One Night with a Quarterback

by Jeanette Murray

Cassie stood and walked—blessedly naked—to her suitcase on the luggage rack by the TV stand. She rummaged around a bit, then came out with an old T-shirt that hung down to her knees. He wanted to protest as the material slithered down to cover her ass. The gray fabric looked well worn, like one of those shirts you kept until they literally fell apart at the seams from a thousand washings. He grimaced as she turned and he saw the Atlanta Falcons logo on the front.

  “What?” She glanced down, moving tangled hair out of her way.

  He grunted, then muttered, “Damn Falcons.”

  “How did you see that from over there without your glasses?”

  He froze mid-loop and stared at the toe of his shoe. Shit.

  She laughed. “You must be a massive sports nut if you can make out the fuzzy outline of their logo from across the room.”

  His heart kicked back up to speed. “Yeah, well, any self-respecting football fan wouldn’t be caught dead in that shirt.”

  “It’s just a shirt.” She shrugged when he stared at her. “What? It is. It’s not like I got a tattoo of a honey badger or some random sports icon on my butt or anything. I wear it to bed, not even out of the house.”

  “Why’d you buy it, then?” He stood. Really, he should have left by now. So why was he tripping down this completely ill-fated path?

  “Parting gift from an old college boyfriend. He abandoned it at my place, much like he abandoned me for some hot-tits slut. Keeping the shirt—along with some CDs and a nearly worthless pair of sunglasses—seemed appropriate.”

  He grinned at that before reaching back to grab his fake glasses.

  “I liked how soft it was, and I don’t really care much about sports. They’ve never held my interest.” Her mouth quirked a little. “I have a feeling that might change soon.”

  Settling the frames back on his face awkwardly, he stuffed his hands in his back pockets. “Why’s that?”

  “My . . .” She paused, then spent a good ten seconds rearranging the contents of her purse that had spilled out of her bag. In a rush to grab another condom before they’d had sex the second time, most everything had rolled onto the TV console before she’d found the pair of foil packets. “My father is sort of into football.”

  “Falcons, too?”

  “He doesn’t live in Georgia.” She rolled her eyes and waved a hand through the air. “Who cares, right? Non-issue tonight.”

  Her words were casual, dismissive. But they broke just a little. He stepped up to her and wrapped her in a close hug. Just because he wasn’t going to be there tomorrow to offer comfort didn’t mean tonight was a wash for it. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Whatever hurts.”

  She snuggled into him, almost a foot shorter than his six-foot-four frame, and he liked the feeling. Liked that he gave her even a moment’s sense of security, and not because of his name or his job. Just because she enjoyed his company and him.

  If things hadn’t started out so oddly, if she hadn’t been just a visitor, and if he’d had time to invest in a relationship, it might have been the beginning of something amazing.

  But now he was the weirdo who wore a disguise—no matter how pathetic—and carried out the farce of being blind. She lived in Georgia. And pre-season training was starting up again, meaning he was going to be busier than ever.

  Piss poor timing all around.

  She sighed and stepped back. “Okay. No heavy good-bye ending.” With a bright smile, she took his hand and walked him to the door. “Do you want me to come down to the lobby?”

  “In that outfit?” He took in her tan bare legs poking out from the hem of the shirt, which was not at all concealing the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra. “I can take it from here.” Trey reached for the door handle and opened it an inch.

  She rose up on her tiptoes, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and pulled him down for one last kiss. He lost his grip on the door and it slammed shut again as he pressed her back against the wall to take full advantage.

  God, he didn’t want to leave. But he had work in the morning, and she was clearly ready to be alone. Not to mention the nervous friend two doors down who would probably call the cops if they delayed another hour to use up her last condom.

  Finally, he pulled back enough to rest his forehead against hers. But when he opened his eyes, he realized his glasses were fogged up. He grinned.

  “Clearly, we’re hot enough to steam things up.”

  She snorted. “Bad.”

