Completing the Pass (9 page)

“Not pissed.” Not exactly. “Frustrated with this new turn of events.”

“I can tell. So can Sawyer,” Michael said dryly.

Right. Josh had forgotten Sawyer was Michael's agent, as well as a few other Bobcats.

“Anything I can do to help out?” his teammate asked, leaning back on the desk chair.

“Not really, but thanks. It's all internal at this point.”

Michael nodded slowly, then patted the back of the chair and stood. “Let me know if I can help. Sawyer's a great agent, but he's a businessman at the core of it. So don't let him make you feel like you're wrong for holding back.”

“Thanks, man,” Josh said, feeling grateful someone else seemed to be in his corner with the whole thing. “I appreciate that.”

“Anytime.” With a wave, Michael slipped back out.

***

When Trey didn't practice again the next day, the Bobcats front office decided to preemptively strike any and all questions and hold a press conference.

“That didn't take long,” Josh muttered as he waited behind the makeshift curtain set up in the pressroom. Normally, training camp press was more low-key, more relaxed. They didn't have big entrances, showy photography backdrops. It was just the players and the reporters whom personally they'd gotten to know over the years. But given the gravity of the situation, the staff—mostly Simon—had made the call to keep things formal.

“When the quarterback is about to have his leg amputated, they move fast,” Trey said wryly, sitting beside him.

Josh gave him a sharp look, but Trey was grinning. “Don't bullshit me, man. I'm on the edge.”

“It's fine,” Trey said, totally ignoring the circus that had started when Simon walked by them and around to the front curtain. He'd be moderating the last-minute press conference, and from the sounds of it, the sharks were churning the water, ready for the chum bucket to be dropped.

He and Trey, Josh knew, were both in the chum bucket.

Ken Jordan, walked up, looking annoyed. “Boys, you ready to go out there and give the masses what they want so we can shut all this out of our minds and get back to our jobs?”

No bones about it, Coach Jordan hated the media and the problems they produced for the team. When Cassie, the daughter Coach had never known he'd had, first showed up, it was a clusterfuck to say the least. Cassie's personality and good nature won people over, but it was stressful for the family. At least, it had looked so from Josh's seat.

“Yeah, sure.” Trey waited until Coach Jordan walked toward the stage, listened to the drone of journalists and bloggers asking him questions, then turned to Josh. In a low voice, he added, “Remember, either tell the truth or say nothing at all. Fibs, well-intentioned or not, never work. Lies are worse. And bullshit is gonna get you killed out there.”

“It's a press conference,” Josh said, his voice rising a little with nerves. “Not a gladiator stadium.”

“They're basically the same thing,” Trey said grimly, then pasted a smile on his face and followed the lead of an intern waving them both around to the front.

Josh followed, and felt himself blinded momentarily by the flash of lights. He tripped going up the stairs, nearly bumping into Trey. The whole room fell silent, and he was ready to jump off the back of the stage and make a break for Mexico.

Trey nudged him with his elbow and loudly said, “Dude, we can't both be out. Watch the merchandise.”

Just like that, the crowd laughed, and the tension broke. Coach Jordan looked pained as they sat beside him.

“The mics are hot,” Trey added under his breath. “If you don't want everyone to hear it, keep it to yourself until later.”

Josh just nodded and clasped his sweaty palms together. He recognized several faces but didn't have names to put with them. He saw Aileen—Killian Reeves, their kicker's, woman—toward the side. She caught his eye and waved with a big toothy grin. He smiled and nodded toward her, grateful for at least one person who wouldn't take everything he said out of context or rip him to shreds over a misspoken word.

“We're not going to do the push-pull-tussle like normal, everyone,” Simon said calmly off to the side. “I'll be calling on you individually. If you aren't chosen, keep your mouth shut or we'll have you escorted from the room. We're all civilized people . . . except you, Miles. Yeah, you. I saw what you did in Vegas last weekend, you animal.”

The crowd laughed again, and Josh felt another notch of tension evaporate inside him. He could do this. They were men—and a few women—just like him. Not sharks. He couldn't think of them as sharks.

Hands went up, and Simon called on Miles, apparently as a reward for taking the teasing good-naturedly.

“Trey,” Miles said, standing with some effort thanks to his belly. “We'd like to hear how the injury occurred. Practice? Training?”

“Rough landing,” he said, smiling winningly as the reporters cocked their heads in confusion. “Let's just say, there are some sports that even pro athletes shouldn't be attempting, even in the off season . . . No, that's all I'm going to say about the circumstances,” Trey added firmly, but without bite, when Miles tried a follow up for details.

