Trey took his cue and walked down the stairs. As she caught sight of him, her eyes widened and her skin flushed an adorable pink. But she didn’t run, so he took that as a good sign.
“Hey, Cass.”
“Hi,” she said, her voice sounding smaller than normal. “You’re here.”
“It’s bye week.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Coach drew her in for another hug, and just before letting go, whispered, “Hear him out.” Then he stepped back and squeezed her shoulders. “I’m going to go have coffee with your mother.” He smiled, the gesture full of disbelief. “We’ve got catching up to do.”
Trey paused next to her, watching Cassie watch her father walk into the kitchen.
“My dad is having coffee with my mom,” she said, a little awe in her voice.
“Looks like it.” He took her hand and was grateful when she squeezed his instead of jerking back. “Today’s the day for apologies.”
She blinked, then looked up at him with glassy, unfocused eyes. “Sorry, what?”
“Here, let’s sit . . .” He looked around, then realized he was in a house of doll furniture. Nothing was safe to sit on. “How about the front porch?”
She laughed and followed him out. He settled his long legs in front of him while she positioned herself on the opposite side of the step. Close enough to reach out and touch, not close enough to pull in for a kiss. So, basically, too far.
“I sent that text in frustration.”
She looked out to the street as a woman and her dog walked by.
“I was at the rehab center with Stephen, and he was balking at going in, and the media and my agent were up my ass about making a statement on the whole situation, and I was worried about my job and . . .” He raised his hands, let them fall again. “I choked. Fourth and goal, and I blew it. I left you hanging.”
“You did,” she said quietly. It was the lack of anger that tightened the screws on his guilt.
“I should have texted you back as soon as I had Stephen settled. I should have insisted we talk to your dad earlier about us dating. I shouldn’t have let us hide things and act like it was a big deal. I shouldn’t have been so worried about staying low key, at the expense of us.”
He scooted over to her half of the porch step, crowding her a little. Aggressive move, but he was finally ready to lay his cards out, and damn if he would hold any back now. “But the worst one was . . . I should have told you that I love you before you left.”
Her eyes drifted closed, her face still in profile to him. He wasn’t sure if it was pain, or relief, or any other number of emotions. But the suspense was unbearable. He laced one hand with hers, squeezing gently. “Come back with me.”
At that, her eyes fluttered open. They were misty, but focused. “I love you.”
His heart stuttered. The goal line was within inches. “Thank God,” he whispered, then kissed her temple and pulled her to him. Her head rested against his chest, her arm wrapped around his back. He pressed a kiss to her hair and adjusted her even tighter to him.
“But I can’t come back.”
It was like she’d sucked the oxygen from his lungs. “What?” he asked hoarsely.
“I have a job here, and a life. I can’t just run back and be your girlfriend.”
“Your family is there,” he reminded her.
“My family is here, too. No matter where I am, I’m leaving one parent behind. And there’s no full-time job for me out there. My work let me telecommute for a short time. It won’t work permanently.”
He took a deep breath, forced calm, and let it go. “Okay then. In the morning, I’ll see what I can do about getting traded somewhere out here for next season.”
“What?” She sat up, leaning back to look at him.
“I can’t promise I’ll be in Atlanta. But Jacksonville wouldn’t be a bad drive. Maybe Carolina . . .”
She pinched his side hard enough to make him yelp. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He tugged on her ponytail. “I’m in love with you, that’s what’s wrong with me. Though I didn’t think it was wrong, exactly.” He rubbed his side. “Maybe I should change my mind on that.”
“You can’t just ask to trade teams because of me. That’s insane.”
“That’s love,” he argued with a shrug.
“How about a job?”
They both whipped around to see Coach Jordan and Cassie’s mom, watching them from the open living room window. Her mother had a soft smile on her face; Coach just looked annoyed at them.
“A job for who?” Cassie asked.
“You. I talked to Barry from the Nerd Herd after you left. He was pissed you up and walked away. Said your security defense for the interoffice messaging system was some of the best work he’d seen. He wants you back to pick your brain and make you his security slave.”
