Foolish Games (22 page)

“I’m not snitching.”

“The man is guilty, Will,” Roscoe had argued.

“Probably. But it’s not my story to tell, Roscoe. I have no proof where that money came from. Neither does the committee. It’s all conjecture. There are likely dozens of guilty players who know a hell of a lot more than I do. Let the committee target them.”

“The whole world will presume you’re guilty if you don’t talk.”

That part wasn’t as easy to swallow, but Will figured it was the price he had to pay for keeping quiet these past eight years. Back then, he’d been a fledgling player without a home in the league, his only evidence coming from his gut. Now he would play the waiting game, hoping Coach Zevalos developed a conscience before he died. Hoping the man wasn’t as diabolical as the media made him out to be. That would mean Will’s loyalty those early years was totally misguided.

“And your son? What will you tell him when he’s old enough to ask?”

Will had taken a long swallow of beer before he was able to answer Roscoe. “Let’s hope it’s cleared up before then.”

Roscoe had muttered a few choice words about not getting paid enough, but then he’d let it go. “At least you were smart enough to have Julianne sign all the separation papers before the marriage. It will move the process along that much more quickly. I want to file right away, so people will know she sold you out. We don’t want her to have any sympathy with the public. You’ll need it all on your side.”

Will wished he’d felt a little more comfortable with Roscoe’s plan than he actually did. But he couldn’t overlook the fact that Julianne had shared his secret with her brother. She was guilty and she deserved what was coming. It was her fault their separation would be linked to his testimony.

“You have to wait a full year for the divorce, so that’s another key reason to get the papers filed as soon as possible,” Roscoe had added.

“Great, now I really feel like a famous celebrity. My separation is going to last longer than the marriage,” Will had said wryly, before taking another sip of his beer.

“Don’t feel bad, you’ve still got Britney Spears beat.”

Will had scrubbed his hand down his face. “Hell, I’m not sure I want to ever hear my name and Britney Spears’s in the same sentence.”

That had made Roscoe chuckle. “Seriously, we’re not done talking about Owen’s custody.” He held his hands up. “After the hearing. For now, I’m just glad I have the kid’s birth certificate in my safe. She can’t get him out of the country without it.”

“She won’t take Owen out of the country.”

“Yeah? This is the same woman who sold you out to a Senate committee, dumbass. Stop thinking with your dick and use your brain. She’s capable of anything.”

Will’s temple had begun to throb. He let out an explosive sigh. The Julianne he’d spent the last month with wouldn’t take Owen back to Italy. Not without asking. But apparently, the woman with whom he’d shared his body and his soul these past few weeks didn’t exist.

He and Roscoe had agreed to meet again tomorrow to discuss the strategy for the hearing. As far as Will was concerned, the plan was simple; he’d plead the fifth. End of story. Everyone would have to leave him alone because he had nothing to say.

The lights of the Inner Harbor shimmered through the tall windows in the loft. Will lay down on the sofa, pulling the cashmere blanket that the decorator insisted he buy with it over his body. He’d just sleep here tonight. As he stared up at the high ceilings of his loft, listening to the city rumble on outside, Will realized just how alone he was. It was a feeling that used to never bother him. Until now.

It was seven
A.M.
on Monday when Annabeth dialed Hank’s cell phone.
They hadn’t spoken since the night she’d babysat Owen, and she prayed he’d at least answer her call. The Senate committee’s hearing was the next day, and she desperately needed Hank’s help to make things right.

“Annabeth.” As usual, Hank’s gravelly voice made her internal body temperature spike. “Is everything okay? “

“Yes. I mean no. Of course it isn’t.” She was dissembling when she needed to focus. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Not exactly the smartest question.

“No, I just got out of the shower.”

An image of a naked Hank popped into her head, and Annabeth had to gather her scattered wits. “Oh, well, good.”

Hank sighed. “Look, Annabeth, I’m sure you’re upset about this whole thing with Will, but he could have prevented it from coming to this. Obviously, the team wishes he’d cooperate because we’d prefer not to lose him to an indefinite suspension. But he’s being stubborn.”

