Playing for Keeps (36 page)

She assured them she always carried a spare these days, then she headed for the room on the third floor where her carry-on and briefcase had been stored. As she rummaged for her backup jersey, she smiled at the sexy red Bannerman dress. She had planned on wearing it last night for Johnny, but naked had worked out so well, she hadn’t bothered. In another world, she might wear it at the Lager Storm celebration that night, but she remembered Helmut’s drunken appearance in her doorway months ago, and his son’s wandering hands, and decided the black wool dress and jacket were still the safer choice.

Before she went back downstairs, where bursts of shouting told her the pre-game hype had ratcheted to a fever pitch, she pulled out the Aurora, then found the spare battery in an outside pocket of her briefcase.

But that wasn’t all she found, and as she pulled the familiar box into view—slender and white, just perfect for holding a strand of diamonds—she felt her throat tighten with anticipation.

Chapter 17

She had regretted giving the bracelet back, not just because she knew the gesture hurt him, but because she ached to own it. He had chosen it for her, and yes, it was generic in a way, but it was also beautiful, and generous, and heartfelt. Mistress-y? Maybe just a bit, but she wanted it.

Maybe he got a different one,
she told herself as she opened it with trembling fingers.
That would be so tragic!

Then she smiled in relief. Thank God he was stubborn. He wanted her to have it and wouldn’t take no for an answer. And as she fastened the delicate clasp, she could only hope he intended to be stubborn about continuing their fling as well.

Kissing the diamonds happily, she turned her attention to a fold of paper tucked inside the box lid. Whatever he had written, it would be perfect. Even if he cast this as a good-bye gift. Or a thank-you note for encouraging him to meet—maybe even marry—the blind date.

But it was nothing like that.

Erica, This is yours. It always has been. You see it as an impersonal gift, but it’s just the opposite. YOU taught me that. I went into that jewelry store and saw rows and rows of meaningless, cookie-cutter diamonds. I almost left because of that. Then this bracelet caught my eye. It was slender and delicate. And it sparkled like you. None of the others did that, so I knew this was the one.

She gulped back a sob, then continued reading.

Remember what you said? Art shouldn’t duplicate beauty, it should evoke it. These diamonds evoke you. At least for me. So please accept them.

I love you,

John

Her eyes filled with tears as she held her arm up to the light. Art evoking beauty. Had he actually said that? It was almost more than she could bear.

The note said he loved her, and while it didn’t mention the future, it surely promised them a bright one. A sparkling one.

Beth Spurling was wrong. Far from coming to terms with the wisdom of the blind date, he had found a way to assure Erica she was the only woman in the world for him, at least for a long time to come.

She was sure she wouldn’t be able to focus on the game, but at the first shot of Johnny on the screen, running onto the field through a haze of blue smoke and fireworks, the Lancers fan took over and she cheered wildly. And when Wyatt Bourne strode into view, she booed just as loudly, then explained sheepishly to the children that she was just kidding.

But she wasn’t. That Surgeon was going
down
.

The announcers were so hyped up they were babbling. Had Decker had his pancakes? Was Bourne’s injury a factor? How would Johnny Spurling shake things up this time? Because Spurling always had a few tricks up his sleeve. Something to spice up the fundamentals he had mastered so well.

And he might just need those tricks, in addition to his powerful arm and legs and the mega-talent of the Triple Threat, if he hoped to beat the Surgeon.

Because Wyatt Bourne might just be the best single player who had ever played this position.

Erica remembered Johnny saying that. Not with envy, just respect. She had always protested, but he had explained that being the best “single” player was also a curse. Because the Surgeon was a one-man show.

And football in all its glory was a team sport.

• • •

The Lancers were the first to score. Spurling to Bannerman for the TD, the extra point by Decker. In other words, the Triple Threat was in the house.

The Jets answered quickly as Bourne threw a blisteringly perfect pass to his own halfback, who high-stepped it across the goal line. Erica watched the replay eagerly, hoping to see some hint of a limp. But Bourne had barely moved in the pocket, so strong was his ability to survey the field, make an instant assessment, and hit his target.

