When they reached the locker room, Bullhorn picked up a towel and headed for his locker. Devon’s was near Buddy Carruthers’. Preoccupied with his distaste for the idea of Bull moving in on Stormy, he ignored his teammates.
“What the fuck’s bugging you, Drake?” Buddy asked.
“Huh?”
“Geez. Can’t even get a hello from this guy.”
“Sorry, Buddy. How you doin’?”
“I’m okay.”
“How’s married life?”
Buddy snickered. “Awesome, man. Awesome. You should try it.”
“With Jackie?”
“Why not?”
Devon shook his head and smiled. “Too busy with her career.”
“Too bad.”
Is it? Do I want to marry Jackie? Devon pushed the idea of marriage out of his mind and turned his attention to the assistant coach.
“Drake! You and Brodsky have special workouts. This way.” He led the two players to the track. “Three laps, to start.”
“Three?” Brodsky cocked his brow.
“Warm up and let’s get going. Or I could change my mind and make it four. Time to work that gut off.”
* * * *
Stormy was nervous as she handed her resume to the receptionist at the Senior Center of Monroe. She sat in the waiting room, filling out the application while someone inside looked over her credentials. She twisted the cap of her pen as she thought about her answers.
When she finished, it was another ten-minute wait before someone came out from the back and called her name. An interview. Thank God. At least I’m going to get an interview.
“Please sit down, Allison,” the middle aged woman said. “I’m Beth Charney.”
Beth asked her about dealing with seniors, why she liked it, and what she didn’t like. Stormy had a few questions as well. She pulled out a small pad and took notes.
When the meeting was over, Beth stood up. “Please take a seat outside. I’ll get you in a few minutes.”
Stormy doodled while she waited. Maybe they’re checking references? She remembered with pride Barbara Haskell’s last words, “Don’t hesitate to ask if you need something from us.”
She needed a good word from the director of the Alton center now. A glowing recommendation from Barbara might seal this deal. Stormy said a silent prayer. She rose to her feet, sorted through the magazines on the small table near the front desk, and selected one. She flipped through the pages, glancing at the articles with unseeing eyes. Until she saw Devon Drake, taking up a whole page, and in living color.
Checking the cover of the magazine, she discovered it was a home publication. And the article zeroed in on the renovations of his new house. Stormy had noticed how beautiful it was, but had thought Samantha had done it alone. According to the article, she had worked with Lauren Montgomery, a local interior designer, and wife of the Kings Quarterback, Griff Montgomery, to create the masterpiece Devon called home.
As she was finishing up, Ms. Charney returned and motioned for Stormy to follow. Beth’s facial expression was neutral, which alerted Stormy right away. If the news was good, she’d be smiling.
When they were seated, Beth got right down to the issue. “I called your references, Allison. Who is Edgy Mason?”
A lump formed in her stomach. Her throat closed up, and her mouth went completely dry. Why is she asking about him? “Edgy Mason?” Her palms perspired.
“The woman I spoke with told me they had to let you go because some dangerous lunatic was stalking you. He was frightening the residents and the staff. So, who is Edgy Mason? Better yet—where is he? Is he still in Illinois?”
A war broke out in Stormy’s brain. Lie because I need the job. Don’t lie because you always tell the truth. Don’t lie, because if he turns up, someone could get hurt, and you’ll definitely get fired. “I understand, Ms. Charney,” she said, rising from her chair.
“Is he here?”
Stormy nodded. “I get it. You have the same concerns. I don’t blame you.”
Beth frowned. “You’ve no idea how sorry I am. You’re the perfect person for this job. The best candidate to come through that door in six months. But I just can’t take the chance.”
Emotion in Stormy’s chest prevented speech. A pain shot through her belly as she flashed a weak smile. This is going to happen everywhere. Beth accompanied her out to the reception area, where the two shook hands. The sting started at the back of the young woman’s throat and moved up to her eyes as she went through the door. As soon as they find out about Edgy, no one will hire me. There’s no way Barbara can hide that information. I’m cooked. Dead. Finished. My career is over.
The air was cold, but refreshing. She decided to walk for a bit before calling a taxi. At least I have enough money to pay for a cab. Her mind worked every angle she could think of, but none would happen without someone checking with her former boss. That eliminated every possible job. At a dead end, Stormy plunked down on a bench and dialed the taxi service.
It was almost six o’clock and dark. The wind picked up, forcing her to turn up her collar. She shivered from the cold and the possibility that Edgy Mason may have destroyed her life.
* * * *
Devon switched off the television when Samantha bustled into the house, her arms overflowing with bags.
“Help me with these, Dev,” she said, handing him one.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Fresh pasta and sauce from La Beurre.”
“That expensive gourmet shop?”
“Nothing too good for my brother. French bread for garlic bread. There’s a box of mini éclairs in this one.” She held it out of his reach.
“Hmm. Flowers. In January?”
“I deserve something to brighten up the dull days of winter.”
“That you do, Sis. Good idea,” he said, following her into the kitchen.
Humming a tune, Sam dropped her packages in the kitchen before taking off her coat. Devon popped a cork on a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.
