Completing the Pass (14 page)

Preseason game one, and Josh had his head in a toilet.

Someone banged on the stall door and he choked out, “Just a sec,” before trying to quietly dry heave again. But, as he found out, there was no way to
quietly
dry heave. His eyes watered and his throat felt like it was on fire.

“There are about fifty guys who are standing just on the other side of this bathroom wall who think you're in here taking a pregame shit and not puking your guts out.” Trey's voice was low, but firm from the other side of the metal stall door. “Don't show your fucking fear, man. Tell your stomach who's boss and move on.”

Josh grumbled, but flushed and stood before opening the stall door to a pissed Trey. Or maybe not pissed so much as uneasy. It was in his team captain's eyes . . . the concern that bubbled beneath the surface.

“It's just preseason. You've done this four times before.” Trey started to clap him on the back, then let his hand hover a few inches above his shoulder. “Uh, rinse first. Then pep talk.”

Josh rolled his eyes, but went to the sink and did a quick rinse and hand wash before splashing his face with cold water. “It's different.” He looked at Trey in the mirror. His teammate didn't argue. “This time, it's different. They're looking at me like I'm going to lead a revolution. I'm not leading shit. I'm a Band-Aid over a bullet wound.”

“Nah, man.” Trey stepped up to the counter beside him and gripped it, leaning toward the mirror. “You're the gun. You're the one who is going to walk out there and shoot bullets at every receiver we've got.”

Josh thought about that for a moment. “We're still talking metaphorically, right? Because I'm not licensed to carry.”

Trey punched his throwing arm and shook his head. “Wrong gun, man. Wrong gun.”

Josh followed him out into the main locker room, doing his best not to avoid eye contact.

His quarterback coach approached him with a stern face. “You ready for this, son?”

“Yeah.” He looked at his teammates who stood in a circle, waiting for Coach Jordan's final pep talk. But their eyes weren't on Coach Jordan. They were on him. “Let's do this.”

A few guys nodded in acknowledgement. He saw one teammate's shoulders release in a sigh of relief.

And all he could think, as they gathered shoulder pad to shoulder pad, knee to knee on the carpet with the Bobcats logo on it was . . .

I need Carri.

***

“Hey, Daddy.” Carri sank onto the couch beside her father, laptop in hand. She let the reclining leg rest pop up and started to open her Internet browser.

“I'm not changing the channel,” Herb warned her sharply. “The Bobcats' first preseason game is on, and it's staying on.”

“Got it.” Carri shrugged innocently, then blinked at her father's attire. “Where in the world did that shirt come from?”

Herb looked down for a moment, then back up at her and blinked, emptiness in his eyes.

Oh Daddy, no, please . . .
Her gut clenched just a little, as it always did when she sensed him slipping away.

Then he shook his head and lifted one shoulder. “Josh brought it by sometime last year. Or maybe the year before. It's his number, you know.”

She'd known Josh's number was eleven since he'd first joined the Bobcats. But as she'd always pretended she knew nothing of Josh's career to her parents. She just smiled and did her own one-shoulder shrug. “Good to know. Go eleven, and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Herb muttered, turning the volume up a little more on the chatter from the commentators. “Maeve! Better get your sweet tush in here before the game starts or you're gonna miss our boy!”

Our boy. Carri had to pry her fingers off her laptop in order to start surfing the Internet. “Despite your desires, Dad, Josh isn't your son.”

“He could be,” Herb snapped back, obviously annoyed with her interruptions of his precious football game. “If you'd just give the man a chance. Why are you always so stubborn, Carrington?”

“Carri,” Maeve said softly from the doorway. “Could you help me with something?”

Carri looked at her father, but he'd already turned back to the screen and tuned her out. With a sigh, she left the laptop on the couch and walked toward the kitchen, scooting as fast as she could out of her father's direct line to the television. “What's up, Mom?”

