The Total Package (9 page)

“Two words, Marcus LaRue.”

The name hung in the air. Tyson and LaRue had a history. They had faced each other six times in two years, and every damn time their teams played, Marcus could be counted on to intercept him, often more than once. Adding insult to injury, it was only part of what made LaRue the absolute best. Most of those interceptions Marcus ran in for touchdowns, he was just that fast. And he did it in a Boston Blitz jersey, racking up the score for Tyson’s former team.

“Are you just throwing that name up in my face to motivate me?”

“He’s thinking about making a change. A couple of them.” Barrow broke into a sly grin.

“So the rumors are true,” Tyson said flatly. There had been rumblings that Marcus was thinking of making the switch from defense to offense. “The kid is cocky enough to think he can play the whole field. I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

“Every team wants him, and they are willing to sell the farm to get him. He wants to come here.”

Tyson was more baffled than enlightened. “That’s great. Go get him. Not having my salary to burden you frees that money right up.”

Barrow laughed at another one of their inside jokes. Tyson had never been one of the league’s top salaried players, but this last year Barrow had forced him to accept a salary more in keeping with his superstar status, stating that he no longer looked like a savvy businessman, but more like he was taking advantage of his outstanding quarterback. This time, Tyson invested wisely. After his rehab, Tyson had started living simply, and it suited him. The trappings of his previous life no longer held any appeal. He was choosier about where he spent his money. When his mother mentioned wanting to move out of the family home, he bought her a lovely maintenance-free town house. When his sister got married last year, he paid for her wedding, and his gift to her was substantial. Douglas Palmer couldn’t be found to invite. Tyson still did enjoy a nice car though, and every now and then he liked dressing to impress. When he became enlightened, his priorities changed. Gone from his now-uncomplicated life were multiple houses and jet-set vacations. If it didn’t involve some sort of greater good, it was easy to talk himself out of doing it. Most of his endorsement deals were donated to charity. It was only recently Tyson considered marrying again, maybe starting a family. Neither of those scenarios included going back to the gridiron until he was too crippled to make a good run at either.

“The Mavericks have enough to afford you both, plus the backup it would take to prevent you from feeling the sack. I’m willing to pay you double what the television deal is worth.”

“I don’t think this is about money.”

Clinton Barrow leaned way back in his executive chair, no longer mincing words. “You’re clever, Tyson. I know what I promised, and it seems like I’m pulling the rug out from under you. But LaRue has several conditions on coming to the Mavericks. The main one is he wants you to be the one who throws to him.”

“Why me?” Tyson asked, caught by surprise.

“We haven’t gotten that far. I wanted to make sure we were all on the same page,” Barrow hedged, making it seem as if Tyson actually had a choice.

It felt like pouring salt in an open wound. No matter how friendly or fatherly, Clinton Barrow was still going to do what he had to do to get what he wanted. The TV gig wasn’t going to wait another year, even if Tyson was the perfect fit. The guy up for retiring was not only old enough to have given Moses directions, he was a pigskin warhorse who had begun to prattle aimlessly about the glory days of football. It left everyone in the production control room uneasy that a seven-second delay wouldn’t be enough and his next diatribe would land them all on the wrong side of some controversy. A strange irony, given Tyson’s own past was embroiled in scandal.

“Won’t you at least meet him? See what’s making him tick?” Clint asked.

“I get the feeling there is no way to gracefully decline without you taking it personally.”

“It would end our relationship on a sour note. And I’d owe you a favor, a big one, the offensive coordinator kind of favor, if you can wait a year or two. You’d still be the youngest in the league.”

Even if Clinton Barrow threw the morsel out on the spur of the moment, they both knew he would make good on it. Tyson would’ve never put it on the table, but a coaching job would keep him on the field, the best of all worlds. It was also testament to just what length Barrow would go to make this deal with LaRue happen.

“When can you set up the meeting?” Tyson caved.

“In about an hour, I thought it’d be nice if he joined us for lunch.”

Tyson shook his head, wondering why he should be surprised. Clint was a man of action.

“There is one other thing you should probably know about Marcus, if you didn’t already. He wants to come with baggage.”

Tyson began to grit his teeth. Marcus had achieved the level of stardom that made a great deal of his whims reality.

“You know he’s not what you would call media-friendly,” Clint said with full-on twang.

“That’s one way to put it,” Tyson responded.

“We frown on those things here in Austin. Once he puts on that uniform, he’s part of a team. To that end, we’ve told him we’re willing to meet him halfway to make everyone happy. His concession is that he have his own reporter, a handler, if you will, who will be the only person who ever gets his comments before or after games.”

Geez, LaRue was smart, Tyson thought. Pompous, but brilliant. He waited patiently for Barrow to drop the bomb.

“He wants that reporter to be Dani Carr.”

Tyson shook his head. Now he saw the reason behind Clint’s advance warning. But he was also intrigued, and it made his pulse quicken. This might not be so bad after all.

Dani Carr represented so many things. Not only was Marcus LaRue’s choice for personal correspondent the league’s current broadcast darling, but she also happened to be the most current test of his humility.

TYSON AND CLINT WENT TO
a steakhouse that was one of their favorites. Within minutes of being seated, Marcus arrived alone. No agent, no entourage, no fanfare. Without being led over by the maître d’, he seemed to appear out of nowhere and suddenly was standing beside them at the table.

If nothing else, the young buck is prompt,
Tyson thought as they shook hands and Marcus took his seat. He had a firm handshake, but not a long one, as if he disliked the contact.

