Playing for Kicks (Play Makers Book 5) (16 page)

“Do you have your recorder with you?”

“Hmm?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything last time.
It’s fine with me if you record this.”

She sighed. “I don’t really need to. Like I
said, this is all background.”

“Do it for me.”

She almost rolled her eyes, but decided to be
professional for once. So she murmured, “Thanks, Sean,” took out
the recorder and set it up between them.

“It’s on?” He cleared his throat. “Yeah,
giving up my privacy is one of the issues. No one recognizes me
outside Portland except in my home town and parts of Philly from
college ball. And I like it that way.”

“What are the other issues?”

His tone grew solemn. “I agree with Coach
Spurling about professional players doing commercial endorsements.
Especially shoes, frankly, because it manipulates young fans. It’s
possible my dad would turn over in his grave, even though .
. .”

“Even though your mom bought you your first
X-Calibers so it’s a tribute to her?”

They paused as their drinks were delivered,
then he explained, “In a way, it’s a tribute to Dad too. After Mom
died, he was stuck raising me, and we had some clashes in high
school because I wanted to wear cutting-edge shoes. The brands the
pros endorsed. He was a pretty practical guy—and frugal as hell—so
he blasted me about it even though I offered to use spending money
from birthdays and Christmas. He told me to be my own man, not just
do what some overpaid jock told me to do.” He smiled wistfully. “He
seemed unreasonable at the time, but he was right.”

“Wow.” She covered his hand with her own. “So
you’ve really got a dilemma. Let your lucky-shoe company go out of
business, or be one of those overpaid jocks who uses his influence
on susceptible children.”

“Crazy, right? Although they probably won’t
go out of business. They’re closing their factory store, which bums
me out. And they’re discontinuing some lines. But Murf’s been
researching it for me and he thinks they’ll still make my
model.”

“Do they know you’re considering helping
them?”

He shook his head. “Murf’s checking on some
intangibles, as he calls them. Making sure the owners aren’t
perverts, that sort of thing. If it checks out, he’ll make contact
and I’ll probably do it in some form. Hopefully low-profile.”

“Would Erica handle the account?”

“I’d like that, but she’s pretty swamped. And
X-Caliber already has an ad agency. Not that you’d know it. They
lost a ton of money last year.”

“I’m sure your dad would approve. The same
way Coach Pop did for Johnny.”

“Coach Pop?” His eyes twinkled. “Anyway, my
dad was a ball buster but he always supported my decisions
eventually. So yeah, I think you’re right.”

“You’re lucky,” she said with a sigh.

“Because your dad
isn’t
supportive? I
mean, sheesh, he’s still alive, right? Sorry, Tess.”

“He’s still alive. And he’s a wonderful man.”
Before Sean could persist, she smiled at the approaching waitress.
“Yum, that looks delicious.”

Once the meal was served, Sean murmured, “We
always talk about me. Never about you.”

“That’s because you’re the subject and I’m
the interviewer,” she reminded him. “But thanks.”

Embarrassed, she focused on the soup, then
groaned appreciatively. “I’m gonna need a bigger bowl.”

“It’s great, right? Here . . .” He held
his pork taco close to her mouth. “Try this.”

It was starting to feel like a date. The
touching, the intimate gestures, the sympathy—everything she needed
at that moment.

Except for the fact that she wanted to put
distance between them, not cozy up.

Still, she nibbled tentatively. “Oh, God,
that’s good.”

“Everything they make is good. When we have
more time we’ll come back for tamales.”

He was seducing her and she wanted to relax
and enjoy it. How wrong could it be? He was gorgeous, they were
both single, and he would never intentionally hurt her.

“Intentionally” being the operative word. Not
to mention he was still raw from his breakup so
he
could get
hurt too.

So she took a few more slurps of soup, then
dabbed at her mouth with her paper napkin to signal the end of her
meal. “We need to talk, Sean.”

“About your dad?”

“Good Lord, no. It’s about us.” She
hesitated, then touched his hand. “I feel like I’m leading you
on.”

“How?” He shook his head vehemently. “Don’t
worry about that. You’ve been crystal clear. And I agree with you.
I’m not ready to date. Not even someone as awesome as you. Not
until I figure out what I’ve been doing wrong.” He exhaled sharply,
his gaze troubled. “I almost married the wrong woman for all the
wrong reasons. It still scares me when I think about it.”

