Romancing the Running Back (25 page)

A tear tracked down her cheek, and he reached up with his free hand to brush it away.

“I love you so, so much. I don’t want another day to go by where I’m not attached to you in as many ways possible. I want your heart to belong to me, like mine does to you.”

She wiped at her own cheeks now, which were damp. “Stop,” she whispered. “You’re making me cry.”

But he was on a roll. “I came here not just to see you, but to make you a promise, that I will never take for granted the beauty you will bring into my life. I might not always understand it,” he added with a rueful smile, “but I’ll appreciate it.”

She just shook her head, as if trying to force herself to calm down.

“So, having said all of that, I’m hoping that you, Anastasia Fisher, will say yes.”

She waited, then added with a choked laugh, “Yes to what?”

He grinned. “To me. To marry me.”

“Still not divorced,” she whispered.

“That’s the past. And let’s face it, we’re not getting married before Cassie and Trey. They’d kill us.”

“She would, yes.” Anya gave a wobbly smile.

He waited a beat. “Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes.” She bent down, cupped his face with her hands and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him while her fingers sifted through his hair.

“You have to get up now.”

He pressed his face to her stomach for a moment, breathing her in. “In a second.”

“You’re kneeling on a hotel floor. Ew.”

He looked down, then back up. “Only you would take the time to note that in the middle of a proposal.”

She gave him a sly grin. “But you won’t take me for granted.”

“Never, hummingbird.”

“How’s my veil?” Cassie stepped back so Anya could adjust it. Anya did, smoothing it down on one side, then Cassie stepped forward again to look at herself in the standing mirror.

Sandra Wainwright, Cassie’s mother, gripped Anya’s shoulders and squeezed gently. “Thank you. I’m all thumbs about this. If it were up to me, we’d still be trying to button that darn thing in the back.”

Anya smiled a little. “Hidden buttons are difficult,” she said, trying to remain diplomatic. When Sandra stepped forward to rub her daughter’s forearm, Anya tried to slide farther back to give the mother-daughter duo some space. She sat on the chair beside Mellie and Irene, both of whom had been uncharacteristically quiet through the dressing and all-female photograph sessions that afternoon.

“What’s up with you two?” she asked, nudging Mellie, who sat to her left.

Mellie just shook her head and stared straight ahead.

Irene glanced toward her, then shook her own head.

Well, okay then.
Maybe nerves were getting the better of them.

A knock on the door made both girls jolt. Anya gave them a telling look, mouthing,
Calm down
before going to crack the door open.

Ken Jordan stood there, one finger tugging at the collar of his dress shirt, which gleamed white against his tanned skin. “Is she ready? Are you ready? Is everyone in there ready? We need to get going, here.”

Anya smiled again, fighting hard to keep her calm in a sea of antagonized family members. She was Cassie’s designated rock. She had to remain steady. “We’re just about there. Have they finished seating all the guests yet?”

“Finished seating, and everyone’s waiting.” He huffed out a breath. “I don’t know why I wasn’t allowed to sit in on the photos. It’s my daughter.”

“My daughter too, Ken.” Sandra stepped up beside Anya, looking as cool and calm as Anya hoped to look. “It was a female thing. You’ll have plenty of time with the bride later. Now, go in and tell our daughter how gorgeous she is, then bring her upstairs.” With a soft kiss on his cheek, Sandra breezed by them toward the stairs.

Anya grinned at Ken’s dumbfounded look. “Smile, Mr. Jordan. It’s a good day.” When he just blinked at her, she added, “Don’t forget, you get to do this two more times! Mellie, Irene, let’s get into position! Your dad needs a minute alone with the bride.”

*   *   *

Josiah rocked back on his heels in his dress shoes, hands clasped behind him. Stephen made a grunting sound to his left,
clearly aggravated at having to wait for the ladies to take their sweet time to the altar.

