Quarterback Casanova (Kansas City Griffins #1)

by Lisa Rayne

  *

  The air in the owner’s box crackled with tension. DuChamps prowled like a caged tiger, on edge and ready to pounce—on Dash’s head. The score read twenty-four to three and with only two minutes three seconds left in the third quarter, Naomi felt every person in the box had to be wishing it was the even-tempered, cool-under-pressure Jonathan “Shave” Stephens headed onto the field to lead the offense instead of Dash. The Griffins had been here before, but never with Dash tasked as the one to pull them out of such a significant score deficit with so little time.

  Naomi held her breath as number twelve jogged to the huddle. Dash slapped down Trey Coffey’s helmet and had words with Max Gordon. When he moved away to take his position, she could tell by his body language something had changed. Every prior altercation with Gordon had left Dash so uptight she could sense his tension from her perch above the field.

  This time his body showed her calm and … playfulness?

  She stood, a buzz of anticipation tickling her nerve endings.

  Dash positioned his hands beneath his center, looking around to check the lineup of the defense and the Griffins offensive linemen. He took the snap, swiveled a fake to the running back, then dropped back to throw.

  He pumped once towards Gordon, pulled the ball down, angled thirty degrees to his left and let the ball fly in a high arc. The leather bullet spiraled high and sure like a torpedo with missile lock. A collective gasp went up in Olathe Stadium. Every VIP in the owner’s box now stood with Naomi as did almost every Griffins fan in the stadium.

  DuChamps pulled an unlit cigar from his mouth. “What the hell—?” Planting himself in front of the window, he nearly crushed the tightly rolled stick of Cuban tobacco. “What in tarnation does that boy think he’s doing?”

  Naomi checked the coverage in time to see Trey Coffey spin off a defender then cut right, leaving him with an open lane. He darted through and accelerated. One defender, then two, gave chase. Coffey’s feet flew like he had wings on his shoes. No one was going to catch him from behind. In an open field, the man moved like a locomotive. But would he get under the ball in time? Dash had put NASA launch power behind that throw, and the rocket looked to be headed out of Coffey’s reach.

  “Come on. Come on.” She mumbled under her breath.

  Head up to watch the ball barrel forward, Coffey hit San Francisco’s twenty yard line then their ten. The ball started its descent, arcing lower but with momentum destined to overshoot the end zone.

  Naomi’s breath caught. No.

  Coffey leapt into the air, a gloved left hand extended high, toes pointed beneath crossed ankles like a male principal in the Kansas City ballet. The ball bounced off his glove, bobbled, and fell.

  The loud gasp Naomi released would have echoed throughout the sky box if not for the matching gasps of the other VIP onlookers.

  Where was the ball? In Coffey’s arms?

  Did he have possession before he hit the ground?

  Murmurs rumbled through the stadium. No one dared react—positively or negatively—until they got a sign from the official.

  When two arms clothed in black and white stripes flew straight into the air, the crowd erupted. Touchdown!

  Coffey rolled to a crouch and aimed the ball with a dramatic one-handed point towards the fans celebrating in the stands behind the goal post.

  Naomi couldn’t contain her own shout of joy. Her hands flew high over her head as her eyes jerked towards the giant screen attached to the scoreboard. The replay unfolded in slow motion. The ball fell into Coffey’s crossed forearms. He tucked the ball, landed on double tippy-toes with feet just inside the white lines that edged the corner of the end zone. He fell outside the lines without a jumble or other movement of his arms—perfect control.

  If that catch didn’t end up on every sports highlight show tonight as one of the best plays of the week, Naomi didn’t know football.

  A befuddled DuChamps continued to stare at the field while the Griffins lined up for the extra point attempt. Naomi watched DuChamps. For an owner whose team just made a play that could shift the momentum of the game their way, he didn’t look very happy.

  She’d never considered that DuChamps himself might be behind the kiss photo. After several texts and a phone call from Tatum, she’d been mulling over the possibility the entire game. In fact, it was why she’d accepted DuChamps’s invitation to watch the game from the Griffins owners’ box instead of remaining below with her mom and Tallie.

