“What, like it’s Voldemort?”
That made him smile. “Basically.”
“I’m not very tactful. But you know that, since we’ve had numerous arguments about how stupidly your pantry is arranged.”
“It’s not stupid,” he defended, pointlessly, in her opinion. “I put the stuff I eat most at eye level. That’s common sense. And aren’t you worried one of these days I’m gonna get fed up with your backtalk and fire you?”
“Nope. I’m too good at my job. You’d be an idiot to lose me.”
He grumbled, but she caught the corner of his mouth twitching. As he stood, he looked around the kitchen. “Thanks for the groceries. I’ll get your automatic payments set back up. Leave the receipt and I’ll write you a check before I go for those.”
She hadn’t planned on it. Buying the groceries—the few items she had gotten—was like bringing a casserole to someone who was sick. Just something you did.
He left the room without a backward glance, hitching the blanket up a little as he walked.
Too bad it didn’t just fall to the floor.
Okay, maybe that was uncharitable to think. The guy wasn’t a side of meat on a plate. He was a good man who had always paid her fairly and treated her with respect—unlike so many other clients over the years. He had a long road ahead of him, but he was tougher than others gave him credit for, even off the field.
She grinned and picked up her cleaning caddy fully of polish, rags, and wipes. Time to earn that paycheck.
Chapter Two
“Hey, Stephen.”
As he approached the front desk of the main HQ offices, Kristen popped out from behind the desk and came to greet him with a warm hug and a smile. They all loved her. She was like a big sister, or maybe your young, cool aunt who always had cookies handy and an ear ready for gossip, but could kick your ass back into place if you strayed off the path. Though she was probably only five or so years older than him, he knew she thought of them all as a bunch of kids, and managed to walk the line between being personable and professional. Probably why she was so damn good at her job.
“Missed you, stranger.” She rubbed his back and pulled him an arm’s length away. “Or I missed what’s left of you. Where’d you go?”
“Jenny Craig’s no joke,” he said, and she smiled again and patted his arm before turning on stick-thin heels to go back to her desk. With a pat of her hair and a smoothing palm over her skirt, she once again took her seat at the throne of organization. “I’m here for Coach. I think he’s expecting me.”
“He’s in conference room B. Head on back; I’ll buzz Frank.” She winked and waved, picking up the phone as he walked by.
As he wandered back through the hallways, he remembered the last time he’d been into HQ. He’d been signing his last contract with the Bobcats, thrilled at not having to go free agent and uproot his life. He loved it in Santa Fe, he loved his teammates, and loved playing for the organization.
But if he had to go, he’d go. Football was all he knew, and it was what he needed most in his life.
His short walk took him to the outer offices of the coaches, where an old man typed furiously at a computer.
“Hey, Frank.”
The old man didn’t even blink.
To mess with him, Stephen walked over and planted his palms on the desk. Frank never stopped typing. “How’s life?”
Unfazed, Frank grunted, then used one hand to point toward conference room B. Somehow, his left hand never left the keyboard.
“You’ve really gotta stop talking so much. It scares the customers. See ya.” With zero acknowledgement from Frank, Stephen headed for the conference room.
And walked into an ambush. Or at least, his body felt that way when his heart started to pound. Sitting there were not only Coach Jordan—head coach of the Bobcats—but his assistant coach, the offense coach, their strength coach, the team’s nutritionist, and the team’s PR rep. They just sat there, staring at him from across the long table, waiting.
Stephen’s fight-or-flight instincts kicked in and he felt his fists bunch, ready for battle.
“Sit down, son.” Coach Talbin waved at him. “We’re all on the same team here.”
Mouth too dry to speak, Stephen sat. He went for unaffected in his pose, slouching back a little as if the meeting that would decide his fate had no real bearing on his emotional well-being.
After a long silence, the strength coach spoke up. “How much weight did you lose?”