  “Yes, yes it was.” He kissed her once more, on the tip of her nose, because he couldn’t end things with a bad pun. Then he let the door close quietly behind him.

  That . . . was amazing.

  And he wanted to kick himself for not having the ability to get back in there, confess the deception, and start over from scratch. Try again, see how things would go, and really fight for a chance.

  Not in the cards, Trey. Move on.

  He took one step, then another down the bright hallway carpet runner. He hit the down button without a problem. Stepped into the elevator car, no worries. But the second he stepped out of the elevator in the lobby and it shut behind him, he pivoted on his heel and punched the up button again.

  The red arrow indicated the elevator had already left to head back up for new passengers. He swore under his breath and paced. So it gave him a few extra minutes to come up with a decent explanation as to why he was wearing the disguise a third grader could come up with.

  His phone vibrated and beeped, and he nearly turned it off. But resisting the impulse, he swiped his thumb over the screen and brought up the incoming text.

  Help.

  He sighed, looked longingly at the elevator, then headed for the front door. He couldn’t risk assuming Stephen was being dramatic and could wait another ten minutes while he ran up there. He’d head to the club, see what mess Stephen had gotten himself into, pray to God he could pry his friend back out without being discovered, and try again in an hour.

  Of course, if he was being dramatic and there was no emergency . . . well. Trey’s hand clenched as he stepped back into the night air and turned for the club. He’d just have to kill his best friend at practice the next day.

  * * *

  Cassie sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at a photo and bio sheet she’d printed out before leaving Atlanta.

  Okay, so she wasn’t staring so much as gazing at it with a glazed over lack of concentration. Her mind should have been on the bio sheet. Or, better yet, she could break out her laptop and use Google images to bring up photos of the faces she’d stared at a thousand times since last month, but never in person.

  She jolted at the knock at the door, and cursed herself for immediately thinking Trey was coming back for her.

  Coming back for her. She scoffed at her own immaturity. This wasn’t some wartime romance movie where he’d run to catch her at the train station before she left for parts unknown. They barely knew each other. One night, and some fantastic sex, did not a relationship make.

  She glared at the messed-up sex bed. Then she hustled to answer the more impatient knock.

  She jerked open the door just as Anya started to pound. Her friend stumbled a little before righting herself.

  “Thank God. You didn’t answer the last text and I was this close to calling management.” Anya held her finger and thumb an inch apart. “Is he gone?”

  “Yes, he’s gone, Oh Paranoid One.” She let the door close and walked back to her bed and crawled up until she rested back against the headboard. Anya joined her, after staring for a moment at the sex bed, with its covers ripped off, pillows dumped to the floor, and mattress slightly askew.

  They sat quietly for a minute. Cassie with the bio sheet in her hands, Anya in her ridiculous matching Hugh Hefner–style PJs.

  “Was it good?”

  Cassie closed her eyes and conjured up the feel of Trey’s hands on her, around her, inside her. “It was, yes.”

  “You’re blushing.”

&n
bsp; “I’ve got multiple reasons to blush.” She grinned at her friend, whose mouth hung open. “Let’s just say, the man was good with his hands.”

  Anya nodded briskly. “So that’s out of your system. What are you wearing tomorrow?”

  Leave it to her bestie to get down to the technical aspects of the most monumental moment of her adult life. “I don’t know, my denim skirt and a tank top?”

  Anya’s lips pursed, then she climbed down and started rooting around in Cassie’s luggage.

  “Help yourself,” Cassie said wryly.

  Anya didn’t reply.

  Cassie tried once more to concentrate on the bio sheet, but her mind wandered. Trey’s lips on hers, on her neck, on her breasts . . .

  “Here. Wear this. It’s less Casual Gal Sightseeing and more Adult Woman in Charge of Her Life.”

  “Is that going on a Hi, My Name Is name tag?” But she studied the outfit Anya had set out. Her dark, trouser-leg jeans, a gray tank with some lace edging, and a three-quarter-sleeve blazer that cut in at her ribs and gave her a good silhouette. “Shoes?”

