Any Given Christmas

by Candis Terry

  “Aw, Maggie, you’re a girl after my own heart,” Kate’s father said.

  Maggie kissed him right on top of his shiny head. “Sorry, handsome. I’m already taken.”

  “Raise a glass, Deer Lick,” Maggie shouted above the clamor of the bar and lifted her shot glass in the air, “to your new sheriff, Matt Ryan.”

  Glasses clinked. Cheers abounded. And Emma figured from the way Kate looked at her new husband, as soon as they got home he was going to get really, really lucky.

  Beside Emma, Jesse sipped from his glass of ale. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. Watched him clean away the foam by sliding his bottom lip over his top. He caught her looking and smiled with his warm, dark eyes. Since they’d arrived he’d been very attentive. He’d opened her door, pulled out her chair, hung up her coat—the typical date stuff. He’d done everything a woman could expect on a date.

  “You look good in that Packers cap,” Jesse said.

  She thought of how much Dean hated her hat. “Obviously I’m not the majority. I feel like I’m in enemy territory.”

  Jesse gave her a smile. “I think your friends will forgive you.”

  “They wouldn’t if the almighty Mr. Perfect was playing.” The sound of Dean’s nickname coming off her tongue sounded odd. Her heart squeezed and she took a sip of her soda to swallow down the awful burn his name fired up in her stomach. The burn that acknowledged how much she missed seeing him around town. More precisely, how much she missed seeing him an arm’s length away with that hungry look in his green eyes.

  “I’ve always been a Packers fan,” she told Jesse. “My Memaw was born in Wisconsin. She always rooted for them. Even when they struggled for a lot of years. She was a huge Bart Starr fan.”

  “Not Favre?”

  “Wasn’t everyone at some time or other?”

  Jesse leaned closer and his arm settled across the back of her chair. “I like you, Emma.”

  “Oh.” She leaned back to look at him. “Well, I like you too. Wow. Those are some numbers for Aaron Rodgers, huh?”

  The commentator’s pre-game banter was filled with ego-boosting stats and the obligatory warm-up interviews with the coaches spewing all the PC stuff about how the other team was so good at this or that, and how they were a challenging opponent. As the TV cut away to a soda commercial, Emma entertained herself with the sporadic conversations that popped up throughout the bar. Then as the pre-game show came back on, Emma looked up to find exactly what she’d been dreading.

  In what appeared to be a locker room interview, a female reporter stuck a microphone in Dean’s face and asked him the question that had plagued him since the Thanksgiving Day sack.

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  Dean in street clothes and a team jacket flashed his famous smile. “Doing great.”

  “What do you think the Stallions’ chances are against the Packers?”

  “Rodgers is a red-hot quarterback right now. His pass completions are over 70 percent. That’s going to be a challenge for Jacoby during the game. Their defense is going to target him. But he’s a strong kid with a good head on his shoulders. I think he’s going to surprise everyone. And I know the team is 100 percent behind him.”

  The interviewer flashed her perfect teeth. “How does it feel to be on the sidelines instead of on the field?”

  Emma cringed. What a bitch to ask such a question. How did she think he felt? Football was the most important thing in his life. Emma hoped he’d shut the nasty interviewer up with one of his quick comebacks.

  Dean shrugged his broad shoulders and tilted his head. “It doesn’t matter where I stand. I support my team. And I know Jacoby will be a great captain.”

  Emma melted.

  Dean had been given every opportunity to piss and moan. Instead he’d stood there like a true gentleman and thrown all his support into the kid who’d replaced him in the career he loved more than life.

  The rest of the interview was a buzz in Emma’s ears. She watched his smile and felt the power as strongly as when he used that beautiful mouth to kiss her. She looked at the warmth in his eyes and thought of the way they’d glimmer when he tried to coerce her into taking off her clothes. He made gestures with his big hands and she remembered how they touched her with such gentleness and care.