There were times when jokes just wouldn’t cut it. “Maybe twenty.” When the coach raised his brows, he added, “Or a little more.” He hadn’t weighed himself in the last week or so before hitting rehab, and he hadn’t stepped on a scale in over a month. Watching the numbers shrink while in rehab had been too depressing. But if he were being truly honest, he’d guess he was down a good fifty.
His offensive coach groaned and ran a hand over his face. “Damn it, Harrison. What the hell are you doing to me?”
He shrugged.
“We’ll work on it.” The strength coach stood and nodded. “I just needed to see where you were, and what kind of work we’ve got ahead of us.” He walked from the room, clapping Stephen’s shoulder as he left.
“I’ll have a diet plan ready to go in the morning.” Standing to follow their strength coach, the nutritionist held out a hand to shake Stephen’s. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Both of those sounded promising . . . as if they’d already decided to keep him around.
Still moaning, as if his weight loss had been a personal attack against the coaching staff, his offensive coach screwed his thumbs into his eye sockets and didn’t look up.
“You didn’t lose weight on purpose, did you?” Talbin asked quietly.
“Apparently,” Stephen said slowly, willing to throw the elephant right on the table to get it over with, “when you stop drinking your calories, the weight just sort of falls off. It wasn’t planned. I haven’t been this size since . . .” He fought to think of when, and came up empty. “I don’t know.”
Talbin nodded, and kept nodding as if he couldn’t stop the motion. “You’re too small. We have to get you back up. You’re no good to us at this size. Bobby Trenton will blow on you and you’ll drift off into the sunset.”
Stephen scowled as Talbin mentioned his leading rival for his spot. “I’ll be fine.”
The offensive coach moaned a little more, then rocked to his feet. Without looking at Stephen, he left the room.
Talbin smiled a little, though it might have been a half grimace. Stephen couldn’t be sure. “He’s not taking this well. We need you out there, Harrison. You’ve got to get back up to fighting weight, and quick.”
Stephen nodded, hearing the unspoken threat of . . . or else we’ll drop you like a hot sack of shit.
Coach Jordan said nothing, just nodded to Talbin, who gave a curt jerk of his head and left the room.
Stephen waited until the door closed behind the assistant coach and glanced around the previously full room. “Well, I really know how to clear a room.”
“Did you get more than jokes at rehab?” Stephen watched as Coach Jordan’s face set into hard lines.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. It was time well spent. And I apologize for needing it.” When the coach said nothing, Stephen realized this was the first time he’d seen his coach face-to-face since the night that had put him over the edge and into rehab in the first place.
The night he’d found the coach’s seriously underage daughter at a bar, had enough sense to escort her outside to wait for a ride, and managed to get himself involved in a drunken brawl instead.
“About that night, sir. I—”
“I know about that night.”
His face was so grim, Stephen knew he didn’t really know. “But if I could just—”
“My daughter told me everything.” Realizing he had to elaborate on which, as he now had three, Coach added, “My middle daughter, Irene. She explained everything. How
you were an innocent bystander, just trying to keep her out of trouble. That you didn’t search the fight out, that you were trying to avoid problems and keep her safe.” When Stephen let out a heavy breath of relief, he added, “She also mentioned you didn’t try that hard, and seemed pleased enough to throw punches after the first one.”
Stephen couldn’t disagree, so he stayed quiet. If rehab had taught him nothing else, it was that staying quiet was usually preferable to anything.
Coach Jordan leaned forward, dark forearms resting across the smooth table. “How solid are you feeling right now?”
“Today? Pretty solid.” Stephen felt approximately two feet tall. “But as they say . . .”
“One day at a time. Right.” Coach rubbed a hand down his face, stared out the window for a moment, then sighed. “I need you to be solid day in and day out. This team can’t afford any more bad press. Last year’s . . . issues,” he said after an uncharacteristic stumble, “were unfortunate. And it’s going to get a little worse before it gets better.”
Stephen blinked. “Coach?”