If he was in pain, he didn’t show it. As for his mobility? That was a mystery. He had demonstrated versatility in the past, but his habit was to either hand it off or pass instantaneously, using surprise and accuracy to put the defenders off guard.

After those first two TDs, the teams seemed to adjust to each other’s game plans and by halftime the score was still seven to seven. Erica watched anxiously as the Lancers headed for the locker room, and then relaxed when she saw everyone laughing and joking, especially Johnny and Bannerman.

Apparently, despite the tied score, they still believed they had the game in the bag.

Now it was Erica’s turn to score a win, and she gripped the arms of her chair, knowing the Lager Storm commercial was slated for an early spot. It would succeed no matter what, given Johnny’s performance this season. Guys would want to drink the same beer as the superstar. It was as simple as that.

“Oh, God,” she whispered as the familiar opening scene came into focus and the camera panned across the crowded bar until it found the QB and his two buddies.

It was nothing less than gorgeous. The lighting, the healthy glow of optimistic men and women, and Johnny. The ultimate hunk. It was everything she had hoped, but more. Especially because there was something unexpected. Something only Johnny could supply. A mega-dose of confidence that translated into good-natured but sly humor.

Drink Lager Storm. And don’t be a douche.

Stunned, she turned to Helmut. “They re-recorded it with Johnny’s voice?”

“I knew about it,” he told her smugly. “But they wanted to surprise you. You like it, don’t you?” He ran the commercial back and let her listen again as the big dog made his philosophy known.

It resonated for a variety of reasons, including integrity and honor. And teaching young girls and boys how to blend fun with respect. But the best part was, it seemed genuinely hilarious.

Who says Steve and I can’t do humor?

She felt a tear slide down her cheek, but it didn’t matter. This was catharsis, and apparently she needed that even more than success.

But the sportscasters weren’t tearing up or emoting. They were laughing their asses off, and for a moment she was concerned. Then she focused on their words and breathed a sigh of relief as they shouted into their microphones:

“Can he really say douche on TV?”

“They didn’t bleep it,” his companion informed him. “And they didn’t bleep
you
. So yeah, for a Spurling, anything’s possible.”

“Drink Lager Storm. And don’t be a douche.
Priceless!”

Apparently, they couldn’t help themselves, repeating it over and over. And while Erica was thrilled, she was also disappointed, because in her heart she had hoped for a wider message than just: we can say “douche” on TV.

Then a color commentator observed, “No one else in the NFL could get away with this. But Spurling? The ultimate stand-up guy? Yeah. He’s saying it loud and clear, right? Have fun, but don’t be a douche about it.”

“Yeah,” his co-anchor murmured. “Talk about a role model. The league must be eating this up after all the scandals they’ve seen this year.”

“But no scandals from the Spurlings. Or from the Lancers, actually. That says something.”

At that point, the guys seemed to get a signal from their directors, because they changed course, reminding their audience of the assorted events that were still awaiting them in halftime.

Erica closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. She couldn’t have dreamed of a better response.

And apparently the client agreed, because he touched her shoulder and said, “Thank you.”

She smiled. “It was a group effort.”

“You should be with him.”

“Hmm?” She coughed in confusion. “You mean, Johnny?”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Helmut assured her with a laugh. “You should be there. He’s going to win, right? And God forbid, if he actually lost, you should be there for that too.” His pale blue eyes twinkled. “We’ll be fine. And for the record, you were right about using ‘douche.’ Not ‘loser.’ Not ‘creep.’ You’re a genius.”

She stared for a moment, then reminded him, “
You
made the beer. So you get some credit too.”

“True.” He gestured toward the doorway. “There’s a Jeep waiting. And a jet. If you hurry, you can be there before the end of the game.”

“Helmut . . .” She stared at him, then nodded in silent amazement. “My boss will be here soon. Can you explain?”

“He’ll understand. So get going. And tell Johnny I said thanks. He just made my beer a household brand. All because he believed in it. And in you.”

