his, and she gripped him tightly. “You kissed me outside,” she whispered. “Why?”

  “After what happened yesterday, it was driving me insane wanting to know how you’d respond if I touched you. There came an opportunity to put it to the test, and I took it.”

  So he’d been toying with her. She should shrug it off, not take it seriously…be glad he didn’t want to start something serious. It wasn’t as if she would sacrifice an image makeover project for mixed-up feelings toward a man she couldn’t realistically have a future with anyway.

  Simon shattered rules, made enemies, and never apologized. Veronica was an expert at pleasing people—Miss Customer Service. A sunny disposition, a few witty words, and a confident attitude almost always turned things in her favor. When that didn’t work, ball-busting usually did the trick.

  A romantic association would only propel them toward disaster. “And were you satisfied with the results of your little test?”

  “No. Because I want more.”

  Veronica’s chin snapped up, and she searched his eyes for the callous playboy, the hellion, the angry and jobless quarterback. What she saw was just a man, unmasked and bared to her.

  Underneath the layers—the Ball Buster, the “celebrity” GM, and the darling, never-step-outside-the-lines Greer daughter—she was just a woman, a woman with a death grip on her perfect mask.

  “But people don’t always get what they want. That’s according to you, Veronica.”

  “That’s according to life. I just want to know what your game is, Simon.”

  “Football. That’s my game.”

  Veronica was so close to leaving it at that, but unfortunately, it wasn’t in her nature. What good were charm and charisma if she couldn’t exercise her talents?

  “Luca Tarantino and his band of money-motivated assholes threw you under the bus. Your image is the least of the feds’ and the league’s concerns. They aren’t in any rush to clean it up. So what’s a man to do when no one believes the truth?” She glanced down at their joined hands, and at last let him go. Suddenly it felt as though she were missing something essential. “The best shot you have of playing this season is to start looking good to teams—now. Change their minds about you. Make them want you—no, compete for you. You’ve created a name for yourself in football, Simon. Unfortunately, that name is the Blue-Eyed Badass. Fortunately, you have me.”

  “Right. And what does a good girl like Veronica Greer want to do with a badass like Simon Smith?”

  Besides getting them a suite and letting him put that silk tie to more creative use on her?

  “I’d like to help change the way the world sees you,” she said.

  Simon gave an ironic chuckle. “It’s going to take more than a character reference to get me back onto a field.”

  “No one said it’ll be easy. But it’s possible. Think of how many people still approach you for autographs and pictures. You’re not the first NFL player to chase redemption. Jesus, you’re not even the first quarterback. Athletes have crawled back into the media’s good graces from steroid hell, sex drama, drug charges, prison stints—”

  “And what can you do?”

  “Clean up your rep. Get you in the right situations at the right times. Get your name on SportsCenter for the right reasons. Keep this in mind, though. The Las Vegas Villains will not pursue you. My parents’ decision on that matter is final.” She edged closer, not caring what he might read in her body language. She needed him to hear her, totally and completely. “You’re not a Villain anymore, Simon. I’m willing to help you move on. But only if you want me to.”

  A scatter of guests passed them, laughing and jostling. One of the polished women tossed an appreciative glance back at Simon. Reflexively, Veronica blurted to him, “Call me. Uh…after you think about my offer. If you’re good with it, we can chat further and go over the logistics then.”

  Veronica recited her private number to him; then with great care she marched to the ballroom.

  What the royal hell was that? “Call me”? “Logistics”?

  In ways that were puzzling, Simon appealed to her. It was insulting that he’d skipped her on the chain of command to get to her parents. Yet compassion overwhelmed her. It was inappropriate of him to kiss her. Yet she was still turned on. It was infuriating that her guard slipped every time she was with him. Yet the fact that he provoked the part of herself she kept hidden was intriguing.

  It was foolish to even fantasize about getting hot with one of America’s sexiest sports idols. Yet, part of her—the part that wanted to be foolish, craved the danger—was ready for flesh and heat.

  Ready for Simon Smith, and all the trouble that would come with him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Aly was a friendly drunk. It was the only thing restraining Veronica from shoving her sister onto a kitchen stool, pouring her a mug of sobering coffee, and tearing her a new one when they arrived at her place after the wedding reception.

  By two, she’d had enough of pretending to be comfortable in her pain-inflicting shoes, enough of circling and manipulating the truth when asked about Aly’s whereabouts. After she had collected her sister and tried to discreetly guide her from the hotel, Aly gave her the slip and Veronica searched the parking lot twice in her car before she located her, tipsily screwing around with people Veronica didn’t know and firmly doubted Aly knew, either.

  Now, as Aly strutted toward the living room precariously in her tassel high heels, tossing random compliments as freely as one would Mardi Gras beads, Veronica activated the security system.