  “Flats. The hunter green ones.”

  Cassie considered for a moment, then nodded. “Hair?”

  “Side part, low ponytail. But loose, not slicked back.”

  “Damn, you’re good,” Cassie murmured.

  “It’s why I get paid to shop for others. Helping the social elite of Atlanta design their wardrobe gives me a purpose.” Anya smiled smugly as she picked up the blazer and started to lay it out on the other bed. “Er, right. I’ll hang this up so you’ve got it all set for tomorrow.”

  Of course, her friend would be horrified by the lingering remnants of nearly anonymous sexy times. “Anya?”

  “Yeah?” She poked her head from around the corner where the closet and bathroom were angled.

  “It was so worth it.”

  Her friend smiled softly. “I’m glad.” She hung up the blazer, then walked back and sat on the edge of the bed. Gently, she removed the bio sheet from Cassie’s hands and held it up. “Tomorrow’s the big day.”

  “Damn right, it is.”

  Anya studied the face on the page. “How are you going to introduce yourself?”

  Cassie’s grin was a little sharper than usual. “Hi, Dad. I’m Cassie, your daughter.”

  Chapter Four

  Cassie wiped the damp palms of her hands over the thighs of her Anya-approved jeans, then caught herself in the gesture. She stepped up to the front desk and gripped one hand around the handle of her tote. The receptionist—a sunny-looking woman in her late thirties or early forties with a no-nonsense bun and simple white collar shirt—glanced up from her computer and smiled.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, hi.” Her heart raced and she nearly bolted for the door. Steady now. This is why you came. “I have an appointment to see . . .” My dad? Mr. Jordan? Coach Jordan?

  The woman waited, then glanced back at her computer with a quick scroll. “Are you Ms. Wainwright?”

  Relief made her knees a little weak. Thank God for the flats. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Mr. Jordan is expecting you. I’m Kristen Keplar, front office administrator. Let me show you back.”

  “Oh, I’m okay, I can just . . .” She gave up the protest when the woman stood and pressed a few buttons on the complicated phone, then motioned for her to follow. Cassie shrugged her tote strap higher and followed. What else was she supposed to do?

  They walked down thickly carpeted hallways, around a curve and past multiple framed photos. Previous coaches—their names and years announced on brass plaques—separated the large, vintage-style team photos from the eighties and nineties. How did they get seventy guys that size to stand still and squish together so well? Several small glass display cases were strategically placed, holding small to mid-sized gold, silver, and brass trophies.

  As they walked by a set of offices, the doors open so she could see the occupants hard at work, Cassie said, “I didn’t realize it took this many people to run a football team.”

  “Oh, this is just a fraction. Of course, the players get the big credit,” Kristen said, waving a hand, displaying a cute chunky bangle that matched her earrings. “As they should. The coaches and everyone on the field and around the locker room who you see on camera on Monday nights. But it’s a major business as well as a team. It takes hundreds to run the behind-the-scenes operations of a big franchise like the Bobcats. Though this is more of a skeleton staff. It gets busier the closer we get to the opening game.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling sort of stupid. In her mind, she pictured her father and his merry band of players showing up on game day and leaving afterward. It hadn’t occurred to her what happened behind the scenes. Now she realized how naïve that was.

  Kristen paused to say a quick hello to another woman and ask about lunch before walking on.

  Holy cow, the building was huge. “Do all the coaches have offices here in the main building?”

  “No, just Mr. Jordan. He has a lot of dull, paperwork-style business when he’s in here, not to mention a lot of his charity work. But the majority of his real work is done through his office at the stadium or at the practice field.”

  Kristen paused a moment, and Cassie knew it was on the tip of her tongue to ask what Cassie’s business was with the head coach of a major organization like this. But being a damn good administrative assistant, she said nothing and motioned for her to continue.

  Finally, they walked into a large room. One huge desk sat in the middle, manned by a stern-looking man who Cassie guessed would be in his sixties, if not older. His fingers flew over the keyboard like piano keys, and he didn’t look up at all when they approached. “That Wainwright?” he barked out.

