Fourth and Goal (32 page)

Oh, shit
. It was coming down short. Derek batted it out of the defenders’ hands. It bobbled. He stretched his arms, his whole body, and dove for the pigskin. His fingertips grazed the ball. Somehow he hauled it in. Wrapping his fingers around it, he hung on with everything he had. His feet were knocked out from under him as he slammed to the ground in the end zone.

Derek gripped the ball with both hands and rose to his knees, protecting the ball. The whistle blew. Winded and disoriented from the hit he'd taken, he saw the referee signal a touchdown.

There is a God
. And he'd chosen to put his money on a ragtag bunch of misfits who'd never accomplished anything on their own.

His teammates piled on top of him like ants on an anthill, driving the oxygen from his lungs. He gasped for breath, but some remote part of his brain registered the truth.

They'd made the play-offs.

And he'd caught the big one—the tough, pressure's on catch, the highlight clip to be analyzed ad nauseam for the next week on every local sports station. He and his teammates had risen to the challenge.

A celebration erupted on the field. The thirty-year play-off drought ended.

Tyler yanked his cousin to his feet and pounded on his back until Derek's vertebrae rattled and his neck suffered whiplash. The human mass on the field swept Derek away, still clutching the ball. Reporters shoved microphones in his face; cameras blinded him until all he could see were little points of white light. The crowd stomped their feet and rocked the stadium to its foundation, cheering loud enough to be heard in Idaho.

Derek shook his head. Tried to clear the cobwebs. Tried to see beyond the white spots. Blinking several times, he squinted and scanned the crowd in the first few rows, using every inch of his six-feet-five frame to see above the fans flooding the field. Almost desperate, he searched the stands, unaware of the people surging around him, unmindful of the reporters clamoring for an interview. Like a boulder in a stream, he held steady. Teammates, coaches, and fans grabbed at him, slapped his back, and shouted their congratulations.

He needed Rachel. She'd been his rock, his staunchest supporter, his most constructive critic, the reason for his success. Without her, he wouldn't be cradling the game ball and looking at a play-off future.

Then he spotted her in the first row with her brother and Ryan in his wheelchair. Dressed in his number eighty-five jersey, she waved a blue and gold towel and jumped up and down. Her face flushed red as she screamed her lungs out. He held his breath, prayed she wouldn't do bodily harm to herself or others. Too late. He cringed as she slipped, almost fell, and grabbed the railing for support. Damn, he needed to get to her soon before she caused mass destruction and injury.

Derek slogged through the celebration to the stands. Sensing his single-minded determination, the crowd parted and the cameras followed. He reached the stands, skirted security, and looked up. With a smile, he handed the game ball to Ryan.

"Keep this for me, buddy,” Derek yelled above the crowd.

"Are you sure?"

"It's yours.” Derek nodded.

"Win the Super Bowl and I want a new one."

Derek shook his outstretched hand. “Deal."

Even Mitch smiled.

Turning to Rachel, he held his arms out to her. She leaned over the railing. He grabbed her and hoisted her over the top rail, whirling her around in circles. She screamed and laughed, begging to be put down. He placed her feet on the ground but didn't take any chances with her balance impairment. Derek held her to him and stared into eyes sparkling with joy and pride.

God, he adored this woman.

He kissed her with emotion he usually repressed. She kissed him back with a promise of tomorrows better than yesterdays. Today he wouldn't change one thing in his life. It was perfect as it was. Tomorrow might be a different story.

A broad grin crossed his face. He tucked her next to his side, holding her tight so she wouldn't trip. A gang of reporters jabbed microphones in his face and fired questions above the chaos. Smiling, he fielded their questions and posed for pictures with Rachel.

What little anonymity Derek and the Lumberjacks had washed away in the incessant Seattle winter rain.

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Derek checked his voice mail. He had several calls. Tyler wanting to meet before the play-off game tomorrow. His dad asking him to call. Rachel checking on him. His agent with a few endorsement offers. Tyler again, calling him a fucking asshole. He grinned at that one.
Effin’ A back to you, buddy
. His agent again, demanding a callback. Rachel offering some homemade stew for dinner.
Yummmmm
. Ryan, worried about him.

