Playing for Keeps (15 page)

“Man, I won’t be able to concentrate now. I’ll keep seeing you in that bikini at three a.m. with some Greek billionaire.”

“My dad and brother will be there. You just stay away from those cheerleaders and we’ll be fine.”

He was silent for a moment, then told her in a husky voice, “We’ll win it for you. That’s not an issue. But if by some freak circumstance we lose—well, you and I haven’t talked about that.”

She held her breath. Best-case scenario, he wanted to spend the entire month with her. Worst case? He would dump her the next day, reschedule the blind date to the first Saturday in January, and be a father by autumn, whether with the schoolteacher or someone else with a domestic bent.

“You’re right. We haven’t talked about it. Because like you said, you’re going to win.”

“Exactly. But if we don’t, I’d still like to take you to Aspen. For a whole week, okay? After that, if either Pop or Jayce advances to the next round, I should be there to cheer them on.”

A whole week together?
she wanted to mutter.
Lucky me
.

But he was trying to be romantic, so she just reminded him again, “You’re going to win. And I’ll be home in time to watch the wildcard game. So we’re good, right?”

“Right. Just don’t wear the bikini for anyone but me.”

“I promise. As long as you promise not to get hurt. And give Sean Decker a hug for me.”

He was chuckling as he hung up the phone, and she tried to smile too. But things were moving fast. And while he seemed to have forgotten about Lager Storm, she hadn’t.

He had asked her once if it mattered whether he made it to the Super Bowl, and she had assured him it was irrelevant.

And that was true. But if the Lancers didn’t even make it to the playoffs?

Well, the good news is, you could relax for that week in Aspen, because you’d probably be out of a job. And Mom would be right after all. You should have been a flipping artist.

• • •

There was a big crowd in the living room of the very wealthy, very suntanned man with the NFL package on his satellite service. Since it was the middle of the night, most of the attendees were die-hard fans, but a few were just drunken party animals, so Erica was glad to have her father and her brother with her.

The Lancers fans were pretty downbeat, and a few were actually nasty when the announcers explained that Coach Cosner, while reportedly looking around discreetly for a replacement kicker, had decided to go with Sean Decker despite his loss of mojo.

“This guy is costing us the season,” one inebriated jerk insisted. “Anyone would be better than him.”

Erica glared. “He’s the best kicker in the NFL. Maybe the best of all time. Cut him some slack.”

But her stomach was in knots as the game began. They were playing in Portland, so she could imagine it all with her eyes closed, and under better circumstances. It seemed like years since she had attended that Monday night game there. Everything had been going Johnny’s way. And Sean Decker had been so humble yet so amazing.

Now he was psyched out and it was all the sportscasters could talk about. They shared horror stories about superstitious kickers, insisting that once they got on a losing streak, it could take forever to come back from it.

“I knew a guy who wore the same pair of socks for every game his entire career,” one announcer insisted. “Guess what they looked like by the end.”

“I’d rather not,” the other guy said, chuckling. “I heard Decker likes pancakes. It’s his ritual. Pancakes for breakfast on game day. Blueberry, if I recall correctly. Apparently, all the coffee shops in town have offered to supply him personally.”

“It’s gonna take more than pancakes. He busted his best friend’s hand, and probably cost them the season.”

Erica glared at the drunken reveler who had said the same thing. Then she watched as the New York Giants punted on fourth down. A scrappy young rookie made a fair catch, and the Lancers offense took the field. “Is that Vince Bannerman?” she asked Connor hopefully.

“Fuck yeah,” he said, pumping his fist into the air. “The Bam Man is back!”

The rest of the room cheered too, but only halfheartedly, and Erica knew why. Bannerman and Johnny were only two prongs of the Triple Threat. They could do a lot, maybe even win. But for insurance they needed Decker.

As the announcers gave the update on Bannerman’s hand—still broken, but taped up—the offense went to work. And all the action was with the quarterback. He stepped back, pump-faked, then took off running, shocking everyone on the field. Maybe even shocking his teammates and coaches. Bannerman threw a powerful block with his broad shoulders, and by the time Johnny was forced out of bounds, he had crossed the Giants’ twenty-five yard line.