“Ignore that last part.” He slashed a hand through the air. “We need you at training camp, ready to play. You’re not there yet, physically. I appreciate you cleaning up your act, but we need more. You need to put some pounds back on. When the nutritionist or the strength coach calls, you answer. When I call, you answer. When Talbin, or anyone else in this organization, calls, you answer. You are our new yes-man. You are prepared to prove your sobriety and dedication anytime, day or night. If the nutritionist tells you to eat a dozen rats for dinner, you do it with a smile.”
Stephen started to argue. Physically, though he’d lost some muscle mass, he hadn’t felt this good in years. He was quicker, which he knew when he jogged daily. Something about sweating out the toxins . . . He was lighter on his feet. He’d damn sure be able to breathe better in the sweltering heat of camp, under pads, in that stuffy-ass helmet . . .
But no. He was not meant to be a quick, fleet-footed runner. He was supposed to be a refrigerator, with the French doors wide open, so nobody could push through him, around him, over him. He was the first and last defense for their quarterback.
“Harrison.”
He blinked, then nodded. Because this was all he knew. “Yes, sir.”
Coach paused, then leaned back. “You got family in the area?”
“No, sir.” And he missed them greatly.
“I know you’re not married, no kids.” The older man rubbed a hand over his chin. “Girlfriend?”
“Nope.” When the man raised a doubtful eyebrow, he shrugged. It wasn’t like he went to a rehab facility to pick up chicks. He was there for work, or it was all for nothing. “Sorry. Is there a reason you want to know my relationship status?”
“Let’s just say, I’d feel more confident about your ability to bounce back and stay steady if I knew you had someone at home with you daily. A friend’s nice, but too easy to push out the door. A teammate . . . they’ve got their own shit to worry about, and I don’t want them bogged down. I guess you could hire a life coach,” he mused. “A life coach might not be a bad idea. We’ve got one who’s worked with the team in the past. He’ll keep you straight. Yeah, this is the right idea.” He opened his folder and started shuffling through papers, and with each fan of the paper, Stephen’s heart sank.
A fucking life coach? No. He’d put up with the nutritionist making him eat rats, or the strength coach whining about his lost muscle mass. He’d handle the coaches doubting his mental stability, as long as they kept him.
But a life coach? Goddamn it.
“You can call this number here.” Coach slid a piece of paper across the table for him. “This guy can set you up. And—”
“Uh, actually, I forgot.” Stephen passed the paper back gently. “I do have a girlfriend.”
Coach Jordan’s dark eyes screamed, Bullshit. But his tone was mild when he asked, “Forgot?”
“Yeah, you know . . . it’s so . . . new.” Do better than this, Harrison. “So used to saying no, it’s hard to remember to say yes.” He laughed, and realized the coach wasn’t buying it. Not in the slightest. “I’m sure you’ll meet her soon.”
As if unwilling to listen to any more, Coach Jordan clapped his hands on his knees and stood. “I’m sure I will. But take this anyway, just in case things don’t work out with your . . . girlfriend. You need someone to keep you accountable. Because another episode like the one we had last season, and we’re not going to be keeping you.” He slid the paper back to Stephen and walked out of the conference room.
He left the main offices, stopping by to grab a sucker at Kristen’s desk. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“I leave those out for the players’ kids,” she said with a smile, typing away.
“I’m just a big kid at heart.” He waited a moment, then leaned in over the desk. “Shoot me straight. I’m in deep shit, aren’t I?”
Kristen never stopped typing as she looked left, then right, before shifting in just a little. “Yes.”
Well, that was honest at least. “Thanks. See ya later.”
“Looking forward to training camp.” She grinned and gave him a wave before reaching for her ringing phone.
That would make one of them.
***
Stephen knew Margaret was there when he returned home from the Bobcats offices, thanks to her POS car parked in his driveway. Damn, he thought as he walked around it once. Had her car always been this bad? Was this even the same car she’d been driving before he had gone out of town?
