The Rush_The End Game Series

by Piper Westbrook

  Joining her on the floor, he said, “There’s a pair in your kitchen, along with the rest of what you had on.”

  Oh. “Right. I forgot. I’m forgetting everything that matters.”

  “You’re regretting what we’re doing.”

  “What are we doing, Simon? I don’t do things like this. Careless risks, rule-breaking, they aren’t in my repertoire.” When she swiped her palms over her eyes, they came away smudged with mascara tears. “What’s next? We make a clean break? I go on playing one part for the public, and another for you?”

  “Compartmentalizing doesn’t work in every situation.”

  “Not true. ‘A place for everything, and everything in its place.’”

  “Then what’s my place?”

  Somewhere in her life. Where, exactly, she had no idea. Naturally, he didn’t make things easy for her, so he didn’t fit neatly into the “friend” or “lover” compartments. But maybe if she amended them to “unlikely friend” and “inappropriate lover”?

  “I haven’t worked out the kinks yet,” she said.

  “You don’t have a designated spot in my life, Veronica.”

  Veronica held herself in check, refusing to let the words bruise her. “No?”

  “You exist there, and the possibilities of what you could mean to me are open. Anything can happen. Or not. Either way, I don’t expect something you can’t give.”

  “Roll with it,” she deduced. “Sounds like a defense mechanism.”

  “Better than pinning your hopes on something and watching them be shot down. As for us?” He picked up her hand and gently kissed her knuckles. “The only way you can control exactly how far we get into this is if you tell me right now that it stops here. Want it to stop?”

  Here was her out, an opportunity to chalk up crossing the line with Simon as a one-night mistake. A proper girl’s lapse in erotic judgment. Yes, she thought, I have to want it to stop. “No,” she said instead. “I don’t want it to stop.”

  She gave a shaky smile as he thumbed away her tears.

  “Cry when you need to, Veronica,” he said after a moment. “Get pissed off. Get excited. All of that you can do with me. Trust me on that.”

  She already did. Before she’d even been ready to, she’d trusted him. She kissed him softly. “Thank you for catching me when I was falling.”

  Confusion passed through his eyes, then he grinned. “Oh. When you were about to do a face-plant with that cake at the Mandarin.”

  Okay, that, too. “Yeah.” She reached to finger the cross dangling from his neck. “Is there a story behind this?”

  “It was my grandfather’s.”

  “When did he give it to you?”

  “He didn’t. My dad did, when I was gearing up to leave Oregon. We weren’t speaking, but he handed me this the last time I saw him. Sometimes I like to think that things were okay with us that last day…but I’d already let him down and hadn’t really found a way to make it right.”

  Veronica wanted to point out that he was wearing tangible proof that he’d had parents who’d loved him in spite of their disagreements. And he had a sister who’d probably long ago forgiven and forgotten.

  He had more to offer than even he was willing to see.

  It was simply up to her to show him. Somehow.

  ◆◆◆

  Game day predictions had the Villains securing a fifth consecutive win, closing the weekend undefeated at 5–0. To be the subject of the NFL’s hottest scandal and on a victory spree was enough to—as Aly had put it when Veronica had joined her in the press box for a halftime interview and a round of sangrias—put an ass in every seat.

  Fans of the silver-and-red, who had faith in the Greers’ take-no-prisoners approach to business, accredited the wins to new blood in the front office and on the field. Skeptics said the team had been riding high on luck and hype, and both would fold once the Villains confronted a mature, consistent championship-winning ball club.

  Hosting the AFC East’s current dominant team, and disadvantaged with a defense that wasn’t yet in total sync because of a newly acquired defensive tackle and cornerback, replacements for the men in those positions who’d played during Luca Tarantino’s reign as owner, Las Vegas had the chips stacked against it.

