Completing the Pass (17 page)

“Sooo, how are you and Joshua getting along?”

And just like that, the magical spell was broken. Carri shifted a little, and her mother's hand dropped from her back. “We're just spending time together. Company, and all that. Please don't make anything out of it.”

“That's not what Gail said,” Maeve said in a singing voice. “She said you were in Josh's apartment, and you came out of his bedroom still—”

“Oh, look at the time.” Carri popped up like her seat had an Eject button. “I'm going to go check on Dad. Thanks for the talk, Mom!” She scurried out of the bedroom, knowing if she could reach the family room where her father slept, her mother wouldn't chase her in to confront her.

Safety was in the snoring man's den.

She settled down on the love seat catty-corner from the sofa where her father stretched out. One leg was on the sofa, the other hung down with his foot flat on the floor. An arm was flung over his head, the other on his stomach clutching the remote to the muted TV with a death grip that wouldn't be loosened with a power tool.

Some things, Carri thought with a smile, didn't change no matter what. Fuck dementia.

As she thought it, her phone beeped with a text. It was Jess. With reluctance, Carri opened the long-winded text that had been sent in two parts.

And as she read, she felt her heart pick up speed. She scanned, then scanned again. The gist wasn't shocking . . . that Jess was done with her job, and was giving notice. Carri shot a quick text back asking how long she was willing to continue working. Jess replied almost instantly. She wasn't going to up and leave, but she was going to start moving on to her own investment real estate, and it was a conflict of interest with her current job. She wrote that Carri had inspired her, and she wanted to give it a go herself.

“Flattering,” Carri muttered, even while knowing it was unfair. She'd left Jess propping the property management company up. Nothing her employee and friend couldn't handle, but still. They'd both assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that Carri would be back within a week, maybe two. Instead, it had been over three months.

Fighting back the tears at the situation, Carri forced as much cheer and goodwill into her reply text as she could.

Why didn't they make an emoji for This Sucks but I'm Dealing?

In the end, she went with a generic smiley face, and told Jess she understood, thank you for being there when she couldn't, and she'd do her best to call in the next day or so in order to put details together.

Jess replied back instantaneously, almost as if she'd been holding her breath while waiting for Carri's reply.

Thank you. Seriously, thank you. I will be as helpful as I can be before I go. If you want me to start looking for new PMs, let me know.

Carri bit back a snort.
No, I've got it. Thanks for offering. Just keep me updated and I'll call you tomorrow.

She was about to silence her phone when it buzzed once more. But not from Jess.

I miss you. When do we get to have a sleepover?

She grinned at that.
Josh, you nerd.

Sleepovers went out of style when we left high school.

A sleepover in high school wouldn't have gone over too well with the moms.

All the better.

With that, she included the devil smile.

You're naughty. I love it.

The L-word caused a quick fumble of her thumbs while typing up the next reply.

Off you go. Be important. Throw the football. Hit your targets. Aim high. Insert other generic inspirational quote here.

You've got a way with words. You should look into a career change: motivational speaker. Seriously, though. Think about the sleepover.

She wanted to reply . . . but couldn't.

Coward.

Yup.

Media training felt like failure and tasted like death.

Josh walked out of the board room of the Bobcats home office as if he'd been run over by an eighteen-wheeler that had backed up and did it again for good measure. Physically, he was fine. It was his soul that had died a little.

Simon Poehler, their media manager, followed him out. “You've improved a ton. You're really looking good in there. I'm impressed.”

“Yeah.” Josh rubbed at the back of his neck. It wasn't failing the job itself that was weighing so heavily on him. It was the rush he'd felt during. That sense of accomplishment, of being noticed, of liking the attention. As if the attention was the end goal for him, and not the win on the field, the final hike of the ball.

That wasn't good. He knew himself, knew his own personality. Knew that attention went straight to his head. That he could very easily become a super-dick if he wasn't careful.

Man, this was a lot easier when nobody gave a shit what he said or how he said it.

Coach Barnes poked his head out of his office as Josh and Simon walked by. “Leeman, need you.”

Josh did his best to swallow a sigh, but apparently it didn't work. Simon chuckled beside him and gave him a small push on the back. “Better you than me, my friend. Better you than me.”

“Hey, here's an idea.” Josh gave him a sly grin. “Why don't you see what it's like from our side of the table? Come on in. I'm sure Coach Barnes wouldn't mind.”

“Yes, he would,” Simon countered easily. “And so would I. Good try. Go in and get it over with. Nothing could be worse than the unknown.”

“That's deep,” Josh muttered as the suit walked away. He headed to the now-closed office door and gave it a few quick knuckle raps. “Coach?”

“Yeah, come in.” When Josh pushed the door open, Coach Barnes leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Sit.”

“Yes, sir.” He sat, quietly considering his options. What had he done wrong this time? What play or whatever had he missed when they'd done their practice tape viewing and game play walk through?

