Fourth and Goal (39 page)

"Well, Alice, how
are
things down the rabbit hole?” She massaged his tight neck.

"Strange and getting stranger."

"Hmmm. Thanks for the tickets, the roses, everything. My brothers might even rescind the bounty on your head."

"I'd like that. It's tough being a hunted man."

"I doubt I'm here just so you can earn points with my brothers. Care to enlighten me?"

"I wanted you here.” He didn't disguise the stark need in his eyes. They'd progressed way beyond that. No more pretending.

"So we could sleep together before the game?"

"Hey, it's worked before, though I don't think sleep is an accurate term.” He grinned. “And the game doesn't get any bigger than this."

Rachel leaned into him, fisting her hands in the curling hair on his chest. She rubbed her hips against his, sliding her stomach over his erection. He sucked in a breath. She backed him up to the bed, pushing him down onto the soft mattress. Rachel fell on top of him, her mouth all over his. She gave as good as she got, her kisses hot and demanding.

He surprised her by pulling back, his eyes glimmering with a wicked light. Oh man, how she loved it when he got that look.

"You know, beds are highly overrated.” He gestured toward the sliding glass doors opening onto a somewhat private balcony.

Her eyes opened wide. “There?"

He nodded. “Under the stars. In the warm night. No one will see."

"And if they do?"

"We're ten stories up. My teammates should be in bed. We'll be quiet."

"And if we aren't?” Her arguments were for argument's sake. She'd already warmed to the idea. Little thrills of pleasure thrummed through her.

He stood and picked her up in his arms. She helped him out by yanking open the patio door. A cool breeze blew in off the ocean, but the night was still warm. He turned her so she faced the patio railing while he stood behind her.

"Hang on tight, baby."

Rachel bent down and grabbed a couple of rungs of the railing. Derek moved behind her. He slipped his hands underneath her and pushed her t-shirt and bra upward, baring her breasts. His fingers tugged at her nipples. He rolled each nipple in between his forefingers and thumbs. His talented fingers teased with just the perfect amount of pressure.

Rachel moaned and pushed back against him, rubbing her jeans-clad butt against his crotch. Below her, cars pulled up to the hotel, people came and went. Taxis waited for their next fare. They were too far up for anyone to make out their faces or body parts even if they happened to look upward. Still, the excitement of doing it in a somewhat public setting heightened the urgency of the act. The scent of salt air mixed with asphalt assailed her senses.

Leaving her nipples sore and aching for his touch, he unzipped her jeans and slid them down her legs. Her underpants came next.

A couple of fingers slipped inside her, testing her wetness, only to be replaced a second later by something harder and more substantial. She sighed as his cock filled her, absorbing all the empty places. No tender, sweet lovemaking tonight. His tension told the story of a body held tightly under control, of barely leashed passion. She'd unsnap that leash and set him free. Set them both free.

"Show me what it feels like to make love to a Super Bowl winner."

"We haven't won yet."

"You will. Now show me."

With an animal growl, he withdrew and plunged into her with a fury as he released the physical and emotional tension racked up over the past week. He pounded into her as she gripped the balcony rungs. His cock rode high inside her. One of his hands snaked underneath her body and fingered her clit. She shuddered and closed her eyes, listening to the slapping of their bodies, his grunts, her gasps. Her body shook. Her knees weakened. Her heart raced.

She loved this man. Loved everything about him. Loved how he could be so tender at times and so crazed at others. He took her higher and higher, breaking her body into millions of parts that came together with him into a larger whole. She'd only be complete with him. Her body knew what her heart worked so hard to deny.

With a final groan, he leaned over her, holding her tight against him.

Below them, life went on about its business. But on a balcony on the tenth floor, life would never be the same for either of them.

"If you've just joined us, welcome to our coverage of the Super Bowl. The underdog Seattle Lumberjacks versus the highly favored, undefeated Boston Rebels.” Bob Conlon sat in the announcer's booth overlooking the football stadium and consulted his notes. Below him, pregame festivities shifted into high gear.

"Bob, a lot of people are asking why the Jacks are wearing number thirteen on their jersey sleeves.” His broadcasting partner, Chris Mackey, paused and waited for the answer.