  The kickoff went with a long boot for a twenty-four-yard Stallions return, but Emma barely noticed. On the second play of the game Dean’s replacement got sacked for a loss of ten yards.

  “Not a good way to start the game,” Jesse said. “Care for some nachos?”

  Unfortunately the cheesy snack made her think of New Year’s Day and Dean. “No, thank you.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  Emma watched Jesse walk toward the nacho bar. His broad shoulders had no problem getting him through the crowd. He was tall, and lean, and handsome. And there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d ever be able to not compare him to Dean Silverthorne.

  In all fairness, Emma knew tonight would be their last date. Her thoughts were on someone else. And until she managed to eliminate those warm and tingly reflections, she had no business leading Jesse on.

  Her gaze slid back to the screen just as the Stallions’ new quarterback released a long spiral pass into the hands of the wide receiver. The bar crowd jumped to their feet and roared as the Stallions’ receiver broke two tackles, raced down the field, and carried the ball into the end zone.

  While the enthusiastic Stallions fans celebrated, Emma lifted her soda and took a sip.

  “Great way to start the game.”

  Emma turned her head toward the voice. Which did not belong to Jesse.

  Beside her sat the man who should have been freezing his incredibly tight butt off on the sidelines in snowy Green Bay. “What are you doing here?”

  “Watching the game.”

  “Why aren’t you at the game?”

  “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Dean snagged a nacho from Kate’s plate and it went crunch in his mouth.

  “Sure.” The tingles tumbling through her stomach said hell, yes. “But—”

  “Pre-recorded interview.”

  “Ah. So, again, why aren’t you at the game?”

  “They uninvited me.” He drank from the beer in his hand.

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t want the extra pressure of me being on the sidelines. They didn’t want Jacoby to be distracted.”

  By the frown creasing his forehead, Emma could tell that bothered him. And that bothered her. “But didn’t they think you could help? I mean . . . he just got sacked.”

  “He’s got coaches.” His eyes darkened as took another drink of beer, then sucked a drop from his top lip. “Besides, he doesn’t want my advice. Told me so himself.”

  “Is he crazy?”

  Dean looked at her and smiled. “He’s young and eager. That’s all.”

  Translation: the kid is young and cocky and doesn’t think he needs anyone’s advice. Stupid kid.

  “How did you get in here without anyone seeing you?” she asked.

  “They saw me.” At that moment Maggie set another bottle of beer down on the table in front of him. “See. One of the perks of being a player. Free beer.”

  “Like you can’t afford to buy your own?”

  “Of course I can. But why would I want to take away the opportunity to make someone feel good about buying me one? It’s an age-old guy thing, Em. Just go with it. If the Stallions win, I’ll pay the bar tab for everybody.”

  “And if they lose?”

  “They won’t.” He balanced the chair back on the rear two legs just as Jesse walked up with a full plate of nachos.

  Emma looked between the two men, recognizing the moment when the testosterone flared and competition began.

  “Silverthorne.”

  Dean grinned. “Hamilton.”

  Jesse nodded. “You’re in my seat.”

  “Am I?” The chair landed back on all four legs and Dean stood. “Sorry abou
t that.”

  “I’m sure someone can find you another chair,” Jesse said.

  “No need.” Dean stepped back and waved his hand gallantly at the chair. “Have a seat.”

  Jesse set his plate down on the table in front of Emma, settled into his chair, and picked up his glass of beer. “I brought enough nachos to share.”

  “Oh, I’m not—”

  “Hey, Emma? Can I talk to you a minute?”

  Emma looked up to find Dean practically leaning over her shoulder.

  “I’m . . . watching the game.”

  “I know.” Dean tried to look as apologetic as possible. Too bad the deepening of the dimple in his chin gave him away. He knew exactly what he was up to. “But I’d really like to talk to you.”

  “Can’t it wait until the game is over? Don’t you want to watch your team play?”

