Playing for Keeps (9 page)

Steve continued to treat her well, maintaining the illusion that she was primary on the Lager Storm account, even though they both knew better. She had no idea what she was doing, and hung on his every word, soaking up as much information and experience as she could so she wouldn’t embarrass herself in meetings. She worked for him, pure and simple. But he was decent enough to pretend it was the other way around as he helped her navigate scripts and storyboards, casting decisions, and budgets. The only thing he left completely to her was client management, and as he laughingly admitted, “You got the hard part.”

Their client, a man named Helmut Hunt, was a brilliant brewmaster, a grandpa several times over, and a nice enough guy. He was also blunt, close-minded and provincial. He lived in Rogue Springs, Nevada, and therefore, Rogue Springs was the center of the universe for all things Lager Storm. Which meant they would shoot the commercial there.

It was unorthodox, but Steve found the location charming, and his favorite director agreed to tolerate it, mostly on the strength of Johnny Spurling’s involvement. That was the biggest hurdle according to Steve, because the right director would make or break this project.

So they huddled together for the entire weekend, even though Erica wanted to watch Johnny’s game against the Surgeon. Out of deference to her mentor, she recorded it instead. All she asked in return was that they maintain radio silence so she wouldn’t hear the final score, or the dreaded injury reports, until she got home. And meanwhile, Steve’s partner of ten years, a guy named Josh, brought them fish and chips for lunch, then shared hilarious stories about the bumbling criminals he had prosecuted recently. Erica recognized the signs of a litigator easily, thanks to her mother, and it almost made her homesick, although Josh never went for Erica’s jugular as her mom would have done.

Out of love, of course. But still, it was fun seeing the fin of the shark without the teeth.

• • •

Late that night she flew into her apartment within minutes of the game’s ending and didn’t even bother changing clothes before grabbing a diet soda and plopping onto the sofa. This was Johnny versus the Surgeon, and while it didn’t really matter in terms of reaching the playoffs, given how many wins both teams already had, it was considered a possible precursor to the Super Bowl, and would be judged accordingly.

The Lancers won the toss and opted to receive, a brilliant move as it turned out, since their receiver ran the kickoff back for a touchdown. Erica shrieked gleefully. She didn’t actually know a lot about the fine details of the game, but a score of seven to zero after only one minute of play? That had to be statistically impressive. And psychologically?

The Surgeon wouldn’t seem so godlike now, which meant the entire team would lose confidence, or at least that was the story according to the sports analysts.

Unfortunately, when Wyatt Bourne took the field, he seemed completely unfazed and supremely confident. Erica had to admit he was gorgeous in a ruthless kind of way. But unlike Johnny Spurling, this hulk didn’t have a rocket launcher for an arm. More like a laser gun, with such pinpoint precision it left no doubt who got the credit for a completed pass. And because Johnny had told her to watch closely, she had to admit the guy really was putting on a clinic. Impressive but vaguely evil, and certainly not Erica’s kind of football.

As the game went on, she decided Johnny was putting on a clinic too, and his was based on teamwork. He loved firing the ball, obviously, but he handed it off with equal zeal, and laughed out loud, right there on ESPN, when one of his guys plowed forward for enough yards to gain a first down.

The QBs battled it out, reaching a tied score with sixteen seconds to go. And when the dust settled, it was Sean Decker, the “machine” with the heavily insured foot, who won the game for the Lancers with a fifty-two-yard field goal. Erica shrieked, daring to imagine a three-way with the kicker and Johnny. They would score and score and score, and she’d just try to survive.

Now all she needed was a hot phone call. But the call never came, and as she climbed into a hot bath and soaked away her regret, she reminded herself that her career came first. Not just because her reputation was at stake, but because Johnny Spurling would have dumped her in February anyway.

• • •

Those six hours watching, rewinding, and then re-watching Johnny’s win against the Surgeon were her only break from an increasingly grueling schedule at work. Everything had to be perfect leading up to the shoot. Even the print layout had to be finalized. And to make matters worse, the client called every day for hand-holding and second-guessing. Helmut still wasn’t one hundred percent confident about associating the world “douche” with his sainted product, and so Erica patiently explained to him, over and over and over, that they were
dis-
associating Lager Storm from douches, not linking the two.

