Playing for Keeps (3 page)

Frank jumped half out of his seat. “Except it can’t be done. The Spurlings don’t do promo except for the league and for charity. It’s Aaron Spurling’s mantra. No beer, no cars, no nuthin’. Not ever. And his sons live by it too.”

“Until now,” Erica agreed. “That’s what makes this particular idea so special. Johnny will do it. And his father will be fine with it.”

Adler chuckled. “I’m intrigued. Let’s hear it.”

She exhaled slowly, then began. “Johnny Spurling has a nickname. The Player. And since he’s gorgeous and cocky, everyone thinks it’s about his womanizing. But they’re wrong. I was a freshman at Cal when he was playing there, and it was all about his skills on the field. My guess is, it bothers him that it went from player to
play
er. And think about it,” she added reverently. “Why won’t the Spurlings do product endorsement? They want to control their image. To reflect well on their family and the game. And so . . .” She gestured toward the closest monitor, trying not to get too distracted by Johnny’s hunky body. “We use that.”

For once, silence dominated the room, so she continued. “Picture a scene like the one in Frank’s ad. A lively sports bar. But not on Super Bowl Sunday. Just a place where guys congregate. To bullshit and pick up women. And where women gather to talk and—hopefully—meet a nice guy.” She gave Caldwell a confident smile. “The patrons will be good-looking, but I want a slightly different vibe. Not Hollywood glitz. We’re looking for healthy, outdoorsy sexiness. The kind of beauty—and physiques—that come from fitness and vitality. And I’ve got a color scheme and tone in mind. It’s lively, but echoes nature again, not diamonds. Here’s a rough idea.” She passed around a stack of designs she had created and waited until they all had copies. When Steve Adler and Julio nodded, she knew she was on the right track, and her confidence burgeoned.

“So that’s the setting. We see John Spurling at the bar with two buddies. He’s clearly the dominant male in the room, radiant with health and power and sex appeal. A hot blonde walks in, and one of his friends points her out, saying, ‘There she is again. Man . . .’

“And the second friend says, ‘Yeah, one of us should make a move now. I hear her dad just died. She’s gotta be looking for a warm body. Why not ours?’

“Johnny gives him a steely look, says ‘Have some respect,’ then motions to the bartender and says, ‘Another round of Lager Storms for us, and give this note to the blonde in the black dress.’ Then he scribbles something on a cocktail napkin and hands it to the bartender, who hands it to a waitress, who delivers it to the blonde. She reads it, then looks up at Johnny and gives him a wistful smile.

“And the disrespectful buddy asks, ‘What did you write?’

“Johnny says, ‘Just that I’m sorry about her dad. And if she needs someone to talk to, I’m available.’

“And the buddy says, ‘You’re a genius. She’s yours for the taking now.’

“At that moment, the bartender brings three Lager Storms, and Johnny hands one to the bad buddy and tells him, ‘Have some respect. And drink this somewhere else. I’m done with you.’

“And the other buddy—the quiet one—says, ‘Yeah, what a douche.’

“Then the bad one slinks away, the shot fades as time passes, and we see Johnny at a table with the blonde, drinking his Lager Storm and listening as she tearfully talks to him. And there’s something—well, sweet in the whole exchange. And then the voice-over says . . .”

She paused, loving the way the whole room seemed at the edge of their seats.

Then she announced the tagline:

Drink Lager Storm. And don’t be a douche
.

The room was silent for a long, long moment before Steve Adler said reverently, “I love it.”

“Except you can’t say ‘douche’ on network television,” Frank assured them. “And like I said, Spurlings don’t do promo.”

She glanced hopefully at Caldwell, knowing
his
was the only opinion that mattered.

He smiled weakly. “It’s good, Erica. But Frank’s right. We can’t use that kind of language. Even if the network allowed it, the NFL wouldn’t. And then there’s Helmut Hunt, the client. He calls himself a churchgoing man and I think he means it.”

“If he’s a churchgoing man, he respects women. That’s the whole point.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Don’t you see? We’re saying it’s fine for guys to go to bars to pick up women. And for women to go seeking men. And for everyone to seek beer. But there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed. A line Johnny Spurling would never, ever cross. It’s all about decency. So the network, and the NFL, and churchgoing men will make an exception. And so will Aaron Spurling. Plus”—she flashed a knowing smile—“Johnny Spurling
hates
being called the Player. I see it in his eyes during interviews. He wants to shed that image, probably because he wants to get married and have children—
daughters
—someday.”