Annabeth snorted. “Tell me about it. But that’s not why I’m calling you. Well, not exactly, anyway.” She heard rustling in the background, as if he were toweling himself dry. Annabeth fanned herself with the printed directions she had in her hand. “Remember when you said you’d like to take me places? To travel with me?”

The rustling stopped, and only Hank’s breathing could be heard through the phone.

“Well,” she continued, “I’d like you to take me somewhere. Today.”

“Today?”

“Yes, today.” She swallowed. “It has to be today.”

“Today,” he stated again, sounding a little as if he were trying to decipher something Sophie had said to him.

“It’s work related, if that helps.” She reminded herself that this was an ambush and to not take his impatience personally.

“Uh-huh.” He chuckled softly. “And what exotic destination do you have planned for us, Annabeth?”

She sat down on the flagstone porch, relieved he was taking her seriously. At least she hoped he was. “It’s not really all that exotic. Although it
is
called the Garden State.”

“New Jersey?”
Hank choked out. “You want to go to New Jersey?”

She sighed. “I don’t
want
to go to New Jersey, Hank. I
have
to go.”

Hank slipped into military mode. “Annabeth, I think you’d better tell me what this is all about.”

“In the car. I’ll tell you everything when we’re on our way. Just hurry up and get dressed.”

Hank was silent for a long moment. “Where are you?” he finally asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

Annabeth crossed her fingers. “Outside. On your front porch.”

She heard the sound of feet clamoring down the stairs, and suddenly one of the ornate oak doors was being pulled open. Turning to face Hank, Annabeth had to bite her bottom lip to keep her mouth from falling open as her gaze traveled up a pair of bare feet and well-defined legs, to slim hips wrapped in nothing but a black towel. Hank’s sculpted abs and chest were bare, his fifty-year-old muscles rivaling anything she’d seen at the Ship’s Iron Gym. His hair was still damp; a dab of shaving cream lingered behind his left ear. He hadn’t even bothered to put his glasses on.

“Hi,” she managed to push out as her entire body sang with joy at the sight of him.

“Get in here,” Hank hissed.

Easier said than done—Annabeth’s knees had turned to Jell-O—but she managed to scramble off the porch and into his foyer. She placed her purse on the beautiful Chippendale table in the entryway, quickly calculating the amount of weight it could bear before sharply reminding herself that they needed to get to New Jersey right away. Spinning on her heel, she turned to find Hank leaning against the massive front doors, arms over his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles. Apparently, he was not as affected by his near-nudity as she was.

“Look, Annabeth, if you came here about Will, I can’t help you . . .”

“I didn’t come here about Will.” She took two steps toward him. “New Jersey is about Will. I came here,
to you
, because you were right. Because I want to be more,” she whispered as she tentatively placed a hand on his heart. Immediately, his hand covered hers, cocooning it in the warmth of his skin. “I came here because I’m done hiding.”

Moving her body closer to his, she stretched up on her toes and kissed him. It was a sweet kiss, one in which she tried to apologize for the way she’d hurt him the other day. But Hank would have none of it. His hands went to her hair as he delved deeper into her mouth, their tongues sliding against one another. She moaned as his mouth left hers, finding its way to her sensitive neck.

“God, Annabeth, I thought I’d never see you again,” he murmured against her skin. “I’ve missed you.”

She pulled his mouth back to hers and kissed him with a slow hunger that threatened to completely obliterate her plans. Somehow, the backs of her thighs had come in contact with the Chippendale table and her dress was now bunched up at her waist. Hank’s hands squeezed her bottom as he lifted her onto the table. When she wrapped a leg around him, her calf came in contact with his bare ass. Annabeth drew her hands over his sides, and then his back, reveling in the muscles bunched beneath her fingertips.

With a soft moan, she pulled out of the kiss. Hank rested his forehead on her shoulder as both of them struggled for breath.

“We can’t do this right now.” She traced her finger down his rib cage. “We have to go to New Jersey first.”

