Playing for Keeps (Texas Scoundrels) (2 page)

When Austin is old enough, he may want to know the truth. I planned to tell him, but that will now be up to you. Austin deserves the chance to know about his father, his real father.

I want you to do two things for me. Tell Austin how much I love him, and that the short time we had together were the happiest days of my life. The envelope for Austin contains my journal and I want him to have it in hopes that he may know how very much he meant to me.

My other request will be much more difficult for you, but I know you well. You always do the right thing. Please let Austin know about his father. Jed doesn’t have to know, but Austin does deserve to at least know who his father is, and how much I loved them both.

All my love,

Danielle

Sweet heaven. What was she going to do now? The other shoe had totally dropped and managed a swift kick right to her gut before it hit the floor, bounced up and hit her square in ass. She leaned into the low backed chair and stared at the photograph of Jed Maitland. Her son’s hero was also his father. The entire situation was too surreal to comprehend.
 

For one, how on earth had Dani gotten these things into a safe deposit box hundreds of miles away when she obviously knew she was dying? And why? Why not just give them to her? Or will them to her?
 

Her head ached and she had no answer as she folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope, along with Dani’s diary, the letter for Austin and the photograph of Maitland, then stuffed them in her oversized bag. She doubted if she’d ever figure out that particular puzzle.
 

The anniversary clock chimed the quarter hour. Austin’s game started in fifteen minutes. She’d think about this later. Much later.
 

Like in twenty years when Austin wouldn’t care that his father was Jed Maitland.

*

The bastards had the gall to come to him on his own turf. Jed tossed back the last of the scotch in his glass. Not a smart move on their part. He’d actually given them more credit than to grant him the home field advantage, but the stupid SOB's had a mission and were determined to see it through.
 

To see him through, the way he looked at it.
 

Finito
.
 

Done.

“Like hell.”

In too foul a mood to enjoy the beauty of the Texas sunset turning the vast openness of the rugged land into a solid gold landscape, he stepped away from the double-story glass windows. Circling the bar, he tipped the bottle of Jim Beam into the crystal tumbler, then lifted the glass and drained it. The scotch burned his throat, fueling his anger.
The bastards
.

He was Jed Maitland, dammit. They couldn’t do this to him. No one could force
him
out of the game. He’d been a winning quarterback since his rookie year and had three championship rings to back up the hype. Multi-million dollar contracts, the top four product endorsements and other perks had made him rich. Wise investments had made him obscenely wealthy. Not bad for a kid from the swamplands of Mississippi. Except now they wanted to force him out. Maitland the Maniac. A legend to rival Montana and Elway, Unitas and Staubach. Not chance.

Bastards
.

He’d be damned if he’d accept what his agent, Bob Yorke, had termed as management’s
generous
offer. Hell, he was firing the useless piece of shit tomorrow. No one treated Maitland the Maniac as if he were no better than a relief quarterback from a third rate team. He hadn’t warmed the bench since he was ten years old, and he wasn’t about to start now.

He refilled his glass with more Jim Beam and drained the bottle. “Generous my ass.”

His shoulder hurt like a son-of-a-bitch and this was the thanks they gave him. Muttering a string of vile curses, he picked up his glass and headed toward the leather sofa. Bottles of painkillers sat on the glass end table. He picked one, snapped off the top with his thumb and shook three into his mouth, downing them with a healthy dose of his new best friend, Jim.

He glanced at the glass cocktail table where a football mounted on a marble base and protected by a Plexiglas covering stood proudly. His rookie year he’d led the Wranglers to the division championship game. They’d lost to San Francisco and had kissed the championship good-bye, but he’d played one hell of a game, coming up only six yards short of Joe Montana’s passing record. As a rookie, he’d set his own, and no one had come close to taking his record, either.

Yet.

He set his glass on the table and took the Plexiglas off the football, which had been signed by the team. The pigskin was cold to the touch, but nothing fit his hands better than a regulation ball—except maybe a hot and willing woman.

He spun the ball in one hand. The pain in his shoulder didn’t ease as quickly as he would have liked, reminding him of what
they
were saying he could no longer do for a living. God, he didn’t know anything except the game.
 

He’d show them. The orthopedic specialists had said the surgery to repair his shoulder hadn’t been the success they’d hoped for, that his competition days were over. What did they know? How could they judge based on a mere six weeks of recovery? Three months of intense physical therapy, and he’d be good as new. Maitland the Maniac would walk back onto the field for training camp, and it sure as fuck wouldn’t be as an assistant coach or a third-rate chump.

For now, he planned to get drunk, good and drunk, for the entire weekend. And God help anyone stupid enough to cross his path. Namely the press. The bloodsuckers had falsely labeled him a bad boy, a renegade, and he hadn't bothered to correct them. He had his reasons. There were people to protect.

Might as well live up to the image
.
 

He leaned back into the soft leather sofa. The feel of the ball failed to soothe him, nor did the reminder of what he once was, and would be again, if he had anything to say about it. The anger inside him peaked, and he gripped the ball hard. Thanks to the effects of the medication, he felt only the dulled edge of pain when he brought his arm back and took aim. With a curse to the pricks trying to ruin his career, he chucked the football across the room, shattering the glass and mirror shelves filled with crystal glassware behind the bar.

A sense of satisfaction, along with the misty haze of painkillers and alcohol, wove through him. He settled his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, waiting for sweet oblivion to take hold.

