Maeve's Symphony (3 page)

It was time for a bistro-sized mug of peppermint tea and NFC championship football.

Sunday evening crept in. Rather than sort through dirty laundry, unpack goodies, and deal with travel chaos, Maeve opted to climb into sweatpants and an oversized blue-and-white football jersey—the one bearing the number fourteen—the number sported by Detroit quarterback, Josh Andrews.

She wore his team colors in private. Only her besties—Aileen, Kassidy Cartwright, and Siobhan Douglas, knew she followed his career. But even they didn't realize how closely she tracked him. How acutely she ached for him, and how tied she remained to the sweet, overwhelming love they had shared so long ago.

The secrecy didn't bother Maeve anymore. She was used to keeping secrets now, used to hiding her deepest longings. And secrecy didn't change facts. Her heart ran deep as an ocean when it came to Josh Andrews.

Expelling a sigh, she padded to the kitchen and prepared her beverage. In the living room, she set her drink on the coffee table and plucked the remote control from the top of a stack of magazines. She clicked on the television, tuned promptly to ESPN, and sank onto the couch. Oh, was it delicious to be home—and as hoped she was just in time to catch a slick commentating squad of retired NFL players launch into pre-game mode.

“Welcome to the Big Easy, everyone, host town of the conference Championship game between New Orleans and New York. Football fans, I assure you, we can't wait to get this party started.”

Music blared as analysts accelerated anticipation levels and profiled the star players on each squad. Sliding a quilt from the back of the couch, Maeve tucked her legs and feet beneath its warmth then patted her lap to entice Coco Chanel to snuggle. More than willing to comply, Coco leapt into place and purred as Maeve stroked her back.

“It's going to be a battle to the finish because both teams are so evenly matched, and both teams are willing to fight hard and strong. It doesn't get much more exciting than a number one offense meeting up against a number one defense. Joining us now is a man who knows all about having a fire in the belly when it comes to the playoffs. Please welcome one of the elite quarterbacks in the league, Detroit's Josh Andrews. Josh, we're glad to have you as part of the broadcast team today.”

“Thanks for the welcome. It's good to be here.”

Just like that, the boy of her past filled her screen as a man who stirred a thick, rich ache in Maeve's soul. His presence peeled through her spirit like church bells. Short, dark hair, a square, clean shaven jaw, and riveting brown eyes formed a compelling package. He was just over six-feet tall, short for a quarterback, but his skill-set was unrivaled. Beyond physicality, he possessed an aura of quiet confidence that was magnetic.

Maeve watched without blinking, her nerve endings doing a sparkle dance.

“Josh, you and I have been friends for years; I know all about that competitive drive of yours, and I know how much you'd like to be prepping for this game, on a mission to claim a championship ring instead of commentating.”

“True enough, but still, this is fun.”

He wore a gray silk suit that added a touch of elegance to broad shoulders and a strong build. A white dress shirt and blue and gray striped tie polished his look. Captivated, Maeve's breath stalled, trapped somewhere deep within her body. He had always been so handsome…

“Despite the injury you sustained last month, your talents are equally feared and respected by your competitors.” Laughter rounded the four-member panel. “You're a force all your own on the football field, but from what I hear you're going beyond the gridiron to create an amazing legacy with your charity, the Goal to Go Foundation. Tell us about it.”

With self-effacing charm, Josh ducked his head during all the praise mongering. It didn't surprise her any that he deflected from the overt adulation. Humility was hard-wired into his DNA. Maeve tingled, and oh, how she yearned for him, for the dedication to one another they had once shared.

“I appreciate the mention of Goal to Go. I created the foundation to give disadvantaged kids the chance to pursue athletics as a means not just to stay physically fit but to focus on and learn the ideals of sportsmanship. We equip them to play hard and live with hope despite daunting circumstances, and we sponsor as many of them as we can to help defray playing costs at their schools or in their communities. Goal to Go delivers opportunity, and sometimes opportunity spells the difference between a life that soars and a life that crumbles.”

“Before we dive into analysis, tell us how rehab is going. I see the sling is gone. You look great.”