  “Of course.” He glanced up at the screen as Jacoby got sacked again and hit the ground hard. “Ooooh. That one’s gonna hurt.” He looked back at Emma. “This won’t take long. I promise.”

  “She asked you to wait until the game was over.” Jesse tried to sound cool but didn’t quite accomplish the feat.

  “Understood,” Dean said to Jesse. Then he slid his gaze back to Emma. “This is about the project I told you about a few weeks ago. What do you say, Em? Can you give me just a couple of minutes?”

  Her heart turned over. If he meant the charity, then yes, she was interested. “Oh. You mean that project?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll be right back, Jesse.” Emma got to her feet and slid her arms into the coat Dean held out for her. Whether a glutton for punishment or plain curious, she’d soon find out. She placed her hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “This really might be important.”

  “Sure.” He gave her a hesitant smile, then slid a glare to Dean. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  Dean took her hand off Jesse’s shoulder and practically dragged her through the bar and out the door. He didn’t stop dragging her until they crossed the street and came to a huge black SUV parked in front of the Yee-Ha Trading Post.

  Before she could blink, he had her back up against the car door, his hands cupping her face, and his mouth on hers. He tasted like passion and promise, with a healthy dose of hunger.

  God, he tasted good.

  Before she gave into the tingling sensation sweeping across her breasts and pulled him closer, she pressed her hands against his flannel-covered chest. It was freezing outside. Snow drifted down in big fat flakes. Yet from beneath his shirt, his hard, defined muscles warmed her palms. His heart pounded beneath her fingers. And she came dangerously close to throwing common sense out the window. Again.

  He lifted his head. But he did not move.

  “What are you doing?”

  His hands lowered to her shoulders. “I’m kissing you, honey.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  A corner of his mouth curled upward. “But I like kissing you.”

  “You said you wanted to talk to me.” She sighed. “So talk.”

  He glanced down the street where parked cars filled every empty space and a few stragglers hurried toward the bar. “How about we go somewhere a little more private?”

  “I’m on a date, Dean.”

  His smile flattened. “Sorry.” Then he pulled the Packers cap from her head and looked down into her face. “You were right,” he said.

  “About?”

  “The camp. How it needs to come together. When I was in Houston last week I visited a friend’s house. Do you remember the teammate I told you about whose son has autism?”

  She nodded.

  “While I had dinner with Bo and his family, I had the opportunity to watch the interaction between him and his son.” He took her hands in his and intertwined their fingers. “Watching them together . . . able to laugh together, but without the ability to reciprocate the affection. Em, I swear I could feel the desperation of how badly my friend wants to help his little boy. It broke my heart.”

  He gripped her hands, which helped to steady her.

  “I went home and got on the internet. I started compiling research on therapy for kids like Brenden. The more I looked, the more fascinating it became.” The enthusiasm in his voice was tangible. “Do you know that one of every 110 children will register somewhere on the autism spectrum?”

  “Yes, I do know. I learned that in one of my classes.”

  “Those are awful statistics.”

  “I agree. But what does this have to do with me, Dean?”

  He looked away. His wide shoulders lifted on a big intake of air. Then he looked back at her with serious eyes. “You were right, Em. If I want to make a difference I have to get my hands dirty.”

  “So you’re saying . . .”

  “I have almost seven months before I need to be in training camp. There’s no reason I can’t rehab here and get the organization started.”

  Emma melted like butter on a summer sidewalk. She squeezed his hands. “That’s great, Dean. I’m really happy to hear that. You should be very proud of yourself.”

  “That’s the funny thing. For the first time in my life, I’m not doing something for me. And it feels pretty damned good.”

  The happy gleam in his eye reached out and grabbed hold of her heart.

  “It would be nice to know you’re behind me.”

  Her throat felt so tight she could barely speak. “I support you 100 percent.”

  “That’s what I hoped you’d say.” He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head beneath his chin.

