Game On (10 page)

“He married my mother, but that was it. They were like two kids playing house when I was born. He won the Heisman, got drafted in the top three picks, and promptly set my mom and me up in a house in West Chester, Pennsylvania. I’m not even sure he ever lived with us. He showed up for photo spreads and Christmas card pictures, but not much else. He was just going through the motions with us.”

Shane looked at her then. She opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Her heart ached for the little boy Shane had been. It was a childhood she could easily relate to.

“Yeah, I know what you are thinking,” he said, his tone clipped and bitter. “He was just a kid. But so was I. So was my mother.” His voice softened as he spoke of her. “She was great. She took me everywhere. She did everything with me. When I started school, I think it broke her heart to have me gone all day. Of course, this was around the time my dad blew out his shoulder. Instead of coming home, he began the drinking and the drugs. My mother got sick when I was in the second grade. She suffered through two years of chemo while my father boozed and snorted his way around the country feeling sorry for himself. He showed up a couple of weeks before she died.”

“He seems to have gotten his life back on track now,” Carly said softly. Shane whirled on her, his eyes angrier than Joel’s had been earlier. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel the same fear. Reining in his temper, he stared at her. Briefly, she glimpsed the vulnerable boy he’d once been, but then he tamped down the emotion.

“Yeah. Like your friend’s father, he went and got himself a trophy wife and a new family.” He didn’t bother to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Don’t you ever see your half brother?” she asked. Carly couldn’t imagine not having Lisa in her life.

“No,” he all but sneered at her. “They keep the good child away from the bad seed.”

“Oh, Shane,” Carly said as she stood and walked over to him. She stopped inches from him, the tension rolling off his body in waves. Not trusting herself to keep from touching him, she wrapped her arms around her middle. They stood like that, toe to toe, staring at one another for several minutes before Shane closed his eyes, seemingly fighting his own inner battles.

“You know what I think, Shane Devlin?” she whispered. A muscle twitched on the side of his mouth as he opened his steely eyes. “I think the bad-boy persona you’ve cultivated all these years is just a ruse. A way to get back at your dad for hurting you. You’d like everyone to think you’re a selfish jerk, but I know for a fact you’re not.”

His eyes hardened at her words and Shane stepped around her to pace her small living room.

“Wow, Carly,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You’ve been reading your sister’s psychoanalysis books. That’s quite a diagnosis.”

Lisa would have a field day psychoanalyzing Shane, Carly thought as she turned to watch him pace. But she wasn’t being fair. She hated when her sister analyzed her. Although something told her peeling back Shane Devlin’s layers would be a much tougher challenge for Lisa.

Carly wanted to say she was sorry. Sorry for what he had gone through. Sorry for bringing the subject up. But she knew how empty the words would sound. She’d heard them too many times in reference to her own life. So she tried to steer the conversation back to lighter waters.

“Well,” she said, clearing the coffee mugs. “Your story earns you sympathy, but you won’t get the big box of tissues until it’s been played out on the big screen and on cable every week.”

Shane stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips. She’d startled him, she knew, but after a few seconds, he shook his head and laughed. The sound resonated throughout the small area. Carly crossed her arms under her breasts and stared at him. The action seemed to startle him more. He slowly walked over to her, the hunger returning to his eyes. Her breath hitched. He glanced down at the cheesecake on the counter beside her and a slow grin spread over his face.

“I go to all the trouble to snare you your favorite dessert and you haven’t even touched it.” He shook his head at her as he sat on the bar stool and speared a piece of the cheesecake with a fork.

Carly’s mouth went dry again. Shane was waving the fork in front of her face until she had no choice but to open. The dessert tasted like sawdust, but the whipped cream was cool to her hot lips. She licked some off her lower lip. Shane swallowed. His knuckles were white where he gripped the fork. Reverently, he closed his eyes.

“Dammit, Carly,” he whispered. “I’m so tired of avoiding this.”

She took a step closer and stood between his knees, gently placing a hand on each of his hard thighs. His eyes shot open.

“So am I.” It was as if another woman had taken over her body. Carly knew she should not be getting involved with Shane, but she didn’t care anymore. He was right; she was tired of avoiding the incredible pull between them, too.

He put his hands on her waist, his thumbs reverently caressing her hip bones.

“Maybe”—his breath fanned her ear as she swayed into him—“we should just go ahead and get it out of our systems. Then we can move on to being . . .”

“Friendly coworkers?” she finished for him, her lips tracing his jaw.

