Authors: Kate Donovan
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Contemporary, #football, #Sports, #Romance, #advertising, #Bad boys of football, #sexy romance, #contemporary romance
Playing for Keeps
PLAYING for KEEPS
When Erica McCall finally gets her big break in advertising, she knows just which spokesperson to pitch: gorgeous football superstar Johnny Spurling. She has followed his career since college and knows he’s perfect for the spot, even though it’s common knowledge his famous family doesn’t do product endorsements,
ever
. But Erica knows Johnny’s weak spot, and she’s confident she can use it to gain his trust and seal the deal.
Quarterback Johnny Spurling is running out of time. His father’s health is failing, and there’s one last thing he’s asked Johnny to do—settle down and produce a son, before it’s too late. Which means Johnny needs a new kind of girlfriend. No more casual hookups or high-maintenance divas. When his sister-in-law claims to have the perfect candidate, he urges her to set up a postseason blind date.
Then Johnny meets long-haired, long-legged Erica and can’t resist her outrageous proposal—or her. So he decides he’ll do the commercial and have one final, hot-as-hell fling before settling down. They set the ground rules, then proceed to break every one of them as fun turns to the kind of true romance that just doesn’t end with the final touchdown—and with luck, never ends at all.
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
Copyright © 2014 by Kate Donovan
Material excerpted from
Play by Play
and
Trace Elements
copyright © 2013 by Kate Donovan
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-940846-07-1
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To my husband, Paul,
and to the San Francisco Forty Niners.
Because seriously, you’re the best.
Contents
Chapter 1
Alone in the sumptuous conference room where the Caldwell Agency staged multimillion-dollar pitches, Erica McCall reminded herself to breathe. She had even written that single word, BREATHE, in capital letters on a sheet of paper and had placed it in front of her on the table.
But it wasn’t working.
She had been in this room once before, but only because the owner, KC Caldwell, held all job interviews here. He apparently loved dazzling prospective lackeys with the floor-to-ceiling windows, the twelve-foot Brazilian cherry conference table, the leather armchairs on casters, and the icy blue walls and floor tiles. Not to mention the sixty-inch monitors in every corner and the marble credenza that had been covered then, as now, with coffee urns, cups, and pastries. Of course, once dazzled, new hires never saw this room again for at least three years as they served their probation in the bowels of the building, confined to pastry-free cubicles. If they survived those thirty-six months, they might one day be invited out of the “B-pool” and onto one of three glamorous A-teams.
Yet Erica had managed to claw her way back to this room after only sixteen months. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time—to settle her sexual harassment claim by insisting on a chance to pitch a major account rather than asking for money or job security.
What the heck were you smoking?
she teased herself now, only half in jest.
Arriving early to steady her nerves, she had selected a seat near the door from bitter experience. Her harasser had pinned her in a crowded room even larger than this one, hadn’t he? She had felt so safe that day, completely missing the fact that all escape routes were blocked.
She wasn’t about to make that mistake again. Especially since Frank, as an A-team executive, would be part of this pitch session.
Again, what had she been thinking when she requested this “honor”?
The double doors to the outside hall opened and she prayed the newcomer would be the benevolent owner, Mr. Caldwell. Or one of the other A-team leaders. But of course it was Frank Garr and his team, chatting and laughing as they entered, then stopping dead in their tracks, stunned by the sight of a B-pool nobody.
“What the fuck?” Frank demanded, not even pretending to be civil.
Luckily, she had practiced for this moment. So she scanned her one-word cue card, exhaled slowly, and flashed a cheerful smile. “Hi, Frank.”
He glared. “Did you get lost on the way to the powder room?”
“That’s enough,” a voice boomed from the doorway, and KC Caldwell stepped into view, looking like an angel despite his thin body and golf-leather face. “Just take a seat, everyone. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.” Glancing at Erica, he added, “Glad you could make it, Ms. McCall.”
“Me too,” she murmured.
It was a silly thing to say. Not masterful or confident and certainly not creative or witty. But she didn’t care. The first of three obstacles had been cleared. Now she had to survive the pitch session itself and somehow convince the executives that her idea was indeed the one that would launch Lager Storm beer into Super Bowl Sunday orbit.
Glancing down at the table, she slipped her BREATHE note into a folder, then pulled out the other piece of moral support she had brought with her this afternoon, a glossy photo of NFL quarterback Johnny “the Player” Spurling.
Okay, big guy,
she told him, daring to enjoy his sexy face, broad shoulders, and confident stance despite her insane predicament.
I’m counting on you for a win.
• • •
As he strode down the emergency room hallway, Johnny Spurling kept his Giants cap low on his forehead and his Polarized sunglasses carefully in place. The last thing he needed was to be recognized. Not now. Not with his father’s life hanging in the balance.
He had gotten the frantic call exactly three hours earlier, and since then the only news had been “no news, the doctors are still with him.” His younger brother, Jason, insisted that was a good sign, translation being, at least he’s still alive. But Jason’s wife, Beth, had blubbered into the phone like the end was more than near.
It was here.
Finally he spotted them. Beth in her husband’s arms, still sobbing. Apparently she had an endless supply of tears, which was ludicrous considering the way she bossed them all around like a drill sergeant and dispensed babies like gum balls.
“Johnny!” She ran up to him and hugged him fiercely. “Thank God you made it.”
“Any news?”
“The doctors are still in there. I think it’s a bad sign. That poor, sweet man.”
Jason ambled over, a halfhearted grin on his face. “I can’t believe she dragged you down here. Ten to one it’s indigestion again.”
“Don’t you
dare
take that bet,” Beth warned Johnny. Then she told her husband, “You’re so disrespectful. How will you feel if he—well, if we lose him. That poor, sweet man.”
“He wouldn’t dare die. He knows you’d kill him.”
Johnny chuckled. “Nice game against the Bucs, kid. You’re lethal these days.”
“Just trying to keep up with my big brother.”
“I hate you both,” Beth muttered. “Football at a time like this? And
you
.” She gave Johnny a critical glare. “You’re breaking that man’s heart and you know it. It’s all he talks about. He wants a grandson from you. A little namesake. But you’re too busy being a
player
.”
Johnny bit back an annoyed response. He had reminded her a thousand times that his nickname didn’t have anything to do with running around in sports cars or bars. He had earned it on the football field at Cal, when his coach explained to the media why he had chosen freshman quarterback Johnny Spurling as the man to lead his team to victory.
“Because Johnny Spurling is a player, plain and simple,” the coach had insisted. “And that’s what this team needs.”
Thanks a lot, Coach,
he drawled silently.
After all I did for you, you saddle me with this
.
But all he said to Beth was, “Pop’s lucky to have you. We all are. Want some coffee or something?”
“That’s sweet,” she said, her eyes filling with tears again. Then she spun away and gasped, “Oh! There’s Dr. Melford. I don’t think I can take it.”
“Take care of your wife,” Johnny instructed his brother. “I’ve got this.” Hurrying over to the doctor, he demanded, “How’s Pop?”