Playing for Keeps (33 page)

• • •

When she arrived at her cubicle, there was already a fresh stack of documents on her chair to review. But atop all that was a padded package bearing the mark of an elite messenger service.

Intrigued, and suspecting it had been sent by one or more of the Triple Threat players, she ripped it open, then gaped in delight.

It was an Aurora. Right there in her hands, so shiny and new she was sure she was dreaming it.

The note read:

Dear Erica, We’re going back to the drawing board, per your instructions. Meanwhile, Rori loves her Aurora. And my chief designer coughed up his own prototype for you. They’re all grateful for the second chance and so am I. Let’s hope the next version is the success of the century. Fondly, Carlos

P.S. My offer still stands.

With her heart in her throat, she powered up the device and played with it, awestruck as she instinctively drew the Lancer logo in blue, gray, white and silver, then raised it one-sixteenth of an inch into the air.

It might as well have been a mile high given its impact.

But there was paperwork to do, and she was all about the details these days. So she tucked the tablet and its extra battery into her briefcase, pocketed the note, and began her twelve hours in paradise.

• • •

All that week she worked hard for Caldwell by day, then raced home to play with her Aurora. It enthralled her, but at ten p.m., like clockwork, she abandoned it for Johnny’s sexy, heartfelt call. They were back in synch, tentative lovers discovering each other, but with enough Bannerman jokes to remind them how far they had come together.

She never again mentioned the artwork she was designing for his house, but it was honestly the most exciting thing she had ever done. She wanted to emulate birch trees—leafless and stark yet also graceful. The fact that there were no birches outside his windows didn’t matter to her, and now she knew it wouldn’t matter to him either.

Because we’re not duplicating nature, we’re evoking it.

And so she used her Aurora to design the perfect illusion of three-dimensional bark, then painstakingly transferred it to canvas, not knowing if she could actually pull it off.

But if she could? How glorious would
that
be?

• • •

Johnny went to Hawaii with his father to watch Jason in the Pro Bowl, and predictably, Spurling crushed it. Comparisons to his famous brother were inevitable, even though Jason, a cornerback, played defense. For one thing, the younger Spurling wanted to score and thus racked up an impressive number of interceptions. But Erica noticed the differences too. He was so much wilder than Johnny, and this was with his “Pop” in the stadium ready to read him the riot act despite the big win.

Talk of Jason led to talk of Johnny and then inevitably to the Surgeon. Speculation was rampant about his ankle, especially because the Jets would neither confirm nor deny it. Bourne himself hadn’t come to Hawaii to watch the game, which lent credence to the possible injury, although a few announcers hinted that the guy had no real interest in football for the fun of it. He liked winning. Watching others win meant nothing to him.

If his ankle didn’t heal in time for the Super Bowl, the Lancers would win. That was a virtual certainty. And Johnny would be thrilled, but as a competitor, he’d always wonder.

Wouldn’t he?

For Erica it was simpler. She wanted Bourne to get better, but ideally
after
the Super Bowl. The game might not be as thrilling, but Johnny would get his ring. So would her other “boyfriends,” Decker and Bannerman. It would be the best day ever.

And somehow she and Steve would work those rings into the next version of the Lager Storm campaign. Another win, almost as sweet.

Meanwhile, everyone had the fever. The Lancers regrouped on Monday, geared up, then flew to San Francisco for a week of madness. Those festivities were legendary, but she could only guess, since she was so far away. Not that she regretted her decision, but the urge to hop a plane and pretend to be Decker’s and Bannerman’s girlfriend for a few hours, then steal away with Johnny for the fun they had never had a chance to have after the conference win, felt like a red-hot poker in her gut.

Her greatest release, aside from her nightly talks with Johnny and her Aurora, was watching the coverage in bed every night. The sportscasters found new and hilarious ways to characterize the upcoming battle, her favorite being a graphic of Johnny and the Surgeon dressed as gunslingers facing off at “The S.F. Corral.” No designer in the universe could have come up with better men—real or fictional—to play those roles. Johnny had the brawn, the swagger, the cocky smile on a gorgeous face, and the rocket launcher of an arm. Not to mention the heart.

