“Again, that’s really nice of you to do,” she said to Cynthia, “but I have to be honest . . . I can’t afford these dresses. They’re lovely,” she added quickly, wanting to cry. This was so embarrassing. “But I’m just . . . you know. Not really that flush right now.”
“You are attending an event with a Bobcat. That is payment enough. I will loan you any dress in here you feel would work for the event, and you return it to me with no charge.” Winking, Cynthia added, “Now, let’s find something that will dazzle your date.”
With that, the older woman stood and began sorting through dresses with long skirts.
“Thank you.” Mags turned and found Anya smiling. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. You’ve inspired my newest project. It’s Cynthia’s store that’s donating the gowns, but I’m running the program. I just got myself a job.”
“But you have a job . . . in Atlanta. Don’t you?”
“Yeah, about that . . .” Anya bit her lip and looked to the side. “Never mind. How do we feel about chiffon?”
She hadn’t known the other woman long, and Anya had already done her a huge favor. So she simply let her new friend—yes, friend—change the subject. “I know nothing. Consider me your personal Barbie doll.”
That had Anya’s eyes lighting up. “Score!”
***
Stephen adjusted his tie and waited at the bottom of the stairs for Mags. She’d disappeared into her bedroom hours before, claiming she didn’t want his help getting ready. Something about the element of surprise, which sounded more like she was planning battle tactics than getting dressed.
He checked his watch, sighed, did another pacing circle around the foyer, then glanced at his watch again. It took exactly seven seconds to walk one circle. Good to know.
“Mags! Come on!”
“We’re not even remotely late, so hold your horses!” she shot back without opening her bedroom door.
Hmm. She had been listening after all when she’d sprinted for the bedroom door. He sat, crossing his legs at the ankles and committed himself to the wait. And really, no, they weren’t late. He was just getting anxious to see her.
Which he wouldn’t be if she’d just dressed in his room like he’d wanted her to. He’d had some romantic sort of notion that she’d get dressed alongside him. He’d watch her apply her makeup in her slip; she’d lay out his tux. He’d zip up her gown, brushing his fingers against the nape of her neck just to watch her shiver. She’d adjust his tie, taking longer than necessary and giving him a kiss on his jaw to seal the deal.
Stupid. He was a stupid, fantasizing male.
“Okay.” Mags’s voice floated down, and he straightened off the bench like he’d been shot out of a cannon. But she wasn’t at the top like he’d expected.
“Okay, what?”
“I’m not changing, just so you know. If you don’t like what I’m wearing, you can go alone.”
“I’m going to love it. Just get down here.” He waited another moment, then sighed and took another turn around the foyer. When he came back to his post, he saw her.
No, saw was too gentle a word. His eyes worshipped her. His heart dove down to his heels for her. His gut clenched and his mouth dried at the sight of her.
Standing at the top, some little bag clutched in front of her, she was a vision in white and gold. The straps were thin gold chains, making him wonder just how hard it would be to tug and watch them break to bare her skin. The fabric clung to her curves from the slope of her breasts down to her hips and thighs before flaring out gently and swishing around her while she walked down the stairs.
“Hey, handsome.” She paused two steps up, so they were even. Clearly, she’d worn heels, though he couldn’t see them. “You clean up pretty nicely.”
“I . . .” He shook his head, lifted one shoulder, let it fall again. “You.”
A small smile crept across her lips, as if she was now understanding his difficulty with speech. “I did pretty okay, huh?”
“Yeah. You’re okay.” Her smoky eyes laughed at him. “You’re already wearing a necklace.”
“Just costume stuff. Anya loaned me the shoes, but I went all out on the bag and my hair, so I saved a bit on the jewelry.”
He’d asked Anya, but she hadn’t told him Mags had picked out a necklace. “Then this is probably not going to work, but I’ll show you anyway.” Reaching in his coat pocket, he pulled out the jeweler’s box. Flipping the lid with his thumb, he had the pleasure of watching her eyes widen.
“Oh my God, it’s perfect.” She looked up at him. “Perfect for my dress. How did you know?”
“Anya gave me some guidance, while remaining frustratingly vague. You don’t have to wear it, though, if you like the one you picked out.”
“This?” She reached behind her and attempted to undo the clasp one-handed. “It’s nothing, just a placeholder. That . . .” Her eyes filled. “That is perfect.”
“Don’t cry or you’ll ruin that makeup you spent forever on.” He put his hands around her shoulders, letting his fingers walk up her neck like he’d imagined before, undoing the clasp and letting the chain pool in her hand below. Then he replaced it with the one he’d bought, envying the way it nestled just above her breasts.
“I’m not. I’m just savoring this moment.”
He let his forehead drop to hers for a moment, breathing in the scent of her, and smiled when he realized she hadn’t spritzed on anything to mask her lemony freshness. “Thank you for not making me feel like a bigger ass than I already did. Thank you for coming back.”
“Thanks for letting me come back. And thanks for not stringing me out when I apologized.” She cupped his cheek and brushed a very soft kiss across his lips. “Oh, and if anyone asks you about my dress, I have a whole speech you have to give them. I’ll tell you about it in the car.”
