One Night with a Quarterback

by Jeanette Murray

  One word: yikes.

  Her makeup, which she’d forgotten to remove last night, was smeared in that “walk of shame” sort of way. Her hair was hanging on by a thread in some places to the semblance of her updo from the night before, though most of it had quit the field and fallen around her face in depressing strands.

  She looked like Grumpy Cat, in a wig, after a bender.

  Tabitha knocked again. Oh, well. Pasting on a polite smile, she opened the door. “Morning, Tabitha.”

  Her stepmother recoiled a little. “Cassandra, it’s nearly nine in the morning.”

  Cassie glanced at the hall clock. “Yes.”

  Frowning, Tabitha stepped inside carefully, making sure not to touch Cassie, as if “Grumpy Cat on a bender” was a contagious disease. “I assume you didn’t shower after last night.”

  “Too tired.” Closing the door, resigned at playing hostess, she walked to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  Cassie shrugged and went through the steps to get the nectar of the gods into her own bloodstream ASAP. When she had the coffee brewing, she turned to see Tabitha standing there with one of Cassie’s tank tops dangling from two fingertips, as if she were holding a dead animal.

  “I assume this is yours?”

  “Yeah. Where did you . . .” Uh-oh.

  Tabitha sniffed. “I found it in Mellie’s closet this morning. I’m going to pretend it ended up there on accident, and not even consider the possibility she wore it.”

  If that was the offending tank Irene had mentioned Mellie wearing around the mall . . . too late. But Cassie wisely kept her mouth shut.

  “In the future, I would appreciate if you wouldn’t give my daughters fashion advice, or lend them clothing. They are not life-size Barbies for your enjoyment. They are impressionable young children, and it is my responsibility to raise them in a manner I see fit.”

  “You and Ken,” Cassie corrected.

  The older woman blinked. “That’s what I said.”

  My and I were like the royal we, now? She just shrugged and turned.

  “This was the exact reason we set out ground rules before allowing this little experiment to begin in the first place.”

  “I don’t think I remember any rules about sharing shirts with my sisters.”

  “It’s a part of the whole,” Tabitha said tightly. “It violates the spirit of the agreement. You are to remain a good role model for our girls.”

  The girls who broke into her pool house and “borrowed” clothing without asking. Yup. She was obviously the offender here.

  “Which brings me to my next point. Last night, you were impossibly rude.”

  Cassie found a perfect white mug in the cupboard. Of course, the pool house kitchenette came with its own set of matching dishes. She resisted groaning at the turn this conversation would take. She’d known there would be repercussions for her leaving early last night. She’d taken the risk anyway.

  And it had been very much worth it.

  “Ken was in the middle of a speech, and you simply left. Not a good-bye, not a polite excuse. Nothing. How are we supposed to explain that to people if you do that again once you’re acknowledged?”

  “You don’t.” Cassie gripped the mug so hard her fingers hurt. What she really wanted to do was throw it at the window and hear a very satisfying—if unproductive—sound of shattering glass. “There’s nothing to explain. I needed to step out, and I decided to take off.”

  “Next time, let one of us know before you do that. We waited an extra fifteen minutes after the event thinking you were still in the building somewhere.”

  And for that, she felt a moment of guilt. “I’m sorry. I should have let you know.”

  Nodding regally, Tabitha took a step back. “Ken mentioned he wouldn’t be able to make lunch today. He has—”

  “Things to do,” Cassie finished for her. “Sure. Thanks for passing on the message.”

  Tabitha walked to the front door, which only took about four steps. Hand paused on the doorknob, she looked at Cassie. “He’s trying. I know you’re upset with him. You’re quite awful at hiding it. But he’s an important man with many commitments, and his life didn’t halt the moment you waltzed into it. He carries enough misplaced guilt about not being available for you as a child. Acting petulant about his lack of time now as an adult is not making the situation any easier.” Her little speech complete, she walked out the door and closed it silently behind her.

  Of course. Because it wouldn’t have been easy to just let it go with “He’s trying.” Why not twist the knife a little harder?

