One Night with a Quarterback

by Jeanette Murray

  Cassie’s practical choice of older jeans and a T-shirt with one sleeve hem unraveling suddenly seemed like a very stupid decision.

  Tabitha huffed a little, but stepped back gracefully and smiled. “So you’re Cassie. Your father said you were lovely, and he was right. I’m Tabitha.” She held out a hand, which Cassie shook, praying her own hand wasn’t slippery with sweat. “I’m here to help you settle into the pool house.”

  “Thanks.” She stood there a moment longer while the older woman observed her quietly. “The, uh, door’s locked. I tried it already.”

  “Oh, of course.” She slid around Cassie and her suitcase and pulled out a pair of keys on a fake climbing ring and unlocked the front door. “I had a set made for you. The second key is for the small storage shed behind the house, in case you had anything else that wouldn’t fit. It’s got some pool toys, but not much. Our girls are too old to play with that sort of thing anymore.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cassie wheeled her suitcase behind and followed Tabitha into the cottage house. Everything was polished, from the small kitchenette shining with stainless-steel appliances to the full- length windows overlooking the back woods.

  “Two bedrooms, though the second is really miniscule. Better for an office. Ken, I mean, your father”—she said again, stumbling only a little over the term—“said you would be working. Telecommuting, I believe he said.”

  The word was said with the underline tone of Why would anyone do that?

  “I’m a tech nerd,” Cassie said, by way of explanation. That was usually enough. The farther she went into her job description, the more glazed over the eyes of her victim tended to get. Wheeling her suitcase into what she hoped was the main bedroom—score, it was—she set it to the side and did a quick three-sixty.

  Smaller than a typical master bedroom, but clean and comfortable. A full-size bed, nightstand, and dresser took up the majority of the room. But the flat screen mounted on the wall above the dresser was a nice touch.

  She walked back out to find Tabitha standing in the living room still, hands clasped in front of her. “I put the keys on the kitchen table. If you need food or anything, feel free to come knock on the door and ask our housekeeper for anything you require.”

  There it was. The housekeeper. Cassie used picking up the keys as a cover for her quick self-satisfied grin. As she pocketed them, she realized she’d been given a key to the pool house and a storage shed . . . but not the main house.

  Come knock on the door.

  She’d been wrong. The last barrier to a relationship with her father wasn’t the frilly iron gate out front.

  It was Tabitha.

  “Mrs. Jordan?”

  Cassie shrieked a little at the disembodied voice overtaking the pool house. She spun around, but nobody was there.

  Tabitha smiled slightly and walked to an intercom by the front door. “The pool house is also wired to our in-house system. That’s our housekeeper, Rose.” She pressed a button and said, “Yes, Rose?”

  “Mrs. Jordan, you have a phone call from the Eyes on Family Society.”

  “Oh, all right, I’ll be there momentarily. Please ask them to hold.” She took her finger off the button and turned. “I’m sorry, but I really have to get that.”

  “Of course. Thanks for showing me around and . . . stuff,” she finished lamely. God, this was awkward. She stood, waiting for Tabitha to walk out. But the woman just stared at her a moment, then took a step forward and wrapped her arms around Cassie in a stiff hug. Not one of those soothing motherly hugs you wanted to sink into and stay in for the comfort. But more like the hug of someone who didn’t want to get too close. Cassie stood there, frozen to the floor, as Tabitha pulled back and put on a smile that looked like it hurt.

  “Welcome.” And with that one word, Tabitha gracefully floated out the front door, closing it softly behind her.

  * * *

  Trey knocked briefly on the back door to Stephen’s house, then tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, as usual—the dumbass—but he’d expected that. As often as he’d warned his friend to lock his damn doors, the ability to get in without breaking a window was a blessing.

  After stopping off in the kitchen for two bottles of water—and a sigh of disgust at the amount of liquor and beer in the fridge—he wandered the house until he found Stephen snoring loud enough to wake the dead in his bed. Still fully dressed, his face pressed into the pillow so hard it was a wonder he could breathe, Stephen had one knee under his stomach. Taking aim, Trey launched a rocket that hit his target.

