by Claire Adams
“Tell him your rules, Dad. Don’t let him get away with that type of behavior,” I scolded.
“What behavior?” Ainsley asked, innocently.
“Nothing, sweetie,” I said, taking her by the hand. My dad was far bigger and stronger than I and carrying her around like she was a toddler was no big deal for him.
“Pastek!” Dad shouted.
Milo looked through the crowds and found my dad. I didn’t have to see my dad’s face to know he was giving Milo the look. The look that said you better get your ass in that locker room this minute. I watched as Milo separated himself from the young women and made his way to the locker room.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?” he said, turning his attention back to me.
“I said, I will be over in the morning, around nine or so. We need to figure out what you want for Thanksgiving dinner.”
He nodded, “The same stuff.”
I sighed. “I know that, but you said you had a few extra things you wanted to add.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Okay, I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, but I knew he was far too distracted to have any idea what I was saying.
“Let’s go, Ainsley. It is late, and I am tired. Monday night games make it hard to get up in the morning.”
She yawned, “I’m not tired, Mama.”
I chuckled as I walked across the field and out of the stadium to the parking reserved for players and others with special passes. Being the coach’s daughter did come with a few perks.
Chapter 6
Milo
Practice went a little better than it had yesterday. I couldn’t expect things to change overnight. I knew I had to prove myself and that’s what I was going to do.
“Not bad,” Luke said, as he walked past me. “Not great, but hey, you didn’t suck too bad.”
I grinned at him and shook my head. “Same to you. I think you only dropped the ball like four times. Better than ten, right?”
He laughed. “Just wait, it’s going to be you and me out there, running up the score. I’m going to be making touchdown after touchdown. You just have to get me the ball.”
I cleared my throat. “You just have to get Coach to put you in the game; then we can talk about you getting the ball.”
“Details, details. I’m wearing him down. I predict I’ll be starting before the end of the season.”
“I hope so, man. I really do.”
He turned and headed out of the locker room. I tossed the last of my gear in my bag and turned to follow him. I didn’t get very far.
“Pastek!” Coach called out as everyone else filed out of the locker room.
The lecture after the game had been expected, but I had no idea what I could have done wrong this time. I knew we hadn’t played all that well in the game, but I thought I personally did okay. He hadn’t singled me out in the team lecture, but maybe he planned to do it now. I did only have two practices under my belt with the team before the game. I was prepared to use that as an excuse. The fact we executed as many plays as we did, had to count for something—I hoped.
Surprisingly, he had said nothing more about the game yesterday or today. Not to me, not to any of the other players. It was as if he had moved on, which made me a very happy man. He had been relatively calm yesterday and today at practice, but I could tell by the look on his face and the tone of his voice, that I was about to get my ass handed to me. Clearly, he was still angry.
“Yeah, Coach?” I asked, hoping I sounded cool and casual.
“In my office,” he said, with a serious scowl on his face.
Fuck.
I ambled into the office and took the chair he offered. My eyes scanned his desk and saw a picture of a little redheaded girl. It was the girl from the other night I surmised. I stared at her smiling face and the stunning crystal-clear blue eyes framed by a head of red hair. She was a cutie, and I could tell Coach was very proud of her. I liked seeing that softer, more human side of him, especially seconds before I knew he was going to tear a strip off my hide. I could feel it coming. I had been in this same seat before, back in my college years. I knew my coach well, and I knew when I was in deep shit for doing something stupid.
“I watched the interviews from the game on Monday,” he started, his lip curled in disgust.
I nodded my head, immediately searching my brain, trying to think of what I could have said to a reporter that would have made him angry. Nothing was coming to mind.
“Milo, you’re new here, but you’re not new to my expectations. You know damn well I hold my people to higher standards.”
“I’m sorry, Coach. I didn’t think I said anything that would let you down. I apologize. I’ll watch what I say next time,” I said, not having a clue what I said, but willing to apologize and get this over with.
He shook his head and I could see he was not placated by my apology.
“It isn’t what you said. It’s the flirting. Don’t flirt with those young women when you are in my uniform. I will not set my team up for harassment claims. You don’t get to build your celebrity by flirting with the reporters to get a little more airtime and attention. You don’t get to wink and smile and convince the ladies not to write a bad report.”
I nodded my head, pretending to understand what he was talking about. I didn’t really. I mean, I was a natural flirt. I was somewhat notorious for it.
“I’m sorry, Coach, I will try. I don’t know if I even realized I was doing it.”
He chuckled. “No, I don’t imagine you do, but I’m telling you to pay attention. Those women are to be treated just like any male reporter on the field. Don’t you dare open yourself up for trouble and for damn sure don’t drag me and the rest of the team into nonsense like that.”
“Got it. Was that it?”
He looked at me, as if he was staring into my very soul. “How’s it going with the rest of the guys?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It isn’t like we’re going out to grab a beer after practice, but I didn’t expect that.”
He nodded his head and steepled his fingers in front of his face with his elbows resting on the desk. “Any problems I need to be aware of?”