“With benefits,” he said just before his mouth seized hers. When he swept his tongue in, she met it with her own, his erection jumping against her stomach. Like their previous encounters, the heat between them was almost instantaneous. She feverishly kissed him back, her hands dragging through his hair. His fingers fisted in the flimsy fabric of her dress as he bit her bottom lip. Suddenly, he tore his mouth away and rubbed his hands on her bare arms, pushing her back slightly.

“Carly.” His voice was raspy as he struggled for control. Her arms tingled where he rubbed them. He leaned his forehead against hers as he caught his breath. “I’ve been fantasizing about getting you out of this dress all night. But right now, if I touch it, I’ll rip it.”

She smiled provocatively as she took a step out of his warm embrace. Her eyes never left his as she reached up behind her head and untied the knot holding her dress in place. His eyes followed the fabric as it slithered down her body and pooled at her feet. He stood as his gaze slowly traveled back up her body, taking in her silk stockings, the garter belt that held them up, and her lacy bustier. He let out a slow breath that came out sounding a lot like
holy shit.

“That may be better than the dress,” he whispered.

Stepping over the fabric lying in a heap on the floor, Carly trailed her fingers up his torso and began to undo the studs on his shirt. Strong fingers traced along the skin of her back, leaving a trail of heat in their path. She kissed his throat as she continued her task, slowly rubbing her lower body against him. His lips cruised over her shoulders. Carly winced as his mouth came in contact with the bruise Joel had given her.

“Jesus, Carly!” He jerked back, his hands dropping to his sides as if she’d burned him. “I shouldn’t be doing this. Not after what that bastard nearly did to you tonight.”

Carly fisted her hands in his shirt, trying to pull him closer. She didn’t want to lose contact. Shane’s face was drawn, a sheen of perspiration forming on his forehead.

“No,” she begged. “Don’t you dare stop now, Shane. I need you. I need to feel a man’s hands on me. A man whose hands I
want
to feel on me. Please!” The last came out in a desperate whisper.

“God, Carly. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” But he’d stopped backing away. His eyes were more focused again. Their smoldering heat focused on her lips. She leaned back into the circle of his arms. With one hand, she cupped the back of his neck, bringing his mouth down toward hers. With the other, she cupped his still-throbbing erection.

“You won’t hurt me,” she said before kissing him. Contemplating the reasons she trusted this man so implicitly would have to be for another time. Carly just wanted to shut her mind off and lose herself in the warm body standing in front of her.

Whatever chivalrous objections Shane had were gone once she started kissing him. He shed his shirt in one easy move. Pushing down Carly’s bustier, he gently bent her over the back of the bar stool, giving him better access to her nipple. As he wrapped his mouth around it, a breathy sigh escaped her and she lightly ran her nails down his muscled back. Heat pooled between her legs and her caresses became more urgent. He responded by taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking. Carly moaned, snaking a leg up the back of his thigh.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he urged before taking her mouth in another deep kiss. Lifting her up, he carried her over to the sofa. Gingerly, he laid her down on her back, his mouth never leaving hers. She kept her legs wrapped around him, her hips grinding against his erection. She was so incredibly aroused that she nearly came as her body rubbed against his vibrating arousal.

Vibrating?

“Shane!” she cried as she pulled out of the kiss. “Oh. My. God!”

He jerked up on his forearms and reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Carly felt the blush spread from her face to her exposed chest. How embarrassing! She’d nearly climaxed because of his cell phone. She couldn’t help it; a giggle escaped.

“And I thought you had magic power in those pants,” she teased. Absently, he placed the cell phone on the photo shelf above their heads. A sly smile came over his face as he looked at her. A lock of hair hung in the middle of his forehead. His eyes deepened to a smoky gray.

“One of those girls, huh?” His voice was husky as he slid farther down her belly, his long legs hanging off the sofa’s edge.

“Shane!” Her body was so tense, she jumped as his tongue cruised the inside of her navel.

Shane just shook his head and crawled lower. Expertly, he unsnapped her garters and skimmed a fingertip between her legs. Another moan escaped her. He dragged his tongue against her inner thigh; his five-o’clock shadow stung as it brushed against the tender skin. Her hips bucked at the pain and the pleasure of it. Pressing them back down with one hand, the other dipped between her thighs. Watching her intently, he slowly placed a finger inside her.

“Please, Shane,” she said, reaching out to grab his shoulders. “Come back so I can touch you.”

“Huh-uh,” he mumbled. “You’ll get your chance. Right now, I want to show you that the real thing is better than the toys.” Grinning widely, he slowly lowered his chin, his eyes never leaving hers. With his finger he stroked her intimately, following it up with his tongue. Throwing her head back against the cushions, she gasped for breath as he tasted her with his mouth. She dragged her hands through his hair as his tongue pulsed inside her. He found her sweet spot and coaxed it with his tongue. Carly’s back arched as she came, brilliant shards of light dancing behind her eyelids. He sucked harder and she heard a scream: hers. Her body was too satisfied to register any embarrassment.

