One Night with a Quarterback (4 page)

Of course, if he was being dramatic and there was no emergency . . . well. Trey's hand clenched as he stepped back into the night air and turned for the club. He'd just have to kill his best friend at practice the next day.

* * *

Cassie sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at a photo and bio sheet she'd printed out before leaving Atlanta.

Okay, so she wasn't staring so much as gazing at it with a glazed over lack of concentration. Her mind should have been on the bio sheet. Or, better yet, she could break out her laptop and use Google images to bring up photos of the faces she'd stared at a thousand times since last month, but never in person.

She jolted at the knock at the door, and cursed herself for immediately thinking Trey was coming back for her.

Coming back for her. She scoffed at her own immaturity. This wasn't some wartime romance movie where he'd run to catch her at the train station before she left for parts unknown. They barely knew each other. One night, and some fantastic sex, did not a relationship make.

She glared at the messed-up sex bed. Then she hustled to answer the more impatient knock.

She jerked open the door just as Anya started to pound. Her friend stumbled a little before righting herself.

“Thank God. You didn't answer the last text and I was this close to calling management.” Anya held her finger and thumb an inch apart. “Is he gone?”

“Yes, he's gone, Oh Paranoid One.” She let the door close and walked back to her bed and crawled up until she rested back against the headboard. Anya joined her, after staring for a moment at the sex bed, with its covers ripped off, pillows dumped to the floor, and mattress slightly askew.

They sat quietly for a minute. Cassie with the bio sheet in her hands, Anya in her ridiculous matching Hugh Hefner–style PJs.

“Was it good?”

Cassie closed her eyes and conjured up the feel of Trey's hands on her, around her, inside her. “It was, yes.”

“You're blushing.”

“I've got multiple reasons to blush.” She grinned at her friend, whose mouth hung open. “Let's just say, the man was good with his hands.”

Anya nodded briskly. “So that's out of your system. What are you wearing tomorrow?”

Leave it to her bestie to get down to the technical aspects of the most monumental moment of her adult life. “I don't know, my denim skirt and a tank top?”

Anya's lips pursed, then she climbed down and started rooting around in Cassie's luggage.

“Help yourself,” Cassie said wryly.

Anya didn't reply.

Cassie tried once more to concentrate on the bio sheet, but her mind wandered. Trey's lips on hers, on her neck, on her breasts . . .

“Here. Wear this. It's less Casual Gal Sightseeing and more Adult Woman in Charge of Her Life.”

“Is that going on a
Hi, My Name Is
name tag?” But she studied the outfit Anya had set out. Her dark, trouser-leg jeans, a gray tank with some lace edging, and a three-quarter-sleeve blazer that cut in at her ribs and gave her a good silhouette. “Shoes?”

“Flats. The hunter green ones.”

Cassie considered for a moment, then nodded. “Hair?”

“Side part, low ponytail. But loose, not slicked back.”

“Damn, you're good,” Cassie murmured.

“It's why I get paid to shop for others. Helping the social elite of Atlanta design their wardrobe gives me a purpose.” Anya smiled smugly as she picked up the blazer and started to lay it out on the other bed. “Er, right. I'll hang this up so you've got it all set for tomorrow.”

Of course, her friend would be horrified by the lingering remnants of nearly anonymous sexy times. “Anya?”

“Yeah?” She poked her head from around the corner where the closet and bathroom were angled.

“It was so worth it.”

Her friend smiled softly. “I'm glad.” She hung up the blazer, then walked back and sat on the edge of the bed. Gently, she removed the bio sheet from Cassie's hands and held it up. “Tomorrow's the big day.”

“Damn right, it is.”

Anya studied the face on the page. “How are you going to introduce yourself?”

Cassie's grin was a little sharper than usual. “Hi, Dad. I'm Cassie, your daughter.”