As she took his hand and let him lead her out to the car, he knew he couldn’t imagine getting ready for an event with anyone else again.
Scary realization, but he was finally feeling ready for it.
Chapter Twenty-one
First home game of the season. In past years, it had meant Margaret left little notes on the kitchen counters of the Bobcats players the week leading up to it wishing them luck on their upcoming season. It meant propping her feet up and watching the game with a beer, or maybe going over to Mrs. M’s house for a glass of wine, cheese, and crackers. It meant she didn’t feel bad about wearing her bleach-stained Bobcats shirt if she ran an errand because, hey, team spirit and all that.
Now it meant something completely different. It meant attending the game live and in person, an experience she had yet to have, thanks to the cost of tickets. It meant agonizing for an hour over what to wear to the game—dress cute or dress in Bobcats gear? It meant squishing in with a dozen other wives and girlfriends and pretending she remembered everyone’s names when really all she knew was the name of the player on the backs of their jerseys. And it meant all but slobbering on Cassie in gratitude when she joined her in the stands instead of staying in her father’s skybox.
“The girls aren’t here,” Cassie explained. “If they were, I’d be up there keeping them company. But otherwise, it’s more fun down here.”
“I think . . .” Mags started, but the roar from the crowd drowned out anything further she could have added to the conversation. The Bobcats were coming through the tunnel. Gripping Cassie’s forearm, she leaned forward. “Here they come!”
“Yup. And also, I need that arm back.” Smiling, Cassie pried Margaret’s fingers from her wrist. “Here we go. It’s gonna be fine. He’s going to be fine.”
“I’m holding you to that,” she muttered.
The first time Stephen stepped onto the field, she nearly passed out from the excitement, the terror, the sheer emotion of it. The first time he got hit, she wanted to cover her eyes and cry. And then, on third and two, it happened.
He broke, did some shuddering half-step lunge thing, glided
between two offensive linemen as if he was threading a needle, and sacked the Colts’ quarterback with ease.
She jumped so fast, she dropped her popcorn on the floor at her feet. “Yes! Oh my God, yes! Cassie!”
Cassie accepted the jolting hug with enthusiasm. “See? Told you he’d be fine!”
Maybe it was her imagination, or it meant nothing, but she would have sworn during the back slapping, butt tapping, and shoulder jostling his teammates gave him on his way back to the bench, Stephen looked up at her. Not just in her general direction, but at her, as if he could honestly pick her out of the crowd of thousands, just in their section. And her heart, so close to the edge already, pitched headfirst into the cliff of love.
For the first time, Mags had a reason to really watch the game. Not just keep track of the score in the background, not just use the game as an excuse to drink a beer with a friend. She watched. And sat in awe at the physical prowess of the men on the field. Maybe it was impossible to tell from a TV screen anyway, but what she saw was like heavyweight ballet, mixed with martial arts, combined with a dozen other things to create the physical display in front of her.
And when the Bobcats secured their first win of the season, she almost passed out with excitement.
“Come on,” Cassie said in her ear. “Walk fast, don’t look around, keep your head down.”
“What? Why?” she asked, still floating on the high of watching her boyfriend—faux or not—beat the snot out of the Colts and secure his place on the team once again. Her feet all but floated up the stairs to the main catwalk that wrapped around the stadium.
“Because otherwise we’re going to get caught.” Cassie hooked her elbows with Mags’s and pulled so hard Margaret felt like her shoulder might dislocate. “This is the problem with not using the skybox. If we can just make it to—shit.”
The shit was evident as Cassie stopped abruptly when someone shoved a camera in her face. Mags blinked, taking a half step back like a coward, leaving Cassie front and center.
“Cassie, how are you feeling about your father’s emotional preparedness for the season given his already-messy separation?”
As if she’d practiced the move, Cassie turned sideways and used her shoulder to brush past the reporter and pull Mags with her. “Keep your head down,” she said again. “Just keep walking. Don’t give them anything.”
“Cassie Wainwright! Was today luck? Can your father handle the pressure of the season? How do you feel about your father’s hypocrisy?”
“Are you Stephen Harrison’s girlfriend?”
Instinct had her wanting to look at whoever was obviously speaking to her—manners, and all that. But she followed Cassie’s instructions and did her best to keep up with her friend’s long-legged strides.
“How is his sobriety? Have you heard reports he is back drinking again to make weight? Have you encouraged him to take up drinking again so he could gain weight and maintain his starting status?”
Okay, that did it. She froze, Cassie’s arm slipping from hers as her friend continued walking, unaware of the unplanned stop. “How dare you? Stephen’s not drinking; he’s gained weight the right way. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Reports say your relationship has moved quickly once he left rehab. Any comments to make on that?”
She blinked as the light attached to the camera shone directly into her eyes. When that didn’t help, she held up a hand to shield her face and said, “None of your Go—”
“Gotta go.” Cassie yanked and she was suddenly surrounded by two men the size of the players on the field, wearing Bobcat polos and pressed khakis. They spoke into walkie-talkies and moved with efficiency around the catwalk with Cassie and herself pressed between them. Security had come to the rescue.
“Where are we going?” she asked, wincing as her jaw jostled against Cassie’s shoulder. That would leave a bruise.
