Playing for Keeps (13 page)

When she dashed into room 315, she planned on finding the local station to catch a glimpse of those interviews, but she didn’t need to settle for a TV image. He was standing right there, wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt, his arms folded across his chest, his expression wary, as though he still didn’t believe she would show. Then his face lit up and he strode over to her, pulling her into a warm, grateful embrace, kissing her so softly, so reverently, she almost believed he was as crazy about her as she was about him. Then as if to prove it, he backed her into the bedroom and made love to her—really made love, rather than just sexing it up—for the very first time.

• • •

Still dazed and happy the next morning, she had to rouse him so she could get ready for the screening. He wanted to make love again, and she wanted it too, so they indulged in a quick, playful session. Then he wanted to take her to breakfast, but she was determined to keep their rekindled relationship under the radar, so they sent for room service—omelets, orange juice, coffee, and hot chocolate. She would have asked for some orange slices, but Johnny preempted her, producing another perfect specimen from the pocket of his sweatshirt.

As much as she was enjoying it, she needed to shoo him away so she could get dressed, but he stubbornly insisted they needed to make plans for their next rendezvous, hopefully the next weekend. When she reminded him it would be Thanksgiving, he was shocked, but admitted he had long-standing plans with the family.

And by long-standing, he meant decades-old traditions that could not be lightly discarded. Bowl games, grudge matches, stuffing—he almost salivated over the prospect. Luckily, she and Connor were going to Jenna’s family home, so everyone was accounted for, more or less.

The big problem was the
next
weekend.

“My flight for Rome leaves at five p.m. that Sunday. So I’ll barely get to see your game in the airport bar before we start boarding.”

“You’re flying to Rome? Why wasn’t I informed?”

She laughed. “My parents are traveling, remember? I’m meeting them in Italy for a while. Then we go to Mykonos.”

“Mykonos?” He said it as though she had just declared she was going to the moon.

“Right. My brother will fly into Athens as soon as his finals are over, and we’ll all spend Christmas in some uber-posh place they’re renting on the Mykonos hillside.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “This trip has been years in the making. It’s where my parents spent their honeymoon thirty years ago.”

“So how long should that take? Two weeks, tops. Right?”

“I wish. It’ll be fun for a while, then the water board comes out and Mom starts dissecting my life. They should call
her
the Surgeon.”

He laughed. “This is starting to ring a bell. She thinks you can’t survive in a man’s world, right? I’m with her. Ditch advertising and be my full-time girlfriend.”

“Speaking of advertising . . .” She glared. “There’s a meeting upstairs in twenty-two minutes and I still haven’t showered. So go away.”

“I’ll shower with you.”

“Go!”

He pulled her up from the table and into a bear hug. “This sucks. It’s like you’re saying I won’t see you again until the end of December.”

“January third or fourth at the earliest.”

“That’s unacceptable. Let’s split the difference and make it December twentieth.”

She pretended to consider it. “You’re saying the Spurling family doesn’t have mandatory Christmas gatherings? Bowl games? Gift-giving?”

“Bowl games?” He nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got the Rose Bowl. But you could come with us.”

Again she pretended it was a real possibility. Then she asked innocently, “Have you told your father about Lager Storm?”

He scowled. “Sometimes you’re just plain mean.”

“Johnny?” She dropped the teasing tone. “I need a shower. And you need to go. Can’t we discuss this on the phone tonight?”

“Discuss what? You finally agree to date me, then you leave the country?” He flashed a conciliatory smile. “We’ll work something out. Meanwhile, let’s take that shower.”

• • •

After Johnny and Murf gave thumbs-up to the rough cut of the commercial, Erica flew back to New York with Steve and Caldwell on the agency’s private jet, where they broke some amazing, top secret news.

“We’re forming a new team next spring. Sherry Johannsen will head it up.”

“So Julio’s actually retiring?” Erica sighed, not just because she was sad to see him go, but from apprehension about the office with Sherry and Frank as two of the three team leaders.

