Tyler bent down in the huddle and ignored the play the coach sent in, a run straight up the middle. As they broke the huddle, Tyler turned to him. “This is it, fuckhead. You'd better catch this one, because come Monday, after the final cuts, your ass better be on this team."
Derek nodded. Tyler planned on ignoring the coach's instructions and calling his own play. If he fucked this up, he'd screw himself and Tyler. His cousin skated on thin ice too. Rumors of a trade circulated around the league. Tyler's antics and attitude didn't impress the new coaches.
Shit. Damn. Fuck.
Talk about pressure. He sucked in a long breath, said a silent prayer, and called on every bit of skill and luck he possessed. Do or die, now or never, sink or swim. All those cliches came down to this defining moment. His future hung on this one pass. He knew it. Tyler knew it.
Relax. Find the zone. Don't try too hard. Stay loose. He hadn't come this far, battled through adversity, and clawed his way back to lose it all now.
Tyler audibled at the line of scrimmage. Derek leaned forward and shot off the line as soon as the center hiked the ball. Sprinting downfield, he executed his pattern perfectly, then turned on the speed, leaving his defender eating his dust. Pounding into the end zone, he spun around at just the right moment.
Shit.
Badly thrown, the wobbly pass soared too high. Derek needed every physical skill he still possessed and instincts he'd once possessed. He focused on the ball to the exclusion of all else. Placing his trust in his gut, he reached for the intangible something that had eluded him the past few years.
Leaping into the air, he tipped the ball off the fingers of one hand into the other hand. It bobbled and bounced off his fingertips. He juggled it better than a circus clown until it fell into his hands. His long fingers wrapped around it. A second later, two defenders nailed him at full speed, their intention to teach him how to fly without wings. His body catapulted through the air before gravity brought him down with the assistance of a 260-pound tackle. The impact forced the air out of his lungs.
Derek gasped for breath, wishing this dead weight would get off his chest. After an eternity the guy got up, giving him a sharp jab in the ribs. Derek grunted. In the morning, he'd have bruises on top of bruises. For now, none of that mattered.
He'd hung on for six.
The roar of the crowd didn't deafen his ears like at the Rose Bowl. Instead the quarter-capacity crowd acknowledged his incredible catch with a smattering of applause.
Forcing air back into his lungs, he grasped the hand Tyler offered and scrambled to his feet. A little beat-up, but he didn't give a shit. He'd caught the damn ball. Finally he'd thrown the monkey off his back. Jogging to the sidelines, he shook his head to clear the slush moving around inside.
"Not bad, Ramsey.” The coach studied him, his face impassive.
"Thanks, Coach.” Derek flashed him a smile. The man was stingy at handing out compliments, so he'd take this one for what it was worth—and that was a lot.
"Think you can do that again?"
Derek met his penetrating gaze. “Yes, sir. More times than you can imagine.” It sounded cocky, but a football player who didn't believe in himself wasn't worth the turf he played on. HughJack nodded and walked off without another word. Renewed confidence surged through Derek. He hadn't felt this good since his college days.
After the game, local reporters inundated Derek with questions, even though the Jacks lost their fourth and last preseason game, 20-7. His outstanding catch ended up being the highlight of a dismal preseason. Win-deprived Seattle took whatever triumphs it could get.
He fended off reporters and stayed focused. This time the adulation wouldn't go to his head like it had in college and at the Olympics. He knew how fleeting it was. Next week he might be the goat—assuming he made the team—and be crucified at the gridiron altar. Such was the life of a professional athlete. You either toughened up enough to take it, or you folded. He'd almost folded, but he'd dug deeper and found an inner strength he'd never needed before.
After several grueling minutes, he extracted himself from the press and snuck out a back door to his truck. Instead of joining his teammates at the local sports bar, he headed home like an old horse heading back to the barn.
The team had flown in yesterday from training camp and stayed in a hotel near the stadium. Coach didn't want any distractions for the last preseason game. With training camp over, he was anxious to see his place again and to see Rachel.