Tyson studied Marcus as they made polite small talk with Barrow. He was shorter than Tyson, maybe as much as six inches, lean and compact but with too much muscle to be considered wiry. Wisps of platinum blond hair occasionally fell into his eyes. Eyes that were bright blue, like a robin’s egg. There was a hardness to them, as unreadable as the man himself, who at twenty-four had only recently become a full-blown adult. He was detached, responding to questions with little more than one-word answers even while his eyes seemed to be looking everywhere at once, already bored with the conversation. No actual smile, but a permanent half-grin, the kind that a wise guy wears as he’s getting over on you.

Arrogant,
was Tyson’s final analysis, not that arrogant football players were anything new. And why wouldn’t he be? Marcus was a hot property who kept his nose clean, which only added to his mystery. But there was something else—it was the completely disinterested look that Marcus wore that translated into he couldn’t care less, about football or much of anything else.

As they dined, Barrow’s conversation slowly began to segue into all the wonderful things Austin had to offer, leading up to the Mavericks in particular. He didn’t press Marcus in any way, and Tyson couldn’t help but compare the difference in the way he was trying to finesse Marcus to join the team to the way he had invited Tyson.

After they ordered coffee, Clint rose from the table. Giving Tyson a little wink he said, “I’m going to leave you two to get better acquainted. Tyson, my car will be waiting for you to take you back. The check is settled. See you at the office.”

The two were left alone, and from their opposite sides of the table, they engaged in a brief stare-down, the veteran and the rookie.

“I expected to see a coach or two here, maybe a marching band. If nothing else, an accountant,” Marcus commented drolly.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, LaRue. What’s your angle here?”

Marcus maintained his careless expression. “I want to win a Super Bowl. Don’t you?”

If this punk was trying to intimidate him, he was barking up the wrong tree. Tyson had been intimidated by the best. “We all do. But this smells like a stunt. I don’t do outrageous grabs for the limelight anymore.”

Marcus shook his head slightly and exhaled loudly. “And I never did them. You know how I feel about my right to privacy.”

“Then why am I sitting here as the only thing contingent on you signing with the Mavericks?”

Marcus looked like he might start to laugh but didn’t. “There are a lot of reasons I want to play here. You’re only one of them. The rest are my business.”

“I couldn’t care less about your other reasons,” Tyson replied, “but I will get to the bottom of the one that concerns me.”

Marcus tilted his head and stared at him before saying, “Don’t you see it, dude? You gotta know I’m reading your mind out there.”

Tyson looked at him skeptically from across the table. For all the times he wished there was some paranormal force to explain away Marcus’s uncanny ability to intercept his passes, it sounded absurd.

“That’s a bit farfetched,” Tyson said. “And I don’t believe in voodoo.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair. “This has nothing to do with voodoo, which is a real religion back where I’m from, by the way. What I’m talking about is more like telepathy. Didn’t you ever wonder how I always manage to be right where you’re throwing, even when I don’t make the steal?”

Tyson could feel his jaw tightening. He not only wondered how Marcus did it, but he often agonized over it. But when push came to shove, there was no logical explanation for the sixth sense Marcus claimed to possess. “I’m not the only quarterback you’ve run the score up on.”

“That’s true,” Marcus replied, neither humble nor conceited. “And there are times I do get it right with others. But with you it’s consistently the strongest.”

“I don’t believe this,” Tyson scoffed, one step closer to pushing away from the table and going back to Barrow as the bearer of bad news.

“You don’t have to believe it, although it would help. But can you imagine how much damage we could do with that sort of advantage?”

“Why haven’t you shared this with anyone else?”

“Why would I? I don’t like to waste time. Or breath.”

Marcus sounded like he had a clear understanding of the politics of the game and his value as a commodity. He also had an advantage that he wanted to capitalize on, but he needed Tyson’s help to do it. A strange, cosmic advantage, the very thing Tyson had learned to stop questioning. There was no need to let LaRue in on the fact that Tyson was at a disadvantage and really couldn’t say no. He itched to tell Marcus that Dani Carr would have to go, to give it the appearance of a true negotiation, but he didn’t want to reveal just how much that woman managed to get under his skin. It looked like there would be plenty of time to pursue that subject. If Marcus was speaking the truth, it would be like having two quarterbacks on the field. And if he was right about it, it’d be like having an extra receiver as well. Tyson had nothing to lose and everything to gain. He would fulfill every obligation he ever felt to Barrow and if all went well, would be able to go out on top in the process.

“The only way a secret weapon works is to keep it a secret,” Marcus added with his half-grin becoming close to a full one. “We both know you excel at those.”

“Keeping secrets is exhausting, Marcus,” Tyson said, trying to keep from sounding like he was doling out unwanted advice.

“So is having to placate a bunch of greedy assholes.”

The man had a point, even if Tyson didn’t completely agree. He had always viewed Barrow as a mentor if not his savior. But even now all Barrow thought about was a championship, and he was more than willing to let Tyson take another year of pounding for a shot at it.

“It can never work if we’re suspicious of each other,” Tyson said.

Marcus actually smiled, but it looked unnatural, like it pained him to do so. “If you’re willing to trust me, I might begin to trust you. Starting with what we’ve just discussed and what you do with that information.”

Tyson smiled back. “You get one year.”

Marcus crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. He sounded almost insulted. “That’s all we’re going to need.”

CHAPTER 7

DANI CARR STOOD
in front of her closet and carefully considered her shoes. Did she want to make a fashion statement or show that she was ready for action? The heels would give her height, and she loved the way they made her legs look, but if she had to move quickly, there was a real chance that she could trip and make a spectacle of herself. She had done that once already and didn’t want to repeat the experience, even if the payoff that first time had been huge. Then she took into account the height of who she’d be standing next to. It wouldn’t make much of a difference. She prudently chose a pair of flats.