“No. There’s some jealousy and a lot of animosity, but I made that bed, I get to lie in it. I’m going to work hard to prove myself to them and to you. I’ve made some mistakes, and I’ve got a big mouth, but I can’t change what I already said and did.”
He released a heavy sigh. “No, I don’t suppose you can. I have to say the owners were pretty reluctant to bring you onboard. I fought for you. I want you to keep that in mind when you step on that field. Or when one of those guys says something. This is my reputation on the line as well. I need to show this team and my bosses that they made the right choice in hiring me. I’m counting on you to help me do that,” he said with great sincerity.
“Coach, I promise you, I am going to do everything I can to do just that. I am training harder on and off the field than ever before, and I’m more focused than I’ve ever been. I know this is my last shot and I can’t thank you enough for giving it to me.”
He nodded his head, accepting my words. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear and I damn well better see it as well. Not empty promises and a bunch of lip service. Save that for the reporters,” he said with a wink. “I’ll see you Friday. Don’t eat too much and enjoy the day off.”
“I’ll do my best, and I’ll see you Friday.” Eating too much at some big feast was not going to happen. I knew it would likely be a day spent locked up in my hotel room eating room service and watching the games. It was a good time to scope out the competition.
It wasn’t like I had a family to hang with. I knew no one in the city anymore. All my so-called friends from college had moved on, and I certainly hadn’t made any friends on my new team.
I stood and headed for the door, grabbing it behind me.
“Leave it open, please. My daughter will be here shortly.”
“No problem.”
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I walked out of the office and was nearly barreled over by a blond blur. I didn’t think anything of it for about three seconds, then suddenly a whole slew of memories washed over me. The coach’s daughter.
Shortly before graduation, I remembered spending the night with the coach’s daughter. I turned to look behind me. The small window in the office didn’t give me a real clear view, but from what I could see, the coach’s daughter looked a lot different than I remembered.
She was a lot curvier, that was for sure. Her blond hair was cut in a bob. Gone were the long strands I remembered gripping in my fist in the throes of one of the many orgasms I had that night. She had been a hot little thing, but she hid it under frumpy clothes. It had never seemed like she tried to play up her looks like all the other girls. I had noticed her the first year we were in school, but after that, she was just one of the people that followed the team around.
I shook my head, dislodging the memory of that night and the woman who starred in it. I pushed the double doors to the sports complex open and inhaled the fresh, salty air.
Oh shit. No way!
I stood there, the sun beating down on my head and did a quick rewind. Something was bubbling deep in my brain. I didn’t want to move. If I moved, I might lose my train of thought.
Blond daughter. Blond. Coach was blond. The little girl had called him Papa at the game Monday night. Not Daddy or Dad—Papa. The little girl had red hair. It was light, but it was definitely red. She had to be the coach’s granddaughter. I didn’t see a picture of a woman on the desk. I didn’t notice a wedding ring. Coach wasn’t married, and he wasn’t the type to fool around. I knew that much about him.
My mind whirred with the possibilities. I didn’t have any medical training, and I didn’t know shit about genes, but even I knew red hair was a trait that usually came from one of the parents. Us gingers were not all that common.
I shook my head, shoving the idea into the deep recesses of my mind, and focused on what I would do to pass the time over the next thirty-six hours. Hitting the clubs sounded good, but I didn’t want to risk getting in trouble.
I looked at my phone. I didn’t even know who to call.
Stan Hickens’ name was one of the few in my phonebook. I pushed the button to call him.
“Milo, my favorite quarterback! What can I do for you?”
I felt like an idiot. “Uh, well, I was wondering what you were up to this evening. I was thinking I could take you out for a drink to thank you for securing such a great deal for me.”
“Oh man, I’d love to, but I’m out of town. I’m up in New York City with my family. Can I take a raincheck?”
“Sure, of course. Let me know when you’re back in town. Thanks again for hooking me up, Stan. It’s all working out really well.”
“No problem, and let’s be honest, this deal worked out pretty well for me too.”
I laughed with him, but it was faked.
We hung up, and I was still alone for Thanksgiving. Usually, I had someone from the team I could hang with, or else somebody hosted the players that didn’t have any family in the area. I didn’t get any invitations. I was too new. My reputation preceded me, and none of the guys wanted me around their wives.
I crawled into my rental car and headed for my hotel. I needed to get a car of my own, but first, I needed to find more permanent living arrangements. I was afraid to buy a house or even sign a lease. If I sucked, I would get released. My position with the team wasn’t guaranteed. It was a trial. If I couldn’t pull my weight, I would get fired. If I got fired, my future in the NFL would be finished. No one would pick me up.
Chapter 7
Liza
Taking a minute, I inspected my table. It looked good. Maybe a little on the formal side for just the three of us, but I liked to make a big deal out of the holiday gatherings. I wanted them to be special for Ainsley, and I liked to show my dad how much I cared by going all out.