His opponents were ready for him, so on the next play he aired one out, but his novice receiver tipped it out of bounds without ever gaining possession. On second down, Johnny tried to carry it himself again but was hit so hard his helmet went flying and he crashed backward to the ground, unprotected. Erica gave a soft, terrified scream, but he bounced up quickly as if to say:
I could do this all afternoon.

For the next play, he handed it to a veteran running back, who promptly fumbled. Bannerman dove onto it, saving the day, and bringing up fourth and six. Luckily, they were well within field goal range. A thirty-eight yard attempt—usually a day at the park for Sean Decker, and even now, fans needed to believe he could make it despite his superstitious funk.

But instead, Johnny and his crew stayed on the field. No huddle, so it must have been planned from the start. And while the defense was still trying to figure out what was happening, Johnny tucked the ball against his chest and sprinted for the goal line, scoring the first touchdown of the game.

The crowd went wild, both in the stands and in Mykonos. Bannerman and Johnny high-fived despite the soft cast on the halfback’s hand, and then the cameras panned to Sean Decker on the sidelines, whooping it up like everyone else. Johnny strode up to him and bumped chests, then looked directly into his face and told him something. From Decker’s expression, the words weren’t exactly reassuring.

“Fuck,” Connor muttered. “They’re going for two points.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t trust Deck to kick the extra point. So they’re gonna run it in.”

“Oh . . .” She ached for the kicker, and for Johnny too, because he was breaking his friend’s heart and he knew it. But they had to win this game, didn’t they?

And if the kicker doesn’t kick, he can’t miss,
she reminded herself wistfully.
Wouldn’t that be worse? If Sean lost them the game?

They expected Johnny to run it in himself, but he shoved it into the hands of the running back who had fumbled a few plays earlier, and the veteran fought his way over the opponents for two points.

After that, it was rinse and repeat, touchdown and two-point conversion. The Giants scored three field goals in the first three quarters, and while Erica knew they would have preferred touchdowns, she imagined there was a certain amount of glee in doing what the Lancers could not.

When there were only two minutes remaining in the game, with the Lancers up sixteen to nine, the Giants scored their first touchdown, making it fifteen to sixteen, still in the Lancers favor, but the extra point would tie it up.

“Overtime?” Erica groaned. “He’s so tired already.”

“Yeah, he’s been a one-man miracle. And the Lancers D is just as tired.”

But the Giants were now cocky enough to go for a two-point conversion of their own, and the Lancers defensive line proved Connor’s point by breaking down. And in just those few seconds, the Lancers fell behind for the first time in the game.

When Johnny came back onto the field, he didn’t look like an exhausted, much less beaten man. He was animated and calling out to his teammates as though they had all the time in the world. They lined up, and once again he kept the ball, charging down the field, his long strides eating up yards. But he hadn’t fooled his opponents this time, and, when they tackled him, they made him pay, burying him under tons of well-marbled muscle.

Connor groaned. “Twenty seconds left, and they’re still not in field goal range.”

“Oh, I almost forgot about field goals,” Erica admitted sheepishly. “That’s all they need to win.”

“Right. And even with Decker’s brain in a sling, Spurling’ll have to let him try if he can get him close enough. Or at least let the punter sub in and try. They can’t take chances this late in the game.”

Johnny handed it off to his veteran again for a gain of eight yards, then kept the next one but got buried after only six more yards. It was first down again, but they were just about out of time.

The announcer’s voice was hushed. “This would be a twenty-two-yard attempt. Even the worst kicker in the NFL—heck, college even—could make it. No wind, no rain. If Sean Decker doesn’t make this one, his career is over.”

“Oh, God.” Erica gripped her father’s arm with one hand and her brother’s with the other. “Please let him make it.”

But to everyone’s shock, Johnny didn’t leave the field. Instead, after a time-out that looked more like a shouting match with the coach, he was back. Still no smile, just grim determination.

Erica watched, horrified, knowing exactly how much was on the line. If Johnny didn’t score, he would single-handedly lose the season for them.

