Making the Play (15 page)

G
RANT WATCH
ED AS
Bethany and James made their way down the driveway in her sedan, which kicked up dust behind it. As much as he understood her need to get James home, he missed the two of them already, and that feeling worried him as he walked back into the bunkhouse. He'd spent so many years fixated only on his career that the thought of straying from that single-­minded focus was overwhelming. Grant shook his head, trying to rid himself of the sappy soundtrack that seemed to be on a constant loop in his brain, but he couldn't keep himself from smiling.

“Shit.” Andrew laughed as he reached into the refrigerator and grabbed him a bottle of his latest brew, a bitter IPA Grant hadn't tried yet. “If that goofy grin on your face is any indication, you've got it
bad
.”

Grant popped off the cap and took a long swallow. “Shut up.”

Ben looked over his shoulder at the pair, his hands wrist-­deep in the hamburger mixture he was getting ready to form into patties. “You're just jealous, Andrew.” His gaze met Grant's and Ben gave him an impish smile. “I think it's great, and maybe now Mom will just nag you to get married and leave the rest of us alone.”

Andrew rolled his eyes as he set a beer on the counter for Ben. “Fat chance. Mom wants grandkids and she's going to keep at it until she has some. It's not going to matter which of us it is.”

Ben shrugged and slapped a ball of meat onto the wax paper lining the cutting board. “Which is another reason Bethany's good for Grant. She comes with a ready-­made family. It's a win-­win for all of us.”

“What the hell, Ben? You've already got us walking down the aisle? We haven't even gone on a date.”

Ben and Andrew looked at one another before bursting out in raucous laughter. “You're kidding, right?” Ben asked. Grant frowned at the pair as the twins came in from outside.

“Fire's ready. What's so funny?” They looked from Ben and Andrew to Grant and back.

“Grant is trying to convince us he's not
dating
Bethany.” Andrew made air quotes with his fingers. “Dude, you got a yes from her. That's more than any other man in this town has come close to.”

The twins joined in, laughing with the other two, deepening Grant's scowl.

“Screw all four of you.”

He stormed toward the stairs, ready to head up to his room and forget the evening altogether. He already had enough to worry about. He didn't need their crap.

“Whoa, big brother.” Andrew clapped him on the back of the shoulder. “Take it easy. It's just that you've never brought a girl home to meet Mom. Ever.”

“And I've never seen you act this way about a woman before, or look at one the way you do with her. Not even when we were younger.” Ben shrugged. “I mean, it's not a bad thing. Like I said, she's great, but we all know you and your one-­track mind. I've never seen you take your eyes off the ball, so to speak.”

“Stop turning this into more than it is. We barely know each other,” Grant pointed out.

As much as he might be trying to convince his brothers, he couldn't help but feel like they'd known each other far longer than a week. He and Bethany had connected from the first moment, like something far bigger than coincidence had brought them together.

Jefferson chuckled. “Like that matters? When it's right, it's right.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “Don't try to convince me that you four believe in love at first sight? Andrew will date anyone who says yes.”

Andrew perked up. “I'm not an idiot and who said anything about love?”

Grant knew he'd just slipped up and given his brothers far too much ammunition to use against him. Thank God his sister and mother hadn't been here to hear it. They'd have them walking down the aisle next week.

“Face it, Grant. You can deny it all you want, but we know you.” Ben eyed him seriously for a moment. “When you make up your mind to go after something or, in this case, someone, you don't waste any time. You just make it happen. You did it with football, you did it when you wanted to leave town and you're going to do it with Bethany.”

Grant clenched his jaw. He didn't like being the object of his brothers' scrutiny or the butt of their jokes. Andrew grinned at Grant's wilting glare. “Give me dirty looks all you want. We just call 'em like we see 'em.”

“Speaking of calls—­” Jackson passed Grant his cell phone from where he'd set it on the counter by the back door “—­don't forget to call your agent back. It sounded important.”

“You guys think you know me so well.” Grant took the phone, scrolling through his texts to see if his agent had sent a message as well.

“Enough that I didn't barge into the barn,” Jackson teased, waggling his brows at his brother.

Grant tucked his phone into his back pocket and crossed his arms. “Are you four finished acting like children?”

Ben snorted and elbowed Jefferson. “Hear that? The man who plays with balls for a living is calling us children.”

“I'm done,” Grant said, throwing up his hands before heading out the back door again.

He'd just go have dinner with his parents. At least over there he wouldn't have to hear the ridiculous jibes about how he was falling for a woman he had no business falling for. The trouble was, he knew his brothers were right.

“
G
RANT, IT
'
S ABOUT
time you called back. What the hell is this on my desk?”

