Play Dirty (16 page)

B
OLLY RICH CLIMBED THE BLEACHERS AND SAT DOWN BESIDE
Griff. For a full sixty seconds they sat there in identical poses—forearms braced on their thighs, hands clasped between their knees—staring at the players on the field.

Bolly was the first to break the silence. “What the hell are you doing, Griff?”

“I’m watching practice.”

“This is the third day in a row you’ve been here.”

“You’re counting?”

“Yeah, I’m counting. What’s the deal?”

“Well, in my learned opinion, Jason is as good as any other player on this team. They don’t have a strong running back. Their safety’s for shit. Jason’s scrambling, but he’s—”

“Cut the crap, Griff,” Bolly said, even angrier than before. “What are you doing watching a middle school’s football practice?”

Griff turned his head then and looked at him. “Killing time, Bolly. ’Cause I’ve got nothing else to do. Last time I checked, this was public property, giving me as much right to be here as you. You don’t like it, you don’t have to speak to me. I didn’t invite you up here. So why don’t you go back down there and rejoin the decent folk before I rub off on you and you get ousted from the Booster Club?”

Down on the field, the coaches had the boys huddled, letting them drink from their water bottles while talking them through plays. The boys looked too small for their wide shoulder pads. From this distance they looked like bobble-head dolls, all out of proportion. Griff had started playing football at about Jason’s age. He supposed he had looked small then, too.

Bolly stayed where he was. He said, “My kid idolizes you.”

“I make a sorry hero.”

“I told him as much.”

They watched as the coaches divided the offensive players from the defensive and herded the two groups to opposite ends of the field to run practice drills. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Then Bolly cleared his throat. “That night in Buffalo?”

Griff didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard him, although he knew immediately the particular night he was referring to.

“Never been so cold in my life.”

“Ten below at game time,” Griff said. “Or so they told me later. They didn’t have the heart to tell us in the locker room before the game. Sixty minutes of football played in blowing snow, and at the final whistle, all we had to show for it was a freaking field goal. The kicker, wrapped in Mylar and sipping hot drinks on the bench the whole game, trots his skinny ass out there and makes the only three points of the game. My fingers are bleeding from some Bills lineman digging his cleats in. They’re so cold I can’t even bend them. That runty kicker gets all the glory.”

Bolly snuffled a laugh. “He was a cocky bastard to start with.”

“Tell me. Where was he from anyway? There were no vowels in his last name.”

“One of those eastern European countries. Switched from soccer to football so he could come to the States and make more money. Cowboys are well rid of him.”

It had been an inglorious win to a game that came late in the season, its outcome irrelevant to the play-offs. The airport was closed because of the blizzard, so the team couldn’t fly home. No one was in a party mood as they returned to the hotel for another night. Most went straight to their rooms.

“You and I wound up the last ones in the bar,” Bolly said, as though following Griff’s thoughts. “I got wasted.”

“Bolly—”

“No, no, this needs to be said, Griff. I got drunk on my ass and blubbered like a baby about my marital problems.”

Best Griff could recall, Bolly’s wife had packed up and moved out on him, saying she was sick of staying at home with their young son while he was away having fun with the guys, covering one sporting event or another.

“It worked out okay, apparently,” Griff said.

“Lucky for me.”

As drunk as Bolly had been that night, Griff was surprised that he even remembered his emotional meltdown. Maybe he’d needed that catharsis to make things right at home. He and his wife were still together. He had a nice house, a kid with a reasonable haircut and no visible body piercings. Why bring it up now?

“I never thanked you for keeping my confidence,” Bolly said quietly.

Griff looked over at him.

Shrugging self-consciously, Bolly removed his tinted eyeglasses and twirled them by the stem. “A lot of my colleagues cheat on their wives when they’re on the road. They sure as hell don’t cry over them. I’d given you plenty to talk about in the locker room. But you never breathed a word of it to anybody.”

“I didn’t have any friends, remember? Nobody to tell.”