Josiah didn’t mind. It gave him a chance to look over the crowd and take in the number of people who loved Trey, or Cassie, or both of them, and were excited to share the day with the couple. His gaze caught Anya’s family—father, mother, and stepmother, sitting peacefully together—and he nodded in acknowledgement. They all gave him short waves back.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Trey muttered, twisting a little. “They did pictures an hour ago. They’ve been dressed. Why—”

“Breathe,” Josiah said back, under his breath. He didn’t want the mic the pastor was wearing to pick up their conversation. “You’ll see her in a second. Just chill out.”

Trey turned then, facing him fully. His face was a little pale, but otherwise, he looked good. “Is the flower thing straight? I forgot to look before I walked out here. Tell me it’s straight. Anya will murder me if it’s not.”

“First, it’s a boutonniere,” Josiah corrected, grinning that he knew that.
Thank you, Anya.
“And secondly, yes, she would kill you. But you’re good,” he added, nudging the flower stem just a hair to the left with one finger then giving him an approving nod. “What’s with the nerves? You’re used to a crowd of ten thousand, not three hundred.”

“I’m nervous because . . . damn,” he muttered as the music for the bridesmaids started. “Because I haven’t seen her all day. When I see her, I’ll be fine.”

That didn’t make much sense to him, but he simply nodded for his friend’s benefit and watched as Mellie, Coach Jordan’s youngest daughter and Cassie’s youngest sister, made her way down the aisle. She looked somber, almost as if she were purposefully bottling her normally cheerful personality. Or maybe it was just the seriousness of the day.

Irene followed next, looking pleased with herself, standing quietly beside Mellie at the altar.

And then there she was. No, not the bride. Anya. She glided down the aisle on wheels, or that’s how it looked to him. She was the most graceful, elegant thing he’d ever seen in her long gray dress. Her thick ropes of blond hair were artfully arranged in some curly updo that probably weighed a ton and would take hours to disassemble.

And suddenly, he understood what Trey meant about just needing to see Cassie. Everything in him relaxed as he watched Anya stroll down the aisle, a bouquet of flowers in her hand, and a serene smile tilting her lips. His gorgeous hummingbird.

God, he couldn’t wait until she was wearing white, and walking toward him and not the other side of the aisle.

Killian Reeves’ son, Charlie, came next, walking with intense concentration, his ceremonial—and empty—pillow tipped perfectly. Their kicker had been reluctant at first to let his son participate, preferring to keep his private life completely separate. But Cassie and Anya had both assured him Charlie’s name would be left out of the program, and he wouldn’t have to stay for the reception. Just a few photos that would stay private. As he got to the end of the aisle, Charlie bolted to the left and ran to sit between Killian and Aileen in the second row, looking mighty proud of himself.

There was a pregnant pause, and then the music swelled. The audience rose to their feet, turning in unison to watch as the doors opened and Cassie stood at the end of the aisle, on Coach Jordan’s arm. She looked perfect, and not at all nervous
that all eyes were on her.

But Josiah’s own gaze wandered back to Anya. He grinned when he saw she was watching him, too.

You and me next
, he mouthed.

You and me next
, she echoed, and winked at him.

Cassie reached the altar, and Josiah all but felt Trey’s sigh of relief.

And then the pastor began. “Friends and family, we have gathered here today . . .”

Keep reading for a special preview of the next book in the Santa Fe Bobcats series

COMPLETING THE PASS

Available April 2016 from InterMix

Josh Leeman walked into the Bobcats headquarters and gave Kristen a wary smile. “Hey, I think someone is expecting me for . . . you okay?”

Kristen, the front office’s high-octane, almost unbelievably efficient administrative assistant, gave him a weak smile in return. “Sure, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

Josh couldn’t help noticing she was wringing her hands as she said it. And for the first time since he’d met her several seasons ago, she was missing that certain polish that she carried around with her. Her hair was down, rather than back in its typical smooth bun, and looked a little tangled, as if she’d forgotten to brush it before heading to work. Her sweater was baggy, and if she wore any makeup, he couldn’t tell.

