One Night with a Quarterback (23 page)

Nope. Still the same.

There was a burning in her lungs, and she realized she'd forgotten to breathe. She let the air out slowly, then inhaled again with deliberate patience. In, out. Don't stop.

A break. She stuffed her phone in her pocket with enough anger to hear a stitch pop in the fabric. So, he needed a break. His precious career was too damaged to deal with her? With the fall out? Yeah, it was bad. There was a lot of untrue crap being spewed. But it couldn't last forever. And his talent spoke for itself on the field. Why was he so freaked out about this?

In, out.

The
out
wobbled a little, and she gripped her forearms hard enough to turn her fingers white.

A break.

She was leaving his side of the country and he wouldn't even call her. She closed her eyes and leaned against her car door. God. Couldn't she, for once, have an easy time of it? Ever?

When she had her body back under control enough she felt like she could drive, she opened the car door.

From behind, she heard a cough. She looked up and found her father standing several feet away, watching her.

She waited.

He crossed his arms.

She shut the door.

He uncrossed his arms.

“Oh, for the love,” she grumbled. “I'm going, I'm going. I just needed a minute.”

“That's not . . .” Her father rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I wasn't coming out here to enforce anything. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Now
he wanted to talk. Nice timing. “I'm packed, the pool house is empty. I left the key with the housekeeper this morning.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Right. Okay.”

“So . . . I'm gonna go now.” She pointed to her car.

He said nothing, just watched her. Like a scientist staring at a bug under a microscope.

“I'm sorry,” she said, because she hated the silence. And she needed to try once more. “I am so sorry about how it all happened.”

“Are you sorry you and Trey were together?”

The question surprised her. And from the look on Ken's face, it surprised him he'd asked.

“No,” she said slowly, choosing to be honest. “I don't regret meeting Trey or being . . . involved with him. He's a good man, and I wish it would have worked out.” That part hurt. Hurt like hell, losing Trey on top of the girls. And the chance at having her father in her life. “I regret not being more up front with you about it. But I was just scared of losing you. Or the girls. Or Trey . . .” She closed her eyes and gave a small laugh. “Just scared. That's all.”

When she opened her eyes, her father was a few steps closer. Still quiet, still watching her. Maybe he was thinking it over. Maybe he was ready to talk it out instead. Invite her in for coffee to hash things out. Maybe . . .

“You're still here.”

Cassie wanted to scream at the sound of Tabitha's voice. “Not for long, Tabitha. Don't worry. I packed my corruptive influences in the trunk.”

Tabitha scowled, but said nothing.

Her father stepped forward, but his wife took a trip on his arm and stepped up with him. Cassie waited, then when nobody said anything, opened her door to get in the car.

“Call,” he said hoarsely. “Call when you get back. So we know you're safe.”

She nodded once. She'd call . . . and leave a message with the housekeeper. “Sure.”

Then she closed her door and drove away from her one chance.

Trey gasped and sat straight up in bed, heart pounding. One hand gripped the edge of his mattress, the other arm wrapped around the pillow he'd been forced to stuff against his side to substitute—poorly—for Cassie's presence. His breathing was too fast, too erratic. Forcing himself to slow down, he glanced at the clock.

Not quite five in the morning. And the room was pitch black. What the hell woke him up?

But he knew. It was that dream where your body felt like it was falling into a black hole and would keep falling forever. Only his black hole was more like a shallow puddle full of guilt and anger.

He'd missed practice yesterday. An entire day of practice. He hadn't missed a day of practice since his rookie year when he had H1N1. Aside from near-death experiences and/or a death in the family, players didn't miss practice. Despite having received the OK from Coach Talbin, it felt wrong. So very, very wrong.

But there was nothing he could do. Stephen needed the help more than he needed his career. What kind of a friend would he have been if he'd shifted the responsibility of getting his friend to rehab to some low-level intern? No. He'd done the right thing. Stephen would have done the same thing for him.

Anger bubbled under the guilt, demanding his attention. Anger at the media, who took the word of a few idiotic bloggers and so-called fans rather than waiting for a statement from him or the team. Anger at the coach for putting Cassie in the position to sneak around, to choose her family or her relationship. For not being the father she needed him to be.

Anger in himself, for letting it go on as long as it had.

Christ, he needed his own intervention.

He didn't have to be on the practice field until ten. He should get another few hours of sleep, given how little he'd slept the night before taking Stephen to First Steps. But the need to see Cassie clawed at him. He'd been so curt with her the day before. But talk about bad timing. Texting him mid-wrestle with his friend in the parking lot of a rehab facility? He'd needed a break from it all. From everything. Breathing room.

And now he'd have to pay the price. An apology—a damn good one—for starters. Flowers? He thought for a minute. Then, with a grin, reached for his phone. No, Cassie wasn't the flowers type. Knowing her, she'd want some limited edition Star Trek something or a new battery for her laptop. Faster processor or . . . whatever.