“A glass while you cook?” he asked.
She nodded as she donned an apron and set about making dinner. While the giant pot of water heated on the stove, Samantha took down three plates from the cabinet and handed them to her brother. “You can set the table.”
“Consider it done,” he said, opening the utensil drawer.
“Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” She plucked a serrated-edged knife from the drawer and proceeded to split the bread down the side.
“Don’t think I’m supposed to be eating this stuff. But what the hell, right?” His mouth watered.
The door flew open, and the wind blew in Stormy. Her face was as cloudy as her name.
The siblings turned to face their frozen friend. Her eyes were rimmed in red, her hands gloveless, chapped, and pink. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the bruises on her face artfully covered by makeup. She looked beautiful, vulnerable, and in need of a hug.
Devon took a step forward and stopped. I have Jackie. Can’t be hugging other women. Even if they are old friends. Her gaze connected with his. He noticed her eyes fill before she ran to her room. “What? What the hell did I do?”
“I don’t know. What did you do?” Sam asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Nothing. Damn it. Nothing.” He shook his head as he headed to the fridge for a beer. He popped the top and stretched out on the sofa while he waited for his sister to reappear. His legs were sore from running. He rubbed his calf.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention.
“I wish you were a masseuse instead of a nutritionist,” he said. “I sure could use a massage right now.”
Stormy plopped down next to him. “What happened?”
“Exercise. Running. Pushing myself too hard.”
“Let me,” she said, reaching over to touch his leg.
Devon eased away from her. “That’s okay. I’m all right. Thanks, anyway.”
Stormy straightened, her face flus
hed.
“Dinner,” Samantha called from the kitchen.
Devon sprang up and headed for the dining room. Stormy followed. The table was set. A large ceramic bowl in green, blue, and white matched the dishes. Steaming spaghetti in a rich tomato sauce scented the air, accompanied by a garlicky smell from a long, slender loaf of French bread.
Stormy didn’t take much food.
“You gotta stop making meals like this, Sam,” the cornerback said.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve gotta lose weight.”
“Maybe you should cut out some of those fancy meals you eat at posh restaurants with that skinny girlfriend,” his sister responded.
“This is delicious,” Stormy put in.
“Thanks.” Sam smiled then shot a nasty look at her brother.
“Look, this is serious business! I could get fired, released. My stats are down. I had a horrible day, and this is the last dish of pasta in this house until…until…until I say so.” He finished his plate then pushed up from the table.
“My day was terrible too,” Stormy blurted out.
“Not as bad as mine,” Devon challenged.
“Oh, yeah?” She stood to clear the table.
“Go on.”
Stormy relayed her experience with Beth Charney while carting dishes into the kitchen. “And that means that no one’ll hire me. I’ll have to move somewhere, but it’ll take every last cent I’ve saved. Where can I go?” Tears spilled onto her cheeks.
Devon pulled her into his embrace. “Don’t worry. You can stay here as long as you want.”
“I’ll mess up your life too.”
“I doubt that.”
“Thank you.” She rested her cheek against his chest and sighed.
He rubbed the ends of her hair with his fingertips. “You can help me train. I’ll need to workout at home too.”
Stormy eased out of his arms. “That’d be great.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I can help you lose weight. I am a nutritionist, you know.”
“Hadn’t connected the dots.”
Stormy’s sad expression lifted. When she smiled, the light went back into her blue eyes. “I’m gonna go now and work up some menus for you. Éclairs are out. Fruit is in.” She grinned at both the Drakes as she left.
“Talk about killing two birds with one stone,” Samantha said.
“Right.”
“Uh uh uh. Don’t leave. You can help me with the dishes. Consider it part of your workout routine.” Sam tugged on his sleeve.
He followed his sister into the kitchen with a lighter step than he had had just an hour ago. Then, his cell rang.
“Devon? This is Edie, Mr. Barker’s assistant. He’d like to meet with you at eight tomorrow.”
“Sure. But why?”
“He said something about a newspaper article. See you tomorrow.”
Devon put down his phone. “Sam, where’s the paper?”
“On the coffee table. I didn’t have time to read it yet.”
The headline screamed at him.
Another Kings Player Hits Too Hard
Underneath were two pictures. One of Stormy’s bruised face, and next to it was one of the two of them walking together.
“Shit! Fuck!” He rifled the newspaper at the wall, retreated to his room, and slammed the door.
Chapter Three
The next morning, as he pulled into the stadium parking lot, Devon’s pulse kicked up. He began to sweat. Nail number two in my coffin. I hope they listen. His steps slowed as he neared Lyle Barker’s office.
Edie gave him a warm smile. “Coffee? Bagel?”
His stomach was churning so badly he knew better than to add more coffee. “No, thanks.”
“Go right in,” she said.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins at sixty miles an hour when he saw the lineup—Lyle Barker, team owner, Jo Parker, V.P. of Public Relations, and Coach Bass. Is this a meeting or an execution?
“Come in, Dev,” the coach said.
Wobbly legs carried him over to a chair facing the couch where the others sat.
