Home Field Advantage

by Johnson, Janice Kay

  "I'm afraid it's too late. Dinner's already in…” But the three children had vanished around the house. Marian rolled her eyes and turned back to John. "I can tell who's popular around here."

  His grin was wry. "And how badly she's going to miss her dad."

  Marian bit her lip. "I'm sure..."

  He gestured dismissively. "Just kidding. I'm glad she was looking forward to coming. It makes leaving easier for me."

  Easy was what all absentee parents wanted, Marian thought, but somehow she couldn't summon any anger. John too obviously loved his daughter.

  "Well," Marian said. "Have a good trip. Where are you going this week?"

  "L.A. Which reminds me..." He patted his pockets, producing a slip of paper. "My cell phone, my phone number at the hotel, and the network. They can always track me down."

  When she reached for the paper, her fingers touched his, sending a disconcerting tingle up her arm. Her gaze lifted and she saw in his eyes an echo of the awareness she felt. For a very still, breathless instant, they looked at each other, until Marian swallowed and made herself glance away. She stared down at the telephone numbers written in a bold, dark scrawl. They might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics for all she knew.

  "I'm sure we won't have any problem," she said brightly. "Still..."

  "Better safe than sorry?"

  Something mocking in his tone brought her gaze up again. His mouth was curled into a crooked smile, and Marian wondered whether his comment referred to telephone numbers or to the far more intimate, unnerving vibes that shivered just beneath the surface.

  Tilting her chin up slightly, she said, "I do my best."

  His smile widened until he looked almost predatory. "I'm sure you do. Otherwise I wouldn't bring Emma here."

  Was he talking only about Marian's capabilities as a baby-sitter? The look in his gray-green eyes was too direct for her to believe that. But why would he be interested in her? He was a retired pro athlete, a media personality. He must have stylish, sophisticated women constantly throwing themselves at him. He couldn't possibly be attracted to a struggling single mother who couldn't remember the last time she'd bothered with makeup or worn anything more elegant than jeans. But if he was... Dear God, what was she going to do?

  Her panic must have showed on her face, because his smile faded and his expression became guarded.

  "I'll call tomorrow night."

  She bobbed her head nervously. "Fine. Emma looks forward to that."

  His voice was soft, sending a shiver up her spine. "I look forward to that."

  Marian refused to remember the last time he had called. Instead she said only, "Emma needs the reassurance."

  "You'll take good care of her?"

  It sounded like an entreaty, and she reacted instinctively, reaching out to touch his arm. "Of course I will."

  Before she could withdraw, he'd captured her hand in his. The clasp was light, allowing for escape, but she was paralyzed by the strength she felt in his long fingers. For an instant she quit breathing as she stared up at him with wide eyes.

  A frown gathered between his brows. "Do I scare you?"

  "No, I..." She bit her lip. "Yes, I guess you do. I'm just not used to..."

  When her words trailed off, he arched one brow. "What aren't you used to?"

  Marian tugged her hand free, in a rush of defiance saying more than she wanted to. "I'm not used to having a man look at me the way you do."

  Again he frowned. "You're a beautiful woman."

  She held herself very straight, although she had to twine together her trembling fingers. "Right now I'm more interested in being a good mother. And a good baby-sitter for your daughter."

  Their gazes held for a tense moment before his mouth tilted wryly. "That's pointed enough even for me. I'd better get moving, anyway, or I'm going to miss my plane. Damn, I hate L.A."

  Marian struggled to sound normal. "But didn't you live there?"

  "That's why I hate it. Oh, well. See you Monday morning?"

  Again there was that hint of vulnerability in his voice. What was he asking? Whether she would want to see him? But Marian didn't let herself examine the question. "Monday," she agreed.

  She made herself turn away as he started his car. Before he had backed into the street, she circled the corner of the house. She didn't have to watch him drive out of sight, anyway. That last quizzical smile was frozen in her mind's eye like a butterfly in amber.

