Play Action Pass

by Gina Ardito

Shrugging, she stepped away. “If I’m getting one for me, it’s rude to not get one for you at the same time.”

  He gave her a disgruntled look. “You don’t drink coffee.”

  “Maybe not right now, but I’m trying to acquire a taste for it.”

  He stifled the urge to shout that he didn’t need her pity, but he understood she meant well. She wanted to help without embarrassing him. While her intentions were noble, he resented she felt the need to take care of him without letting him know she was taking care of him. As if he wasn’t aware of his limitations. Still, he couldn’t get angry.

  He’d spent the first six months of his recovery lashing out at everyone who came near with an outstretched hand. Only intense counseling had reminded him that assistance, whether wanted or not, indicated people cared. And he couldn’t punish them for caring, or in Cam’s case, for not caring.

  “Thanks, Rache,” he said instead.

  She smiled. “Any time. Besides, you’re gonna need the caffeine. Don’t forget. You’ve got a ten o’clock with Ernest Tallmadge.”

  He groaned. “Right.” Ernest Tallmadge owned a string of laundromats and was seeking a site in SoHo to open a new one. The man was a whirling dervish of brawn, astute business acumen, and endless energy. He didn’t believe in cutting Jordan any slack just because he was confined to a wheelchair.

  The irony didn’t escape Jordan’s sense of humor. While he often resented Rachel’s habit of treating him with gentle consideration, he also grew annoyed with Tallmadge for not allowing him some small concession.

  Once Rachel left and closed the door again, he sipped the brew while going through the papers in the Delgado folder. When he finally had a handle on what he planned to say, he picked up the phone and called the number on the top of the card. To his surprise, she answered on half a ring.

  “Delgado Foundation, this is Cameron.”

  “You answer your own phone. How...down-to-earth of you.” He could’ve bitten his tongue the second the scathing remark left his lips. No sleep and a hectic runaround meeting to commence within an hour made him more obnoxious than usual. Or maybe Cam brought out the worst in him.

  “I also negotiate my own deals,” she shot back. “So, when it comes to investing the foundation’s money, no matter how large or small a sum, I answer my phone. How are you, Jordan? It was good to see you last night. You should have contacted me earlier. I would have made sure you were on the guest list for the gala. I’d imagine many of your former teammates would’ve loved to see you again.”

  Was that a verbal slap? A reminder of the hard feelings he’d engendered when he’d left the Vanguard team so precipitously? He gritted his teeth, biting back a quick retort for the second time in as many minutes. He didn’t want to spar with her. He wanted a deal. But a little drawn blood might gain him the upper hand after last night’s hair rustling incident.

  “How’s your mother, Cam?”

  Thwap! The ball landed in her court again. A sharp hiss on the other end of the phone told him he’d aced her.

  “She’s fine. She remarried last year. Andrew Ellison. He’s the CEO of Cooper Industries. They make... widgets or something. I don’t know.”

  The tension in her tone didn’t escape Jordan’s notice and for a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy. He hadn’t heard about the new marriage, and her mention of another wedding for the Delgado widow sliced too close to the bone for comfort.

  If Cam was the ice princess, her mother, Laurel, was the fiery dragon who imprisoned her daughter in a tower of insecurity and crippling self-hate. Laurel Delgado Wallace Kiernan Moffit now-Ellison had spent decades beating down Cam’s self-esteem until she never felt good enough for any man’s affections. Not even the one who swore he’d love her forever and backed it up with a perfect square-cut solitaire. He still had the ring, tucked in the breast pocket of the suit he’d worn that night and never put on again. Was it any wonder he wanted to put distance between them after that humiliation?

  Nowadays, only Bertie built up her confidence, kept her grounded, and gave her the unconditional love she’d missed since Duke’s death.

  “Be sure to send your mother my congratulations,” he said with a tinge of acid charring the words.

  “I will.”

  A heavy silence fell between them. He could almost picture her in her office, pacing the wide open space behind the desk where the wall of windows looked out over the East River. She rarely sat still, even when in a good mood, and the topic of Laurel always riled her into frenetic activity.