  Midway through the fourth quarter, Veronica retreated from the windows of the owners’ box and faced her mother, who stood motionless in a stance emanating power and elegance. Joan’s business suit was black and simple—would’ve been dreary if not for the stylish Villains-red ribbons on the cuffs and collar. It was an appropriately somber ensemble considering the team’s winning streak was on the verge of ending, thanks to an offense that had choked in the pocket and a receiver who’d fumbled and failed to recover…three times. Each turnover had resulted in the opponent scoring, and at a twenty-one-point deficit with under seven game clock minutes left in the final quarter, the matchup was, for all intents and purposes, over.

  “I’m going onto the field to stand with Dad,” Veronica told Joan.

  Joan’s executive assistant, the administration coordinator, and the half dozen chattering guests who’d been welcomed into the suite on the owners’ personal invitation were transparently more concerned with eating, drinking, and being merry than the actual football game. She went to a mirror to touch up her makeup. “Mom, I’ll stick around when Finn goes to the podium post-game, so I won’t be back in the suite until afterward.”

  Joan’s answer was a tense bow of her head as she looked out over the field.

  “Four wins and one loss—this isn’t an execution. Play-offs are still a possibility.”

  “Good enough—that’s what I’m hearing from you.” Joan revolved leisurely on her sedate designer heels, but her eyes were alight with angry sparks. The others in the room chose this moment to snap to attention. “Five-and-zero is perfection. Victory in the play-offs is perfection. All of the money J.T. and I are spending, all of the strategizing, it has a purpose that we expect our general manager to agree wholeheartedly with. We won’t be placated with good enough when a championship is at stake.”

  Veronica didn’t realize she’d been frozen by the assault until her mother announced she was going to the phone. “What are you instructing?”

  “That the slippery-fingered running back get comfortable on the bench. I’m going to want someone else in—permanently. Of course, you’ll take care of this? Make it clean, but be sure the message is clear to all of offense. As for now, we have a time-out remaining, and it’s our possession.”

  Veronica knew what she was hoping for: a touchdown, an interception with a touchdown and yet another touchdown. It wasn’t exactly impossible, but the odds of Veronica strutting across the field wearing nothing but flip-flops were higher.

  “Corday isn’t going to turn this drive into a miracle, Mom. He isn’t a confident reader on the field, and that’s no secret. If he takes the risks you’re crossing your fingers for, he’ll botch a play.”

  “Playing it safe got us a three-touchdown deficit! To be slaughtered in our house is unacceptable.” Joan placed two fingertips between her eyes, massaging away a frown crease. She addressed the administration coordinator, Antoine Isaiah. “Go, goddamn it.”

  Antoine veered into the debate. “In these circumstances, twenty-one in the hole, it’s a matter of pride versus desperation. If we have too much pride to get our men downfield with a long throw, then we’re guaranteed this loss. If we’re desperate enough—which I say we are—then we risk losing pride, but we might get the yardage and points we want.”

  “You’re both oversimplifying this,” Veronica argued. “Mom, listen to me. Dad and Finn have made every necessary adjustment in this game. What you’re not seeing are sloppy receivers and a quarterback whose accuracy is already handicapped by an injury. When Brock Corday is confident in his passes, he does not make a mistake. If you force Brock to start throwing wildly, it’ll affect his mental and physical preparedness. I know him. I brought him onboard.”

>   “Yes, you brought us a captain who won’t take chances,” Joan said.

  “Brock takes a chance every time he suits up. Dad and Finn are on the field. They’re capable. They can see what those of us all cozy in this suite can’t see. I’m going to join them. After the game I’ll visit the locker room.”

  “A little guidance, Veronica. Skip the camaraderie. Be direct.”

  “Bust balls, you mean.” A cool lift of a meticulously arched eyebrow answered her. “Gauging a situation and determining the best approach is my specialty, Mom. I don’t need to be handled like a ventriloquist dummy.”

  Joan braced her hands on her hips. “J.T. and I have a partnership. We own and control this franchise jointly.”

  “We’re all a team.” Something inside Veronica crumbled at the fact that she had to remind her mother of that. What was Veronica’s authority if she was vetoed at every turn? “Don’t make that call. Let your GM and coach do this.”