"Chris, as you know, it's in honor of a local Seattle high school football star, Ryan DeGrazio, who lost his battle with cancer two weeks ago at the age of seventeen.” Everyone loved a good human interest story, especially one like this. The broadcast showed a picture of DeGrazio in his days as a high school quarterback.

"I understand he became something of a team mascot. He attended every home game the second half of the season."

"The team has dedicated the Super Bowl to Ryan.” They flashed to a clip of Ryan in his wheelchair hugging Derek after they won their first play-off game.

"A brave young man who made a mark on every life he touched."

"That he did."

The cameras panned to Derek and Tyler walking out to the center of the field, fully suited up and sans helmets.

"Now here's a special treat and a closely guarded secret leading up to this Super Bowl. Derek Ramsey and Tyler Harris will be singing ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ Let's listen."

Derek took a deep breath. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. Damn, he was nervous. Not just about singing but everything—the game, the aftermath, everything. The pressure squeezed the air out of his lungs like an elephant sitting on his chest.

Tyler stood beside him, flashing his trademark grin for the international audience. If he felt the same inner turmoil, you couldn't tell. He was as cool as ice cubes in a freezer. Tyler ate up the attention like a starving dog being thrown a steak.

Why Derek had agreed to sing and add additional stress to an already stress-filled day, he sure as hell didn't know. Call him a fucking idiot.

As they each took a mike, Tyler elbowed him and bounced on the balls of his feet, keyed up and ready for action. “Ready?"

"As much as I'll ever be."

"Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ sang by Lumberjacks players, Tyler Harris and Derek Ramsey."

The crowd hushed and rose as one. Derek and Tyler put their hands over their hearts. Tyler nodded. In unison, they sang the national anthem just like they'd rehearsed it, straight from the heart, no artistic renditions. They belted it out as Francis Scott Key meant for it to be sung. Derek didn't forget the words, thank God, and his voice didn't crack.

As they sang the final note, the din of the crowd deafened them. Adrenaline rushed through Derek, transforming pregame nerves into anticipation. This was it. The day every football player dreamed of, and he was living the dream. Only a few short months ago, he'd been close to giving it up.

The Jacks won the toss and elected to receive.

The entire team gathered together in a huddle on the sidelines with Tyler in the center. He pointed to the heavens, then looked each teammate in the eye. “This one's for Ryan!"

They stuck their hands into the center of the circle, big meaty lineman's hands, smaller punter's hands, hands in gloves, hands wrapped with tape, one hand with a finger in a splint. All these different men of different ethnicities and different backgrounds together for one purpose—one goal. Above the crowd's roar, they shouted as one: “For Ryan!"

Derek sprinted onto the field and took his place as a kick returner. He hadn't returned kicks since his college days, but HughJack wanted the fastest guy back to receive, so he'd practiced fielding kicks for the last two weeks.

The ball sailed end over end and backed him into the end zone. A glance upfield revealed holes. He caught the ball, tucked it safely against his body, turned on the speed. He powered himself to the Rebels’ forty before they brought him down with a bone-crushing gang tackle.

The Super Bowl had begun.

The intensity of the Super Bowl surpassed any game Derek had ever played in.

It was one of those nail-biters where neither team dominated. The defenses held and the offenses sputtered. At the two-minute warning, the scoreboard showed 10-14. The Jacks’ lone touchdown came in the third quarter, a seven-yard strike from Tyler to their rookie tight end, Josh Spinner.

The Rebels’ defense shut Derek down, at times double- and triple-teaming him. Frustrated, he couldn't shake Emil Lewis, the best defensive back in the league with speed to rival his own. Emil took every opportunity to slam him to the ground. Every chance the Rebels got, they piled on him. His body hurt in places he'd never hurt before. His knees protested, his back screamed, and one ankle felt like it was on fire after he twisted it late in the third quarter. The trainer wrapped it and sent him back out.

Tyler limped to the huddle, not in much better shape than Derek. Arnie, aka The Bulldozer, their left guard, sported a black eye. Spin, the tight end, wandered around with a dazed, deer-in-the-headlights expression. Their right tackle dislocated his thumb but played anyway. They were beat-up physically, but so was their opponent.

