Fourth and Goal Page 2

  "Sorry it took me so long."

  "You're a woman.” As if that explained everything. “We'll grab a bite at the bar down the road and go over things. You didn't need to dress up for that place.” He took in her ivory blouse and black pants.

  It wasn't the power suit, but it'd have to do. Her meager unemployment check didn't pay for good business suits.

  "I'm more comfortable in these clothes.” She looked out the car window. She'd always been a lousy liar.

  Derek frowned, seemingly uneasy with this new Rachel. They drove in silence. A few minutes later, they sat at a table in a local bar, eating burgers and nursing their drinks. Derek went over last-minute instructions, and Rachel wrote down the details.

  "I guess that's everything. You're taking a load off my mind. I couldn't ask for a better caretaker."

  "That's right, buster."

  "You'll stay on until the end of my season?"

  "Certainly. That's the plan."

  "This season is pivotal to my future.” He smiled at her and warmed her from the inside out. Despite her misgivings, she felt oddly comfortable around him.

  "I know that too.” She toyed with her napkin, ripped the corners off, and wished she'd worn the power suit.

  "Do you?"

  "I pay attention.” She lifted her head and met his steady gaze. Her heart ached for the carefree young man she had once known and for simpler times.

  "I haven't exactly lived up to my potential."

  "You will.” He'd given his all to the game he loved, yet it hadn't been enough.

  A slow smile spread across his face. “You always had faith in me. Have you seen me play in the past year?"

  "A little.” A lie—she'd watched every single game.

  Looking away, he focused at a spot on the wall. “Remember how we used to pore over game film? You saw stuff no one else saw. Those little things make a big difference."

  "I tried.” She wanted to help him now, to tell him what she'd observed when she'd watched him play. Instead she held her tongue.

  "You helped me. A lot. Now I just don't know. I've lost it, and I don't know how to get it back."

  "You're not a quitter. You'll find a way.” Part of her longed to take him in her arms and hold him, to deny he'd played a role in ruining her dad. Proving this man guilty would be more difficult than she'd ever imagined.

  "I hope so.” His dark eyes brimmed with sorrow. “It's good to have you here. To talk to you."

  "The agreement works for both of us."

  "Rae, I'm sorry. I was an insensitive ass our senior year. I never meant to hurt you. We should've never crossed the line between friends and—” He hesitated, struggling with the words.

  "Friends with benefits.” She waved a hand and dismissed the subject as if her broken heart had been nothing at all, just an immature crush. “It's in the past. Old history. No need to apologize. We were both young and dumb. End of story.” Rachel gulped down her liquid courage and called forth the ice princess. Unfortunately Her Highness refused to cooperate without her power suit of armor.

  "Do you think there's a chance we could be friends again?” Derek leaned forward. His chocolate eyes, earnest and bright, searched hers.

  Rachel looked away and forced all expression from her face. “Let's not run that play yet."

  It might be the one play that'd drop them both for a loss.

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  Chapter Two

  The Runback

  A lump of guilt rose in Derek's throat like bile, acidic and rank. He groaned and buried his head in his hands. What the fuck had he been thinking? He cursed the day he'd taken Cass up on her offer to find a caretaker for his small ranch.

  Fisting his hands in frustration, he leaned back in his teak lawn chair and stared down the hill and across the field that separated his house from the barn. Through the trees, the lights in Rachel's little house glowed warmly. When he'd first laid eyes on her, regret and longing had blindsided him as hard as a linebacker with a grudge. Yet the ice princess inhabiting Rachel's body hadn't batted an eye once she'd refrigerated her anger regarding the key theft.

  Part of him wanted to blame Tyler, his asshole cousin, and Cass, Tyler's bimbo blonde girlfriend. Shit, the assholes knew Derek's future rode on his performance the next four months. He had a career to resurrect and didn't need distractions. Rachel living within spitting distance of his home definitely distracted him. He'd sported a major boner since this afternoon, further proof he didn't need this. Any more than she needed him.

  "You're not armed, are you?"