She grinned at that, pride in her work radiating from her. Trey rubbed her arm in encouragement. Then she dimmed. “That was an internship. I worked for peanuts, part time. I can’t support myself on that.”
“No, he was offering a full-time job.” When she stared, her father held up his hands. “He’s in charge of his department. I didn’t ask. He offered. No nepotism.”
She blinked, shocked. “I have a job?”
“And a place to stay,” Coach reminded her. “Pool house is all yours.”
“I . . . but . . .” She glanced to her mom. “Mom.”
She winked. “Go. And hey, who knows? I retire in a few years. Maybe I’ll want to experience the southwest in my old age.”
Trey pulled her back against him, waving her parents off for some privacy. Her mother disappeared immediately, but Coach watched with an eagle eye. That is, until her mother grabbed his arm and jerked him away from the window.
“Your fears have been acknowledged and solved. Anything else I need to conquer before I can convince you to come back to Santa Fe?”
She sighed, snuggling into him more. “The press—”
“Can go f—”
“Trey,” she admonished.
“Fly a kite,” he saved lamely. “Come on, they ask for it.”
She nodded in agreement. “They said you were given incentives to date me.”
“Well, you’re quite the trial, so I’m fortunate my coach is willing to compensate me for the challenge.”
She pinched him again, but laughed at the same time.
He tilted her head back and kissed her long, slow, and as deeply as he could without getting himself in trouble with her father just on the other side of the door.
“Come back,” he begged quietly, against her lips, pausing to steal another kiss. “I need someone who doesn’t take me seriously. Who loves my friends and cares about them, too. Who wears geeky T-shirts they have to explain to me because I don’t get them.”
“Interesting list of requirements.” She palmed his face and kissed him. “I might be up for it.”
“Maybe, while you’re in the Bobcats tech department, you could alter my stats on the website.” His third pinch made him tackle her to the porch, his arm breaking her fall gently. “Woman, you’re giving me more bruises than I get on the field.”
“I’m worth it,” she said with a cocky smile.
“Yeah. You really are, nerd.”
* * *
“Anya?”
“Hey, Cass, talk fast. I’m on my way to a client consult. Seriously, what kind of woman wants an entire wardrobe of white? Does she think she’s attending Diddy’s White Party every day?”
“Anya.”
“I mean, I understand the woman looks good in white. Though if you ask me, she needs to start embracing spray tan and stop the sun worship because—”
“Anya.”
“What?”
Cassie smiled and glanced out her living room window. Her father and boyfriend were sitting on the front porch, arguing about the coming week’s best defense choices to hold back the Indianapolis Colts.
“
I’m going back.”
Her friend let out a breathy sigh. “He came for you.”
“Yes, both he’s came for me. Trey, and my dad.”
“Two for one.”
“It seems so.” She grinned. “I’m happy.”
“I’m visiting.”
“Deal.”
Keep reading for a special preview of the next book in the Santa Fe Bobcats series!
Loving Him Off the Field
Available from InterMix October 2014
“Sweet Christ.”
It was the last thing Killian Reeves remembered uttering before having a heavy, unfortunate-smelling man slam him to the ground.
I get paid for this?
The man immediately stood, not delaying the inevitable. Killian did a quick mental check of his bones and muscles, contracting and relaxing each one until he was pretty sure nothing was broken or dislodged and getting up on his own wouldn’t prove fatal. So far, so good. He rolled over onto his side and groaned.
I do not get paid enough for this.
“Killian. Dude, you okay?” His holder—and backup quarterback—Josh Leeman, crouched down next to him. Which put his cup right in Killian’s eyesight.
“Get your junk out of my face, Leeman.” Josh scooted back an inch, but not more. “Christ, what happened?”
“Fumble,” came the obvious answer.
He tested getting up to a kneeling position. Nothing snapped or bent in the wrong direction. Though he hated the idea, he reached out and grabbed Josh’s forearm to pull himself up all the way. “And exactly how did that ogre get around the block?”
“Um, bad luck?”
