The Kings squeaked out a win, seventeen to fourteen, over the St. Louis Sidewinders. Shyla did a little victory dance with her friends before driving home. The warm, September evening called to her. She walked down to the lake and sat on the Dailey’s dock, watching an eagle swoop over the water, looking for fish.
She picked up her phone. I’m just calling him. Not touching him. Not sleeping with him. He’s engaged, not dead. I can talk to him.
“Yeah?” His voice sounded sleepy.
“Harley, it’s me. Shyla.”
“Oh. Yeah. Hi.” She heard him clear his throat.
“How are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Didn’t look like it.”
“You were watching?”
“Of course.”
“Where are you? I thought you’d be in Paris or Morocco or something.”
She laughed. “Nope. I’m in Pine Grove, New York.”
“Where?”
“A tiny town upstate, near Pennsylvania. They have a theater here. I’m their resident designer.”
“What happened?”
She took a deep breath. “I couldn’t get hired. I mean, after what happened at Marriage Minded. Well, I breached their contract. Gunther Quill was furious. I’ve been blackballed.”
“Oh, shit! That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. Do you need money or anything?”
“Nope. I’m fine,” she lied.
“Why are you calling?”
“To find out what happened to you today.” He doesn’t want me to call him.
“Just a couple of bruised ribs. I’ll be okay.”
“Thank God it wasn’t another concussion.”
“Yeah. Lucky break.”
“Somebody needs to teach that animal a lesson,” she said.
“Yeah.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Look, I’m only calling you as a friend. I know you’re engaged. I know all about Vanessa. It’s fine. If this embarrasses you, then I won’t call again.” Her heart pounded, and her mouth got dry.
“No, no. It’s okay. It’s fine. I mean, it’s nice you’re still checking up on me.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it checking up on you.”
“You know what I mean.”
She sighed. She knew Harley Brennan inside and out. “Yeah. I do. Look, it’s getting late. I’ve gotta go.”
“Thanks for calling. It’s real nice of you,” he said, his voice formal and awkward, bringing tears to her eyes.
“Feel better.”
“Sure will. Take care.”
The connection was severed. If she’d ever had any doubt that Harley had moved on, it was gone. Distant, strained, at a loss for words—he was a Harley she had never seen. The relief that his injury was minor was dwarfed by the sadness coursing through her. Their connection was no longer, even as friends, and the pain stabbed her right in the heart.
* * * *
Harley rubbed his stubbly face and closed his eyes.
“Shit.”
He’d been woken up, taken by surprise. He’d never expected Shyla to call. Didn’t think she’d bother to watch the game. Frankly, he’d assumed she was out of the country, on some exotic location screwing her brains out with some sexy actor or director.
A thousand times, he’d thought of calling her, but he didn’t know what to say. He’d tried a couple of different versions in his head. Calling to tell you I’m engaged to Vanessa. Not that you’d really care. Or maybe you heard on the news. Nothing had seemed right.
Would she care? He had thought not. But she’d called, worried about his health. And he’d just about brushed her off. Asshole! He wanted to bang his head against the wall, but he already had enough physical pain to deal with.
What else could he do? He was tied down in a very public engagement to a woman who wasn’t right for him. The relationship strangled him, leaving him empty inside. Caught between his obligation and his desire, he ran in circles, looking for the right path. It reminded him of those House of Mirror things at an amusement park. Everywhere he turned, he saw Vanessa reflected. He couldn’t find his way out.
It was eleven o’clock, and now, he was wide awake. His cell rang. This time it was Vanessa.
“Harley! Did I wake you?
“I was up.”
“Good. How are you? The news said you’d been injured.”
“Yeah. Bruised ribs. I’ll live.”
“Oh, good. Glad it’s nothing serious.”
He bit his tongue. Silence stretched between them.
“When are you coming back?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m doing an interview with ‘Bride’s Magazine’ tomorrow. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
“I might just pop back and surprise you.”
“Great. Let me know. It’s late, and I’m tired.”
“Of course. Goodnight, darling. Sleep well.” She made a kissing noise into the phone.
He cringed. “Same to you,” he said, then disconnected.
He poured a shot of good scotch and downed it before crawling back under the covers. He needed comfort. Not sex, because it would be much too painful, no matter what position you picked. Good, old-fashioned comfort, like a bowl of homemade chicken soup. The only place he’d find that would be in Shyla Hollings’ bed. But that was far away and off limits. He stared at the ceiling, counted sheep, and tossed until his aching body passed out into sleep.
The next morning at ten, he woke up sore. Working out was not on the schedule for the day’s activities. He decided to drown his sorrows in corned beef at Pete & Joe’s. None of the players came in because they were all working out or practicing. So, he got his food to go and headed for the stadium. Being with the team always made things better.
He toted his paper bag to the sidelines where the defensive and offensive coordinators were running the players through the new plays. He sat down on the bench and fished out his sandwich. The assistant coach blew the whistle and called for a break. Everyone was on Harley in thirty seconds.
“Corned beef? Where’d you get that?” Tuffer Demson asked.
