“Beckham is healthy and giving our franchise the results we want. What would football be without risky moves? You never know what action I’m going to take next. Don’t ruin all the excitement by trying to predict me.”
This earned a wave of laughter, and the reporter blushed as though embarrassed to have even broached the subject.
The next question was for the head coach. “How might new discoveries in the Luca Tarantino investigation affect your roster?”
“Ask me again after more discoveries are made, and you’ll get a better answer,” was Finn’s laid-back reply. “Right now, I can say that this club has a well-prepared second string. Each individual on our team is an asset, but no one’s indispensable. We all like to think we’re irreplaceable, but at the end of the day we’re components of a team, and the team’s success is highest priority.”
Amid the murmurs and camera flashes, was someone waving a plastic object toward the stage. A member of security hovered before Finn signaled for the object to be tossed to him.
Veronica laughed as he showed her the bobble head before setting it on the table beside his water glass.
“Ah, damn, my wife warned me that these hit the market,” he said on a groan. “I didn’t think anyone would have the balls to give me one.”
“Do you think it’s a good likeness?” Veronica asked, picking up the novelty toy to hold next to his face. The media ate up the banter, cheering in approval of the figure that exaggerated Finn’s wide, lopsided grin, and the dimples that bracketed his mouth. It held a clipboard in one hand and half a pair of sunglasses in the other.
“A good likeness? To who? Me or Richie Cunningham?”
“That can’t possibly represent Finn Walsh,” Joan countered in good humor. “The bobble head nods. Finn never nods. He’s one of the most disagreeable men I’ve ever met.” Mimicking a prize model, she gestured to her husband with a graceful flourish. “And he’s the other.”
Veronica looked toward her father, saw him give an ever-so-slight nod of satisfaction. She’d handled herself well, and for him this press conference had just become another victory. Checkmate.
◆◆◆
How the hell did they do it? Simon pushed his beer across the bar with a forefinger and motioned for another. He was at the Hard Rock Hotel’s sports bar with his eyes glued to the prerecorded broadcast at Villains Stadium playing out on a plasma screen. He had to give the Greers and Finn Walsh credit for twisting what was going to be a painful press conference into a goddamn variety show.
Veronica Greer’s blatant—at least to him—manipulation of the reporter who’d started up about Omar Beckham had set the tone. There was something in the way she leaned in, with one shoulder forward and a black-painted fingernail drawing up and down the neck of her mic, that compelled him to stare at her. He couldn’t define what was hidden behind the clever flirtation and ballsy attitude she flaunted to the press, but there was more to her than a beautiful face, a smart mouth, and a honeyed voice that would sound so good moaning his name.
The woman on-screen appeared too carefree to be sad in the depths of night, too self-involved to sacrifice time for a man who’d promised her nothing in return. But Simon knew better. He knew she’d been home alone nursing some private wounds after her friend’s wedding. He knew that when she’d given her word to help him get back onto the field, she meant it.
Fishing for a few laughs, throwing people off with a curve of her pillowy lips, were tactics, he realized. Watching her on television, as he waited for her to join him at the bar, was more about curiosity than anything else. She’d had the media snug in her back pocket since she’d hit the NFL scene, and today he’d wanted to observe how she went about transforming a pack of bloodthirsty lions into purring cats. At the close of the conference, all Simon had confirmed was that she was a mystery. And sexier than anyone had a right to be.
Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. Maybe if his brain repeated it enough, his dick would get the message.
Fact was, he was skeptical that one woman could fix his reputation, and he didn’t want to take a roundabout route toward proving that he’d been a target. At eighteen, he’d chosen sports over a future in Oregon agriculture. The football field and all it represented had become his home, the team his family, the game his life. But his “family” had betrayed him, gutted him, and righting the wrong was as vital as a heartbeat.
If Villains Stadium would never again be his home, then so be it, so long as another team valued his potential. So long as the Villains franchise and the media regretted shutting him out.
