Authors: Jami Davenport
"Hell if I know.” Derek couldn't muster the energy to shoot back a smart-ass reply. Defeat weighed on his shoulders, and he'd never worn defeat well.
"Well, whatever the fuck it is that you don't know, you sure as hell had better figure it out and fast.” Tyler's eyes flicked to HughJack as the coach scribbled on his clipboard.
"I wish I could."
"Look, buddy.” Tyler leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Coach had enough confidence to put you with the first string. Pull your fucking head out of your ass. I want that guy back who flipped the world off and proved them all wrong. Can we say
Rose Bowl
? How about
Olympics
?” Tyler tapped on his cousin's forehead. “Hey, are you still in there or did they operate on your fucking head at the same time they fixed your fucking knee? I never thought I'd see the day that you'd lose your fucking nerve and fucking give up."
"I haven't lost it.” Derek clenched his jaw. Tyler was right unfortunately. He hated it when Tyler was right. Getting one up made his cousin an insufferable asshole, even more than usual.
"You gave up on me out there. What the fuck was up with that?” Tyler narrowed his eyes.
"I didn't give up. It wasn't a catchable ball."
"Since when is a ball
I
throw
your
way uncatchable? You didn't used to think like that."
He didn't. In the past, if it was still in the air, it was catchable. Once again Tyler was right. “I tried."
"Yeah right. Fucking bullshit.” His cousin stood and moved a few steps away to watch the defense from the sidelines.
Derek put his head in his hands.
Damn. Damn. Damn
. He took deep breaths, grasping for something to hold on to, to use against the despised self-pity bubbling inside him.
The last preseason game. Final cuts on Monday. He teetered on the edge of making it or breaking it. A dismal pro career with a dismal end—in with a bang, out with a fizzle.
Well, not if he could damn well help it.
Irritated at Tyler and angry with himself, he ground his self-pity into the turf and savored the anger. Anger gave him ambition, renewed his drive, and brought out the fight in him. Derek stood up and squared his shoulders. Enough of this crap. Hands on hips, he stretched his hamstrings and prepared to reenter the battle.
"Let's go! Don't fuck this one up.” Tyler smacked him on the shoulder pads as the offense trotted onto the field. Derek followed him to the huddle, head held high. Determination radiated through his body. Three quick plays later, they were on the 23-yard line, fourth down and six. Tyler wanted to go for it. Coach let him have his way.
Tyler bent down in the huddle and ignored the play the coach sent in, a run straight up the middle. As they broke the huddle, Tyler turned to him. “This is it, fuckhead. You'd better catch this one, because come Monday, after the final cuts, your ass better be on this team."
Derek nodded. Tyler planned on ignoring the coach's instructions and calling his own play. If he fucked this up, he'd screw himself and Tyler. His cousin skated on thin ice too. Rumors of a trade circulated around the league. Tyler's antics and attitude didn't impress the new coaches.
Shit. Damn. Fuck.
Talk about pressure. He sucked in a long breath, said a silent prayer, and called on every bit of skill and luck he possessed. Do or die, now or never, sink or swim. All those cliches came down to this defining moment. His future hung on this one pass. He knew it. Tyler knew it.
Relax. Find the zone. Don't try too hard. Stay loose
. He hadn't come this far, battled through adversity, and clawed his way back to lose it all now.
Tyler audibled at the line of scrimmage. Derek leaned forward and shot off the line as soon as the center hiked the ball. Sprinting downfield, he executed his pattern perfectly, then turned on the speed, leaving his defender eating his dust. Pounding into the end zone, he spun around at just the right moment.
Shit.
Badly thrown, the wobbly pass soared too high. Derek needed every physical skill he still possessed and instincts he'd once possessed. He focused on the ball to the exclusion of all else. Placing his trust in his gut, he reached for the intangible something that had eluded him the past few years.
Leaping into the air, he tipped the ball off the fingers of one hand into the other hand. It bobbled and bounced off his fingertips. He juggled it better than a circus clown until it fell into his hands. His long fingers wrapped around it. A second later, two defenders nailed him at full speed, their intention to teach him how to fly without wings. His body catapulted through the air before gravity brought him down with the assistance of a 260-pound tackle. The impact forced the air out of his lungs.