Josh flexed his right arm. “Rehab is grueling. I don't think I've never pushed myself so hard. The drills are torture, but I'm told every spike of pain is a step forward. If that's the case then I must be making all kinds of progress because there are times when the pain is indescribable.” Some commiserating exclamations rounded the table. “Faith and commitment to my team has kept me going, but I guess we'll find out how far I've come in a few months at training camp.”

“Well, I'm certainly not going to bet against you. Let's shift gears and give you a chance to analyze today's game. How do you think New York matches up against that notoriously strong New Orleans offense?”

While Josh began a coach-style litany of statistics and percentages, lamplight glinted off the surface of the ring Maeve always wore on the third finger of her right hand. She stopped stroking Coco and studied the piece, torn as always by love and sorrow over all she had lost during their one fateful night together.

Emptiness pushed through her body, but not for long. She was used to battling this particular monster. She was alone for a reason. She didn't deserve the fruitful passion and loving joy now possessed by Aileen, Siobhan, and Kassidy. She had blown her chance—in every way possible. If only she hadn't been so immature, so carried away by passion, so wrong. Love, Maeve had discovered, didn't excuse recklessness or the sin of deliberately falling from grace.

Coco chose that moment to take a few playful bats at Maeve's stilled hand. Coco's excited behavior stirred Maeve's thoughts back to the present…far from all that might have been.

While she waited through a commercial break, she sipped tea and plucked her cellphone from the end table. Tapping into the camera app, she reviewed pictures from Aileen's wedding.

The entire week in Ireland had been akin to living in the pages of a fairytale. There was the celebration Mass, conducted within the candlelit confines of St. Joseph's Church. The ancient, gray stone parish featured a soaring steeple, its curved archways illumined by added candelabra that framed a long, main aisle strewn with pink rose petals. At the altar, in a timeless exchange, Aileen and Liam Douglas had committed their love and lives to one another.

Aileen had been a vision in a frothy white dress with a cathedral train; Liam's black tux was a nod to elegant, classic attire for a groom. The tightest of friends ever since high school, Maeve and Kassidy had stood right beside Aileen as bridesmaids, both wearing sheath-style dresses of pale pink silk. Completing their quartet, Siobhan had been appointed maid-of-honor and wore a matching style dress of sky blue.

The reception at Abbeyglen Castle, to Maeve's romantic mind, was positively idyllic. Perched high atop a grassy cliff, Abbeyglen gifted wedding attendees with a stunning overlook of the coastline of Clifden Bay along with sweeping vistas of the Twelve Bens Mountains, the quaint village of Clifden and farms that featured sheep, cows, and horses that roamed rolls of land loosely framed by low walls of gray and brown fieldstone.

Once again, Coco was not pleased to be ignored. This time the impatient feline head-butted Maeve's hand, rubbed a wet nose against her palm. Maeve resumed her ministrations. “OK, Miss Coco. You win.”

There had been bittersweet tears, uproarious laughter, and even an impromptu sing-along with the local band at O'Mara's Pub, a Tudor-style staple of the village of Clifden since its founding in the early 1800's.

Maeve sipped some tea then returned to the pictures, recalling Kassidy's glow upon her return to their shared room on their last day in Ireland. Maeve had been given the honor of being the first to know Drew Wintower, their tour manager and promoter, had not only proposed to her at sunrise, on a sea-cliff spot not far from Abbeyglen's central grounds but had also presented Kassidy with a diamond engagement ring that was breathtaking.

After the official group announcement—delivered at the end of their final dinner together in Ireland—there had been a bit of good-natured teasing revolving around the fact that Maeve would be the last of their quartet to find wedded bliss—the final bachelorette of the Sisters in Spirit.

That was no bother—she knew and understood the hearts of her friends. Besides, Maeve was used to solitude. Alone or not, the trip would live in her heart forever. The moments she had shared with her three best friends, the tears they shed upon ending one chapter of life and entering a new phase of experiences, had been perfectly balanced by the fact that their bonds endured, that their performance group had capped an incredibly successful debut concert tour across the stages of North America with more work on the horizon.

