Play Date (Play Makers Book 3) (49 page)

Once Jason had brought his father up to date on the latest NFL injury report and Beth had stopped sniffling and finished showing pictures of the kids on her phone, the annoyingly perfect couple left, and Johnny moved up to the bed, trying not to show how worried he had been.

“Nice work, old man. You made Beth cry. Can’t you lay off the junk food for her sake?”

He expected his father to laugh, and was concerned when he just seemed depressed.

“You okay, Pop?”

“This one scared me,” his father admitted. “I’m glad you’re here, son. We need to talk.”

“Yeah, I know. I planted that back foot at a weird angle twice on Sunday. I’m working on it.”

Aaron Spurling gave a weak chuckle. “You looked great. And you won. So keep planting that foot, understood?” He cleared his throat. “All I could think about while they were hauling me here in that ambulance was that I might never meet little Aaron.”

Crap
. . .

“That’s crazy, Pop. The doctor says you’ll outlive us all.”

“That’s all you have to say? You run around with half-naked women in fancy cars at all hours of the day and night, using who knows what drugs? And that was fine with me, you know. Because I wanted you to have your fun. But you have responsibilities too.”

Johnny tried to laugh it off. “I date nice girls. I drive an SUV. And the strongest drug I use is aspirin. And I don’t eat chili dogs, which means I live cleaner than you.” Dropping the tone, he added more sincerely, “I’m on it, Pop. Really. Every time I see Jayce’s kids, it reminds me how much I want some of my own. Not just little Aaron, but a whole house full.”

His father nodded approvingly. “Beth has a girl for you, you know.”

“The schoolteacher?” Johnny grimaced. “Yeah, she’s mentioned her about a million times.”

“I’ve seen pictures. She’s an angel. Quieter than you’re used to obviously, but she’d make a good wife.”

“Fine. Get her in here and we’ll let the hospital chaplain hitch us up,” he said, teasing. But when his father looked depressed again, he added, “Tell Beth to set it up. But not until after the playoffs. Right?”

“Not until after the Super Bowl,” his father corrected him, suddenly cheerful. “There’s no stopping you, son. You’ll get there, and then you’ll win your first ring. And someday you’ll be like your old man. With two of ’em.”

“Maybe even three,” Johnny agreed, relaxing again. “I’ll tell you what. If me and my guys make it to the Super Bowl, I’ll take the schoolteacher dancing the very next night. And if we win, I’ll marry her within a month.”

“Just take her out to dinner,” his father said with a laugh. “Or better yet, the four of you can go out. I’ll tell Beth to arrange it for the weekend after the game.”

“Maybe you should come too, Pop. To make sure I don’t say anything stupid.”

“You
will
say something stupid, but it won’t matter. Because you’ll have that ring and it’ll dazzle her.” The coach’s eyes narrowed. “Just don’t drag it out. Get married first and work out the details later. That’s how your mother and I did it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he murmured, unimpressed by this glimpse into his parents’ courtship. When the door opened, he turned toward it gratefully. “Hey, Dub! Where’s Sophie?”

His father’s assistant, Jake “Dub” Dublin, shook his hand. “Once she heard her favorite coach was out of danger, she stopped at the nursery to ogle the babies.”

Aaron Spurling flashed a wide smile. “No wonder she’s my favorite. When are you going to make an honest woman of her?”

“Trust me, I’m trying.” Dub cleared his throat. “How’re you feeling, Coach? All kidding aside.”

“I’m good. You shouldn’t have rushed back. I gave you three days off during bye week for a reason. So you could seal the deal.”

“I’m on it,” Dub promised. Then he pulled up a chair. “What did I miss? I read the reports and it sounds like we’re in good shape. But I didn’t like the way Stoddard babied that elbow during Tuesday’s practice. You noticed it, right?”

“I’m concerned too,” Coach Spurling agreed, launching into the backup plan if their promising but slightly green quarterback couldn’t play on Sunday.

Johnny cleared his throat, reminding them that someone from the enemy camp was in the room. “I’ll go find the bride-to-be and convince her we should have a double wedding.”

“You’re engaged?” Dub demanded. “Why haven’t I heard about this? Oh, wait.” He chuckled. “Beth’s schoolteacher friend? You finally met her?”

“We’re all taking her out to dinner in February. And unless she has two heads, it’s official.” Grinning at his father, he asked him, “How’s
that
for a game plan?”

