Any Given Christmas

For Picklehead and Binks, my beautiful girls.

You both make my heart swell with love and happiness.

I’d be lost without your smiles and your silliness.

I love you both more than I can ever express.

Oh, and Picklehead? Here’s the football player you’ve

always dreamed of. Don’t say I never gave you anything.

A
simple thank-you never seems enough when people make such a difference in your life. I can only hope you all understand how deep my appreciation goes.

Thank you to Amanda Bergeron, my amazing editor, for believing in me enough to hold onto my manuscript until an opportunity arose. You made my twenty-two-year-long dream a reality. You are one of the nicest people I have ever known and I count my blessings daily.

Thank you to Jennifer Schober. How did I get so lucky? Not only are you an amazing agent but you are an energetic and wonderful soul. Not to mention someone I can trade crazy farm stories with. One word: WINNING!

Special thanks to Daryn Colledge, Green Bay Packers NFL Super Bowl champ, and his lovely wife Megan for graciously taking time from their busy schedules to answer my numerous questions. Daryn, it’s been fun to watch you mature from a Boise State player to an NFL star. Congratulations and the very best to both of you.

G
ame time.

Nothing in NFL quarterback Dean Silverthorne’s career of media blitzes, celebrity propaganda, and general mayhem had prepared him for the wedding-day brouhaha in which he found himself immersed.

His formula for a happy marriage?

Stay single.

Not that he didn’t believe marriage worked. His parents proved it did with a thirty-six-year union.

He just didn’t believe marriage would work for him.

Ever.

He’d been smart enough to figure out that mystery of life at the age of fourteen. While his seventeen-year-old cousin had stood inside the smallest chapel in Deer Lick, Montana, and pledged his life to a girl he’d knocked up but barely knew, Dean had been rolling in the hayloft of Old Man Wilson’s barn. One hand firmly on third base beneath Cathy Carlisle’s pretty pink tank top, the other sliding into home beneath her grass-stained 501s.

The misery Dean witnessed that day on his cousin’s face had compelled him to make himself two promises. Never get suckered, lured, conned, or tricked into exchanging the dreaded
I Do’s
. And never, ever let anything or anyone stand in the way of his dream to become a star NFL quarterback.

At thirty-four he could claim success to both.

For twenty years he’d played it smart
and
safe. Touchdown passes and reliable condoms. Victorious teams and supermodels more intent on landing magazine covers than putting a
Mrs.
before their names.

In his book, weddings and all the froufrou crap they entailed were more trouble than an intercepted pass on the final play of the game. For years he’d avoided such occasions. Yet here he was, smack-dab in the heart of matrimony central, stuffed into the monkey suit he only hauled out for awards banquets.

As he stood inside Deer Lick, Montana’s local Grange he glanced around the spacious room and almost laughed. Someone with a very twisted sense of humor had transformed the plain white cinder block walls he’d known as a kid into some kind of girly circus tent with twinkling fairy lights. The long-deceased masters who’d built this farmers’ fortress must have turned in their overalls.

Though an early December snowstorm blew a bitter cold wind outside the big metal doors, inside the corners were draped with autumn bouquets wrapped in gold ribbons that swirled toward the concrete floor. Dinged-up folding tables had been covered by white cloths and mirrored centerpieces reflected the glow of tapered white candles. The entire display was an outrageous departure from the usual sparseness of the women’s Friday-night Bingo games or the annual Texas Hold ‘em tournament that stunk up the place with stale beer and cheap cigars. Even Kate’s big-pawed pup, who sat perfectly humiliated near the gift table, had been bedecked with a pink satin tux.

The redhead who’d bullied him into attending the event waltzed by on the arm of her new husband. The bride—a.k.a. his baby sister—had the balls to wink at his obvious discomfort.

“How’s the shoulder, Dean?” Edna Price clamped an arthritic hand over his good shoulder and smiled. Her weathered face crinkled like an old dry chamois.

“Great.” Thankful for ditching the arm sling that labeled him as weak, Dean rotated his shoulder slightly. A simple movement to prove he wasn’t in agony for the pain pills that would temporarily numb the ache.

“Bull pucky.” His mother’s dearest friend shook her blue-haired coif. “The minute that Denver tackle drilled you into the turf, I told your daddy you was gonna be in a big hurt.”

