“You’ve got one. The deeper you get into this, the more your objectivity is compromised.”
Rachel glared at him. “Fine. I will handle it.”
Mitch snorted in disbelief.
There are certain instincts best not ignored, and Rachel’s instincts warned all this was about to come to a head, and she couldn’t stop the runaway train from derailing as it sped down the tracks toward its destination.
~ ~ ~ ~
Derek lounged on the couch in Rachel’s living room. She sat next to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. They were like an old married couple, which he found both comforting and disturbing. Married couples had a future. They had no future.
“Practice was grueling,” he groaned, feeling the aches and pains radiating from all parts of his body.
“I doubt HughJack is going to let up now that the team is in the homestretch for the playoffs.”
Her cat hopped on his shoulder from the back of the couch and crawled down his chest like a climber descending the Alps. Only this climber used sharp claws.
“Damn! Ouch. You little shit.” Charlie, unaffected by Derek’s ranting, turned a few circles and affixed himself to his shirt. He dug his claws in and out and purred with gusto. Derek winced.
Rachel’s lips twitched.
Derek ignored the cat.
“Yeah, you’re right We’re in the hunt, so close to a playoff berth Coach can smell it, and he’s showing no mercy.” He pointed at the sports magazine on the coffee table. “Have you read that?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“What the hell do we have to do to get any respect?”
“Make the playoffs?”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Win it all?”
“Heck, I bet even that wouldn’t be enough.”
“Probably not. The Pacific Northwest might as well be a foreign country.”
“No joke. And me?” He pointed at his chest. “They predict I’ll crack under the pressure. I won’t be able to catch the big one or make the plays when the Steelheads really need me. Haven’t I been making plays all season?”
“Yes, you have.” She poured a glass of wine from his bar.
“Are you drinking?”
“I’m a lush.”
He laughed. “Just be careful not to spill. Or worse.” She’d already broken half his wineglasses.
“This one’s plastic. I put away the good crystal.”
“What was left of it.” He held his breath when she bumped the glass with her hand. Wine sloshed around as the glass teetered but didn’t tip.
Lucky.
“So, do you believe I can do it? Think I can go the distance without screwing up?”
“It’s not what I believe. It’s what you believe.” Gingerly, she reached for the glass and almost tipped it over again.
“Yes, yes, I do.” He held his breath until she held the goblet firmly in her grasp. “Is there something wrong with your depth perception?”
“No, why?” She was all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m hypersensitive to gravity.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Any word on Ryan’s mother?” Her teasing tone turned to sadness tinged with anger.
“Nothing.”
“Poor kid. His mother’s a real nutcase.”
“I’d call her a bitch.” Derek tensed. He avoided conversations about screwed-up, self-serving mothers. It hit too close to home.
“You ever met her?”
“Nope. Never set eyes on her. Don’t have any interest in doing so.”
“Mitch met her once.”
“And?” he asked.
“She’s just what you’d picture. Unfortunately.”
“That sucks.”
“Thanks so much for taking Ryan under your wing. You’ve really revived his spirits. Going to the Steelheads’ home games is the highlight of his week.”
“You’re the halftime highlight of my week,” he shot back, managing a smile.
“Halftime’s over, champ. It’s time to put the ball in play.” She leaned forward. Unbuttoning a few buttons on her sweater, the little vixen tantalized him with a generous view of cleavage. He licked his lips. As he lifted his eyes, his heat matched hers. She stood and skirted the desk, stubbing her toe and yelping. Derek reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her onto the arm of his chair. Charlie glared at both of them but didn’t vacate his position on Derek’s chest.
He touched a bruise on her arm. “This is new.”
She glanced at it in surprise. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“Am I going to have to wrap you in Kevlar?”
“I’m fine.”
“You scare me. I worry about you.” Derek frowned as the damn cat turned a few circles and made itself at home on his lap. He glared at the furry intruder yet made no move to put him on the floor.
“You’re a little tense tonight.” Rachel’s fingers massaged the back of his neck.
“You’ve been keeping me up too late.” Derek absently stroked the cat, then stopped when he realized what he was doing. The finicky feline purred in response and rolled onto his back.
“You’re insatiable.”
“I didn’t hear you bitching last night.”
“And you won’t.”
“You’re not clumsy in bed.”
“No gravity to battle.” She smiled, warming his heart.
“So what do you hear from Cass? I see her around but never get a chance to talk to her.”
“She’s madly in lust. She’s making plans to move to Chicago with her new guy. How’s Ty doing?”
“Instead of drinking and perfecting the art of being a man slut, he’s studying game film until all hours of the night and spending a lot of time with Ryan.”
“What? He’s building character?”
“You didn’t hear that from me.”
Their conversation was so familiar, he would’ve traded his soul to be here like this every night for the rest of his life, but even his soul wouldn’t be enough to pay that price.
They’d become a couple, but they couldn’t remain one. The clock was ticking. Time was running out. They were out of options with no way to win the game.
The futility of it all made his stomach ache.
~ ~ ~ ~
Remote in hand, Ryan was sprawled on the couch. Tyler walked in. Grinning, he dropped next to him and propped his feet on the coffee table. He fixated on the college game on TV.