“Coach Jordan, Joshua Leeman is your backup,” began the next journalist after being called on. “He's seen very little play time in regular-season matchups. Are you worried he won't be up to the pressure?”

I'm right here, asshole.

“I don't worry, no point to it. If I thought he'd choke, we would have let him go before now. You don't wait until it's time to put the player in before you decide if they deserve to be there or not.”

“Josh,” the next one said, and all eyes turned toward him. He suddenly realized that the chum-bucket analogy was scarily accurate. “How ready are you to step into Trey's shoes?”

Don't say something stupid. Don't say something stupid. Don't say something stupid.

The pause while he fought for the answer was long enough that he felt Trey shift in his seat, and from the corner of his eye he watched Simon lean forward, ready to take control if he froze.

“I think,” Josh said finally, knowing he had to speak or forego his right to an answer, “that there's no way to be truly ready to step into the shoes of Trey Owens. He's larger than life. He's the Paul Bunyon of the Bobcats. So if people are expecting Trey Owens, two point oh, they'll be sorely disappointed.”

He watched as Coach Jordan crossed his arms and shifted back. Was that in respect, or in dismay? Trey sat still as a statue now.

“But,” he added, cutting off the journalist as they started to ask a follow up, “I'm ready to go out there and play football the way I know how. It might not be Trey's style, and it might take some getting used to. But I've got one hell of a team to play with, top-notch coaching staff and support behind us, and a blank slate to work with. So wearing my own shoes, I'm feeling pretty good.”

Several men chuckled, and the final knot of tension unraveled in his gut. He smiled, finally, and felt his hands stop shaking.

Trey knocked his knee against Josh's under the table, then held out a fist in silence.

Josh bumped it back with his own knuckles, and felt like he could do this.

Carri rocked back and forth on her heels as she waited for the bus—or rather, busses, as she could only assume it took more than one to haul the entire Bobcats team and staff—to pull into the designated parking lot. She'd exchanged polite smiles with a few other women whom she assumed were wives or girlfriends of the players, but she'd kept to herself.

The quiet was a blessed thing. Nobody to talk to, or duck from, or to nag her about coming home. Nobody calling her by her mother's name or asking for a grilled-cheese sandwich at three in the morning. Nobody attempting to manipulate the circumstances of her life to suit their needs.

The quiet was the exact reason she'd jumped at the chance to run and get Josh when Gail had called to ask the favor. She was stuck at work, and couldn't do it herself. Maeve had asked if Carri could handle it, and Carri took off without looking back. Sure, she'd have to put up with Josh in her father's car. And yes, she would be dealing with that post-kiss awkwardness . . . but the quiet. Oh, the quiet . . .

The push-shove that was happening on the other side of the fence in the parking lot invaded her mind, and she grimaced.

Okay, so
quiet
was a relative term. Media was camped out on the other side of the fence, segregated from the families waiting to pick up the guys from the busses . . . whenever those would arrive. Having never done this before, Carri had no clue if this was normal. But it looked . . . intense.

“Where are they?” a young woman asked beside her, huffing a little and crossing her arms over her chest. “Every year they do this.” She glanced Carri's way and rolled her eyes. “‘Oh, we'll be there at three thirty,'” she mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Dinner comes and goes, and we're still standing here like idiots. The smart ones just wait until their man texts them. But do I listen? No. And now I'm stuck here.”

Carri smiled a little. This kind of interruption to her quiet, she could get behind. “They must be on government time.”

The other woman laughed, then held out a hand. “I'm Allison Peterson. Matt Peterson's sister.”

Carri flipped through her memory and came back with a large black man with dreads. The friendly one from the VIP tent. His sister was almost as petite as Matt was large. Her skin was a few shades lighter, but she could see the resemblance in the eyes. And Allison's hair did this amazing full-body curl thing that looked like a pain to manage but was fabulous with her bone structure.

Interesting that Matt would have a sister pick him up rather than a love interest.

“Hi, I'm Carri. I met Matt at training camp. Took my dad up to see the team,” she clarified when Allison raised a brow. “My dad's a big fan.”

“That's sweet,” she said, smiling with friendly eyes. Then they narrowed over Carri's shoulder. “Vultures.”

“Hmm? Who?” Carri turned around, and saw someone attempting to climb the chain-link fence, camera in hand. “What the hell are they doing?”

“Being assholes, that's what.” Allison growled. “Reporters. There's always a few, usually some local news station that gets just a shot of the guys walking off the bus, and they stay back and they're pretty good about respecting the boundary. No big. But this?” Matt's sister shook her head, curls bouncing around her shoulders. “This is hell. It's because of the whole Trey Owens thing.”