I could hear the game on in the other room. He could watch the game, but I didn’t want to hear about it. Who did what and how good or bad a play was didn’t interest me right now. These family dinners were our time. No football allowed. I laughed out loud at the thought—no football allowed, right—as if that would ever happen. But, you can’t blame a girl for trying.
Looking out the big kitchen window, I checked on Ainsley. She was keeping Dad’s big golden retriever entertained. Or rather, she was scaring the poor dog to death.
“Ainsley, be nice to Bart. He doesn’t like when you throw that stick,” I said, through the window screen.
“Mom, he’s a dog. He’s supposed to like sticks!” she argued.
Bart hadn’t got that message. He was defective in the retrieving department, preferring lounging on the couch or digging holes in what used to be pretty flower beds all around the backyard. My dad didn’t care. Bart was a companion, not a hunting dog.
I grabbed the hot pads off the counter and opened the oven. The smell of the turkey was amazing. I always loved the way the aroma filled the entire house. I wonder why they didn’t make a roasted turkey scented candle, I mused.
The tender timer button on the turkey was popped up. The turkey was done! I pulled it out and set it on the counter, then popped in the rolls and the other dishes to heat them.
“Dad!” I shouted, hoping he could hear me over the noise from the television. “Turkey’s done!”
I may have heard a response, but I couldn’t be sure. I busied myself setting the rest of the table with copious amounts of food. There was no way that the three of us could eat even a fraction of what I had prepared.
My dad ambled into the kitchen. “Got enough for everyone?” he asked, looking over the dishes I had on the table.
“Yes, Dad. Is anyone planning on coming?” I asked.
He shrugged, “No one said they were, but you never know. Sometimes plans change. There’s a snowstorm up north, so some of the guys may have had their flights canceled. Best be ready in case you get a bunch of hungry football players at the door.”
Nodding, I smiled. It was the same story every year. I had been preparing a huge Thanksgiving feast every year since I was fifteen and old enough to be in the kitchen by myself. Every year, Dad put out an open invitation for any players to come by. Lots of the guys were in school on scholarships, and either didn’t have family to speak of or couldn’t afford the cost to fly home.
I didn’t mind a bit. It beat a Thanksgiving dinner with just me and Dad.
“I’d best get carving that turkey,” he said, grabbing the knives and getting to work.
I handed him the new plate I had bought. “Put it on here.”
“Oh, this is nice,” he said, complimenting my new, festive plate.
Laughing, I rolled my eyes. I knew he had no real preference and would be just as happy putting the turkey on a paper plate.
“Thank you.”
I pulled the rest of the dishes out of the oven and set them on the table.
“This looks great!”
“Ainsley!” I called out the back door. “Ainsley, it’s time to eat. Wash up and come sit down.”
I watched as she came in, with Bart close behind her. The dog was usually afraid of her, but he knew the word eat very well. He had come to learn that Ainsley was his best friend at the dinner table. No matter how many times I had told her not to feed the dog from the table, she did it anyway. It was that damn redheaded stubborn streak.
It only took another five minutes to get situated before we all sat down at the table.
“You sure I can’t put the game on in here?” Dad grumbled.
“No. You can watch the highlights later. Watching in real time isn’t going to change the outcome,” I argued.
He sighed, but he knew better than to argue. I may have been his daughter, but it was the one rule I had.
“This is delicious, Liza. You are an excellent cook.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Papa, how come we can’t talk about
football?”
“Ainsley, we talk about football all the time.”
“Can we talk about the team, at least?” Dad asked.
I laughed. “Oh, I know you’re dying to tell me. Spill. What happened?”
He grinned. “Well, nothing happened, yet, but I am hoping for great things. My young QB seems to have grown up a lot. He still has a problem flirting with the ladies, but I can work with that.”
Ignoring that little tidbit of information, I went on, but Ainsley wasn’t prone to do the same.
“What’s flirting?”
I nearly choked on the bite of mashed potatoes I had just put into my mouth. “Nothing, dear.”
My dad chuckled. “Flirting is when people try to be extra nice to someone they think is attractive.”
She squished up her nose. “That sounds dumb.”
“It is. So, don’t ever do it,” I ordered her.
A scoffing sound from my dad had me turning my eyes on him with a glare. He held up his hands in surrender.
“Anyway, we still have some ruffled feathers and I think the guys are giving him a hard time, but I had a talk with him yesterday. I think he’s grown up and isn’t going to let those guys interfere with his drive.”
I nodded my head, not really wanting to talk about how great Milo—my baby daddy—was. I was not inclined to think he was so mature or spectacular. The five minutes I’d had to observe him the other day, him he seemed much like the same cocky guy I remembered from college.
“Ainsley, stop feeding the dog!” I growled.
“Mom, he’s hungry,” she protested.
“No, he’s not. He can eat dog food if he’s hungry.”
“Oh, come on now, Bart doesn’t want plain old dog food when he can have turkey,” Dad pouted, taking Ainsley’s side as usual. “Who would?”
“You guys are going to make that dog fat.”
“He’s already overweight according to the vet,” my dad said with a smile. “What’s a few more pounds?”