Steal My Heart (Bachelors & Bridesmaids) (12 page)

"You're not going to be able to move forward until you deal with this offer. You said that yourself earlier. That's why we're here, so there's no backing out now."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Why do you have to be so smart, Lizzie?"

"Apparently, so I can annoy you."

He smiled. "You do get under my skin."

"Likewise. But you brought me here for a reason and I think that reason had something to do with making sure you walked through the door."

"I had other reasons, too."

"Well, let's stick with that one for now." She opened the door and waved him through it.

After giving their name to the security guard, they were handed credentials and tickets for a sky box and then cleared to walk through the tunnel to the field. Liz had been in stadiums before, but never on the field of a professional football game. Despite how early they were, there was quite a crowd of people on the field and also in the stands. Music blared and videos of past highlight plays were featured on the big screens around the stadium. The atmosphere was filled with energy and excitement. She could see the anticipation on the faces of the players who were running through their warm-up drills.

They paused at the edge of the track.

"So this was you a year ago," she said, thinking that this was her first real glimpse into Michael's old life.

He nodded, his jaw so stiff she thought it might break. "I always loved game day. I couldn't wait to get out here. And if it was a night game like this, I had even more hours to get amped up for the battle ahead."

"My dad said you were a great quarterback."

"I wasn't bad," he admitted.

"Humble? That isn't usually the Michael Stafford style."

His grim expression eased as he looked at her. "Okay, you're right. I was good and I could have been great if I'd had more years to play. But that wasn't in the cards."

"The players are bigger in person. How did you handle getting hit by some 300 pound linebacker?"

"Most of the time, I was able to escape. I had a good offensive line. They protected me."

"What happened the day you got hurt?"

"It was a very close game. We were down to the last minute. I was scrambling. I got hit hard, but it wasn't the first hit that took me out, it was the second one by an overly aggressive player. I fell badly and my knee was torn up."

"Isn't that called roughing the quarterback?"

"Yeah, it was a penalty. The team took yardage for the play, but that wasn't much consolation when I was headed to the hospital."

"Have you ever talked to the guy who hit you?" she asked curiously. "Did you know him?"

"I did know him. He came to see me after my surgery. He wanted to apologize. He said he was caught up in the moment."

She could see shadows of emotion in his eyes, but she couldn't quite read what those emotions were. "How did you react? Were you angry? Did you let him have it?"

"No, I told him I understood what it meant to get caught up in the game."

"That was generous. You let him off the hook for an illegal play that ended your career."

Michael frowned. "He wasn't trying to hurt me. He just wanted to win."

"The end justifies the means?" she queried.

"You're twisting my words, Lizzie."

"I don't think I am. Winning at any cost isn't really winning, not when cheating is involved."

"It's not that simple." Michael paused as a man in a red windbreaker made his way over to them.

The older man had to be Hank, Liz thought. He had gray hair and a wrinkled face weathered by sun, but he moved with the agility of someone who had once been an athlete himself.

Hank threw his arms around Michael, giving him a bear hug. Then he stepped back, a pleased smile on his face. "Thanks for coming."

"You didn't give me much choice. You've been putting the heat on hard."

"Had to. Season is halfway done. We need to change things around now. I want you to take a look at the offense with me. You know these guys. You played with them. And you know the strengths and weaknesses of our rookie quarterback. I want you to give me your thoughts. And then we'll talk about how we can make you a permanent part of the team."

"I'll watch some of the game," Michael said. "That's as far as my commitment goes."

"You'll stay as long as you need to," Hank said somewhat cryptically. His gaze moved to Liz. "Want to introduce me, Michael?"

"Liz Palmer, Hank Grandietti, one of the best coaches in the business."

"Pleasure," Hank said, shaking her hand. "Michael was one of the best players I ever had the privilege to coach. Did you ever see him play?"

"I saw him play in high school."

"So you two go way back?" Hank said, curiosity in his eyes.

"We do," she said.

