Reforming Gabe

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Sorry. I know that look. I know why I want his approval, but I don’t know why you do.”

  “Because he’ll always be my coach,” Gabe said simply. “But I won’t go against what I think is right to please him.” He half closed his eyes and smiled. “But that doesn’t mean we have to tell everything we know.”

  “That’s where we agree. I don’t think he’d be best pleased if he knew about our extra curricular activities.”

  Gabe shuddered and ate another bite of spaghetti. “He wants you to have security. It’s natural—but annoying.”

  “And how do you know so much about this?”

  “Are you kidding? After growing up with a control freak like Jackson who fancied himself the man of the family, I could hold a two-week seminar on the subject and still run out of time. He didn’t like that Rafe and I chose what he considers dangerous professions, but he knew he couldn’t do anything about it. We’re only two years younger. Rafe started competing with the Junior Rodeo Association when he was fourteen, and I’d always played football.

  “But baby brother was another matter. Jackson went out of his mind when Beau joined the army. He had Beau’s future all mapped out. Trouble was, Beau listened and nodded, and Jackson took that as agreement. Turns out, Beau didn’t agree at all. But your daddy will come around.”

  “Did Jackson ever?”

  “No.” Gabe helped himself to more pasta. “But this is different. What you’re doing isn’t dangerous. Once you’ve had some success and he doesn’t have to be afraid for you anymore, Coach will be your biggest cheerleader. I guarantee it.”

  “It would be nice if he could believe in me now.” She let her eyes drift to her wine glass. “Like you do.”

  “He does believe in you.” Gabe grinned. “He just believes you should live with him and teach English. But don’t you worry. This is all going to work out.”

  Equal parts of warmth and excitement moved through her. “I ordered the silver for the prototype. I’m going to get started as soon as it comes in.”

  “I cannot wait until those necklaces are for sale. You know why? I’m going to finally outsmart you. I’ll buy one—maybe five. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “So that was your motivation. I doubt they would do for kiss-off gifts. Your future ex-girlfriends will expect something more expensive.”

  “They can get their own. I’m keeping them. I might even wear them.” He ate his last bite of pasta.

  “You could hang one off your helmet.”

  He gave out a breathy little laugh and threw back the rest of his wine. “If I still have a helmet.”

  And everything stopped. Neyland’s scalp prickled, and Gabe looked like he was sorry he’d spoken.

  “What do you mean?” Neyland asked slowly.

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing. What do you mean? You cannot tell me San Antonio is not renewing your contract because of one play in that stupid Super Bowl.”

  He set his mouth and looked at the table.

  “If the Wrangler front office is truly that dimwitted, there will be a bidding war for you the likes of which the NFL has never seen.”

  He smiled one of those camera-ready smiles. “I appreciate the support, sassy britches, but I thought you didn’t know anything about football.”

  “I know plenty about football—more than I want to know. I just don’t love it. Tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

  He exhaled and pursed his lips. “Don’t tell anybody.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I mean anybody. I’ve been dodging my agent for weeks. I swear Quent Lawson is going to murder me if he ever catches me.”

  “Gabe, I understand the meaning of anybody without an explanation. And I’m going to save this Quent person the trouble if you don’t tell me right damn now.”

  “Okay.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I might not sign again. I might retire.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” He widened his lapis eyes. “I have plenty of money. I have enjoyed some nice things, but I haven’t been foolish with it. My investments are doing fine. I’m not hurt. Why not quit before I wake up in a hospital bed with a surgeon telling me I’m done?”

  Everything he said should have made sense—except it didn’t.

  “Playing football isn’t about the money.” Pieces of things began to swirl around like puzzle pieces—the dropped balls today, his eyes closed, and now this. Something had happened.

  “I’m not having a lot of fun anymore.”

  That, she believed. The question was, why? But something told her not to push it, not now.

  “Then that’s a good reason,” Neyland said.

  He looked relieved. “Are you finished eating?”