And if he scored, he would single-handedly destroy one of his closest friends. In fact, he had probably done that already.

By now, the announcers were just babbling. Questioning everything, even the choice of teammates surrounding the QB. Too many fullbacks, too few wideouts. A rookie and a promising second-year starter who could run like the wind but who had struggled all year to hold on to the ball.

So everyone knew it would be a run play. And the way this game was going, the runner would be Johnny.

Finally, the ball was snapped, and Johnny handed it off. Or did he?

A fake!

“So he’s keeping it?” Erica demanded aloud.

But instead, he stepped back, planted his foot, and sent it into the end zone. It wasn’t just a perfect throw. It was a soft yet perfect one, sailing into the hands of the second-year wideout, who grappled it to his chest like his firstborn infant, then raised his eyes to heaven, not even daring to dance or point or otherwise acknowledge that the Lancers were going to the playoffs.

The room erupted in hoots and cheers, but Erica just sat on the couch, tears streaming down her face. She wanted to be there. Needed to be there. To embrace Johnny and assure him he had had no choice. Decker would understand someday. Wouldn’t he?

Plus, they were going to the playoffs. As that sank in, she smiled through her tears. Everything was going to be okay. Better than okay. Johnny and his Lancers would rest up, and by the time the wildcard game took place, Bannerman’s hand would be healed. And maybe Decker’s ghosts would be banished.

Standing up, she belatedly hugged her father, then her brother. A couple of other guys tried to hug her too, and she laughingly pushed them away, then accepted a beer, ready to celebrate with them the way the fans in the stands in Portland and the exuberant players who had rushed onto the field were celebrating.

Her phone buzzed, and she smiled as she read Johnny’s text.
Did you see it?

U were soooo good. Congrats. To all you guys, but speshly you.

Can you talk now?

YES

Edging onto a moonlit veranda overlooking a dark blue bay, she took a deep breath, then answered on the first ring. “This is so exciting, Johnny. I wish I could be there.”

“Yeah, we made it.”

“Thanks to you.” She waited, and when he didn’t answer, she said lightly, “Don’t worry about Sean. He made it to the NFL. That takes grit. A solid warrior core. We’ll take him out for pancakes on the morning of the wildcard game, and he’ll kick ass. So just enjoy your victory, and remember—because of you, he might have a Super Bowl ring someday soon.”

“You’re right,” Johnny told her, his tone cheerier. “I shouldn’t let that baby face fool me. He’s tough. Maybe tougher than all of us. Except
you
, obviously.”

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating? And giving interviews? And calling your dad?”

“Yeah, I should go.” He lowered his voice. “Come home, babe. I can’t take it anymore.”

“My plane lands in Portland a week from Thursday.”

“Right. But you’ll be back in New York sooner than that. I should meet you there on Sunday night—”

“My flight gets in after midnight, Johnny. And I have to be at work the next day. Probably for twelve hours at least. Not just Monday, but the next two days too. And you’ll be at practice, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s why we chose Thursday. It makes more sense.”

“Right. So what are you wearing? Tell me it’s not the bikini.”

“Baggy sweats and a stocking cap,” she promised with a laugh. “And I have my bodyguards with me. So go do those interviews. I’ll be watching.”

“Thanks, babe.”

She heard a burst of shouts and raucous laughter and knew his friends were complaining. Maybe even mocking him for calling a girl at a time like this. So she repeated, “Be with your friends. I’m hanging up.” Surprised by a catch in her voice, she added softly, “I miss you. See you next Thursday.”

“Bye, babe. Thanks for being there,” he murmured in return. “You’re the best.”

• • •

By the following weekend, Erica was ready to
swim
back to the States. And she definitely didn’t want to waste any time in New York. Luckily, she had worked remotely for Steve at least a couple of hours most days of this vacation, and on some, more than that. So she took a chance and asked if he would cover for her for a few days more. Instead of being in the office from Monday through Wednesday, then taking off again for Thursday and Friday of the wildcard weekend, she would fly to the West Coast, spend two days with her quarterback, then return to the office on Wednesday.