  The rocket being the water bottle. The target being Stephen’s up-ended ass.

  “Fuck me!” Stephen rolled hard enough to fall out of bed, landing with a thump. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then glanced around warily until his bloodshot eyes landed on Trey. “Jesus, never mind. Don’t fuck me. Just get out.”

  “Head hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Trey picked up the water bottle, uncapped it and handed it to his friend. After a few swallows, the chalky white pallor started to fade on Stephen’s face. “You deserved that.”

  “Maybe. What for?”

  Trey closed his eyes for a moment, then slid down the wall by the bed until he was sitting next to his hung over friend. “What for . . .” he muttered. “You made an ass out of yourself. Again. You can’t keep doing this shit, and you know it. What’s the matter with you?”

  Stephen took another sip of water before handing the bottle back to be capped. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face, as if trying to wake himself up more. “Dunno.”

  “That’s a five-year-old’s answer. Try being a big boy.”

  “I don’t know,” Stephen said, enunciating each word clearly. “I never mean to do this. I just . . . maybe I suck at anticipating how hard the liquor will hit me.”

  “Maybe you should stop drinking the liquor entirely.”

  Stephen shot him a disbelieving look. “That’s a joke, right?”

  The fact that it wasn’t, and his subsequent disappointment in his friend’s answer, told Trey a lot about his gut feelings on the subject. “Cool it. You know Coach Jordan will rip you a new one if he finds out you’re acting like a sloppy sorority girl all over town. Nothing stays a secret forever, and we can’t keep walking behind you with a dust pan sweeping up your shit.”

  Stephen opened his mouth—most likely to argue—but snapped it shut again and rolled onto his stomach with a groan.

  “Gonna hurl?”

  “No,” came the muffled reply.

  “I’d say that’s a pity, but it’d only be punishing your housekeeping service who would have to clean it up anyway.”

  “Just go away.”

  “No.”

  “Why?” came the whiny question.

  “Because I love your stupid ass. So start being worthy.”

  The chuckle sounded painful.

  “I’m not kidding, man. Who’s gonna protect me in the pocket if you can’t play because Jordan benched you? I need you, man.”

  There was more to it. They both knew that. They’d been best friends for years, and Stephen was like a brother to him. But guy code insisted now was not the time for the truly mushy stuff. So it came down to using lingo they could both relate to.

  Football.

  “I’m always there.”

  “You haven’t been, lately. You’re showing up late to meetings, slacking off in weights. You look like hell. And if you don’t mind me saying so . . .” Trey nudged his friend’s hip, watched his body rock and settle again. “You’ve put on a few.”

  “They always want me to put on a few. They’re asking me to put on another twenty. Every pound’s another pound between you and a gorilla from another team.”

  True. But still . . . “It’s not healthy, especially if most of it is from beer. If you drop dead of liver failure on the field, you’re really going to piss me off.”

  “That would piss me off, too.” Stephen rolled over onto his back and
draped one arm over his eyes. “I don’t have a problem.”

  Yes, you do. “If there’s no problem, then give up the drinking for awhile. Just to shut me up. You know I can carry on like a little girl if I don’t get my way.”

  Stephen’s laughter was a bit stronger this time. “How true that is.”

  “So just . . . lay off for awhile. If it’s not a problem, then you should have no trouble. I’ll be proven wrong—a rare occurrence, indeed—and we can move on.”

  His friend held out the hand not shielding his eyes from the light for a handshake. “Whatever.”

  Whatever, indeed.

  * * *

  Clothes put away in the dressers . . . check.

  Notepad full of things for Anya to send . . . check.

  Set up office and email to boss . . . check.

  Email mom to update her . . . check.

  Die of boredom . . . in-progress.

  Cassie pushed back from the desk, letting the rolling chair glide over the wood floors of the guest bedroom. Her head fell back and she observed the whitewashed ceilings. It was college finals week all over again. Staring blankly at a point on the wall and losing track of hours at a time.

