Heather Graham
Authors: Dante's Daughter
Heather Graham
For my Aunts Grace Astrella and Ida Mangiulli with love
PROLOGUE
“F
OURTEEN, EIGHTY-THREE …”
Sam Loper, the quarterback, was calling off the numbers, hunched at the scrimmage line. Eighteen sweating, panting, and tautly wired men were listening intently, straining to hear. This was it—the last play of the game as the thirty remaining seconds in the final quarter ticked away.
The Sarasota Saxons from Florida needed a miracle to win. They held the ball, but they were forty-five feet away from a touchdown and they were behind the Grizzlies by three points.
Everyone wanted that ball—everyone except Kent Hart, super receiver and veteran of too many games to count.
His thoughts were running along a different vein as he heard Sam’s numbers change in warning. The defense they were facing had just switched their tackle positions, and the Saxons play would change.
Don’t throw it to me, Sammy. Please don’t throw the damn pigskin to me!
“—ten—”
Inwardly, Kent was groaning; every inch of his body seemed to be groaning. He’d been tackled to the ground at least ten times already, tramped by guys averaging six feet four and two hundred and eighty pounds. Where did they breed these guys? he wondered with a shake of his head. Football players were supposed to be big, yeah, but this was pushing it a bit far.
To make matters worse it was a cold, late November day, and a drizzling rain that felt more like snow flurries or tiny daggers of ice was falling.
“Fifty-four!”
The crowd roared; every person in the stadium seemed to stand in unison like a giant wave as the last number was called and the ball was hiked into the quarterback’s hands. Sam started to move backward as massive defensive tackles rushed in to try and sack him.
Kent began to run—instinctively more than anything else—toward the goal line, with his eyes back on Loper. There was a huge heap of tangled men before the quarterback, who was still managing to dance backward.
Then Kent saw that Sam had his eye on him, too. Kent was the only receiver who had a prayer in hell of getting the ball. Tony Cleary, a giant raised in the Nebraska cornfields, was bearing down on him, but he couldn’t make it—not before the ball could be thrown and fly the distance through the air.
Kent’s arms went up. Instinct or conditioning? he wondered in split seconds of self-directed humor. And in those same split seconds his mind was also asking another question: What the hell am I doing out here? A grown man earning his living by running around with a pigskin ball. I’m too old for this. I’m too—
Thunk!
The ball seemed to spin straight into his hands with a malicious will all its own. Kent automatically tucked it in against his chest. He took a deep breath and started running again—but not without a quick glance down the field.
Hail Mary. It looked like a buffalo stampede! They were charging after him. Oh, man. He’d been hit one time too many already today. The coaches should have pulled him out of the game.
Instinct. His feet moved mechanically. His muscles strained, stretched, tautened …
He heard his own breath, like a whistle on the wind. No, it was more like a damned chugging steam engine. The drizzling rain or snow—whatever the hell it was—pelted against him with greater fury, slicing into his face, and he was perspiring! Sticky sweat was dripping into eyes, blinding him.
All around him, the crowd was screaming, shouting, jumping up and down.
But Kent barely saw the stands because something stood before him that promised safety and reprieve: the goal line. That magical scratch on the earth that would get him off the field and signify the end of the game. He could feel the ground thundering behind him. He ducked his head and glanced back. Tony Cleary was right on his tail, and Bob Hedgekin, all three hundred pounds of him, was probably right behind Cleary.
A burst of adrenaline raced through Kent’s blood. He was on fire. Everything hurt; his ankle hurt from the first tackle he’d received during the first quarter; his kneecaps burned; his shoulder was in agony; and his muscles ached … every single one of them, individually and then all together in a shrieking harmony of pain.
But that line, that magic line, was just ahead of him.
Please, God, he thought desperately, just let me get over that line—and away from these two-ton maniacs.
He should have been thinking team spirit. He could win this game for the Saxons. A touchdown now would take the game, keep them in the playoffs, maybe even help get them to the Superbowl.
Team spirit—great. He was a team player, but right now he was running in the interest of self-preservation.
Wham!
Kent let out a grunt as someone slammed against his left shoulder. Then long, muscled arms flew around his legs.
Kent saw the ground before him, flying up to meet him. But he also saw that line, the magic line. Furiously, he pitched his shoulders forward, throwing himself as far as he could. The air was alive with howls and shrieks.
All Kent cared about was the ground as it rushed toward him with an ungodly speed.
Slam!
And he was down, twisting his face automatically to save his already twice-broken nose.
He was over the line. He smiled because he had won the game for the Saxons, but the flight hadn’t saved him—impetus was still sending the defensive tackles flying.
“Ah, come on, guys,” he shouted, “have some heart—I’m over the damn line!”
But the stampede didn’t stop. Bodies were still hurtling forward, one by one. Tony Cleary landed on him first, charging into his ribs. Someone else collided hard into his hip. It was a damned pileup! Bodies continued to fall, with Kent on the bottom. An elbow jammed into his gut, a knee into his back …
He lay there, trying to breathe, feeling the mud under him and the weight on top of him. Then the bodies started moving. The crowd was still screaming. The game was over. Miraculously, the Saxons were the victors.