Bob Ribaldi had been Grant's agent since immediately after his final college game, just before he'd been drafted by the Mustangs. He'd negotiated one of the best contracts a running back had ever received and, thanks to Bob's savvy business sense, Grant had had the money set aside to invest in both the ranch and Jackson's breeding program. He just wasn't sure he'd done the right thing in not consulting Bob first and investing so heavily, far too certain that he could prove the doctors wrong and return to football. Now they would have to discuss the best option for his future.

“Wolf called me yesterday and told me he was sending over a buyout, regardless of what the doctors reported. Sounds like he wants to cut me loose.”

“That's not what I'm talking about. I got that. I also have a ­couple of low-­ball offers from a few other teams if you're cleared. Nowhere close to where they need to be to get me in the door for negotiations, but that's something to decide after your doctor appointment. I'm talking about this offer from the Fox Sports network to be their Sunday commentator.”

“What?”

“I've got a contract here from them with a very lucrative offer. Far more than the Mustangs are offering you to babysit their rookies.” The disparagement in Bob's voice echoed through Grant. He'd been afraid that was exactly what Wolf wanted him to do, regardless of the assurance that, in time, it would turn into a coaching position. “Who did you schmooze at Fox? And why didn't you tell me about it?”

Bob sounded as confused as Grant felt. He had no idea who could have even been aware of his precarious position with the Mustangs, to even consider making the offer. Networks didn't make offers like this based on nothing more than speculation.

“I'm at a loss. I don't know anyone.” He wracked his brain trying to remember any connection he might have. “You know me. I keep to myself, keep my nose to the grindstone and just work. I don't do any
schmoozing
. I'm not that guy.”

Bob chuckled. “Sometimes I wish you were. It'd make my job easier. I'll make some calls, see how legitimate this offer actually is. If it's as good as it looks on paper, you'd be crazy not to take it.”

Grant ran a hand through his hair, pacing his bedroom. “What are we talking about here, Bob?”

“Nearly seven figures the first year and $1.5 million the second. That's far better than any of the other teams are offering too. Retirement might suddenly look a whole hell of a lot more appealing with that kind of time and money at your disposal.”

“Where would I be?”

“I'm sure we could address that in the contract, but most likely you're looking at moving closer to New York. With that kind of cheese, would it really matter?”

Not to Bob, not to most players ready to retire. But when he thought of the hazel eyes that had burned with desire for him earlier tonight or the blue eyes of a boy that stared up at him with hero worship, it mattered. It mattered a hell of a lot.

 

Chapter Fifteen

B
ETHANY COULDN
'
T W
AIT
for her day to be finished. Not just because she knew Grant was coming over, but because it had truly been the day from hell. It started off with a bang when one of her students threw up on her as she was helping him tie his shoelace. Luckily, Julie had been able to watch the kids long enough for her to attempt to clean her blouse in the bathroom. At least as much as soap and water could. The stain would probably be a permanent reminder of why she needed to be more careful about letting kids twirl the swings and let them unwind by spinning.

If that, along with the sour smell she couldn't quite get out of her hair, weren't bad enough, she'd dropped her coffee in the teacher's lounge at first recess and now both thighs of her jeans were tinged brown. She took a deep, cleansing breath and watched the children as they lined up after lunch, trying to ignore the whiff she caught of her hair.

Only three hours left.

“I hear you've had a rough . . . whoa!” Stephen had been walking toward her and cringed, taking a large step backward as he came within smelling distance.

Bethany rolled her eyes at him. “Thanks.”

“Sorry. I guess I didn't expect that.” He tried to hide his smile while subtly plugging his nose. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You wouldn't happen to have a change of clothes and some dry shampoo, would you?”

He shrugged. “Can't say that I do. However, I'd love to take you out to dinner tonight to make up for your bad day.”

She looked at him oddly. Their date a few days ago had been comfortable at best, but it certainly hadn't set off any seismic shock waves. She'd assumed he'd felt the same thing, especially after the way it had ended—­with a hug at the door and a promise to see her at work. Granted, it had been a while since she'd dated, but she doubted that was the way
good
dates ended. In fact, she was pretty optimistic her date with Grant wouldn't end with anything so tame. Not if their last kiss was any indicator.

“Oh, I really appreciate that Stephen but, um . . .” She couldn't quite get her brain to function fast enough to figure out an excuse.

“Ms. Mills.” Becky ran up and tugged at the side of her jeans. “Jeremiah pushed James because he had the football and James pushed him on the ground.”

The child instantly had Bethany's full attention. “What? Where are they?”

