“Mean,” Kristen whispered as she snuggled into Clay’s side. “Downright mean.”
“Hey, what’d you say all those years ago? We’re all just making it up as we go along.”
She jabbed a finger into his side but stayed curled up against him. The stands were full, and he didn’t mind holding her close. They were already packed in like sardines except for the few seats they’d saved in front of them with blankets and bags.
This was what he’d missed while coaching for all those years. The feeling of the stands. The smell of the concessions. The shuffling of feet and calls and joining in on cheers, stomping along with the pep band, jumping up and down in joy or being able to scream at the ref without having a flag thrown at him.
Oh, he missed coaching, sure. He’d retired a year ago so he could truly enjoy Stan’s high school playing experience. He’d missed out so much on Pee-Wee leagues and junior high. But here, he was able to watch his son with his whole heart and not worry about hopping on a plane that night to get to Minnesota or Washington for an away game.
Some might question his choice to call Stanley his son. He’d hesitated, only because he didn’t want his sister’s memory to be disrespected. But the longer it went on, and the longer he resisted referring to himself as Stanley’s father, the more his son’s feelings had been crushed.
Amanda was still a big part of their lives. Stan knew the story, and he had photos of his biological mother in his room. But the day he’d come home from preschool and called Kristen “Mom” for the first time, she’d sat on the floor with him in her lap and sobbed. Then called Clay at work and sobbed some more.
Clay didn’t mind admitting to himself he’d had to close his office door so he could have a quick cry himself that day.
From the woman who had claimed she didn’t have it in her to raise another child from the ground up, Kristen had taken to motherhood, round two, with gusto. She amazed him. And though he hadn’t been witness to Isaac’s childhood, he doubted Stanley received anything less than one hundred percent of her love and devotion, as if he’d come from her own body.
Though it shocked him, when Clay had met Isaac’s father at his high school graduation, he’d actually liked the guy. Isaac’s stepmother had sent a birthday card to Stan every year since his second birthday, signed by the whole family. And anytime there was an opportunity for them all to be around, Isaac’s half sisters had treated Stan just like a little brother. It might not have been traditional, but from Clay’s standpoint, it was as close to the perfect American family as he’d ever seen.
“You’re quiet all the sudden,” his wife murmured.
“Just thinking about my family and how good I’ve got it.” He kissed the top of her head and hugged her close.
“Here comes Cassie! And Mags!” Kristen waved at the women who were hauling bags and blankets and herding a small platoon of children.
“And Trey and Stephen,” Clay added with a muffled laugh. Some of the best players in the NFL history, and she only ever cared about hanging out with their wives.
The addition to their cheering section meant squeezing in, but it worked out. Cassie and Trey’s youngest, a pretty eight-year-old, perched on Isaac’s lap. Dads and moms held other children, and the teens sat playing on devices and ignoring the world. And all wore the home team’s colors, many with homemade numbers on them for Stan.
“Stanley’s going to freak when he sees how many people showed up,” Isaac said over the child on his lap.
“He didn’t know we were coming?” Stephen turned around to look at Kristen. “I thought you told him.”
“I mentioned that he’d have a fan club. I just didn’t mention how many,” she said innocently. “But he’ll be so thankful you’re here. Especially you, Stephen, with how much work you’ve put into him over the summer.”
“Well, since he actually works on the field instead of just standing back and tossing a ball around, someone had to show him how to do it.” Stephen grinned as Clay gave him a love tap on the back of the head.
“Hey, I think you’re starting to thin out back here. Better watch that.”
Stephen glared at him, then shot him the finger when none of the kids were looking.
“Deny all you want. He’ll have college recruits out here watching him in no time.”
“Stop! No! I’m not ready!” Kristen covered her ears and shook her head in denial.
“I don’t think Mom was this upset about me leaving for college,” Isaac deadpanned.
“Yes, but—”
“Stanley is your baby,” Clay and Isaac said together, knowing the statement well.
“He is,” she said with a sniff.
The band began to play the fight song—badly, though it was only the first game, there was room for improvement—and everyone rose to their feet. Clapping and stomping and cheering overpowered any conversation.
The announcer’s voice boomed from the speakers a few feet above their heads. “And heeeeeeeeeere come your James A. Martin Arabians!”
Through the paper tunnel the pep squad had created, down the line of cheerleaders kicking and shaking pompoms, came a flash of white and green. The team rushed onto the field, meeting at the fifty-yard line to jump up and down, pump each other up and effectively create a dog pile. He could almost feel the slap of other guys against his back, the smell of sweat and turf, feel the rush of adrenaline through his veins as they prepared for battle.