  Veronica went to the door, but when she turned back, her mother was already moving in her pageant-perfected gait toward the adjoining soundproofed room with the phone.

  The elevator was vacant when Veronica stepped inside. Here she was, once again confronted with the pull-the-rug-out-from-under-you sort of change she hated. There was no one to vent to. Nothing to punch. So she screamed.

  Her screech echoed off every surface of the elevator and had her ears ringing by the time the elevator doors ushered her to the ground floor. On the way out to the field, she swiped a Villains on-field ball cap, put it on, and tugged her ponytail through the opening in the back. Then she marched outside to join the Villains staff, players, and her family on the sidelines.

  J.T. was pacing, studying the play in progress, so Veronica slipped past him to observe the players. The hulking men dwarfed her, but she was never intimidated by their size, put off by their less-than-refined manners, or offended by gritty language.

  This was a business that her family was running, and while she was counted on to be fresh and photo-ready, she didn’t delicateness had a place in this game. It was a brutal sport that tortured the toughest of men.

  Picking her way over the turf to a coach, Veronica asked, “How is Omar?” as her gaze located the kicker warming up his lean frame. Omar Beckham was in his early twenties but had let god-awful decisions age him. He was a man her sister Waverly had taken under her wing during training camp in Mount Charleston. It was a connection that created controversy and that Veronica and her parents still weren’t completely convinced was the most beneficial for the lone female athletic trainer, but Waverly had dug her heels in and formed a friendship with Omar.

  And as long as his performance exceeded projections and expectations, Veronica wouldn’t interfere with a winning formula.

  “Solid,” the coach told her, squinting against the Nevada sunshine. “Stable.”

  “All good, then.” Veronica poured herself a cup of Gatorade and migrated to the trainers.

  “Hey, sis.” Waverly, in her crisp trainer uniform, with her curly blond hair wrangled into a messy braid and a serious woman-on-the-job expression on her face, snapped a wad of bubblegum. Her eyes fixed on the field, she said, “I think a call just came from the owners’ suite.”

  “The queen’s ruling the land from her tower.” The comment earned her a glance rife with questions. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Veronica, just when you show signs of life, show a smidgen of moxie, you backpedal. Remember when the three of us girls were little, and we’d play double Dutch? Aly and I were the only ones who’d actually play. Every single time you got ready to jump, you’d hesitate and give up. You never will jump in, will you?”

  Grateful that the late-afternoon breeze cooled her hot-with-embarrassment skin, Veronica swallowed down the comeback that she’d jumped plenty all last night with the team’s former quarterback. “I’d rather maintain a positive relationship with our parents, instead of doing things that drive Dad to binge on antacids and Mom to frown. She hates frowning, you know.”

  Waverly turned to her. “Yes, I know. But she’s the one who insisted on getting each of us rodent after rodent and goldfish after goldfish as pets when we were kids so we’d be desensitized to death.” She shrugged. “Mom and Dad should both know how to cope with loss. But she’s in the suite throwing a tantrum, and Dad looks like he wants to put on a helmet and play his damn self.”

  “I’ll make sure he won’t,” Veronica assured her. “After the game, why don’t you, Aly, and I have dinner with them? It’s been months since we’ve all sat down around a table without tears or bloodshed.”

  Bloodshed referring to Waverly shoving away from the table in offense to their parents’ criticism, and Aly smashing a glass and suffering a deep laceration when she’d tried to pick up the shards. The results? Their parents continued to bring up the incident when it served their purpose of guilt-tripping Waverly, Aly had developed a fear of handling broken glass, and Veronica had been unaffected.

  “Aly and I can’t,” Waverly said, her gaze continuing to track the players. “Jeremiah’s treating us to a show at Caesars.”

  “I haven’t been to Caesars Palace in forever.” Wistfulness gushed from her words, but she hoped the thousands of voices up in the bleachers could mask it.

  “Oh. Veronica, we didn’t mean to exclude you…” Waverly sighed. “But that’s what we did, and I apologize for the ass-hattery.”