Bolly gave him a wry look. “But you never brought it up to me, either. Held it over me. You know. In fact, you pretended it hadn’t happened.” He ducked his head and squinted down at his sneakers. “And you never called in the favor, not even when you came asking me for a job. That’s been eating at me ever since.”

Bolly replaced his glasses. Several minutes passed while they watched as Jason’s coach gave him some pointers on taking the snap. Finally Bolly said, “This guy’s okay for a middle school coach, but Jason could use some extra help. I realize it’s not much of a job. In fact, Griff, it’s not—”

“I accept.”

“Hold on. Any offer of payment I make will be insulting.”

“You don’t have to pay me. I need something constructive to do. Buy a dozen footballs for me to use, and we’ll call it square.”

Bolly considered him a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. “How about here, an hour before practice each day?”

“Suits me.” They shook hands. “Tell Jason to come prepared to work his butt off.”

“He’ll be thrilled. Start tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here.”

Bolly stood and clumped down several of the bleachers, then stopped and turned back. “This doesn’t mean I excuse what you did, Griff. You’re still on probation, with me as well as with the court. The least hint of trouble, you’re outta here.”

“There won’t be any trouble. I swear.”

Bolly nodded, then continued down the bleachers to join the other dads who were standing on the sideline watching practice.

Griff wasn’t invited to join them, and wouldn’t be, but that was all right. He felt better than he had in a long while. He had a project now, something to look forward to, a reason for getting out of bed in the morning. And for coaching an aspiring quarterback, no one was better qualified. Knowing that made him feel good.

He was smiling when his cell phone rang.

He arrived ahead of her and parked in back. A few minutes later, she pulled her car in behind his.

“A meeting ran long,” she said as she got out.

“I just got here myself.”

Together they walked toward the front of the house. While she was unlocking the door, he looked in both directions along the street. No olive sedan. He’d come straight from the middle school practice field and knew he hadn’t been followed there. In fact, he hadn’t seen Rodarte or anyone suspicious since their last confrontation—a month ago, he realized.

But he didn’t think for a moment that Rodarte had been scared off. In fact, his noticeable absence was unnerving. Griff would prefer him to stay visible, at least occasionally. With that in mind, as soon as they got inside, he asked Laura if she’d seen the guy he’d warned her about.

“In the ugly green car?” One of her eyebrows arched slightly.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Do you think I made him up?”

“What I think is that you took an unnecessary risk of being seen with me.”

“I know the rules, but you needed to know about Rodarte.”

“I doubt it.”

“Look—”

“I don’t want to argue about it,” she snapped. Then she rubbed her forehead and sighed wearily. “I haven’t seen a man in a green car lurking about.”

“Good. Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know. Why didn’t you just say that and save us the argument?”

She looked ready to take issue, than changed her mind and started toward the bedroom.

“What was the model?”

“What?”

“The model. In the box I carried to your car.”

“It was an airplane model.”

“I figured that much. You were taking it home to show your husband. What for?”

“For a presentation.”

“Yeah? How’d it go?”

Avoiding eye contact, she combed her fingers through her hair. “It doesn’t matter now.” Before giving him an opportunity to say more about it, she walked down the hallway and disappeared into the bedroom.

Griff stood looking after her, wondering what had caused her to be in such a snit. A quarrel at home? Bad day at the office? Or just put out that she had to endure him again.

Screw it. Let her be snippy. Let her sulk. Whatever. He didn’t care. He only hoped to God it worked this time. He was ready to cash in and blow.

He tugged his shirttail from his waistband and pulled off his boots. He checked the wall thermostat and lowered it several degrees. He went into the kitchen and checked the fridge. Same bottled water, same six-pack of Diet Coke. He didn’t want either, but he unbuttoned his shirt and stood in the open door of the fridge, fanning the cold air onto his chest.

Back in the living room, he opened the armoire and scanned the titles of the videos. Maybe he should check one out, just for variety. Let’s see. Men with women. Women with women.
A Tail of Two Cities.
Hmm.
Which two cities?
he wondered. On one cover a chick wearing nothing but strips of black leather was straddling a motorcycle. Her snarl and sharp red fingernails turned him off, not on.