  Cassie waited until her coffee was cool enough to sip, then debated. She didn’t have any meetings with the PR people until two, in which they would sit around the table and criticize every piece of clothing she owned, and several of which she didn’t own but apparently should, to pick out The Outfit for her initial interview. Which meant she was free the entire morning.

  The momentary instinct to call Trey annoyed her. She was not—absolutely not—going to turn into one of those girls who smelled commitment a mile away and glued herself to his hip. Not only was it not her style, but it was unacceptable. She needed to be her own person, and stop waiting around for one male or another to have time for her.

  And somehow, Cassie knew just what she wanted to do with the day.

  * * *

  “Sweet Jesus, Owens, did you put on ankle weights when we weren’t looking?” Coach Talbin clicked his stopwatch and rolled his eyes. “My Aunt Nancy runs faster than this, and she’s using a walker now.”

  “Is Aunt Nancy free this weekend? I like a fast woman,” quipped center Michael Lambert.

  Coach Talbin slapped him on the arm with a clipboard.

  Ah, camaraderie.

  “Sorry, Coach.” Trey grabbed a water bottle and rinsed his mouth out. His gray Bobcats T-shirt clung to his skin like a wetsuit, the light color now completely dark with sweat. But he refused to take it off and finish the sprints. Most of his teammates, he noted, weren’t so bashful.

  Bashful wasn’t quite the word, really. But there were always photographers at practice. And any time he took off his shirt—even for the most normal of things, like at a freaking pool—a picture ended up somewhere. Leaving on his shirt, even uncomfortable as it was, meant less ammo for bloggers to comment on. Less people to label him “man candy” for various social media.

  Josiah jogged over, having completed his own set of sprints. The man was lightning, and knew it. Trey’s legs were close to buckling. Josiah looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, refreshed and ready to start the day. “Fuck you.”

  His friend laughed and grabbed a water bottle for himself. “You know, it’s odd, but running seems to be something I do well. Maybe it’s because it’s in my job description. Running. Back. Running.” He gave Trey a puzzled look. “Think that’s where they got the name?”

  Trey slapped him on the back of the head and tossed his water bottle aside. “Coach Jordan alert,” he said from the side of his mouth, just seconds before the man was within hearing range. Josiah straightened up and tossed his own bottle down.

  “Hey, Coach.”

  Coach Jordan muttered and walked right by, then halted and backed up three paces until even with them. “Problem?”

  Trey and Josiah looked at each other. “No,” they both answered in unison.

  “Good. We don’t need any more trouble.” Without further explanation, he walked off, still muttering to himself.

  They looked at each other. Josiah spoke first. “What was that all about?”

  Trey had no clue, and shrugged.

  From the opposite corner of the field, they heard one of the assistant coaches yelling at Stephen to pick it up and move, move, move.

  “He’s gained more weight,” Josiah said.

  “I’m sure the coaches love that.” Though Trey knew it wasn’t healthy weight. It was a four-bottle-a-day habit. The bigger he got, the slower he mov
ed. Though whether that was because of his recently acquired sloth-like nature or the weight, who knew?

  “Coach seem more agitated than usual?” Josiah was staring off at the end zone of the practice field, where Coach Jordan paced, intermittently slapping the shoulder of some unsuspecting player—scaring the crap out of him—or walking a circle around the goalpost.

  “Nah, looks good to me,” Trey deadpanned. They both grinned, then fell silent. A distracted coach could be the death sentence of a season. With Coach Jordan, the straight-and-narrow man of the NFL, it wasn’t likely to be a financial scam or legal trouble. No prostitution ring breakdown, like what happened a few years ago.

  Family trouble? No, he and his wife were a rock. His kids were never in trouble, and they looked like little model citizens out there with their parents on the crusade for family togetherness. The Leave It to Beavers of the twenty-first century.

  “Fore!”

  Trey managed to duck—barely—as a football whizzed by his head.

  Killian Reeves, their kicker, jogged over with a serious look. “You okay?”

  Trey rubbed a hand over his skull. “Almost gave me a haircut.”