“Oh God, Shane, that’s amaz—Oowh!” The vibrating cell phone fell from the shelf, hitting her in the nose.

Swearing, Shane crawled up her body to lie on top of her. His erection throbbed against her thigh as he fished the phone off the floor. Turning the phone on to check the text, he sat up suddenly, Carly’s legs scissoring his body. For a long moment, he stared at the phone, the blue light of its text screen shining on his face. Feeling the tension rising up in his body, she bit her lip. Her own body, languid from her orgasm, began to come to life again.

“Shane?” she asked gently, her hand stroking his arm. “What is it?” He didn’t answer, continuing to stare blindly ahead. A slow knot of tension began to form in her back as she sat up more fully to caress his shoulder.

“It’s my father.” She almost didn’t hear him, he spoke so softly.

“Bruce called you?”

“No.” When he finally turned toward her, she caught a glimpse of true pain on his face. It was fleeting before his eyes became hard again.

“He’s dead.”

Nine

Troy Devlin sat in the sunroom of his parent’s
home watching the people milling about. He didn’t think their house could hold all these people. They were eating and drinking as if nothing was wrong. He tugged at the collar of the Easter Sunday shirt Consuelo insisted he wear. Everyone else was dressed in black. Consuelo said it was okay for him to wear his light blue dress shirt and his blue blazer. She’d gone to Macy’s to get him a new tie, though. It wasn’t a clip-on or zipper tie, but a real tie. Except it had footballs and basketballs all over it. His dad would think it was cool. His mom would say he looked grown-up. Tears stung his eyes again. He needed to stop thinking of his mom and dad.

He looked back over the sea of black rolling through his parent’s family room. They stood there, their plates heaped with food, chatting and shaking hands, trying to meet the famous people who’d come over after the funeral. Even his travel baseball team was here. They hadn’t come to see Troy. His teammates had only come to meet some of his father’s friends. Heck, they would probably drop him from the roster now anyway. Every kid on the team knew they’d only picked Troy because of who his dad is.

Was.

Randy Martinelli never let a practice or game go by without making some comment about Troy being a wuss. All because he’d cried the day the ball hit him in the eye.
Well, it had hurt!
His eye was black for nearly two weeks and the doctor said he had a hairline fracture in his eye socket. But all the guys on the team cared about was that he’d dropped the ball. And they’d lost the game.

Troy tried to convince his parents to let him play on one of the local city teams, but his dad would just say that he’d grow into his talent. Travel team was for elite players like Troy, his father would say. He was a Devlin, after all. Troy’s mom would just give him a reassuring smile and tell him how handsome he looked in his uniform. But he’d seen the looks they would exchange when they thought he wasn’t looking. He sucked at baseball—even worse than he sucked at football—and they all knew it. He wasn’t like the rest of the Devlins. Not anything like his dad. Or his brother.

Glancing across the room, his eyes landed on Shane. He’d waited all these years to meet his famous big brother and there he was, leaning a hip against his mother’s curio cabinet and scowling. His dad always said it would take something big to get Shane to come visit them. Well, he was right. Troy had been so relieved to see him yesterday he’d jumped into Shane’s arms, so glad someone was there to take care of him. But Shane, the big jerk, must think hugging was for girls, because he couldn’t wait to get away from Troy. He didn’t seem all that sad that Dad was dead. Heck, Shane had barely said one word to him.

Slumping farther back against the wall, Troy tried to inconspicuously wipe away a tear. He couldn’t believe his parents were dead. Two days ago they were flying to Ohio to meet a potential player. They never made it. Instead, the plane his dad was flying had some sort of engine trouble and crashed. The state trooper who’d come to the door said they died instantly. The officer got down on one knee, placing a big hand on Troy’s shoulder, explaining everything in a soft, soothing voice. He probably thought it would make Troy feel better. It didn’t. His parents were never coming back.

“Mister Troy?”

Furiously wiping another tear away, Troy turned to face Consuelo. Her eyes were as red rimmed and swollen as his. She gave him a wobbly smile as she brushed his hair off his face. Usually he didn’t like when she tried to mother him, but today it was okay. She was the only mother he had left. He swallowed to keep the tears from coming back.

“Your grandmama, she wants you to come and say good-bye to some of the guests, okay?” Consuelo made everything sound like a question. Troy’s dad would always make a joke about it.

