Playing for Keeps (38 page)

“I’m gonna peel it and put it in my cocoa tomorrow morning. My lady friend taught me that.”

Johnny cocked his head, confused. “You met Erica?”

“Who’s Erica?”

“The girl I proposed to on nationwide TV. Didn’t you see my press conference?” He gave a good-natured growl and repeated, “Is she here?”

It would be just like her, he knew. To show up. Turn a great win into a wild night. How many times had she done it before? And even with Lager Storm on the table, he wasn’t really surprised she had done it again.

She might even be pissed at him for asking her to marry him so publicly. He definitely hadn’t planned that. It should have been a Monday thing, but damn if it hadn’t just popped out of his mouth when he was asked about his future.

Because to him, Erica
was
the future.

His father had turned away, and only now did Johnny notice his ashen face. “Hey! Do you need to sit down?”

Aaron Spurling looked him directly in the eye. “I may have messed things up for you, John.”

“You mean with Erica?” He wanted to assure him she never stayed mad for long, especially about something as minor as a public marriage proposal. But the guilt in his father’s eyes warned him it might be different this time.

And then, as if to confirm it, the old man said, “I made her a promise, son. That I’d tell you how proud I am to be your father. How proud that beer commercial made me. You’re a real man, Johnny. You don’t need a wife and children to prove that. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you did.”

“Thanks, Pop,” he murmured, touched by the change in attitude. “I sort of got there on my own anyway. With Erica’s help. But it’s good to hear you say it.” His father’s mournful expression made him smile. “It’ll be fine. You should have seen some of
my
screw-ups with her. Not to mention Bannerman’s.”

“I hope you’re right, son. But . . .” The older man straightened his shoulders. Then he admitted, “I think I may have broken that poor girl’s heart.”

• • •

The flight back to Nevada was a rocky one, and thereafter, the wild ride in the SUV through a sleet storm had her on the edge of her seat.

But she welcomed the chaos.

Because Johnny was going to follow his father’s marriage advice. And by the end of the month, no less.

She supposed she should be flattered. He didn’t really
want
to marry the schoolteacher or her equivalent. He wanted to play around with Erica. But he had made peace with the idea—seen the wisdom in it, according to Beth—for two reasons. He couldn’t accept her career. And even if he wanted to make it work somehow, Erica had given him a firm cutoff date. He had argued, she had stuck to her guns, and because he wanted to make his father proud anyway, he had finally accepted reality.

She would have blamed herself, letting Johnny off the hook completely, if he hadn’t splashed that stupid proposal all over the airwaves. Instead of having the common decency to
postpone
the blind date for a few weeks, he had ramped up the schedule, eager to get on with it. Marriage by the end of the month. Talk about taking charge. No wonder he was the reigning Super Bowl QB.

By the time she arrived at the Fish Gotta Fly, she was exhausted. And at least her timing was good, since the beer-laced Super Bowl bash had ended, and folks were back in their rooms, changing into fancier outfits for the Lager Storm party.

Helmut and Steve met her at the door, took one look at her face, and didn’t ask questions. Instead they shared glowing reviews for the commercial spot, then got out of her way. She wanted to be sweet and appreciative, but if she did that, she’d cry. So she settled for admitting she needed a shower before she could confidently interact with humans, then she headed to her room.

Once there, she checked her phone and saw that Johnny had called a bunch of times. No surprise there. In his mind, they were still on for Monday, weren’t they? One last day of door sex.

Lovely.

So she texted him:
You were amazing!! Congrats!! I’m still working so let’s finalize plans later.

Later. As in, never.

She knew she was being unfair, but so was he. She had been willing to have a fling with a single guy, not an engaged one. It was bad enough she had had sex in the poor bride-to-be’s hot tub. And on the dining table, and down the hall.

Nice, Erica. You knew it was wrong. And guess what? That’s the only thing you’ve been right about this year!

But that wasn’t true, was it? She had been right about the theme for the Lager Storm ad. She had been right to recruit Johnny Spurling. In fact, she had been prescient. No one else could have been so sure back in October that he would actually play in the Super Bowl, much less nail it. But Erica had known.