  Marian stopped in the long, late-afternoon shadow behind the house. Outside Esmerelda's pen, the three children were hunkered down in a row with their backs to Marian. Something about the sight squeezed her chest with tenderness. But as though she had opened herself to emotion, a wave of desperation washed over her, pulling little bits of her along as it receded, like sand being swallowed by the tide. She couldn't bear to be hurt again like Mark had done to her. It seemed that John McRae could hurt her without even intending to, just by his existence, by the possibilities he made her want to believe in. But that was impossible. He was impossible.

  Somehow, in the next three days, she had to make herself believe it.

  *****

  Stretched out on the hotel bed, John cradled the telephone receiver between his shoulder and ear. He still wore slacks and a dress shirt, but his tie was flung over a chair and papers were strewn across the flowered bedspread.

  "Did you ride the pony?" he asked.

  "I made Snowball trot," Emma told him with great satisfaction. "It was kind of bumpy and I bounced around, but I held on tight and it was fun. Marian said I did great. And Snowball stopped the minute I wanted to. Marian says I can trot again tomorrow if it's okay with Snowball. But I know he will."

  John carefully kept the amusement out of his voice. "That's terrific. You're going to be my show rider before you know it."

  "Can I be in the costume class? I could dress up in purple and silver and..."

  "Sure, why not?" he said recklessly. Actually, he'd always thought the dressy costume class at Arabian horse shows was tacky. The intent was to present the graceful horses as they'd once been ridden. John had a suspicion that hundreds of years ago, as the nomads swept over the desert on their swift mounts, very few were accoutered in purple silk with jangling bits of silver and painted hooves and even mascara around the horse's eyes, for God's sake. But if entering the class would give Emma pleasure, hey, what was a little purple silk?

  "Listen, can I talk to Marian?"

  "Sure." The little girl hesitated. "I miss you, Daddy."

  His heart seemed to knot in his chest. "I miss you, too, honey."

  His daughter didn't bother to cover the telephone before she bellowed, "Marian!"

  As he waited, John pulled himself up, yanking the pillow from beneath the spread and bunching it behind him. The king-size bed was too hard, the pillows too squishy. With an ache Emma had brought on, he missed home. His own bed, his solid foam pillow, Isaiah's silent, familiar presence, the soft whisper of a horse's muzzle against his hand. Always Emma, with her light, high voice that ran on and on. And at times like this he still thought about his wife, who had died over two years ago. As Emma changed and grew, John couldn't help hurting for all that Susan had missed.

  With a shock he realized that he was seeing Marian, too, as though she held a part of his heart as well. He had almost kissed her yesterday, before he had recognized her fear. What would have happened if he had? Damn it, he couldn't be alone in feeling this attraction!

  He heard her coming, her voice muffled as she said, "Emma, could you help Jesse and Anna pick up the Playdoh?" Then she said into the telephone, "Hello, John. How's your trip going?"

  "Oh, it's okay." He glanced at the sheaves of paper fanned across his bed. The statistics on the two teams were the kind of thing he'd need to pull from his hat tomorrow during the broadcast.

  "It ought to be quite a game," he added. "But I forgot, you're not a fan, are you?"

  "I'm afraid not. Emma made us promise to watch you, though."<
br />
  "You trying to give me stage fright?"

  Her chuckle, low and delicious, came from too far away. With an increasing ache, he could see those dimples and the gentle curve of her mouth.

  "Millions of people are already watching you," she pointed out. "I don't think Anna and Jesse are very critical."

  He couldn't resist. "What about you? Are you critical?"

  "You could tell me three downs made an out and I wouldn't know the difference."

  "I wasn't really talking about football," he said. "I was talking about me."

  There was a moment of silence before she answered obliquely, "I'm looking forward to seeing you on TV."

  "What's that mean?"

  "You live in a different world."

  "Yeah, in hotel rooms that have less character than my horses' stalls. Or are you imagining glamour and the high life?"

  "Well..." Her laugh took away her constraint. "All right, you've got me. I figured a pro athlete makes tons of money and always has a blonde on each arm."