“The Jersey Turnpike will be a parking lot at this hour.” He stroked a thumb over her pebbled nipple.

“We have to. For Will.”

Hank let out a long-suffering groan in protest. She felt his erection jump between their bodies. He took a step back, reaching down to the floor to retrieve his towel.

“I’m not going to New Jersey for Will.” He tied the towel around his waist as Annabeth’s heart stopped in panic. “I’m going for you.”

She sucked in a relieved breath. “Thank you,” she whispered. “And if you still want me after what I have to do there . . .”

Hank closed the space between them, bracketing her face in his hands. “Annabeth, I’ve wanted you since long before the morning I saw you standing in my library.” He placed a tender kiss on one side of her mouth. “I’ve adored you since you first stuck up for Sophie.” Gently his lips brushed her mouth’s other corner. “I fell in love with you on a ferryboat. Nothing you can do could make me want you, adore you, or love you less.” He kissed her fully this time with the promise of wicked things to come later, while totally annihilating any brain cell activity Annabeth had left. When his mouth reluctantly left hers, her lips nearly whimpered in protest.

“But we’ll do it your way. We’ll go to New Jersey.” He pinned her with an arresting glance. “But afterward, you’re mine.”

Annabeth was grateful to be still sitting on the small table as she met Hank’s azure eyes, now blazing with passion. She gnawed on her bruised lip before nodding.

“Coffee’s in the kitchen. You’ll find the travel mugs in the cabinet. I’ll be ready to go in five minutes.”

Annabeth watched him disappear up the long staircase as she tried to calm her thundering heart. Her body felt slightly bereft and a little agitated that they hadn’t finished what they started. But she was still grappling with the heady concept that he loved her. Adjusting her dress as she slid off the table, she had trouble holding back her grin.
Hank Osbourne loved her. Her. Annabeth Connelly.
The thought made her giddy. She wandered to the kitchen for the promised coffee, thinking her day was starting off better than she hoped. Now all she needed was for the rest of it to go as well.

 • • • 

“Okay.” Hank slipped his cell phone into its charger. “The two NFL attorneys are going to meet us there. Since you’ve asked for witnesses, I assume you aren’t taking me to a mafia hit. Or are you, Annabeth?”

She laughed at him. They’d ended up taking Hank’s car, a sleek little Audi that slipped easily through the rush hour traffic. Hank drove like he did everything else, with authority. Annabeth curled up on the leather seat, her legs tucked beneath her, her torso turned to face Hank’s profile.

“Nothing that nefarious. Although I can’t rule anything out.”

“Just tell me this, are we expected?”

“No. I’m counting on the element of surprise.”

Hank took Exit 18W toward Fort Lee. They traveled through the center of town before finally entering a suburban neighborhood of tree-lined streets and quaint Craftsman houses. He parked along the curb across from their destination, the car purring to a halt as he killed the engine. Leaning his head against the headrest, Hank took a swallow of his coffee.

“This is Coach Zevalos’s house,” he said without preamble.

Annabeth tried to hide her surprise. “You’ve been here?”

Hank turned his head to face her. “Of course I have. When the whispers started to include Will’s name, I came here to try to make sense of all of it. Will wouldn’t talk to me, so I tried to get Zevalos to tell me. Obviously, I wasn’t successful.”

“Well, maybe you didn’t have the right incentive to make him talk.” She undid a button on the bodice of her sundress.

Hank sat up in his seat. “What the hell are you planning on doing here, Annabeth?”

She made note of the fact that the tops of Hank’s ears got red when he was angry. Or jealous, whichever the case might be. Annabeth pressed a hand to his chest. “Relax. He wouldn’t talk to you because you wear pants. Trust me. He’ll talk to me.” She leaned across the console and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’ll see.”

A blue American-made sedan pulled up and parked behind them.

“Ah, the cavalry has arrived,” Annabeth said as she grabbed her purse and hopped out of the car.

