Completing the Pass

Santa Fe Bobcats

One Night with the Quarterback

Loving Him Off the Field

Takes Two to Tackle

Romancing the Running Back

Completing the Pass

First to Fight

Below the Belt

Against the Ropes

Fight to the Finish

Completing the Pass

Jeanette Murray

INTERMIX BOOKS, NEW YORK

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

COMPLETING THE PASS

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Jeanette Murray.

Excerpt from
Below the Belt
copyright © 2015 by Jeanette Murray.

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.

eBook ISBN: 9780698410466

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / May 2016

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Josh Leeman walked into the Bobcats headquarters and gave Kristen a wary smile. “Hey, I think someone is expecting me for . . . Whoa, are you okay?”

Kristen, the front office's high-octane, almost unbelievably efficient administrative assistant, gave him a weak smile in return. “Sure, I'm fine. Thanks for asking.”

Josh couldn't help noticing she was wringing her hands as she said it. And for the first time since he'd met her several seasons ago, she was missing that certain polish that she carried around with her. Her hair was down, rather than back in its typical smooth bun and looked a little tangled, as if she'd forgotten to brush it before heading to work. Her sweater was baggy, and if she wore any makeup, he couldn't tell. It was a total one-eighty from the Kristen Kelpar he knew.

“Right. That's good.” He rocked back on his heels, taking in the front lobby. It was a rare day he ended up in the front offices. Not much call for him here. He was the guy who stuck to the shadows of the team. Forgotten, until called upon. And he'd never wanted to be called upon before.

Somehow, it had happened anyway.

“So, I think Coach Jordan is expecting me.”

She nodded, nibbling on her lip and making a quick call to announce him. When she waved him on toward the double doors, she looked . . . worried.

Kristen was a known mother hen for the team. If she was worried, there was something to worry about. With this career, the options were pretty limited. He was being traded, or just straight cut. Try as he might, he struggled to think of a worse situation than being cut from the team he'd been with for four years.

He walked through the hallways, feeling insignificant beside the team photos of Bobcats past. Not to mention the few gigantic portraits of the NFL MVPs the Bobcats had held on their rosters over the decades.

As he entered the main bay of offices for the coaches and the owners, he approached the desk that sat in the middle of the open space with trepidation. There was something about Frank, the man who manned the desk, that terrified him. Maybe that was a pussy thing to say, that he was terrified of an old guy who might have been sixty-five, or maybe ninety-five . . . but it was also the damn truth.

“Hey, Frank.” The man didn't look up from his typing. With hands that looked gnarled as tree roots, he was typing what had to be at least eighty words a minute, and he wasn't stopping anytime soon. “Uh, Kristen sent me back.”

“Coach Jordan's office,” the older man barked, nodding his head back toward the left-corner office. His fingers never stopped, and his eyes, nearly black behind wire-rim frames, never left the computer screen. “Go on in.”

“Right.” He paused a moment, then said, “Thanks.”

Might as well have said nothing at all, for all the attention Frank paid him. Heading back, he wiped his damp palms on his jeans before knocking on the door.

The worst they can do is cut you. You try out for another team, or you go on to something else. Calm down.

“Come on in,” he heard Coach Jordan say. When he entered, he saw not only Coach Jordan, but also the quarterback coach sitting across from the head coach in a comfortable leather high-back chair.

The head coach and the quarterback coach. This . . . was unexpected. And not a good omen.

“Kristen called and said you needed to see me?” Josh took a few steps in, pausing by the door.

Coach Jordan nodded at it. “Go ahead and close it. Have a seat.”

He closed the door and took a seat beside Clayton Barnes, the quarterback coach that had joined the team last year. Clayton reached over to shake his hand, but said nothing. No smiles, no friendly winks of reassurance, nothing.

The worst they can do is cut you.

Coach Jordan glanced at his wall a moment, as if still gathering his thoughts. His naturally tanned skin—thanks to his Hawaiian ancestry—seemed even darker. Likely he'd been on vacation with his two teenage daughters, one of whom Josh was pretty sure should be heading to college this fall if he'd done his math right. He followed his coach's gaze to the wall of photos. There were a couple of his two teenagers when they were younger. A few of him and the girls with his now ex-wife. Awkward. And a few newer additions with Cassie Wainwright—now Cassie Owens—Coach Jordan's daughter from a past relationship he'd only recently connected with.