“The cat threw up in your breakfast, okay?” his dad would tease. Or, “Your shoes, they have dog crap on them, okay?” Troy would always laugh. But not today. Taking a last swipe at his eyes with his sleeve, he stood up. He didn’t want to stand around while his grandparents paraded him in front of the people who’d taken over his house. He just wanted everyone to get out. The sooner he got to bed, the sooner he could wake up from this rotten dream.
Surely, it was all just a dream.

Consuelo’s eyes were pleading with him. Troy sighed, resigned to not let her down. She’d been taking care of their family since he was five. Right now, she was the only other person in the world who was truly sad his parents were dead. His grandparents didn’t seem too upset his dad was gone. According to his mom, they’d never forgiven her for marrying Dad because he used to do drugs and stuff. Mom told Troy that Dad needed her.

“It was the best thing I ever did,” she’d say. “Because then I had you! And you and Daddy are all my prayers answered.” It was how she ended their bedtime prayer every night, just before kissing Troy good night.

Gulping back a sob, he tried to summon up his best swagger, only to end up shuffling his feet in the direction of his grandmother holding court in the foyer. Following Consuelo across the room, he chanced a quick look out of the corner of his eye at his brother. No help there. Troy felt his shoulders slump a little more.

He wanted to pray to God for help, but he was kind of mad at Him right now. Nope, Troy was on his own now. Both God and his big brother had let him down. Troy resolutely let Consuelo steer him across the room.

* * *

Shane took a sip from his glass of iced tea as he
watched the housekeeper lead the kid through the crowded room. He’d been crying, Shane was sure of it. The kid had been fighting back tears all day. Earlier, at the funeral, the kid hadn’t shed a single tear. But when he thought no one was looking, the tears snuck out.

Shane’s palms began to sweat as his mind wandered back to another funeral and another little boy who didn’t dare cry; Shane hadn’t wanted to give his father the satisfaction. Memories of Bruce hovering in the back of his grandmother’s small living room played in Shane’s mind. No one bothered to go near Bruce, taking his red eyes and swollen nose as a sign of profound sadness over his wife’s death. But Shane had known the truth. His father didn’t give a damn about his mother’s death. Fooling them all, he’d stood bracing up the living room wall because he was stoned, the drugs and alcohol giving him the look of ravaged despondency. Bruce had been biding his time until all the guests left and he could raid his wife’s jewelry box to finance his next fix.

Ten years later, Bruce confessed this sin in his sanctimonious tell-all biography that topped the best-seller lists for six months. He’d written that his biggest regret of that day was hawking his Super Bowl ring. Shane stopped reading at that point, hurling the book off his balcony into the Pacific Ocean.

Shaking his head to clear the memories, he bit down on a piece of ice, glancing at the kid over the rim of his glass. Bruce’s son wasn’t what Shane had expected. Not that he was an expert on kids, but Shane was sure Bruce’s was small for his age. Unlike his Devlin brethren, he was light, with dirty blond hair and his mother’s beauty pageant green eyes. They’d never met before, but that hadn’t stopped the kid from flinging himself into Shane’s arms when he’d arrived yesterday morning. The unexpected display of affection caught Shane off guard and it had taken a moment to untangle from him. The housekeeper standing guard glared at Shane, her mouth set in a grim line. She’d quickly maneuvered the kid back against her chest, her eyes mulish and protective.

Her possessiveness was still evident today as she reluctantly let her hand drop from the kid’s shoulders, handing him off to his famous grandparents. The kid quickly shot her a despondent look before she shuffled off to the background once more.

“Something’s wrong with that picture,” Roscoe said from his perch on the stone fireplace hearth behind Shane.

“What makes you say that?” He took another swallow from his drink.

“I don’t know. I just figure kids shouldn’t look so uncomfortable around their grandparents.” Roscoe pulled his buzzing BlackBerry from the pocket of his suit jacket. “It just seems unnatural, that’s all.”

Shane watched as the kid stood, wary, between his imposing grandparents. The grandmother wasn’t your typical televangelist’s wife. She lacked the overdone makeup and the teased hair. Instead, she looked like a society matron with her petite figure and perfectly coiffed, champagne-colored hair. It was easy to see where her daughter got her beauty queen good looks. Today, she was dressed in a somber but elegant black dress, a brittle smile pasted on her face, as fake as the bloodred nails gripping her grandson’s shoulder.

“She doesn’t strike me as the type to chase the kid around with a wooden spoon,” Shane said, fondly recalling his skirmishes with his late grandmother.

“No,” Roscoe grunted as his fingers tapped out a message. “She’s more the broomstick type.”