  He struggled to come up with something else to say to her, something that would remove the specter of her mother from their conversation. When they dated, whenever Cam was all wound up after going a few rounds with Laurel over something stupid, he’d take her to their “quiet place.” Inwood Hill Park, a forest in the city, had hiking trails and salt marshes and forests, all perfect for burning excess energy, finding peace, or screaming into the void, depending upon her need at the time.

  His hands gripped the handles of his chair. He would never again be able to indulge her need for that level of physical activity. No wonder she wanted nothing to do with him after his injury.

  Face it, Jordan. You’re useless to her now.

  “So...” she said at last. “...that building.”

  He shook off his self-pity. “Right. Have you seen the property yet?”

  “The exterior. And I’ve reviewed the floorplans you faxed over.”

  Of course she had. Cam never did anything half-assed. She hated surprises and probably spent as much time digging into the details of the building as Susan had.

  “I do want to see the interior for myself so I can gauge the changes we’ll need to incorporate to make the site suitable for our specific needs. And I’ll be bringing my construction manager with me. We need to review specs and figure out costs on our end.”

  Her cool, crisp timbre showed no indication they’d once shared a past and dreamed of a shared future. He doodled curlicues on the back of the index card to feign indifference, the closest he could come to matching her tone. “Of course. When would be convenient for you?”

  “The sooner the better, honestly. I don’t want to waste your time or mine if the site can’t be modified within my budget.”

  Ha. Small countries didn’t have half the foundation’s budget. He left that particular comment unsaid. “I can meet you there later this afternoon or tomorrow. Which do you prefer?”

  “Tomorrow would be fine, thanks. Shall we say three o’clock?”

  With a few taps of the keyboard, he pulled up a copy of his calendar. His afternoon was completely open—a fact he had no intention of divulging to her. The last thing he’d allow her to feel for him was pity. “I’ll shuffle a few appointments around to make it work,” he lied.

  “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” God, they sounded so stiff with each other! Hard to believe they’d once been intimate.

  “Terrific. I’ll see you then. Goodbye.”

  He said his own goodbye and pressed the disconnect button, but kept the receiver cradled near his ear. How shortsighted of him to not realize she’d be in charge of this deal. He had assumed once he got her okay to move forward, he’d be dealing with her army of lawyers and accountants. He’d forgotten Cam was a hands-on kind of girl, in all aspects of her life. His mind traveled back to days when those hands had touched him, delighted him, relaxed him.

  Dammit, how was he supposed to work with her on a regular basis and not let his resentment leech out all over their dealings? He’d need someone to run interference. Before he could chicken out, he dialed a number he never expected to have to call again.

  After only two rings, a silky-voiced receptionist answered.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Wallace, please,” he said. “Tell him it’s Jordan Fawcett.”

  A few minutes later, Bertie growled into the phone, “I was wondering how long you’d wait to call me.”

&n
bsp; Thrilled the old goat was willing to even speak to him these days, Jordan stifled a sigh of relief. “How are you, Bertie?”

  “Curious, mostly.”

  Yeah, that made two of them.

  “I’m not going to talk about whatever’s gone on between you and Cam, so if you’re calling to badmouth my girl or tell me your side of the story, we can hang up now.”

  Nice to see Bertie hadn’t changed in the last several years. He was still the same no-nonsense curmudgeon. “Fair enough. I’ll cut to the chase. Has she told you about the Loughlin building?”

  “Is that the place the foundation’s looking at over on West Fifteenth? Yeah, she’s mentioned it. But you know I have nothing to do with the day-to-day running of the foundation.”

  “No, but you have a lot to do with the day-to-day of Cam.”

  “And she’s off-limits in this conversation, so unless you wanna talk football, I’m gonna hang up. I’ve got two dozen players waiting for me down on the field. Welcome back to New York, Jordie, but I got stuff to do, so adios for now.”

