Fourth and Goal (3 page)

"No shit."

"If I was in your shoes, I'd capitalize on Rachel's uncanny ability to analyze your game performance. After which I'd kick her cute little ass to the curb and never think another thing about it. But you, my dumb-shit friend—"

"I know.” Derek sighed and stared down the hill. “I'm screwed."

The next morning Rachel drained her bank account and paid a locksmith to make a new key for her truck. Derek had offered, but she turned him down.

Call it stupid pride or financial suicide, it all came down to guilt. Guilt that she was using him. Guilt that she'd ruin Tyler
and
him if the truth came out.

Last night she'd feasted her eyes on Derek's exceptional body, drowned in his kind brown eyes, and sympathized with his lack of performance on the football field. Shame settled in her gut, filled her with doubt. She'd consorted with the enemy, felt for him, let his nearness cloud her emotions. Her convictions needed reaffirming.

After feeding the horses, she drove three hours to her father's mobile home in a tract development. He'd lost his big house six months ago along with his coaching job, his selfish young wife, and his zeal for life. She pulled into Dave McCormick's driveway and cut the engine. Dandelions flourished in the front yard and crowded out the brown grass. An old car on blocks crouched next to the house. Paint peeled off the siding, and one gutter hung askew over the front porch.

She sat in her truck and gathered her thoughts. Through the living room window, light flickered from the TV. Her once meticulous father had been reduced to a shell of man. The state of his environment reflected the state of his mind. No other sign of life greeted her as she stepped out of her truck. Weary, she rubbed grit from her eyes and sighed.

Picking her way past garbage littering the sidewalk, Rachel slipped on some TV dinner cartons and almost fell. Regaining her tenuous balance, she ducked under the twisted metal storm gutter hanging off the eaves and stepped onto the rickety porch. She knocked on the door. No one answered. She tried the doorknob. It turned, and she let herself inside.

Rachel's heart thumped in her chest, and she feared the worst. Shame consumed her. She should've been a better daughter, visited more often, not been so wrapped up in her own misery. Despite losing her dream job, she had youth on her side. She'd rebound. Her father might not.

"Dad?” The gloomy interior engulfed her, smothered her. The stench of cigarette smoke floated in the air, thick and oppressive. Newspapers and magazines concealed the worn carpet. The kitchen counter overflowed with dirty dishes. A man's snoring rattled the small room, and relief flooded through her.

Rachel navigated the obstacles and found her dad passed out in an expensive leather recliner—a remnant of his previous life. Beer and whiskey bottles were scattered around the chair like fallen timber in a clear-cut.

Her once proud, handsome father looked like hell. His short hair stuck up in spikes, much grayer than a few months ago. His stubbled jaw hadn't seen a razor in a few days. He'd slept in his T-shirt one too many times. She wrinkled her nose. From the smell of him, a shower was long overdue.

"Dad?” Rachel shook his shoulder. He grumbled several unintelligible words, barely able to string two syllables together. She shook him harder. Her dad squinted at her through bloodshot eyes.

"Rae? Honey, whatcha doin’ here?” He struggled to sit upright in the recliner, which took three attempts.

"Just checking on you.” Rachel debated between scolding him and coddling him. Neither had proved effective in the past.

He shook his head to clear it and leaned forward, head in his hands, and groaned.

"You need a shower. Take one while I clean up. Can you manage that?"

Her father nodded and avoided her gaze, having the presence of mind to be embarrassed. He heaved himself to his feet and staggered into the small bathroom down the hall. She listened until she heard the sound of water running in the shower.

As a little girl, Rachel had crawled onto his lap during
Monday Night Football
. With the patience of a doting father, he'd explain plays, discuss strategy, and expound on what made a good player a great player. She'd soaked it all in, hanging on his every word, until her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep during the fourth quarter. He'd carry her to bed, tuck her in, and kiss her good night. She'd snuggle under the covers, confident her daddy would keep her safe no matter what. Superman didn't have anything on her dad.

With a sigh, she glanced around the room, wondering where to start. Rachel tidied up the place and prepared a decent meal. Finally he came out of the bathroom, looking more like her father and less like a drunk.

