One Night with a Quarterback (25 page)

She grinned at that, pride in her work radiating from her. Trey rubbed her arm in encouragement. Then she dimmed. “That was an internship. I worked for peanuts, part time. I can't support myself on that.”

“No, he was offering a full-time job.” When she stared, her father held up his hands. “He's in charge of his department. I didn't ask. He offered. No nepotism.”

She blinked, shocked. “I have a job?”

“And a place to stay,” Coach reminded her. “Pool house is all yours.”

“I . . . but . . .” She glanced to her mom. “Mom.”

She winked. “Go. And hey, who knows? I retire in a few years. Maybe I'll want to experience the southwest in my old age.”

Trey pulled her back against him, waving her parents off for some privacy. Her mother disappeared immediately, but Coach watched with an eagle eye. That is, until her mother grabbed his arm and jerked him away from the window.

“Your fears have been acknowledged and solved. Anything else I need to conquer before I can convince you to come back to Santa Fe?”

She sighed, snuggling into him more. “The press—”

“Can go f—”

“Trey,” she admonished.

“Fly a kite,” he saved lamely. “Come on, they ask for it.”

She nodded in agreement. “They said you were given incentives to date me.”

“Well, you're quite the trial, so I'm fortunate my coach is willing to compensate me for the challenge.”

She pinched him again, but laughed at the same time.

He tilted her head back and kissed her long, slow, and as deeply as he could without getting himself in trouble with her father just on the other side of the door.

“Come back,” he begged quietly, against her lips, pausing to steal another kiss. “I need someone who doesn't take me seriously. Who loves my friends and cares about them, too. Who wears geeky T-shirts they have to explain to me because I don't get them.”

“Interesting list of requirements.” She palmed his face and kissed him. “I might be up for it.”

“Maybe, while you're in the Bobcats tech department, you could alter my stats on the website.” His third pinch made him tackle her to the porch, his arm breaking her fall gently. “Woman, you're giving me more bruises than I get on the field.”

“I'm worth it,” she said with a cocky smile.

“Yeah. You really are, nerd.”

* * *

“Anya?”

“Hey, Cass, talk fast. I'm on my way to a client consult. Seriously, what kind of woman wants an entire wardrobe of white? Does she think she's attending Diddy's White Party every day?”

“Anya.”

“I mean, I understand the woman looks good in white. Though if you ask me, she needs to start embracing spray tan and stop the sun worship because—”

“Anya.”

“What?”

Cassie smiled and glanced out her living room window. Her father and boyfriend were sitting on the front porch, arguing about the coming week's best defense choices to hold back the Indianapolis Colts.

“I'm going back.”

Her friend let out a breathy sigh. “He came for you.”

“Yes, both he's came for me. Trey, and my dad.”

“Two for one.”

“It seems so.” She grinned. “I'm happy.”

“I'm visiting.”

“Deal.”

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

Loving Him Off the Field

Available from InterMix October 2014

“Sweet Christ.”

It was the last thing Killian Reeves remembered uttering before having a heavy, unfortunate-smelling man slam him to the ground.

I get paid for this?

The man immediately stood, not delaying the inevitable. Killian did a quick mental check of his bones and muscles, contracting and relaxing each one until he was pretty sure nothing was broken or dislodged and getting up on his own wouldn't prove fatal. So far, so good. He rolled over onto his side and groaned.

I do not get paid enough for this.

“Killian. Dude, you okay?” His holder—and backup quarterback—Josh Leeman, crouched down next to him. Which put his cup right in Killian's eyesight.

“Get your junk out of my face, Leeman.” Josh scooted back an inch, but not more. “Christ, what happened?”

“Fumble,” came the obvious answer.

He tested getting up to a kneeling position. Nothing snapped or bent in the wrong direction. Though he hated the idea, he reached out and grabbed Josh's forearm to pull himself up all the way. “And exactly how did that ogre get around the block?”

“Um, bad luck?”

