One Night with a Quarterback (15 page)

“I'll let you get that.” Cassie stood, shaky on her legs. “I'll see you at home?”

“No,” he said absently.

“Okay then.” She took one step, then heard him pick up the phone. “Sorry . . . yes, I know . . . won't be home for lunch. I'm taking Cassie out.”

Her heart soared at the words. He hung up after a quick good-bye.

“Will this screw up your schedule for the day?” she asked cautiously.

He shrugged and stood. “I had planned on running over to talk to the captains about this little scenario. Figured they'd want to hear about it before it hit ESPN tonight at six.”

“Got it. Should I meet you somewhere?”

Ken grabbed his wallet and stuffed it in his back pocket as he walked to the door and held it open for her. “Why don't you come with me? We'll grab a bite to eat afterward. You haven't seen the practice field yet, have you?”

“I haven't seen much of anything besides these offices and the tech area.”

“Stick with me, kid.” He winked. “I can show you the ropes.”

She wasn't sure she wanted to know all the ropes. But this was the start—the open door she'd hoped for.

* * *

Trey finished unlacing his cleats and toed them off. His white socks were streaked with grass stains and dirt, and he shook them out to get rid of the aches. The first week breaking in a new pair always sucked. He let his feet relax a minute, wiping his hands on the legs of his mesh shorts. Another scorcher. He longed for the first crisp hint of autumn. When wearing pads and a helmet for four quarters wouldn't seem like a punishment sent from Satan himself, but a privilege bestowed from on high.

Killian walked by on his way to the water bottles, nodding at his socked feet. “New set?”

“Hell yeah.” He curled his toes and grimaced. “Never fun.”

Killian nodded, then sat down for a second. A rare choice for him, the loner. “Saw on a blog you've got yourself a girlfriend.”

Trey's jaw clenched. “Fucking press with nothing better to talk about . . .”

“I hear ya.” Killian sent a stream of water into his mouth, swished, and spit to the side. “People can't just watch the action on Sunday. Everyone's gotta have an opinion on our lives off the field.”

“You know, two decades ago? Those players had it made. Long as they kept their noses clean and didn't get busted for drugs or DUIs, or mess around with a hooker or four, nobody said anything. Now everyone's in your business twenty-four seven.”

Killian's hand tightened on the bottle so hard water shot out to the side. He glanced down for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder. “Fuck 'em.” With that pretty sentiment, he was gone.

Josiah slid in to the vacant spot. “What did chatterbox want?”

“Apparently my Twitter girlfriend from yesterday is getting plenty of blog time. He was just commiserating.” Trey pulled on his running shoes, Josiah doing the same. “Swear, one of these days I'm gonna—”

“Coach is here,” Josiah muttered.

Trey clammed up. He was in just a foul enough mood to let a curse or three fly. And tired enough to not want to run the laps Jordan would give him for the offense.

“Owens, Walker, I need you.”

“Coming, Coach.” Trey waited for Josiah to finish lacing his own sneakers, then jogged over to where Coach Jordan stood. He was on the first riser, as if a spectator instead of a coach. Removed from the action on the practice field. “What's up?”

“Need a quick chat. Let's take this up a few.” Coach Jordan walked up several steps, until they were at the top riser. “I did a press conference this morning concerning some non-football matters, and I thought you'd want to know. I'm not sure how hard it will hit things, but we're hoping by getting ahead of the story and making it a non-issue, the press will follow.” He swallowed, and some of the natural Hawaiian-born tan paled. Trey shifted, just a little, in case he had to catch the coach before he pitched forward and tumbled down the bleachers.

“I have another daughter. Not with my wife, Tabitha. She's recently come into my life, and I refuse to hide her. So she'll be around here from time to time. Attending functions with the family. Given my . . . history,” he said tightly, “with championing family togetherness and solid Christian morals, having a child out of wedlock who I didn't have a hand in raising will look hypocritical. I'm taking steps to rectify that within my own family. But people might want to make a big deal over it.”

Trey sat heavily, stunned. Had the coach cheated on his wife? They'd always seemed so unified. By Josiah's speechlessness, Trey knew he wasn't alone in the shock.