  A fumbling on the other end had Jordan mentally scrambling while he shouted into the phone, “Wait, wait! Don’t hang up!”

  Crap. Bertie was Jordan’s only insight into Cameron’s mindset. So if the old coot wanted to talk football, he’d have to figure out a way to talk about Cam while talking about football. At least, that was the way he thought Bertie wanted to play this conversation. His brain scurried for a connection.

  “Time’s wastin’, Jordan.”

  At last, he sighed and opted for the lamest excuse in the playbook. “Okay, so, here’s the deal. I’ve been thinking about this game from a couple of years ago and wondering where I might’ve gone wrong. It was the fourth quarter, and we were down by six.” Probably more like forty, but he’d keep the score close for the mock scenario. “Their defense was a solid wall, and I couldn’t seem to get the offense to move forward enough to get a first down. I tried everything to get around them. Nothing worked. On the third down with minutes to go, I went with a Statue of Liberty play and tried to draw the defense’s attention elsewhere, but they saw right through it. I lost the game. It’s been running through my head lately, and I need to know. If you were me, in that situation, what would you have done?”

  Expelled breath whooshed through the earpiece. “Well, now, son, that’s hard to say. What I can tell you is that a Statue of Liberty is a pretty expected play these days. But you know what no one ever expects to see? A fumblerooski. Whatever happened to a good old fumblerooski?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Oh, he knew the fumblerooski, a play of misdirection where a QB placed the football on the ground as if fumbled, then the offense tricked the defense into following the wrong player downfield while the real ball carrier headed in a different direction. The idea was to gain as much yardage as possible before the opposing team noticed they were chasing the wrong guy.

  And while he could perfectly diagram the play, he had no clue how it pertained to his problem with Cam.

  Who was the quarterback in this fumblerooski?

  Him? Or...her?

  Chapter 5

  Cam took extra care with her appearance the next day. Jordan knew all her ugliest secrets and wouldn’t be afraid to use them to throw her off her game. His “fond regards” toward her mom yesterday told her he wasn’t above playing dirty. God knew why, but he wanted to bust her chops.

  Mom always said, “Your clothes are your armor.” So, okay. Let’s see what protective gear I can find in my closet.

  She chose a pair of soft, suede leggings in a fawn hue, spiked leather boots in a darker brown that came just to her knees, and a cream-colored blouse, which she planned to pair with a maroon blazer. Studying her image in the full-length mirror in her bedroom, she tried to draw up a veneer of confidence. On the outside, she might look like a woman in control, but inside, her soft heart had melted to mush and her nerves bristled at the thought of seeing Jordan again.

  Face it, honey. You never got over him.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she turned away from her reflection before they fell and stained her cheeks. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t stand beside him and pretend she didn’t care. Every emotion she felt for him, all the love she still harbored, would show on her face, no matter what color blazer she wore.

  Had he ever loved her? Or was she just his entry into professional football society, easily discarded when she’d served her purpose? If the latter were true, why would he have asked her to marry him?

  Her mother’s sneering voice echoed in her skull. You should have accepted his proposal. A girl of your size won’t get that many opportunities to get married. You’re too big, too masculine. Men like their women small and dainty. Feminine. You can put an evening gown and flawless makeup on a pig, but it’s still a pig.

  “Thanks, Mom.” She pressed her nose up and snorted.

  She didn’t regret turning down Jordan’s proposal years ago, regardless of her mother’s prediction about her looming spinsterhood. She’d simply not been ready to roll those ugly dice, and avoiding long-term loneliness seemed a stupid reason to say yes.

  The first teardrop landed on her sleeve, leaving a blot of tinted moisturizer on the cuff. “Dammit!” Now, she’d have to change her outfit and redo her makeup. Frustration released the tap, and her tears fell in earnest.

  She grabbed a moist wipe from her vanity and proceeded to scrub her face clean. Defeat settled on her shoulders, heavy and debilitating. Legs weak and shaky, Cam collapsed on her bed, prepared to call Bertie to tell him to go to the meeting in her place.

  No.