"I've got you set up in a sky box," Hank added. "But you're welcome to stay on the field."

"I think I'm going to go find something to eat," Liz said. "And then I'll go to the box. Take your time, Michael. If you need to stay on the field, stay on the field, I'll be fine."

"I'll be up before the game starts."

"Whatever works. Just point me in the right direction."

Hank waved his hand toward the entrance. As she left she heard Hank jump into what problems they were having with their offense. She had a feeling this game was going to make it much more difficult for Michael to shut the door on football, no matter how much he wanted to do that. Well, she'd gotten him through the door. The rest was up to him.

* * *

Michael's gaze followed Liz across the field.

"Girlfriend?" Hank asked, pausing for a moment from his football talk.

"Not really sure what we are," he said, turning back to Hank. "But she's important."

Hank grinned. "Don't screw it up then."

"Always great to get your advice."

"Your turn for advice. Come with me."

Michael followed Hank onto the field, exchanging greetings and hugs with the men who had been his friends and teammates the last couple of years. He realized how long it had been since he'd seen some of them. And that was mostly his fault. He'd ignored the calls, texts and emails after his surgery and long rehab. A few of the guys he had eventually called back, but by then there didn't seem to be much to say. He didn't want to talk about football, and he wasn't sure what else there was to talk about.

But now he realized that along with football, he'd shut a lot of people out of his life just because they were associated with the game he couldn't play anymore. Fortunately, no one seemed to hold that against him.

As the players ran through their warm-up drills, he felt a deep, aching yearning in his soul for the game that had driven his life since he was six years old.

This was why he hadn't wanted to see anyone, hadn't wanted to go to a game. It had been a little easier at Liz's house. Then the game had been on TV, and he could look at it like a show, but here on the sidelines, all the sounds, smells and sights were very familiar.

"Jim has a good arm, we all know that," Hank said, referring to the young quarterback. "But he's jittery when he gets out of the pocket. He doesn't move like you did and the rest of the team senses his nerves. Some of them are overplaying to compensate. It's not working."

He watched Jim throw, his experienced eyes noting the little details, the balance, the arm strength and the situational awareness. Everything looked good, but these were just drills. The actual game would challenge all of Jim's skills.

For the next forty minutes, he and Hank talked their way through the offensive line and the list of plays. Michael made a few suggestions. He couldn't help himself. He hadn't come here to get involved, but it was hard to walk away from his training and his desire to help the team. Before he knew it, they were two minutes away from kickoff.

"Let's talk after the game," Hank said, slapping him on the back.

"Tomorrow," he replied. "I'll put together some thoughts for you."

"Good," Hank said.

"But you know what you're doing out there, Hank. You're one of the best. You don't need me. You're just second-guessing yourself."

"I don't think so. You were the captain of these guys. You know them better than anyone. You had a gift for bringing out the best in them. And I really want you to consider making your involvement a more permanent thing. Just think about it. You can't play anymore, but you can make a difference in the game that you love."

Michael didn't reply, mostly because he didn't have an answer. He'd really thought he'd turned the corner…until now.

Chapter Eleven

Liz was sitting alone in the front row of the luxurious box. She was eating her way through a pile of garlic fries, and there was a tall beer in front of her. She turned her head and gave him a smile. "Hey, did you know we get free food in here?"

He laughed as he sat down beside her. "I've never actually been up here."

"A waitress comes by like every five minutes. Want a fry? They're very garlicky, so you should join me or sit in the next row."

He smiled and took a fry, popping it into his mouth. "Delicious."

"Aren't they? I love these things. So bad for me, but there you go." She gave him a searching look as he took another fry. "How did it go down there?"

"Fine. I'll take some notes for Hank and talk to him tomorrow."

"What about the job?"

"I told him I have a job already."

"I know, but is it the job you really want? You've been all over me about giving up my painting. Aren't you doing the same thing?"

"You had a choice to keep painting; I didn't."

"It sounds like you have a choice now," she said.

