Playing for Kicks (Play Makers Book 5) (14 page)

“I don’t want to talk about Hawaii,” she
protested, her voice as breathless as that first night.

“So just shoes and pancakes then.”

“Just shoes and pancakes,” she agreed, even
though it was ridiculous. But she would deal with that when she was
beyond his Tantric aura. For now, she just needed to get to the
RAV4, so she headed toward the exit, waving brightly at the young
clerk.

Sean’s tall, lean body strode beside her all
the way to her car, where she told him hoarsely, “Well, this is me.
Thanks for the scone.”

“Thanks for meeting me,” he replied evenly.
Then before she could adjust, he rested his hands on her waist,
just as he’d done at Murf’s suite, pulled her a step closer, and
kissed her. Soft and gentle. Almost no tongue. Because this guy
didn’t
need
tongue. He used an opposite strategy. Some sort
of relaxation technique.

And it was working. She even slipped one hand
behind his neck to steady herself because apparently they would be
at it for a while. So calm, so intimate, so mindless.

And so hopeless, but still, she was
hooked.

When he finally lifted his head and looked
down at her, she managed to assure him, “That was completely
inappropriate, Sean.”

“Sorry, Tess.”

“I know you kiss the other women in your
life. Your so-called harem, right? But not me.”

His eyes twinkled. “I don’t kiss them like
that,
that’s for sure. But if it bothers you, I’ll
stop.”

“You’ll stop kissing
them?
Or me?” She
grimaced. “Never mind. Feel free to kiss the others, obviously.
Erica says it’s a tradition, so who am I to stand in its way?”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Bam used to do
it, too, but he stopped when he got engaged to Rachel.”

“Classy,” she drawled. Then she realized his
hands were still on her waist and she moved backward, trying not to
blush.

His eyes twinkled again. “So what’s your
schedule? Erica says you work Sundays and Mondays in Seattle. So
otherwise you’re at the Ashton?”

“More or less. But I’ll be super-busy writing
the article. And Mr. Murphy’s flying me to Dallas at some point for
more interviews. So it’s up in the air, so to speak.”

“Great. I’ve got an out-of-town practice next
Wednesday through Friday, but we’ll work something out. I’ll call
you.”

She wanted to tell him not to, but what was
the point? She really
did
need to interview him, and the
occasional breezy kiss with no strings attached wasn’t the worst
trade-off in the world. Especially since he kissed everyone, so it
didn’t mean anything. Plus, he had offered to stop any time she
wanted, so all she had to do was ask.

“Okay, Sean.” She unlocked the car door, and
when he reached past her to open it for her, she just sighed.

Such a hunk.

“Good luck with the twins,” she told him with
a weak smile. “Don’t be so quick to write them off. They could be
the one.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re not, but thanks.”
Leaning in, he said in a warm voice, “Drive carefully. Use valet
parking, okay?”

“Okay,” she stammered, even though she never
used the valet and wasn’t about to start. It didn’t matter what she
said to him anyway, did it? He clearly didn’t listen or he never
would have called her in the first place.
Or
the second.

But at least he hadn’t asked for another
date. Or interview. Or whatever the eff this was.

• • •

In order to nail the main section of the
article, Tess needed more background on Coach Aaron Spurling,
particularly on his
very
public policy against Spurlings
doing product promo. Luckily, Johnny made good on his promise to
set something up.

When she arrived on Friday afternoon at the
coach’s modest two-story house in Los Angeles, she felt a flurry of
nerves but powered through, sent Murf’s car service away, and
headed for the front porch, where only a screen door barred her
entry. She had worn a navy blue suit that was a hand-me-down from
her lawyer sister and was a little tight in the waist, thanks to
Jill’s habit of running three days a week. If it proved lucky, Tess
would move the button. For now, it was at least presentable.

Don’t joke around,
she reminded
herself as she tapped on the doorjamb.

When an older version of Johnny with
salt-and-pepper hair, a prouder bearing, and an even more palpable
intensity appeared in the doorway, she quaked. Sure, she had met
some famous players these last few years, but this guy was
different. An actual legend. Possibly a true genius, and at the
very least the greatest NFL coach of the last twenty years.