The options were endless.

“I wanted to tell you you're looking good.”

He jerked his head up, surprised. “What?”

“Yeah, I know. I've been riding you.” Barnes lifted one shoulder, as if to silently say,
So what?
“You're playing football, not tap dancing. You can't let hurt feelings get the better of you.”

Easy for the man with his ass not on the line to say. “Yeah, well, it's just temporary anyway.”

“That's exactly the problem.” Coach Barnes sat forward now, elbows propped on the desk. “I kept thinking, ‘He's good. He's great. Why isn't he amazing? What's keeping this kid from being a franchise quarterback?' Know what I came up with?”

I'm sure you'll tell me.
Josh shook his head.

“You know it's temporary. You know that eventually, Owens will swoop in and take over. Each game you play, you're in there a fraction of the time. You're in there as a stopgap. An emergency measure. You're expendable.”

Nothing he didn't know, but hearing it out loud was sort of . . . lowering.

“And you play like it. You play like you're temporary. Like this isn't your team, like you're just babysitting. Keeping the kids alive until mom comes home to pay you your twenty bucks and send you on your way.”

Josh wondered if that was true. Did he play differently now than when he'd been the starting QB in college? In high school?

“Owens proves you don't have to showboat to make it work. You don't have to be an asshole. You don't have to create your own god complex. But son . . .” Barnes looked disappointed for a moment. “You've gotta have more in the tank than what you're working with. You've made it work in preseason, because, let's face it. You're playing against you. You've been up against other backups. Just like always. Now you're starting game one. Tomorrow. Can you get your head around that shit?”

Josh had no clue. But he knew there was only one appropriate answer. “Yes.”

Barnes looked unconvinced. “That was pretty pathetic. Go home, Leeman. Figure out what it is you need between now and first snap tomorrow. Whatever it is that will fire you up and keep you from losing your shit at the same time. Go get it. And come in tomorrow ready to play like this is your team. You're not the babysitter anymore. You're all they've got. You're their everything now.”

Josh left the office and walked toward the front of the building. As he passed by Kristen's desk, he paused to give himself a moment to collect.

“Hey, Josh.” Kristen smiled up at him, her fingers still typing another few seconds after she stopped watching what she'd been doing. “How were your . . . Josh?” She stood, coming over to him. “Honey, sit down. You look like you're either going to puke or pass out.”

“Maybe both,” he breathed, sinking into Kristen's chair as she guided and pushed and prodded him into it. Kristen, for being barely ten years older than him, managed to play mother hen and cool aunt to most of the team. She was irreplaceable to the organization. Anyone who doubted it would be sadly mistaken.

She squeezed his shoulder gently, then left and came back with a cup of water from the break room off the first hallway that led to the offices. “Drink. And tell me what's going on.” Her mouth set in a grim line as he sipped from the paper cup. “Did that quarterback coach lay into you? The day before the first game? What kind of sense does that even make? Isn't common sense something you're required to show up with when you coach a team?”

“It's not his fault,” Josh interrupted. “It's me. Apparently I thought I was ready . . . and then . . .” He held out his shaking hand as proof. “Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me?”

“You're human?” Kristen asked, baffled as to why that was even a question. “Go home, shut out the world, and relax.”

Everyone had advice, Josh thought with a wry smile. “I'll do something. I'll be in control tomorrow. Just gotta, I don't know, get it out of the way today.”

“Good plan.” She smiled in a maternal sort of way when he stood and was steady on his feet. “Take care of yourself. Whatever you need to do to take care of yourself tonight, do it. You'll be happier tomorrow. Happy athletes perform better.”

“Thanks.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and tossed the crumpled paper cup into the waste basket.

As he walked to his car, he thought back to the advice.

Figure out what it is you need. Go get it.

Take care of yourself.

With those ringing endorsements in his ears, he called the one person who could help him.

***

Carri watched as her mother tucked a blanket around her father's shoulders. Maeve smiled around her arm as she made sure the blanket was secure around Herb's arms. “He's exhausted. That ballet class must have worn him out.”

“It wore me out,” Carri admitted.

“Tell me about it.” Maeve motioned for Carri to go on.

“They sat us in chairs, and we did all these stretches. I wasn't the only one who stayed with their, uh, dancer,” she said, looking toward her father to make sure he was asleep. “So we did a lot of stretching, bending, stuff like that. Then they had all sorts of exercises for us to work on. Even a scene from
West Side Story
.”

“Oh, I love that musical!” Maeve whispered excitedly.

“It was pretty fun. There was a script to memorize and everything. We were Jets,” she added with a grin. “One of the instructors said they found adding in speech and memorization of verbal lines adds to the muscle memory.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“The instructors were all amazing, though. I don't know how much will come from it, but he enjoyed it, even if he said he didn't.”