“Pete & Joe’s. In town. You haven’t had this yet? You’re missing something. It’s great.”
Harley could see the defensive linebacker start to drool as he swallowed. The younger man stared at the sandwich.
“No, I ain’t sharin’, buddy.”
“Just one bite?”
“One bite from you will be the whole thing!” Harley teased, but he handed his food to Demson, who took a healthy chunk.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were injured?” Trunk said.
“I was. Am. But I’m not dead. It’s not a concussion. Just bruised ribs.”
Coach Bass slapped him on the back, causing him to double over.
“Hey, Coach. Could you watch that?”
“Oh, sorry, sorry. I forgot. How are your ribs?”
“Tender. But I can play this week.”
“Get checked out with Doc first. In the meantime, no practice for you and no workouts, either. Watch the corned beef.”
“Aye, aye.”
“That asshole on the Sidewinders is asking for it,” Griff said, as he joined Harley.
“If he keeps playing like that he’ll get suspended,” Bullhorn Brodsky put in.
“And fined,” Tuffer added.
“Serves the dickwad right,” Harley said, between bites.
“Where did you say Pete & Joe’s is?” Demson asked.
Harley gave him directions then put a hoodie on under his windbreaker and sat in the sun, watching the team run plays. When he’d first come to the Kings, he had missed his old team, the Delaware Demons. But the Kings had taken him in right away, and he considered them family.
After practice he, Tuffer, Bull, and Trunk headed to The Savage Beast. Harley had a beer with his burger. The men played darts and were surprised when Demson won.
“I wonder if he’s as accurate with his dick,” Ha
rley wondered.
“Dunno. Let’s ask him. Hey, Demson, how’s your sex life?” Trunk snickered.
“Shut up, Trunk,” Tuffer replied, picking up a handful of darts. “Any assholes in the bunch want to take me on again?”
“Are you kidding? You’re a ringer. Must’ve been a pro in another life,” Bull said.
Tuffer laughed. “Yeah, right. Chickens. All of you. Doesn’t anyone have any balls?”
“Gotta save mine for my wife,” Trunk piped up.
Carla, passing by with an empty tray, shot him a hostile look.
“Uh oh. Someone’s in trouble,” Harley put in.
“I’d better shut up,” Trunk said. “But I’ll take your challenge Demson. Here. Ten bucks says you can’t do it again.”
“There’s a sucker born every day.” Tuffer grinned.
The evening passed with a few pitchers of beer and lots of games of darts. Tuffer won all but two. Harley and Bull each won one. Harley walked around the block to make sure he was sober enough to drive home, even though Trunk had offered.
With the top down, the cool, September air caressed his face. He turned on the radio, blasting it high to sing along with a favorite song. Life was good. Sure, his ribs were almost broken, and his love life was in the crapper, but otherwise, he was happy.
He didn’t expect to find the lights on when he got home. He never left them on and wondered if someone had broken in. He picked up the bat he had in the garage and carefully approached his front door.
When he opened it, the word “surprise” came at him like a ton of bricks. There stood Vanessa, wearing nothing but a black negligee.
Harley’s mouth dropped open. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you wanted me here.”
“I did. I do. I mean. Sure. But I thought…”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You sure as hell did.”
“Come on, let’s go upstairs.” She shot him a provocative glance and held out her hand.
He laughed. “Of all the things. I can’t do anything.”
“You can’t?”
“Baby, my ribs were almost broken! I can hardly move. I sure as hell can’t pump into you.”
“Damn! I was hoping we could get frisky.”
“That’s sweet.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “But not tonight. Maybe by the weekend. Will you be here?”
“Just through Sunday. Then, I’ve got a photo shoot for Alvarinse Shampoo.”
“A commercial?”
“No, a print ad. Regional. But I can show it around. My agent said it’s a good beginning.”
“Good for you.”
“Are you drunk?”
“I had a few. But I walked it off. I’m not drunk. Just feeling good. How about a little cuddle with your future husband.”
“Of course, darling. Whatever you want.”
He marched up the steps, unsure of what he’d find in the bedroom.
Chapter Thirteen
Harley passed an uneasy few days between Tuesday and Saturday. Vanessa stayed with him, as promised. He went to practice, lying about why he had to be there, simply to get out of the house. Vanessa’s incessant chatter at him about producers, magazine editors, and Steffie, her agent, drove him crazy. Her attention span for football appeared to grow shorter with each conversation.
“You’re going to feel like an asshole at the game if you don’t know what’s going on,” he warned her Saturday night. She would be attending the game with the team wives and girlfriends. The women were curious to meet her.
So, she turned off her phone and sat listening to him for half an hour. At that point, she declared, “I’ve got it. Cheer when one of the men in a turquoise and white outfit crosses the goal line. Or if someone kicks the ball over that big thingy behind the goal line. Right?”
His mouth hung open at her explanation of the game. It would have been hilarious if he’d seen it on TV, but to hear it coming from his fiancée’s mouth chilled him to the bone. “Sort of. There are things called ‘downs’—”
“If you don’t get a down, do you get an ‘up’?”