Shit.
Rachel?
Where had that thought come from? Not that it wasn't true. She'd invaded his thoughts all week. He'd scanned the crowd from the sidelines several times looking for her. Even in that sparse crowd, he hadn't found her, and he'd fought off his disappointment.
Over his years in the league, he'd looked for Rachel in the crowd every time his other teams played Seattle. It was stupid to think she'd be there, but he looked anyway.
This was no good, and he knew it but couldn't stop himself. He sure as hell hoped his eagerness had to do with missing her friendship and nothing else.
Derek stopped at a grocery store on the way and bought a bottle of wine, incidentally Rachel's favorite. He pulled into the driveway and slowed as he passed her small house. The lights were on. Harvey sat in the driveway. Relief swept through him when he didn't spot any other vehicles.
Struggling with himself and his intentions, he parked next to her truck. His hand hovered on the door handle as he debated his next move. Shoving away his misgivings, he hopped out and bounded up the porch steps two at a time. Derek rapped lightly on her door. Unusually nervous and expectant, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, the bottle of wine in one hand, his heart in the other.
Maybe she was out on a date? His stomach twisted at the thought. He ran his hands over his face and stretched his back. Pain rocketed through his battered body, and he winced.
Relieved yet disappointed, Derek peered through the window, but the curtain blocked any view inside. Rachel didn't appear to be home. He brought his hand up to knock one final time.
She opened the door in her usual power suit. He swore she slept in the thing, but damn, she looked good. She had to be the prettiest thing in the Northwest. Her dark hair was done up in a ponytail that swayed as she stared at him in the porch light.
A stupid-assed smile spread across his face.
The man who wouldn't go away stood on the other side of the door in a faded T-shirt that clung to his muscles and an even more faded pair of jeans that clung to his thighs and his—Oh Lord. She cleared her throat. Looking up, she prayed her face didn't betray her bout of gutter wallowing.
Derek leaned against the doorjamb in a casual pose. An ugly purple bruise was visible on his left arm, and there was a small cut on his chin—battle scars from the afternoon's game. A bottle of wine dangled from his fingertips, and a lopsided grin enhanced his already gorgeous face. His dark eyes danced with a mixture of enthusiasm and pure joy for living. It'd been years since she'd seen that expression on his face.
"Welcome back.” Her double meaning wasn't lost on him. She momentarily forgot her wounded toe and immersed herself in those dancing eyes.
"Are you okay?” He pulled his gaze from her face and stared at her bare feet, in stark contrast to the business attire.
She stopped hopping on one foot. “Me? Of course.” Her toe throbbed harder than the bass at a rock concert while her heart beat its own welcome song.
"I've never known you to stand around like an ostrich, unless—” Derek's eyes narrowed at her.
"Don't go there."
He grinned. “Wouldn't dream of it."
"Are you going out?” He took in her clothes, her makeup, her hair.
"No, not at all. I always dress like this."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. The new Rachel."
"New and improved.” She smiled with what she hoped was cool confidence.
"I guess that's a matter of opinion.” His wry frown confirmed he bought
her act.
She pursed her lips to keep from gloating. “So what brings you here? I thought you'd be out celebrating with the guys.” And maybe the girls. She willed her expression to remain neutral. One part of her ached to throw her arms around him and congratulate him—just like she used to do in college. The other wanted to slam the door in his face.
"I'm hoping to celebrate with a dear friend. If she'll let me in the door.” He held out the bottle and tried to look contrite. He failed. One corner of his mouth twitched in a barely suppressed grin. “I think I made the team.” He bounced on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy. The average man would be flat on his back nursing his wounds, but that wouldn't be his style.
"How do you know? Final cuts aren't until tomorrow."