“Don't push him,” Maeve said instantly, pouring a lemonade and pushing the glass into Carri's hand. The sudden chill against her laptop-warmed hands sent a shiver up her arm. “He's having a good day, but his temper's shorter than it used to be. Just let it go.”

Carri wanted to argue, wanted to push. Wanted the back father she grew up with, the one who would argue and push her and debate with her, force her to see another side, listen to hers, and then agree to disagree with a hug and a kiss. That Herb was growing more and more distant by the day. “Mom—”

“Oh, I hear them starting. Go, go, go!” Maeve pushed at her back so Carri was propelled into the living room. “And if you can't stand listening to the game without a word, then take your computer elsewhere. There are seven other rooms in this house.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Carri slunk back to her seat, relieved to find her father contentedly watching the coverage of the Bobcats game. Though what Carri knew about the sport from a technical standpoint could fill a thimble, she kept one ear open while she opened up some webpages and did a little mindless browsing.

“And Leeman's got a tough road ahead of him,” a huge black man with short-cropped graying hair and a pearly smile said from behind a desk somewhere. Carri glanced over the top of her laptop screen, trying not to be too obvious about it. “He's a regular starter in these preseason matchups, as are other second-string quarterbacks.”

Second-string . . . How rude.

“But with Trey Owens not even fully in uniform, I think the Bobcats are sending a message here.
Leeman is our go-to.
I think it shows he's not going to be back for a while from this ankle injury.”

“I don't know if that's quite the message they're sending,” another commentator, with a horrid mustard-yellow sports jacket argued, leaning forward and gathering a few papers. “I think they're just saving Owens, like always. Why bother having the guy suit up when he's going to see zero field time this go-round? Owens is the kind of player coaches dream about. Hardworking, dedicated. There's no way he's going to miss out on the season over a little ankle sprain.”

“I've heard, and this is just rumor,” a third, smaller man said from the corner of the table, “that Owens is leaning heavily on the team using Leeman. Whether that's for his injury's benefit or some personal gain, who knows. It's fishy, if you ask me.”

“Trey Owens isn't fishy!” she called at the TV before she realized it. Then she shrank back into the couch. “Whoops.”

“Darn right,” Herb said, holding out his hand for a high five. Carri grinned and gave him a gentle tap before giving up the pretense of ignoring the game entirely.

“Did I miss it?” Gail Leeman rushed in, having obviously let herself in through the front door. “Did I— Oh, Carri, hello. I didn't think you'd be joining us to watch.”

“Just here for the food and drink,” Carri said, holding up her lemonade.

Gail laughed a little and took a spot beside Maeve on the love seat. Her hands were clenched between her knees and her legs bounced on the balls of her feet. She wore a Bobcats shirt herself, but it was clearly a women's fitted tee. Carri suddenly felt a little left out not sporting some 'Cats gear.

“It remains to be seen if Leeman can handle the pressure,” the first commentator said. “He's done well enough in preseason games before, but there was always the safety of knowing Owens was there to save his biscuits if it came to it. Owens is out, at least for now. Let's see how he handles it.”

Carri's own fist clenched so hard around her glass she feared it might shoot out of her hand. With deliberate care, she set it on the table beside her and forced herself to relax back into the couch. Surf the Internet, play around a little, let the game be background noise. Like a jackhammer or buzz saw at a jobsite. Let it soothe away the rough edges like a palm sander against sheetrock. Just let it all go and—

“Jesus Christ!” Herb shot up, and Carri nearly bobbled her laptop to be there in case he crashed back down. “That was a flubbing bullet that boy just threw. Did you see that?” He looked down at Carri, who just shook her head. With a snort and a wave, he looked at Gail. “Did you see that? When was the last time you saw your son do that?”

Gail looked a little mystified herself, but she held up her hands in wonder. “I guess . . . never. Oh! Touchdown!” she shrieked, jumping up to give Herb a hug and to dance a little jig. “It's going to be okay! This season is going to be okay.”

Carri wanted to snort. Of course it was. Where was the faith? These people who loved Josh so unconditionally didn't think he had it in him?