God, Clay missed those days. From the way Trey and Stephen eyed the huddle, he could tell their thoughts had wandered the same direction.
“Where is he?” Kristen gripped his hand so tight his bones ground together. “Where’s Stanley?”
“He’s in there,” Clay assured her, flexing his fingers to keep from choking the circulation off. “Just give them a second.” You’d think the woman had never attended a football game before.
Just then the huddle broke and they approached the bench. Two captains—seniors, Clay knew from Stan—walked out for the coin toss. There was a hush while it was determined and then claps again as it was decided they were kicking off.
They watched the kickoff, watched their opponent return to their own thirty-yard line. And then Stanley was on the field. Their own personal cheering section lost their collective minds, screaming and clapping and waving little plastic streamers.
The teams settled at the line of scrimmage, and Clay felt his heart catch in his throat. Here it was. This was his son’s first big play.
The ball was snapped, and Clay forgot to breathe as the linemen clashed and the quarterback tossed the ball to a running back. Four yards gained.
Clay watched Stanley get back up without effort, saw his fists clench, his head bob, and knew his son was giving himself hell for not making the move faster. “Get it next time,” Clay muttered. “Shake it off.”
They lined up again four yards down. Time slowed as the ball snapped back. And Clay watched with amazement as his son slapped his defender to the side like an annoying gnat, rushed forward and tackled the unsuspecting quarterback. The ball dribbled loose, and a green-and-white-clad Arabians teammate covered the fumble with his body, ensuring a turnover.
“Quarterback sack!” the announcer shouted, the speakers vibrating above them. “Stan ‘the Man’ Barnes with the sack. Mitchell Samuels with the recovery for the Arabians.”
“Oh my God,” Kristen whispered, her hand clutching Clay’s so hard it felt like the tendons would rip apart. Then, on a delayed reaction, their entire section jumped up and screamed. They hopped up and down, pumping their fists and shouting for the world to hear.
But Clay could only stand there, silently watching as Stan slowly disentangled himself from the quarterback he’d sacked.
“That’s my son,” Clay whispered, blinking back a sudden rush of tears.
Kristen reached an arm around him, holding him tight.
They watched together as Stan looked up, briefly pointed to the sky in a tribute to Amanda, then found th
em in the stands to wave.
No, his mother would never be forgotten. She’d be a part of his heart forever.
But that was his son. Their son, he corrected, as Kristen sniffed next to him. As Isaac slung an arm over Clay’s shoulders, a wide grin on his face, Clay counted himself fortunate for the best family a man could have asked for.
The End
Thank you for reading this latest of the Bobcats series! To receive an e-mail letting you know about my new books, please sign up for the Release Alert HERE.
To see how the Santa Fe Bobcats series started, read on for an excerpt from One Night with a Quarterback (Santa Fe Bobcats #1).
The Santa Fe Bobcats:
One Night with a Quarterback (Santa Fe Bobcats 1)
Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats 2)
Takes Two to Tackle (Santa Fe Bobcats 3)
Romancing the Running Back (Santa Fe Bobcats 4)
Completing the Pass (Santa Fe Bobcats 5)
Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats 6)
Changing Her Plans (Santa Fe Bobcats 7)
One Night with a Quarterback
Trey Owens tried to take a sip of his beer, only to have the bottle clank against his lips. He hissed in pain and annoyance.
“Sorry, dude,” someone muttered from behind the elbow the stranger had bumped.
“Right.” Trey switched the bottle to his other hand and ran his tongue over his teeth for a quick check. All good. “I’m sure you are.”
But the rude weasel was already gone.
“Look at it like this,” Stephen said with a smile. “He didn’t recognize you. Clearly, the disguise is working.”
“I feel like freaking Clark Kent in these stupid things.” The fake frames his friend Stephen had forced him to wear felt foreign on his nose, and the flashing lights reflecting in the lenses were about to drive him insane.
“But not one girl has squealed at you,” his friend pointed out helpfully, taking a swig of his own beer. “Nobody’s running down plays, or giving you shit for interceptions, or trying to form lines for autographs. The glasses plus the dark equal a decent enough disguise to get you out of the house, you hermit.”
He had a point. In his first two years playing in the NFL, there had been little notice of him. As second string QB for the Arizona Cardinals, he hadn’t warranted any attention. But his move to lead quarterback for the Santa Fe Bobcats . . . that had been a game changer, both on the field and off.
