She bent down to read the text. The blog’s title almost made her snort. “From Prodigal Daughter to Bobcats Bombshell.” She borrowed the mouse to scroll down, sighing every so often. A photo of the scuffle, pre-Trey and Josiah’s involvement, then one with all of them in the parking lot. And then, to her surprise, another photo of her and Trey standing outside the hospital, taken not more than an hour ago.
The gist of the blog post seemed to question whether she was leading both Trey and Stephen on, or cheating on one, or if there was some sort of kinky ménage-slash-open relationship going on.
“There’s more where that came from.” Tabitha closed her eyes and rubbed a hand across her forehead, as if to magically reduce a headache. “We’ve had to turn the ringers off the house phones. Ken’s cell phone is currently off. My phone is off.” The last was said with an incredulous tone, as if the situation were so shockingly bad it had come this far. “I had to confiscate Mellie’s phone as well, since her classmates were texting her nonstop. I might have to do the same with Irene’s, though she must have turned hers off before going to bed. Small favors.”
The fact that her sisters—her whole family—were paying made her heart ache in her chest. She fought the urge to rub a hand over her breastbone to ease the tension gathering there.
“Okay, I think it’s time to clear some of this up. First off, I’m not in a love triangle or a ménage of any kind.” It felt ridiculous to even have to specify that. “Stephen is a good guy who happened to be there and . . .” How else to finish that sentence without incriminating Irene? She shrugged. “We’re not romantically involved.”
“He’s a drunk, apparently,” Tabitha said with distain. “Your tastes run to alcoholics?”
Now she relaxed on the reins of her temper. Just a little. “He has a problem with alcohol, yes. I’m sure by now you’ve gotten a call about that,” she added to Ken, who nodded once in affirmation. “But don’t you dare call him a drunk. He’s a good guy, with a problem. One he’s going to be getting help for.”
Tabitha sniffed, but kept quiet, only turning her head to the side to avoid looking at her.
Good enough for Cassie.
“But with Trey . . .” She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. Would this be the nail in the coffin? “I met Trey Owns the night before my first meeting with you in your office. We were together that night. I thought it was a one-night only sort of thing.”
Tabitha made a disgusted sound. Cassie chose to ignore her.
“After you laid out the rules, we ran into each other again. It started friendly, platonic. But it morphed into more before I even knew it. I was in too deep with him, and in too deep with you and the girls. I couldn’t separate what I needed from what I wanted.”
Ken was quiet, watching. Waiting.
“I made a mistake keeping my relationship with Trey quiet.” She breathed deeply. “But your mistake was imposing rules and laws on me. I’m twenty-eight. I am fully capable of making my own choices and being responsible.”
“Obviously not,” Tabitha said with a snarl.
“Current situation not withstanding,” Cassie added with a mild wince. “But I understand I’ve made your lives harder. I’ve made the girls’ lives harder now. And Trey’s.”
Her father said nothing, just moved the monitor back to its proper position.
“So, if it would be easier for everyone, I can go.”
Tabitha gave a small nod.
When Ken didn’t argue, Cassie closed her eyes just a moment to cut off the welling tears. Breathe in the through the nose, out through the mouth. “Fine. I can’t drive out tonight, I’m too tired. But I’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”
With that, she turned on her heel and left.
* * *
Trey closed the garage door and paused, listening for a moment to the silence.
Exactly what was he hoping to hear, anyway? He didn’t have a dog, didn’t have a roommate. And the one friend most likely to be caught watching his cable and eating all his food was currently in the hospital.
Cassie. He’d been hoping to hear Cassie. He rubbed a hand over his face and dropped his keys in the small dish on his kitchen counter. Some stupid, juvenile hope had wormed its way into his brain that she’d have run to his house instead of Coach’s place. Even after telling her to go home, after knowing they had to separate for a bit to give things time to calm down.
His phone buzzed, for what seemed like the seven hundredth time, and he glanced at it. He’d turned it back on after dropping Cassie at the front of her driveway in case the hospital or Josiah had any updates for him, and regretted it instantly. Ready to throw it against the glass door for the satisfaction of breaking something if it was another reporter.
But no. Mom.
Shit fuck damn.
After another pass over his face, and a quick debate, he answered in a sunny voice. “Hey, Mom. How are things?”
“‘Hey Mom?’” she echoed back in a shrill tone he knew meant his mother had surpassed pissed and was now in a blind rage. “I find out on ESPN you’re involved in a threesome, that you’re dating the coach’s daughter for additional field time, that you and your best friend are fighting over a woman, and all you can say is ‘hey, Mom’?”
Trey bent at the waist and let his face fall to the granite countertop, then bang there a few times. The cold, blunt impact did more to clear his head than anything. “Jesus, Mom. How many times do I have to tell you to check with me before you believe anything?”
“And your sister . . . oh.” He imagined her holding a hand to her chest, fighting for air. “The things she copy and pastes to me in emails. This blogger said this, that twit-person said that.”
“Twitter, Mom.” He spoke through clenched teeth, but he might as well have saved the effort. “It’s a social media thing.”