Coach Jordan ran a hand over his head, looking a little embarrassed. “I wouldn't make a big deal about it, except I know people will use this as an excuse to pounce. They always do. But hopefully we cut a lot of that crap off at the knees. I just wanted you guys to know, since the interview runs tonight at six. If players have problems, assure them this shouldn't affect anything, we're handling it, it's a private matter, and urge them not to comment if anyone asks.”

Josiah nodded. “Yeah, sure Coach.”

Trey nodded as well. And then tried to picture the shock Coach must have received. Did some woman walk into his office with a toddler in tow? Dump a girl on the doorstep of his house for his wife to find? Threaten to call the media if he didn't speak up? “Is she—your daughter—staying with you guys?”

“Yes, she is.” He scowled now. “And when you meet her, I want you to treat her with the same respect you show Irene and Mellie.”

Exactly how did one disrespect a little kid?

“She's . . . oh. Here she is now. She's getting a tour of the facility today. Cassie, come on over.”

Cassie? Trey almost laughed at the irony. He turned, looking for a little child, or maybe a pre-teen. Instead, he found Cassie—
his
Cassie—walking straight for them, eyes bright, full lips stretched into a huge grin.

A grin that faded as she caught sight of him. And eyes that widened as she recognized exactly who she was looking at.

Oh . . . holy shit.

* * *

Shit.

Cassie started to climb the bleachers, freezing on the second step as the two large men in front of her father turned. One, maybe six feet, had handsome dark features and a playful grin.

The other . . . was Trey.

Her Trey.

Oh, no. Big no.

“Cassie Wainwright, meet my two captains. Josiah Walker and Trey Owens. They keep this team running smoothly with good camaraderie on the bench and on the field.”

Trey blinked.

Josiah stepped forward first and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Wainwright. The way Coach was talking, I think we expected a toddler.”

She laughed a little at that. “Sorry, no. I'm old news.” Josiah smiled back, warm friendliness helping ease some of the tension.

Trey was still silent a moment, then Josiah bumped him with an elbow. He shook his head, as if clearing the fog, and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

O . . . kay.
She could follow that lead. “Likewise.” His hand squeezed hers, and his eyes promised they would talk. Very, very soon. She nodded a few inches in understanding.

Cassie wasn't sure how long they stood there, staring at each other, before Josiah cleared his throat. “So, we're just heading to the locker room. I guess we'll see you tomorrow?” he asked Ken.

He agreed, shook hands, and sent the two men on their way. Cassie watched their exit as they walked down the bleachers and across the field toward the area where her father had mentioned held the locker rooms. Trey's body, disturbingly hot when naked in bed, seemed even more enhanced by the gray Bobcats T-shirt, soaked with sweat, and the black athletic shorts. Almost as if covering up his body made it more appealing, in a rough, primal sort of way.

She blinked. Primal? Really? That's where her mind went? Primal sex. Clearly, her brain was operating under a state of shock.

“Not a big football fan?”

She jolted at her father's question, then fought for balance on the slick aluminum of the bleachers. “Uh, no. Not really. It's not my sport.” She don't
have
a sport.

“Some women get a little . . .” He seemed to search for words as he observed the field, where groups of men ran drills here and there. “Star struck,” he said. “They make fools out of themselves over the players. Sometimes it's just them, other times they drag the guys down with them.”

“Or maybe the guys stupidly follow them,” she muttered.

“Not wrong,” he agreed. Then he sighed. “This is going to be interesting, when they find out. For some, it won't matter. Others, they might lose some degrees of respect for me. Hopefully, I'll gain it back quick enough. We don't have time to waste the entire preseason on this.”

Cassie was silent, watching. “So what, um . . . positions?” He acknowledged her question with a small smile. “What positions did those two play?”

“Josiah's a running back. Fast bugger. And Trey's our quarterback.”

The quarterback. Oh, good. Even she, with next to no football knowledge, knew that was an important role. She knew who Peyton Manning was. She'd heard of . . . uh, the other Manning brother. Whatever his name was.

“I love these guys. They're like pseudo-sons.” He grimaced. “No offense.”

“None taken.” She knew he meant it in the best possible way. Could tell he cared greatly for the players beyond their skill on the field.

“But I'll warn you, a lot of these guys are immature. Many are under twenty-five. Still a little juvenile, a little too cocky. This sport breeds arrogance. Rewards it.” He turned, and she sucked in a quick breath at the intensity of his gaze. “Don't get attached to them. Don't let them play you. If you meet them, don't be overwhelmed or star struck. Don't be those girls I talked about. You are a member of the family, and as such, you need to keep it clean. Don't distract them from their job, and don't let them play you.”