“Hey, you came.” Ryan offered a feeble smile.
“You asked.” Tyler bristled a little.
“Is Mitch gone?” Ryan craned his neck to see into the kitchen.
“He went out for some beer. Said he’d be right back.”
“Good.” Ryan struggled to sit up, coughed, and took a drink of water. It trickled down his chin. He wiped it with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”
“Shoot.” Tyler helped himself to the bowl of chips on the coffee table.
“I need a favor.”
Tyler hesitated, popped several chips in his mouth, and chewed slowly.
“So, can you do me a favor?” Ryan took another sip of water, and his scrawny arm shook. Tyler avoided looking at him. Ryan knew why. A skeleton had more meat on its bones.
Tyler shrugged. “I suppose.” The words slipped out, as if he was reluctant to commit.
Ryan chewed on his lower lip and looked everywhere but at Tyler. “I need you to find my mother.”
“Your mother?” Tyler choked and crammed more chips in his mouth.
“Yeah. Please, Ty. I need to know where she is. I want to see her before—before—well, you know.” Ryan fought to keep the desperation out of his voice.
“Why didn’t you ask Derek?”
“Because I want the truth. Derek’s too nice. He’d never tell me the truth if it was bad news.”
“And I would?” Something flickered in Tyler’s blue eyes.
“Yeah. You’re a tough guy. A badass. You
say what you think and to hell with everyone else. I don’t want anyone worrying about my feelings. I need to know.”
“You think you’ll get that from me.” Tyler’s words sounded constricted.
“Yeah, I will because you won’t be concerned about hurting me. You’ll just do the job. You take care of yourself; nobody else matters.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s me. I’m a selfish bastard.”
Ryan punched his arm. “Then, you’ll do it?”
“Yeah, sure.” Tyler stared at the images on the TV, not looking at him.
Full of dread, Ryan dragged in a breath around the boulder crushing his chest.
~ ~ ~ ~
Derek chewed on his lower lip and checked the Velcro on his gloves. Bruiser bounced on the balls of his feet. Tyler gripped the ball, turning it in his hands, communing with the leather. Horse Price cracked his knuckles.
Two-minute warning. Bulldogs in the lead, 24-20.
Hollywood couldn’t have scripted it better.
Monday Night Football.
The last game of the regular season, with everything on the line for the Bulldogs and Steelheads. Winners to the playoffs, losers go home.
The Seattle Steelheads took the field and ran a couple of quick pass plays and a running play. Each was successful, but none stopped the clock. A field goal wouldn’t win it. Only a touchdown would do.
One more shot to make the playoffs for the first time in Seattle’s dismal thirty-plus-year history as a pro-football team. Thirty-six yards to go with two seconds on the clock. One play left. One chance to redeem countless years of mediocrity. One opportunity to silence their East Coast critics. One incredible New Year’s present for the fans.
Sixteen games in a long season came down to one single play.
HughJack called their last time-out. They gathered in a tight huddle, eleven men with one common purpose. The stadium rocked with the mental power of sixty-five thousand rabid fans emotionally charging their players.
Eleven pairs of eyes focused on the coach and strained to hear him above the din of the crowd.
“Okay, men, this is it,” HughJack shouted. “Time to prove the old Steelheads don’t exist anymore. We’re a team who rises to the occasion. We find a way to win and keep winning. This is a team of destiny. I have faith in every one of you.” He paused and made contact with each player. “Now go out there and prove it to the rest of the country.”
HughJack put his hand in the middle of the huddle. The guys did the same. “Playoffs! Steelheads!”
Their final play came as no surprise to anyone. Tyler would throw it up for grabs, Derek being the most likely candidate. How he got to the end zone and with how many defensive backs hounding his every step would be up to his superior speed and maneuverability.
Tyler hesitated as they broke the huddle and gave him the look.
Breathing deeply, Derek filled his lungs with the oxygen he’d need and took his position at the end of the line. Horse snapped the ball.
Derek broke away from two DBs by faking one way and streaking past the other. He sprinted for the end zone. Glancing over his shoulder for the ball, he prayed that Tyler would put it on the money.
The ball rocketed toward him, a hard-ass spiral that’d sting like hell when he caught it. Two Bulldogs barreled toward him on a collision course with destiny.
As a group, they leaped into the air. Three sets of arms strained for the ball.
Oh, shit.
It was coming down short. Derek batted it out of the defenders’ hands. It bobbled. He stretched his arms, his whole body, and dove for the pigskin. His fingertips grazed the ball. Somehow, he hauled it in. Wrapping his fingers around it, he hung on with everything he had. His feet were knocked out from under him as he slammed to the ground in the end zone.
Derek gripped the ball with both hands and rose to his knees, protecting the ball. The whistle blew. Winded and disoriented from the hit he’d taken, he saw the referee signal a touchdown.
There was a God.
And he’d chosen to put his money on a ragtag bunch of misfits who’d never accomplished anything on their own.
His teammates piled on top of him like ants on an anthill, driving the oxygen from his lungs. He gasped for breath, but some remote part of his brain registered the truth.