Simon turned up the bottle for a deep swig, then swiveled around to put his back to the television. The move granted him a comfortable view of the bar—which was right away obstructed by a cluster of autograph-hungry fans. He might be unemployed, but to the people grinning and holding out objects for him to sign, he was still a Las Vegas Villains quarterback, still jersey number eleven.
He accepted the Sharpie a bartender tossed him and in a blur signed a cell phone case, a napkin, a baseball cap, a handbag.
Then someone appeared on the fringes of the group. “Damn it. I don’t have anything for you to sign. Poor, poor me.”
He raised his eyes to the woman. Veronica. Watching footage of the press conference hadn’t prepared him for the full effect of seeing her in leather pants that wrapped her legs like a second skin, and a shirt that teased him with no mercy.
“Yeah, you do,” he said. “Want me to show you?”
“Go for it.”
Simon got off the bar stool. Grasping her arm, he drew the pen over her skin, just above the bend of her elbow. He signed with pride, with a little cockiness in his stroke. He then lowered his mouth as if to drop a kiss there, but gently blew across the ink.
Veronica’s laughter stole his attention. A no-holds-barred grin wrinkled the outer corners of her eyes. “What a smart-ass!”
She turned to skim her surroundings, and the lightness of the moment fell away. Patrons craned their necks to spy from the bar and the edges of booths. “Busier than I thought it’d be on a Wednesday.”
“Rethinking being with me in public?”
“On the contrary. Public means I’ve got nothing to hide. Private means secrets. I have my secrets, Simon, but being here with you isn’t one of them.”
She zeroed in on the nearest television. Tension tightened her shoulders as the sports analyst on screen promised a rundown of league-wide developments after commercial break.
“Saw the press conference. The bobble head bit was genius.”
“That wasn’t a bit, Simon. It wasn’t planned.”
“Still took the heat off Walsh.”
Veronica planted a fist on her hip. “Walsh doesn’t need anyone to take the heat off him. If he did, he wouldn’t be our head coach. Don’t knock his abilities. In fact, you would’ve worked well with him—” Catching herself, she stopped, and he could damn near see the tension strapping itself on to her like armor.
No. He wouldn’t accept more of that. Damn the masks, the pretenses, the hiding. Screw everything that took away the woman who’d let him sign her arm and had laughed freely for him. The hard-shelled persona was nothing more than a piece of clothing—something to project an image.
She’d dropped that persona once, and now that he’d seen what was underneath, he wouldn’t settle for a facade again.
“Cards on the table. Remember that? Say what’s on your mind. I like you better when you do.”
“Then let’s take this talk someplace else,” she suggested, with another glance at the television. “A place without all-sports TV?” She pointed to his beer. “I’ll buy you another.”
“Already paid for my beer.” Simon tossed the Sharpie onto the counter, then added an extra twenty to the tip. “So make it tequila. I know a place.”
One corner of her mouth inched up. Not a full-on smile, but close enough to give him a sting of pleasure, like a woman’s teeth to his shoulder. “Not your place, because
that’s not happening.”
“Don’t worry, Veronica. I’m abiding by your rules. It’s a public place, but private enough to talk, and there’s no sports TV. The question is, will you be okay with a situation you don’t have complete control over?” He turned, and there she was, at his side, with a spark in her eyes to go with that bounce in her step.
“I’ll follow you there. I’m not getting in your car. What would people think?” She gave him a wink. “Besides. I trust my car to no one.”
She was as brilliant at evasion as he was at throwing a football. But her resistance intrigued him when it should’ve frustrated him. He let her exit the bar ahead of him, warning himself that sooner or later he’d regret letting recklessness take over. For every reason he had to step back from her, he was shot with the urge to get even closer.
Getting into his Corvette, he slammed the driver’s door. The sudden noise jarred his thoughts for a slice of a moment, and he was glad for it. As pretty and complex as Veronica Greer was, she was also the woman who’d cut him from his team and had smiled while doing it.