Cassie wiped the damp palms of her hands over the thighs of her Anya-approved jeans, then caught herself in the gesture. She stepped up to the front desk and gripped one hand around the handle of her tote. The receptionist—a sunny-looking woman in her late thirties or early forties with a no-nonsense bun and simple white collar shirt—glanced up from her computer and smiled.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, hi.” Her heart raced and she nearly bolted for the door.
Steady now. This is why you came
. “I have an appointment to see . . .” My dad? Mr. Jordan? Coach Jordan?

The woman waited, then glanced back at her computer with a quick scroll. “Are you Ms. Wainwright?”

Relief made her knees a little weak. Thank God for the flats. “Yes, that's me.”

“Mr. Jordan is expecting you. I'm Kristen Keplar, front office administrator. Let me show you back.”

“Oh, I'm okay, I can just . . .” She gave up the protest when the woman stood and pressed a few buttons on the complicated phone, then motioned for her to follow. Cassie shrugged her tote strap higher and followed. What else was she supposed to do?

They walked down thickly carpeted hallways, around a curve and past multiple framed photos. Previous coaches—their names and years announced on brass plaques—separated the large, vintage-style team photos from the eighties and nineties. How did they get seventy guys that size to stand still and squish together so well? Several small glass display cases were strategically placed, holding small to mid-sized gold, silver, and brass trophies.

As they walked by a set of offices, the doors open so she could see the occupants hard at work, Cassie said, “I didn't realize it took this many people to run a football team.”

“Oh, this is just a fraction. Of course, the players get the big credit,” Kristen said, waving a hand, displaying a cute chunky bangle that matched her earrings. “As they should. The coaches and everyone on the field and around the locker room who you see on camera on Monday nights. But it's a major business as well as a team. It takes hundreds to run the behind-the-scenes operations of a big franchise like the Bobcats. Though this is more of a skeleton staff. It gets busier the closer we get to the opening game.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling sort of stupid. In her mind, she pictured her father and his merry band of players showing up on game day and leaving afterward. It hadn't occurred to her what happened behind the scenes. Now she realized how naïve that was.

Kristen paused to say a quick hello to another woman and ask about lunch before walking on.

Holy cow, the building was huge.
“Do all the coaches have offices here in the main building?”

“No, just Mr. Jordan. He has a lot of dull, paperwork-style business when he's in here, not to mention a lot of his charity work. But the majority of his real work is done through his office at the stadium or at the practice field.”

Kristen paused a moment, and Cassie knew it was on the tip of her tongue to ask what Cassie's business was with the head coach of a major organization like this. But being a damn good administrative assistant, she said nothing and motioned for her to continue.

Finally, they walked into a large room. One huge desk sat in the middle, manned by a stern-looking man who Cassie guessed would be in his sixties, if not older. His fingers flew over the keyboard like piano keys, and he didn't look up at all when they approached. “That Wainwright?” he barked out.

Kristen rolled her eyes at Cassie conspiratorially. “Hi, Frank. Yes, this is Ms. Wainwright.”

“He's in his office.” The fingers never left the keyboard and his eyes never left the screen. His salt-and- pepper moustache twitched a little as he sniffed. “You're two minutes late.”

“Franky, you have got to stop being so talkative to the guests. It distracts them,” Kristen teased, then gave her a wink and walked around the desk to a corner door. She knocked twice, then cracked open the door. “Ms. Wainwright to see you, sir.”

A deep voice answered, but it was too low for Cassie to make out the words.

“He's ready.” Kristen held open the door and motioned for her to go through. “Good luck.”

Suddenly, she was five years old again, looking for a man to love in every adult male she ran into. Desperately craving the approval, the attention, the love from someone who mattered so much and for whom she mattered not at all. Behind those doors stood the man who had the power to crush every childhood fantasy and every secret adult dream.

Sensing a female ally, Cassie wanted to grab Kristen's wrist and drag her in with her to buffer the awkward moment. “Thanks.” She rubbed her hands down her pants again, then shook them out and straightened her tote. She had to stop doing that.