  “Waverly, never apologize when you’re not sorry. You taught me that. FYI, I never jumped because you swung your end of the ropes too fast, and Aly swung hers too low.”

  A childish barb, but it was salve for her hurt feelings as she turned and walked to J.T. and the band of coaches stalking about. For the remainder of the game she stayed in the safety of her father’s shadow; then she was swallowed up into the chaos as, like waters breaking through a dam, players and personnel and the press converged onto the field for handshakes, post-game interviews, and photos.

  After Finn’s press conference and a tense visit to the locker room, she escaped to the owners’ suite with her mind set on apologizing for being short with her mother earlier. Veronica arrived to find everyone still there except Joan. Instead, Aly was perched on the tufted settee that Joan usually occupied. “Is Mom around, Aly?”

  “Little girls’ room.” Aly scooped a toasted brioche with caviar from a tray of appetizers. “If you’re going that way, would you please deliver her cell? It’s vibrating itself into a seizure. Bet she’s on the toilet going crazy wondering where she left it.”

  Veronica grabbed the phone as it vibrated again. The name and number displayed on the caller ID stopped her short. A cold sweat surfaced on her skin as the phone rattled in her grip.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Don’t answer it.” Aly crossed the room quickly. “Mom would kill anyone—including the favorite daughter—for answering her phone.”

  “I’m answering it.”

  Aly’s eyes bugged. “Fun time’s over, everyone.” The guests and staff voiced reluctance but cleared the room quickly on her orders.

  Watching her sister shut the door—with her on the wrong side of it, wiggling her eyebrows expectantly—Veronica slid her thumb across the phone’s screen. “Chance.”

  “Chance?” Aly echoed, butting her head against Veronica’s in her haste to scoot in close enough to hear. “Why is he calling?”

  “Who’s this?” Chance demanded.

  “After ten years of marriage and a year of you in my way at every turn, I’d think you would recognize my voice. All I really care about is why you’re calling my mother.”

  “Ask Joan and J.T. why I’m calling. Ask your parents why I’m there, in your way, Veronica.”

  Veronica turned away from Aly, putting out a hand to maintain distance. “Right now, it’s you I’m talking to. No lies. Just the truth. You owe me that much, damn it.”

  “Let me ask you this. Did Joan mention the writing you had on your arm that night at the Marquee?”
>
  “No.” But on the night Veronica joined Joan and Willa for dinner at the Bellagio, Joan had studied her closely, as though searching for something specific on her arms. “Did you tell my mother that I’d gotten a tattoo?”

  “I told her and J.T. that I suspected you’ve been hooking up with someone, and he wrote on your arm.” Chance sighed into the phone, the sound ragged and stripped. “It was juvenile. I was operating on emotion. I wanted to be done with this shit.”

  Veronica’s gaze followed her sister as she opened the suite’s door to Joan.

  “You’ve got the answers, Veronica. Accept them. I knew you were going to be at the club with your assistant not because I’m clairvoyant. Your. Parents. Told. Me. Ever since the divorce, I’ve been following you because they told me to.”

  Joan snatched the phone and killed the call. “What right do you have to invade my privacy this way, Veronica? I think less of you now.”

  “Even less than you did when you thought I was fucking a guy who wasn’t approved by you and Dad?”

  “How dare you?”

  “Speak the truth? We should all try that more often, instead of tiptoeing around it. So I’ll start. I am aware that the only reason you and Dad didn’t interfere with my relationship with Ollie was that his aunt is a member of your country club.”

  “Ollie was interested in a real relationship, but you were an insensitive, spoiled bitch to him. You didn’t give him a chance.”

  Veronica was stunned to her core. But as she’d told Simon, words—even ones spoken by her mother, with the intent to maim her pride—were only words. She could survive them.

  “I didn’t want a relationship fresh off of a divorce. You and Dad said you understood that.”

  “We figured you’d dumped Ollie because you hadn’t moved on from Chance. We watched you suffer the consequences of what that man did to you. You didn’t even have an escort to Grace’s wedding. How pathetic you must’ve looked.”