“Actually, he’s staying another year,” Caldwell explained. “But business is good, and Sherry’s been patient. So we decided to expand to four teams, at least on a temporary basis. Once Julio actually leaves, we’ll reevaluate. But I’m confident we can make it work.”

“Wow, that’s wonderful.”

“Julio and I are already fighting over you,” Steve told her with a grin. “And Sherry will want you too, I’m sure. Sisterhood, right? But no way.”

When Erica pursed her lips, confused, Caldwell told her, “We’ve given it a lot of thought, and we’ve decided to open up promotions to more of the B-pool. Odds are the other two candidates will be senior anyway. But everyone with at least one year is eligible. And
you’re
everyone’s first choice.”

Her chest felt like a brick. “To be on an A-team? Officially?”

Steve laughed. “You’re already a one-woman team, remember? This just makes it permanent, and a lot more doable.” When he saw that she was actually upset, he added gently, “You earned it, Erica. And it’ll be great. I’ll help you. Everyone will.”

She wanted to be a gung-ho success story, burying them with an avalanche of fresh ideas and heartfelt promises. But there was more to it, wasn’t there? She could still make a mistake. Frank and Sherry could sabotage her chances. The Lager Storm ad could tank.

“What’s bothering you?” Caldwell demanded.

She tried to laugh, but there was a catch in her throat when she said quietly, “Can we really say ‘douche’ on network TV?”

“You’d better hope so. Those fines can be killers.”

In other words, they’d air it as-is, then manage the fallout. Which was actually a brilliant strategy, since the desired demographic—beer drinkers—would rush to their defense.

“I’m so grateful.”

“Just keep working hard,” Steve told her. “And keep this under your hat. Only the three of us know. We’ll fill Julio in this week, but no announcements until after the Super Bowl. Not because your promotion is contingent on the ad, but because it’ll be a lot easier for some of the staff to accept once they see what a success it is.”

In other words, my promotion actually
is
contingent on the ad,
she told him silently, but she honestly didn’t care about that. Even if the FTC fined them into next week, the commercial was flawless. Johnny had seemed just like himself, hot and sincere. And the douche was even douchier than she had hoped. Even the Fish Gotta Fly Inn had looked great during the screening. And Patrick Murphy had been a convert, telling Johnny: “Your old man’s gonna throw a fit, but once he calms down, he’ll love this crazy spot. Congrats, everyone. We’ve got a winner on our hands.”

• • •

Just when Erica started to think Johnny was right—that their affair was ending with a thud because of her trip, the holidays, and the upcoming blind date with his potential future bride—he came through with a solid game plan. Explaining that the playoff season was looking uncommonly good, he was confident his team would win their division by a hefty margin and could sit out the “wildcard” round, which would take place the second weekend in January. The Lancers would still need to practice, since the divisional playoffs would happen the very next week, but Coach Cosner would give them time off, maybe almost a full week. So when Erica returned to New York on the third of January, she could check in at work for a few days, then meet Johnny at a ski resort in Aspen for some fireside lovemaking.

They would celebrate a belated Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s in one huge extravaganza. More important, they would spend four or five days and nights together, completely uninterrupted, for the first time in their relationship.

“I’ll need to watch the wildcard games,” he clarified, his voice filled with excitement, “since my brother’s team will make it to that level at least. And it looks like Pop might too.”

“Shouldn’t you be there?”

“Cheering for which one?” He laughed. “Politically, it’s better if I’m off somewhere naked with you.”

She was surprised by how happy he sounded. Not just upbeat about his team’s prospects and excited about the sexfest, but sincerely happy, like he was living the dream. She felt the same way. Between him and Lager Storm, she would look back on these months as the best in her life.

Assuming she survived Christmas with her mother.

It was a real concern. Her dad would be there, which would help. Her favorite aunt would be there, which would really help. And Connor would be there for part of the time, which might help, but one could never be sure.

The problem was, her mom would look at her with those penetrating eyes and ask how things were going at work. As an EEO attorney, Anna Berenson-McCall saw sexual harassment everywhere, real and imagined, and had been convinced for years that her delicate, soft-spoken daughter was a natural born victim. She had opposed the whole advertising career, pushing for something academic or in a museum. Something that used Erica’s love of art without subjecting her to hard-core business tactics and the related sociopaths.