"Were you afraid you'd find me with a bullet in the head?” He sat at a barstool at the kitchen counter.

"Dad, don't talk like that.” Rachel bent down and scooped up an armload of bottles and deposited them in the garbage can outside the door.

He chuckled, almost sounding like the old Dave McCormick. “I'd never take my own life. Too much of a coward."

"That's good to hear.” She relaxed a little.

"That I'm a coward?"

"You know what I mean."

He stared at her for so long she squirmed. “You look so much like your mother. Thank God you didn't get my looks."

Rachel smiled at him. “Dad, why don't you fight this? Prove you're innocent."

Her dad shook his head. “No, I will not. Enough damage has been done. I won't drag anyone down with me."

"Mitch thinks you're protecting someone."

"Mitch can think what he wants. None of it matters anymore."

"It does matter. You're innocent."

"I am, but I've always protected my boys, and I always will."

"Who are you protecting, Dad? Who would stand to lose after all these years? Derek Ramsey? Tyler Harris? Who?” Saying the words sickened her. To think Derek had been her best buddy, her confidant, and even her lover and had never given a thought to what he'd done. He'd cheated and gotten away with it. Everything she ever believed about him dissolved into a big pile of bullshit.

Her father looked away. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Doesn't matter now."

"It does, Dad. This isn't just about you.” She leveled him with her most serious look. “I lost my job a little while ago."

His head jerked in her direction, more alert than she'd seen him in a long while. “Why? What happened?"

"They seem to believe like father like daughter."

His face fell. He aged twenty years in a split second. “I never meant for this to affect you."

"It did. It affected all of us. Mitch barely held on to his coaching job. Dad, you need to speak up. Tell what you know. Clear your name."

Her father shook his head. “Sorry, honey, can't."

"I'll get it out of them."

Her father threw back his head and laughed. Actually laughed. Out loud and almost hysterical. If a six-feet-two bear of a man could be hysterical. She stared at him. Her mouth dropped open. His maniacal laughter continued until he wheezed for breath, panting like he'd run a marathon.

"I fail to see what's so funny."

"Now you sound like your mother. Damn, I needed that.” He wiped his eyes.

"I'm glad I could help you, but I still don't find what I said funny."

"Think about it. You, toe-to-toe with Tyler Harris, demanding he confess to shaving points, which would result in him losing his pro career. Harris is a tough son of a bitch. He's as self-absorbed as the devil himself. He doesn't give a shit about anything but himself and football. And as for Ramsey, he's fiercely loyal to his cousin. You're wasting your time."

"You're admitting they did it."

"I'm admitting nothing."

"But you said—"

"I said you won't get anything out of them if there's anything to get.” He popped the top off a beer from a six-pack on the table. Rachel grabbed it from his hand and poured it down the sink.

"You need help.” She met his gaze and wondered when she'd become the parent.

"I will. Give me time.” He sighed.

He'd promised to go to counseling for months.

They ate dinner in silence. Afterward he fell into a deep sleep in his chair, and she let herself out.

Driving away, Rachel stared at the road through tear-filled eyes. Seeing her father pounded the situation home just as expected. Sometimes a girl didn't have a lot of choices.

Her choices had dried up when the state of California charged Vince Rizzoli with sports bribery and racketeering, citing several incidents of points shaving at two major California colleges.

An investigation into Rizzoli's background had uncovered several more incidents, some in the state of Washington nine years ago. One trail led to a fateful Washington state high school football championship between Rachel's father's team and the team Rizzoli's son happened to quarterback. Suspicions focused on her father, now head coach at a small, local university, and accused him of losing the championship game for money.

Through it all, Dave McCormick refused to defend himself other than insisting he was innocent. While he had never been formally charged, the allegations had ruined his reputation. The touchdown club consisting of wealthy alumni called for his head. High school players avoided signing with his team, which made for a dismal recruiting season.

Backed into a corner, her father stepped down as football coach, though most people believed the Board of Regents insisted on his resignation. The scandal discouraged other teams from considering him for open positions. That very scandal drove her to take Derek's job after the Everett Blockbusters, an arena football team, released her from her go-to-girl position. It stood to reason her father protected Derek and Tyler. The two professional athletes stood to lose the most if found out. Their pro careers would be over.