“Trey Owens thing?” she asked without thinking. They both watched in silence as security disengaged the person with the camera from the fence and walked them none-too-gently away.

“Being hurt,” the other woman qualified, saying it in a
What rock are you living under?
sort of way.

“Oh. Oh, right. Okay.” Carri had seen the press conference with her father. Repeatedly. At least a dozen times. Herb had recorded it and played it again and again, his eyes shining with pride each viewing.

Funny how, in her head, the whole ordeal hadn't been known of as the Trey Owens Thing. It had become the Josh Leeman Thing.

Much as Carri hated to admit it, Josh had held his own during the interview. He'd even sounded . . . amazing. Fine, he'd sounded amazing. Like he'd been doing press conferences his entire life. Annoying, cocky, perfect-at-everything bastard.

“Who are you picking up? Boyfriend?” Allison's eyes darted quickly to Carri's left hand.

“Family friend. Grew up together.” She shrugged as if to say,
What can ya say?
about the whole thing. “I drew the short straw in carpool duty.”

Not quite accurate, but she didn't want people getting the wrong impression.

There was no extra time to chat as the rumble of large engines heralded the arrival of the team busses. The families waiting started shuffling around more, straining to get closer to where the players would emerge. The noise from the media also rose exponentially.

“Finally,” Allison muttered, moving forward with the crowd that started to press in. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Carri called as they got separated. She stared at the two busses, not sure which one he would be on. But she simply stood back and let the crowd pulse in around her. Wives, girlfriends, and fiancées squealed and jumped into their men's arms the moment they hopped off the busses, causing a backup of those who were still trying to disembark.

Easy, ladies. It was three weeks, not three years. They went to football camp, not war.

She kept her head on a swivel until she finally saw him exit the bus closest to her. Instead of heading toward the crowd, looking for Gail, Josh walked around to the side of the bus, grabbed his bag from the ever-growing pile of luggage and started walking for the cars.

As he walked, she listened to the crowd of media shouting his name almost in tandem, as if they were their own echo chamber. He darted a quick look toward them but kept walking, putting his head down.

“Josh!” she called out, weaving between players and loved ones. “Josh! Wait up!”

He paused ahead of her, then turned around slowly. Their eyes met, and his brows lowered for just a second before all expression cleared from them. By the time she caught up to him, he'd angled his body toward her and blocked off a small bit of space from other families.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” he asked, confusion all over his words.

“Your mom . . .” She bent over and took a deep gulping breath. The fumes from the busses filled her nostrils. Gross, and not at all helpful. “Your mom couldn't come, so she sent me to pick you up.”

Josh looked confused for a moment, then the confusion lifted and he smiled. Then chuckled. Then full out laughed. “You fell for that?”

“Fell for what?” she asked, dodging as a player swung a bag up over his shoulder and nearly took her ear off. “What? What did I fall for?”

“Carri, my mom hasn't picked me up from football camp since I was fifteen.” She blinked, not understanding. “I live in an apartment with a ton of single Bobcats. We just chip in to hire a limo to drive us here and pick us up when the busses get back so none of us have to leave our cars here in the lot or beg people for rides.” He chuckled again. “She totally knew that, too. You got played. Sorry.”

“I . . .” She rubbed at her neck. “I got played. Wow.” And here she'd thought she'd been escaping Maeve's manipulation by having some quiet time. Instead, she'd played right into their hands. The moms.

The. Freaking. Moms.

He stepped closer, crowding her a little so someone could get behind him. His body heat, and the way he smelled, started to shut down all the brain cells that intellectually knew getting involved with him was a horrible idea. He should have smelled icky, having been cooped up on a bus with thirty other large sweaty men. Instead, he smelled like fresh laundry. How did he
do
that?

“Guess I'll just go then.” She took a step back. Maybe if she left now, she could swing through a Taco Bell for a pity burrito before heading home. Something to elongate the peace and quiet.

“Sorry you came out here for nothing,” Josh started, then angled her away. “Hold on, walk this way.”

“What? Why? I'm parked over there.” She pointed, but Josh yanked her arm down and kept her moving. When she started to turn, he gripped her and pulled her back against him so she had no choice but to keep up with his fast pace. “Josh, what the—”

“I'm really not in the damn mood for the media. They're following the guys I'm supposed to ride home with. They must know—or have guessed—the guys who live in the apartments are riding back together. Which means, even if I don't see them here, they'll be there. Fuck.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he sighed. He lowered his voice. “Get me out of here and I'll owe you.”

“Done,” she said quickly, because having Josh Leeman owe her was a highlight in her currently pathetic life.