Dean’s lips compressed so tightly the blood drained from them.
Big hurt
didn’t begin to describe the pain that had sliced through him after that hit—the pain that had twisted in his shoulder like a dull-edged razor. The air had been sucked from his lungs and he’d barely managed to get up off that field. In a haze of agony he’d lifted his hand in a wave to his team and to the stadium of fans, before they carted him away to the locker room for a series of x-rays and MRIs.

He smiled now at Edna, and the blood flowed back into his lips. He refused to display an ounce of weakness. Whining was for pussies. “Just another day at the office, Mrs. Price.”

The sympathy in the older woman’s faded eyes told Dean he couldn’t fool someone who’d had her own share of pain. “Well, we’re real proud of you, son. And we’re sure lookin’ forward to the Stallions winnin’ a spot in the Super Bowl this year.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbled. “Me too.” Only he wouldn’t be there to participate. And didn’t that just piss him off.

Last year he’d let his team down. The coveted Lombardi had been within their reach. But in the final forty seconds of the game he’d stayed too long in the pocket. The defense had been fast and his feet hadn’t been quick enough to buy time for his receiver to get in position. He’d overcompensated. The pass flew over the receiver’s head and into the gloves of the opposing team, who took the ball in for the winning touchdown. A rookie mistake. And he’d been no damn newcomer to the game.

The vicious sack he’d received during the Thanksgiving Day game last month had drilled his already-ravaged shoulder into the unforgiving turf. As a result, he’d been placed on the “injured” list for the remainder of the season—or longer, if he listened to the bullshit they tried to feed him in rehab.

His team had lost that day and now his guys had to rely on the backup QB to take them to the show. He’d failed them twice. No way in hell would he fail them again. No. Way.

A few of the boys had visited him after the surgery—his third within four seasons, on the same shoulder. They’d apologized for not having his back. And they’d sworn they didn’t blame him for the loss that day. But anyone with eyes could see their disappointment. Hell, it burned in his gut.

While the guilt blazed, he returned his attention to the present, determined to sail through the remainder of the matrimonial festivities and get back to the real world.

After a few quick anecdotes about life on the NFL Superhighway and a hug that smelled faintly of moth balls and Listerine, Edna Price moved on. Dean downed his crystal flute of champagne.

The doctors were wrong.

Damned wrong.

He’d prove it to them and everyone else of little faith.

“Well, well. The hometown hero returns.”

Fawn Derick, the first girl in junior high he’d managed to educate on the finer points of “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine” sauntered toward him in a little black dress and pearls.

Fawn no longer possessed the long, lithe body she’d once flaunted in tank tops, tight Wranglers, and strappy little sandals. Now she had an excess of curves. Some natural, some man-made. As she leaned in for an air kiss, she pressed herself close enough for him to decide which was which. Even more impressive than Fawn’s after-market assets? The huge diamond on her finger she’d received from a rich Californian who played rancher.

“And you’ve just become more beautiful in my absence.”

Obviously flattered, Fawn leaned in for a full-breasted embrace. “Are you staying long?” she whispered against his ear.

Though Fawn had once been tempting and it might be fun to reminisce, for him, married women were more forbidden than women who salivated over a possible future trip to the altar.

He gave a shrug that fired a spike of pain through his shoulder. “Once they break out the hokey-pokey or the chicken dance, I’m outta here.”

Coffin-black cat claws drifted down the sleeve of his Hugo Boss. “I meant, are you staying long… in town.”

Not if he could help it. He had a life to get back to—one where a good time did not come with rules and attachments. Besides, he’d only be good for a day or two in his hometown before he became bored out of his mind. Or a target for females with big ideas.

The women in Deer Lick, God bless them, subdivided into three categories: single, married, and single again. They came in all shapes and sizes but they all had the same ambition: a band of gold around their finger and a ring through their intended’s nose. Being a wealthy NFL star quarterback made him a prime target.

Fawn wasn’t the first tonight to let him know she might be open to a little action down at the Cottage Motel. As much as he hated to disappoint them, he didn’t do groupies, strangers, or anyone who may have a jealous significant other. He didn’t want to end up like the Ravens’ former running back who’d taken up with a groupie and ended up gut-shot like an opening-day buck. So to preserve his unrivaled reputation among the townsfolk and not to come off as a total ass, Dean turned on his
aw-shucks
charm.

