Fumble Recovery

by Pepper Espinoza

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  * * *

  FUMBLE RECOVERY

  by

  PEPPER ESPINOZA

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

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  * * *

  Fumble Recovery

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  http://www.amberheat.com

  http://www.amber-allure.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2007 by Pepper Espinoza

  ISBN 978-1-60272-172-2

  Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber

  Layout and Formatting

  Provided by: Elemental Alchemy

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by Pepper Espinoza

  ...And To Hold

  The Streets of Florence

  Surrender's Edge

  FUMBLE RECOVERY

  * * *

  The cold football slipped from numb fingers, dropping to a blanket of snow just inches from the goal line. The stadium fell silent, eighty thousand people holding their breath, as the final seconds of the game clock ticked to zero, closing out the world championship. And then eighty thousand ecstatic fans erupted into pandemonium. Everybody clapped and shouted, except the beaten California Wildcats and Melanie Smith. She stared as hundreds of people took the field, rushing to congratulate the New York Bulldogs and ignore the losers as they slunk into the locker room.

  Melanie fought her way to the stairs, pushing through the celebrations to break free from the stadium. A light snow began to fall as she trundled to the parking lot, and all she could see was that ball, that moment, when a storybook season came to a devastating close. It had been an impossible dream, of course. Her favorite team had always been the underdog, but she had believed. She had believed to the bottom of her heart that the Wildcats would show the world that it was wrong to underestimate them.

  Four points. Four tiny points made the difference between defeat and victory. Four points, one touchdown, one bad call, one fumble, one mistake that could have made all the difference. It didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. It was just a game, and the Wildcats was just a football team, and the next morning she would go to work and her life would continue as though nothing had changed. And nothing had changed. Except, she was heartbroken.

  It took over an hour to navigate the parking lot, and another forty-five minutes to follow the slow flow of traffic to the freeway. The snow picked up, the wind howling as if it was also mourning the loss of a dream. Just a block from the onramp, Melanie changed her mind about going home. The Goal would still be open, and despite the general sense of celebration sweeping the city, Melanie knew it would likely be empty. She needed a drink. More than one. She could take a taxi home.

  Snowdrifts were already forming in the parking lot when she reached the small bar, but there were only a few cars. She found a spot near the door, the flashing red and blue lights of the OPEN sign beckoning her.

  "Weren't you at the game?" Harold greeted, as she pushed the door open.

  Melanie grunted in response and stomped her feet until the snow fell from her boots. The air was warm and smelled of peanuts and beer and the faint hint of cigarettes. She inhaled deeply, slightly comforted by the familiar aroma of her favorite bar.

  "That was some game, wasn't it?"

  Melanie grunted again, and settled at the bar. "Just give me the usual, will ya?" She glanced up at the television, watching the crowds singing and partying in the streets surrounding the stadium. Streamers flew through the air with the snow, sirens and horns blasted over the noise of the crowd, and the footage was cut with the shot of the Bulldogs' quarterback accepting the large trophy that commemorated his third championship.

  Melanie sighed. "Will you turn this off? You don't even care about the game."

  Harold shrugged. "I thought somebody in here would want to see it."

  Melanie looked around. There was only one other person in the bar, and he wasn't paying any attention to the television. In fact, he looked fascinated by the golden amber at the bottom of his glass.

  "Nobody in here wants to see it."

  "No problem," Harold said, and the screen went black. "There's always next season, right?"

  A sound from the end of the bar caught her attention. The man might have been coughing, or maybe laughing. He lifted his head and gestured for another drink, long hair flopping over his eye, but it wasn't long enough to disguise his familiar features. Melanie caught her breath. She would know his face anywhere.

  "Harold," Melanie hissed, reaching over the bar to grab his arm.

  "What?"

  "I want to buy his drink."

  "What?"

  "Tell him I'm buying his drink."

  "Why don't you just tell him yourself?"

  Melanie bit her bottom lip, torn. On the one hand, she didn't want to impose. On the other hand, when would she get another chance like this?

  "Fine. Give it to me."

  Harold handed her the pint of beer. "I don't think he wants company," he said softly.

  Melanie didn't blame him. "I just want to meet him. I'll leave him alone."

  She slid off her stool and walked down to the end of the bar, a beer in each hand. She slid the full glass in front of him, settling on the seat beside him.

  "You're Derek Fox, right?"

  "That depends," he said, brushing his brown hair out of his face.

  "On what?"

  "On whether or not you want to string me up by my balls."

  Melanie smiled softly. "No, I'm not interested in that."

  He held out his hand. "Derek Fox at your service."

  "Melanie Smith."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you Melanie." He lifted the beer in her direction. "Cheers."