  “Yes. I didn’t think of dessert. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” He stood up and pulled her into his arms. “I brought dessert.”

  He tasted like wine and smelled like soap.

  And he took her against the kitchen counter.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I wouldn’t have figured you for someone who would want to watch a pre-awards show,” Neyland said as she and Gabe settled in on the sofa in front of his TV that rivaled a movie theater screen.

  “You know I’m a fashion god. How am I going to make fun of people’s clothes if I don’t see them?”

  She was trying to be nonchalant, but Neyland was beside herself with excitement. She tried to remind herself that people were fickle and Aubrey Jamison might not wear Annabelle on the red carpet, might not be interviewed on the red carpet.

  “You’re a fashion god, all right.” Neyland stared at his cut-off orange sweatpants and bright red San Antonio Wranglers T-shirt.

  “It’s a look.” Gabe opened the pizza box and offered it to her. “It says, ‘I’m a UT Vol. I’m a San Antonio Wrangler. I cut these pants off at the knee because I was hot. I’m willing to go my own way for comfort.’”

  “What? No Beauford Blue Devil underwear?”

  He leered at her. “Want to check?”

  Oddly, for once, she did not. She was too nervous. “Pass. I’ll just eat my pizza.”

  “Have it your own way. Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  And it started—the parade of glitz. Jeans with tuxedo jackets, cowboy boots, and hats. Keith Urban, Jason Alden, Brad Paisley, Blake Shelton, Miranda Lambert, Carrie Underwood. More than once the announcers mentioned that Jackson Beauford was absent because he was on his honeymoon.

  Finally, Suzanne Alexander stuck a mic in Aubrey Jamison’s face. “And here we have Aubrey Jamison, whose breakout single, ‘Heartbreaker, Soul Shaker’ topped the charts earlier this year. Aubrey is nominated for New Artist of the Year and looking lovely tonight. Aubrey, who are you wearing?”

  Neyland caught her breath. Was it? Yes!

  “Looks like she’s got your Enda Faye around her neck, sassy britches.” Gabe smiled, winked, and ran a hand down her cheekbone.

  “Annabelle!” Neyland playfully batted at him with a pillow.

  “I’m wearing Oscar de le Renta.” Aubrey gestured to the blue dress that fell in a sleek column of tiers from her bust to the floor. Despite the tiers, the dress was simple and Annabelle was the star of the show; at least Neyland thought so.

  Then Aubrey did something so incredible, so fabulous that it would never have occurred to Neyland to even hope for it.

  She gestured to Annabelle and said, “I’d like to point out the necklace I’m wearing. It was designed and handmade by Neyland MacKenzie, a hot new designer from Beauford, Tennessee. It’s based on a historical piece, and I think it takes a great dress to the wow level.”

  Suzanne Alexander smiled. “I think we all agree that the woman in the dress is certainly wow worthy. Good luck tonight, Aubrey.”

  Neyland squeezed her eyes together. Maybe it hadn’t happened; maybe she had invented it in her delusional brain. She tentatively opened one eye and looked at Gabe.

  He gave her
a look that danced between sexy and proud. “Hey, there hot new designer, emphasis on the hot.”

  “I can’t believe she said that!”

  “Why not?” Gabe asked. “Do you think you might get some business out of this?”

  Would she? “Maybe,” she said slowly. “Heath, Noel, and some of the others are always saying you have to sell that one piece. This could be it.”

  “I’ve got a feeling. I’m betting you’re going to see some changes.” And he gave her a hot, sweet kiss that might have carried them to another place if they hadn’t wanted to see what, if anything, Jackson won and Neyland hadn’t been hoping for another glimpse of Annabelle.

  And she did get a glimpse—but only that—when the camera zoomed in on the nominees for New Artist. In the end, Aubrey didn’t win—but Jackson did. Not New Artist, of course, but it seemed almost everything else: Male Vocalist of the Year, Song of the Year for “A Promise Kind of Smile,” Single of the Year for “A Promise Kind of Smile,” video of the year for “Spring Break State of Mind,” Album of the year for Habit Not Worth Breaking. It went on and on. By the time Jackson won the granddaddy of them all, Entertainer of the Year, Neyland and Gabe had gone from sitting side by side to lying on the sofa in each other’s arms.