Because you’re good at your job,
she reminded herself wistfully.
Even Johnny admits that. So what are you waiting for? He’s in Super Bowl heaven thanks to his career. Why aren’t you doing the same for yours?

• • •

By the time music was blaring loudly enough to reach her room, she was ready. No more tears, or at least, hopefully not. She had nailed this campaign and now, for the finishing touch, she needed to act like a winner.

Taking a last look in the full-length mirror, she laughed at herself. So tasteful. So understated. Without the jacket, the black wool dress had been subtly sexy, but now? She looked like Sherry, but without the backbone to pull it off.

Stripping the outfit off, she slipped into the red Bannerman dress, then smiled proudly.

Much better. He’d be so proud. So would Sean.

The slit was a little higher than she remembered—almost to her hip, in fact. But the halter neckline showed a tasteful amount of cleavage, and the expensive fabric, while clingy, wasn’t at all tight. All in all, it was the dress of a successful executive who had just scored big for her agency. No need for false modesty. This was a win, and Erica needed to claim it. Steve would cheer her on for sure. And Helmut would love the attitude—
and
the dress—for his own reasons.

And Caldwell? He was an advertising genius, so he’d love watching his protégée strut her stuff. He had taken a huge chance on her and she had delivered. The client needed to see that. Understand it. Be awed by it.

Shaking her long locks so they spilled down her back, she realized only one thing was missing. The black wool dress had been so classy, so elegant, it hadn’t needed any jewelry.

But the Bannerman dress? It needed a little something, and so, in homage to the halfback, she quietly fastened the diamonds to her wrist.

• • •

As predicted, Caldwell loved the dress. “My superstar,” he told her bluntly. “I was worried you’d wear a braid and that wrinkled suit. This is a lot better, trust me.”

“You clean up pretty good too, sir. So does Helmut.”

Caldwell chuckled. “Tuxedos can only do so much, but that’s kind of you to say.” He cleared his throat. “Steve mentioned that you flew to San Francisco, then came right back. I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

“Don’t buy a cat,” she teased him, forcing herself to smile. “It was mutual, and to be honest, a little overdue. I think we just strung it along so we wouldn’t rock the boat before the game.”

He hesitated, then touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Erica. Let’s chat in my office tomorrow morning, shall we? But for now . . .” He inclined his head toward a makeshift stage that had been set up in the middle of the bar. “Looks like it’s time for speeches. Did you prepare anything?”

“Oh, God, no.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Any chance I can get out of it?”

“No problem.” He motioned to Steve and Josh, who were hovering nearby as though half expecting Erica duty. When they hurried over, he told them briskly, “Take care of our girl.”

Josh chuckled as Caldwell sprinted toward the stage. “I’m pretty sure he meant ‘woman,’ not ‘girl.’”

“You’re hilarious,” she drawled, but she abandoned the joke quickly. “Thanks for coming, you big lug. You too, Steve. I know it’s a long trip. But I’m so glad you’re here.”

“We’re here for the free beer,” Steve assured her. “That was before we knew about the red dress. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Leaning closer, he murmured, “I’m proud of you, you know.”

“Thanks.” She brushed away a tear, then turned her attention to the stage, where Helmut was paying drunken tribute to his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his workers, his siblings, and his departed grandfather, who had apparently taught him everything he knew.

Then he thanked Erica in a tribute that would have warmed her heart if he hadn’t used the word “douche” so many times.

“You’ve created a monster,” Steve assured her under his breath.

Then Caldwell took the microphone and thanked his staff, the production crew, and Steve’s team. Then he turned his praise to Erica, recounting how she had pitched her idea to Patrick Murphy and Johnny Spurling.

She held her breath, but it wasn’t necessary. In Caldwell’s version, there hadn’t been any sexual tension. Just good clean advertising know-how.

“The Spurling family is a sports legend, starting with the father,” her boss explained to the glitzy, inebriated crowd. “Coach Aaron Spurling has high standards and he imparted them to his sons, John and Jason. Those standards are all about integrity. Honor. And above all, respect for women. Our Erica knew it, and knew it was perfect for Lager Storm. There was only one problem,” he added ominously. “The Spurlings had another standard. No product promo. Luckily, Erica found a way around that.”