“It'll be fine,” Kristen whispered. Then, with a gentle push, Cassie stepped into her father's office.

* * *

He was shorter than she expected.

That? It was her first time meeting her father—ever—and her initial impression was his height?

Ken Jordan stood, his frame bulky, but not fat. His half-Samoan ancestry gave his skin a deep, never-fading tan. His black hair had gray streaks starting at the temples, and his dark eyes took a quick inventory of her as she walked toward the large desk.

Cassie mentally thanked Anya for helping her pick out a decent outfit. Something warned her he wouldn't have approved of her casual skirt and flip-flops.

“Cassandra.” His voice was a bit gruff, but with a smooth hint of his Hawaiian roots.

“Cassie, please. Hi . . .” She trailed off, freezing in front of his desk.
Hug? Handshake? Stare awkwardly at each other?

Apparently they were both going with option C.

“Sit, please.” He motioned with a large hand toward one of the chairs, his movements stiff. Then he sat himself, the chair groaning a little under his weight. He was built like a box. A muscular box, but a box.

“Sure.” She perched on the edge of her chair, letting her tote fall to her feet on the thick carpet.

Oh, good. More option C. Staring
.

Finally, he spoke. “Your mother called me a few weeks ago. Explained the situation. After the expedited DNA tests . . . well.” He shrugged. “You know about that much. You would have gotten the results. No denying you're my daughter.”

Cassie nodded.

“I have to tell you, I don't appreciate being lied to.” His voice roughened. “Nearly thirty years of lies by omission. I wouldn't have turned my back on her if I'd known about you. I would have done something before now. And I don't mind saying it pisses me off that I wasn't even given the chance.”

Cassie's lips quirked. “I wasn't too pleased either, honestly. This whole time, I thought you were some deadbeat who took off when the stick turned blue. I'm not sure if she ever would have told me the truth, except after her cancer scare . . .” Her throat threatened to close, so she let that stand.

He nodded, understanding the difficulty. “It's done. I tell my players every day, you can't control someone else's actions, only your own. What we do from here is our business.”

She smiled a little, blinking back tears.

Ken—because she couldn't quite mentally wrap around the label Dad just yet—leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. His dark forearms matched the wood, reminding her of her own slightly lighter, dusky skin tone. Her perpetual tan, her mother called it.

“I have a family here. I've got a wife and two daughters. Tabitha knows about this. I told her the minute I was done talking with your mother. I don't hide things from my wife.” He scowled again, reminded of the deception from a long-past girlfriend.

Feeling the need to defend her mother, Cassie said, “She was young and scared. You both were young. And you broke up with her.”

He sighed. “I didn't know—”

“About me, yes, I understand. I'm just saying, there are two sides to every story.”

Ken nodded shortly. “Fine. The point is, from now on . . . no lies. No deceptions. I've been looking into your background, and from what I can tell you're a woman with her head on her shoulders. Good job, active volunteer work, no trouble with the law. No major scandals brewing.”

Cassie blinked. Odd, to hear her life summed up in a succinct bullet point list. And sort of . . . boring.

Ken leaned back again, his gaze wandering to a wall of photographs to the left of his desk. Cassie's eyes followed. Several frames held moments from his own NFL days, playing for the Lions, then the Patriots. And more recent ones of his coaching days with the Bobcats.

But the one that made her breath catch was smack dab in the center of the photo cluster. Ken, with his arms around a pretty blonde grinning up at him, and two young girls—maybe eight and ten—standing in front of them smiling at the camera. They all had flowery leis and Ken wore an obnoxious Hawaiian-print shirt.

His family. Her . . . family? Could she really call them that when they'd never met?

Oh, she wanted to. She wanted that so badly her fists clenched together in her lap.

“My wife, Tabitha.” His voice was low. “Love of my life.”