He closed the armoire doors, once again rejecting the videos and magazines in favor of his own imagination.

“Come in.”

He went into the bedroom and closed the door. Midway across the room, he stopped. She was lying as before, staring at the ceiling, covered to her waist by the sheet. Above it, she was fully dressed.

But this time there were tear tracks on her cheeks.

When he didn’t immediately move to the bed, she glanced at him, then back at the ceiling.

He walked to the foot of the bed. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve been crying.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You cry when you’re tired?”

She looked at him and said testily, “Sometimes. Now, can we please just get this over with?”

Pissed off by her tone and the condescension behind it, he muttered, “At your service, ma’am,” and shoved down his jeans, actually hoping the sight of his tented boxers would offend her. It did. She turned her head aside.

He kicked off his jeans, peeled off his shorts, and crawled onto the bed, stretching out on top of her. He wrestled with the sheet, cursing its tenacity, before he got it out of the way. Her legs parted. He moved into position, thrust, missed, thrust again.

It was easier than the first two times. Faster, too. Quickly over. If you looked up
slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am
in the dictionary…

He didn’t even give himself time to catch his breath before levering himself up. As he did, he glanced at her averted face. And froze. Fresh tears were rolling down her cheeks like silent admonitions. Her lower lip was clamped between her teeth as though to keep it from trembling.

Well, shit. How bad could it have been?

Apparently pretty bad, because her chest hitched on a sob.

“Hell, did I hurt you?”

She shook her head.

“You said you wanted it over with.”

She tried to say something, but the words got lodged in her throat. She swallowed convulsively.

Griff, at a loss, didn’t say anything. Instead, he laid his hand against her wet cheek. At his touch, she tensed beneath him. When she raised her hand, he expected her to remove his from her face. Instead, she covered his hand with hers, then turned her face into his palm so that the heel of his hand was under her chin and the tips of his fingers were curved up over her hairline.

Her breath struck with hot gusts of emotion. Tears were captured in his palm. He watched her throat as she struggled to contain the choppy sounds of weeping. And then, when she couldn’t hold them back anymore, she clamped her teeth again. Except this time it wasn’t her lip that was caught between them. It was the meaty pad at the base of his thumb. She sank her teeth into it.

The effect on Griff was instantaneous. He sucked in a quick, audible breath.

Her teeth let go immediately. He lifted his hand off her face. Their eyes connected with an impact as startling as the bite. Her eyes, swimming in tears, widened fractionally when she felt what he couldn’t control. Didn’t want to control. He swelled inside her with an infusion of blood so hot and insistent, he had neither the time, the willpower, nor the desire to withdraw.

He filled her completely. Or was she shrinking around him? It was difficult to tell. And it didn’t matter. Because, God, it was a rush, the most erotic damn thing ever to happen to him.

He pressed his hips forward, tentatively, testing her reaction. Her eyes closed briefly, then reopened. Her eyelashes were wet, forming spiky clumps, very pretty. There was a black speck in the iris of her right eye that he’d never noticed before, but he’d never been this close to her before. He had never really looked into her eyes. He hadn’t allowed himself to look into them.

Still tentative, he angled his hips forward and up. Her breath made a soft hissing sound as she inhaled through her teeth. Her eyes closed. Encouraged, he slid his arm beneath her, scooped her ass into his hand, and tilted her up at the same time he pressed deep. A hungry sound vibrated in her throat, because by now her lips were rolled inward, tightly compressed. She was breathing rapidly through her nose.

He pulled back, almost out, then sank into her again. She groaned. He did it again. His strokes were long, slow, and deep, and she responded with corresponding movements that soon had him calling on deities in mindless gasps.

Her hands, which before had always stayed motionless at her sides, were moving restlessly. She took fistfuls of the sheet, twisted it, then released it and reached for more, for something, and found the front panels of his shirt, still unbuttoned. She clutched the fabric, tugging until he could feel it pull taut across his back. Her throat arched as her head dug into the pillow. Her hips lifted to meet his thrusts, more shallow now, and faster.