• • •

The pitch session was going strong, and while Erica felt self-conscious, she was in awe of the process. The A-teams sizzled with ideas and healthy competition, and even though she hated Frank Garr, she had to admit he had assembled an amazing team. Then there was Steve Adler and his two assistants, both male, both brilliant. And finally, Julio Jardin, the only team leader with a woman on his staff. Rumor had it that once Julio retired, Sherry Johannsen would take his place, becoming the first female vice president the agency had ever had.

KC Caldwell had offered a vague explanation for Erica’s presence, saying it was a trial policy where B-poolers could get some additional exposure rather than just laboring in the cubicles, anonymously providing raw talent and long hours in hopes of one day getting credit for their sketches, copywriting, and assorted brilliant ideas. She had seen doubt in the eyes of certain attendees, including Sherry, but had sensed encouraging vibes from Steve Adler and the rest of his staff.

As Caldwell listened attentively, the three teams had made their pitches, each hoping its idea would be the one presented to the client, Lager Storm beer. Lager Storm’s owner had originally asked for a print and Internet campaign, then had shocked them by changing course and demanding a Super Bowl commercial that would win awards and move his beer from a niche item to a household name.

Given the context, Erica had expected the pitches to involve busty girls and best buds in a bar setting. It made sense, and in fact, her own idea used those conventions as well, hopefully in a fresh way.

Unlike Frank’s, which went the predictable route. With time and resources, he had armed himself with a mock-up commercial where a barmaid with huge breasts and a low-cut top was complaining to the bartender on Super Bowl Sunday that the male patrons were so focused on the game she couldn’t get their attention. Not even with “the twins” front and center.

“Try a pair of these,” the bartender had advised, handing her two frosty bottles of Lager Storm. She returned to a cheering table and immediately got the attention she wanted, with a voice-over confirming her success:
If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Lager Storm beer.

It was marginally effective, but to Erica’s relief KC hadn’t seemed too impressed. Next came Julio’s presentation. He too had prepared a video, this time of a handsome cowboy on a gorgeous white horse in the middle of a desolate, sun-drenched plain. The gorgeous hunk wiped his brow, then pulled out his canteen, but it was empty. A voice with a distinctive, gravelly quality suspiciously like Sam Elliott’s offered sympathy: “When you work hard, you can’t afford to be thirsty. Lucky for you”—the voice paused and the camera panned into the distance, where a dust cyclone was forming—“a storm is brewing.” The dust cloud turned into a well-endowed cowgirl with long blonde hair and a skimpy costume, and of course she carried a tray of Lager Storm beers toward the mesmerized cowboy. Tagline?
A storm is brewing and its name is Lager Storm.

Visually arresting. And the voice was the perfect combination of Old West and sex. KC seemed impressed, as did Steve Adler, who nodded approvingly.

Now it was Adler’s turn, and he took a completely different route. Using a winter theme, he went traditional with a horse-drawn sleigh battling a gorgeous blizzard. Jingling bells, a warmly dressed, photogenic couple in love, and in the distance, an inn with smoke billowing from a chimney and a bright neon sign that proclaimed proudly
LAGER STORM Served Here
. And across the bottom of the eye-catching scene:
Enjoy the Storm
.

Erica loved it, and KC seemed charmed. If it were being aired during a Christmas Day game, it would have been perfect.

But in February? To a rowdy crowd? She knew it wouldn’t be appreciated. And so if she had to vote at this point, she’d probably go for the cowboy.

But it wasn’t time to vote yet, as KC quietly pointed out, saying, “Erica’s up next.”

She cleared her throat, but Julio beat her to it, saying respectfully, “I have a quick question about this new policy. No offense to you, Erica, because you’re among our best and brightest. But how are we making these selections? And isn’t it somewhat ambitious for a B-pooler to start with a Super Bowl ad?”

“Yeah, I’m curious too,” Frank drawled. “Why Erica? And why now?”

KC glared at him. “If I were you, I’d let it go.”

“Why should I? The rest of us worked hard to get to this point. Now you just hand it to her on a silver platter? I think we deserve an explanation.”

Stunned, Erica forced herself to look at her boss, who told her bluntly, “It’s up to you, Erica. Do I come clean? Or do I just tell them to sit back and be quiet? Because the last time I checked, I’m still in charge here.”