He let out a sigh. "I don't know. I feel like I'd be ripping a bandage off a wound that wasn't healed yet."

"I get it," she said with an understanding nod. "Football was your life. It was your connection to your dad. It was more than a game; it was everything. And then fate dealt you a really bad hand. But to your credit, you got back up, took action and made changes.

"Exactly."

"And that’s all great. But something new has opened up for you now, an option you hadn't considered before. And I think you were smart to come here and consider it. In fact, I think it was pretty brave."

He was surprised at the admiration in her gaze. It was not the kind of look he usually got from her. "Well, thanks."

"You're welcome. And since you haven't said I'm wrong about anything; I must be right."

"You always like to be right."

"I usually am," she said.

Her playful smile drew him in. He didn't think about what he wanted to do. He just did it. He leaned over and kissed her surprised mouth and then gave her a grin. "Thanks. And, wow, that is a lot of garlic."

She laughed. "I thought it might ward you off."

"A little garlic doesn't scare me away." He paused. "And for the record, you were right about pretty much everything. Now, I'm going to go find that waitress. I feel like something a little heartier than fries."

"I was thinking about the French Dip," she said.

"You got it. Anything else?"

"No, I'm good."

As he left the box, he felt surprisingly good, too, and that was all because of Liz. She had a way of looking at things that cut through all the bullshit—at least when it came to him. When it came to her own life, he thought she might need to take some of her own advice. But it was easier to see in others what you couldn't see in yourself. Bottom line—he was just exceptionally happy that they'd run into each other again. And for tonight, he was going to stop worrying so much about the decisions facing him and just have some fun with a beautiful, competitive, smart-mouthed woman who made his pulse race every time she looked in his direction.

* * *

Liz had more fun with Michael than she'd expected to have. She didn't know why no one else came to the box during the game, but she enjoyed the private oasis of luxury. During the game, Michael shared some of his thoughts about the offense. It didn't take long for her to realize why Hank had asked for Michael's input. Michael had tremendous insight into the minds of the players. He knew their strengths and weaknesses, knew which physical movements came naturally to them, what their instincts were when they were in trouble, how they reacted to pressure. He was really an amazing analyst, and by the fourth quarter she was wondering just how he could
not
take the job Hank was offering.

A Blackhawks rep from the team came into the box just before the game ended and handed Michael a signed jersey and football.

"What's this?" Liz asked.

"I asked my friend Keith Saxton if he could sign these for your dad."

She was stunned when he handed her the signed jersey with a message that read:
Stay strong, Ron. We're rooting for you. Keith Saxton
. Her eyes blurred with moisture as she gazed back at Michael. "You did this for my dad?"

"I know he's a big fan. It's not a big deal."

"It is a really big deal." She was incredibly touched by his thoughtfulness and generosity. He'd been caught up in his own inner turmoil, but still he'd taken the time to think of her dad. She set down the jersey and then threw her arms around Michael's neck. She gave him a hug and a kiss. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, sliding his arms around her waist. He gave her a mischievous grin. "I did get your dad two things, so maybe another kiss…"

She smiled and pressed her lips against his once again.

He tasted like beer, garlic and Michael. It was a dizzying combination, and the kiss went off far longer than it should have. Finally, they broke apart.

She could hear the crowd cheering. In fact, the noise in the stadium was deafening. She glanced toward the scoreboard, which was flashing a touchdown. "We won," she said, having completely lost track of the game.

"We did," he said, but his gaze was on her and not on the game. "It's nice to be on the same side for a change, Lizzie."

And then he kissed her again, his arms sliding around her waist as he pulled her up against his chest. His mouth was hungrier now, not playful or teasing but rather demanding and insistent. His need fueled her desire. She felt like she was caught up in a fever. His lips, his mouth, his hands were all she could feel. All she could hear was the sound of his breath, and all she could feel was his hard body against her soft curves. She ran her hands up under Michael's shirt, delighting in the warmth and strength of his chest. She pushed the material up and Michael helped her strip the shirt up over his head.