  Tatum’s investigator had linked the Ibiza photographer and the man with the amorous lips to a plot put in motion by a man with a Southern accent. Southern accents were a dime a dozen in the football world. Distinctive Southern accents around Griffinsland, however, were fewer. People generally associated such an accent with the hot starting quarterback or the brash, larger-than-life owner. While several All-Pro Griffins players had similar accents, and of course others could fake it, she got an inkling her money was best placed on the owner. She just had to figure out why he’d do such a nonsensical act.

  With Shave injured, Dash represented the Griffins’ best hope for making it to the playoffs. They had a third string quarterback, Kevin Wilson, who had been pulled up from the practice squad to fill a gap in the roster after DuChamps traded the old backup QB, Carl Maynard. Yet, Wilson was no more ready for primetime play than Naomi was.

  Why would DuChamps risk a potential postseason on such inexperience? If the Griffins didn’t secure a win today, and thereby clinch the AFC West Wild Card spot, the remaining two regular season games could each be do or die. Worse, if the Griffins lost today and Denver won their game, the standings could shake up enough to put the Griffins completely out of postseason running.

  DuChamps had been hell bent on putting the Griffins in Kansas City. He’d ranted and postured about how the baby franchise would set NFL records by amassing the best record of any expansion team in history. What possible motive could he have for seemingly sabotaging his own team?

  A referee whistle sounded. After successfully putting the extra point on the board, the Griffins punted the ball. The 49ers’ punt returner made some progress, but was stopped at San Fran’s own thirty yard line. Their offense executed the snap, and the quarterback dropped back to throw. The Griffins defense put heavy pressure on the pocket, but the opposing QB got off the throw. The pass was incomplete, defended expertly by rookie cornerback Davion Jones.

  The clock ran out, ticking off the end of the third quarter. Both teams headed for the sidelines as the televised game took a commercial break.

  Naomi’s eyes searched the room until they found Martin DuChamps again. He looked down at his waist with a frown and pulled his cell phone off its clip. He squinted at the screen then his eyes shifted through the room as if he were about to execute some top-secret mission.

  DuChamps caught her gaze and nodded dismissively. He shuffled to the back corner of the box before he answered the phone in a hushed voice.

  Naomi moved to the buffet setup, putting Oscar-worthy effort into selecting the plumpest morsels from the fruit plate. She wasn’t in the mood for more food, but the position put her closer to DuChamps. Her ears strained towards his conversation while she picked slowly over sliced strawberries.

  “Don’t worry about it,” DuChamps said in a low growl to whomever was on the phone. “They’ve still got a long way to go.” He snorted. “I’ve got everything here under control. You just be ready on your end, Moretti.” DuChamps ended the call, looking like he wanted to heave the phone across the room.

  Moretti? Could he have been talking to Antonio Moretti, the music mogul?

  Naomi finished up her fake fruit selection pondering what business DuChamps could have with Antonio Moretti. Moretti had been trying to buy into a NFL franchise for several years, but couldn’t garner enough NFL owners’ votes to get approval. Recently, he’d made waves about setting up some lucky franchise with a brand-new, state-of-the-art stadium funded one hundred percent by his entertainment hol
dings. Many considered it his way of bribing one foot into the NFL inner sanctum. But the Griffins didn’t need a stadium. Olathe Stadium was only a few years old. Granted, it had been built by the city and couldn’t hold a candle to the bells and whistles Moretti bragged about, but she couldn’t see the enticement. DuChamps had enough of his own PR issues without aligning himself with a pro football outsider whose NFL approval rating rested somewhere beneath China.

  The crowd roared in the outer stadium. Her head jerked towards the flat screen TV above the buffet. The Griffins had retaken possession of the ball on a fumble and scored another touchdown.

  She ran back to the front, upset she’d missed the play. Placing her plate on her seat, she stepped outside through the open glass portal so as not to miss any additional action.