He resisted ripping Josh’s arm off—mostly because he didn’t have the energy for it. He saw from the corner of his eye the kicker coach and two trainers jogging out to meet them on the field. He waved them off, because . . . embarrassing. The other guys took dozens of hits in any given game. He took one all season and he needed to be carried off the field?
Not fucking likely.
Without limping, he met the trainers and coach halfway to the bench and shook his head. They followed silently to his own little corner, his own little space on the Bobcats sideline where nobody bothered him and everyone knew invading his territory was punishable by death.
Coach Jordan knelt down as Killian settled on the bench and unsnapped his chin strap. “Took a good one.”
“Felt like it.” Killian eased off the helmet, blinking when his ears started ringing.
“I think you flew back a couple feet. Like watching a rag doll get tossed.”
“Not making me feel better, Coach.” His job wasn’t to take a punch. His job was to use his golden foot and kick the pigskin through the uprights. That was all. Go out, kick, score, wave and retreat to his corner.
For this, he made a living.
One of the trainers stooped down beside Coach and shined a light in his eyes. Killian swatted at the pen light.
“I have to check your pupils.”
“There’s still two of them.”
Looking exasperated, the trainer pointed the flashlight elsewhere—thank you—and held up three fingers. “How many?”
“The number of seconds I’m giving you to step back. Three.”
The other trainer, a cute little brunette who filled out the Bobcat polo well, jerked on his shoulder. “Give him a minute. He’s fine.”
“But I have to—”
“Give him a minute.”
Killian was going to send that girl trainer some flowers. Yeah. She deserved flowers for her good sense and timing.
Coach Jordan saw the look in his eyes and waved the trainers off. “He’s fine. I’ll get you if he needs you.”
“Not likely,” Killian muttered as they walked away. Likely talking amongst themselves about what an asshole he was.
Yeah. He was an asshole. He knew it. He cultivated the rep, to keep people from getting too close. Not that he had to try hard. He was a kicker. They were the redheaded stepchild of the NFL.
Coach clapped his shoulder lightly. “Give yourself a minute, then come talk. We need to figure out just what the hell that was.”
“Talk to defense. Talk to whoever blew the snap. I didn’t even see it coming.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t see that semi-truck coming right at me.”
“You’re focused.” His coach shrugged, as if it were completely natural to just not see a three hundred pound man running straight at you, intent on destroying you. With that, he left Killian to his thoughts.
He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his neck. Though it was mid-September, edging up on playoffs, the Santa Fe heat turned his uniform into a sweat box. He never would have made it playing the game if he’d had to keep his helmet on as long as the others did. But they all seemed to love it. Loved everything that came from the game. The bruises, the battle scars, the chicks . . .
Okay, the chicks were good.
Sometimes.
And others?
They fucked up your world with knife-like precision.
Bad enough, he knew because the kick was botched, people would be looking at him and wanting his take on the whole fiasco. The press were already rabid with the Bobcats this season, thanks to the delightful addition of one new Jordan family member. The Prodigal Daughter. Though he was fortunate enough to keep an arm’s length away from that shit storm by playing clueless—weren’t they all clueless?—and silent as a monk.
When he ran out, did his job and came back, nobody expressed any interest in seeing him. Which, frankly, was his dream come true. No reporters asking, “What was it like to kick a ball through a goal?” No post-game analysis with the press.
When he missed, or something went wrong, especially in a high-pressure game like this, their fight for the division championship, suddenly everyone remembered his name and needed to hear his take on it.
But that wasn’t the worst part. No, not by a long shot.
Grabbing the nearest water bottle, he squirt a stream of water in his mouth, swished, then spit, hoping it would remove the bad taste of what was to come.
No such luck.
Mopping his forehead, he settled back to watch the team set up their defense.
“Charlie is going to give me such hell for this.”
Jeanette Murray spends her days surrounded by hunky alpha men . . . at least in her imagination. In real life, she’s a wife and a mother, keeping tabs on her husband, her daughter, and the family dog on the outskirts of St. Louis.
One Night with a Quarterback Page 27