  "Cheers." She watched him drink, trying to force her racing heart to slow. He was bigger in person than on television, his shoulders broad, his hands large. He had scrapes on his face, his knuckles were bruised, and his back was sloped, like it took too much energy to hold himself up. She could see the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders--the weight of an entire team's loss, the weight of hundreds of thousands disappointed fans.

  The weight of a ball falling to the soft snow.

  "So you were at the game?"

  "On the fifty yard line. I bought the tickets after the Wildcats won the sixth straight game."

  "Really? Everybody in the world was calling that a fluke."

  "Well, I knew better."

  He smiled wryly. "Are you sure you don't want to string me up by my balls?" He held up his right hand, flexing his fingers in front of her face. "You know how many career fumbles I had before tonight?"

  "Fourteen," she answered promptly.

  "That was a rhetorical question."

  "Yeah, I figured you probably already knew the answer."

  "I'm surprised you did."

  "Hey, you're the great Derek Fox. I've been following your career since you played college ball."

  "Oh, so that's why you don't want to injure me."

  "What?"

  "You're used to the disappointment that is my career." He sounded more matter-of-fact than bitter.

  "Do you usually do this afte
r a loss?"

  "What?"

  She sipped from her beer. "Throw a private pity party?"

  He tilted his head and nearly downed the entire pint in a single swallow. "No. Usually, I have a pity party with my teammates, but..."

  "They don't want to see you?"

  "I don't want to see them."

  "Last call, guys. I want to get home before we're completely snowed in," Harold said.

  Melanie didn't miss Derek's disappointment at the announcement. She was a little disappointed herself. She would go home, and Derek would go back to his hotel room, most likely, and they'd both pretend that it was only a game. She didn't blame him for throwing a private pity party--she was there to do the same, and she wasn't the one who'd lost the championship.

  "Look, if there's room at your party for one more guest, I've got some beer back at my place," Melanie said, before she could lose her nerve.

  Derek finished his beer and she thought he would turn her down. He clearly wanted to be alone, and maybe he wasn't entirely convinced she didn't intend to string him up by his balls. But there were other things she wanted to do to his balls, and if he wasn't completely drunk yet, or self-absorbed in his own pain, he could probably see that all over her face.

  "Something cheap that tastes terrible and we can drink by the case?"

  "Yeah, actually."

  "That sounds great..." He grimaced. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

  "Melanie." She finished her own beer and slid off the barstool. "I don't live far from here. I can drive, if you like."

  He nodded, and her stomach twisted. Melanie didn't know where her boldness was coming from, but she was encouraged to continue. She kept expecting the familiar, conservative voice of her mother to intercede, to tell her she couldn't take this strange man home with her. But the voice was silent. Maybe her mother knew how to have a good time, after all.

  She opened her purse to pull out her cash, but Derek stopped her with a hand on her arm. His fingers were rough, like she expected, and large. The gentle, brief touch sent a shiver down her spine, and she glanced at him through her lashes, wondering if he sensed her reaction. Of course, he couldn't have. And if the touch lasted a little bit longer than necessary, it was probably just her imagination.

  "I'll get that."

  "I wanted to buy you a drink."

  "I plan on drinking all your beer, so this is only fair."

  Melanie smiled and nodded. "True enough."

  Harold took his money without a word, but he sent her a small, meaningful smile before she turned to the door. Melanie had never picked up a man at the bar before, and she couldn't tell what Harold thought of it. Was he amused? Was he surprised? Was he both? Did she have a reason to care what Harold thought of her? He wasn't her father, after all.

  "Drive safely, kid. Things are going to get worse before they get better."

  "You, too, Harold. Have a good night."

  "That's the weirdest sports bar I've ever been in," Derek said once they were outside, snow swirling around them.

  Melanie laughed, but the wind carried the sound away. Realizing that talking would be futile until they took shelter from the wind, she took his arm and guided him to her car. Even through his heavy coat, she could feel his firm muscles. It was too easy to imagine what he would feel like, beneath the coat, without his shirt. She forced herself to let him go when they reached the car, but her mind refused to abandon the image of his naked chest.

  Her headlights cut through the blizzard, but only allowed a few feet of visibility.

  "Are you sure you feel comfortable driving in this?" he asked as he buckled his belt.

  "This is nothing," Melanie assured him with more bravado than she felt. The storm wasn't unusual, but she was feeling a bit buzzed and lightheaded, and that had nothing to do with the beer she had consumed. Derek Fox was in her car, and he was coming back to her house, and they were only a few beers from what could be a great ending to an awful night.

  "I'm not used to driving in the snow."

  "No, I guess there's not too much snow in Phoenix or Los Angeles."

  "You know I grew up in Phoenix?"

  "It's not a state secret, is it?"

  "I'll be honest, I don't meet very many female football fans."

  "There are a lot of us. Twenty-two handsome, sweaty men tackling each other to the ground? What's not to love?" She smiled. "Oh yeah, and the game itself isn't too bad."