Oh shit, Ryan
. Ryan shouldn't be worried about
him
. He needed to call the kid.

With a sigh, he disconnected from voice mail. Tomorrow he'd play in the biggest game of his career so far. With each win, the next game became the biggest until there would only be one left—the ultimate prize for any football player. The media didn't give them a chance in the game tomorrow against the New York Wildcats.

All those little injuries and twinges nagging him throughout a long season combined for a weary, aching body. Pain became his constant companion. He recovered slower after each game. In some cases the hurt never lessened and accompanied him everywhere. He played through it because not playing wasn't an option. His head spun from all the demands on his nonexistent free time.
Prioritize, Ramsey. Football's been number one all week; time for a little downtime to recharge your batteries.

First he returned Ryan's call and made plans to have dinner with him after the game, win or lose.

Second he dialed Rachel's number. He'd barely talked to her since the game last week. He'd been wrapped up in game video, practice, interviews, and team publicity stuff. He was being pulled in fifty different directions with barely time to sleep, let alone see Rachel or Ryan. Guilt rolled over him like a rogue wave on a Pacific Ocean beach.

Tonight belonged to Rachel. He needed her steady, calm support. Okay, he admitted it. He needed her body too. He needed the intimacy, the feeling of coming home he only got with her. And yeah, he needed some purely physical get-down-and-get-it-done sex.

"Hello?” The object of his current fantasy answered the phone. She sounded out of breath, which conjured up several fantasies.

"Hey, babe.” He grinned, ready to forget the demands of his chaotic life and engage in a little phone sex before the main event.

"Dare?"

"Yeah.” He leaned back against the overstuffed cushions of the leather couch in his living room. Propping his feet on the coffee table, he took a long, cool swallow of his beer and willed his tired, battered body to relax.

"I wasn't expecting to hear from you tonight.” He detected a note of hurt in her sweet voice. He knew women; time to tread lightly. His absence this week hadn't gone unnoticed.

"You weren't?"

"No.” More hurt, even a little annoyance.

He chose the popular path of any red-blooded American male: he played dumb. “Did I interrupt something? You're out of breath.” His smile faded. He sat up straighter.

"I was just coming from the barn. I ran to catch the phone."

Good
. That made him feel better. He relaxed back into the cushions and wished he was relaxing into her. “It's good to hear your voice. I'm sorry I've been so busy this week."

Silence.

"You still there?"

"Yeah. How are things going with the team?” Her voice smoothed out, didn't sound so ruffled.

"Okay, but I'd rather not talk about football tonight. How about some of that stew?"

"You bet, big guy.” Her voice sounded normal. She'd forgiven him, somewhat. Damn, he didn't deserve a woman like her.

"Good.” The tension drained from his tense body. He'd been wound up all week preparing for that first-round play-off game.

"Your place or mine?” Rachel posed the question.

"How about mine. I have a better bed."

"No one said anything about needing a bed for eating stew."

"It's the after-stew activities that require a bed."

"Oh really, do they? Since when?"

"Tonight this boy is tired and sore. He requires a bed.” He laughed. His cock hardened at the teasing in her voice.

"I'll be up in a flash with dinner."

"I'll be looking forward to it."

All of it.

The one-week deadline imposed by Rachel's brother had come and gone. For the past several days, she'd embraced denial and blissfully gone about her business. Now dread edged out bliss as she fretted about whether or not her brother would follow through on his threat. He'd never been one to make idle threats, and she doubted he'd start now. She just needed more time to sort out her conflicting feelings. Surely she could convince Mitch to wait longer. With a nagging feeling that she was operating on borrowed time, Rachel pushed her fears aside and concentrated on enjoying the evening.

Derek ate second and third helpings. Afterward he rubbed his still-flat belly, set his plate on the coffee table, and put his arm around her, pulling her close. She snuggled in the crook of his arm. Lord, she'd missed him this week.