Wyatt Bourne? He had the pinpoint accuracy, the unforgiving drive to excel, and the ramrod posture. And to be fair, he was gorgeous in his own right. What he lacked—according to everyone, especially Erica—was heart. But he made up for it with his eagle eye. An ability to see every receiver, every defender, every speck of dust on the playing field, and to adjust for it before firing with sniper-like precision.

And in a battle of egos where both men believed they were the ultimate big dog, Bourne had the edge. Because the guy actually
believed
he was God almighty.

• • •

On the Wednesday before the Super Bowl, Erica sat, restless, in a hastily announced meeting. She had no idea of the agenda and wasn’t sure why she was invited in any event. Despite her unofficial advancement, she was still nobody on the organizational chart, and that status had been honored whenever these big meetings took place.

Making this her first since her big Lager Storm pitch.

Along with Caldwell, every member of all three A-teams was there with the notable exception of Sherry Johannsen. Erica was selfishly grateful for that. It was bad enough having Frank smirk at her. His female counterpart would just make it worse.

Everyone expected to hear Lager Storm news, but Caldwell dropped a bombshell by rolling out his plans for a fourth A-team with Sherry at the helm. He murmured something about her unavoidable absence, then sang her praises to the rooftop.

Then he announced the new openings: Julio would have one, at least. Sherry’s team would have three. And depending on movement from the existing teams to Sherry, there might be spots there as well.

Erica held her breath, then exhaled sharply as he filled in the most important blank: that anyone who had been in the B-pool for at least a year could be considered for the openings. No need to wait three years this time.

He didn’t add to that, but from the glances she received around the table, and the glare from Frank Garr, she realized they expected her to top everyone’s list. Especially Steve’s.

She felt so grateful—so appreciated—she almost couldn’t keep from grinning. Or crying. Or dialing Johnny and exalting into his receptive ear.

Then Frank said coolly, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It looks like the cat may be out of the bag on Lager Storm.”

As he switched the live TV feed from his laptop to the wall-mounted monitors, Erica watched in dismay, knowing exactly what he was saying. The strongest element for Lager Storm, other than Johnny Spurling, was surprise. And if that surprise faltered, if the word got out, Erica’s big splash might look more like a thud.

Rewinding a few frames, Frank provided obnoxious commentary. “This is John Spurling’s big press conference pre–Super Bowl. As you’ll see, someone just asked him point-blank if he was doing a halftime commercial. So that rushing sound you hear is the wind coming out of Lager Storm’s sails.”

Everyone turned their attention to the screen, where a wise-assed reporter was saying, “There’s a rumor you’re doing a Super Bowl ad. That would be a first for your family, wouldn’t it? Any comment?”

When Johnny grinned, Erica relaxed. He was going to handle this the way he handled any tricky play. With something even trickier.

As if to prove her point, he said, “I prefer the rumor where Wyatt Bourne and I are meeting in a dark alley near Fisherman’s Wharf on Saturday to duke it out. No need for the game after all.”

The reporters laughed appreciatively, then Johnny continued. “The truth is, guys, I’m one hundred percent focused on football this week. Rumors don’t interest me. So let’s make those questions count, shall we?”

Frank paused the video to grin toward Erica. “If he’s one hundred percent focused on football, you’re doing something wrong in the bedroom.”

Erica held up her hand toward Caldwell, whose face was turning purple. Then she said brightly, “This interview shows why John Spurling is perfect as our Lager Storm spokesperson. Articulate, charming, professional. And he keeps his personal life out of the press.”

“I agree,” Caldwell muttered. “Frank? Do you have anything useful to contribute? If not, let’s all get back to work.”

Biting back a laugh, Erica hurried down the hallway to her cubicle, anxious to share the hilarity with Jenna and May. Frank was definitely going down, and not in the way he hoped. And Johnny was on the rise in
exactly
the way Erica hoped.

Her hand was on the receiver of her desk phone when her cell buzzed in her pocket. Retrieving it, she saw it was from her QB and answered eagerly. “Hi, handsome.”