• • •

Pumped full of anticipation laced with adrenaline, she was already in flight before she realized her mistake. TV reception on the plane was intermittent at best, even with the awesome power of her Aurora. Struggling to follow along, she managed to get the gist of it: the score was tied, because the Surgeon and the Player were trading blows. A rocket launcher versus a precision instrument. Unbelievable throws caught by unexpectedly talented receivers, and when necessary, the QBs used their legs to move the chains.

Thanks to Rorsch technology, Erica could zoom in at will, so she followed Johnny’s progress in minute detail whenever the signal allowed it. His footwork dazzled. His throws redefined wild, impetuous, no-holds-barred football at its zenith.

And the Surgeon matched him throw for throw. He even started scrambling more than usual with no sign of injury. As much as Erica wanted to be disgusted, she had to admit, he was phenomenal. Still, she growled in frustration when the announcers repeatedly noted that the precision of this particular QB was a micro-millimeter better than Spurling’s, thus giving him an edge. And since the Jets kicker could—and did—boot two field goals through the posts, they were ultimately more versatile than the Lancers, at least for the time being.

The strength of the signal came and went, but as the diamond-like lights of San Francisco finally appeared in the distance, sparkling as wildly as Erica’s bracelet, the image on the Aurora stabilized and Erica gasped in dismay. She had clearly missed a big play because the Jets were now up by two with a paltry fifty-one seconds remaining. That was the bad news.

The good news? The Lancers had the ball. Bruised, battered and exhausted, they relentlessly moved the chains thanks to their calm, upbeat quarterback.

It’s a clinic,
she decided reverently.

But was it enough?

As they crossed midfield, they also reached an impasse. Fourth down and inches. They were only behind by two points, so a field goal would win it.

But they simply weren’t close enough for that. Even the old Sean Decker would have been tested at this distance, and certainly the new one couldn’t be trusted to try. Luckily, Johnny Spurling lived for these moments. Salivated for them.

And so, with their hearts in their throats, every spectator and commentator knew what would happen next, given this team’s history. Spurling would run it into the end zone himself. Or die trying.

But every spectator and every commentator was wrong. Spurling called a time-out—his last—and strode to the sidelines. As he did so, Decker and the field goal team hurried into position.

“Oh, my God,” Erica whispered, zooming in to confirm what she thought she saw. Bannerman was there too.

She remembered Johnny’s promise. He couldn’t score a touchdown for her, but he’d find some way to show her she was there—with him—in spirit.

And in that moment, she knew he was going to let Decker kick the field goal. With Bannerman holding.

The announcers assured her she was wrong. “It’s a bluff. Classic Spurling. They won’t let Deck’s foot near Bannerman’s hand, so the Lancers are faking it again. And it looks like the Jets are on to them, because they’re not lining up to block a kick. They want to deck Decker.”

Erica didn’t know what to believe, so she demanded out loud, “How long would the field goal be?”

Decker’s career record was sixty-one yards. Lately, it was less than zero. But his longest this season pre-Bannerman fiasco? She knew it by heart. Fifty-two.

A fake would be good too, of course, if it led to a touchdown and won the game.

But a field goal was enough.

“How long?” she demanded again. “How long?”

Finally the announcer answered her. “This would be a sixty-yard attempt. One yard under Deck’s all-time best, and longer than anything attempted in the postseason for two years running.”

“Noooooo,” she whispered. “Don’t do it, Sean. Toss it to Bannerman. Pleeease.”

But she knew her guys would go for it. She didn’t even need to zoom in. Bannerman was grinning like an actual lunatic, and Decker looked like a Grade-AAA stud. They had wanted this. Had begged the big dog for it. Even enlisted the big dog’s girl to plead their case.

Now they would do it. She even suspected these crazy men might go for it even if Johnny and Coz ordered them not to.

Luckily, they would never know.

And meanwhile, Johnny needed a way to tell Erica he really, really loved her. And letting Decker swing that lethal foot of his at the invaluable halfback’s hand would do just that.