  “You need one,” Josiah added.

  Killian, a quiet guy even in the best of circumstances, looked like he’d rather chew his arm off than stay around shooting the shit. He palmed the football, gave them both a long look, as if making sure they were actually okay, then left.

  “He really needs to stop talking so much,” Josiah said quietly. Trey snorted.

  “He’s always been quiet. Some people just don’t have a lot to say. Good guy, quiet guy.” And that was all he wanted to say on it. “Cassie came over last night.”

  Josiah wiggled a brow. “Yeah? I’m guessing it wasn’t for another night of pasta.”

  “No pasta was harmed in the making of the evening.”

  Josiah leaned against the bench. “That’s it? No sexy times story?”

  “No.”

  His friend waited a beat, then grinned. “You like her.”

  Trey rolled his eyes, then used the toe of his cleat to flip up a football high enough to catch. “I’m aware.”

  “No, I mean, you liiiiike her, like her.” The word came out like a show tune.

  God save him.

  “I like her,” he agreed, then punched the ball into his friend’s gut. “Go back to catching things. If you can’t catch what I’m throwing at you, we’re screwed.”

  “Go back to throwing things. If you can’t throw what I need to catch, we’re screwed.” With a cocky salute, Josiah took off back toward the other running backs and receivers for sprint drills.

  Trey watched him go, his eye catching on Coach Jordan taking another lap around the end zone. He shook his head. Some things were out of their control on the field. But he could only hope Coach pulled out of whatever hole he was pacing himself into before the regular season started. He wanted a solid twelve weeks of play leading into the playoffs. No drama, no craziness.

  * * *

  Cassie looked up sharply at the opening of her father’s office door. Her shoulders drooped when Kristen walked in instead of Ken.

  With an apologetic smile—Kristen wasn’t an idiot . . . she’d picked up on what was going on early—she started to say, “I’m sorry—”

  Cassie popped up out of her chair. “Does it ever get annoying, playing the messenger of doom?”

  Kristen glanced back at Frank, who was typing as always. The way that man’s fingers flew over the keyboard was something of amazement. Then she closed the door behind her and crossed her arms over her chest. The effect rattled the chunky beads of the cute orange-and-teal necklace she wore over her starched white button-down shirt. “I get a healthy bonus every year for playing the messenger of doom.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes and sank back down. “I’m not sure why I bother,” she muttered, not expecting a reply.

  She should have guessed that she’d get one. “You do a lot of waiting around for him.”

  Cassie snorted.

  “Are you getting out and doing your own thing? Exploring the city a little?”

  Her mind spun back to the parking garage and her aerial tour of the city’s landmarks. Her lips curved a little. “Some.”

  “Maybe you should crank up ‘some’ to ‘often.’ He’s . . . important to you. But you’re feeling neglected. I know it’s not a romantic relationship, but I’d give the same advice to a girlfriend dealing with a guy who was playing it cool. Get interested in your own life again. Start doing your own thing. If he sees you moving on and not sitting around sulking and waiting for him, he’s going to re-think ditching you behind all the time.”

  She blew a strand of hair out of her face. Thanks to Tabitha’s early morning pep talk, she hadn’t had time to fix it like she’d wanted.

  “What did you do back in Georgia?”

  “Work,” was her immediate answer. She loved her work. The codes, the numbers, the basic zeros and ones of it all made sense in a way other things, other human things, never could.

  “You were, like, a computer person, right?”

  She grinned at that. “You can say it. Nerd. I’m a computer nerd, yes. Systems securities, for the most part. Digging around and finding the weak spots, then beefing them up.”

  Kristen looked suitably impressed, then her eyes narrowed. “Come with me.”

  She was out the door before Cassie could tell her not to bother. “Ooookay, then.” Grabbing her bag, she followed. “See ya, Frank!” she called cheerfully.

  His response was a grunt. She’d have worried if he’d used real words.

  Kristen wound around a few halls and into a section of offices Cassie had passed, but not entered yet. “Welcome to your world.”