It was early, but he sent her a text. If he was up, she could get up, too. They needed to fix this.

But his text went unanswered. He checked sporadically through the day, even keeping his phone in his bag on the sideline to check during practice. Something he normally mocked other players for doing, and something that was against Coach Jordan's rules. But Coach Jordan was absent, anyway. Nothing. So, maybe she was caught up in something with the Nerd Herd. He tried again, sending a text asking if she wanted to come over for take out. They could work out a strategy of how to handle things.

But by four in the afternoon, with no answer, he started worrying. He drove past the coach's house, praying he wasn't outside to catch him spying. But his bad luck held out. He'd missed practice, and he wasn't at his house. Neither, however, was Cassie's car. From the street he could barely see the pool house, and no car parked out front.

He made a call to the main Bobcats offices, hoping to catch someone before the end of the workday.

Kristen answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Kristen, it's Trey. Has Cassie come in today?”

There was a brief hesitation, then she answered slowly. “No, she hasn't.”

He almost thanked her and hung up, but something in her tone made him pause. “Kristen?”

“Yes?” she asked warily.

“You know something.”

“Yes,” she echoed.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Trey barely managed the urge to shout. “Kristen, it's me. I'm not the media and I'm not some random douchebag looking to hassle her. You know what's been going on. Help me out here. When's she coming back?”

The line was so quiet he thought she'd hung up. Then Kristen let out a deep sigh. The sigh of someone about to do something they might regret. “I did not tell you this.”

“Tell me what?”

“Cute. She gave Barry a call late yesterday saying she wouldn't be coming in anymore.”

He blinked. “Anymore this week?”

“At all. He was pretty ticked, actually. Said she was, and I quote the man here,” she added dryly, “‘amazeballs.' And he wanted to clone her before she left. He was pissed he didn't have the chance.”

No, that wasn't right. Cassie loved the Nerd Herd. She wouldn't do that. “Where's Coach?”

“That I won't give up.”

“Kristen,” he growled.

“No,” she said firmly. “I have a mortgage to pay and a teenage son to feed. Having a job makes paying that mortgage and feeding that human garbage disposal so much easier.”

He considered trying again, but knew a brick wall when he'd run into one. “Okay. Thanks.”

She said, “Wait,” just before he'd pressed the button to end the call.

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

His lips quirked. “Thanks. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.”

* * *

Trey managed to race back to the Jordans' home in record speed. Not caring any longer who saw him there, he pulled up to the security gate and buzzed the intercom.

After a fifteen-second wait, a terse female voice asked, “Yes?”

He leaned out his window, feeling vaguely like asking for a number two combo with large fries. “Trey Owens, for Coach Jordan.”

“Mr. Jordan is not in residence at the moment. Thank you.”

“Wait.” But he could tell from the lack of static, she'd already shut him out. Mr. Jordan . . . Coach's wife wouldn't have called him that. Which likely meant it was an employee. Maid or something. Trey hit the buzzer again. And bit back a smile when the same woman's voice came back more agitated than before.

“Yes.”

“I'd really like to talk to Cassie Wainwright.”

After a brief pause, the woman said, “Ms. Wainwright is not in residence. Have a good day, sir.”

The
somewhere else
was implied heavily.

“Can you tell me—”

But she was gone again.

Trey beat his head against the steering wheel. Rich people and their gates. He could scale it, no problem. But just his luck, he'd break a leg hopping down and then be up shit creek. Maybe if he called Coach Talbin, he could call Coach Jordan and—

The sissy iron gates swung open without warning, surprising him. He checked behind to see if someone else had opened them, but nobody was there. Not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, he gunned it through the gates, which closed behind him. So apparently she'd changed her mind about letting him in.

As he parked, he wondered if “not in residence” was some code for “They're here and don't want to talk to you.” It was entirely possible. Trey strode up to the front door, pep-talking himself along the way.

After this, he might not have a job. He could get traded. He could be blackballed from the league. He could be scrambling to get a job coaching grade school flag football.

For Cassie, it was worth it.

He pounded on the door, then waited. After a moment, a thin woman with a graying bun and a dark dress opened. He had no clue who she was, but he could assume she worked there. “I need to see Coach Jordan.”

Her eyes were frigid chips of ice in the glacier of her personality. “Young man, I do not know how you got in here, but I suggest you exit the same way before I call the police for trespassing. Mr. and Mrs. Jordan are not in residence currently.” She gave him a look that said
People like you are the problem with America
and shut the door firmly.

What the ever-loving hell?
She'd
let him in.

Ignoring the rules of polite society, he pounded again, then jerked back when the door opened once more. Only this time, one of the daughters stood there. He wasn't sure which one she was, but she glared at him long enough he was pretty sure she knew who
he
was.

“Hey . . . you,” he said slowly.
Shit crap damn.
Irene or Mellie, Irene or Mellie . . . “Where's your dad?”