  "Why do I have the feeling that you know more about the game than most of the male fans I've met?"

  "I probably know more about the game than you do," Melanie said lightly, but she wasn't joking.

  "Do you really think so?"

  "I'm not saying you don't know the game inside and out," she said quickly.

  "Oh, of course not."

  "It's just that I've been following the sport all my life. Been a Wildcats fan at least that long."

  There was a long pause before Derek said softly, "So you've been waiting for this night for a long time."

  "Yeah. I have." Melanie stopped for a red light and looked at him from the corner of her eye. "You can make it up to me."

  "Distract you from your disappointment?"

  "Yes, and give you something to focus on besides drinking yourself sick."

  "Was this your evil plan all along?"

  "Yes," Melanie deadpanned, "I followed you from the stadium so I could corner you at the bar, and then drag you home with me."

  "You've got a good mind for evil plans."

  The light turned green, and Melanie rolled through the intersection slowly. "Look, I'm not too far from your hotel. If you'd rather..."

  "No."

  The answer was forceful, and for the first time that night, she heard a hint of the man she knew he was. The man who called the shots and expected people to listen without dissent. Melanie wasn't going to protest. She didn't want to take him any place except her bedroom.

  The next fifteen minutes passed in silence. Melanie focused on navigating through the white curtain of snow, driving as though she was transporting the most precious cargo. Even if a decade's worth of fantasies weren't about to come to fruition, she didn't need to the one responsible for maiming--or worse--Derek Fox. He may be persona non grata tonight, but in a few short weeks, he'd be a superstar again.

  "Home," she announced, pulling into her driveway.

  He squinted through the windshield. "How can you tell? I can't see a thing out there."

  "I guess you'll just have to trust me on this one. Come on."

  Melanie heard Derek slam the passenger door shut as she squared her shoulders and turned into the wind. It was like pushing against a river of syrup. She waited until Derek circled the car, his large form vague in the darkness.

  "This way," she shouted, though she doubted he could hear her.

  The first few steps went well, but she slipped on the slick cement. Throwing her weight forward, she tried to catch her balance, but she over-corrected. She realized in a distant way that she was going to break her ankle as she put both hands out to catch herself, but before she could hit the icy ground, strong arms went around her waist and pulled her back. Instead of hitting the unforgiving sidewalk, she landed against Derek's solid chest.

  "Are you okay?" Derek asked, his mouth close to her ear.

  Melanie could only nod as she tried to catch her breath.

  "Are we close to the door?"

  She nodded again.

  He kept his arm tight around her waist, and they shuffled up the driveway together. Her heart hammered, but she thought that had less to do with her near spill and more to do with the fact that Derek felt like a brick wall behind her, and she didn't want him to let her go. In fact, she wanted him to push her against the wall and...

  "Keys?"

  She was still clutching them tightly, but she couldn't see the knob or the deadbolt. She stabbed unsuccessfully several times before finding the keyhole and pushing the door open, and the rush of hot air from th
e house stung her cheeks. Derek didn't release her until they were both inside, the storm securely locked behind them.

  Melanie peeled off her gloves and coat and tossed-pushed her wet hair out of her face. "Make yourself at home, please."

  "This is a nice place," Derek said, emerging from his thick coat.

  "Thanks. Go ahead and take a load off."

  The words were barely out of her mouth before Derek grabbed her by the arm and pulled her against him. She parted her lips and his mouth was on hers, firm, his skin cold, but his tongue hot and demanding. Melanie responded to the kiss immediately, winding her arm around his neck and standing on the tips of her toes. He was taller, somehow, than she expected. And he was better than she expected. He tasted of alcohol and salt.

  Derek eased away from the kiss, but his breath was still warm against her mouth. He rested his forehead against hers, the act so simply intimate that her stomach dropped. She clutched his shirt with her other hand, holding him close, afraid that if they broke contact he'd leave, disappear somehow.

  "I just needed to see," he murmured.

  "See what?"

  "If this would work. Do you think it'll work?"

  "It'll work," Melanie assured him quickly. "It'll work."

  Derek walked her back to the couch, pushing her down to the cushions. She pulled him with her, their mouths connecting as she relaxed against the plush couch. He straddled her, his knees sinking to either side of her hips, pressing her down with his weight. His cock was a hard bulge in his pants, the line of his erection pressing against her stomach. Burying his hands in her hair, he held her firmly in place and pushed the kiss beyond anything she had ever shared. Melanie clawed at his shirt, pulling it high over his back. Her fingernails scraped against his ribs, and he froze above her.

  "What?" Melanie gasped. "What?"

  Derek released her and leaned back, pulling his shirt over his head to expose a rainbow of bruises across his ribs. "That sack in the third..."