“Right. That’s good.” He rocked back on his heels, taking in the front lobby. It was a rare day he ended up in the front offices. Not much call for him here. He was the guy who stuck to the shadows of the team. Forgotten, until called upon. And he’d never wanted to be called upon before.

Somehow, it had happened anyway.

“So, I think Coach Jordan is expecting me.”

She nodded, nibbling on her lip and making a quick call to announce him. When she waved him on toward the double doors, she looked . . . worried.

Kristen was a known mother hen for the team. If she was worried, there was something to worry about. With this career, the options were pretty limited. He was being traded, or just straight cut. Try as he might, he struggled to think of a worse situation than being cut from the team he’d spent four years with.

He walked through the hallways, feeling insignificant beside the team photos of Bobcats past. Not to mention the few gigantic portraits of the NFL MVPs the Bobcats had held on their rosters over the decades.

As he entered the main bay of offices for the coaches and the owners, he approached the desk that sat in the middle of the open space with trepidation. There was something about Frank, the man who manned the desk, that terrified him. Maybe that was a pussy thing to say, that he was terrified of an old guy who might have been sixty-five, or maybe ninety-five . . . but it was also the damn truth.

“Hey, Frank.” The man didn’t look up from his typing. With hands that looked gnarled as tree roots, he was typing what had to be at least eighty words a minute, and he wasn’t stopping anytime soon. “Uh, Kristen sent me back.”

“Coach Jordan’s office,” the older man barked, nodding his head toward the left back corner office. His fingers never stopped. “Go on in.”

“Right.” He paused a moment, then said, “Thanks.”

Might as well have said nothing at all, for all the attention Frank paid him. Heading back, he wiped his damp palms on
his jeans before knocking on the door.

The worst they can do is cut you. You try out for another team, or you go on to something else. Calm down.

“Come on in,” he heard Coach Jordan say. When he entered, he saw the quarterback coach sitting across from the head coach in a comfortable leather high-back chair.

The head coach and the quarterback coach. This . . . was unexpected.

“Kristen called and said you needed to see me?” Josh took a few steps in, pausing by the door.

Coach Jordan nodded at it. “Go ahead and close it. Have a seat.”

He closed the door and took a seat beside Clayton Barnes, the quarterback coach that joined the team last year. Clayton reached over to shake his hand, but said nothing. No smiles, no friendly winks, nothing.

The worst they can do is cut you.

Coach Jordan glanced at his wall a moment, as if still gathering his thoughts. His naturally tanned skin—thanks to his Hawaiian ancestry—seemed even darker. Likely he’d been on vacation with his two teenage daughters, one of whom Josh was pretty sure would be heading to college this summer. He followed his coach’s gaze to the wall of photos. There were ones of his two teenagers, when they were younger. A few of him and the girls with his now ex-wife. Awkward. And a few newer additions with Cassie Wainwright—now Cassie Owens—his daughter from a past relationship he’d only recently connected with.

In the center of the grouping was a large photo of Cassie, her father, and two sisters on Cassie and Trey’s wedding day. The bride wore white, and a smile that could light up the Bobcats stadium for Monday night football.

“Nice picture,” he said, because the silence was killing him. When Coach glanced at him, he pointed to the wedding photo. “She looks happy.”

That brought out a small smile in his stern face. “She was gorgeous. Prettiest bride you could ask for. Perfect day.”

Josh nodded, because it was polite. He hadn’t been there—hadn’t been invited, not that he minded. No way could the couple invite the whole team, and while he and Trey—the Bobcats star quarterback—were friendly given their positions, they weren’t really friends.

“That brings me to what we need to discuss.” Settling back in his chair, Coach Jordan steepled his hands together and tapped his chin a few times.

The worst they can do is cut you.

“Cassie and Trey are currently on their honeymoon,” he went on. “They delayed the trip because Cassie had some conferences and such. Nerd Herd stuff.” Josh nodded again. “There was an . . . incident.”