  Derek jumped, startled. The front legs of his chair slammed onto the deck. Tyler peeked around the frame of the open French doors. Derek glared at him. “Should I be?"

  Tyler shrugged as he dropped into a lawn chair next to his. “So you're not pissed at me?"

  "Oh, I am pissed at you, but using a weapon would be too quick and painless. I prefer slower methods to get my point across."

  "Whatever. You could have said no.” Tyler propped his feet on the opposite chair.

  The truth rankled him even more. “Why the hell did I let you talk me into this stupid-assed idea anyway? And take your dirty feet off that chair."

  "Because in the dark recesses of your fucked-up brain, you wanted her here.” Tyler dropped his big feet on the floor with a clunk. “It's been years. Both of you are adults. Fucking deal with it.” He helped himself to the remainder of Derek's beer.

  "Easy for you to say."

  "It should be easy for you to say.” Tyler rose to his feet, disappeared inside, and returned with two beers—an expensive microbrew for him, and a can of the cheap crap for his best buddy.

  Derek took the beer offered to him and studied the label. He scowled. “You're really getting on my nerves."

  "Like I give a shit?"

  "You should."

  "Whatever. You still have a thing for her."

  "Fuck you. I never had a thing for her. We were buddies. That's it,” Derek shot back much too quickly.

  A shrewd smile crept across Tyler's face. Derek's rat-bastard cousin smelled blood and moved in for the kill. “Then what are you so damn upset about?"

  "I was stupid to let you talk me into this.” Derek glared at Tyler. “Anyway, it's not me I'm worried about."

  "Really?” Tyler didn't look convinced, not one bit.

  "Yeah, really. I treated Rachel like crap, and I feel like an ass about it.” Derek looked away, not wanting Tyler's knowing gaze to see the depth of his guilt.

  "You were an ass. You should feel like one."

  "This coming from the king of asses?"

  Tyler didn't have the decency to look hurt. “All in a day's work.” He grinned. “You, my friend, are an idiot. I'm just an ass. You turned a lifelong friendship into a weekend of sex and fucked the whole thing up."

  "I thought she was okay with therapy sex. How the hell was I to know she'd do something stupid like fall in love with me?"

  "She's a woman. How could you not know that? Get over it. It seems she has."

  Derek conceded that point. “I can't read her anymore. She's changed."

  "Yeah, so? We all have."

  "Ty, she doesn't look like Rachel. You should've seen her in her business suit, all cold and professional."

  Tyler sat up straighter and frowned. “No way."

  Derek nodded and read the label on his can of cheap beer. “You brought this crap last time you were here.” Resigned, he popped open the top and took a long swallow. At least it was cold.

  Tyler quirked an eyebrow and raised the bottle to his mouth. He took a long pull and licked his lips in satisfaction.

  "She was working in management for the Everett Blockbusters?"

  Tyler nodded. “After all the shit surrounding her dad shaving points, the Blocks let her go."

  "That's got nothing to do with her, and nothing was ever proven."

  "Tell that to the Blocks. Of course, they gave her some lame-assed excuse, but no wa
y did they want scandal tainting them."

  "This sucks.” He leveled a murderous gaze at Tyler for putting him in this position.

  The ass grinned, obviously enjoying his cousin's dilemma. “Too bad you're such a nice guy."

  "Being rude, obnoxious, and dumb isn't in my nature like it is yours."

  "No need to get insulting. You're no different than me."

  "No different than you?” That almost made him laugh. “I don't party all night long—well, not anymore. I don't date bleached blondes with a bust size bigger than their IQ or switch girlfriends faster than channels on a remote. I don't feel entitled just because I have more athletic ability in my little finger than most men have in their entire bodies."

  "You can be humble and boring if you want. I'd rather be an obnoxious braggart."

  "Yeah, well, remember this, Ty: any day it could be over. And any second our charmed lives, which are already damn tarnished, could come crashing down around us."

  "Then let's party while we can.” Tyler grinned. Nothing fazed him.

  "You know what? I like myself most of the time. Can you say that?"