Again, he stared. No one could be that ignorant or stupid or whatever. “You really don’t know shit about football, do you? Did you have a father? Brothers?”
“No brothers. My dad, yes. He’d watch sometimes. Those were days when mom got permission to go shopping. So, we’d leave the house while the game was on.”
This was going to be tougher than he had imagined. “Starting from square one.”
“I like it the way Dad did it. Can’t I go shopping during the game?”
“Don’t you want to watch me play?”
“Of course. But you don’t play the whole time, do you?”
“No, the defense is on the field half the time.”
“Can I go shopping then?”
Harley smacked his palm to his forehead. “It doesn’t work like that. You have to stay and watch the whole game.”
“Do the other wives stay?”
“Yes, and some actually enjoy it. Some girlfriends too. After the game, we go to The Savage Beast.” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep Shyla’s face out of his mind.
“Different strokes, you know,” she said, switching on her phone again. “Look. Two messages from Steffie.”
That’s when he figured his time hogging her attention was up. Harley went down to the gym he’d had constructed in his basement and turned on the treadmill. He couldn’t lift anything, but he could walk off his frustration.
That’s it. I can’t take this anymore. It’s over.
Screwing up his courage more and more with each step he took, his resolve hardened. He had to call off the engagement. Setting his jaw firmly, his lips flattened into a thin line, he was surprised when the door opened.
“I know you can’t have sex on account of your ribs. But do you want a blow job?”
Her version of a sly, sexy grin made him want to laugh. But he didn’t. He could hardly believe his ears. “Are you kidding?”
“Nope. Drop ’em, mister,” she said, reaching for the “off” button on the machine.
He studied her face for an ulterior motive, but didn’t see one.
She lowered her gaze. “I know I haven’t been very nice. I haven’t given you any time or attention. I feel bad, I really do. You’ve given me all this money, and I’ve been, well, ungrateful. But I’m not. Really. Honestly. I’m not. I think you’ve been wonderful, and I thank my lucky stars every day that we’re going to get married.”
“You do?” He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“I do. Ask Steffie. She’ll tell you how often I talk about you and how much I admire your success and your generosity. I mean, letting me stay in L.A. all this time. It’s really great of you and has meant a lot to me.”
He stood studying her, marveling at the humble look about her. Either she was the world’s greatest actress, or she really meant it. Did she sense he was about to throw in the towel? How could she? Her beauty resurfaced.
She put her hands on either side of his shorts and lowered them. “You won’t be sorry. I’m good at this,” she said, kneeling before him.
All Harley could do was stare. When she bent over him, he shut his eyes and closed his fingers around the railing of the treadmill, bracing himself. Within thirty seconds, he found himself in total agreement with her for the first time.
She is good. Very good, indeed.
* * * *
On Sunday, Vanessa took two hours to get ready for the game, almost making him late to practice. Fortunately, knowing her penchant for taking her time dressing and applying makeup, he’d planned a ton of extra time before they were to leave for the stadium. The team wives and girlfriends gave her a warm welcome. Stormy Gregory, Devon Drake’s girlfriend, took Vanessa with her to find a seat.
Harley was feeling pretty good. Doc re-taped his chest, and added extra padding then gave the green light to play. “Take it easy. No
more injuries.”
Harley nodded and returned to the locker room. As he dressed for their game against the Montana Rams, he re-assessed his relationship with Vanessa. Her apology, confession, and sexual ability stunned him. He re-evaluated their engagement and decided to leave it in tact for the time being. Vanessa had hidden talents he looked forward to exploring.
“Coach is still pissed,” Griff said, opening his locker.
“About what?” Trunk asked.
“Didn’t you hear? Before his wife was his wife, she got pissed at Lyle, quit, and took a job with the Rams.”
“She left?” Harley asked.
“Almost. The rumor was that she’d thrown the ring in Coach’s face and was shacking up with the Ram’s owner.”
“Holy shit! Really?” Trunk sat on the bench to tie his shoes.
“Coach made a stink. He was mad.” Griff whistled. “I’ve never seen him that mad.”
“What happened?”
“He got Lyle to apologize. Then, he talked her into marrying him,” Griff said.
“Coach is persuasive, but he got Lyle to apologize?” Devon Drake asked.
“It was impressive. He wasn’t going to let her get away.” Griff slammed his locker shut.
“That’s why he hates the Rams?” Bull asked.
“I think so.” Griff combed his hair.
“He sure gets worked up before a Rams game,” Harley piped up.
When Coach Bass entered the room, all talking ceased. He looked around. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we need to go over a few things before we beat the shit out of the Rams.”
The players looked at each other.
“What? Is my dick hanging out?” Coach glanced down. “Here’s the plan. No deviation. We’ve got to cream them. No three-point victory like last week. I want at least twenty points. Humiliate them. Gotta let them know who’s the better team. Right?”
“Got it, Coach.”
“You bet.”
“All the way.”
Harley Brennan, Running Back Page 16