In the center of the grouping was a large photo of Cassie, her father, and two sisters on Cassie and Trey's wedding day. The bride wore white, and a smile that could light up the Bobcats stadium for Monday night football.

“Nice picture,” he said, because the silence was killing him. When Coach glanced at him, he pointed to the wedding photo. “She looks happy.”

That brought out a small smile in his stern face. “She was gorgeous. Prettiest bride you could ask for. Perfect day.”

Josh nodded, because it was polite. He had been there, of course. Most of the Bobcats team had been. But he was a smaller guy in a sea of linemen, and so he'd barely caught a thing during the wedding and had ducked out early. Weddings without a date were basically pointless, to his way of thinking. Especially when the bridesmaids weren't even an option to flirt with . . . since one was attached to running back Josiah Walker and the other two were teenagers, and his coach's daughters to boot.

“That brings me to what we need to discuss.” Settling back in his chair, Coach Jordan steepled his hands together and tapped his chin a few times.

The worst they can do is cut you,
he reminded himself one more time
.

“Cassie and Trey are currently on their honeymoon,” he went on. “They delayed the trip because Cassie had some conferences and such. Nerd Herd stuff.” Josh nodded again. “There was an . . . incident.”

Josh blinked, then looked over at Coach Barnes. But the quarterback coach simply sat stone-faced.

“Incident?” He wiped his hands on his jeans again. “Is everyone okay?”

“Nothing life threatening. Cassie is fine. I'd have had to kill him if he brought my daughter back hurt,” the coach muttered. “But no, the injury was Trey's.”

Those hands that had continued to sweat started to feel clammy. “Nothing major, I hope.”

“A sprain,” Coach Barnes said, sounding annoyed more than upset. “Left ankle. Who tells a multi-million-dollar quarterback hang gliding is a good idea?”

“Easy,” Coach Jordan said. Coach Barnes glared, but settled back in his chair. “It's a pretty bad sprain. We can hope he'll be back for game one, but we can't guarantee it.”

Josh nodded again.

“You get where he's going with this?” Coach Barnes asked.

“Uh . . . Trey's hurt.” Barnes gave him a disbelieving look that said,
That's all you got?
“But he's going to be okay. Right?”

“It's a sprain. His foot didn't fall off.” Coach Barnes looked at Coach Jordan with a
What's with this guy?
look.

“We can't guarantee he will be back by the first game. He definitely won't be playing in the preseason matchups. So that means we're looking at you to carry us forward.”

Josh froze, looking between the two coaches. “I'm sorry, what?”

Coach Barnes just rolled his eyes.

Coach Jordan seemed to have found some Zen in the whole thing. “Leeman, we're saying you're our go-to guy right now.”

“But you're looking for a replacement. Right?” His hands started to shake, so he shoved them in the pockets of his jeans. “To step in.”

“
You
are the replacement. It's what you're paid for,” Barnes snapped.

“With Trey only missing preseason, and maybe a game or two, we don't feel it's prudent to grab another quarterback at this time,” Coach Jordan said more diplomatically. Then he paused. “That's code for ‘It's not in the budget.'”

Josh could respect a budget. He was raised with the words
It's not in the budget
, being a weekly mantra from his single mother.

“So you're it.” Coach Barnes stood and slapped him on the shoulder. “I hope you're ready for the spotlight. Because when it becomes news that Owens isn't starting game one, you're going to be the person everyone starts watching. Hard.” He stood and left without another word.

Coach Jordan just gave him a wan smile. “We told you this now, in May, so you're ready to put your nose to the grindstone in July for training camp. Don't put on twenty pounds of fat we have to work off of you before you're any good to us.”

“Yeah. Sure. Right.” Josh was nodding again like a damned bobblehead. Maybe one of Trey's . . . since he actually
had
his own bobblehead. “Don't get fat. Got it.”

“Stay healthy. Stay in shape. And for the love of God, don't go hang gliding.” His coach motioned to the door with his head, and Josh was dismissed.

As he walked back down the hallway, he paused in front of the 1989 Super Bowl championship Bobcats team photo. He took in the mullets, the porn-stashes, the out of control curls . . . and wanted to vomit.