The strong statement shocked her to the core.
“I’m so sorry, Sean. I won’t joke about it anymore.”

“I
like
the way you joke about it. I
can laugh and learn at the same time. And you’re cool because you
don’t blame Kerrie like the rest of my friends do.
I’m
the
one who screwed up, not her. But I got out in time. And now I have
this amazing second chance. There’s no way I’m gonna blow it.”

He sounded so sincere, so committed to taking
his time, she almost let the rest go. But she had come this far, so
she decided to push through after all.

Chapter
Five

Making eye contact despite the danger of
being seduced, she explained quietly, “It’s true you’re not ready
to date. That’s part of it. But even if you were, I wouldn’t get
involved with you.”

“Why not?”

She sighed, reminding herself to be brutally
honest for his sake as well as hers. “I have this theory that there
are three kinds of people—winners, losers, and normal folk.
I’m
normal. And I love it. I don’t even
want
to be a
winner. Who needs the pressure, right?” She took a breath, then
continued. “The problem is, I’m at the lower end of normal. Hanging
by a thread, actually. If I get involved with a loser, he’ll pull
me into the abyss with him and
I’ll
be a loser too. I’ve
worked pretty hard to make sure that doesn’t happen. Because being
normal is really,
really
important to me. For reasons that
aren’t relevant to this conversation.”

“Did you just call me a loser?” he demanded
playfully.

“Don’t take it personally. You’re a great
guy. Any other girl would be lucky to date you. Just not me.”

“You know I have a Super Bowl ring, right?
Doesn’t that make me a winner?”

She knew he was joking, but still she
continued. “Obviously, ‘loser’ is the wrong word. Let’s say
‘dreamer.’ Or ‘hopeless romantic.’” She patted his arm. “You can’t
help it if you’re hopeless. It’s your most attractive quality. I
just personally can’t take the risk. That’s all I’m saying.”

Leaning back in his chair, he started
laughing. “You’re hilarious, you know that?”

“It’s not funny, Sean.”

“You just made that up, right? For my
benefit? Like those phony stats you keep quoting?”

“Pardon?”

“Forty-eight percent of guys go running back
to their ex within two weeks. And another twenty-two percent have a
rebound relationship and
then
go running back.”

She bit back a smile. “Nice to know you were
listening.”

“Always.” He gave his watch a reluctant
glance. “This is fun, but John and I need to hit the road.”

“And I need to work on the article. So the
timing is perfect. Just so we’re clear.”

He stood and pulled her gently to her feet.
“I get your point, you know. My love life is a mess. It has been
for a while. But I’m working on it, so don’t give up on me.”

“It’s not a question of that, Sean. I’m
saying this can
never
be more than a casual friendship.”

“Which is all I want. So we’re good.” He
tucked some paper money under his root beer glass, then took her by
the hand and led her to the parking lot.

She knew she shouldn’t hold hands with him,
but it didn’t mean anything, did it? He undoubtedly held hands with
Erica and Darcie and the rest of the harem. Wasn’t that what made
him hopeless?

As if to prove it, he pulled her close and
kissed her on the mouth. Slow and gentle, laid-back and sexy.

Perfection.

When he released her, she said with a
frustrated sigh, “Such a loser move.”

He chuckled. “You seemed to like it.”

“Settle down, Romeo. It wasn’t
that
good.” When he laughed again, she reminded him, “Shouldn’t you be
picking Johnny up?”

“Yeah. I’ll call when I get back on Friday.
Not too late, I hope.”

“Or Saturday,” she said lightly. “No
hurry.”

“You need to see the shoes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why do I bother
talking?”

His smile warmed as he opened her door. “Be
safe. Use the valet.”

“I will.” She touched his cheek with her
fingertips. “Have fun at camp, even though Erica says the new coach
is a tyrant.”

“Yeah, he’s brutal. Luckily, Bannerman’s in
the crosshairs, not me.”