Josh blinked, then looked over at Coach Barnes. But the quarterback coach simply sat, stone-faced.

“Incident?” He wiped his hands on his jeans again. “Is everyone okay?”

“Nothing life threatening. Cassie is fine. I’d have had to kill him if he brought my daughter back hurt,” the coach muttered. “But no, the injury was Trey’s.”

Those hands that had continued to sweat started to feel clammy. “Nothing major, I hope.”

“A sprain,” Coach Barnes said, sounding annoyed more than upset. “Left ankle. Who tells a multi-million dollar quarterback hang gliding is a good idea?”

“Easy,” Coach Jordan said. Coach Barnes glared, but settled back in his chair. “It’s a pretty bad sprain. We can hope he’ll be back for Game One.”

Josh nodded again.

“You get where he’s going with this?” Coach Barnes asked.

“Uh . . . Trey’s hurt.” Barnes gave him a disbelieving look. “But he’s going to be okay. Right?”

“It’s a sprain. His foot didn’t fall off.” Coach Barnes looked at Coach Jordan with a
What’s with this guy?
look.

“We can’t guarantee he will be back by the first game. He definitely won’t be playing in the preseason match ups. So that means we’re looking at you to carry us forward.”

Josh froze, looking between the two coaches. “I’m sorry, what?”

Coach Barnes just rolled his eyes.

Coach Jordan seemed to have found some Zen in the whole thing. “Leeman, we’re saying you’re our go-to guy right now.”

“But you’re looking for a replacement. Right?” His hands started to shake, so he shoved them in the pockets of his jeans. “To step in.”

“
You
are the replacement. It’s what you’re paid for,” Barnes snapped.

“With Trey only missing preseason, and maybe a game or two, we don’t feel it’s prudent to grab another quarterback at this time,” Coach Jordan said more diplomatically. Then he paused. “That’s code for ‘It’s not in the budget.’”

He could respect a budget. He was raised with the words “It’s not in the budget” being a weekly mantra from his single mother.

“So you’re it.” Coach Barnes stood and slapped him on the shoulder. “I hope you’re ready for the spotlight. Because when it becomes news Owens isn’t starting game one, you’re going to be the person everyone starts watching. Closely.” He stood and left without another word.

Coach Jordan just gave him a wan smile. “We told you this now, in May, so you’re ready to put your nose to the grindstone in July for training camp. Don’t put on twenty pounds of fat we have to work off of you before you’re any good to us.”

“Yeah. Sure. Right.” He was nodding again like a damned bobble head. “Don’t get fat. Got it.”

“Stay healthy. Stay in shape. And for the love of God, don’t go hang gliding.” His coach motioned to the door with his head, and Josh was dismissed.

As he walked back down the hallway, he paused in front of the 1989 Super Bowl championship Bobcats team photo. He took in the mullets, the porn-stashes, the out of control curls . . . and wanted to vomit.

Apparently, cutting him
wasn’t
the worst thing they could do.

*   *   *

Carrington Gray walked into her father’s hospital room with a quick knock-knock.

“Hey, Daddy.” She set flowers on the table and walked over to the chair she knew her mother would have vacated only for an emergency bathroom break or sustenance run. Maeve Gray was a loyal, loving wife. Stooping down, she kissed her father’s cheek with care. He’d lost weight.

He turned eyes that seemed a little too cloudy for comfort toward her. The top of his head was still wrapped in bandages from the severe sunburn he’d received. Monitors beeped, and the IV that provided hydration ran into his reddened, bandaged arm. “Hello.”

“Daddy?” What kind of medication was he on? “Dad. How’re you feeling?” She hesitated—not wanting to hurt him—then gingerly took hold of his hand, which was pink, but not burned at least.

He shook his head, then nodded, then shook again. “Hello.”

Carri blinked. “Daddy. You know who I am, right?”