Wow. “You give that same speech to your other daughters?” she snapped.

“They're too young to have any opinions one way or the other on this. But if they were old enough, then yes, I would. The fact remains, you need to just focus on the family. Keep your eyes straight ahead. Don't turn this entire thing into a circus. The media will do their best to paint it that way. Let them stay down in the gutters. Rise above. Concentrate on what you can control.”

Cassie had the sudden urge to ask if she'd taken a wrong turn and walked into a motivational seminar. But she just smiled blandly and nodded. “You probably have work to do. Should I let you get back to it?”

He glanced at his watch, almost looked like he would say yes. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Nah, they're wrapping up. And I promised you lunch.” His smile was so sincere, she didn't have the heart to say no, as he'd done to her so many times. “Feel like subs?”

So she'd go get subs with her father, and take his advice on not wasting the time they had. Focus on the family, right now.

And then, when she was in the clear, figure out what the HELL was going on with Trey.

Oh, shit. Oh, big shit storm. Shit storm on the radar. Coming right at him.

“So,” Stephen said, through a gasp of laughter. “You just said ‘Nice to meet you?'” He burst into another fit, holding his sides as if his ribs hurt.

Trey could give him a few hurt ribs . . .

Josiah gave him a pitying look and reached for another chip. “It was one of the most awkward things I've ever witnessed in my short thirty years.”

“Bite me.”

His friend bit down on the chip instead, with an intentional snap and a shit-eating grin.

“It would have been so easy,” Stephen said, “to just play it off. ‘Yeah, hey, we met before at that one club. Nice to see you again.' All polite, like it was no big deal.”

“Sorry I lack the deception gene. I panicked.” He ran hands through his hair. “Give me a break. I'm standing there next to my coach, a guy I respect, who holds my career in his hands, and he points to the woman I've been sleeping with and says that's his daughter?”

“There's no good way out of this,” Josiah agreed. “But she recovered and rolled with it. She's smart. I liked her.”

“You saw her for seven seconds.”

“Between what you've said, and what I saw, I liked her,” he clarified.

Trey checked his phone. “It's been three hours. She still hasn't called.”

What if she wasn't going to call at all? What if this was just the excuse she needed—the final push she had been waiting on—to get her to cut things off with him?

Maybe that was best.

Yeah. He didn't need the drama of dating the coach's daughter. Talk about instant pressure, instant stress. He'd thought Cassie was the antithesis of all that. That their relationship was his port in the storm from media scrutiny, from worrying about off-field pressure.

And instead, he'd inadvertently walked right into a media trap.

He didn't blame her. She couldn't have known. But what a fucking mess.

So yeah. Maybe that was right, after all. Maybe they'd just cool it for awhile.

He glanced up from the chip in his hands to find both Stephen and Josiah staring at him, concern written all over their faces. “What?”

“You look like you're praying or something,” Stephen said. “Right before the long walk to the electric chair.”

Josiah rolled his eyes. “Eloquently put, Stephen. Are you worried?”

“Yeah. I mean, no.” He shrugged one shoulder and picked up another chip, then set it down again. “It's no big deal. We were just passing time. So, we go our separate ways, stay quiet, and everything will get back to normal. She's smart, and she's low key. She won't ruin her time with her dad over this.”

Stephen nodded, but Josiah looked less convinced.

“Yup.” Convincing himself, forcing more certainty into his voice, he clapped his hands. “That's the key. Just making it a non-issue. We had some fun, and now we can part.”

“Just like that, huh?” Josiah asked.

“Just like that.”

The doorbell rang, and he shot to his feet. “Get out.”

Stephen looked hurt and held up his chip, dripping with salsa. “But I'm not done snacking.”

Josiah caught on faster and slung an arm around his neck. “Let's go, you Neanderthal. Prince Charming here has some work to do.”

They followed him to the door, though not fast enough for Trey's mind. For pro athletes, these two could move faster than a two-legged turtle. “Out. Out, now. Go. No, not that way. Go out the garage!”

Too late.

Stephen opened the front door to a surprised Cassie. “Hi.”