Seeing Derek resurrected feelings that served no purpose. Her emotions could not interfere with her duty. She nudged her thoughts toward images of the broken man her father had become, while his former high school stars continued their lives uninterrupted.

Derek and Tyler held the key, and she vowed to unlock their secrets, no matter the cost.

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Derek tossed his duffel bag into the trunk of Tyler's sports car and heaved his tired body into the passenger seat. Grumpy and irritated, he stifled a yawn and strapped himself in for takeoff. “You're forty-five minutes late."

"So?” Tyler slammed his car into gear and tore down the driveway, gravel flying and wheels skidding.

Derek didn't give a shit. He was too tired to pay attention to his cousin's crappy driving. “We're gonna be late."

They had a seven-hour drive ahead of them to the small eastern Washington college where training camp was held every summer. They'd never make their team meeting that afternoon.

"Not the way I drive.” Tyler took a long gulp of his coffee.

He had a point. Zeroing in on the coffee, Derek rubbed his half-closed eyes in an attempt to get out the grit. “Did you get me one?"

"Fuck, no."

Derek sighed and leaned his head against the cool window.

Tyler's gaze snapped to Harvey sitting in Rachel's driveway as he ripped past her house. “Has she calmed down since Simon stole her keys?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Smart dog. How'd you teach him to do that?” Tyler ran the stop sign at the driveway entrance and tore onto the county road. Mailboxes sped by at an alarming rate. They'd be on I-90 in no time if they survived.

"I didn't. I found the keys last night when I crawled into bed. He buried them under my pillow.” Derek squinted from the harshness of car lights coming toward them.

"You didn't give them back to her?"

"I left them in the barn in an envelope."

"How long is she staying on?"

"End of the season. I need a caretaker. Too late to get another one."

Tyler grinned at him. “Too late for lots of crap."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're already in over your head, man.” The jerk cast a wicked grin at him, turned up the rap song on his satellite radio, and tapped out the beat on his steering wheel.

Derek reached over and turned it down. “Fuck you."

"I'd prefer to leave that to the ladies."

"You're too damn cheerful for five a.m."

"I got an extra forty-five minutes of sleep."

"Asshole."

"Besides, Cass woke me up with a going-away present I couldn't refuse."

"Great. Spare me the details.” Derek laid his head back against the leather headrest and closed his eyes.

"You should try it. Maybe you wouldn't be so fucking cranky."

"No, I'd be obnoxiously cheerful like you.” The worst thing about it was Tyler was right. He did need sexual release. It'd been too fucking long, which explained his current obsession with Rachel. He'd kind of gotten used to the idea of her being around. In fact, he liked it.

Not good.

He wanted to stay home with her and forget about football. Not good at all.

Which was exactly why he didn't need a distraction like her. A month away would be good for him. Just what he needed.

Derek would live and breathe football. He'd absorb it into his bloodstream with no room for anything or anyone else. If Rachel stuck around after that, he'd find a way to get himself back into that safe spot where he thought of her as a former buddy and nothing more.

Which was the way it needed to be.

Rachel lay in the brass bed and stared out the open window. A cool breeze ruffled the curtains. Frogs croaked in a nearby pond. The stars twinkled cheerfully in the early morning sky, oblivious to her inner turmoil. She rubbed her hip where she'd bruised it on the doorjamb during a midnight trip to the bathroom.

Rachel studied the dark sky, looking for a sign of some kind, wondering if her mother watched from above. She wished she felt her presence, some kind of reassurance that she had a person on her side.

Mom had been the only one in the family who'd understood her, supported her, and didn't think less of her because she had zero athletic ability. Sports had been a big part of her mother's life, just like the men in the family. Regardless, she'd accepted her daughter's ineptitude toward athletics. Her brothers and father had prodded her to try harder, practice more, work at it. Mom had understood. Rachel loved sports as much or more than the men in the family. Her mother had encouraged her to find a way to leverage her love of sports into a career that didn't involve being an athlete.