“Did you see the paper?” Lyle asked.
Devon nodded.
“Well?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Didn’t beat up that girl?”
“I don’t hit women. It was someone else.”
“Who?” Barker continued his questioning.
Devon explained about Edgy Mason seeking out Stormy’s help in Illinois and then turning on her. Jo Parker let out a breath.
“True or not, this is a nightmare for the Kings,” Lyle said. “Jo, you’ve got to do damage control.”
“Would she be willing to be interviewed?” Jo asked.
“I’m sure she would. She’s an old friend of my sister’s. We grew up together. We’re not dating. We’re just friends.” Devon shifted in his seat. Revealing his personal life to his superiors wasn’t in his comfort zone.
“Let’s get this put to bed so Devon can focus on the game,” Coach Bass said.
“I’m on it. Devon, can you meet with me for a few minutes?” Jo asked.
The cornerback nodded. Lyle lifted his phone, a signal the meeting was over. Devon let out a breath and followed Jo to her office. At least I’m still on the team.
He called his sister because there was no way he wanted to discuss this with Stormy. As he often did, he turned to Samantha for help. And she jumped right on it, conferring with Jo on the phone, and then talking to Stormy.
Before he could escape to the locker room, Jo touched his arm. “Do you think your sister would be willing to work for me, part-time, as my assistant?”
He shrugged.
“I’ll call her. She’s very smart. She was my right hand for the shelter events.”
“I’ll ask her, if you want. She’s really organized. She’s been running my life for years.” He chuckled.
Jo shook her head. “Men. You’re so helpless.”
Devon headed downstairs, relieved to be out from under the critical eye of Lyle Barker and back in the company of his teammates.
“Fuckin’ A, Drake! What the hell was that newspaper picture about?” Trunk Mahoney asked.
“Nothing. I didn’t hit her. She’s an old friend.”
“Yeah, right. An old bed buddy.” Trunk snickered.
“Friend! Don’t you understand the meaning of the word? Or are you a moron?” Devon yelled, his patience gone.
Trunk raised his palms. “Hey, don’t get ’em in a twist. Okay. Friend.”
The cornerback changed his clothes, slammed his locker shut, and turned toward the workout room. The loud bang stopped all conversation. The men shut up and stared. “What? What? What are you looking at? I didn’t lay a finger on that girl.” He yanked the door to the weight room open.
“We know, Dev. We know,” Griff Montgomery put in.
Devon heaved a sigh, stretched his shoulders, nodded to the quarterback, and went to work out his problems on the machines. Stormy. Perfect name. She’s like a tornado in my life. Damned annoying. But if I don’t help her, who will? Where’s Jackie? Living it up on the West Coast. She could confirm I’m not violent. Women.
Anger knotted in his chest. He changed equipment, mounting the stationary bike. He set a challenging program with steep hills and let his emotions drive his legs. The workout drained Devon. His legs were rubbery, so he drove home carefully.
The sound of the television greeted him as he entered the house. His sister sat eating pretzels and watching the news. Devon stopped to watch a video of himself pushing the newsman.
The news anchor shook his head. “Violence has infected the NFL. Devon Drake shoved our reporter when he asked if Drake had hit this girl.” The program cut to a picture of Stormy then back to the announcer. “Though Drake denied inflicting her injuries, we have him on tape, pushing his accuser. Come on, Devon. Man up and get some help.”
So, that was a news guy, not just a crazy cameraman. Shit.
>
The television switched to another story. Devon sank down onto the couch next to Samantha. His spirit as weary as his body, he snatched up the remote and changed channels.
Samantha turned to face him with tears in her eyes. “How are you gonna clear your name?”
“I have no idea.”
His phone rang. It was Jackie. Relief flooded his system.
“Devon, what the hell have you done?”
* * * *
The next morning, Stormy brushed her hair then hitched a ride downtown with Sam. She trumped up an excuse about an errand, but ended up at WMON, the Monroe television station. She walked in full of confidence. I’ll talk to the newsman, give an interview, tell them about Edgy, and this will be over. Devon’ll be exonerated.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“I’d like to speak to the news director.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Not exactly. I’m the girl on the news broadcast last night.”
“Oh, you poor thing! Beat up by a football player. Sit down. Can I get you a glass of water?”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Stormy said, gently pushing the eager young woman away from her. “Devon Drake didn’t hit me. He’s not the one.”
“You don’t have to cover for him, just because he’s famous. He’s so much bigger than you are. What a bully.”
“Please, can I just meet with the news director? I need to clear this up. Devon Drake is an old friend. We grew up together. He’d never hit a woman.”
The receptionist scowled. “Just because you grew up together, you don’t have to make excuses for him.”
“I’m not. Please believe me.”
The woman’s face took on a stony look. “You’ll have to have an appointment to see Mr. Clark. I’m sorry. Good morning, WMON,” she said, touching the keyboard on the phone console.
Stormy blew out a breath. She went to the corner and dialed the station, but only reached the voice mail of Stanton Clark. This was her fifth call and her fifth message. She was getting desperate.
Devon Drake, Cornerback Page 3