And it had been Erica’s preference as well. She had majored in graphic design with journalism as a backup plan as a nod to her father, who was a part-time art critic. One of her professors had made the connection to advertising, insisting the combination of subjects was a natural for that world.

And her father had jumped on it, pointing out proudly how persuasive and charming his only daughter could be.

Which of course was her mother’s concern.
She’s too eager to please. They’ll eat her alive.

And Erica’s personal favorite:
You should at least cut your hair. It attracts the wrong kind of attention. You’re either an artist or a businesswoman. You can’t be both.

There was no doubt about it. Her mom would grill her, probe all the weaknesses in her glib accounts of life at the Caldwell Agency, and make her tell her about Frank.

And then the circus would officially arrive in Mykonos.

• • •

She talked to Jenna and May about it, which helped. And they all went shopping for a Christmas gift for Johnny, which proved to be a minefield. Jenna was all about the glitz, dragging her into jewelry stores filled with fancy watches, insisting a guy like him could pretend to be regular, but simply wasn’t.

May—always prim and proper—went to the other extreme, suggesting a nice book, perhaps a biography of one of the Founding Fathers. When Erica decided on a pair of gray wool gloves in honor of their snow-bound destination, neither friend was happy. The gift seemed too intimate to one, too impersonal and “frankly, cheap” to the other.

She honestly wished they weren’t exchanging presents at all, and in fact, neither she nor Johnny had mentioned it. But he was generous, so he’d probably give her flowers at least. She needed to have something in exchange, just in case. Not that it mattered, since their ski trip would take place five short weeks before the Super Bowl, and she imagined that reality would be sinking in by then. He might even cancel their getaway, just to be extra prepared. And
she
might cancel it, knowing his marriage plans and impending fatherhood were so imminent.

But meanwhile, things moved relentlessly forward. The Lancers won their game on Thanksgiving Sunday, which seemed pivotal, since Johnny had explained how his team only needed to win one of the four remaining games to make it to the playoffs. And if they won
three
of those four they could skip the wildcard round entirely, which meant Erica and Johnny would go to Aspen. And more important, the Lancers were that much closer to the Super Bowl.

What more could she possibly ask?

• • •

She was at the airport, sipping wine in a sports bar, alone and focused on the TV monitor, when the second game took place.

It started off slow. The field was slick thanks to a heavy drizzle, which hurt each team equally, and led to a score of zero to zero at halftime. She could feel Johnny’s frustration, and imagined the rousing pep talks the coaches were giving in the locker rooms. Finally the second half started, and much to Erica’s dismay, the Atlanta Falcons scored the first touchdown.

Johnny and his team came back hard, moving the ball methodically down the field. The bartender told Erica that “Spurling” was burning clock. Given the explosive power of the Triple Threat, it was a brilliant strategy.

Or at least, according to the bartender.

Erica had her doubts. She wanted Johnny to use that rocket-launcher arm. The announcers kept explaining that the wide receivers on the Lancers were young and untested, and so the quarterback was smart to just “move the chains,” but Erica couldn’t stand seeing that zero on the scoreboard.

Johnny must have heard her thoughts because he aired one out in midfield, and the youngest of the young wideouts caught it. Everyone in the bar held their breaths, half expecting the poor kid to drop it, but he held on.

He also slipped and was pounced on by opponents. But he held on to the ball, and the Lancers were on the Falcons’ thirty-yard line.

On the ensuing first down, Bannerman ran the ball for two yards, which was well below his usual. On second down, Johnny handed it off to another player, a reliable fullback, who slipped before reaching the line of scrimmage. Now it was third down with nine yards to go. To no one’s surprise, Johnny didn’t hand it off. Nor did he throw it. He started to run and was blindsided.

Erica jumped off her bar stool, terrified by the sight of her QB in peril. Where the heck was Bannerman? Wasn’t this his job? Or at least, wasn’t this what he did best? Protect his quarterback?