“I’ve got my Bunco club calling me up, asking if I’m showing my face at the next tournament!”
Enough. God, it was enough. This was the exact shit he’d been praying to avoid from the start. Finding a nice, normal girl with no designs on him as a player, to date and maybe settle down with and marry and lead unassuming lives and retire in a few years in relative anonymity, having spent his entire career in the NFL above scrutiny.
Shot to shit, thanks to one Cassandra Wainright.
“Mom, turn off the TV. Stop checking your email. It’s all bullsh—bullcrap. All of it. Slow sports week means they’ve got to dig deep for something.”
His mother breathed hard into the other end, but said nothing.
“Mom?”
“Tell me something,” she finally said, her voice at a more reasonable pitch.
“Anything.” Anything to keep her from hyperventilating.
“Do you love this girl?”
He sighed and let his head thump once more against the countertop. “Mom, it’s not that simple.”
“Well, if you’re willing to fight Stephen for her—”
He growled.
“Okay, fine. But is this part about you two sneaking around, seeing each other in secret true?”
He hesitated, which was enough for his mother to draw her own conclusions.
“Oh, Trey.” She sighed the sigh of maternal disappointment. “Fix it.” She muttered something else he wasn’t sure was altogether complimentary about her only son, then hung up.
“Fix it, she says,” he murmured. He sent a quick text to Josiah confirming tomorrow’s plans, then turned his phone off.
And, despite the advice he’d given his mother, went straight to the TV and turned it on to ESPN. Glutton for punishment, maybe. Or just concerned about damage control . . .
He’d choose the latter. Sounded more mentally stable.
After turning the screen on and changing the channel, the first thing he saw was his official team roster photo, alongside Stephen’s, and a candid photo taken of Cassie during one of the games. Her face was in profile, and the colors dulled a little as the shot had been taken throu
gh the glass surrounding the coach’s viewing box. But just the sight of her, so carefree and excited, hands fisted by her sides and her eyes wide, taking in the game, made his heart clench.
“But you gotta know, this is another slap in the face for the Bobcats organization,” one of the regular ESPN analysts said as the screen cut to a shaky video—sans sound—of the fight outside the bar. Clearly, the video had come from some concerned citizen filming on their phone. “These guys are essentially fighting over the same woman, which is bad enough. But the coach’s daughter?” He chuckled, as if the entire thing were an amusing sketch on SNL. “It’s just too much.”
“These are smart players on the field,” argued another analyst. One of Trey’s favorites, actually. An impartial commentator during games. Surely he’d see how ridiculous this whole thing was.
“It boggles my mind how they could be so stupid outside the field of play. What happened? Did they check their brains out with their helmets after the last game?”
“Fuck it.” He turned the TV off. Just what he didn’t need.
For a moment, he debated calling Cassie. Asking her to come over when she was done being yelled at by her father. But that was exactly the wrong thing. They needed distance right now. Space. Time to think and analyze the next step. This was exactly what he’d worried would happen, and it happened too fast. So maybe if they slowed down . . .
Focus on Stephen. He had a big job to do tomorrow. Getting his friend to rehab—missing morning meetings in the process—wouldn’t be fun. But it was time. Get his friend to a safe spot where he could get healthy, then worry about the team. And after all that was done . . .
Then he could turn to Cassie.
Chapter Twenty-two
Trey walked into the hospital the next morning, sneaking in the side entrance for hospital employees after calling the administrator for assistance, only to walk out ten minutes later. Stephen had checked himself out at the ass crack of dawn and taken a cab home. Whether because he legitimately forgot Trey was coming for him, or wanted to duck out before the reporters lined up outside the front entrance as they were now, or he was just trying to skip out on Trey and the inevitable conversation they were about to have, he wasn’t sure.
Probably a combination of all three.
Trey’s phone buzzed, and he knew it was Cassie. But he checked, just in case. He let the phone drop back into his cup holder without answering. He just didn’t have the time. Driving just a little faster than comfortable, he made it to Stephen’s place in record time, relieved to find his friend’s truck in the driveway.
He pounded on the door and waited. Then, after a few minutes, used the spare key he had and opened the door without any guilt.
“Stephen!” His voice echoed in the open entrance. “Get your ass down here now.”
“Over here.”
His friend’s voice was steady, calm, and utterly annoying to Trey’s fast-fraying nerves. He rounded the corner and found Stephen sitting at his kitchen table, mug of coffee in one hand, laptop surfing with the other.
“What the fuck, man? You don’t just check yourself out of the hospital after a concussion.”
“Suspected concussion,” Stephen corrected, then took a sip of his drink without looking up from the screen. “It’s not like I drove home. I called a cab. Want a cup?”
“Want a . . .” Trey dropped heavily into a chair, then once again let his head beat against a hard surface. This time, the table. “I broke about ten laws and two land speed records getting here, and you’re just sitting on your ass having coffee and reading the morning news?”
“When you are the morning news, I figure it’s a good idea to be informed about what they’re saying about you.” He didn’t seem overly upset about the fact, and took another mind-numbingly small sip of coffee. “Apparently, you are receiving kickbacks from the owners. Did you know your latest SUV was a gift from the coach for agreeing to marry his daughter?”