  “My . . . oh.” She saw a Big Bang Theory poster next to a poster of the 2001 Super Bowl–winning Bobcats and immediately understood. “Is this where the tech guys live?”

  “One in the same. Barry!”

  Cassie blinked. She didn’t know Kristen had it in her to shout like that. Normally, she was so demure and poised, unflappable in the face of any conflict or inner-office drama.

  Barry, a forty-something balding man with a comb-over and a bit of a limp, made his way over with creaky steps. His eyes brightened when he caught sight of Kristen, like she was a goddess deigning to descend from the heavens and speak only to him.

  “Hi, Kristen,” he said quietly. “What can I do for you?”

  She smiled brightly. Barry’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Clearly, Barry didn’t get out much. “This is Cassie Wainwright. She has a tech background—systems securities, whatever that means—and I was wondering if you minded her spending some time with you and your crew for the day.”

  He spared her a half-second glance, then back to Kristen. “Intern?”

  “No, but a member of the Bobcats family, nonetheless.” She winked at Cassie. “From what I hear, she’s a whiz with a computer.”

  Barry’s eyes grudgingly left Kristen’s face for another few moments. He reached out a hand to shake, but pulled it back quickly to wipe on the leg of his pants before holding it out again. Cassie shook firmly.

  “Looks like you’re where you belong.” Kristen gave Cassie’s shoulder a little pat, then a push. “Have fun, kids, and don’t break the Internet.”

  Barry laughed like she’d just told the original knock-knock joke. But when Kristen exited the hallway, his laugh turned to a studied frown. “Tech background. What, you can answer email and, like, totally Tweet and crap? ’Cause the social media department has enough teenagers on staff to handle that crap.”

  She blinked. “I do, like, totally Tweet and crap. But mostly, I work for a software securities firm in Atlanta. I dig through clients’ websites and systems looking for weaknesses and then shore them up.” She told him the name of the firm, which was big enough to be known around the country.

  He blinked a little. “Well, then,” was all he seemed to manage. He walked back
toward a room containing a bank of monitors. Two other people sat quietly working. He nodded to them. “Website developers. They’re more in charge of esthetic stuff. Graphics and that junk.”

  Clearly, Barry had a healthy distain of “graphics and that junk.”

  He sat down in a rolling chair and pulled up another for her. “Over here, we’re purely security and interoffice tech support. Keeping the front office staff from blowing up their laptops or letting in a worm to decimate the entire organization. Watch and learn, missy. If you get bored, the Twitter crew is in the other conference room.”

  She smiled politely, then unzipped her hoodie and draped it over the back of the chair he’d handed her.

  His gaze caught the graphic on her shirt. “Firefly?”

  She glanced down, shrugged. “Underrated show cancelled too soon. Of course, if they brought it back now, it’d be a wreck.”

  He slammed his palm down on the desktop, rattling the keyboard and making one of the other employees shriek in surprise. “That’s what I keep saying. But everyone insists it’d be just as good.”

  Cassie shook her head. “No way. It’s time has passed, unfortunately. But it was a good run while it lasted.”

  He watched her a moment, then logged into his account and opened his server program. “You’re okay, Wainwright.”

  As the ones and zeros flashed before her eyes on the monitor, she smiled. This was where she belonged.

  Finally, something felt like home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Trey pulled up to the movie theater and put the SUV in park. “Here, can you grab tickets while I park the car? We’re running a few minutes late so it’ll save time.”

  She raised a brow at the twenty he held out. “It’s a matinee, previews last at least fifteen minutes, there’s no line, and I have money of my own.”

  He kept holding out the cash until she rolled her eyes and stepped out of the car. “I’ll get the tickets.” And closed the door with a firm snap, leaving him and his twenty bucks behind.

  Trey grinned as he parked in the car in the sparsely populated lot. Okay, yeah. Not really a crowd for the 1:15 movie times, so that was a bullshit excuse. But the longer he stood in lines and in front of people, the longer they had to recognize him. His pathetic excuse for a costume this time—backward baseball hat and sunglasses—would do no good once he stepped in the theater. And he refused to be one of those douchebags who wore shades inside.