Two

GRIFFEN CLOSED THE floral-covered journal Dani had left for her son, a lump the size of a Texas melon lodged in her throat. She tugged the old worn cardigan tighter around her and wiped at a stray tear. Dani’s words to Austin were filled with such love, Griffen had no choice but to give the journal to him. The fact that Dani hadn’t mentioned Jed by name helped with her decision. Her sister, thankfully, omitted that little detail in the telling of how she’d met and fallen in love with Austin’s father.

Along with her feelings and emotions of what she was going through during the last few months of her life, the journal spoke of her short relationship with Maitland. According to Dani, they’d loved a lifetime in the time they’d spent together.
 

Griffen doubted Maitland had returned Dani’s feelings. His womanizing was legendary. He subscribed to a find ‘em, fuck ‘em and forget ‘em philosophy, a serious character flaw which had gained him plenty of bad press over the years, not to mention a paternity suit he’d lost about five or six years ago.

She reached for her mug of tea and sipped, wincing when the cool liquid hit her tongue. She placed her mug inside the microwave and pressed the reheat button just as Austin sauntered into the kitchen.
 

“Whatcha doin’, Mom?” he asked, heading straight for the refrigerator.
 

Austin leaned in and pulled out a gallon of milk. He stood tall, the dark gray sweats hanging loose on his lanky body. Soon, he’d start filling out into the man he would one day become, and she wasn’t ready for it.
 

His likeness to Maitland was uncanny and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the resemblance until now. Austin had a couple of posters of Maitland in his bedroom, along with other Wranglers’ memorabilia. She kept telling herself she should have seen the likeness, but how could she have? Jed Maitland was the last person on earth she’d have ever believed to be her son’s biological father.

“A glass, Slick,” she reminded him when he opened the milk carton and prepared to chug.

He sighed, more of a show of teenage annoyance she’d become accustomed to the past few months since Ross had walked out on them. He poured his milk and set the carton on the counter. “Jim Packard’s dad is taking him fishing Saturday and they invited me. Can I go?” His voice had begun to change. Her baby was growing up, whether she liked it or not.

The microwave dinged, so she retrieved her mug. “As long as your homework is all caught up.”

Austin gave her an impatient glance, but quickly nodded his assent. She really was lucky. Austin was a good kid and he worked hard in school. He enjoyed competitive sports, but there was little question that football was his first love, something he’d been doing since he was eight years old.

Walking back to the round maple table, she set her mug on the rose chintz tablecloth. She picked up the journal and hugged it close to her chest. “Sit down, Austin.”

He looked at her, curiously, but did as she asked. She took a deep breath and forced a smile. Whatever happened, she knew she had to believe she was doing the right thing. “I had a visitor at the store today.”

Austin gulped his milk, then wiped the milk-moustache with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Did they buy that Louis XIV?” he asked, hopeful.

Her smile softened. “No. Actually, he brought something. For you.”

He looked at her, those deep brown eyes, his father’s eyes. “What is it?”

God, why was this so hard suddenly? Because she’d be lying to her son by omission and she hated being anything less than honest with him. Good parenting meant you were an example to your children. What kind of example would she be setting if she lied to him?

“Your mother had a safety deposit box we didn't know existed. Someone at the bank recently learned she had passed away and I was listed as the beneficiary. The gentleman who came into the store delivered the contents, along with the balance in her savings account.”

He set his cup on the table and reached for the plate of chocolate chip cookies in the center. “Cool. Are we rich?” he asked around the cookie in his mouth.

Despite the gravity of her heart, she managed a small smile. “Hardly.”
 

She set the journal on the table in front of him. “She left something for you, too.” Reaching into her bag, she retrieved the envelope addressed to him, bypassing the publicity photo of his father. “She wanted you to have these.”
 

Austin stared at the journal as if afraid to touch it. “Have you read it?”
 

“Yes.”
 

Nodding, but still not touching either item, he looked across the table at her. She saw the confusion and the flash of pain in his eyes. “Do I have to read it now, or can I take it to my room?”

She stood and circled the table, wrapping her arms around him. “It belongs to you, honey. You can read it whenever you feel you’re ready. Or not at all.” Another woman, her own sister, had given birth this beautiful boy, but he was
her
baby and always would be. No one, not even a legendary quarterback, could threaten her relationship with her son. She hoped.

“It’s your decision.”

“Okay.” He stood, scooping up the journal and the letter. He started out of the room, but stopped at the kitchen door. “I love you, Mom,” he said, then dashed out of the room.
 

Her heart constricted. His footsteps pounded on the stairs as he took them two at a time. “I love you too, Slick,” she whispered, silently praying she’d done the right thing.

*

Griffen shoved the checkbook aside in disgust. The money she’d received from Dani’s bank in Mississippi hadn’t gone far. After writing the checks for one of the mortgage payments on the house and her Jeep payment, her checkbook balance looked pitiful and small. She couldn’t keep them going much longer at this rate. Her father had offered to help, he’d give her the sun and the moon if she asked for it, but she refused to go to her family for money. This was her mess, her problem, and she’d handle it on her own. Ross had made a lot of empty promises when he’d left, and she hadn’t heard a word from him in the six months he’d been gone. Well, other than the complaint for divorce his lawyers had served on her two weeks after he’d left. He’d taken nothing, other than her money, leaving behind Austin, the credit card balances, the loan balances, and all the past-due notices.
 

In another few days, her divorce would be final and then she could unload the house. She and Austin didn’t need the huge four thousand square foot, five bedroom home sitting on twelve acres of lakefront property on the outskirts of town. There was a smaller bungalow within the Hart city limits coming available, and she’d already made an informal arrangement with owner, Edith Henley, to purchase the cozy three bedroom house with the proceeds from the sale.