  “Every time I visit, I fall in love with this fancy, fabulous, freaking fantastic house all over again. Three stories of gorgeousness. Get divorced and get a mansion. Guess that’s an okay reward for a being a good wife to a cheater. But me? It’d be more like ‘get divorced and get a new man.’ Even if I was thirty, like you, I wouldn’t swear off men and sex and relationships.” Aly hugged one of the massive columns that divided the open space between the formal living room and the great room. An abrupt yelp of laughter startled Veronica, who’d been shocked stupid by her sister’s intoxicated honesty. “D’you hear how many F words I just said?”

  Yes. You forgot one, and I’d like nothing more than to say it to you right now, you goddamn lush….

  Veronica gave her a long-suffering smile. “Coffee, Aly?”

  “Latte.”

  Making room for her sister to sit and nurse her caffeine shot, Veronica set down her purse and bridesmaid bouquet and cleared off a corner of the kitchen’s center island, which doubled as a workstation. After the divorce she’d, for all intents and purposes, converted the extravagant bells-and-whistles kitchen into another office, having found no reason to restrict herself to the actual home office when there was a marvelous Las Vegas property at her sole disposal.

  She removed a catchall basket from a stool, freeing it so Aly could plop onto it, throwing one leg over the other.
She’d slept the night away in a room at the Mandarin Oriental, and it showed. Her makeup had smeared; her finger wave had fallen, leaving her hair a cap of red waves. Miraculously, she managed to appear outrageously fashionable, like a flapper who’d sneaked too much bathtub gin.

  “I didn’t give up men and sex, FYI.”

  “Oh, yeah. Ollie Johan, known as McSexy. Forgot about him, since you pretty much dumped him the second he rolled off of you.”

  Veronica almost dropped the delicate mug she’d retrieved from the cupboard. “Vulgar much?”

  “What I meant to say is, you ended things awfully quickly. So it’s relationships that you’ve sworn off. Got it.”

  “What did relationships get me before, Aly?”

  “Uh…a mansion?” Her sister lifted one shoulder, let it drop. “Too bad about it all. A big place like this ought to be filled with kids and memories and love. But the split with Chance is already tough enough without the hassle of custody arrangements, isn’t it?”

  And time to switch gears. Much to her parents’ disappointment, she had never gotten pregnant. Let’s wait until we’re both ready, Chance had insisted whenever she’d toyed with the idea of stopping the pill. Then he’d confessed to cheating on her, she’d declared their marriage over, and suddenly he was ready to knock her up in the name of “compromise.” Yeah, he’d give her a child and she’d get over his cheating.

  She had wanted a baby—still wanted one—but not that way. Not with a man she could no longer trust and was no longer in love with.

  “I took the liberty of giving your date your apologies,” Veronica said. “Call him later. I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you that you weren’t feeling well.” She efficiently worked the espresso machine, then set a steaming cup of frothy delight in front of her sister, who said something along the lines of “Oh, hail to the barista.” “Remember, Aly. You weren’t feeling the best, that’s all. Say anything else and it’ll contradict what I told people. Expect plenty of thoughtful notes and courtesy calls.”

  Aly said nothing, so Veronica continued talking as she set her bouquet in water to preserve the flowers another day. Her feet now experienced a dull ache, but some habits she’d acquired during marriage—such as keeping herself fully dressed until she was upstairs in complete privacy, because she never knew when her husband would throw an impromptu party—were difficult to break. “Check in with your friend Leigh Bridges, as well. Her father seemed only slightly pissed off, but they left without making a scene.”

  “And how pissed are you?”

  Veronica wanted to spare herself a ride on the blame-go-round. “Just sober up, and we’re good.”

  “So you say. When Mom’s upset with one of us girls, she avoids looking us in the eye or just walks away. Even so, you just know she can see your every shortcoming. You’re the same way.”

  “You know, a ‘thanks, sis, for saving my ass’ would’ve been nice. You’re a publicist, for God’s sake, and you got hammered as soon as the bar opened. Waverly and I took care of things. Try being grateful, instead of bitching and moaning.”

  Aly stared into her latte. “You taught me that every action I take should have a reason behind it. Consider this. I was taking my liberty by enjoying some bourbon without my mother and father hovering over me.”

  “Grow up, Aly. Start by finishing your latte and washing your face. You’ll need to be up early and back at the Bellagio, if not the admin building, by the time Mom and Dad fly in this morning.” Aly was staying with their parents in a villa at the hotel while their newly acquired lakefront mansion was in its final stages of renovation. At J.T. and Joan’s insistence, Aly would be moving in right along with them, taking up her own wing but still under their roof.

  “Okay, whoa. Hit the brakes on the judgmental train.” Aly hopped off the stool. “The only surprise is that you and Waverly even noticed me at the reception. She was so into Jeremiah. You and Simon Smith were cozied up.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Quite. I didn’t sleep through the entire reception. I saw you two standing close, whispering…about what, anyway?”

  “You shouldn’t drunk-spy on people. He and I were talking sports. You and I are talking about you.”

  Aly sighed. “I had too much to drink at your friend’s wedding. Fine, sorry. But I was still wearing pigtails and playing with Barbie dolls the last time you rescued me from anything. I’ve learned to rescue myself since then, and I’m doing great without you.”