Frank Garr shocked everyone by jumping onto the platform and grabbing the microphone. Then he grinned. “No one seems to remember this, but
I’m
the guy who made this all possible.”

The partygoers quieted down, polite but confused.

“That’s right. I made it happen. But Erica gets all the credit, because she’s the genius who figured out she didn’t need to work hard like the rest of us. She could just
slut
her way to the top.”

Before Erica could react, Johnny Spurling’s voice boomed from the edge of the crowd. “Hey,
asshole
.”

She spun around and saw murder in his eyes as he strode toward the stage.

“Oh, no . . .” She dashed to intercept him and managed to do so a few steps short of his prey. “Johnny, don’t!”

He eyed her fondly. “Give me a minute, babe. I need to take out the trash.”

Chapter 19

“John?” Caldwell had regained the microphone. “I don’t blame you. But this is
my
doing, so I’m asking you to let me handle it.”

Johnny hesitated, then nodded.

And then Caldwell spoke again. “Frank? I expect your letter of resignation on my desk by eight a.m. tomorrow. I just wish I’d done this months ago.”

Frank’s lip curled into a snarl. “You can’t fire me for telling the truth.”

“Unbelievable,” Johnny muttered. Then he leapt onto the stage and backed Frank to the far edge, where the hapless jerk cowered under an apparently blistering verbal attack that resonated so viscerally with the onlookers, it took Erica a moment to realize Johnny hadn’t laid a finger, let alone a fist, on the guy.

Or at least, not yet.

He doesn’t need to,
she realized, sure that Frank was soiling himself on the spot from the mere hint of physical violence.

Still, she needed to put a stop to it, didn’t she?

“It’s fine, Erica,” Steve assured her. “We all want to see this.”

“Yeah,” Josh said with a bloodthirsty grin.

She tore her gaze from Johnny and asked the lawyer, “Can Frank sue? If Johnny touches him, I mean?”

“Who cares?”

Steve laughed. “What he’s trying to say is, Spurling doesn’t need to lay a hand on him.
Look
.
”

She nodded, seeing what her mentor was seeing. Frank crumbled without a blow, and while they couldn’t hear his words, he was clearly begging the quarterback not to kill him.

Johnny finally seemed satisfied and took a step back, allowing the quaking coward to half tumble off the edge of the stage and lurch toward the exit.

A cheer rose up from the crowd followed by calls for “Speech, speech.”

But Johnny just waved a hand, cheerful but determined, then leapt off the stage and strode up to Erica.

“Johnny,” she said in quiet amazement as Steve and Josh faded into the woodwork. “You’re here.”

“Don’t talk,” he warned. “Just listen.”

“Excuse me?”

He eyed her sternly, then grabbed her arm and propelled her toward the least populated section of the bar, where he explained, “
I’m
doing the talking this time.”

“Okay,” she replied breathlessly.

He laughed as though shocked by his own power. “You can talk. Just let me go first.”

She nodded. It was fair, wasn’t it? He thought she’d try to manipulate him with her own squirrelly vision of reality. But she was out of that business, at least on a personal level. “Go on.”

His tone warmed. “Here’s the plan. We get married tonight. Then work out the details in the off-season, just like my pop advised me back in the ER.”

Her heart swelled to think that
that
was Aaron Spurling’s infamous advice. Not “marry the schoolteacher,” but rather, just go for it. “We can’t do it tonight. Our families should be there.”

“That’s your only objection?”

She nodded.

“You’ll marry me? Man . . .” He moved his mouth closer to hers. “Nice dress by the way. Nice bracelet too.”

“Johnny . . .” She stared into his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe you
won.
”

“And I can’t believe you love me,” he countered softly. “But you do. Right? You said it,” he added with a sheepish smile. “Remember?”

She nodded.

“And just to be clear.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not talking about kids. I want a family, but that has different meanings. You and me together—
that’s
a family. More than I could ever want. More than I deserve.” He coughed and added carefully, “If things change, great. But you’re all I’ll ever need.”