  "I love myself, and I love being an asshole. But you, my cuz, are in deep shit. Being a nice guy with a guilty conscience only digs you in deeper."

  "No shit."

  "If I was in your shoes, I'd capitalize on Rachel's uncanny ability to analyze your game performance. After which I'd kick her cute little ass to the curb and never think another thing about it. But you, my dumb-shit friend—"

  "I know.” Derek sighed and stared down the hill. “I'm screwed."

  The next morning Rachel drained her bank account and paid a locksmith to make a new key for her truck. Derek had offered, but she turned him down.

  Call it stupid pride or financial suicide, it all came down to guilt. Guilt that she was using him. Guilt that she'd ruin Tyler and him if the truth came out.

  Last night she'd feasted her eyes on Derek's exceptional body, drowned in his kind brown eyes, and sympathized with his lack of performance on the football field. Shame settled in her gut, filled her with doubt. She'd consorted with the enemy, felt for him, let his nearness cloud her emotions. Her convictions needed reaffirming.

  After feeding the horses, she drove three hours to her father's mobile home in a tract development. He'd lost his big house six months ago along with his coaching job, his selfish young wife, and his zeal for life. She pulled into Dave McCormick's driveway and cut the engine. Dandelions flourished in the front yard and crowded out the brown grass. An old car on blocks crouched next to the house. Paint peeled off the siding, and one gutter hung askew over the front porch.

  She sat in her truck and gathered her thoughts. Through the living room window, light flickered from the TV. Her once meticulous father had been reduced to a shell of man. The state of his environment reflected the state of his mind. No other sign of life greeted her as she stepped out of her truck. Weary, she rubbed grit from her eyes and sighed.

  Picking her way past garbage littering the sidewalk, Rachel slipped on some TV dinner cartons and almost fell. Regaining her tenuous balance, she ducked under the twisted metal storm gutter hanging off the eaves and stepped onto the rickety porch. She knocked on the door. No one answered. She tried the doorknob. It turned, and she let herself inside.

  Rachel's heart thumped in her chest, and she feared the worst. Shame consumed her. She should've been a better daughter, visited more often, not been so wrapped up in her own misery. Despite losing her dream job, she had youth on her side. She'd rebound. Her father might not.

  "Dad?” The gloomy interior engulfed her, smothered her. The stench of cigarette smoke floated in the air, thick and oppressive. Newspapers and magazines concealed the worn carpet. The kitchen counter overflowed with dirty dishes. A man's snoring rattled the small room, and relief flooded through her.

  Rachel navigated the obstacles and found her dad passed out in an expensive leather recliner—a remnant of his previous life. Beer and whiskey bottles were scattered around the chair like fallen timber in a clear-cut.

  Her once proud, handsome father looked like hell. His short hair stuck up in spikes, much grayer than a few months ago. His stubbled jaw hadn't seen a razor in a few days. He'd slept in his T-shirt one too many times. She wrinkled her nose. From the smell of him, a shower was long overdue.

  "Dad?” Rachel shook his shoulder. He grumbled several unintelligible words, barely able to string two syllables together. She shook him harder. Her dad squinted at her through bloodshot eyes.

  "Rae? Honey, whatcha doin’ here?” He struggled to sit upright in the recliner, which took three attempts.

  "Just checking on you.” Rachel debated between scolding him and coddling him. Neither had proved effective in the past.

  He shook his head to clear it and leaned forward, head in his hands, and groaned.

  "You need a shower. Take one while I clean up. Can you manage that?"

  Her father nodded and avoided her gaze, having the presence of mind to be embarrassed. He heaved himself to his feet and staggered into the small bathroom down the hall. She listened until she heard the sound of water running in the shower.

  As a little girl, Rachel had crawled onto his lap during Monday Night Football. With the patience of a doting father, he'd explain plays, discuss strategy, and expound on what made a good player a great player. She'd soaked it all in, hanging on his every word, until her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep during the fourth quarter. He'd carry her to bed, tuck her in, and kiss her good night. She'd snuggle under the covers, confident her daddy would keep her safe no matter what. Superman didn't have anything on her dad.