Steven looked at the open field area where the boys tended to play ball. “Over there.” He pointed toward a crowd of kids looking their direction helplessly. “Come on.”

She ran beside him, the burn in her lungs reminding her that she needed to get back to her workout schedule since she could barely keep up with Steven's long stride. By the time she reached the boys, Steven was already kneeling on the ground beside Jeremiah, who was howling about his bleeding lip. Several other boys had surrounded them and began to try to slink away as both teachers looked around the group, expectantly.

“What happened?” Bethany asked, waiting for someone to answer. No one said a word. “I'm going to ask one more time,” she warned.

“I was playing football and he grabbed it out of my hands and said he wanted to play.” James stepped forward, his head hanging sheepishly. “I just tackled him like Grant and Ben showed me.”

He chanced a glance at her. As his parent, she could see the sorrow in his eyes, but as his teacher, she couldn't let him get away with pushing or hitting another student.

“Mr. Carter, why don't you take Jeremiah to the nurse's office? I'll have Julie take the rest of the students into my room to play a game while I take care of this situation with Mr. Hunt.”

She saw the fear in her son's eyes when he realized he was being escorted to the principal's office. Bethany was torn. She knew her son hadn't meant any harm to Jeremiah, but he had to learn that he couldn't go around tackling other kids. She tried to tamp down the anger rising up in her. She'd told Grant she didn't want him to play football, but not only had he played with him, he'd obviously shown him how to hit hard enough to give a boy twice his size a fat lip.

Mr. Hunt came into the main room of the office as Steven escorted Jeremiah in to see the nurse. James' steps faltered when he saw the principal.

“This way to my office, Mr. Mills.” Mr. Hunt gave Bethany a nod.

She knew he was a fair man, but her mama-­bear instincts rose to the surface. It wasn't entirely James' fault. If Jeremiah had been willing to share the ball instead of snatching it from James, something she'd scolded him for several times over the past week, this might not have happened.

If Grant hadn't taught him how to tackle. . .

“Mr. Hunt, I'd like to come in too, if that's okay.”

Steven returned from the nurse's office. “I'll go help Julie with the other students until you're finished,” he offered.

Bethany could have hugged him.

“Follow me,” Mr. Hunt said as he led the way.

James moved like a prisoner on his way to execution but Bethany didn't miss the confusion on his face either. Tears welled in his blue eyes and it broke her heart, knowing that she couldn't rescue her child from a situation he hadn't meant to create. She knew she could bail him out, she'd seen plenty of parents who did it daily, but it wouldn't help James learn to accept the consequences of his decisions. She steeled herself and clenched her jaw as Mr. Hunt steepled his hands, pressing a finger to his lips.

“Why don't you tell me what happened, Mr. Mills?”

James looked at the principal, then to his mother, pleading with his eyes for her to rescue him.
Tell him
, she signed.

Her son looked so small, swallowed up by the large cheaply upholstered chair in front of the principal's desk, his shoulders slumped as he wrung his hands.

“I didn't mean to.” His breath hitched as his tears began to spill onto his cheeks. “He said he wanted to play football.”

Mr. Hunt shot Bethany a quick, knowing look and nodded, closing his eyes slowly. She knew he was a good man, a strong presence who demanded respect from the older students, but he was also fair and beloved by the younger kids.

“Did you have the ball first?” James nodded, staring down at his hands, unable to look Mr. Hunt in the face as tears fell onto his pants. “And did he ask for it?” James shook his head sideways. “So he came and just took it away from you?”

At her son's affirmative nod, Mr. Hunt stood up and moved around to the front of his desk before squatting down in front of James and laying a hand on his knee. “Why did you tackle him, James? Were you angry?”

“No, I thought we were going to play.”

Bethany bit her lip, wishing this was over for her son already.

“You know we can't tackle ­people at school though, right? Haven't you heard me tell the older boys not to roughhouse in the field before school?”

He nodded again. “But Grant told me that's how you play. He showed me how to hit with my shoulder and not my head.” James twisted his lips to the side, trying to remember what else Grant had told him. “He said to wrap up.”

“Ah, I see,” Mr. Hunt said on a sigh. “I'm betting that Mr. McQuaid meant that you should tackle that way when you play Pop Warner football next year. But we don't do that on the playground at school, okay?” James nodded solemnly as Mr. Hunt turned back toward Bethany and rose. “James, I think that as long as you apologize to Jeremiah, we can assume that you won't tackle anyone again. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, his lower lip still quivering as he swiped away his tears. “I will.”

Mr. Hunt nodded to Bethany who held her hand out for James. He jumped down from the chair and grabbed for her fingers, practically dragging her from the principal's office.

“Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” Bethany said as he walked them out of the office. “I'll be having a chat with Mr. McQuaid as well.”

“I'll bet you will,” he said with a chuckle. “I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.”

G
RANT T
UGGED THE
baseball cap lower on his forehead, reaching into the passenger seat to scoop up the deep-­dish pizza and a paper bag with the two liters of soda. He pressed the button on the key fob, and the truck chirped, signaling that it was locked, and then he began the trek around the block to Bethany's house. He'd driven the area several times, making sure that he didn't see anyone who might have followed him or realized who he was under this asinine disguise. He looked ridiculous, but he was going to do whatever he could to make sure there weren't any more news articles about Bethany. Several times in town today, he'd heard whispers and rumors about their relationship. Luckily, years of publicity had taught him to evade direct questions and he was able to fend off the gossip mongers. For now.

He glanced up and down the sidewalk as he approached the house, knowing that the pizza was getting colder with each passing moment. Seeing no one outside, he jogged up the walkway and rang the bell.

It took a moment before Bethany answered the door, and when she did, she walked outside onto the porch, shutting it behind her and leaning against the door frame. Her hair was still wet from a recent shower and he could smell a fruity citrus that must have been either her shampoo or soap. Wearing yoga pants and a t-­shirt, she looked as deliciously adorable as she had wearing a sundress and cowboy boots. Even barefaced, she was beautiful, but he was a bit surprised to see she wasn't ready for their date, considering how she'd dressed up for their park outing and when she'd gone out with Mr. Kindergarten Teacher. And then he looked into her eyes.

“This can't be good.”

“You showed my son how to tackle someone?” She crossed her arms over her chest, not letting him past.

“I guess. Sort of?”

The tone of her voice spoke volumes. She was pissed. This was the protective woman he'd seen the first day, when she thought he was using James to get close to her. He glanced over his shoulder. If she raised her voice, the entire neighborhood would know he was there.

“Can I come inside and explain?”

“I told you I didn't want him to play football. You knew how I felt about it.”

Her brows knit and she jabbed a finger into his chest, forcing him back a step. Even with him standing a step lower than she was, she was still looking up to meet his gaze. Not that it mattered to this woman. She was protecting her son, at least in her mind, and she'd take on someone ten times her size if she had to. It almost made him smile but, wanting to keep his head still attached, he kept his grin in check.

“It was one thing for him to play catch with you and your brothers, but you had to push the limits I set. I am his mother. If I don't want him playing, he won't. Do you realize how hard it is for him to fit in? How much harder he has to work at it than other kids his age?”

He narrowed his eyes, trying to guess at the real reason behind this sudden indignation. “Is this really about James playing football or you sharing him, Bethany?”

She stood even straighter, stretching her tiny frame a few inches taller as she inhaled a furious breath and clenched her jaw. “He tackled a boy at school today for taking the football from him. He had to go to the principal's office, Grant.”

Grant pinched his lips, trying to hold back the proud grin that tugged at the corners of his lips. “I'm sorry.”

He said it because he knew it was what she wanted to hear. In truth, he was proud of the kid for standing up for himself. He'd watched a few of the kids bullying James the day he'd gone to the school. Even his presence hadn't stopped them from trying to push James around. If he had played even a small part in shaping James' self-­confidence, he was thrilled.

“You should go.”

He sobered instantly. “What? Are you serious?”

“Completely.” She turned back to open the door.

“Bethany? Look, you're right. I shouldn't have taught him how to tackle if you didn't want him playing football. But I have seen how hard he has to try to fit in. I've also heard him talk about being bullied. So have you,” he reminded her.

She spun on her heel, ready to do battle again. “Teaching him to tackle ­people isn't how he needs to learn to handle it.”

“No, it's not but, damn it, that kid needs to know how great he is. He shouldn't be getting kicked by girls or pushed around by other boys on the playground just because of . . . because he's different. He's the most incredible kid I've ever met, and I've met a lot of them in my career. I should have asked you before I showed him, but it just happened the other day. I'm sorry.”

She took a deep breath, staring at him with an expression he couldn't quite read, a mixture of anger and awe. He decided he might as well push his luck a little further and pray she was leaning toward wonder. “Can I bring this in before it gets any colder?”

She pursed her lips and he caught himself before he smiled. It was a less exaggerated version of the face James made when he was thinking about something seriously.

“Fine.” She opened the door for him and he eased through it carefully in case she changed her mind and slammed it shut in his face. “But, Grant?” He looked back at her over his shoulder. “Don't let it happen again.”

He held up his pinkie finger. “Pinkie promise.”

She turned away from him and walked toward the kitchen, but not before he caught a glimpse of the smile she was trying to hide.