  She couldn’t give Jordan the satisfaction.

  On a deep breath, she unbuttoned and whipped off the shirt, tossing it in the corner. The boots came off next, followed by her socks and her pants. In just her underwear, she strode to the full-length mirror and stared levelly at her reflection. She didn’t need clothes to be her armor. She was her armor. Her business acumen, her experience, her intelligence, her quick wit, she was the whole package.

  Screw her clothes, screw her broad shoulders and her excessive height, and her cellulite thighs and her nowhere-near-flat belly. If any man couldn’t handle all of her the way she was, including Jordan, they didn’t deserve any of her. She was also tough enough to take advantage of their vulnerability.

  Fired up, she headed to her walk-in closet and looked through the garments hanging there. She wouldn’t dress for Jordan. She intended to dress for her.

  An hour later, she stood outside the building she hoped to acquire, her construction supervisor, Antonio Marrone, at her side. She wore a pink-and-green floral flared A dress with a hot pink jacket and pink suede ankle boots. Whenever the breeze picked up, the skirt fluttered around her legs. The ensemble made her feel fun and pretty, and brought a smile to her lips. She wouldn’t apologize for eschewing staid business attire for a spot of color to cheer her dreary mood. Nor would she dress to fade into the background or to appear smaller, as her mother and society often demanded.

  Jordan arrived at three-fifteen, rolled his wheelchair up the sidewalk, gave her the once-over, and exclaimed, “Wow! You look great, Cam. What’s the occasion?”

  Already annoyed at his tardiness, she didn’t appreciate the comment—as if she needed to explain her wardrobe to him or anyone, for that matter. With a toss of her hair, she replied, “No occasion. You’re late.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Some idiot truck driver used the handicapped spaces in the back lot as a loading dock. He decided to take a stroll to the bodega down the street for some coffee while the restaurant crew unloaded a month’s worth of beef from the back. Took the keys with him, so I had to wait ‘til he came back, settled up with the restaurant’s manager, and finally moved the truck out of the space before I could pull in and park. It’s not easy being in a chair in the city, between the lack of viable options to maneuver around and the inconsiderate buttholes who don’t care if they inconvenience others as long as they
shave five minutes off their busy schedules.”

  “So then why live here? You could manage real estate anywhere.”

  His brows drew downward in an expression of repressed fury. “Wow. Way to minimize my ‘little’ job, eh? It’s not like I run a multi-million dollar foundation, right?”

  Heat flared in her cheeks. “I didn’t say that. All I meant was—”

  “Ahem!” Antonio cut in. “Maybe we could go inside, rather than continuing arguing here on the street?”

  Cam clamped her jaws shut. She had to remember why she was here. She and Jordan had to put their personal animosities aside if they hoped to make this deal work. She wanted this building, and judging by Jordan’s relentless pursuit, he wanted her to acquire it. So, why couldn’t they behave around each other long enough to make their one common goal happen? Would they always wind up sniping over stupid comments, each of them taking offense at the most innocuous statements? Well, she’d try to remain impassive and hope he followed her lead.

  “You’re right, Antonio. Jordan, I apologize. Shall we?” She waved toward the locked door and stepped aside to give him a wide berth for his chair to roll through.

  He pushed himself closer and held out the key to her. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  She glanced at the door and noted the lock sat a good foot above the latch, probably out of Jordan’s reach. Her annoyance ebbed away, and a sliver of pity pierced her heart. No wonder he was so bitter. Things she took for granted—unlocking a door, finding a parking spot, or even dashing into a bodega for a bottle of water or a bag of chips—required planning and assistance for him. A man as physical and independent as Jordan used to be would probably find making the adjustment devastating.

  “Sure.” She took the key and inserted it into the lock.

  With Antonio’s help, she pushed open the heavy steel door.

  “Light switch is on your left,” Jordan said as they went inside.

  Antonio reached over, and with a click, the interior flooded with light. The empty space seemed massive, but Cam imagined the doorways to classrooms, the laughter of children and teens filling the emptiness.