Apparently, cutting him
wasn't
the worst thing they could do.

***

Carrington Gray walked into her father's hospital room with a quick
knock
,
knock
.

“Hey, Daddy.” She set flowers on the table and walked over to the chair she knew her mother would have vacated only for an emergency bathroom break or sustenance run. Maeve Gray was a loyal, loving wife. Stooping down, she kissed her father's cheek with care. He'd lost weight since the last time she'd seen him . . . gosh, six months ago now.

He turned eyes that seemed a little too cloudy for comfort toward her. The top of his head was still wrapped in bandages from the severe sunburn he'd received. Monitors beeped, and the IV that provided hydration ran into his reddened, bandaged arm. There was no hint of recognition in his eyes. “Hello.”

“Daddy?” What kind of medication was he on? “Dad. How're you feeling?” She hesitated—not wanting to hurt him—then gingerly took hold of his hand, which was pink, but not burned at least.

He shook his head, then nodded, then shook again. “Hello.”

Carri blinked. “Daddy. You know who I am, right?”

He blinked back, a copycat gesture of her own. “Of course. Maeve, sweetheart. You shouldn't be in my room. If my father catches us—”

“Herb.” Maeve walked in quickly, coming to stand by the other side of the bed. “It's Carri. Carrington. Your daughter. I'm Maeve.” In a gesture that made Carri's throat clog, her mother carefully brought her father's hand to cup her cheek.

“Maeve,” he whispered, eyes watering.

Carri felt awkward, as if intruding on a private, personal moment. With shaking hands, she stood and walked out to the hallway, sinking into a chair. The cracked vinyl and plastic scratched at the backs of her thighs. A woman in blue scrubs and a white coat walked into her father's room, and a moment later, her mother walked out to sit beside her.

Maeve sighed as she settled down into the chair beside Carri's, then reached over to place a hand over her daughter's shaking ones. “I'm glad you could come, Carrington. How was the drive from Utah? Or did you fly?”

“Mom.” It suddenly made sense, why her mother had been so vague about the “accident” that had put her father into the hospital. Who rushed to the ER because of a simple sunburn? She nearly snorted now, and might have, if she weren't afraid it would release the plug she'd stopped up her tears with.

“I'm here now. Can you please tell me what's going on? The whole truth this time,” she added firmly to avoid another, “Oh, it's just a sunburn,” brush off.

Maeve's lip trembled, but she firmed it up and nodded once. “I was at work when your father . . . wandered away.”

Wandered away
, like a puppy that slipped through an open gate? Like a toddler who jimmied the safety lock? “Mom . . .”

“He was gone for nearly twenty-four hours. In this heat, he was pretty dehydrated and very sunburned.” She laughed, but the sound was watery. “You know how he always forgot to bring a hat with him when he'd go to your soccer games when you were a child. With that bald egg he calls a head—”

“Mom.” Carri said it sharply now, because she was afraid that if her mother kept going, she'd break. “Tell me the truth. What's going on?”

“Dementia,” Maeve whispered, looking back toward the open door to her husband's room. “Aggressive. We were still halfway through getting the diagnosis when, well . . .” She motioned around them to indicate this situation now had happened before they'd finished testing.

“Dementia,” Carri repeated. “He's been diagnosed with dementia, and you didn't think to tell me?”

“Not officially diagnosed,” Maeve retorted. “He's been . . . forgetful lately. Calling things the wrong word, calling me his mother's name a few times. First, I just thought, ‘Hey, old age, right?'” Her mother reached up one hand to wipe at the corner of her eye. “I thought maybe retirement was getting to him, or he was watching too much television. I started bringing home those crossword puzzles and the . . . oh, the numbers in the boxes.”

“Sudoku.”

“Yes.” She laughed again, but it was less watery this time. “See? Happens to everyone, the whole
forgetting words
thing. It wasn't often, but it had started happening with enough frequency I'd convinced him to head to his doctor. They all but confirmed it, but wanted to have enough information before we started talking about options. We were going to tell you when you came to visit next. It's not the sort of thing you talk about on the phone. Then this . . .” Maeve covered her mouth on a sob.

Carri clenched her hands in her lap. They'd deliberately kept her out of the loop.