She knew exactly what he was asking her. Their settlement agreement had a gag clause. Neither party was supposed to talk about the incident or the remedy, and while it was mostly to protect the Caldwell Agency, it protected Erica too. If she succeeded with this pitch, she didn’t want anyone saying she didn’t deserve it on merit, and she imagined the rumors would skew in that direction.

But Frank’s expression was so triumphant, she just shrugged. “I’m fine either way, sir.”

“Fine.” He turned toward Julio. “I described it as a trial policy, but in fact it’s an accommodation. Because Erica has graciously agreed not to sue me into next week. One of our male employees subjected her to offensive treatment—”

“Offensive in
her
mind, no one else’s,” Frank interrupted angrily. “She would have been kicked out of court in a second and ordered to seek immediate counseling for that persecution complex of hers.”

Erica felt her cheeks burning and knew she should say something—anything—to defend herself. But she agreed with Frank on the issue of success in court. In fact, she hadn’t even threatened to sue because of that. All she had requested was that the incident be recorded in Frank’s personnel file for the protection of future victims. It was Caldwell who had taken up the cause, reluctantly at first, but to his credit, always with complete respect.

“This discussion is over,” the boss announced now. “And it doesn’t leave this room, understood? Part of the settlement was to keep these details confidential. And I’m a man of my word.”

“It’s fine,” Julio murmured.

“Yes, let’s move on,” Steve Adler agreed. “I don’t care how we got here, I just want to hear Erica’s idea.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re a football fan, right? So this is right up your alley.”

“Yes, thank you.” She glanced at KC, who nodded. Then she stole a look at Frank, who was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck and a proud smile on his face like he had accomplished what he wanted by unnerving her. Sabotaging her.

She already had so many disadvantages. No staff to help her prepare. No access to, or time for, elaborate video presentations.

But she had Johnny Spurling, the guy who could make or break any team.

Smiling with grim confidence, she activated her only video prop—the photo of the NFL quarterback, now flashing across the sixty-inch monitors. “As Mr. Adler said, I’m a football fan. Better still, I understand football fans. And I know who their number-one hero is. Quarterback Johnny Spurling of the Portland Lancers. His team is crushing it lately, and every oddsmaker in the business considers them a prime contender for the Super Bowl. If you have Johnny in your Super Bowl commercial, you win. It’s as simple as that.”

Frank jumped half out of his seat. “Except it can’t be done. The Spurlings don’t do promo except for the league and for charity. It’s Aaron Spurling’s mantra. No beer, no cars, no nuthin’. Not ever. And his sons live by it too.”

“Until now,” Erica agreed. “That’s what makes this particular idea so special. Johnny will do it. And his father will be fine with it.”

Adler chuckled. “I’m intrigued. Let’s hear it.”

She exhaled slowly, then began. “Johnny Spurling has a nickname. The Player. And since he’s gorgeous and cocky, everyone thinks it’s about his womanizing. But they’re wrong. I was a freshman at Cal when he was playing there, and it was all about his skills on the field. My guess is, it bothers him that it went from player to
play
er. And think about it,” she added reverently. “Why won’t the Spurlings do product endorsement? They want to control their image. To reflect well on their family and the game. And so . . .” She gestured toward the closest monitor, trying not to get too distracted by Johnny’s hunky body. “We use that.”

For once, silence dominated the room, so she continued. “Picture a scene like the one in Frank’s ad. A lively sports bar. But not on Super Bowl Sunday. Just a place where guys congregate. To bullshit and pick up women. And where women gather to talk and—hopefully—meet a nice guy.” She gave Caldwell a confident smile. “The patrons will be good-looking, but I want a slightly different vibe. Not Hollywood glitz. We’re looking for healthy, outdoorsy sexiness. The kind of beauty—and physiques—that come from fitness and vitality. And I’ve got a color scheme and tone in mind. It’s lively, but echoes nature again, not diamonds. Here’s a rough idea.” She passed around a stack of designs she had created and waited until they all had copies. When Steve Adler and Julio nodded, she knew she was on the right track, and her confidence burgeoned.

“So that’s the setting. We see John Spurling at the bar with two buddies. He’s clearly the dominant male in the room, radiant with health and power and sex appeal. A hot blonde walks in, and one of his friends points her out, saying, ‘There she is again. Man . . .’