  John grimaced. There'd been a time that he'd seen the life that way, too. He had even lived it for a couple of years, before he'd grown up. Marriage and a baby and too many aches from too many hits had a way of doing that.

  "I'm a has-been nowadays," he reminded her. "It's not the same."

  "That's right." There was a smile in her voice. "I'd almost forgotten the ugly scars on your knees."

  "That's one thing about kids. If I have any flaws, you'll hear about 'em."

  Again that chuckle. "Emma tells me you have scratchy cheeks because you only shave when you have to. She says that you yell sometimes when you're mad, but she knows you don't really mean it. She says..."

  He groaned. "I get the point. I don't have a secret left to my name."

  "I don't, either," she said, inexplicably sounding a little sad.

  "Obviously our lives have become too staid and boring." He kept his tone light. "Maybe we ought to dump all the kids and you could come with me some weekend. Live that life of glamour."

  "You should have asked before you disillusioned me," she countered, equally lightly. "Speaking of a life of glamour, I'd better be getting the kids to bed."

  Was that a warning? Back off, he thought. Take it slow and easy. Quit imagining the raw silk of her hair tangled around him, the gentle weight of her breasts in his hands, her dark eyes dreamy with passion. Quit imagining how it would be to make love to her, slow and easy.

  His voice was husky with the effort he'd made. "Emma sounded happy. Any problems?"

  "None at all," she said. "We'll see you Monday morning?"

  "Right. Although you'll see me sooner if I decide at half-time tomorrow to grin at the TV camera and say 'Hi to Marian and the kids.'"

  "You wouldn't."

  "Hey, I'd be the one losing my dignity, not you. Besides, it's in a great tradition. Ahmad Rashad proposed to his wife on camera."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. It was very sweet and newsworthy. She even blushed."

  "No wonder," Marian muttered. "I'm not sure I will watch tomorrow!"

  Laughing, he said good-bye. For a moment he toyed, not at all seriously, with the idea of asking her from the broadcast booth for a date. Then with a sigh he reached for the notes he'd taken on the Rams' hotshot new quarterback. Personally, he had doubts the kid would know what to do under real pressure.

  But then, everybody had to learn sometime, John thought. After all, he'd figured it out, hadn't he? And he'd been a hotshot once, too.

  But no more. He knew better now than to force a pass deep. He'd learned that slow and easy got the job done, too. But the impatience he'd once conquered tightened his fingers on the sheaf of papers. "Take your time," he said aloud to the empty hotel room. "There's no hurry." But he was frowning as he forced his attention back to the stats.

  *****

  Emma told Marian knowledgeably that they ought to watch the pregame show Sunday afternoon.

  "That's practically the only time you can see Daddy. The rest of the time you only hear his voice." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "And then he's talking about football."

  "That is what they pay him to talk about," Marian pointed out in all justice.

  "Yeah, but it's boring." Emma brightened. "I wish he was in something different. Like Star Trek."

  "I don't know if I can see him with pointy ears," Marian said doubtfully.

  "And purple hair," Emma suggested. "I like purple. It's my favorite color."

  Switching on the TV, Marian concluded that pointy ears and purple hair wouldn't look any more outlandish than football gear. She would never have recognized John McRae with a cage across his face and white streaks on his cheeks to reduce the glare and those silly pads on his broad shoulders. When the camera panned in on a player trotting away from it, however, Marian decided that the tight pants weren't too bad.

  "Tell me when this game is over, okay?" she asked. "I'm going to fold some laundry."

  It wasn't long before the little girl called, "Marian! There's Daddy!"

  Marian dropped the heap of towels and hurried into the living room. She was just curious, she told herself defensively. Why her heart took an odd thump when she recognized Emma's father on the screen, she didn't try to explain to herself.

  She sank slowly onto the couch while Emma grabbed Anna and thrust her face almost up to the screen. "See? That's my daddy. He's on TV."

  How bizarre, Marian thought. She'd never actually met anyone who was on television before. But there indeed he was, leaning comfortably back in his chair, his gestures emphatic as he made some point about a prevent defense. Whatever that was.