***

Carri drove with Josh in silence until she realized she had no clue where to go. Not back to his place, since he was avoiding it. Not back to her house, or his mother's, as they'd never get any peace there. So she finally ended up at the Bleachers. A popular make-out spot for teenagers and young adults, the Bleachers was really just an abandoned baseball diamond with rusted-out bleachers and a concession stand that some of the more adventurous teens would use for something other than heavy petting.

At night, with car headlights at the right angles and teenage hormones coursing through her body, seventeen-year-old Carri had thought it was a pretty darn good place to get kissed. Ten years later, during the day, the flaws were shudder inducing. It was like a cheap set from a low-budget snuff film. God, how had she ever thought this was romantic?

“The Bleachers?” Josh leaned forward a little and looked around as she put the car into park. “Why Carri, I'm not sure if I'm ready for this step.”

She punched his arm while he laughed. “Idiot.”

“Why here?”

“Because it's quiet, and nobody's going to be here in the middle of the day.”

She glanced through the windshield, then decided to just get out and walk. Josh followed her, though kept his distance. Rounding the rickety set of aluminum bench seating, she looked at the supports and shook her head. “It's a wonder these never collapsed on anyone.”

“Or gave them tetanus.” Josh came to stand beside her, then just plopped down in the grass. She smiled, then did the same, their legs splayed out in front of them like careless children.

“You could have dropped me off at my mom's house.”

“I needed some time to decompress. I would have done it alone, but you needed a getaway driver.”

“That I did.”

An insect buzzed somewhere in the distance.

“I needed some time alone, too.”

“You were just gone for three weeks,” Carri pointed out, looking at him over her shoulder. She used her shoulder to prop her chin up. “What do you need alone time for?”

“Gone, but not in solitary. I spent all three weeks in very close quarters with the entire team, plus support and coaching staff, plus media and fans.”

“Your apartment will be quiet.”

“My apartment is most likely currently swarmed with reporters waiting for me to come home since they missed me in the parking lot.”

“But once you break through that, your own place is safe.”

“My apartment building houses like twenty-five percent of the Bobcats players. They can come knock on my door anytime and harass me. It's a dorm, basically, with easy access to each other.”

“Isn't that what you like? The camaraderie or whatever?”

“Yeah.” He sighed, then shook his head. “I mean, I'm friendly with the guys, don't get me wrong. But right now the pressure is on. Everyone keeps looking at me, and it's like I can almost hear their thoughts while they stare.
Him? He's the one who's supposed to lead us? He's the guy? He's no Trey Owens
.”

Several reporters had made similar comments during the press conference she'd watched with Herb. They kept trying to shove Round Josh Leeman Peg into the Square Trey Owens Hole. Why couldn't they get that these were two different men, and comparing them was like comparing apples to tangerines?

But he'd handled them well. “You stood your ground during the interview thing,” she pointed out.

“You watched?” He side-eyed her.

Carri waved that away. “Dad had it on. I was waiting for you to faint. Sadly, it didn't happen.”

He just rolled his eyes. “I held my ground, because I just . . . didn't know what else to do. But everything I said, it was like one big defense mechanism. I still don't think anyone believes I can do this. I didn't make a fool out of myself . . . yet. And everyone just loves to remind me: I'm not Trey Owens.”

Carri watched him carefully, as only someone who had known him his entire life could. His smile seemed genuine, but she read the strain under it. His eyes were clear, but she could see the tightening at the corners. He was under stress like she'd never seen him before, and he wasn't handling it well.

She nudged him with her elbow. “It's true. You're not Trey Owens.”

He glared at her. “Your support is, as always, overflowing.”

“You're not Trey Owens,” she repeated. “You're Joshua Leeman, damn it. You're the guy who led our high school team to the state finals two years running.”

“High school,” he scoffed.

“The guy who went on to play four years of college with no redshirt season, graduate on time—which I've heard is more rare than a freaking unicorn—and maintain a pretty darn good GPA to boot.”

“What are you, a stalker?”

“Gail brags. Stop talking while I make my point. You're the player all the dads pointed to on the field and said, ‘That one's going places.' The one everybody in our little suburb hitched their hopes and dreams to. You're the kid who was a little too small to be drafted and got drafted anyway. You're the guy who thought he wouldn't make it through the rookie season and is now five years in and still going. You're a stubborn pain in the ass who doesn't know when to quit, and never has. So shut up already about your
I'm not Trey Owens
bullshit. Of course you're not. Trey Owens is Trey Owens. You're Joshua fucking Leeman, so act like it, goddamn it.”