  Kristen rolled her eyes at Cassie conspiratorially. “Hi, Frank. Yes, this is Ms. Wainwright.”

  “He’s in his office.” The fingers never left the keyboard and his eyes never left the screen. His salt-and- pepper moustache twitched a little as he sniffed. “You’re two minutes late.”

  “Franky, you have got to stop being so talkative to the guests. It distracts them,” Kristen teased, then gave her a wink and walked around the desk to a corner door. She knocked twice, then cracked open the door. “Ms. Wainwright to see you, sir.”

  A deep voice answered, but it was too low for Cassie to make out the words.

  “He’s ready.” Kristen held open the door and motioned for her to go through. “Good luck.”

  Suddenly, she was five years old again, looking for a man to love in every adult male she ran into. Desperately craving the approval, the attention, the love from someone who mattered so much and for whom she mattered not at all. Behind those doors stood the man who had the power to crush every childhood fantasy and every secret adult dream.

  Sensing a female ally, Cassie wanted to grab Kristen’s wrist and drag her in with her to buffer the awkward moment. “Thanks.” She rubbed her hands down her pants again, then shook them out and straightened her tote. She had to stop doing that.

  “It’ll be fine,” Kristen whispered. Then, with a gentle push, Cassie stepped into her father’s office.

  * * *

  He was shorter than she expected.

  That? It was her first time meeting her father—ever—and her initial impression was his height?

  Ken Jordan stood, his frame bulky, but not fat. His half-Samoan ancestry gave his skin a deep, never-fading tan. His black hair had gray streaks starting at the temples, and his dark eyes took a quick inventory of her as she walked toward the large desk.

  Cassie mentally thanked Anya for helping her pick out a decent outfit. Something warned her he wouldn’t have approved of her casual skirt and flip-flops.

  “Cassandra.” His voice was a bit gruff, but with a smooth hint of his Hawaiian roots.

  “Cassie, please. Hi . . .” She trailed off, freezing in front of his desk. Hug? Handshake? Stare awkwardly at each other?

  Apparently they were both going
with option C.

  “Sit, please.” He motioned with a large hand toward one of the chairs, his movements stiff. Then he sat himself, the chair groaning a little under his weight. He was built like a box. A muscular box, but a box.

  “Sure.” She perched on the edge of her chair, letting her tote fall to her feet on the thick carpet.

  Oh, good. More option C. Staring.

  Finally, he spoke. “Your mother called me a few weeks ago. Explained the situation. After the expedited DNA tests . . . well.” He shrugged. “You know about that much. You would have gotten the results. No denying you’re my daughter.”

  Cassie nodded.

  “I have to tell you, I don’t appreciate being lied to.” His voice roughened. “Nearly thirty years of lies by omission. I wouldn’t have turned my back on her if I’d known about you. I would have done something before now. And I don’t mind saying it pisses me off that I wasn’t even given the chance.”

  Cassie’s lips quirked. “I wasn’t too pleased either, honestly. This whole time, I thought you were some deadbeat who took off when the stick turned blue. I’m not sure if she ever would have told me the truth, except after her cancer scare . . .” Her throat threatened to close, so she let that stand.

  He nodded, understanding the difficulty. “It’s done. I tell my players every day, you can’t control someone else’s actions, only your own. What we do from here is our business.”

  She smiled a little, blinking back tears.

  Ken—because she couldn’t quite mentally wrap around the label Dad just yet—leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. His dark forearms matched the wood, reminding her of her own slightly lighter, dusky skin tone. Her perpetual tan, her mother called it.

  “I have a family here. I’ve got a wife and two daughters. Tabitha knows about this. I told her the minute I was done talking with your mother. I don’t hide things from my wife.” He scowled again, reminded of the deception from a long-past girlfriend.

  Feeling the need to defend her mother, Cassie said, “She was young and scared. You both were young. And you broke up with her.”