He stepped around her, kissing her on the cheek with easy affection as he did. “See ya later.”

She blinked. “I . . . see you.” Then she caught sight of Trey inside and watched him with uneasy eyes.

Trey tried to say something. Anything. A casual, throw-away greeting. Even
hey
would have worked. But his throat clogged up and his brain shut down. She was here, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her inside, close the door, and lock out the rest of the world. Away from them. Away from where it could touch them, touch what was theirs. Preserve their . . . whatever they had going on, until it was strong enough to survive the elements.

Josiah turned back to Trey just before walking out. “Just like that, huh?” he parroted from earlier.

Trey shoved him out the door. Josiah chuckled down the driveway to his own car. Cassie, however, continued to stand on the front step. She twisted a simple gold band she wore on her right ring finger around and around, looking anywhere but at him.

“Cassie.”

She swallowed visibly, but said nothing.

“Cass.” He held out a hand, pulled her through the doorway, and shut it behind her. “I'm sorry.”

She nodded at the generic floral painting above his entry table. “Me, too.”

“It's . . .” Trey sighed and stepped back a foot. “It's awkward. And unfortunate, really. Not that you're unfortunate,” he said hastily when her eyes finally met his. “You've been . . . you're . . .” He screwed his eyes shut a moment. “You've been amazing.”

“And now I'm not.”

The cold finality in her voice made him look again, made him hate himself for even thinking for a moment of hurting her. “That's not what I—”

“No, I get it. He's your boss.” She took a step away, mirroring his distancing move. “Nobody wants to get caught fucking the boss's daughter. Even an illegitimate one.”

“No, that's—”

“I was supposed to avoid men anyway. Something about being a bad example for the girls. And I already broke that. So I'm hardly one to judge. I was breaking rules from the start with us. Or, well . . .” She blushed a little, but kept her focus still on the painting. “Not from the start, since, you know . . . that night was before . . .”

His fists clenched at his sides.

“Plus, I'm sure it'll bring a shit storm of bad press. You probably have contracts with places, right? Sports drinks or vitamins or . . . whatever.” She started walking in a circle, not looking in his direction. “Your career is probably tied up in being marketable. I totally get that. I respect it. My father is going to lose some image points for this, even though it wasn't like it was his fault for not being there. But you still have an out. So, take it.”

She halted, stared at him fiercely, as if the lines of battle had been drawn and they were on opposite sides. “Take it. Take the out.”

There it was. The simple, oh-so-easy solution. They would move on, walk away, and nobody would know. They had the easiest of outs.

“No.”

Her eyes widened a little in surprise. “What?”

“No outs.” Surprising himself, he went with the flow, stepped over the imaginary line of battle. “I don't want the out. And neither do you, though you think you
should
want it. But your dad doesn't run your life, and he doesn't run mine, either.”

She tried to take a quick step back, but he caught her in a bear hug. When she didn't resist, he held tighter. “We admitted there was something here. I refuse to let this little hiccup stop that.”

She snorted, then pressed her nose into his chest in the first signs of surrender.

“I wanted you then, and I want you now. That hasn't changed. Now we just have be more delicate about how we handle this.”

“You have a battle plan?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “But I'm willing to talk to my smarty-pants girlfriend about it. I think she might have a few good ideas.”

“Girlfriend?” Her voice was low, hesitant.

“I've never been partial to the word ‘lover.' It's a little too . . . eh. Not my style. Girlfriend might be a less mature words for it, but it does the same job.”

“It does,” she agreed. “So where are we going to have this lovely little planning meeting?”

“Hmm.” He took one step back, then rammed his shoulder into her stomach. She shrieked—half- surprise, half-laughter—and slapped his ass once in retaliation. But he ignored the protest and took her straight to the stairs.

“If you drop me, you're a dead man.”

“I won't drop you. I've got magic hands.”

“As the running back, wouldn't that be Josiah who can hold onto the ball under pressure—ouch!” she squealed when he pinched the back of one thigh.

“No talking about other men when I'm playing Caveman, woman.”

She grumbled something, but since it didn't sound too flattering to his gender, he didn't ask for clarification.

He dumped her on the bed, and then just stepped back to admire her there. She fit. She fit on the oversize mattress, looking up at him with an erotic mix of annoyance and lust. Like she couldn't decide whether to strip or bitch him out first.