It always worked for a day or so, then he’d be back on the line, insisting that his wife and his grown daughter agreed with him, making suggestions for substitute words, his wife’s favorite being “creep.” And his personal favorite being “loser.”

Every time she talked him out of “loser,” he went to his wife’s choice. And Erica valiantly shot that one down too by insisting that yes, “creep” was an interesting suggestion, but something a woman would say, not a guy talking about other guys.

She hoped she had finally placated him, but wasn’t really surprised on the afternoon of the shoot when he raised the subject again. They were gathered around a table at the closed-for-the-day Fish Gotta Fly Inn. Erica, Steve, KC Caldwell, and Helmut were there, awaiting their star, Johnny Spurling, and their director, Gil Simons. Gil’s crew had been there for hours, setting up the lighting, installing the sound equipment, and generally moving things around to accommodate the storyboard and logistics.

Erica had flown in early, booking a room for two nights so she could appear rested despite all the stress. It hadn’t worked out, since Helmut whisked her over to his mountainside mansion and introduced her to his wife, who insisted on walking her through seven different family albums.

She envied Steve Adler for arriving just hours before the shoot, and Johnny for timing his arrival to the second. Then she scolded herself, aware of the quarterback’s tight schedule. He was already shaving hours off a mandatory team practice to spend the late afternoon in Nevada before jetting back to Portland. His agent’s private jet made it a little easier, but still, the effort should be appreciated.

Meanwhile, Johnny was nowhere in sight, and Steve was leaving things up to Erica while Helmut vigorously pursued his alternative, even though she kept protesting that the script was carved in granite and no longer open to last-minute changes.

Helmut was merciless. “My gut tells me ‘douche’ is a bad word and will bite us in the ass. Better to go with ‘loser.’”

She wanted to scream, but instead just struggled for a new argument. She had tried everything, but still . . .

“The problem,” she said finally, “is that there are so many losers in the world. Zillions of them. And they need beer too. Maybe more so than the other guys.”

When Steve coughed to cover a fit of laughter, she sent him a sweet but threatening smile, then continued brightly. “The truth is, some guys are really just awkward. If they met a nice woman, they’d blossom. But a douche?” She quirked a condemning eyebrow. “That’s a whole different breed. We want them to stay away from decent women. Right?”

“But you see
my
point, don’t you?” Helmut murmured. “That it has a nice ring to it? Loser, I mean?”

Steve intervened. “My worry is, it sounds so much like lager. We don’t want some wise-assed late-night comic calling us Loser Storm, do we?”

Helmut shuddered. “I guess we’ll stick with Erica’s idea.” He seemed to be wilting, then brightened and pointed toward the entrance. “There’s Johnny!”

Erica couldn’t yet glimpse her former lover but happily watched as the annoying client bounded away. Then she turned to Steve and assured him, “I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got plans for repayment.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve got a new fish on the line. It’s just a glimmer in my eye for the moment, but if it happens, I’ll want your help.”

“A new account?” she asked, excited that Steve seemed so casual about including her. Like she was already part of his team.

“We’ll talk later. For now, let’s see if our quarterback can act.”

She turned toward the doorway again, and this time Johnny was in her line of sight. He was dressed as the director had requested, in dark blue jeans and a gunmetal gray polo shirt that echoed the Lancers uniform while emphasizing his muscular arms. His black hair had been trimmed but was still slightly unkempt, so apparently that was its permanent condition. And while his manner was easygoing and normal, he stood head and shoulders above every other male in the place, looking more like a bodyguard than a meal ticket.

Wow,
she told herself.
You actually sent
that
guy away? Mom was right. You’re a freaking idiot!

Chapter 5

As Erica watched in tongue-tied silence that she hoped seemed like nonchalance, Steve introduced Johnny to the director, who in turn introduced him to “the Girl,” “the Douche,” and “the Third Guy.”