Standing on the sidewalk outside Coach Zevalos’s house, Hank made the introductions, but Annabeth wasn’t paying attention. There wasn’t time to waste if she was going to preserve her son’s name. Smoothing down the skirt to her dress, she marched past the pots of carefully planted zinnias and geraniums up the concrete steps. The door opened before she knocked, startling her.

“Mrs. Connelly?”

Annabeth had met Marie Zevalos several times during the years Will had played at Yale. In her late sixties, the woman was a throwback to the housewives of the mid-1900s, treating her husband with deference, acquiescing to his every whim. With her big, overbleached hair and round body, she was the perfect foil to the arrogant, macho coach whose ego knew no bounds.

“It’s Miss Connelly,” Hank clarified from where he stood beside her.

Annabeth brought her elbow back, slightly making contact with his ribs. He took the hint and stepped back, the message received that she was running the show.

“Mrs. Zevalos, how nice to see you again,” Annabeth began. “I believe you’ve already met Mr. Osbourne?”

Marie broke out into a bright smile at the sight of Hank before her face registered her confusion. “Yes, he came to visit Paul a few weeks ago. But Paul told him not to come back.”

“We’re actually here to see you, Mrs. Zevalos.” Annabeth answered with a grin of her own, hoping that behind her, Hank was treating the woman to one of his more charming smiles.

“Oh . . . well . . . I can’t imagine what you want with me.” Flustered, Marie stepped back from the doorway.

Not wasting the opportunity, Annabeth stepped across the threshold. “I wanted to speak with you, woman-to-woman,” she said, letting her voice carry throughout the small house.

“Oh!” Marie wrung her hands as the three men behind Annabeth crowded into the foyer.

“This will only take a minute,” Annabeth reassured her. The last thing she needed was a panicked Marie Zevalos. Her plan wouldn’t work if the woman collapsed on the floor. Gently taking the woman’s elbow, she steered her toward the airy kitchen at the back of the house. “We have so much to catch up on,” she said loudly.

A spasm of coughing from a nearby room grabbed Marie’s attention.

“Marie!”

Annabeth’s knees nearly buckled with relief at the sound of the raspy bellow. Coach Zevalos had heard her, just as she’d planned.

“Oh!” Marie reached for a tray with a can of ginger ale and an empty glass on it. “Just let me give this to Paul and we can have some tea.”

“Tea would be lovely. And please tell Coach Zevalos I said hello.” Annabeth poured on the saccharin.

As soon as Marie disappeared with the tray, Hank gestured for the two league representatives to sit on the sofa in the living room. He turned to Annabeth, a sly smile on his face. “Well played,” he mouthed.

She beamed under his praise but silently worried what he’d think of her after the second act. Marie shuffled back to the kitchen, flustered once again.

“Paul said he’d like to see you. Right now. Before we have tea.” The poor woman clearly didn’t like the idea of anyone upsetting her ill husband, and Annabeth wondered what it was like to love someone so blindly.

“Sure, but I’ll only keep him a minute. Then we girls can chat.” She patted Marie’s shoulder. “Mr. Osbourne is going to go with me to apologize for upsetting Coach during his last visit.”

Before Marie could protest, Annabeth grabbed Hank’s hand, towing him behind her as she made her way into the small sitting room where Coach Zevalos was holed up. The sight before her nearly stole the wind from her sails. The man in the oversized recliner looked nothing like the one she’d met thirteen years ago. Coach Zevalos was now a haggard shell of himself, lung cancer from his pack-a-day habit diminishing what had been a tall, robust, athletically built man. His ashen skin sagged at his jowls and his once-haughty dark eyes were now just angry; whether it was from the sight of her or the fact that his time on this earth was short, she wasn’t sure. Nor did she care.

When he spied Hank, his eyes grew wide and he grabbed the mask from the portable oxygen tank beside him. “Get out!” he gasped, pointing at Hank.

“He stays.”

Annabeth’s tone forced the coach to pull several puffs on his oxygen.

“What do you want?” he asked around the mask.

She clasped her hands in front of her. “For you to do the right thing.”