“Hey.” He cleared his throat. “I might have messed something up. Again. So I thought I’d deal with it head-on.”

“Good timing, since you can do no wrong with me at the moment.”

“Huh?”

She laughed. “You were amazing at that press conference.”

“Seriously?” He chuckled. “Bam was sure you’d be pissed. Because I implied I wasn’t thinking about you. Only about football. But you know that’s not true, right?”

“I know. Plus, you
should
be thinking about football. One hundred and
ten
percent. We need to crush the Surgeon. Unless you’re going to deal with him in a dark alley.”

He laughed. “According to the papers, he’s a finely tuned instrument and
I’m
a brawler. So an alley would suit me fine.”

“You’re a finely tuned brawler. Especially in bed,” she assured him. “There’s no arena where he can beat you.”

“Thanks, babe.” He chuckled again. “I’m supposed to tell you Bannerman’s waiting in the wings if you dump me. And we both know how Deck feels. So you’ve got options. But I’m hoping you’ll choose me.”

“Always,” she told him warmly. “See you Saturday at four thirty?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Don’t be late.”

She licked her lips, then said simply, “Bye, Johnny,” and disconnected the call.

Then she leaned back and closed her eyes, reliving every word. He was everything she wanted in a man. Confident but respectful. Hunky—almost cocky—but with a hint of humility. And so sexy, he burned through the phone lines even when it was a cell call.

“Erica?” a voice said from the doorway, surprising her.

She sat up quickly, then scowled to see it was Sherry. The last person on earth she wanted to see aside from Frank Garr.

“Hey, Sherry.”

“Do you have a minute?”

Erica wanted to assure her she did not, but the newly anointed A-team leader didn’t look like her usual self. There was something going on. A hint of misery. And on a more practical level, her makeup and hair were a mess. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving woman, but still, Erica felt a twinge of sympathy. So she told her briskly, “I have a couple of minutes. What’s on your mind?”

“Erica . . .” Sherry’s voice faltered. “I’m just so, so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

What the heck?

“What’s wrong?”

Sherry sank into the armless rolling chair that served as Erica’s guest seat. “Your friend May showed me the video. I’m so—well, so disgusted. And sorry. And aghast. It was a nightmare just watching it. And you
lived
it. And then I judged you. I’m so, so sorry.”

“May showed you? Really?” Erica shook her head. She knew her friend had been increasingly offended by the gossip slung at Erica, but she hadn’t realized how much it bothered her until now.

“My God, Erica. It was brutal.”

She felt as though a slab of granite—one she hadn’t even known existed—was lifting off her chest. “It was bad. But subtle. I don’t blame you for not understanding—”

“What’s there to understand?” Sherry demanded, grabbing her hands. “That bastard
violated
you. I had to take an effing shower after it, and I wasn’t even there.”

Erica smiled sadly. “My boyfriend said it looked like Frank was masturbating.”

“Oh, gross.” Sherry looked like she might vomit. “That’s
exactly
how it looked. I just wish we could murder him. Not in his sleep either. I want him wide awake for it.”

Erica’s eyes stung with tears. She had wondered how her mom would react to the video. Had almost shown it to her a dozen times. But each time, she had seen that determined, ultra-feminist backbone and had backed off, fearing she’d be judged as a wimp who just couldn’t cut it.

But if Sherry—another card-carrying hard-ass—could
vomit
in the face of it, there was hope. Wasn’t there?

And so Erica’s tone was jubilant when she said, “Is that why you missed the meeting? Caldwell announced your promotion, you know. Congratulations.”

“I was trying to scrub the Frank out of my eyes,” Sherry confirmed. “You need to come to
my
team, Erica. Promise me you will. Sisterhood, right? It’s a little late in coming, but if you’ll give me a second chance—”

“For me, sisterhood is about drinks and gossip,” she told her with a laugh. “Plus, I love this murder plot. So let’s plan the details with May and Jenna after work. My prediction? May provides the schematics, Jenna provides the shovel, you and I get our hands dirty.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sherry assured her. “Thanks for understanding. I just didn’t know. I was a bitch, but honestly, I just didn’t know.”