  Maybe she should go over and knock on the back door of the main house, ask if her father was around. But she just got here . . . was that too presumptuous? Then again, if he’d just met her when she told him she’d be coming in, she wouldn’t be wondering where he was.

  There was a knock at the door, and she bolted up in the chair and sprinted toward the distraction. Then skidded to a halt when she saw through the glass front door, not her father, but two teenage girls.

  His daughters. Her . . . sisters.

  The shorter one waved and grinned, bouncing a little in her old-school penny loafers. The taller one raised a brow, in an extremely scary imitation of her mother. Both had light blonde hair and pale cream skin, as if they never stepped outside without a parasol and SPF 90 sunscreen.

  Cassie wiped her hands down her jeans and opened the door. “Hey. You guys must be Irene and Mellie?”

  “Yup. I’m Mellie and she’s Irene. And you’re Cassandra.” The shorter of the two, Mellie brushed past Cassie and bounced into the house. “This is the pool house, so we’ve been here a million times, but all the sudden it feels different, you know? Like stepping into someone else’s house.”

  “Not that it kept her from waiting to be invited in,” Irene added in a low voice. Still standing on the front step, she held out a hand. “Irene Jordan.”

  She took the hand and shook once. “Call me Cassie.”

  “Please ignore my younger sister.” The younger bit sounded beleaguered, as if she were speaking as a full-fledged adult about a toddler. Stepping in with her mother’s same grace, she surveyed the house. “We aren’t in here often. Have you settled in?”

  The mini-Tabitha welcoming committee. “It’s great. Everything’s fine.” Say something else . . . She noted the plaid skirt that reached nearly to Irene’s knees, with the simple light green polo. “School uniform?”

  Irene blinked, then glanced down at the outfit. Her light blonde hair swept off her shoulders at the gesture. “No . . . it’s just what I wear. My school uniform is red and gray.”

  “Oh.” Open mouth, insert foot. “Well, it’s cute.”

  Irene’s look said I’m going to let that obvious lie go.

  “Oh, my God, she’s got real clothes!”

  Mellie’s voice drifted from the master bedroom, and Cassie grinned. “Guess she’s making herself at home.”

  “As usual,” Irene said, then wandered back toward the bedroom without invitation.

  Cassie closed the front door and blew out a breath. Oooo-kay then. Here goes nothing.

  She found Mellie sitting in front of the dresser, several of her tops already littered on the carpet, another in her hand. Her youngest half sister held up the simple tank top.

  “Are you actually allowed to wear this?”

  Allowed? Cassie held back a snort. “I don’t wear it to work or anything, but yeah. Just for going out or whatever, sure.” The straps were over an inch wide, and when she put it on, it covered from cleavage to the waistband of her pants. Nothing scandalous or remotely controversial about it.

  Mellie’s eyes widened in her cherubic face, and she held it up to her own torso. “Mom would blow a gasket.”

  “Yes, she would. So put it back,” Irene snapped. Though Cassie noted, she didn’t have any problems sitting on Cassie’s borrowed bed and looking at the photos she’d propped up against the bedside lamp.

  Taking a chance, she went and sat near Irene on the bed. “That one’s my mom. She’s back in Atlanta.”

  Irene picked up the photo of Cassie and her mother at Cassie’s college graduation. Her mother was a wonderful woman, with a soft look to her. Her hair was falling a little to the left, and her grin was maybe a bit wider than a practiced smile. The dress she wore was suitable for her job as an assistant principal, and not quite the height of fashion. In short . . . the exact opposite of Tabitha.

  “She’s nothing like Mom,” Irene said softly, then placed the photo back. “But you’re way older than us anyway. Obviously, Dad’s tastes changed.”

  Cassie bit her tongue to keep from snapping. Irene was sixteen. The age sucked badly enough without suddenly being told your dad had another kid from another woman from another period of his life. She needed time to adjust.

  “This skirt is insane!” Mellie squealed from the floor.

  Clearly, each sister needed different amounts of time.

  * * *

  The heavy air of the weight room was tinged with the familiar—but still repugnant—smell of sweat and disinfectant. But that was the equally agreeable thing about it . . . no matter what state, what organization, what sport you were in, the weight room would always smell the same.