Julio interceded. “What if we use the same idea—which is excellent, Erica—and just substitute the word ‘jerk.’
Drink Lager Storm and don’t be a jerk
. It works almost as well, and we eliminate the controversy.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “I like it, but it doesn’t really hit the essence of the problem. The guy in the ad is a douche. The kind of guy no one else wants to associate with. Men find him tasteless, women are repulsed.”

“Because he’s a douche,” Steve Adler agreed. “It’s worth a shot, KC. The league is struggling to balance the macho stuff with some sensibility. And in this case, Erica’s not using douche to titillate or be crass, she’s using it to draw a line in the sand.” Taking a deep breath, he repeated, “It’s worth a shot. And if Erica’s willing, she can use my team—my resources and know-how—to pull it off.”

As Erica held her breath, KC pursed his lips and thought about it for what seemed like forever. Then he shrugged. “If you can get tentative approval from the network and the NFL, we’ll take it to the client. And if
he
approves—” He paused for a sly smile. “We’ll take it to Johnny Spurling.”

Chapter 2

Pulling his Lexus SUV into the circular driveway of the Ashton Hotel, Johnny eased to the curb, stepped into the overcast Portland afternoon, and handed his keys to the valet, who seemed too young to have a driver’s license. Hopefully the hotel had good insurance.

But the kid wasn’t paying attention, which was surprising, since most males over the age of five usually recognized him—the quarterback for their team, the Portland Lancers—instantly. The town had a bad case of playoff fever even though the regular season was only half finished. In fact, this town had Super Bowl fever, and Johnny figured prominently in their fantasies.

Intrigued, he turned to see what the valet was staring at. A long pair of shapely legs were exiting a limousine. Possibly the best legs Johnny had ever seen, although at some point they all blurred together, especially when the women were wearing sexy black heels, as this one was. Still, like his teenaged friend, he was invested in seeing the rest of her.

Then she completed her emergence and stood tall, peering up at the cloudy sky, adjusting the belt on her tan trench coat, and then turning to press a discreet fold of bills into the driver’s hand. Her face didn’t disappoint, although again, he couldn’t really be sure since she wore huge sunglasses. But in his imagination, she was a total babe.

And there was something especially hot about her beyond the great legs, pretty mouth, and glossy black hair piled on top of her head. It took a second to realize exactly what it was that promised good times, then he sighed in reverent recognition. It was the way the trench coat hung on her. Like she was naked underneath it. He hadn’t seen a trace of clothing when she was exiting the vehicle—no pants, no skirt—and there was nothing up top either. Not the collar of a blouse or the heft of a suit jacket.

Just tawny skin and a nice rack.

He had seen this in movies, hadn’t he? The beautiful girl showing up at a guy’s hotel room wearing a long coat, heels, maybe sexy black undergarments, but nothing more. Now it was happening, but not for him, and he resented the hell out of the guy she was about to drive insane.

As if to confirm his suspicions, she gathered the lapels of her raincoat more closely around her bare neck, then stuffed her hands in her pockets and headed for the hotel. No purse, no luggage. Because a girl like this didn’t need a purse or luggage. Or at least, not for the reason she was here.

The valet was still gaping, so Johnny forced the keys into his hand, growling, “Get it together, kid.” Then he followed the naked woman into the lobby. It was all kinds of wrong and he knew it. For one thing, he had given up casual encounters out of respect for the schoolteacher and Baby Aaron. And for another, he was here at the behest of his agent and best friend, Murf, who needed him to sit through some pitch for a Super Bowl ad despite the futility of it. As Murf well knew, Johnny would say no, and apparently that result had been explained to the ad agency. But Murf owed the agency a favor, and listening to this pitch would clear that slate.

Johnny grinned. Murf’s entire world revolved around favors owed and owing. They were the guy’s currency, his passion, and his favorite sport. Wasn’t that why Johnny was here in the first place? He owed Murf for luring the NFL’s best kicker to Portland, thus ensuring the town a playoff berth. And in exchange for that, he was more than willing to sit through an advertising session.