Shane raised an eyebrow at his friend. His silence forced Roscoe to look up from his BlackBerry.

“Troy doesn’t seem to like them too much, that’s all. He seems nervous to be in the same room with them. A fact you might have picked up on had you spent more than thirty seconds conversing with him.” Roscoe pushed his glasses back up against his nose, a gesture that always made Shane think he was being flipped off.

“I’m not good with kids,” Shane said, turning his attention back to the foyer. “You’ve got more experience. You’re a dad.”

Roscoe snorted and glanced back at the screen in his hand. “I hardly think being the father of eighteen-month-old twins qualifies me to console a boy who’s just lost his parents. It wouldn’t be a stretch for you to relate to how Troy is feeling,” he said.

“You know, Roscoe, sometimes you really piss me off.”

“It’s in my job description.” Roscoe shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Before you go about firing me for the bazillionth time, I’m going to go track down Bruce’s attorney and find out if we need to be present for the reading of the will. I’d like to get home tonight if possible.” He strolled off before Shane could tell him to save his energy. He didn’t want anything of his father’s, even if he had left him something.

“Excuse me.”

Three hundred pounds of solid Samoan stood to Shane’s right. The lack of a neck and the beefy forearms identified him as one of his father’s offensive lineman. Shane allowed himself to be impressed with Bruce’s recruiting efforts. If the tank played with any skill at all, he’d make one a heck of an NFL player someday. Running a mammoth hand through the stubble on his head, the guy seemed to be trying to get up the courage to speak to him. Shane had managed to avoid signing a single autograph the entire day. Apparently, no one had told Tank this was a funeral.

“We were wondering what’s gonna happen to Troy?”

Shane wasn’t sure what stunned him more: Tank’s question or the Mickey Mouse voice he’d used to ask it. It was a good thing the guy was big, because otherwise that voice would bring on a host of problems in a locker room.

“What Tiny’s askin’, man, is, are
you
gonna take care of Troy now?”

Tiny was obviously nicknamed for his voice, not his size. Shane looked past Tiny to the mouthy black kid who stood next to him. Definitely a ball handler. Shane had been around the game long enough to recognize a running back’s demeanor. The two-carat diamond studs in each ear only solidified Shane’s perception

Who was going to take care of Troy
? Heck if he knew. Shane hadn’t given the matter much thought. Truthfully, he hadn’t given the matter
any
thought. He assumed that Troy would live with his grandparents now. After all, that’s what Shane had done.

“I suppose his grandparents will take him in,” Shane said.

“But, dude! You’re his brother!” Shane turned to find a third player, the team’s pretty boy, standing in the shadow of Tiny’s other shoulder. Pretty Boy stuck out his hand and grinned.

“Evan Andrews. Defensive back. It’s a real honor to meet you,” he said. Shane didn’t take his hand. Someone needed to tell Pretty Boy it wasn’t considered an honor to meet Shane Devlin.

“E!” The mouthy one was obviously the leader of the trio. “He don’t care who you are. He don’t care about nobody but himself. Let’s go, fellas. This is a waste of time.” He sneered at Shane, the diamonds in his ears glittering as he turned on his heel and stalked off. Pretty Boy puffed out his chest to say something, but decided against it before following.

Tiny stared at Shane a moment longer, his baby face and small black eyes a well of sadness, before he tore his gaze away, shuffling off after his teammates. Shane’s gut seized up slightly and, once again, he cursed the fact the opinions of others had begun to matter to him. Jeez, he needed to get something to eat. He turned to find Roscoe standing beside him, a plate of food in his hand, disappointment etched on his face.

“Here,” he said, shoving the plate at him. “Eat this. Your black soul needs food.”

Shane scowled at him, taking the plate. “Then can we go?”

Roscoe put one hand on his hip, running the other through his hair before releasing a deep breath in an exasperated whoosh.

“They’re not going to read the will until tomorrow. Apparently it’s the reverend’s doing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But Bruce’s attorney said you need to be present. It looks like neither of us is getting home tonight.”

Shane stared down at the plate of food, his appetite forgotten.

“In that case, let’s get out of here.”

It took nearly fifteen minutes to make it through the crowd of mourners. Sensing his departure, the guests were quick to stop him and pass along a few words of condolence. Everyone from former NFL players to blue-haired ladies from the university’s alumni society paused to tell him how sorry they were for his loss. Roscoe earned his paycheck by smiling and nudging him along before Shane could tell them he’d actually lost his father thirty years ago. They’d almost cleared the front door before being stopped by Lou Douglas, the president of the NFL Players Association. Lou was holding court in the foyer, one arm loosely draped over Bruce’s kid’s shoulder.