  “That’s that,” Gabe said when the show went off. “Another year, another accolade.”

  Gabe was smiling that c’mere, world smile, but there was something in his voice that made Neyland pause. When she cleared away the euphoria that had been clouding her brain since Aubrey had appeared wearing Annabelle, she reflected and realized Gabe had gotten quieter and quieter as the night had gone on.

  “You have plenty of accolades yourself.” She pressed a brief kiss to his jawbone, and he idly patted her back.

  “Yeah,” he said around a yawn. “I do.” He clicked off the TV, and they were left in the dim light from one small lamp. “Not so many as Jackson, but that’s okay. He deserves them.”

  “And you don’t deserve what you’ve got? Heisman? Super Bowls? MVPs?”

  “Whoa!” Gabe tried to rally with some humor. “Listen to sassy britches talk all that football talk.” He set his mouth up for a kiss and was about to go in to distract her, but she stopped him.

  When she’d last tried to puzzle out the dropped balls and indecision about his contract, Gabe had distracted her with sex. And that’s what he was trying to do now. She wasn’t immune to the hand on her bottom, but this time she wasn’t going to let this go.

  “So about the contract—”

  “Not you, too.” He let out a huffy breath. “Let’s not talk contract. Let’s talk contact.” He squeezed her bottom and pulled her closer.

  “In time.” Neyland smoothed his hair.

  “Do you like my hair?” he asked. “Do you think it’s too long? Sometimes people think it’s too long.”

  Was there no end to what he would do to try to sidetrack her? “I do like your hair. No, I don’t think it’s too long.”

  “I never let it get past my jawbone. I don’t want it hanging out of my helmet.” He looked toward the ceiling. “Though it remains to be seen if I’ll still have a helmet—”

  • • •

  Gabe clamped his mouth shut and bit his tongue. Would the day ever come when he ran his words through his head before he let them come out of his mouth?

  Maybe she hadn’t picked up on it. He cut his eyes at her. No. Sassy britches didn’t miss a trick. She was loaded for bear and ready to go in for the kill.

  “Interesting that you’ve brought us back to the very subject you’ve been trying to avoid. I think that means you want to talk about it.”

  “Neyland Reese MacKenzie. Jewelry maker, football stadium, and talk show host psychobabble analyst. That’s you.”

  She pulled away from him. Not much—just enough that they were lying side by side facing each other. She stroked his cheek and let her eyes go soft. He had always been immune to a soft-eyed woman, and he still was. He was sure of it. Almost.

  “Tell me, baby,” she said.

  Oh, no. She’d called him baby. She’d never called him that before, or any sweet name. Sometimes when she said Gabe, it was with nothing but contempt. Did she know that being called baby was his undoing? Was she using it like kryptonite on Superman to get information? He’d once give a diner waitress a hundred dollar tip on a ten-dollar check because she’d kept calling him baby. He might have begged her to marry him if she’d been anywhere near his age bracket.

  What was wrong with Neyland? What was wrong with him? This was supposed to be nothing but good times in bed, on the kitchen counter, against the shower wall. There wasn’t supposed to be any soft eyes and baby.

  He couldn’t talk.

  She smoothed his hair back. Damn. That was another thing. Hair smoothing. Baby. Soft eyes. It was too much.

  “You can tell me, baby. I won’t tell anyone.”

  He shuddered and hesitated. She stroked his cheek. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

  He started talking.

  “The front office is getting antsy. Quent says he can’t put them off much longer. They think I’m playing games, so they offered me another five mil. They think I’m talking to another team.”

  “Are you?”

  “No! Hell, no! If I ever get away from this one, I’m damn sure not having another.” Right now he couldn’t earn the salary of a rookie seventh-round draft pick, much less the ridiculous amount the Wranglers were offering him.