It should have shamed him that he couldn’t remember, but then again, so much of his life was a blur before sobriety . . . He’d spend too much time feeling shame and not enough time feeling anything else if he walked down that road.
He smiled grimly when he saw the duct tape holding the plastic cover of her taillight on.
Either he and the rest of the Bobcats she cleaned for weren’t paying her enough, or she was getting screwed by her agency.
He walked in, closing the door carefully. No repeats of the last time, when he’d scared her senseless, naked. He was already able to laugh about it. Her? He wasn’t sure. He found her in the formal living room, dusting some knickknacks he’d brought from back home when he moved out after the draft. Items his mom had packed for him, because he was a dude and wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing most of it with him. She was so careful with his things, so precise as she picked one up, dusted under it, gave the figurine a once-over, and put it back exactly where she’d found it.
He noted the earbuds were in, so he waited until she stepped away from the mantel and let out a loud “Hey.”
She jolted, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the last time. Turning, she pulled the earbuds out and stuffed them in the pocket of her jeans. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, with wisps falling out around her temple and neck. She wore an oversized polo with her cleaning agency’s logo on it, tucked into jeans that were cuffed up above her sneakers.
It was about as nonsexual an outfit as he could possibly think, which was likely the point. But she was still adorable.
“Hi,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “Sorry, didn’t think you’d be home yet. I’m almost done.”
“What’s left?” He propped a shoulder against the doorjamb and watched her switch a rag for a fluffy dust thingie from her cleaning supply caddy, then crouch down at the corner and begin wiping baseboards.
“Finishing up in here, another ten minutes, then that’s it. Do you need me out sooner?” Her voice muffled as she crawled behind the sofa to reach.
“Why are you even doing that? Who notices anything on the baseboards?” He glanced around, then realized, “I don’t even use this room.”
“I know, which, thank you, by the way.” She poked her head out over the back of the sofa and grinned at him. She had a gray smudge of dirt on her left cheek. “Makes it easy to keep clean.”
“When you’re finished, do you have anywhere else
to go?”
“You’re it for today.” She kept crawling around on her hands and knees, and he found himself wanting to ask her to stop. Which was ridiculous, because he paid well for her to do the task.
Her car came back into his mind’s eye. Maybe not well enough.
“When you’re finished, can we talk a bit in the family room?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll wash up and join you.” She never looked back, just kept wiping.
He left her to it, detoured quickly to grab a bottle of water—knowing exactly when his hand had started to reach for the upper-left shelf automatically . . . where he used to keep the beer. Thank God they’d emptied the place before he got home. Willpower and determination weren’t enough, apparently. Even his own coach didn’t believe he had it in him.
He tossed the cap in the recycling bin and wandered back to the family room, the real room he used. It had the comfortable, broken-in furniture, the stuff that got used by him and his friends regularly. The coffee table he didn’t mind putting his feet up on, the end tables with water rings because he was too lazy to make sure he’d grabbed a coaster before sitting down. And, of course, the massive plasma screen TV, which he remembered had nothing to show, as he still hadn’t turned on his cable service again.
He heard the water run in the downstairs bathroom, then a minute later, Mags joined him. She sat on the love seat, diagonal from him, hands clutching her knees. She’d never been nervous around him before . . .
“What’s up, Mags?”
She shrugged. “Nothing? You called the meeting, boss.”
He liked her tart responses. She wasn’t one to bat her lashes and give him what he wanted to hear. “I was curious about how things work with your employer.”
That surprised her. She blinked, settled back a little deeper into the love seat, and pursed her lips. “You pay the agency, then the agency pays me. Nothing much to it.”
“I saw your car outside.” She blushed, but said nothing. Not even a blink. Good poker face, darling. “Looks like your agency is dealing you a crappy hand. I know what I pay them, but I don’t know what you make out of that.”
Takes Two to Tackle Page 2