Derek gasped for breath, wishing this dead weight would get off his chest. After an eternity the guy got up, giving him a sharp jab in the ribs. Derek grunted. In the morning, he'd have bruises on top of bruises. For now, none of that mattered.
He'd hung on for six.
The roar of the crowd didn't deafen his ears like at the Rose Bowl. Instead the quarter-capacity crowd acknowledged his incredible catch with a smattering of applause.
Forcing air back into his lungs, he grasped the hand Tyler offered and scrambled to his feet. A little beat-up, but he didn't give a shit. He'd caught the damn ball. Finally he'd thrown the monkey off his back. Jogging to the sidelines, he shook his head to clear the slush moving around inside.
"Not bad, Ramsey.” The coach studied him, his face impassive.
"Thanks, Coach.” Derek flashed him a smile. The man was stingy at handing out compliments, so he'd take this one for what it was worth—and that was a lot.
"Think you can do that again?"
Derek met his penetrating gaze. “Yes, sir. More times than you can imagine.” It sounded cocky, but a football player who didn't believe in himself wasn't worth the turf he played on. HughJack nodded and walked off without another word. Renewed confidence surged through Derek. He hadn't felt this good since his college days.
After the game, local reporters inundated Derek with questions, even though the Jacks lost their fourth and last preseason game, 20-7. His outstanding catch ended up being the highlight of a dismal preseason. Win-deprived Seattle took whatever triumphs it could get.
He fended off reporters and stayed focused. This time the adulation wouldn't go to his head like it had in college and at the Olympics. He knew how fleeting it was. Next week he might be the goat—assuming he made the team—and be crucified at the gridiron altar. Such was the life of a professional athlete. You either toughened up enough to take it, or you folded. He'd almost folded, but he'd dug deeper and found an inner strength he'd never needed before.
After several grueling minutes, he extracted himself from the press and snuck out a back door to his truck. Instead of joining his teammates at the local sports bar, he headed home like an old horse heading back to the barn.
The team had flown in yesterday from training camp and stayed in a hotel near the stadium. Coach didn't want any distractions for the last preseason game. With training camp over, he was anxious to see his place again and to see Rachel.
Shit.
Rachel?
Where had that thought come from? Not that it wasn't true. She'd invaded his thoughts all week. He'd scanned the crowd from the sidelines several times looking for her. Even in that sparse crowd, he hadn't found her, and he'd fought off his disappointment.
Over his years in the league, he'd looked for Rachel in the crowd every time his other teams played Seattle. It was stupid to think she'd be there, but he looked anyway.
This was no good, and he knew it but couldn't stop himself. He sure as hell hoped his eagerness had to do with missing her friendship and nothing else.
Derek stopped at a grocery store on the way and bought a bottle of wine, incidentally Rachel's favorite. He pulled into the driveway and slowed as he passed her small house. The lights were on. Harvey sat in the driveway. Relief swept through him when he didn't spot any other vehicles.
Struggling with himself and his intentions, he parked next to her truck. His hand hovered on the door handle as he debated his next move. Shoving away his misgivings, he hopped out and bounded up the porch steps two at a time. Derek rapped lightly on her door. Unusually nervous and expectant, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, the bottle of wine in one hand, his heart in the other.
Maybe she was out on a date? His stomach twisted at the thought. He ran his hands over his face and stretched his back. Pain rocketed through his battered body, and he winced.
Relieved yet disappointed, Derek peered through the window, but the curtain blocked any view inside. Rachel didn't appear to be home. He brought his hand up to knock one final time.
She opened the door in her usual power suit. He swore she slept in the thing, but damn, she looked good. She had to be the prettiest thing in the Northwest. Her dark hair was done up in a ponytail that swayed as she stared at him in the porch light.
A stupid-assed smile spread across his face.
The man who wouldn't go away stood on the other side of the door in a faded T-shirt that clung to his muscles and an even more faded pair of jeans that clung to his thighs and his—
Oh Lord
. She cleared her throat. Looking up, she prayed her face didn't betray her bout of gutter wallowing.