But her hand went to her shirt buttons, so he was pleased to know lust won out.

“Manager?” she asked in a sly voice. “Risk assessment manager?”

He smiled, a little chagrinned. “It just sort of . . . came out. Sorry. I was going to tell you, eventually. Soon,” he added when her hands slowed down on the buttons. Please don't stop undressing.

“And Stephen with his securities nonsense.”

“Defense. Keeps my ass safe. Not altogether wrong.”

She huffed out a breath. “You and I are going to have a serious Come to Jesus about this.”

So she could bitch and strip at the same time. A multi-tasker. So hot.

“I guess this explains why all your friends are giants, then.” She grinned, and he knew he'd at least dodged one bullet.

Then she launched herself up, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and dragged him down on top of her.

And there was an entirely different battle being waged.

* * *

Cassie's heart was still beating a mile a minute when she flopped on top of Trey and snuggled against him. The sweat cooled on their bodies, making her shiver. He felt around with one hand, eyes closed, until he connected with some covers and dragged them up to their shoulders. Better.

With one forefinger, she traced a pattern over his stomach. The muscles, the tight skin and hard ridges made more sense now. “So, pro football.”

“Uh-huh.” He said it lazily, like he was going to drift off. If she wanted any information, now was the time.

“Is this your dream job?”

“Mostly.”

“What part is excluded from the ‘mostly' bit?”

He let out a long, deep breath. “Not a huge fan of media. Doing an interview post-game, about where we went right and where we went wrong, yeah. Okay. It's just another version of a post-game analysis. I can handle it.” His hand smoothed down her back until it rested over the curve of her butt. Just a resting place, nothing sexual about it. “But when people come up to me on the street, I get . . . flustered. Or sometimes my natural instinct is to be annoyed. Which is wrong,” he said sharply, almost as if angry with himself. “Fans are the reason I get paid to play the game in the first place. But the way we get treated can be wearing. Signing autographs is fun, your first year. Taking pictures with little kids who are playing in the PeeWee leagues, that's usually pretty awesome. You've got this eight-year-old staring up at you, and his eyes are this big . . .” He held up his hands in the shape of two circles. “And you're, like,
everything
to them, and suddenly you feel this weird mix of awe and fear, that you don't deserve it, and that you would do anything to make sure you don't let that kid down. It punches you here.” He fisted a hand over his stomach. She covered it with her own hand.

“And then, you get women. Like this one chick the other day.” He told her about a woman who surprised him by sitting on his lap during lunch, then tweeting about him as if he were her boyfriend. “Some people just assume it's true. Others get it, but still laugh. It's a joke. My personal life can be a big joke.”

She got it. Her own was about to explode, in—she checked the clock—two and a half hours. For her, she hoped the speculation would die off soon. That it wouldn't be as big a deal as Simon Poehler, PR guru, prepped her for. That the news of her existence would be like spitting into the ocean . . . not even a ripple. But she'd been prepped for the opposite, and it had scared her, just a little.

Hadn't she kept her own situation quiet, even from Trey, because of that fear?

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you more. I was trying to judge the right moment to let that information loose. It's . . . hard.” He shrugged the shoulder she wasn't draped across. “Having you like me for me and not having a clue who I was or what I did, that was like a breath of fresh air. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Nobody around here can hear my name without knowing. And so, I took it, and I ran with it. And put you in the crosshairs. Selfish.”

“Trey,” she began. “I did like you. I still do. But, I didn't have to know your profession to know you. I did know you. I
do
know you. Just not every tiny detail.” She cleared her throat. “The same could be said for me, I guess.”

“You did tell me about your dad,” he pointed out, giving her more credit than he'd given himself.

“But not the details. The point is, if I'd told you all of it, you might have backed off before we got to this point. Likewise, if you'd told me about being the quarterback. So maybe . . . maybe this was just how it was supposed to happen.”

He kissed the top of her head and pulled her in tighter. “Maybe.”

They were quiet for a moment, listening to the ceiling fan cool the room and their overheated bodies.

“Coach—uh, your dad—said the interview would air tonight. Do you want to stay and watch?”

“Can't. I have to get back and watch with the fam. Tabitha is making it some big thing.” She shuddered, and he misinterpreted and rubbed her arms as if warding off another chill.