The pain was dull, more like an ache. But it surprised her to feel it at all, as he spoke about a woman who wasn't her mother.

“She's an amazing woman. And our daughters, Irene and Mellie. They're sixteen and fourteen now.”

Her sisters. Half sisters, technically. But it was all she could do to stop from reaching out and touching the photograph.

The family she'd desperately wanted growing up.

The tightness in her throat came back and she coughed a little to mask it.

Sensing her inability to speak, he went on. “That photo's from their first trip to Hawaii, several years ago. Visiting some extended family on my side.” He looked at her then, brows furrowing. “Your side, too.”

That's right. Making her . . . well, as mixed-ancestry as anyone else in America. She tried another cough, “Fourteen and sixteen, huh? That's gonna be hell when they start dating, if they haven't already.”

His scowl deepened. “Dating? Hell no. They're too young for that. Irene barely started driving. Give a man a minute to recover.”

She chuckled a little at that, the sound breaking on a jagged edge. God, she had to pull herself together. “So I'm in town for awhile. I know the timing isn't the greatest, with your, uh, you call it a pre-season, I think? But it's the only opening my company had for me to take a semi-leave of absence. I'm still doing some small jobs via telecommute but I'm ninety percent free. So I hope—”

“It's fine,” he cut in. “You're mine. I want to get to know you, no matter what time of the year it is. It's just that the season brings some . . . interesting complications.” He glanced once more at the photo, then leaned forward. “My family is an active part of my work. My wife comes to all the home games; the girls too, if they're available. They do interviews, when appropriate, media blips, that sort of thing. We sponsor several charities that hinge on our good name and long-standing pristine reputation in the Santa Fe community. I've got a rep for being a family man, and all three of my girls are used to the local media. I'm not going to lie about who you are. You've heard where I stand on lies. So that means eventually, we're going to be explaining your relationship to me.”

Media attention. Here it came. She took a big breath and nodded, waiting for it.

“I want you to get to know my daughters. Your sisters,” he added, as if he'd just put that together himself, looking a little surprised by it. For a man who appeared in control, it was the first hint he was still processing the news himself. “But I'm not going to put up with a poor reflection on my family, or a bad influence on my teenage daughters. I agreed to you coming out here because thus far, you've appeared to be a smart, head-on-straight young woman. Please don't prove me wrong.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Not that she had any plans to turn all Miley Cyrus–crazy anytime soon. But as much as she wanted to get to know her father, she wasn't going to kill her social life and wear an Amish bonnet either.

“There are rules. The first, is that you're going to keep a low profile until we're ready to make a statement. You'll have a little media training, you'll do select interviews, and you'll follow the script we set out for you. I've already spoken to the PR rep for the team, discretely, about how to manage this situation. His opinion is we should get ahead of it. Control the story. Make it a non-issue so the media follows suit and the story is over before it even begins. Introduce you to them rather than waiting for them to find you, as if you were a secret.”

Made sense. There was no way she could figure out how to navigate the media herself. Cassie nodded her acceptance.

Her father mimicked the nod, approval at her agreement. “Rule two, we—Tabitha and I—want you to move into the pool house on our property. It's a self-sufficient home, more like a guest cottage, with a small kitchenette. But we want you nearby.”

To watch over? Or to make it easier to bond? She wasn't about to argue.

“Last rule . . . no men.”

She blinked at that. Exactly what . . .

He sighed and rubbed at his temples. “I won't lie, Tabitha threw that one in, but I agree. We've got two teenagers in the house. The last thing I want them seeing is a revolving door to the pool house. Or even a door opening at three in the morning with a man, period. Who you date when you're back in Atlanta is your business, but for now, just keep it off the table.”

“Uh, right. Sure. No dating.” Was her face as red as it felt? She brushed the backs of her fingers over her cheek, relieved to find it still cool to the touch. The way this conversation was going, she wouldn't have been shocked to find them in flames.