  “What have you rescued yourself from? Does Waverly know? She’s accused me of not even knowing you. Is that true?”

  “I’m not doing this, Veronica. Thanks for giving me a place to sleep. I’ll camp out on the couch and will be out of your house by sunrise.”

  Veronica sighed, exasperated. Her sister was already dashing out of the kitchen before she could think of some way to smooth the situation. She should’ve known better than to go this route with Aly, who was already rather sensitive without the enhancement of alcohol.

  After some minutes of viewing SportsCenter game-day highlights on the kitchen television, she pressed the remote’s power button and checked on Aly, still in her designer outfit, deeply asleep on the living room sofa, like an all-partied-out princess. Veronica was draping a blanket over her when the doorbell rang.

  Glancing at the nearest clock, she rushed to the front door before the caller could ring again and risk waking her sister. Who’d have gotten through the privacy gate but didn’t have a house key?

  Chance. She’d changed the house locks but hadn’t gotten around to updating the gate’s security code.

  “You shouldn’t be here at this hour, Chance,” she said, opening the door to him. She saw him more often now than she had during the entire last year of their marriage. Already, too many times to count, he’d shown up with one excuse or another—he’d left behind an important possession, he had to ask her a question, he wanted to show her how to manage the fuse box. It was a routine she was done with but hadn’t yet figured out how to shut down. Their marriage was officially over, but they’d been ingrained in each other’s lives for ten years. No, she didn’t want a marriage of betrayal and nights of wondering where he was. But she hadn’t expected change to hit her quite so hard.

  “Whoever heard of a bridesmaid not having a date to her best friend’s wedding?” Chance’s smile, the attractive deep-dimpled grin that crinkled his eyes at the corners—like hers—had charmed her every day of their marriage. Even at the end, on the days she hated him for forcing her to restart her life, all he had to do was smile at her that way, and she was sunk.

  But now it was only a smile.

  Something else had changed between them, and it scared her a little. “Shh. Keep it down, please.”

  “Why? Who’s here?” In a flash the smile transformed into a hard frown, and he walked farther into the house. “You hooked up with somebody?”

  “My sister’s here, asleep. And if I had hooked up with somebody, it sure isn’t any concern of yours.” Veronica gave him an impatient glare. “Come into the foyer. I really don’t want to wake her up, and you’re not staying.”

  Chance didn’t protest. In the foyer, he let his gaze coast over her. How many times had he stood in front of her in tailored clothes that reflected all his hard-won success as a music producer and watched her with satisfaction in his eyes? How many times had it thrilled her to know he approved of her? Why didn’t it matter anymore? “You look amazing in that dress, Veronica.”

  “Grace’s choice. She has good taste. I’ll let her know you think so, too.” Veronica gestured to him. “And you. You, old friend, look like a man whose bros let him know that his ex was alone at a wedding. What, did someone call you when I left the hotel so you could time your arrival perfectly?”

  “You should’ve asked me to escort you.”

  “My ex-husband?” There were some people who could go to a wedding with an ex, but Veronica and Chance weren’t those people. A year apart hadn’t neutralize
d the animosity and hurt feelings. “I shouldn’t have let you in.”

  “Joke, right?” Another flash of his grin. “We’re okay, aren’t we?”

  “I’m getting on fine without you. But thanks for thinking of me.”

  Chance shook his head. “I will love you for the rest of my life, Veronica. Don’t think that’ll change because we signed some papers last year.”

  “But you’re not in love with me. That changed before we signed the papers.” She forced her expression into one that was casual—impassive. “Dredging this up again is trapping us in a place we shouldn’t be. We’re different now, Chance. You’re music. I’m sports. We’ve got separate lives. Let’s live them.”

  “Just watching over you,” he said, pointedly sidestepping everything she’d just said. He jerked down the door handle. “You’re a good woman.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Conflicted, Veronica watched him depart to his car. Should she curse him for swooping in to remind her of how much easier life would be if things hadn’t changed? Or thank him for reaffirming that easier wasn’t the same as better?

  Door shut, locked, and secured, she returned to the kitchen to boot up her laptop and review the reports she’d been sent. In a few hours she’d be expected to arrive at the office up to speed on every detail, from injuries to in-game performance.

  Her phone rang. She made a dash for it before the sound could carry to the living room and wake Aly.

  Probably Chance calling to rub acid into her emotional wounds. She held up the phone, ready to press the ignore button, but the number on the display gave her pause.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Veronica.”

  Right away, she was slung into the exquisite moments on a hotel terrace with Simon Smith kissing her neck, whispering against her skin, teasing her body.

  It occurred to her then that she hadn’t much right to ream out her younger sister for not exhibiting model behavior at the reception. Aly was twenty-two and had drunk a bit too much, loosening her inhibitions. Veronica was thirty and had had all her wits and sobriety about her when she let the quarterback she’d fired touch her in ways most men wouldn’t dare.