“Sorry, gorgeous, it would be great to get together like old times. Unfortunately I’ve got to get back to the team.”

Her hopes disintegrated with her smile. “But I thought—”

“Hey, big brother, they’re playing our song.”

With an exaggerated look of apology, Dean turned away from Fawn and her thinly veiled invitation toward his baby sister, who gave him a smug smile that proclaimed she knew she’d just rescued his sorry ass. No doubt she intended to collect her reward later. So while Sinatra serenaded them, Dean swept his sister into his arms and out onto the dance floor. He’d deal with the painful repercussions later.

His heart gave a proud stammer when he looked down into her green eyes. Marriage may not be for him, but it already seemed to be sitting well with her. “Has anyone mentioned how breathtaking you are?”

“Just the man I married, you, and maybe a few dozen others. Who’s counting?” She gave him a wide grin and smoothed her hand over his injured shoulder in a motherly gesture. “You don’t look so bad yourself. A tux looks
so
much better on you than that stinky old football jersey.”

He chuckled to cover his flinch at even her softest touch. “That stinky old jersey generates million-dollar contracts.”

“Happiness is not always about money, you know.”

“Is that how you convinced yourself to give up your glamorous Hollywood career?”

“
Au contraire
, big brother, I didn’t have to
convince
myself of anything. My career appeased me, but it never brought me deep satisfaction. You know, the kind that makes you go, ‘Oh yeah.
This is it.
’ But that man right there…” She tilted her bridal veil toward her new husband as he waltzed by and twirled his seventy-year-old partner in her orthopedic shoes. “
He
definitely gave me my
aha
moment.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean let his gaze drift so he wouldn’t insult her with an eye roll. “You were surrounded by the Spielbergs, DeNiros, and Madonnas of the world. What could possibly make one small-town deputy stand out above the rest?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Honesty. Heart. Compassion. Not to mention the toe-curling sex.”

His gaze snapped back. “TMI, Kate.”

Her laughter rang as light as Christmas bells. “Someday you’ll find the right woman and fall in love. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t fall in love.” He grinned. “Lust… is another matter.”

“Well,
Mr. Perfect
, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you
will
fall in love. And when that happens, you will be shocked down to your jock strap. Because nothing else in this world will be more important to you than every breath she takes.”

The catered hors d’oeuvres in his stomach dive-bombed at his sister’s use of the nickname he’d earned after his first flawless season at USC.
Mr. Perfect.
He couldn’t claim to be perfect anymore. Far fucking from it. “I doubt it. There are still too many long-legged blondes out there.”

“Silly me. By the tabloid covers I see at the Gas and Grub, I’d have thought you’d already sampled them all.”

“Nope. Still a few left. When I’m done with them I’ll move on to the brunettes.”

“You can talk smack all you want, big brother. But I know the real you. And that party-all-the-time playboy image you portray isn’t the real you.”

“Says who?”

She laughed. “Says me. Because Dad would kick your ass if you were truly that disrespectful.”

Dean smiled. Kate was right. He had a deep appreciation for women. He didn’t expect to have any woman he wanted, but he didn’t mind it. And he certainly never took advantage. But where baby sister was concerned, he had no intention of letting down his guard. Otherwise the next thing he knew she’d have him set up in some cozy little cottage with a white picket fence, a wife, and 2.5 kids. Family meant everything to him. But appreciation didn’t mean he had to have one of his own.

While Sinatra sang about flying off to far Bombay, their sister Kelly, middle child and kick-ass prosecutor, twirled and wobbled by in the arms of the best man. James Harley’s wild reputation spanned the Rockies. Not exactly Kelly’s brand of testosterone. Kelly tilted her head back and giggled.

Giggled? Sister Serious? No way. “Our sister appears to be drunk,” Dean said. “And flirting.”

Kate glanced over her shoulder. “She’s having fun. Leave her alone.”

“You’re not worried she might do something stupid?”

“She’s a big girl,” Kate said. “And she deserves to have a little fun. The case she’s on is ugly and tragic. She’s not eating and she’s losing sleep. So if she lets her hair down for a night, who the hell cares?”