In his rearview mirror, Simon could see her car. Occasionally a traffic light or the twin beams of his brake lights streaked across the front of her vehicle, revealing her behind the windshield. Head bopping, lips moving, one hand slapping the top of the steering wheel.
At the Luxor she was all cool, serious businesswoman as she met him at the entrance with an expectant frown.
“On the road, were you singing in your car?”
The only sign that she was flustered by the question was a quick succession of blinks, which only drew his focus to the sexy catlike shape of her eyes. “I was.” She wiggled her fingers at the building. “You brought me to the Luxor to talk?”
“Our stop’s the very low-key lounge inside. Been here before?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
Pleasure and discretion were what the exclusive, intimate lounge provided. That he was the man introducing her to this place and the unspoken possibilities teased his ego.
“I’m not really acquainted with the Vegas club scene, Simon.”
The surprises kept coming. Her ex-husband was constantly in the news, photographed at parties and clubs that some men would give their left nut to have access to. Her younger sister partied hard. He’d come across that fact firsthand at a casino some weeks ago, had caught a glimpse of Aly Greer unplugged—loud, freewheeling, and belligerent. Yet Veronica, the woman who ditched her inhibitions in the privacy of her car to sing along to the radio, wasn’t a clubgoer.
“I’m going out tonight, though,” she continued as he led her inside, “so I can’t stay past midnight.”
For these few moments, it was just the two of them journeying through the dimly lit halls. So he asked. “What happens after midnight? Something turns into a pumpkin?”
She chuckled. “I’m impressed with your knowledge of fairy tales.”
All thanks to my kid sister. To be fair, Erin was an adult now. But after almost fifteen years of estrangement, what he remembered most about his life as an older brother were the moments he should’ve appreciated but hadn’t.
Erin had sent him a letter his rookie season in New York—nothing more than a “I hate you for not telling Mom and me that your dreams came true” note that had slipped past the team’s publicity department in a batch of fan mail. Because he’d still been grieving his father’s death and hadn’t figured out a way to freeze his heart against his remaining family, he’d hung on to that contact. He’d been limited to an occasional visit home and sizable checks to support his mother and Erin. His mother’s death had left Erin as his only connection to his past. She was his one chance to do right by his family; his parents had depended on him to protect her.
To ensure that she got an education and never had to leave home, he paid for Erin’s college in Corvallis and purchased their family’s cherry orchard and turned it over to her. Keeping her in Oregon and himself in Las Vegas was for her own good, even though she’d been stubbornly putting herself in the public eye with a gig posting home design and organization videos on social media. He was giving her the safe, out-of-the-limelight life his parents had wanted for both Simon and Erin—the life he hadn’t wanted.
They emailed regularly—or had, up until she’d gotten word of his release from the Villains.
“Come home,” she’d begged. “Come back to the farm for a while. Or I can come to Las Vegas and stay with you. We’ve got to find some way out of this shit.”
No, he wasn’t interested in going back to Gunner, Oregon, with his tail tucked between his legs. And letting his small-town sister wander into the middle of a place that was called Sin City for a reason was out of the fucking question. The messages that he’d left unanswered were beginning to accumulate, but it seemed the best way to deal with his sister was through silence. Still, he’d hate himself if he lost the girl who’d looked up to her big brother and believed in fairy tales.
“Nothing will turn into a pumpkin,” Veronica told him. “But I’ll owe someone an apology and a drink.”
Ushering her through the lounge, he watched her take notice of the candlelight, dark furniture, the DJ, and the scatter of guests who were too absorbed in conversation and heavy petting to toss up more than a glance.
“Owe who a drink?” he asked, sitting across from her at a shadowed table.
Anyone could’ve picked up on the thin edge of jealousy in his words. Simon wanted to smack himself for asking that question. Why should he care if she had a date lined up?