He blinked back, as if in a copycat gesture of her own. “Of course. Maeve, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be in my room. If my father catches us—”

“Herb.” Maeve walked in quickly, coming to stand by the other side of the bed. “It’s Carri. Carrington. Your daughter. I’m Maeve.” In a gesture that made Carri’s throat clog, her mother carefully brought her father’s hand up to cup her cheek.

“Maeve,” he whispered, eyes watering.

Carri felt awkward, as if intruding on a private, personal moment. With shaking hands, she stood and walked out to the hallway, sinking onto a chair. The cracked vinyl and plastic scratched at the backs of her thighs. A woman in blue scrubs and a white coat walked into her father’s room, and a moment later, her mother walked out to sit beside her.

Maeve sighed as she settled down into the chair beside Carri’s, then reached over to place a hand over Carri’s shaking ones. “I’m glad you could come, Carrington. How was the drive from Utah? Or did you fly?”

“Mom.” It suddenly made sense, why her mother had been so vague about the “accident” that had put her father into the hospital. Who rushed to the ER because of a simple sunburn? “I’m here now. Can you please tell me what’s going on? The whole truth, this time.”

Maeve’s lip trembled, but she firmed it up and nodded once. “I was at work when your father . . . wandered away.”

Wandered away, like a puppy that slipped out an open gate? Like a toddler who jimmied the safety lock? “Mom . . .”

“He was gone for nearly twenty-four hours. In this heat, he was pretty dehydrated, and very sun burnt.” She laughed, but the sound was watery. “You know how he always forgot to bring a hat with him when he’d go to your soccer games. With that bald egg he calls a head—”

“Mom.” She said it firmly now, because she was afraid if her mother kept going, she’d break. “Tell me the truth. What’s going on?”

“Dementia,” Maeve whispered, looking back toward her husband’s open room door. “They’ll run a few more tests, but it’s nearly impossible to deny at this point. He’s been . . . forgetful lately. Calling things the wrong word, calling me his mother’s name a few times. I just thought, hey, old age, right?” Her mother reached up one hand to wipe at the corner of her eye. “I thought maybe retirement was getting to him, he was watching too much television. I started bringing home those crossword puzzles and the . . . oh, the numbers in the boxes.”

“Sudoku.”

“Yes.” She laughed again, but it was less watery this time. “See? Happens to everyone, the whole forgetting words thing. It wasn’t often, but it had started happening with enough frequency I’d convinced him to head to his doctor. They confirmed it. We were going to tell you when you came to visit next. It’s not the sort of thing you talk about on the phone. Then this . . .” Maeve covered her mouth on a sob.

Carri clenched her hands in her lap. They’d deliberately kept her out of the loop.

Her mother continued. “He was . . . was gone. Alone. For hours, Carrington. Hours. Wandering around, no clue where he was going. In just his house shoes, a T-shirt, and shorts. They found him at a park, watching children play a junior league soccer game. A parent saw him, spoke to him, saw the burns and called 911.” Her mother swallowed and smiled, though her lips quivered. “He told the police he was watching his daughter. It wasn’t even a field you’d ever played at before.”

Carri reached up to knuckle away a tear of her own. “Oh, Mom. Oh my God.”

With a puff of breath, Maeve pulled herself together quickly. “We’ll figure this out. We have some long-term care insurance. I can’t come home permanently. We can’t afford for me to retire right now. But we’ve been paying those insurance people money for years. They can send a professional to sit with him while I’m gone, make sure he’s safe.”

“Of course they can.” Not sure at all what long term care insurance did or didn’t do, Carri quickly made a mental note to look it up, and see if she could help. “I’m guessing you need an official diagnosis first, right?”

“We were still in the testing stage with his neurologist, but I think this should seal the deal on that front. He should be released from the ICU tomorrow afternoon.” Suddenly, Maeve threw her arms around Carri’s shoulders. “I’m just so glad you came.”

Carrie patted her mother’s back and decided to not think what it meant that her mother had doubted their only child wouldn’t come home when her father was in critical condition in the hospital.

It wasn’t flattering, that was for sure.