He was also willing to forget about the naked woman and concentrate on business, right up until she paused directly ahead of him and pulled a few pins out of her hair, allowing long, wavy locks to cascade almost to her waist, propelling him back into the fantasy.

Once again, he hated the guy she was about to entertain, and as she stepped into the elevator, he watched the numbers above it light up. One, two, three, four—and then it stopped. Three floors shy of Murf’s humble abode.

You actually thought she was going to the meeting? As what? Naked entertainment?
he asked himself with a laugh.
Murf’s a family guy, remember? And you’re supposed to be one too.

He had subconsciously sworn off new liaisons, not just to concentrate on winning but in preparation for a new and monogamous lifestyle. Now it occurred to him that there were three long, lonely months until the blind date with Beth’s friend. Shouldn’t he have one last fling? Not with the naked brunette, obviously. But someone pretty and fun who had long, dark hair and who would strip off a raincoat or two for him. Was that asking so much?

The elevator returned to the ground floor and so he stepped inside and pressed the button for the seventh floor, where Murf kept a year-round suite. The agent had two superstar clients in Portland now and needed digs here to supplement his Dallas office at a moment’s notice. In addition to being favor-based, Murf was full-service. He would negotiate a contract, make reservations and introductions, even walk a client’s dog without batting an eye.

The least Johnny could do was sit through a boring pitch that was going nowhere fast, especially now that he could use the time to daydream about the hot babe in the raincoat. After that, he’d spend a few hours at the gym, then grab his best buddies, Deck and Bannerman, and head to a club to find a girl with great legs and long, dark hair.

And at least Murf was grateful. In fact, he was standing in the doorway to his suite when Johnny stepped off the elevator.

“Hey, John,” he boomed, striding over to shake his hand. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s a pain.”

He gave him a mischievous look. “As long as it makes us even.”

“In your dreams. I got you Sean Decker. You’ll owe me until we’re dead and gone.”

It was true and Johnny knew it. Having Deck on his team was the gift that kept on giving. Or in this case, kicking. Still, he frowned. “What’s in it for me then?”

“Call it a favor to be named later.” Murf led him into the suite. “I can’t wait to get this monkey off my back. And by monkey, I mean jackass.”

Johnny had heard this diatribe before. Apparently this advertising exec—Frank something or other—had introduced Murf to Emily, the great love of Murf’s life and the six-months pregnant mother of his three children. The ad exec had lorded it over the agent for eight long years, and since Murf couldn’t stand the guy, he needed to wipe the slate clean.

“So all I have to do is sit and listen?” he asked, settling into an armchair in front of a roaring fire.

“Yep. They already know the score. Spurlings don’t do product endorsement. I said it ten times, but this bunch from the Caldwell Agency thinks they can change your mind. Good luck to them, right?”

“What kind of product?” Johnny asked, only mildly interested.

“They wouldn’t say. But I made
that
clear too. No ads, but particularly not beer. Or trucks, cars or other vehicles. They’d have to be idiots to try something like that.”

“Good.” He accepted a can of cola from his host. Something stronger would have been better, but Murf was a prude before five p.m. “I saw an amazing girl in the lobby a few minutes ago. Any chance she’s part of this presentation?”

Murf chuckled. “What happened to the Baby Aaron agenda? You gave up hot chicks, remember?”

“I have eleven weeks and I’ve decided to use them.”

Murf crossed to his desk and hit a few buttons on his keyboard, pulling up a list on his screen. “There’s the agency owner, a guy named KC Caldwell. Then Frank—the jackass. Someone named Steve Adler, who’s an ad exec like Frank. And a female named Erica McCall. No title for her, so she’s probably the secretary. But she’s a girl, so there’s hope.”

Johnny grimaced. “She wasn’t exactly dressed for a business meeting. Not dressed at all, actually.”

“Huh?”

A crisp knocking on the door prevented further details, so Johnny stood up, anxious to get this over with, while Murf headed over to greet the business folks.

The folks in the entryway murmured introductions, all male voices except for a soft female one. Then they walked into the room, where Murf said brightly, “And now for the star of our show. John, meet the gang. Gang, meet Johnny Spurling.”