He'd wormed his way into her life in subtle ways she hadn't noticed until he'd been absent for a while. Until tonight Rachel had gotten leftovers in the form of a few text messages during the week. But now he was here, and she planned on making the best of it.

She turned her head to admire his handsome face. His smile lit up her everyday life so it didn't seem so everyday. His determined attitude infused the same energy in those around him, and his laugh was infectious. Then there was that body. Ripped and hard with masculine grace, he moved like a cheetah and just as fast. His body crackled with so much sexual energy the FCC should give him his own frequency.

"Rae?” She felt his breath on her ear. “You're not falling asleep on me, are you?"

"Not a chance, buster.” She was falling—actually had fallen—but not asleep.

"Damn, I'm gonna be so weighted down tomorrow I'll be slower than a lineman."

"You didn't have to eat three bowls."

"I couldn't help it. Nothing like good ol’ down-home cooking. All I've been eating this week is stuff I can't even pronounce, let alone identify."

"You'll need to work it off somehow."

He turned to her, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose. “You bet your sweet ass I will, and you do have the sweetest ass.” His big hand slid lower and rubbed the small of her back.

"Your ass isn't so bad either."

His dark eyes bored into hers, suddenly intense and serious. He traced a finger down her jaw, then cupped her chin. “You ground me, Rae. I need that."

She squeezed her eyes shut, fearing he might see the tears there. He didn't notice, just pulled her close to his chest and held her tight. She wrapped her arms around him, and he flinched.

"Are you injured?"

"Nah, just beat-up. Comes with the territory. Guys compete for the chance to slam me to the ground several times every Sunday."

"Let me see.” She couldn't help but worry about him. He'd taken some scary hits during the last game, and each time he'd gotten up a little slower. “Take off your T-shirt."

He started to lift his arms, then grimaced. “Fuck."

"I'll help.” Rachel pulled the shirt off his head. Not an easy feat because of his reluctance to raise his hands very high above his head.

"Oh, baby.” His torso looked like a prize fighter's after a particularly nasty fight. She touched one colorful bruise the size of Mercer Island. “Maybe we shouldn't do this tonight. We could just sit and talk."

"Talking isn't quite what I had in mind tonight."

"Hmmm.” Rachel pulled back and rubbed his erection through his jeans. “Sure you're up to it?"

"Oh yeah. I'm up. Just go easy on me.” He laid his head against the couch and closed his eyes.

"You have more of an issue than your fat tummy and your bruises, mister. You've got a goalpost between your legs."

"Maybe you can do something about that. For the good of the team, of course."

"Of course. Anything for the team."

"You
are
a dedicated coach's daughter."

"That I am.” She unzipped his jeans and was rewarded with his groan. “Your jeans are too tight."

"They fit just fine until you walked in the door."

She felt evil, naughty. She wanted to show him what he'd been missing these past few days. She pulled his cock out of his pants. Like a good soldier, it sprang to attention. Rachel bent down and flicked her tongue across the tip.

"Oh fuck.” He gritted his teeth and rocked the back of his head against the couch.

"That comes later, big guy."

"Rae."

"Don't be such a wuss. I haven't even done anything yet."

"I have a great imagination."

"I know. I've been on the receiving end. Tonight I get a turn.” She knelt between his legs. He lifted his hips, wincing a little, as she pulled off his jeans and boxers.

"I wanna see your tits. Even better, I want to see you naked while you take care of my...uh...goalpost."

She laughed and sat back on her heels to pull off her shirt. She left the lacy red bra on. He licked his lips as he stared at it. His pupils dilated until all she could see was black.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Cass dragged me on a shopping trip to the lingerie shop again."

"I love that woman."

"There's more, but you'll have to wait.” Rachel giggled, then bent back to her task between his legs. She ran her tongue up and down his velvet length. After wrapping her fingers around him, she pumped while sucking on the tip. He threw his head back and tossed it back and forth, his eyes shut, his jaw clenched, his hands fisted. Cupping his balls, she squeezed gently. He muttered a few unintelligible words. She took him in her mouth, deeper with each thrust until his cock touched the back of her throat. He stiffened. His dick twitched.