“We’ll do a quick run-through,” the director explained. “Just to get a sound check. Then you’re off to makeup.”

“I’d like to shoot two versions,” Helmut interrupted.

The director drew back as though slapped. “Pardon?”

Helmut didn’t seem to realize the extent of his faux pas. Or more likely, he just didn’t care. He was paying for this, as he often reminded Erica. Therefore it was his show. “As Erica knows,” he explained smoothly, “my wife wants to use the world ‘creep’ instead of ‘douche.’ And my wife is very perceptive. So let’s shoot it both ways and then decide.”

Erica’s blood chilled to ice, while the director visibly had the opposite reaction, his face turning a dangerous shade of fiery red.

But Johnny just laughed and assured the client, “We’ve got a great game plan, Helmut. A real winner. So let’s stick with it, okay?” He thumped the brewmaster on the back, then commiserated with a grin, saying, “Women, right?”

Then without waiting for an answer, he strode over to the bar where the soundman—in this case, a woman—was waiting.

Erica held her breath, then stared in amazement when Helmut told her, “Johnny’s right. You women overthink everything.”

The director glared. “So are we shooting one version? Or two?”

“We’ll stick with the game plan, just like Johnny said,” Helmut told him in an authoritative, I’m-paying-for-this voice.

“Excellent.” The frustrated director raised his voice. “Okay, people. Listen up!”

Erica grabbed Steve’s arm and drew him into the shadows.
“Whew
. Thank God for Johnny, right?”

“You owe him,” he agreed with a chuckle. “And now that
our
job is done, let’s watch them make magic, shall we?”

• • •

As it turned out, Johnny Spurling could in fact act, or at least could play himself convincingly. His expression showed true empathy when he heard about the Girl’s dead father, which made sense since Johnny himself had lost a parent and had had a scare about losing the other one recently.

The best part was his disdain for the douchey ex-friend. In just a few lines the quarterback expressed the fact that he gave his friends a lot of slack, but this particular guy had exhausted that goodwill by being so overtly predatory and selfish, it violated the rules of God, man, and beer drinkers everywhere.

It helped that the “Third Guy” was a professional who delivered the line “What a douche” so convincingly that Erica actually believed he was lifelong buds with Johnny and a veritable knight in shining armor.

When they moved to the final scene where Johnny was consoling the weeping female, Erica was again struck by the combination of raw talent and sincerity on the QB’s part, and the eye-popping talent of the woman. She wasn’t getting by on her beautiful face and curvaceous body. She wept as though her entire world had just crumbled. And she looked at Johnny as a hero, appreciating his warm manner and respectful conduct.

And of course, on a perfectly orchestrated level, noticing how hot he was.

It was everything Erica had dreamed it could be. And more.

• • •

During the abbreviated wrap party, which consisted of a robust smorgasbord and free beer, Johnny sat at the same table as Erica and chatted innocuously, one professional to another, the same way he talked to Steve or the director or the sound woman, except he didn’t miss an opportunity to point out that Erica’s idea had been a rousing success.

Helmut echoed all those sentiments, complimenting Erica as though she had drafted the Gettysburg Address. To her surprise, Johnny’s agent, Murf, was also quick to sing her praises, making it a unanimous Erica McCall love fest. She wasn’t really sure what to think about Murf, given the agent’s belief that she had prostituted herself in a public bar just to win an account, but she decided to relax and go with it, never losing sight of the truth—that this overwhelming success was due to Johnny.

His performance had been superb. His handling of Helmut masterful. And his treatment of Erica? He was being such a detached but admiring gentleman, no one could have guessed he had had her pinned against Murf’s door ten short days ago. And she suspected Steve and Murf were now doubting whether anything had transpired in the bar either.

She was so grateful to the quarterback, and so hungry to get him alone so she could thank him in person, she could barely keep from blushing every time he glanced her way.

Thank God he’s flying home tonight,
she told herself nervously as she excused herself and went to the buffet for the fifth time to escape drooling on him.
He looks so good.