  Trey skirted around two linemen benching twice his body weight with a shake of his head. They were animals, but God love them for keeping his ass safe.

  Josiah grinned up at him from his own bench. “Here to spot?”

  “If I have to.” Trey set his water bottle down and double checked the locks in front of the weights. “This it?”

  “I’m tapering,” his friend said, a scowl on his face. “We’ve got the scrimmage this weekend.” With a huff, and Trey’s guidance, Josiah unracked the bar and began his set of chest presses.

  This weekend. Damn. Right. He’d been planning to run over by the hotel and try to charm someone from the front desk out of Cassie’s contact information. Phone number, at least. Maybe even a forwarding address, if such a thing existed. Did they?

  A grunt sounded, and Trey glanced down. “Done?”

  “You can’t . . . arg.” Josiah racked the bar with some assistance. “You can’t count for shit.”

  “Sorry. Distracted.”

  “Next time you’re distracted, don’t offer to spot me at one-eighty-five.”

  “Check.” He added some weight for his own set, locked the bars, and slid down for an eight-count set. As he finished up, Josiah leaned over the bar and stared down at him. “What?”

  “How’d you leave things with Stephen?” he asked in a voice so low, even Trey could barely hear over the laughter and grunting effort of his teammates.

  Trey closed his eyes a moment, thumb rubbing over the ridges of the grip. “Better than it was, not as good as it could be. He’s either going to straighten his shit out on his own, or Coach is gonna do it for him. The only difference is how much of a fool he makes of himself in the process.”

  “Can he last the season?”

  “Sometimes, I think yeah. Others, I don’t think he’ll last a week.”

  “Owens!”

  Trey bolted up, guilty at the secret conversation, then conked his forehead directly into the bar. “Oh, fuck me sideways.” He laid back down as Josiah burst into gut-wrenching laughter. Looking straight up at the ceiling, he watched stars shoot across his ever-darkening vision.r />
  Coach Talbin stood over his bench, a scowl on his face. “Trying to kill yourself before the season even starts?”

  Trey shook his head, then regretted it. The instant headache pounded around inside his skull. He closed his eyes and tried very hard not to move a muscle.

  “Jesus,” Coach Talbin muttered, and took a knee by the bench. It was then Trey realized the weight room had gone quiet. Everyone was watching to make sure he wasn’t seriously injured. Everyone needed to know he was all right. Their chance at victory hinged on his health.

  Fun place to be in. Not.

  “I’m good,” he said, loud enough for others around him to hear. “Stupid, but good.”

  He heard a few chuckles, and slowly the room went back to its normal noise level again. Each clang of metal against metal was like a bomb exploding in his brain.

  “You okay?” Coach asked quietly.

  “Yes. Just don’t make me sit up for a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine. You can listen to this one lying down.” He heard a rustle of papers. “Caught you in the blogs this morning.”

  He groaned. Blogs. Who could give two shits when his head was cracked like an egg?

  Coach Talbin cleared his throat and read in an announcer-style voice. “‘QB Owens Makes Surprise Appearance At Pizza Dan’s Makes Fans’ Day.’ You made an unsanctioned appearance?”

  Trey groaned again, but this time it had nothing to do with his head. He swiped one hand over his face. “Of course not. I went in for a pizza, got caught up in the fan excitement.” Close enough, anyway.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Doesn’t sound negative, so why does it matter?”

  “Because it’s about ninety-eight percent out of character for you?”

  “To be a nice guy and sign some autographs?” Trey waved him back an inch and slowly eased up. His head still hurt, but at least he wasn’t seeing double. “That’s not a very high opinion of me you’ve got there.”

  “I know my players. And you prefer to fly under the radar. You’re a delivery guy, not a pick-up-and-hang-out-with-crowds guy.” Coach eyed him warily. “Something you wanna share?”

  “Nope.” Honest truth there. “It’s all good. I was hungry, I got a pizza, I shook some hands, and that was it.” Semi-honest truth there.