“Well, he’d better remember who won the Super
Bowl,” she fumed. “You, Big John and the Bam Man. Not some unknown
nobody named Riga.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that,” he
teased her. Then he brushed his lips across hers again and said,
“Take it easy, babe. I’ll call when I’m back in town.”

• • •

Over the next few days, Tess nailed the
Spurling portion of her article. It helped knowing Sean was out of
town and thus wouldn’t distract her, although she spent some time
doodling a new image of him entitled Lucky Shoes, which joined Sir
Kiss-a-Lot and Tantric Romeo as her all-time favorites. She also
listened several times to the recording of his interview, trying to
get a handle on how she would approach writing about him, but two
things distracted her.

First, he was so forthcoming, not just with
facts but with his emotions. Not in a sentimental way but just
straight-up honest with himself
and
with Tess. Not that
Erica and Johnny hadn’t been honest in their interviews, but she
could sense their internal editors working overtime in such
situations, whereas Sean opened up—smart and diplomatic, but
otherwise no filter. At least not with her.

The second thing that bothered her was her
own voice on the recording when she refused to discuss her father.
She sounded so hurt. So defensive. Which was unfair to her dad
and
to Sean.

After erasing that part of the recording, she
scribbled random thoughts about Sean, hoping they would jell into
an outline, but finally she faced facts. For a simple guy, he was
impossible to capture in words. She wanted to convey some inner
strength, since the only things the sports world knew about him
were that he was mega-talented and superstitious. Shouldn’t there
be something else?

Unfortunately, when she thought of Sean
Decker, she thought about the hopeless romantic. Probably not the
image he wanted to project. So she needed to dig deeper. Find the
man behind the sexy façade.

“You can do it,” she assured herself, then
she laughed out loud. Had she actually called him a
loser?
To his
face?

He’s such a sport,
she decided
sheepishly.
Too bad he really is a loser.

• • •

Martini Night began promptly at seven when
Tess showed up on Erica’s doorstep with two bags of booze-related
items and a mini-duffel stuffed with PJs, toiletries, and
Zombie
Renaissance
. They had talked earlier and decided that since
Johnny preferred gin martinis—dry and straight up—they would
concentrate on those during this first lesson. She also wanted
Erica to learn the virtues of “stirred, not shaken,” so she
intended to teach her that as well, along with a scrumptious dirty
martini since that was Erica’s personal favorite.

Now she explained to her hostess, “I’ll
demonstrate the three types and you’ll try to duplicate them. Which
means you’ll taste a total of six drinks—three made by me, three by
you. Unless yours are horrific and require some do-overs. And when
I say you’ll ‘taste’ them, I’m talking about a sip. No
guzzling.”

“Six sips,” Erica agreed. “Except I’ll drink
the entire dirty one. Is that okay?”

“I knew you’d be a lush,” Tess teased her.
“So sure, drink yourself silly. As long as it’s
after
the
lesson.”

“What about you? You’ll match me sip for sip,
won’t you? I don’t want to get ahead of you.”

“I don’t need to taste
mine
since
they’ll be perfect,” Tess said with a laugh. “But I’m sure I’ll
catch up somehow.”

“And we’ll watch my wedding video. It’s three
hours but we can speed past the atrocities, so basically, forty
minutes of bliss.”

“I love atrocities, so we’re in it for the
duration. But first, we make a dry martini. Shaken not
stirred.”

• • •

It didn’t surprise Tess when Erica was a
quick study who duplicated her version of Johnny’s favorite drink
perfectly and then listened attentively to her professional opinion
on the best gin, the best vermouth, the perfect temperatures and
even the best olives.

After their required tasting of the first
batch, it made sense to concoct the second version—stirred—right
away, and again, Erica nailed it.

“You missed your calling,” Tess told her
sheepishly.

“So let’s make the dirty ones, then start the
video.”

Tess wanted to eat something before the
guzzling commenced, and luckily, their pizza had arrived, so she
had a few slices while they watched the formal ceremony.

Erica had insisted the wedding was a
disaster, explaining they had thrown it together hastily and had
kept the guest list to one hundred and fifty, including the team,
the immediate families of the bride and groom, and their closest
friends and colleagues, only to find that “hundreds” of reporters,
agents, non-Lancer athletes and other assorted party animals had
heard about the event and couldn’t resist crashing it.