He resisted ripping Josh's arm off—mostly because he didn't have the energy for it. He saw from the corner of his eye the kicker coach and two trainers jogging out to meet them on the field. He waved them off, because . . . embarrassing. The other guys took dozens of hits in any given game. He took one all season and he needed to be carried off the field?

Not fucking likely.

Without limping, he met the trainers and coach halfway to the bench and shook his head. They followed silently to his own little corner, his own little space on the Bobcats sideline where nobody bothered him and everyone knew invading his territory was punishable by death.

Coach Jordan knelt down as Killian settled on the bench and unsnapped his chin strap. “Took a good one.”

“Felt like it.” Killian eased off the helmet, blinking when his ears started ringing.

“I think you flew back a couple feet. Like watching a rag doll get tossed.”

“Not making me feel better, Coach.” His job wasn't to take a punch. His job was to use his golden foot and kick the pigskin through the uprights. That was all. Go out, kick, score, wave and retreat to his corner.

For this, he made a living.

One of the trainers stooped down beside Coach and shined a light in his eyes. Killian swatted at the pen light.

“I have to check your pupils.”

“There's still two of them.”

Looking exasperated, the trainer pointed the flashlight elsewhere—thank you—and held up three fingers. “How many?”

“The number of seconds I'm giving you to step back. Three.”

The other trainer, a cute little brunette who filled out the Bobcat polo well, jerked on his shoulder. “Give him a minute. He's fine.”

“But I have to—”

“Give him a minute.”

Killian was going to send that girl trainer some flowers. Yeah. She deserved flowers for her good sense and timing.

Coach Jordan saw the look in his eyes and waved the trainers off. “He's fine. I'll get you if he needs you.”

“Not likely,” Killian muttered as they walked away. Likely talking amongst themselves about what an asshole he was.

Yeah. He was an asshole. He knew it. He cultivated the rep, to keep people from getting too close. Not that he had to try hard. He was a kicker. They were the redheaded stepchild of the NFL.

Coach clapped his shoulder lightly. “Give yourself a minute, then come talk. We need to figure out just what the hell that was.”

“Talk to defense. Talk to whoever blew the snap. I didn't even see it coming.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn't see that semi-truck coming right at me.”

“You're focused.” His coach shrugged, as if it were completely natural to just
not see
a three hundred pound man running straight at you, intent on destroying you. With that, he left Killian to his thoughts.

He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his neck. Though it was mid-September, edging up on playoffs, the Santa Fe heat turned his uniform into a sweat box. He never would have made it playing the game if he'd had to keep his helmet on as long as the others did. But they all seemed to love it. Loved everything that came from the game. The bruises, the battle scars, the chicks . . .

Okay, the chicks were good.

Sometimes.

And others?

They fucked up your world with knife-like precision.

Bad enough, he knew because the kick was botched, people would be looking at him and wanting his take on the whole fiasco. The press were already rabid with the Bobcats this season, thanks to the delightful addition of one new Jordan family member. The Prodigal Daughter. Though he was fortunate enough to keep an arm's length away from that shit storm by playing clueless—weren't they all clueless?—and silent as a monk.

When he ran out, did his job and came back, nobody expressed any interest in seeing him. Which, frankly, was his dream come true. No reporters asking, “What was it like to kick a ball through a goal?” No post-game analysis with the press.

When he missed, or something went wrong, especially in a high-pressure game like this, their fight for the division championship, suddenly everyone remembered his name and needed to hear his take on it.

But that wasn't the worst part. No, not by a long shot.

Grabbing the nearest water bottle, he squirt a stream of water in his mouth, swished, then spit, hoping it would remove the bad taste of what was to come.

No such luck.

Mopping his forehead, he settled back to watch the team set up their defense.

“Charlie is going to give me such hell for this.”

Jeanette Murray
spends her days surrounded by hunky alpha men . . . at least in her imagination. In real life, she's a wife and a mother, keeping tabs on her husband, her daughter, and the family dog on the outskirts of St. Louis.