“Hell of a catch, Hart,” someone said regretfully. It was one of the bodies crawling off him. Kent couldn’t even see who.
Vaguely, he heard the crowd’s chant taking form. They were shouting his name. “Hart! Hart! Hart! Hart!”
Ah, yes! Hail Caesar! he thought—if they only knew he had been running to save his own skin.
Kent closed his eyes and opened them again. Sam Loper was there, extending a hand to him. “We did it, dammit, Kent! We did it! Thirty seconds remaining, and we pulled it—”
Sam broke off as his jubilant teammates rushed him, tossing him up in the air, catching him to carry him off the field. To his pained horror, Kent realized he was about to receive the same treatment. Harry Kolan, one big s.o.b. out of Alabama, was throwing Kent up. Kent was six feet three and a healthy two hundred pounds himself; Harry Kolan threw him around as if he were a baby. But only to lift him. Kent found himself balanced on the shoulders of two of his teammates. He was cold; his teeth were chattering. But the crowd was still roaring, all the football fans who had followed them to this, a key playoff game—people who had spent their savings on a trip to California just to support the team in their rise to the top …
He tried to smile. He tried real hard. Kent thought it was more like twisting his lips into a position, then allowing the rain to freeze them there. He lifted a hand to wave. They were still shrieking his name—his and Loper’s. Take Heart from Hart—Kill ’em, Cougar—All the Way, Saxons! Streamers were flying high, only somewhat bedraggled from the rain.
Kent kept waving.
Harry slapped him on the rump.
“My man, my man! What a party we’re gonna have tonight!”
“Yeah, sure,” Kent managed through his frozen smile.
He didn’t want to have a party. All he wanted to do was soak the cold from his bones and the pain from his joints in a hot tub, maybe have a small scotch while he was at it. No—a big scotch. A giant scotch. And then he wanted to sleep on a firm mattress with clean, fresh sheets …
“Kent! Hot damn, we did it! We beat the Grizzlies!”
As soon as he landed on his feet in the locker room, Kent was swallowed in a bear hug by Sam Loper. Sam enthusiastically slapped his palms against Kent’s ribs. “The last seconds! We pulled it out. We—”
“Boys”—it was the head coach interrupting—“there’s little for me to say. You knew what you had to do, and you did it. Enjoy yourselves tonight, but remember we’re going to have to work like hell next week. And Kent—don’t you dare talk to me about retirement.”
Kent smiled wearily. Everyone started talking at once again.
“Damn, did you guys do it!”
“We made it!”
“Whoo-eeee!”
“Loper and Hart all the way … Superbowl, here we come!”
Faces were swimming before Kent’s own, most of them young, eager—and incredulously pleased. They were the faces of his friends, his teammates. Guys he worked and sweated with, guys that, for the most part, he liked. But why, he wondered, did they all seem to think that the only way to offer their congratulations was to slam against his abused shoulders and ribs?
“Hey, guys, thanks, but Loper’s the quarterback. Go and beat on him for a while!” Loper is also eleven years younger than I am, Kent thought wryly.
Nothing was going to stay the enthusiasm in the locker room. Loper was heralded again, and every player congratulated every other player as champagne bottles were shaken and popped, spraying everyone. Then the news guys were in. Kent grabbed his clothes quickly and tried to escape into the showers. He knew there was one little whirlpool in there, and he intended to get to it.
Loper caught his arm. At twenty-five Loper was still young for the game. He wasn’t particularly big, but he was as quick as lightning on the field, and had an uncanny knack for getting rid of the ball before the tackles could get near him. He had made history with his passing game. On the field he was a phenomenon. Off the field he was a nice kid. A great kid. Bright green eyes, sandy hair. The perfect hero, Kent thought. And ripe for the fame, eager to accept it.
He isn’t old and tired and worn, Kent thought a little wryly; assessing his own attributes wasn’t always an easy thing to do.
“Kent! Aren’t you going to talk to the networks? They’re clamoring for a word with you.”
Kent placed an arm on Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy, you do the talking. You’re the quarterback. You’re the man of the hour—and you deserve it! You go on out there and tell them what they want to hear. And remember, be humble! Everybody loves a humble winner.”
“Kent—”
“Go on, Sam!”
“But you’re the one—”
“Who happened to be in the way of the ball, that’s all. Give me a break, Sam. I’m the old man of the team, remember? I’ve got to go soak the bones. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Sam said slowly.
Kent smiled as he turned around and headed for the door to the showers. Sam wouldn’t have to act humble—he was humble. An All-American who deserved the title in every sense of the word. He was not only willing but eager to give the other guy his due. He also lived, ate, worked, played, dreamed, and breathed football.
I did that, too, once upon a time, Kent reminded himself. What had been getting to him so much lately? He knew he’d been instrumental in taking a fledgling team near the top. They even had a chance of reaching that pinnacle now …
I’m tired, that’s all, he told himself. Maybe it was his age, although he knew that in the “real world” thirty-six wasn’t considered that old. But nineteen of those years had been spent on the field, first in high school and college, then, at the age of twenty-one he had joined the pros, thanks to one man. A friend he had lost, years ago. He shook himself. He didn’t want to get morbid.