There were days—weeks, months, years—when Trey wished he’d been born to be a semi-anonymous defensive lineman. Or third-string kicker. Anything but the quarterback. There wasn’t a more visible position out there, and his luck had stuck him front and center.
“Look, you were the one griping about having a zero-based social life in the past few years thanks to the mobs that attack you every time you go out. I thought it was at least worth a try. It got you out of the cave. And frankly, it’s working.”
Stephen—one of the aforementioned semi-anonymous linemen, had dragged him out after lambasting him for being a “fucking monk” in recent months.
“You’re right. I know.” He took another cautious sip of beer, this time making the entire way through without being bumped. “It just feels so shitty. Is this my life? Espionage and secrets just to get a normal night out?”
“Welcome to the big show.” At that, Stephen’s eyes caught elsewhere, and Trey followed the line of vision.
Vision was one word for it. On a platform about three feet tall, two women danced. Both wore jeans and heels, but the blonde’s shirt covered up to her neck and down to her elbows. And she looked like she would rather be tossed in a shark tank than up there on the platform. The brunette, on the other hand . . .
Damn, she was a horrible dancer. He smiled a little before taking another sip of beer. Terrible, actually. If she was dancing to any sort of rhythm, it was only the one in her head. Her hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks in sweaty strands, her arms looked like they were seizing, and her head bounced around like a balloon on a stick. But she was having a fantastic time, and her enthusiasm drew him in, made her impossible to look away from.
Upon further glance, he realized they weren’t the only ones dancing on raised platforms. Dotted throughout the club were small circular stages, where presumably, a promoter or someone had pulled girls up from the dance floor and put them up on stage. The other women were eating up the attention with a spoon. Slithering bodies, roaming hands, pouty duck lips—and who the hell lied to women and said duck lips were sexy?—they were putting on a show for the men.
Brunette and Blondie, on the other hand, were having fun together. Not in the flirty, we’re girls so let’s dance sexily all over each other way. But in the fun, sweat-dripping, hip-bumping, laughing full out sort of way.
The sort of way that had him stepping closer to watch . . . along with a dozen other men. But if the brunette realized the crowd she drew, she didn’t show it. No eye contact but with her friend, no come- hither glances, no winks or nods at all.
Was he insane to wish she’d pick him from the crowd and focus that energy on him?
Short answer: most likely yes.
“She’s hot,” Stephen said, leaning in a little to be heard.
“Yeah, she is,” he muttered, taking another swig of beer to cool himself down.
“But she looks terrified up there.”
“No she doesn’t.”
Stephen stared at him a second, then back to the platform. “Ah. You’ve got eyes for the other. You know me. I like blondes.”
Just fine with Trey. More chance for him. As the errant thought crossed his mind, he watched as the sexy brunette in the tank top tapped her friend on the shoulder. With a silent nod to each other, they both sat down and scooted off the platform.
He was a half second too late, and several other men rushed to aide her, grabbing her elbow, her shoulder, something tangible to assist. Her friend wasn’t lost for admirers either. The blonde smiled shyly, but ignored them for the most part. The brunette gave them easy grins, a thanks, then walked off without speaking to any of them.
Trey took two steps after her before he realized what he was doing. He wasn’t there to score. He was there to enjoy a night out in anonymous fun.
Meeting a woman could be fun, right?
Anonymous, even. It might actually be a good test, to see if his pathetic disguise would hold up under closer scrutiny, like a one-on-one conversation.
“Where you going?” Stephen asked.
“Research,” he answered, and followed the horrible, hot dancer.
About the Author
Jeanette spends her days surrounded by hunky alpha male heroes… at least in her mind. As the author of eighteen (and counting) contemporary romance novels, she spends more time than she would like to admit thinking about what sexy, make-believe men would be doing at any given moment.
In real life she's a one-hero kind of woman, lucky to snare her own hero in her husband. When she's not chasing her daughter or their lovable-but-stupid Goldendoodle around the house, she's deep in her own fictional world, building another love story. Finally living the civilian life after many years being moved via the Marine Corps, Jeanette and her family live across the river from St. Louis.
For more information, head over to her website at www.jeanettemurray.com,
follow her on Twitter at @KJMurrayBooks,
or find her on Facebook at Facebook.com/jeanettemurraybooks
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Changing Her Plans (Santa Fe Bobcats) Page 22