Part of her rejoiced because he'd chosen to celebrate with her. Another smarter part rang a warning bell loud and clear. Most likely her feigned disinterest intrigued a temporarily lonely man. If she took his surprise visit too seriously, she'd be screwed and her heart would be hung on his trophy wall with all his other awards and conquests. She'd unhung herself years ago; she wasn't about to go back there now. Succumbing to his charm wasn't part of the deal. Getting close to him was.
"I just know. Will you celebrate with me?” His dark eyes pleaded with her and drew her in.
"Okay.” She hesitated, thrilled yet not thrilled by the invitation in his voice and his eyes. He ignored her discomfort and walked inside.
"Did you watch the game?” His eager voice rang with hope.
"Of course. Great catch. I swear they replayed that catch and the one you made in the Rose Bowl a hundred times during the postgame show and the nightly news."
"Oh great, I'm an overnight celebrity.” He winked. “Were you there?"
"I went with my brother. We split season tickets. Have for a few years."
He snorted. “He's one of the faithful dozen?” He referred to what the Seattle media called the remaining handful of die-hard season-ticket holders still hoping for a miracle season.
She nodded. “My family gets their sports any way they can."
"I looked for you but didn't see you.” He followed her into the kitchen.
She didn't want to hear stuff like that. With a heavy sigh, she took the bottle, careful not to touch his hand. For a moment, she stared at the label. He'd remembered her favorite brand.
"You're limping."
"Just stubbed my toe."
"Do I need to wrap you in Kevlar or what?"
"Nothing, you don't need to wrap me in anything.” Especially not his arms, even though they bulged with corded muscles and were dusted with dark hair.
He let it go. Rachel kept her back to him as she opened the bottle and poured two glasses. She turned and handed one to him.
Derek held it out, and they clicked glasses. “To a good season.” He studied her over the rim of his glass. His chocolate eyes found a secret, secluded corner in her heart and curled right up in front of the fire as if he belonged there. Her smarter half attempted to give him the boot like an unwanted stray cat.
"Tell me what you really thought."
"Of your game?” If she ever needed her shell of professionalism, she needed it now. With the exception of one good play, his performance didn't stack up against the other wide receivers.
"Yeah.” He looked at a faraway spot on the wall.
"Do you want my honest opinion?"
"Was I that bad?” He looked up. His earlier enthusiasm sucked right out of him. “I need to know. No one except Ty knows me like you do. Ty's too narcissistic to be of much help."
"What do you think?"
"I'd rather hear what you think. I'm too close to it to be objective. Don't pull any punches; give it to me straight."
Rachel sighed and took a sip as she contemplated the best way to let him down. “I think you're trying too hard to protect your knee. You know, too worried about getting hit again. I don't think it's conscious, but your routes aren't crisp and tight. They're round. You're not hitting your spot and making your cut. You're not focusing on the ball, not catching it with your hands. You're trying to trap it with your body. You need to relax. Flow with it. Not be so tense and tight.” She paused for a breath. “Derek, you know this stuff."
"So do you. Your dad taught good basics. He's one of the best coaches around. This whole thing sucks.” The reverence in his tone sickened her. She'd never noticed what an excellent actor he was—just like his mother.
"You're the one catching the ball, and right now you're not doing a great job of that."
"I got nailed on that last touchdown play, but I held on."
"That play reminded me of the old you."
He absorbed her critique for a moment. “I'm struggling with getting it back."
"You know what it takes. Drills. Practice. Mental strengthening."
"It's the mental part that's not working for me. You used to help me. Why don't you do that now?"
She hesitated, warring with her conscience and her sense of family loyalty. He'd given her an in, a way to get close, to earn his trust.
Those eyes, as welcoming as a box of expensive chocolates, held her and wouldn't let go. So much for kicking out the tomcat. Next thing she knew, he'd be curled up in her bed and she'd be purring for all she was worth.
"Dare, I don't need your charity.” Or your physical proximity. Plus her brothers would commit a capital offense if they hooked up again. They didn't forgive, and they didn't forget when it came to their baby sister's broken heart—or their father's destruction. Visiting the state pen on holidays wasn't her idea of a good time.