She raised a brow in a look so completely like her mom, he actually took a step back.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because he's my boss?” he tried.

She crossed her arms.

“Irene?” a young voice behind the gatekeeper called. “Who are you talking to?”

Irene. One mystery solved, at least.

“Just some douchebag,” she said acidly, still shooting eye-daggers at him.

Hey, now. “Look, I'm Trey Owens. I'm one of—”

“I know who you are. I buzzed you in.”

“. . . your dad's players.” Okay then. “I need to talk to your dad immediately.”

“Shouldn't you be asking about Cassie?” A second girl—younger, shorter, a little fuller in the face—appeared next to her sister. Mellie, obviously. “Why didn't you stop her?”

“Stop her from what?” He gripped the back of his skull with one hand. If his head exploded from confusion before he got to talk to Cassie again, he was holding every member of the Jordan family personally responsible.

“From leaving,” they said in unison, then glanced at each other in surprise. Clearly, that didn't happen often.

“Leaving . . . what? The Nerd Herd? I know, I need to talk to her.”

Mellie looked at him with something like pity . . . which, coming from a teenager, was more than a little embarrassing. Irene just looked like she wanted to grab something heavy and hit him with it.

“Irene,” Mellie whispered.

“Boys suck, you know,” Irene said caustically. “They're worthless.”

“We can be,” he agreed. “I screwed up, so I can't really argue that right now.”

She rolled her eyes. “They're at an emergency meeting for Eyes on the Family. He won't be home until after that. Probably late afternoon.”

Too damn late. Where else would Cassie have disappeared to? If he had to wait that long to talk to her father, he could use the next few hours driving to places she might have hidden. The parking garage, maybe that deli he'd taken her to. A movie? Where could she go to be anonymous in a town that was paying too much attention?

“Irene,” Mellie said more harshly. “He doesn't know.”

“That's his problem.” Irene started to close the door, but he stuck his foot in the way. Something in Mellie's tone made him think twice before leaving.

“Don't know what?”

The sisters looked at each other, silently conferencing.

“Don't. Know. What,” he said again, his voice hoarse. He was a man on the edge.

“Cassie left,” Mellie said. Irene glanced to the side. “Like,
left
left.”

It took a full five seconds before the words soaked in. “Left left. Gone.” The sisters nodded, Irene still not making eye contact. “As in . . . back to Atlanta?” Another twin nod. “For a visit?”

He couldn't blame her. The lack of support had been hard. A week with her mom, away from the town would—

“Forever,” they said together.

Crushing his hopes of a simple week-long break.

“She packed up and drove out yesterday.” Irene, ever the hardass it seemed, added, “You didn't give her a reason to stay, I guess.”

Ouch. Truth hurt. “Don't spare my feelings or anything.”

“'Kay.” With that, she shut the door in his face.

Ruthless little thing. Under different circumstances, he'd have adored her. Right now, she was just one more pain in his ass keeping him from Cassie.

He started for his car, unsure of the next step until the coach was available later to talk. He couldn't just up and fly out to Atlanta. He had practice, a game on Sunday. A commitment to the team he couldn't abandon, as much as his heart wanted to be on the first flight out to the East Coast. Not to mention, he had no clue where she lived in Atlanta.

“Trey?”

He turned, saw Mellie standing in the door, her face unsure.

“Yeah?”

She hesitated, then took a single step out on the front porch. She was barefoot, only adding to the innocence of her trust

“Are you going after her?”

He smiled a little. “Soon as I can.”

“Are you going to make it better?”

“I'm going to try my damnedest.” It occurred to him maybe he shouldn't curse in front of her. But really, if the kid hadn't heard “damn” by now . . .

“Dad's at a luncheon downtown.” She named the restaurant, then added, “He's with Mom. So, you know . . . watch out.”

And with that little bit of faith, she earned his undying gratitude. He walked the few steps back to hug her. “Thanks.”

“Bring her back, please?” Her voice was small. “I miss her.”

“Me, too.”

* * *

Trey didn't bother waiting for a break in the conversation. The moment he spotted Coach Jordan, he approached his table and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Coach glanced up at him, brow furrowing, eyes narrowed. “Owens, what are you doing here?”

His wife looked over, one hand draped over her chest. “Ken, this is an invitation-only event. Please . . .”

Trey didn't move, just motioned with his head toward the hallway. When Tabitha protested, Ken waved her off, then stood and followed Trey out of the room.

“Brass balls,” Coach Jordan muttered as they turned a corner and found a private room not in use. “You've got 'em, coming to me like this. Especially after what you put my daughter through.”

“Oh, now she's your daughter?” Trey bit out. He mentally winced at the accusation, and what it meant to speak to his coach with such disrespect. But there are things more important than impressing his coach. “You've ignored her since she got here. You've let your wife bully her and treat her like a second-class citizen. You put restrictions and rules on her like a child instead of trusting her like the adult she is. And you want to talk to me about what Cassie's been put through?”