  With a sigh, she glanced around the room, wondering where to start. Rachel tidied up the place and prepared a decent meal. Finally he came out of the bathroom, looking more like her father and less like a drunk.

  "Were you afraid you'd find me with a bullet in the head?” He sat at a barstool at the kitchen counter.

  "Dad, don't talk like that.” Rachel bent down and scooped up an armload of bottles and deposited them in the garbage can outside the door.

  He chuckled, almost sounding like the old Dave McCormick. “I'd never take my own life. Too much of a coward."

  "That's good to hear.” She relaxed a little.

  "That I'm a coward?"

  "You know what I mean."

  He stared at her for so long she squirmed. “You look so much like your mother. Thank God you didn't get my looks."

  Rachel smiled at him. “Dad, why don't you fight this? Prove you're innocent."

  Her dad shook his head. “No, I will not. Enough damage has been done. I won't drag anyone down with me."

  "Mitch thinks you're protecting someone."

  "Mitch can think what he wants. None of it matters anymore."

  "It does matter. You're innocent."

  "I am, but I've always protected my boys, and I always will."

  "Who are you protecting, Dad? Who would stand to lose after all these years? Derek Ramsey? Tyler Harris? Who?” Saying the words sickened her. To think Derek had been her best buddy, her confidant, and even her lover and had never given a thought to what he'd done. He'd cheated and gotten away with it. Everything she ever believed about him dissolved into a big pile of bullshit.

  Her father looked away. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Doesn't matter now."

  "It does, Dad. This isn't just about you.” She leveled him with her most serious look. “I lost my job a little while ago."

  His head jerked in her direction, more alert than she'd seen him in a long while. “Why? What happened?"

  "They seem to believe like father like daughter."

  His face fell. He aged twenty years in a split second. “I never meant for this to affect you."

  "It did. It affected all of us. Mitch barely held on to his coaching job. Dad, you need to speak up. Tell what you know. Clear your name."

  Her father shook his head. “Sorry, honey, can't."

 
"I'll get it out of them."

  Her father threw back his head and laughed. Actually laughed. Out loud and almost hysterical. If a six-feet-two bear of a man could be hysterical. She stared at him. Her mouth dropped open. His maniacal laughter continued until he wheezed for breath, panting like he'd run a marathon.

  "I fail to see what's so funny."

  "Now you sound like your mother. Damn, I needed that.” He wiped his eyes.

  "I'm glad I could help you, but I still don't find what I said funny."

  "Think about it. You, toe-to-toe with Tyler Harris, demanding he confess to shaving points, which would result in him losing his pro career. Harris is a tough son of a bitch. He's as self-absorbed as the devil himself. He doesn't give a shit about anything but himself and football. And as for Ramsey, he's fiercely loyal to his cousin. You're wasting your time."

  "You're admitting they did it."

  "I'm admitting nothing."

  "But you said—"

  "I said you won't get anything out of them if there's anything to get.” He popped the top off a beer from a six-pack on the table. Rachel grabbed it from his hand and poured it down the sink.

  "You need help.” She met his gaze and wondered when she'd become the parent.

  "I will. Give me time.” He sighed.

  He'd promised to go to counseling for months.

  They ate dinner in silence. Afterward he fell into a deep sleep in his chair, and she let herself out.

  Driving away, Rachel stared at the road through tear-filled eyes. Seeing her father pounded the situation home just as expected. Sometimes a girl didn't have a lot of choices.

  Her choices had dried up when the state of California charged Vince Rizzoli with sports bribery and racketeering, citing several incidents of points shaving at two major California colleges.

  An investigation into Rizzoli's background had uncovered several more incidents, some in the state of Washington nine years ago. One trail led to a fateful Washington state high school football championship between Rachel's father's team and the team Rizzoli's son happened to quarterback. Suspicions focused on her father, now head coach at a small, local university, and accused him of losing the championship game for money.