Derek leaned against the doorjamb in a casual pose. An ugly purple bruise was visible on his left arm, and there was a small cut on his chin—battle scars from the afternoon's game. A bottle of wine dangled from his fingertips, and a lopsided grin enhanced his already gorgeous face. His dark eyes danced with a mixture of enthusiasm and pure joy for living. It'd been years since she'd seen that expression on his face.
"Welcome back.” Her double meaning wasn't lost on him. She momentarily forgot her wounded toe and immersed herself in those dancing eyes.
"Are you okay?” He pulled his gaze from her face and stared at her bare feet, in stark contrast to the business attire.
She stopped hopping on one foot. “Me? Of course.” Her toe throbbed harder than the bass at a rock concert while her heart beat its own welcome song.
"I've never known you to stand around like an ostrich, unless—” Derek's eyes narrowed at her.
"Don't go there."
He grinned. “Wouldn't dream of it."
"Are you going out?” He took in her clothes, her makeup, her hair.
"No, not at all. I always dress like this."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. The new Rachel."
"New and improved.” She smiled with what she hoped was cool confidence.
"I guess that's a matter of opinion.” His wry frown confirmed he bought her act.
She pursed her lips to keep from gloating. “So what brings you here? I thought you'd be out celebrating with the guys.”
And maybe the girls
. She willed her expression to remain neutral. One part of her ached to throw her arms around him and congratulate him—just like she used to do in college. The other wanted to slam the door in his face.
"I'm hoping to celebrate with a dear friend. If she'll let me in the door.” He held out the bottle and tried to look contrite. He failed. One corner of his mouth twitched in a barely suppressed grin. “I think I made the team.” He bounced on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy. The average man would be flat on his back nursing his wounds, but that wouldn't be his style.
"How do you know? Final cuts aren't until tomorrow."
Part of her rejoiced because he'd chosen to celebrate with her. Another smarter part rang a warning bell loud and clear. Most likely her feigned disinterest intrigued a temporarily lonely man. If she took his surprise visit too seriously, she'd be screwed and her heart would be hung on his trophy wall with all his other awards and conquests. She'd unhung herself years ago; she wasn't about to go back there now. Succumbing to his charm wasn't part of the deal. Getting close to him was.
"I just know. Will you celebrate with me?” His dark eyes pleaded with her and drew her in.
"Okay.” She hesitated, thrilled yet not thrilled by the invitation in his voice and his eyes. He ignored her discomfort and walked inside.
"Did you watch the game?” His eager voice rang with hope.
"Of course. Great catch. I swear they replayed that catch and the one you made in the Rose Bowl a hundred times during the postgame show and the nightly news."
"Oh great, I'm an overnight celebrity.” He winked. “Were you there?"
"I went with my brother. We split season tickets. Have for a few years."
He snorted. “He's one of the faithful dozen?” He referred to what the Seattle media called the remaining handful of die-hard season-ticket holders still hoping for a miracle season.
She nodded. “My family gets their sports any way they can."
"I looked for you but didn't see you.” He followed her into the kitchen.
She didn't want to hear stuff like that. With a heavy sigh, she took the bottle, careful not to touch his hand. For a moment, she stared at the label. He'd remembered her favorite brand.
"You're limping."
"Just stubbed my toe."
"Do I need to wrap you in Kevlar or what?"
"Nothing, you don't need to wrap me in anything.” Especially not his arms, even though they bulged with corded muscles and were dusted with dark hair.
He let it go. Rachel kept her back to him as she opened the bottle and poured two glasses. She turned and handed one to him.
Derek held it out, and they clicked glasses. “To a good season.” He studied her over the rim of his glass. His chocolate eyes found a secret, secluded corner in her heart and curled right up in front of the fire as if he belonged there. Her smarter half attempted to give him the boot like an unwanted stray cat.
"Tell me what you really thought."
"Of your game?” If she ever needed her shell of professionalism, she needed it now. With the exception of one good play, his performance didn't stack up against the other wide receivers.
"Yeah.” He looked at a faraway spot on the wall.