"It's hardly charity. I need you, Rae. I know you can help me.” He paused and stared at the corner where his dog had made himself at home on a braided rug. “I see Simon didn't take long to move in."
"He stole the key and helped himself. Take him home with you tonight. I can't afford any more missing objects.” Simon thumped his tail at the two of them but didn't move. From his perch on the couch, Charlie hissed at the lower life-form. Simon cowered and whined.
"He means well. Besides, your cat is the true villain. He's the neighborhood bully.” He continued to watch her with those hot eyes that didn't miss a thing, almost like he wanted to take her home tonight instead of the dog. She stood up straighter and kept her mask in place.
"He thinks he's Fido Hood, stealing from the poor and giving back to nature in the form of burying all my prized possessions."
Derek threw back his head and laughed, a warm, inviting sound that almost melted her resolve. “I've missed you."
She pursed her lips and kept her mouth shut. She didn't need him missing her any more than she needed to miss him.
"Rae, I really need your help. At least through the season—then we can revisit it."
"I don't know.” Oh saints in heaven protect me. She prayed for the willpower. She doubted he'd be the one to say no. Not if the way he was looking at her right now was any indication.
"We both have our ambitions. A relationship is messy and gets in the way of what we want. It won't happen. Trust me.” He studied her earnestly.
It wasn't him who was the problem.
"Let's see if you make the team; then we'll talk.” Her stomach twisted into a hangman's noose. Not trusting her knees, she slid onto the barstool at the small eating area in the kitchen. Derek sat next to her.
"You don't think I'll make it, do you?"
"I don't know.” His face fell, and she cursed her honesty.
He refilled his glass, then hers. His fingers brushed hers as he handed it to her. She looked away. Inside she trembled. She wished he'd leave. She wished he'd stay. She pushed that thought as far to the back of her mind as she could. Picturing Derek taking off his shirt and coming to her as she lay in bed looking up at him in nervous expectation was a vision she needed to banish from her mind forever. Unfortunately it kept sneaking in through little cracks in her armor. Cracks that were getting big enough to ride a horse through.
; "If I do, I'm gonna need your support, your eye, your no-nonsense way of telling me like it is. Please, Rae, it's important.” Derek searched her face. His dark gaze went deep, reading her perfectly, and pushed past her defenses into secret, private places. Feeling as if he'd stripped her naked emotionally, she broke eye contact.
"We'll see,” Rachel hedged.
"I know you'll do it.” His broad grin lit up his entire face. She'd have promised him anything at that moment just to see him smile like that again. Dangerous thought and well past time to end this conversation and save a shred of her sanity.
"Derek, I'm really tired, and I'm sure you are too. We both have a lot to think about. It's best we call it a night. Thanks for the wine.” She rose to her feet and walked to the door. For a moment he remained seated; then, with a resigned sigh, he unwrapped his long legs from the barstool and hesitated at the open door. He whistled to his dog. Simon leaped to his feet and ran to Derek's side.
"Good night, Rae.” His gaze robbed her lungs of oxygen while heat pooled south of her belly button. She feigned interest in a picture hanging on the wall, avoiding his hypnotic gaze.
"You're worried.” He touched her cheek with the pad of his thumb, just a brief touch, but the aftershocks reverberated throughout her body. “You don't need to be. I don't want a relationship. I don't have the time or energy for one. I just want a friendship. We were always better friends than lovers."
She should have felt reassured, but she just felt empty and alone. “Good night, Dare.” She opened the door. Derek walked out with one final glance back at her, Simon on his heels. “You made a great catch tonight."
"Thanks. Keep those feet where they belong, and don't hurt yourself."
"Brat.” Her heart followed him out the door, but she yanked it back, shut the door, and locked it. Locks might physically keep the man out, but she'd need strength to lock him out emotionally. Closing her eyes, she envisioned her father and the bottles surrounding his chair.
Fourth and Goal Page 5