“My assistant. I’m not seeing anyone,” she answered, with a hesitant smirk that spoke volumes. She was pleased that he’d asked, but she knew she’d taken a risk in telling him that she was single. “Uh, apparently, man-hunting is more fun when women go in pairs.”
“What type of man are you hunting for?”
“I’m not. And as for type…Well, I never thought about it.” She shifted with a nervous energy. “I’ve been out of the dating world for a while. Which I’m sure you know, if curiosity and easy access to Google got the best of you.”
She almost had him there. Yes, he’d been tempted to do some online digging. But the bigger appeal was in discovering her through that push-pull that reeled him into a debate with her at every turn. They always seemed to be on the borderline of disagreement, and maybe he was crazy, but he liked it that way.
“I know you were married to Chance Kershaw, and now you’re not.”
“God. It’s not that simple.”
“Then what is it?”
“I was in high school when I met Chance. I looked at him and saw this fairy-tale future. After ten years, it was over. The next guy I dated pursued me, and that was okay, except…I wasn’t the one who made the move that matters.”
“What’s that?”
“The first kiss—mouth-to-mouth—changes things.” Veronica cleared her throat. “I think it’s time for that tequila.”
At the bar they knocked back a round of tequila shots, with salt and lime wedges. Then Veronica let a mixologist talk her into a harvest moon cocktail, which she took back to their table. Instead of reclaiming her seat, she took the one beside him, crowding him deliciously with that tight little body, rattling him with the mischief in her smile. “Simon, your social life’s as legendary as your NFL career. It’s also a huge part of the image that the public sees. So let’s talk about that. About your relationships.”
“Irrelevant.”
“Actually, no. We talked about mine, and my image’s fine.”
“Yeah, except I have a hell of a hard time believing you’ve been into just two guys your whole life.”
“Those weren’t my exact words. Might want to fix that selective listening thing if you want this—” she gestured from him to herself with an index finger “—to work out. My first crush happened when I was six.”
“Give me a name. Or I won’t believe you.”
“Santa.”
“The fuck? Seriously?�
�
“Seriously. A department store Santa. He had the kindest laugh and the softest beard, and he was so…warm. All my life my dad has looked like a guy who rides motorcycles, crushes beer cans on his head, and murders people over territory. Santa was different and I loved him immediately. With a desperation I still can’t describe. I wanted him to take me away. It was my wish. I remember whispering it in his ear.” She shrugged. “I don’t think he told my parents, thank God.”
Veronica gently nudged him with her shoulder, catching him with those inviting gray eyes. “Your turn. First crush.”
“All right. Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny. Had it bad for her for years after I saw that movie.”
“Wow, you can commit.”
“A Hollywood crush is one thing—”
“And reality is another. In reality, you don’t commit. I get it—it’s a choice. Your life’s an open door to…let’s see. Models. Actresses. Legions of beautiful fans. I’m not judging you,” Veronica added, the humor in her voice replaced with sincerity. “Just getting a clearer picture of Simon Smith, the man. That’s the part of you in need of a reboot, because without it you can’t resurrect Simon Smith, the pro quarterback.”
“What is it about me that needs improvement, then, Veronica?”
“Try to see this from the public’s point of view. You want to be someone that average Joes might admire. Show the world that you’re down-to-earth. A man who can be humbled, who deserves empathy, who’s fun to be around. Your involvement with Habitat for Humanity would be a plus if your bad behavior didn’t work against it. Unleashing your temper every time a reporter asks you about the investigation? It tells people that you’re a careless hothead. And people will love to hate you.
“Now that the feds and the league are wringing out Luca Tarantino, reporters are greedy for information. With them it comes down to competition. Ratings. Popularity. There’s only so much you’re at liberty to discuss, I realize that. But what’s going to impact your future the most isn’t what you say, but to whom you say it. Strategy.”
“Manipulation,” he countered. “Call it what it is.”
The Rush_The End Game Series Page 8