He had everything under control.

It was Carri's sparkling, dancing, bubbling nerves where Joshua Leeman was concerned that were totally out of control.

***

Josh dragged himself in from his car, through the parking garage, and into the lobby of his apartment complex. When he walked in, he saw a member of the janitorial staff emptying a trash bin by the elevators. He gave Josh a silent thumbs up of acknowledgement, but that was all. When Josh turned to catch the eye of the reception-desk attendant, she clapped her hands together soundlessly, bouncing a little in her seat. The reaction was so youthful and cheery—a contrast to her drab uniform blazer and white button-down shirt—that Josh smiled. Then she waved him over.

“Hey . . .” he said, trying to double check his memory with her name tag. ”. . . Amanda. What's up?”

“First off, congratulations on your first win of the season.” She said it in hushed tones. His complex had a very strict no-gushing policy with the occupants . . . for which he was supremely grateful. “And secondly, there's someone here to see you. She's not on your list of guests, but she's also not media, so I had her wait in the outer lobby.”

Her?
Fighting against hope, Josh turned to the seating area and found the object of his lust sitting primly on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, flipping through a magazine. She hadn't yet noticed him, so he had the opportunity to observe her from a distance.

Despite the rest of the city in blue-and-gold mania, Carri wore a simple pair of khaki capris, a purple top, and flip-flops. Her hair was pushed away from her face with a headband, and if she wore makeup, he couldn't tell.

“Amanda, I'd like to add someone to my approved visitors list,” he said quietly, taking the form she handed him and filling it out quickly. It gave Carri access to the elevators and beyond, but he'd still have to give her a key if he wanted her to gain access to his specific apartment. After filling out the information, he told her they'd get Carri's picture in the system another time.

Walking slowly, he approached Carri on the couch. When she still didn't notice him as he stood over her, he crouched to eye level. She flipped another page, unaware.

“Carrington.”

“Don't call me that,” she sang, flipping another page. “Your lobby needs new magazines. This one's a month old.”

He chuckled and pulled it from her grasp, letting it fall to the nearby table with a plop. “I don't think they want people sitting around, reading all day long in their lobby.”

“Hmm,” she said, looking up at him as he stood. When he held out a hand, she took it and let him pull her up. “I—”

He stopped her with a brief kiss. “Let's wait until we're upstairs,” he suggested, then walked to the elevator with her hand still in his. It felt good. Felt right, that she was there with him after a game. That she could sit with him and help him come down from the high of being on the right side of the scoreboard for the first time this year, even if it was
just
preseason.

In the elevator, his thumb caressed the inside of her palm, and she shivered. He let go of her hand and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her tight against him. When she melted without hesitation, his heart clutched. Her floral scented shampoo worked like a calming agent over his nerves.

As each number flashed by, she grew heavier against him, until her hand slipped under his shirt, caressing his bare skin. “Carri . . .”

“Let's wait until we're upstairs,” she parroted back, dragging her fingernails over his spine. He shivered and edged away from the spooky feeling. “Or you could use some of that pent-up energy and kiss me now.”

He did that, but only a peck. When she looked annoyed, he motioned to the top corner. A very obvious camera, monitored all the time, he knew, by the security staff, sat aimed at them. “I'd rather not give Amanda or whoever is manning the security feed a peep show, if that's all the same to you.”

“You weren't so shy in the eleventh grade, when you had Gabriella Starsky pinned to the back wall of the school with your hand under her shirt,” she commented, giving him a knowing smile. “Old age has really softened you.”

“I wasn't actually copping a feel from Gabby, you perv.” He poked her in the ribs, then kissed her harder than necessary as a teasing punishment. “But if you would rather think of me as a natural-born Casanova, go for it.”

“I'd rather think of you naked,” she murmured, “doing things I'd be too embarrassed to say out loud, except that we're in here all alone.”

“Yeah?” He nipped at her ear discretely, his cock hardening with each breath. “Like?”

“Like maybe, if you had me all spread out on the bed and—”