  After a three and out by San Fran, the Griffins took over possession. The team marched down field for another twenty yards, until the 49ers stopped them on a fourth down and eight just thirty-three yards from the end zone. Dash turned towards the sideline, apparently listening to something in his helmet. He shook his head. His hands hit his hips then he jogged over to the head coach to talk it out. After a few seconds, the field goal team took the field.

  Naomi watched Dash remove his helmet. His face was neutral, but she could sense his frustration. He’d wanted to go for it. With ten minutes still left in the quarter, the coaching staff had opted to take the safer route. The surefooted kicker started his pre-kick routine then hammered the ball through the middle of the uprights for three points.

  Griffins now only trailed by four.

  San Francisco’s offense retook the field and proceeded to eat up the clock with a long drive fueled by their running game. Try as they might, the Griffins defense couldn’t stop the opponent’s successive string of first down runs.

  Shave Stephens stood with arms crossed next to Dash. Dash stood with his helmet dangling in one hand as if willing his defense to get him back on the field. Dash and Shave glanced at the time on the scoreboard simultaneously then looked at each other. With just over four minutes left in the final quarter, the Griffins needed a major stop as soon as possible.

  When the 49ers got within striking distance of a touchdown, just twenty yards out, you could’ve heard a pin drop in Olathe Stadium. The offense approached the line of scrimmage with their biggest running back lined up to take a handoff from the quarterback. The Griffins formed a wall at center, planning to blockade the anticipated running play.

  The QB took the snap and play actioned to his star running back. Their tight end on the right swung out and dropped into the end zone wide open. The San Francisco quarterback threw a strong pass over the top that flew low towards the receiver’s head.

  “No!” half the stadium screamed in unison right before they got their miracle.

  Rookie Davion Jones swooped in front of the open man at the last second and worked his defensive magic one more time, coming away with an interception. Stadium silence gave way to bedlam as the cornerback spun from the end zone and blew past two opposing team jerseys. He got a big block from an outside linebacker and was off to the races. Jones streaked past the twenty, then the thirty, then the forty yard line. San Francisco’s quarterback made a dive and got a hand on Jones’s foot. The rookie shook him off, but lost his balance and tumbled to the Griffins’ forty-five yard line.

  Olathe Stadium erupted in pandemonium.

  The rookie jumped up and refused to surrender the ball to the official. He pranced to the sideline clutching the ball from his first pro career interception. Slaps of congratulations rained against his back along an ecstatic Griffins bench. Dash added his praise to the mix before retaking the field. They had two minutes and fifty-three seconds to march fifty-five yards to the end zone. They trailed by four points; a field goal wouldn’t cut it. To win this game, Dash would have to marshal a touchdown.

  Two plays got them to the two-minute warning and ten yards closer to the goal line. Once play resumed they ate up another fifty-four seconds on two short passes that garnered another first down, but cost the team’s remaining two timeouts because the receivers were stopped short of the sideline by determined defenders.

  The defense lined up to blitz, planning not to give Dash any more opportunities to throw. Pressure built after the snap. Dash scrambled but couldn’t find a receiver. He pulled the ball down and took off at a run. With a linebacker barreling towards him, he accelerated and was shoved out of bounds with a seven-yard gain.

  The Griffins retook the line of scrimmage. San Fran lined up for another blitz. Dash called the snap and Coffey swung behind him on a jet sweep. Coffey made it inside the five yard line before being brought down. With no time outs, the clock kept running.

  Fifty-two seconds … fifty-one … fifty …

  Dash made frantic arm motions to get his men to the line without delay. He hiked a leg to signal his center over the noise of the crowd, took the snap, and heaved the ball at the ground to stop the clock. With lowered head and hands on hips, he paced a few steps away from the line of scrimmage. He glanced at the clock; thirty-eight seconds remained. The Griffins had time for only one more play.

  Defenders lined up in a formation that indicated they expected Dash to run the ball. Dash motioned to Gordon and then to Coffey. Two defenders dropped back. One lined up left opposite Coffey. The other lined up opposite Gordon.