Scary as hell.

“You’re Tess?” he asked as he swung the door
open.

“Hi, Coach Spurling. Thanks for agreeing to
talk to me.”

“I don’t do many interviews unless the league
requires it,” he told her, his tone friendly but also sending a
message.

This was a favor for his son. Nothing
more.

“I don’t do many either,” she joked. Then she
explained, “You’re my fourth. All time.”

He chuckled. “Are you coming in?” When she
smiled and stepped past him, he added cheerfully, “John tells me
you recently quit bartending. That’s the right move. Women
shouldn’t be bartenders. It’s a losing proposition.”

Tess eyed him in surprise. He looked like
Johnny but was so much more judgmental. Probably because as a
coach, he called the shots even more than a QB. Still, she said
with a smile, “Tending bar was the smartest move I ever made. I’ll
never regret it, but yes, I’m ready to move on.”

Something glinted in his Spurling-blue eyes.
Surprise at being challenged? Possibly even annoyance. But he
dropped it and ushered her into a cozy living room. “Have a seat.
John mentioned you’re going to record this. That’s fine as long as
I can review the draft article. And nix it if I don’t approve.
Which I’m told is part of the deal.”

“You can review the part about
you,”
she agreed, surprised again.

“That’s what I said.”

Chagrined, she walked to a wall of framed
photos to get her bearings. Lots of family pictures, many of them
showcasing a lovely Mrs. Spurling, a tall handsome coach, and three
boys—one adorably serious, one Johnny, and one rascally-looking
little one.

“I was sorry to hear about your wife and
oldest son,” she murmured.

“Aaron Junior and Abby,” he confirmed. Then
he cleared his throat. “Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks.” She turned back to the living
area and eyed a huge leather recliner that dominated the rest of
the room. On a whim, she stepped up to it and said, “Should I sit
here?”

“What?” Annoyance crossed his face again,
then he realized she was teasing him and he burst out laughing. A
very
Johnny Spurling laugh, completely genuine and
unrestrained.

Relieved, she chose a small rocking chair,
settled in, and activated the recorder. “I’m ready when you
are.”

“You were born ready,” he drawled as he took
his rightful place in the seat of honor.

“Well, I’m a female bartender, so it goes
with the territory.”

He didn’t take the bait. Instead, he took
control again. “I suppose you want to hear about my reaction to my
son’s beer commercial?”

Tess sighed. Why wouldn’t anyone let
her
ask the questions? “Sure, let’s start with that.”

As she listened respectfully, he explained
his basic objections to athletes doing product promo. It
commercialized the game, distracted the player, made everyone seem
greedy, and exploited the fan base.

“So if Johnny had asked you ahead of time,
you would have told him not to do it? Even though it actually
encouraged the fan base to be more respectful of women? Thereby
improving the image of football?”

Coach Spurling leaned back and seemed to
consider this. “I appreciate what John and Erica did. Like you
said, it sends a much-needed message. But if he had asked me? I
would have advised against it.”

She smiled. According to Johnny he would have
forbidden
it. “Tell me why.”

“It’s simple. The whole point of rules is to
draw a line in the sand. Give us a clear idea of right and wrong.
If we analyze each case to see if it fits some exception, we’ve
lost the rule. So I stand by my policy. Spurlings don’t endorse
products.”

“Wow, so it’s still the family policy?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he demanded.

“Good point. So even if your son Jason wanted
to do a commercial for all the right reasons
. . . ?”

“Absolutely not. And he knows it.”

“What if your niece Sophie wanted to endorse
a perfume line?”

He chuckled. “You’re a smart-ass, you know
that?”

Tess laughed too. “I think I have what I
need. Thanks so much, Coach. I’ll send you the draft.”

“Wait.” He reached across to turn off the
recorder then settled back in his recliner. “Do you have a
boyfriend?”

“You’re a little feisty for me, no offense,”
she said with a teasing smile.

He didn’t laugh. Instead he explained. “I
have a player who’s been taking life too seriously.
Far
too
seriously. A date with you might be just what he needs. Either that
or I’ll have to trade him. And I’ll be damned if I’ll do that.”