Her life was a gift—a banquet rich with goodness—but at its core there was no loving fulfillment.

There was no Josh.

 

****

 

In a way, Josh Andrews had always found the practice facility in Allen Park, Michigan to be somewhat eerie. It was a regulation football field stripped to its most sterile, bare minimum components. Here there was no clutter of seating, no electric light shows, no pounding reverberation of music, no cheers or electricity of game day. Here there was nothing whatsoever to distract or compete for a player's attention.

Everything was white—blinding white—even the roof overhead, the walls, the stairs leading from one level to the next along the walls where secondary squad members and team coaches typically perched to observe.

Not today, though. Today the facility rang with an empty echo. This was an informal workout designed for one purpose alone—to test Josh's arm strength and capabilities.

No pressure, he thought sardonically. No pressure at all.

Dressed in loose fitting cotton shorts of black, Josh wiped a sweaty cheek against the shoulder of his white, long-sleeved shirt. Seconds later he heard head coach, Peyton Guiles, call out, “Run a skinny post!”

Josh nodded, clapped his hand against the ball he held to initiate timing of the play. He dropped back three steps and eyed his receiver, Dominic LaVreier, who took off like a jet toward the far goal post. Josh launched the pass. A hot slice of pain spiked along the tendons of his right shoulder, causing his aim and grip to waver. The pass fell just short of Dominic's grasp, bouncing against the turf.

Rage simmered. He released a curse, spinning away from the vision of his failure. The release of frustration didn't help any. Neither did Dominic's supportive comments. In the glassed-in office two stories above field, Josh could easily see—and feel—the peering eyes of a few members of the press and designates of team management.

Precisely what he didn't need.

Peyton jogged to the center of the field; Josh glared at him. Peyton smirked and simply rolled his eyes. “I assume you'll want to run that one again.”

“Again.”

Josh's biting growl masked fear. He knew he wasn't fooling Peyton, but Peyton was his greatest ally and champion. They possessed mutual belief in one another, mutual respect, and faith even in the midst of a fire. Josh could be real with his coach, if not the world at large.

Before exercises resumed, Josh took a moment to adjust his attitude. He claimed the football from Dominic and tossed it in the air in a tight, short spiral then caught it with ease. “After the workout, coach, I want to talk to you in private.”

Peyton chewed on a wad of gum. Nodded. “Fine. My office.”

In unison they looked at the observation room above field. Peyton sighed, and resumed their session.

But all the while, Josh's mind swirled, dissolving into a zone where he functioned outside his body. He worked some crossing patterns, launched some short passes and long lobs, but in misty shrouded memory, he crouched behind his center, at the forty-five yard line, calling a play. He took three steps back. Four. A defensive onslaught was headed straight for him, but the Detroit offensive line went tight and blocked like a vision from some kind of NFL textbook. He shuffled left, then right, deepened the pocket a few more backward steps, eyes roving.

And he found salvation.

Wide receiver Greg Preston was clear and open, thirty yards from the end zone. Ignoring the ferocious tide of opposing jerseys, thousands of pounds of weight bent on one goal alone—bringing him down—Josh cut loose with a missile, a tight, on-spot spiral the likes of which he had thrown thousands of times before in his career as a quarterback.

Upon release, the tide of blockers toned down, watching the pigskin fly—

The momentum of a defensive end brought Josh down with a clean hit from the right. As he toppled, Josh witnessed the entire scene going haywire.

Out of nowhere, Colton Maxwell, a Green Bay cornerback, stepped right in front the pass and Josh's picture-perfect throw turned into an interception.

Growling, fury pouring through his bloodstream like liquid nitrogen, Josh launched to his feet as Maxwell took off, headed straight up field toward the opposing goal.

A pick was nightmare enough. A pick-six? No way. No way would a Monday night football game that would crown the next conference championship contender be defined by an interception.

Members of the Detroit offensive team scrambled, un-piling from their job of protecting Josh. Landon Gregg, a money tight end, was on his feet, but too far out of range to be much help downing the guy.