It had been a surreal experience, watching her father, along with nine other class members who varied in ages from—Carri guessed—their mid-forties to their nineties. Their levels of dementia or other degenerative diseases were also varied in how progressed they were. Herb, for now, was still very strong physically. But Carri had seen the potential future—with trembling hands and shaky, shuffling steps . . . and her heart had ached.

But as each participant sat in their special chair and followed along with the graceful moves of the ballet instructors, she watched something light inside even the few who had stared blankly since they entered the room. The movements were jerkier, the positions less fluid than the duo of ballet dancers they were mimicking. But Carri could tell that with each passing moment, the hearts of the class members were lifting as if going on pointe themselves.

“I talked to the director. She said the dancers from the academy rotate through instructing the class, and they all love doing it. It's more popular than dealing with the four-year-olds.”

“Probably not much difference,” Maeve said with a grin. “Except the lack of having to chase their pupils around.”

Carri snorted into her hand and left the family room before she laughed out loud and woke her father up. Her mother followed closely behind. “He's had a few really good days. Maybe . . . Maybe it's passing. Maybe there was something that wasn't connecting, but it is now. Could it be over?”

Maeve looked at her sadly, and said exactly what Carri already knew and had let her mind forget for just a moment. “No, sweetheart. It's not over. There's no coming back from this. Not now. Not in your father's lifetime. Maybe someday . . .”

In silent agreement, they walked into the living room and sat on the couch. Maeve rubbed at one wrist, a habit Carri knew meant she was nervous or anxious about something.

“Mom,” Carri said slowly, “there's no help coming, is there? I mean, the insurance. There's no hope with the appeal, is there? You weren't even going to file one.”

Her mother's hands froze, then began rubbing faster over her wrist. “No,” she said quietly.

“Is that . . .” Carri swallowed, trying to force down the resentment she knew was creeping up. “Is that a new development? Did you just find out?”

Maeve said nothing, confirming the suspicion Carri had been mulling over the last few weeks.

“Were you hoping to just play this off forever? Like I wouldn't notice seven years had passed and I was still waiting for help to come so I could return to Utah?”

Still, nothing.

“Mom.” When Maeve wouldn't look at her, Carri stood and rounded on her. “This . . . I don't even know what to say anymore.”

“We need the help, Carrington,” was all Maeve said.

“But you didn't even
ask
me. You didn't sit down and tell me how hard it was to come to me, how you knew this was a tough situation, but could I consider moving home? Or help out some other way. No discussion. No honesty. You didn't keep me in the loop at all, even when I asked repeatedly. Even when I downright offered to help you fight the insurance.”

Nothing.

“Mom!”

“Hush,” Maeve snapped. “Your father is sleeping.”

“Dad's asleep, and I've been hitting the Snooze button on my life because you let me believe there was an end in sight. There was relief coming. You were just never going to tell me.”

“Carri . . .”

“You've seriously . . . Ugh!” Carri walked toward her room and shut the door quietly. Her father hadn't asked for her anger. She wouldn't wake him up just to feel better by slamming a door.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket with a phone call, and she considered smothering it—or herself—with her pillow to shut the world out. But when she checked the readout, it wasn't Jess. It was Josh.

“Hey,” she said, fighting back tears. “Yeah. Your timing is perfect. I'll be there soon.”

***

She showed up, an hour later, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of cookies in the other. “I'm a little confused,” she said slowly as Josh opened the door. “I thought you had to meet me in the lobby so I could get on the elevator. But when I stopped at that front desk, they said I could just . . . go on up. Doesn't seem like very strict security.”

“I added you to my list of people.” Josh took the box of cookies from her hand and put it on the kitchen counter. “You brought goodies.”

“You said you needed to talk. I figured talking might involve refreshments.” She shrugged and set the wine down beside the cookies. “Okay, so . . . maybe not the best refreshments the night before a game. But you can have milk, and I'll have the wine. I might need it,” she added on a mutter, and began to rummage through his kitchen drawers.

“Why? What happened?” She kept rattling around. “I didn't hide the corkscrew under the stack of spoons.”

She shut the drawer with her hip and opened another one.

“Carri. Carrington, Jesus, stop before you destroy my kitchen.” He reached around and hugged her close to him. Her posture was tense for a moment, then she melted against his hold. He smoothed her hair back and tucked his face into the crook of her neck. There, her scent was strong, and calming. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“I'm supposed to be over here comforting you. I suck at this.”

But she trembled. Her bravado was stretched to its breaking point. One little twang and . . . snap.

“Maybe by comforting you, you're calming me.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Baby, tell me what's wrong.”

“Find the corkscrew and I will,” she countered. Without letting go, he reached behind him, opened the top drawer beside the fridge, and used touch alone to pull out the tool. “Oh,” she said, halfheartedly. “Of course.”

“You would have found it, eventually. Now talk.”

With a sigh, she snuggled back against him for a split second before stepping out of his embrace. “I talked to Jess.”