  The scent of his soap clung to his warm skin and she stayed in his arms for several greedy breaths. It took everything she had to step from his embrace when all she wanted to do was stay right there in the sanctuary of his arms, snuggled up against his strong, compassionate heart. But being in his arms was too risky. He was still a temporary fixture. Once his shoulder mended, once his organization got off the ground, he would leave.

  “I’m very happy for you. But . . .”

  His dark brows lifted. “But?”

  “I really need to get back inside.” She turned.

  “Em.” He caught her hand, smoothed his thumb across her fingers. “Please, don’t go. Can we go somewhere? Talk about the details?”

  She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she’d run the risk of leaping into his arms and hanging on for dear life while he revved up his engine to leave her behind like roadkill. “This is your project, Dean. It doesn’t involve me.”

  “Sure it does.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Nothing you do involves me.”

  “You’re wrong. Look at all the time and energy you’re investing to learn more about these issues. To get a specialized degree so you can work toward helping these kids. Don’t you think this might be a perfect opportunity for you too?”

  “It might be. But I just can’t.” She looked up and for the first time realized that Dean Silverthorne might be able to take a thousand-pound hit on the field, but he was not unbreakable. “Look, I think it’s wonderful that you plan to stay here and take on this challenge. And I know you’ll be successful. But nothing has changed since New Year’s Day.”

  “A lot has changed.”

  “Not for me. I have plans, Dean.” The urge to flee reached up and strangled her. And in her anxious state the words rushed out much harsher than she intended. “And you’re not in them.”

  Well, hell, that didn’t go the way he’d planned.

  Dean watched Emma retreat across the deserted road and back into the bar. Arms folded, he stood beside the SUV he’d bought in Bozeman and debated whether to follow her back into the bar or head home.

  He’d hoped she might be a little happy to see him. Excited he’d made the decision to organize the camp on his own instead of hiring others to do the majority of the work. He’d still have to hire those more knowledgeable in specific areas, but none of that seemed to make a difference.

  He’d never had a woman walk a
way from him.

  Hell, he’d never had a woman tell him no for anything.

  Emma Hart was his first in many ways. In a weird way he completely respected that. He didn’t like it. But he respected it.

  That didn’t stop him from wanting her, however. From the moment he’d walked into that bar and seen her sitting there in her ridiculous Packers cap to the moment he touched her, he’d wanted her. Right then. Didn’t matter how. Didn’t matter where. What surprised him most was that he didn’t just want to have sex with her. There’d been no doubt about that.

  But he wanted more.

  He wanted her.

  As the bar door slowly closed behind her and the sound of jeers and boos from inside the place faded, Dean unfolded his arms and started walking.

  No matter how difficult or awkward it might be, he would go back into that bar and sit down with his friends and family. He’d ignore Emma’s stubbornness and Jesse Hamilton’s glares, and he’d watch his boys kick Green Bay’s cheese-head asses.

  Come tomorrow, he’d find a new tactic to entice Emma onto his own team.

  The Stallions’ chances for the Big Show went cleats-up in the third quarter.

  While Dean had nursed a bitter ale and his wounded pride, his team had allowed two turnovers to the Packers that turned disastrous. One had been taken in for a touchdown, the other had ended up a field goal that perfectly split the uprights.

  Guilt hung like a chain around his neck. Sure, he hadn’t been the one throwing the ball that night. But he’d let his team down as sure as if he’d thrown that intercepted pass. Jacoby had gone into the game overconfident, and when the going got tough, the backup QB had quit on the team.

  Even with his shoulder out of the socket and pain ripping through his body, Dean had needed to be dragged off the field and into the locker room. Or at least that’s the way he saw it. And maybe a few other vocal online critics saw it that way as well.

  He had always fought against failure. He’d never given up. The desire to succeed pushed him. Drove him. But even as he watched his team lose their chance at the Super Bowl, his hammering need to triumph hadn’t completely kept his mind occupied.