They’d made the playoffs.
And he’d caught the big one—the tough, pressure’s-on catch, the highlight clip to be analyzed ad nauseam for the next week on every local sports station. He and his teammates had risen to the challenge.
A celebration erupted on the field. The thirty-year playoff drought ended.
Tyler yanked his cousin to his feet and pounded on his back until Derek’s vertebrae rattled and his neck suffered whiplash. The human mass on the field swept Derek away, still clutching the ball. Reporters shoved microphones in his face; cameras blinded him until all he could see were little points of white light.
The crowd stomped their feet and rocked the stadium to its foundation, cheering loud enough to be heard in Idaho.
Derek shook his head. Tried to clear the cobwebs. Tried to see beyond the white spots. Blinking several times, he squinted and scanned the crowd in the first few rows, using every inch of his six-foot-five frame to see above the fans flooding the field. Almost desperate, he searched the stands, unaware of the people surging around him, unmindful of the reporters clamoring for an interview. Like a boulder in a stream, he held steady. Teammates, coaches, and fans grabbed at him, slapped his back, and shouted their congratulations.
He needed Rachel. She’d been his rock, his staunchest supporter, his most constructive critic, the reason for his success. Without her, he wouldn’t be cradling the game ball and looking at a playoff future.
She was on the sidelines, screaming her lungs out, hugging coaches and staff as they celebrated. He held his breath, prayed she wouldn’t do bodily harm to herself or others. Too late. He cringed as she slipped, almost fell, and grabbed a lineman’s arm for support. Damn, he needed to get to her soon before she caused mass destruction and injury. Considering how closely they’d worked together all season, this time it’d look weird if he didn’t hug her, but first, he had one thing to take care of.
Derek slogged through the celebration. Sensing his single-minded determination, the crowd parted, and the cameras followed. He reached the stands, skirted security, and looked up. With a smile, he handed the game ball to Ryan.
“Keep this for me, buddy,” Derek yelled above the crowd.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s yours.” Derek nodded.
“When you win the Super Bowl, I want a new one.”
Derek shook his outstretched hand. “Deal.” Even Mitch smiled from his seat next to Ryan.
Turning, he found Rachel and held his arms out to her. He grabbed her and hoisted her upward, whirling her around in circles. She screamed and laughed, begging to be put down. He placed her on her feet and stared into eyes sparkling with joy and pride.
God, he adored this woman.
Today he wouldn’t change one thing in his life. It was perfect as it was. Tomorrow might be a different story.
A broad grin crossed his face. A gang of reporters jabbed microphones in his face and fired questions above the chaos. Smiling, he fielded their questions and posed for pictures, while Rachel faded into the background and disappeared.
What little anonymity Derek and the Steelheads had washed away in the incessant Seattle winter rain.
Chapter 23—Home Field Advantage
Derek checked his voice mail. He had several calls. Tyler wanting to meet before the playoff game tomorrow. His dad asking him to call. Rachel checking on him. His agent with a few endorsement offers. Tyler again, calling him a fucking asshole. He grinned at that one. Effin’ A back to you, buddy. His agent again, demanding a callback. Rachel offering some homemade stew for dinner. Yummmmm. Ryan, worried about him.
Oh, shit, Ryan.
Ryan shouldn’t be worried about him. He n
eeded to call the kid.
With a sigh, he disconnected from voice mail. Tomorrow, he’d play in the biggest game of his career so far. With each win, the next game became the biggest until there would only be one left—the ultimate prize for any football player. The media didn’t give them a chance in the game tomorrow against the New York Wildcats.
All those little injuries and twinges nagging him throughout a long season combined to make a weary, aching body. Pain became his constant companion. He recovered slower after each game. In some cases, the hurt never lessened and accompanied him everywhere. He played through it because not playing wasn’t an option. Meanwhile, his head spun from all the demands on his nonexistent free time.
Prioritize, Ramsey. Football’s been number one all week; time for a little downtime to recharge your batteries.
First, he returned Ryan’s call and made plans to have dinner with him after the game, win or lose.
Second, he dialed Rachel’s number. He’d barely talked to her about anything other than football since the game last week. He’d been wrapped up in game video, practice, interviews, and team publicity stuff. He was being pulled in fifty different directions with barely time to sleep, let alone see Rachel outside of practice or Ryan. Guilt rolled over him like a rogue wave on a Pacific Ocean beach.
Tonight belonged to Rachel. He needed her steady, calm support. Okay, he admitted it. He needed her body too. He needed the intimacy, the feeling of coming home he only got with her. And yeah, he needed some purely physical get-down-and-get-it-done sex.
“Hello?” The object of his current fantasy answered the phone. She sounded out of breath, which conjured up several fantasies.
“Hey, babe.” He grinned, ready to forget the demands of his chaotic life and engage in a little phone sex before the main event.
“Dare?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back against the overstuffed cushions of the leather couch in his living room. Propping his feet on the coffee table, he took a long, cool swallow of his beer and willed his tired, battered body to relax.
“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you tonight.” He detected a note of hurt in her sweet voice. He knew women; time to tread lightly. His absence this week hadn’t gone unnoticed.
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