“Skybox, where I should have probably stayed. I wasn’t thinking. Not thinking,” she muttered again. “Sorry about this. They wouldn’t have recognized you if you hadn’t been with me.”
“Not your fault.”
“Now where?” Cassie asked as they entered the calm of the skybox. “Do you want to head to Trey’s for a while and wait for the guys? Wait for Stephen here? Go home?”
“I guess, uh, wait here?” She sat, staring at her fingernails. “I screwed that up, didn’t I?” She didn’t have to specify she was referencing the media attack.
Cassie shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“Truth, please.”
“Eh . . .” With a grimace, Cassie sat beside her. “You’re not exactly used to this lifestyle. Of course you made a few missteps. Nothing major,” she added in a rush when Margaret covered her face and groaned. “You’re not going to appear on any major blogs; you didn’t give them anything juicy. But it might not hurt to attend some media training.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“It is,” Cassie said cheerfully. “I had to do an entire head-to-toe training session. It was ridiculous, but in truth, it’s helped me a great deal when I get confronted like that. Most of the time, they leave me alone. But every so often I get caught off guard again. It’s a relief when the training kicks in.”
“The season has already started. I doubt it’s going to matter much. I won’t be around that much longer anyway.” Just stating the truth was painful. Her gut clenched, and she wondered if she was about to throw up her popcorn and soda. “He hasn’t said a word about the change in our status from business to personal. So what if he decides to just let me go when our original timeline is over?”
“What if you tell him how you feel, and he asks you to stay?”
“What if I tell him how I feel, and he gives me the Oh, you poor thing, you thought this was serious? look?”
“You’re not giving him credit. He’s not that guy. Stephen likes to play the Casanova, the funny guy, the anything-for-a-laugh dude. But he would rather chew his arm off than hurt someone he cares about, especially a woman he cares about.”
Mags thought about his sisters and his mother . . . how his face would light up at the chance to talk with them and hear how they were. How he protected them, how he made sure his sisters could play the sport they loved and it wouldn’t burden his mother financially. How he missed them.
That sweet man . . . She wanted him forever.
“So do you want to head home or come over?”
Mags thought about it for a moment and let her head fall to Cassie’s shoulder. “I just want Stephen.”
***
Finished with the circus that was postgame rituals, Stephen wanted nothing more than to shower in his own house—because as much as rinsing off in the locker room helped, it wasn’t a real shower—curl up on the sofa with Mags, and let her tend his wounds.
God, he’d really forgotten how much this game hurt. Being perpetually buzzed when he stepped on the field had numbed him. Even in practice, they hadn’t gone full speed ahead. The first hit today had been like jumping into an ice-cold lake in the middle of January . . . a ball-shrinking shock to the system.
He wanted Mags to coo over his hurts, kiss each and every one of them, and then tuck them both into bed with a movie while he copped a feel and she pretended to be outraged.
“Nice game today, Harrison.” Killian Reeves stopped by his locker, a surprise for Stephen since Killian had always been reserved before in locker room exchanges. “How’d the switch to defense feel?”
“Like I was still lucky enough to play the greatest sport on earth, so I’m gonna keep my mouth shut and thank my lucky stars.” Jamming a few more things in his duffel, he grabbed the zipper and jerked until it slid into place. He ran a hand down his face and leaned against his locker. “I was scared shitless.”
“Sounds familiar. Kind of like every time I get out there.” Killian gave his shoulder a nudge with his fist, which was interesting since the man was about six inches shorter than Stephen. “See ya at practice.�
��
Stephen walked out behind Killian, caught sight of Simon Poehler, the PR wiz, waiting outside the locker room, kept his head down and tried to continue walking toward the player parking lot.
“Harrison. Harrison!”
Damn it. Dreams of climbing into bed with Mags faded away as he turned. “Yeah?”
Simon smiled, and Stephen knew the phrase sharks in suits was exactly right. “Your girlfriend got caught by some reporters coming out of the stadium. We’re going to need to move up the interview with her to now.”
He saw red, and was ready to throttle whatever reporter or would-be blogger had given her a second of discomfort. For sticking their noses where they didn’t belong. For ruining Margaret’s peace and fun day. For wrecking the good memory he was creating to ease her into a relationship.
Fists clenched, he stepped up to Simon, crowding him. “I pick the interviewer, I pick the location, and I pick how it’s run.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s how this will work, or else it’s not happening. You might own my ass—or at least the team does—but you don’t own her. End of story.”
“Your relationship could cost you. You really willing to let a woman cost you your career in football?”
Stephen thought about the sport he loved, about the rush he’d felt the second he’d run through the tunnel, the high he’d been on the second he’d realized he was going to sack the Colts QB, the fear of not knowing what else he could do besides football . . .
Thought about Mags in his home, smelling like lemons, looking like sunshine, arguing with him over Scrabble. Thought of her sitting beside him in the hallway when his skin crawled and his brain screamed for another drink, of her silent, unwavering support.
“Yeah. Hell yeah, I’m willing. I’ll call you when I’ve got it set up. That’s the end of it.”
Takes Two to Tackle Page 21