  A wave of lightheadedness washed over Naomi as she forgot to breathe. She took a deep breath and watched Dash take the snap. He faked a pass to Coffey who had nowhere to go, turned towards Gordon but he was covered, then danced a step or two before pulling the ball down to run himself. He stepped right and had to bob and weave to avoid defenders. Pivoting, he sprinted left. As he approached the two yard line, the field began to close in front of him. When two San Francisco linemen lowered at full speed to jam Dash, Naomi threw her hands in front of her eyes and peeked through her fingers. Without hesitation, Dash pitched the ball to Coffey a second before he got hammered into the turf. Coffey skirted around the pile and tiptoed into the end zone.

  “Yes!” A quick fist pump punctuated Naomi’s yell.

  The Griffins had taken the lead and the victory. Thrilled like the rest of the fans, Naomi ignored the superfluous extra point play. Her gaze shifted inside to watch DuChamps frown at his phone. Curious behavior for a man whose franchise just clinched a Wild Card berth in the playoffs.

  She turned back to the field and watched Dash celebrate with his team. Her smile blossomed then got even bigger when she spied Tallie standing on her grandmother’s lap and cheering like a crazy kid. What fun this must be for her. Her dad had come through.

  Looking back at DuChamps, who furiously texted on his phone, Naomi remained perplexed by his stern continence. Given the look on DuChamps face, somehow she didn’t think winning this game had managed to get Dash’s head off the chopping block.

  Chapter 23

  Two days after the narrow victory over San Francisco, Dash walked into the Sports Daily newsroom carrying a large gift bag. He zeroed in on Naomi’s empty desk and paused for a minute to look around the room. His eyes fell on Ray Jackson.

  Ray looked up from his own desk as Dash approached. “Well, well, well. The prodigal quarterback appears.”

  Ignoring the sarcastic tone, Dash extended a hand. “Ray.”

  Crossing his arms, Ray ignored the hand. “Come to complain about Naomi’s latest article?”

  “No.” Dash continued to extend his hand.

  The newspaper man glanced at the proffered palm. “No?”

  When he looked back up at Dash, Dash gave him a pointed look. Grudgingly, Ray stood and shook his hand.

  “I don’t have any complaints about the article, Jackson. It was a good piece.”

  “Really? Naomi didn’t seem to think you’d be that generous. What changed?”

  “It took me some … time … to realize I didn’t really have a problem with the content of the piece she wanted to write. Someone would have written
it. It might as well have been her since she was the one who discovered I had a twin. It was more about …”

  “Power?” Ray supplied. “Control?”

  Dash shook his head. “Trust.”

  Ray frowned. “You didn’t trust her to do a good job? Come on—”

  “Of course, I did.” He didn’t trust that he was as important to her as getting the story, but he wasn’t admitting that to Ray. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Dash ignored Ray’s caustic tone and looked around the office.

  “She’s not here at the moment.”

  Taking a few steps over to Naomi’s desk, Dash nodded. He placed the gold foil bag on top of her large, black desk blotter and tucked a sealed envelope precisely between the tissue paper peeking from the top of the bag. His eyes went back to Ray’s. “Make sure only she gets that note, would you?”

  Ray’s forehead creased and he tilted his head.

  “I understand her co-worker likes to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  The expression on Ray’s face made it clear Dash didn’t need to elaborate on which co-worker he was talking about. Ray nodded his assent.

  “Thanks.” Dash ran a hand through his hair and turned to leave. He stopped for several seconds with his back to Ray then turned back. “About that previous article—”

  Ray walked away from him. “You’re about three years too late, Janssen,” he said over his shoulder.

  “So I hear,” Dash mumbled under his breath. Out loud, he said, “I was wrong.”

  Ray stopped, spun abruptly. “Excuse me?”

  Dash stifled a grimace. “You heard me.” He wasn’t repeating that admission. “Naomi told me what really happened. I understand it could have gone much worse, and I owe your fast thinking for why it didn’t. I appreciate that.”

  Skepticism shadowed Ray’s face. “Is that so?” He clearly wasn’t going to make this easy for Dash.