Trey just groaned.
“And in addition to that, remember when you fucked up that game against Pittsburgh last season?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Since some analysts said you needed a rest, and you kept playing in the next game anyway, apparently that was a bonus for screwing Cassie.”
“Bastards. Every single lying one of them.”
“Not going to disagree.” He clicked a few more times. “Well, somehow they completely missed my real role in this whole thing.”
“And what is your role?” Trey asked his friend quietly.
Another small sip of coffee. “I think I’ve got a problem.”
“With?” Trey prompted.
Stephen scowled. “This isn’t fun for me, you know.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
Stephen sighed and pushed the laptop away. “I have a problem with alcohol. Okay?”
“It’s not, but we’re going to fix that.” He stood and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Get in the shower.”
“Already did that.”
One step down already. “Good. Then get in my car. We’re going for a drive.”
As Stephen climbed in his SUV, oddly complacent, he asked, “Is this like when you tell the kids you’re dropping the family dog off at a nice farm where he’ll have more room to run, and instead he’s being put down at the vet?”
“You think I’m taking you to get euthanized?”
Stephen pretended to think about that for a minute. “No. Too many questions come with a body. You’re in enough deep shit as it is.”
Trey’s phone buzzed in the cup holder. His friend held it up as Trey turned out of the neighborhood. “Want me to answer it? It’s Cass.”
“No.”
“No?” Trey didn’t look over, but he heard the raised eyebrows in his friend’s tone. “Things not going well?”
“Things are sort of in a bad place, in case you haven’t noticed. My career is sitting with a man who just found out I’ve been screwing his daughter behind his back for a few months. Running around in secret like it was something dirty. Cassie is going to take some serious flack from her family about this. They might shut down her access to her sisters. And her dad is likely going to be pissed as all hell at her.” He made the turn onto the highway and settled in for the long drive. “Not a good place for any relationship.”
Stephen had no answer, and was oddly silent for the next half hour. Until he wasn’t.
“Are you dumping her?”
“Dumping her,” Trey muttered. “What is this, eighth-grade homeroom?”
“Stop deflecting. Just answer.”
He exited from one highway onto another, continuing the drive, wondering more than once why Stephen hadn’t asked where they were going. “I don’t know. I can’t . . . I mean, we’re just hanging out. You know?”
Stephen was silent. Which was, of course, a taunt.
“It’s complicated,” he said, then winced at the stupidity of that. Try again. “It’s more complex than we thought. It’s . . .” He gripped the wheel, rotating his wrists around until the fabric crackled under his fingers. “It’s not what I wanted. It’s not the simple, easy, relaxing relationship I thought I was getting. I mean, Christ. The coach’s daughter?”
Stephen shifted a little in his seat.
Staring ahead, Trey went on. “We never were prepared for this. We had a plan, and the plan was screwed up from . . .” Well. No point going down that road. “But this is just illustrating the problems from the start. This relationship . . . if that’s even what we have . . .”
“If?” Stephen snorted. “That’s a joke, right? You love the girl, she’s crazy about you, and you’re jumping on the pussy train because people are criticizing you? They do that every week, bro. People sit in their recliners and play Monday morning quarterback, or up in their Plexiglas booth with their headsets and analyze what we did wrong. It’s our job.”
“My performance on the field, sure. My life?” Trey shook his head, then followed the next exit. “I’ve stayed out
of the press’s way for this long. Now it’s shot to hell. I don’t want people discussing me. I don’t like it. It bothers me.”
“Bet it bothers Cassie, too,” his friend said quietly, then turned to stare out his window.
According to Trey’s directions, they were about fifteen minutes out. “You know where we’re going, right?”
Stephen breathed heavily, nodded, and let his forehead touch the window.
“It’s for the best. We all need to get our shit straightened out.” When his friend said nothing, Trey started to worry. “Trust me, if there was some place I could check in to get my own head straight right now, I might.”
Sensing he wasn’t doing either of them any good, he drove the rest of the way in silence. Stephen seemed resigned when he walked into the front door of First Steps Rehab. But after a few minutes of waiting to check in, Trey noticed beads of sweat on his friend’s brow.
“It’s cool, you know.” Trey bumped his shoulder. “I’m not leaving until you’re good. And Coach Talbin sent his good luck and well wishes. Everyone wants you to feel better.”
Stephen nodded, but swallowed hard. Then stood up jerkily. Trey thought he might throw up, so he raced to the side for the nearest trash can. But when he turned back with the can, he cursed. Stephen was outside, walking toward the road. Like he was going to be able to hike all the way back to Santa Fe. He opened the door to the center.
“Stephen, get your ass back in here.”
His friend kept walking.
In his pocket, Trey’s phone buzzed. Again.
Christ. He didn’t have time for this. For any of it.
He leaned back in the front door and pointed at the receptionist. “We’ve got a runner, and he’s not a small guy. I need help.” Then, gearing himself up for a few extra bruises, he ran out to tackle his friend.
One Night with a Quarterback Page 24