Tess sighed, remembering how the coach’s
rookie quarterback, Luke Stoddard, had crashed and burned in the
playoffs and had reportedly gone on a bender of epic proportions.
Rumor had it the organization’s recent acquisition of QB Wyatt
Bourne—the Surgeon—had been intended in part to mentor the kid. Get
him back on track while also salvaging the Rustlers’ upcoming
season.

A brilliant strategy worthy of a great coach.
But apparently it too had crashed and burned. Or at least, that’s
what Spurling seemed to be telling her.

He also seemed to regret mentioning it. “I
shouldn’t have asked. And we’re trying a different strategy this
week with a pricey consultant, so forget I said anything.”

“I usually love a challenge,” she told him
with a sympathetic sigh. “Especially if he’s adorable like the guy
I
think
you’re talking about. But I already have a project
under way. And trust me, he’s a handful.”

“A project, huh?” Spurling chuckled. “My
money’s on you. Anyway, I have another favor to ask.”

“Okay, but then we’re even, right?”

“Right.” He leaned forward in a posture that
once again reminded her of his son. “John tells me you and Erica
are friends.”

Tess nodded, wary.

“I couldn’t ask for a better wife for my son.
But I make her uncomfortable. I need to fix that. Any ideas?”

Relieved, Tess told him, “She
adores
you. She told me so herself. The problem is simple. She doesn’t
know what to call you.”

He didn’t seem reassured. In fact, he
scowled. “I’ve told her a dozen times she doesn’t need to call me
Pop. Or Dad. Or anything like that.
Coach
is just fine.”

“Coach is cool,” she agreed. “Especially for
someone like me. But Erica hasn’t talked to coaches very often in
her life, so it feels odd to her. Just give her time.”

He cocked his head to the side. “You’ve
talked to coaches a lot?”

“All the time,” she confirmed. “I mean,
they’re on TV—and it’s more like yelling than talking—but still,
it’s second nature to me.”

“You yell at us?” He seemed baffled.
“Why?”

“Don’t get me started,” she teased. “I want
you to throw the challenge flag more often. I mean, what are you
saving it for? And you should go for it on fourth down—every
time—instead of being such wusses. And more on-side kicks too.
That’s the beauty of being a female bartender in a sports bar.
I
call the shots.”

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re telling me I’m wrong about female
bartenders.”

She gave him a steady gaze. “I’ve only worked
in sports bars. So I can’t speak for the rest. But
my
job
has been safe, fun and lucrative. I mean,
think
about it.
Sports fans are good sports almost by definition. So they’re
usually respectful. And if some creep gets out of line, the other
fans step in. Because it’s a community. And when all else fails,
there’s a bouncer.”

He returned the steady stare. “It’s still no
place for a girl like you.”

“Ugh.” She stood and pretended to glare.
“Thanks for the great interview, Coach. I’ll just sit on the porch
and sob until my ride gets here.”

He chuckled. “I’ll drive you to the airport.
And next time I’m in Portland, we’ll watch a game at my son’s
house. I need to see you in action.”

“I yell at the officials more than the
coaches, I promise.”

“A girl after my own heart,” he told her
fondly. “Let me get my keys.”

• • •

The ride to the airport was even better than
the formal interview as Aaron Spurling bragged about his rowdy
grandsons, dissected the upcoming college football season, and gave
Tess a crash course in being a good reporter, at least in
his
opinion. He had apparently been misquoted too many times
to count; had had his words taken out of context even more often;
and most of all, had been used to lend credibility to the “lazy,
sloppy work of a bunch of grade-A hacks.”

“I won’t do any of those things,” she
promised. “Especially since I don’t see myself as a sports
reporter. More like a journalist who does color commentary.
Background stuff.”

“Don’t give me that. You just named the
top-ten college QBs and ranked them in the right order. That’s
solid football knowledge.”

“And I think we both know why.”

He laughed. “Because you’re a female
bartender? Maybe so.”

When he dropped her off, they reaffirmed
their plan to watch a game together someday. Then she caught her
flight, hoping to read a few chapters of
Zombie
Renaissance
.