  She nodded like she understood, but how could she when he didn’t himself?

  “I know it’s not about that one dropped ball,” she said. And what was he supposed to say to that? Apparently nothing, because she kept talking. “It’s about all the balls you’re dropping. It’s about closing your eyes because you can’t watch the ball coming toward you.”

  His stomach caught and icy hot needles shot through his brain.

  “You’ve been talking to your daddy.” Coach hadn’t mentioned the eye closing again, but he’d been watching. Gabe could feel his eyes on him at practice the same as he could when he was fifteen.

  Neyland shook her head. “No. Not about this. I was at practice two days ago. Remember?”

  There was concrete in his veins. “I remember. But I don’t know how … ”

  “I’ve told you. I’m not stupid about football. It just isn’t my favorite pastime. Now tell me.”

  There was no way he could. “Tell you what? I’ve lost it. I’m getting old. And why not retire? I’ve got more money that I’ll ever spend. And if I do, I can live here off Jackson. Lord knows he hasn’t lost it. And he’d like nothing better than all of us living here under his coattails.”

  She shook her head. “We aren’t talking about Jackson. And you haven’t lost it. You’re not old. And you don’t care about the money.”

  “I care about the money.”

  “Okay. Maybe some. But not as much as playing the game. You’d play for free if you had to.” She laughed a little. “I ought to know. I make jewelry for free—practically.”

  “Not anymore. Aubrey Jamison—”

  “No.” She put up a hand and cut him off. “We are not changing the subject.” On some level he was glad. The guilt over deceiving Neyland, to see her excited about something that wasn’t real, was hard to take and something he had not been prepared for. “Baby.” That word again. And her voice was all soft, almost like there was some love mixed in. “What are you seeing when that ball is headed for you? Or what would you be seeing if you could bear to look?”

  Oh, no. She was just guessing and he wasn’t playing.

  “Nothing. It’s not in my head. It’s in my hands. I don’t have the best hands in the NFL anymore. And that’s fine. You can’t expect to be on top forever.”

  She shook her head. “You’re lying. You caught most of the balls the Owens boy threw, even with your eyes closed. If there was anything wrong with your hands, you wouldn’t be able to do that, even at a high school practice.”

&
nbsp; “No.”

  “Yes.” She took his face between her hands. “Tell me, Gabe.”

  “No.” What would it help?

  “Yes. Tell me. You want to. Either that, or you just want to tell someone and I’m handy.”

  Maybe he did. But he couldn’t.

  “If I haven’t wanted to tell anyone in twenty years,” he said slowly, “why would I want to tell now?”

  “I don’t know.” She smoothed his hair again and wound a curl around her finger. “Maybe because whatever it is wasn’t causing you to drop the ball until now. And I’m guessing that if it’s been twenty years, it has something to do with the fire.”

  Why did he keep giving her hints if he didn’t want to tell? He let out a sound between a defeated sigh and an almost laugh. “Who knew sassy britches could do math?”

  “You did.” She let her hand slide from his temple, down his cheek, to his neck. “And you know I won’t tell your secrets.”

  And he did know that. He wasn’t sure how, but it was the truth. He trusted her. He didn’t like to think whether or not she trusted him after what he’d done.

  “Tell me, Gabe. I know there’s probably nothing I can do to make it better, but you want to tell it. And after you do, I won’t bring it up again unless you do.”

  “Really?” The idea of being able to unburden himself without having to wear out a problem that couldn’t be fixed felt a little like a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  “I promise.”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see Camille. I look up. At first I see the ball, and then it turns into Camille. It’s like she’s been waiting around for twenty years to remind me what I don’t deserve.”

  Gabe opened his eyes and waited for Neyland to tell him he was being ridiculous. But she didn’t.

  “What you don’t deserve? I don’t understand.”

  “To be a winner. To be paid an obscene amount of money for what I love to do. For having the best hands in the NFL. I don’t deserve any of that, because I killed Camille that night.”