  The twins stared wide-eyed at the television, Anna sucking on her thumb and Jesse clutching his tattered white rabbit. After a minute Anna unpopped her thumb to say in a small voice, "He's little. Make him big again."

  "That's dumb," Emma said, sounding offended. "My dad's not little!"

  Marian bent to hug her son and daughter. "Emma's daddy isn't inside the TV. That's a picture of him, just like we have in our albums. Like your baby pictures, except this kind shows him moving and talking."

  Anna looked doubtful, but stuck her thumb back in her mouth and continued to stare at the screen, where the two men tossed jargon back and forth. Their greatest interest seemed to be in pass rushes and sacks. Marian had a suspicion it wasn't brown paper ones they were talking about.

  Eventually the other broadcaster leaned toward Emma's father. "Okay, John, it's time to put you on the spot. What's going to triumph today? The flashy passing attack of the L.A. Rams, or the powerful defense of the Washington Redskins?"

  John directed a crooked smile at the camera and began to answer. The lazy humor in his eyes made Marian's heart do a peculiar dance. She felt as though he were looking only at her.

  "A million other people feel the same way," she muttered.

  Emma bounced on the couch beside her. "What, Marian?"

  "Nothing." Marian blinked. A commercial was galloping raucously across the screen. "What did he say? Did you hear?"

  "I think he said he was prejudiced. What's that mean?"

  "That he wants the team he used to play for to win. It was L.A., wasn't it?"

  "Um hm." Emma gave an additional bounce. "Can we go ride Snowball now?"

  Marian gave her a startled look. "I thought you wanted to watch your dad?"

  She shrugged. "I've seen him. I don't want to watch football."

  Marian wondered if Emma said the word in quite that disgusted way around her father. If so, it would keep him humble. Except, Marian remembered, that Emma had sounded proud because her father was famous.

  "I wouldn't mind watching for a while," Marian said. "I'd be embarrassed to tell your father we'd turned him off before the game even started. Can you guys color for a while?"

  "I guess." Emma flounced off the couch and headed for the table. "C'mon. Let's make a TV show. We can color the pictures and then tape 'em up and make a story. What do you want t
o do, My Little Pony?"

  Grateful for Emma's bossiness, which resulted in all three children settling happily at the dining-room table, Marian soon found herself drawn into the game, despite her ignorance. There was something compelling about the sweating, grunting, slamming bodies on the television screen. She especially liked the long, high, arcing passes that were apparently called "bombs."

  At half-time she hustled the kids out for one of the fastest pony rides in history. Even Snowball looked startled when she surprised him into a fast trot with Emma flopping around on his broad back like a loosely tied bundle of sticks.

  "Ride again?" Jesse asked as his mom hurried them back into the house.

  "I want to see the rest of the game," Marian said. "Later we can ride again."

  "I thought you didn't like football," Emma protested.

  "I guess I'd never watched it before. It's interesting."

  It didn't hurt, of course, that the camera flashed from time to time into the broadcast booth, showing John with headphones on, watching the game with an intensity that shouldn't have surprised Marian, considering his success at the sport. There was no question who was the authority, as he made crisp, unexpected analyses, spiced with an occasional dash of humor. Marian had to ask herself whether it was the game itself that interested her, or the man commenting on it. But how could she separate the two?

  In the final seconds L.A. had a chance to kick a field goal for the victory. Marian found herself on her feet, breathless as she watched the ball spiral toward the uprights, at the end barely clearing the bar.

  "How come you're screaming?" Emma asked with interest. "Did someone die or something?" She stared avidly at the TV, while Jesse and Anna stared at Marian.

  Feeling foolish, Marian shut her mouth. "No, uh, I just got excited. Your dad's team won."

  "But Daddy doesn't play anymore."

  Thank God, Marian thought, picturing the way the behemoths on the other team had swarmed over the young quarterback, who had looked frail in comparison. Although the quarterback hadn't been hurt today, Marian couldn't help but remember the scars that symbolized the end of John's career.