Everybody felt it—the building desperation—but nobody wanted to give it credence because that made it real. Too real. Once it became real and this shaky thread binding them together unraveled, the game would be lost.

The Rebels gained possession at the two-minute mark on their own twenty-seven. Derek closed his eyes and prayed—to God, to Ryan, to anyone who'd listen. They needed a miracle, a fumble, an interception, something.

Someone upstairs was listening. The Rebels fumbled. Jacks recovered.

The offense ran to the field. This was their last chance. Originally, getting here had been enough. Now Derek knew it wouldn't be enough. He wanted a ring.

Bruiser found a hole and ran to the nine before being buried under the defense. The clock ticked down to forty-five seconds.

Three plays later, their hopes fizzled like the end of a sparkler. Penalties set them back on their asses. Fourth and goal on the twenty-three, they huddled behind the line of scrimmage with three seconds and no time-outs left.

"Okay, assholes, this is it.” Tyler's steel blue eyes bored into each one of them, personally holding them accountable to him for what happened next. “Hold the fucking line. Give me some fucking time, and I'll make it happen."

Tyler's confidence instilled them with renewed hope. He was good at that. There was no quit in Tyler. As they broke the huddle, he grabbed Derek's arm. “Get in the fucking end zone, shake the fucking defense, and the fucking ball is yours."

Nodding, Derek moved to his spot at the end of the line. He rubbed the thirteen on his shoulder. Looking skyward, he mouthed,
This one's for you, Ry. Help me out here, buddy.

The center snapped the ball. Derek sprinted downfield, cutting left to elude one DB. He pivoted to avoid another.
Time
. He was wasting too much time. It was a footrace to the end zone between Emil Lewis and him. Derek pulled away. His legs pumped furiously, his heart pounded, and his twisted ankle screamed in protest. The roar of the crowd spurred him on. He crossed the goal line and looked over his shoulder for the ball.
Shit
. It was underthrown.

He stretched out his long body, straining with every muscle he possessed, and dove for the ball. He wasn't going to make it. It hit his fingertips and glanced off them in the wrong direction. No chance of hauling it in. Then it took this weird bounce, almost as if someone tapped it back into his hands.

A microsecond later, he smacked into the ground, mindless of the pain. They'd fought so hard, only to come up short. Disoriented, he sat up. Something jabbed him in the ribs. He looked down. He clutched a football in his hands, jammed tight against his stomach.

Scrambling to his feet, he frowned and shook his head. No way had he caught the ball. He'd seen it bounce off his fingertips and felt the emptiness in his hands. Yet there it was—crazy as it sounded.

He looked to the heavens and raised the ball in the air.

Thank you, Ryan. We couldn't have done it without you.

Derek fought his way through the hordes of fans, players, and personnel swarming the field. Reporters shoved microphones in his face. Legions of security and police held back the fans in the stands. The cheering deafened him. Frantic, he looked for Rachel as he slogged through the surge of humanity to the railing near the fifty.

Where the hell was she?

Other players surrounded by wives and families celebrated on the field. He spotted his father first because of his height, followed by his stepmother and sister. Rachel stood with them, her family flanking her. Everyone had big smiles on their faces. The men slapped each other's backs; the women hugged and cried.

Derek bullied his way to them. A cadre of reporters stuck to him like fleas on a dog. He hugged his family, especially his stepmother and father, elbowing the microphones out of his face.

He shook hands with Mitch and hugged his old high school coach, then turned to Rachel. The cameras followed him, not allowing one moment of privacy.
Fucking bastards.

She flew into his arms, squealing and laughing. He swung her around in a circle, taking out a few cameramen in the process. Served the assholes right for invading his space.

"I love you, Rachel,” he yelled above the din. “I'll wait for you, no matter how long it takes."

She opened her mouth. He couldn't hear her response, but he read her lips. It was all he needed to know.

She was hearing things, or he was saying things he didn't really mean in the heat of the moment. She had no time to think about it as Derek wrapped an arm around her waist. Facing down the rabid pack of dogs disguised as reporters, he answered their questions. His ability to form coherent sentences amid all this chaos impressed her. All the while, he pushed through the crowd to the podium. After all, the man had a date with destiny, and he dragged her along with him.