One Night with a Quarterback (7 page)

Irene blinked, then glanced down at the outfit. Her light blonde hair swept off her shoulders at the gesture. “No . . . it's just what I wear. My school uniform is red and gray.”

“Oh.” Open mouth, insert foot. “Well, it's cute.”

Irene's look said
I'm going to let that obvious lie go
.

“Oh, my God, she's got real clothes!”

Mellie's voice drifted from the master bedroom, and Cassie grinned. “Guess she's making herself at home.”

“As usual,” Irene said, then wandered back toward the bedroom without invitation.

Cassie closed the front door and blew out a breath. Oooo-kay then. Here goes nothing.

She found Mellie sitting in front of the dresser, several of her tops already littered on the carpet, another in her hand. Her youngest half sister held up the simple tank top.

“Are you actually allowed to wear this?”

Allowed? Cassie held back a snort. “I don't wear it to work or anything, but yeah. Just for going out or whatever, sure.” The straps were over an inch wide, and when she put it on, it covered from cleavage to the waistband of her pants. Nothing scandalous or remotely controversial about it.

Mellie's eyes widened in her cherubic face, and she held it up to her own torso. “Mom would blow a gasket.”

“Yes, she would. So put it back,” Irene snapped. Though Cassie noted, she didn't have any problems sitting on Cassie's borrowed bed and looking at the photos she'd propped up against the bedside lamp.

Taking a chance, she went and sat near Irene on the bed. “That one's my mom. She's back in Atlanta.”

Irene picked up the photo of Cassie and her mother at Cassie's college graduation. Her mother was a wonderful woman, with a soft look to her. Her hair was falling a little to the left, and her grin was maybe a bit wider than a practiced smile. The dress she wore was suitable for her job as an assistant principal, and not quite the height of fashion. In short . . . the exact opposite of Tabitha.

“She's nothing like Mom,” Irene said softly, then placed the photo back. “But you're way older than us anyway. Obviously, Dad's tastes changed.”

Cassie bit her tongue to keep from snapping. Irene was sixteen. The age sucked badly enough without suddenly being told your dad had another kid from another woman from another period of his life. She needed time to adjust.

“This skirt is insane!” Mellie squealed from the floor.

Clearly, each sister needed different amounts of time.

* * *

The heavy air of the weight room was tinged with the familiar—but still repugnant—smell of sweat and disinfectant. But that was the equally agreeable thing about it . . . no matter what state, what organization, what sport you were in, the weight room would always smell the same.

Trey skirted around two linemen benching twice his body weight with a shake of his head. They were animals, but God love them for keeping his ass safe.

Josiah grinned up at him from his own bench. “Here to spot?”

“If I have to.” Trey set his water bottle down and double checked the locks in front of the weights. “This it?”

“I'm tapering,” his friend said, a scowl on his face. “We've got the scrimmage this weekend.” With a huff, and Trey's guidance, Josiah unracked the bar and began his set of chest presses.

This weekend. Damn. Right. He'd been planning to run over by the hotel and try to charm someone from the front desk out of Cassie's contact information. Phone number, at least. Maybe even a forwarding address, if such a thing existed. Did they?

A grunt sounded, and Trey glanced down. “Done?”

“You can't . . . arg.” Josiah racked the bar with some assistance. “You can't count for shit.”

“Sorry. Distracted.”

“Next time you're distracted, don't offer to spot me at one-eighty-five.”

“Check.” He added some weight for his own set, locked the bars, and slid down for an eight-count set. As he finished up, Josiah leaned over the bar and stared down at him. “What?”

“How'd you leave things with Stephen?” he asked in a voice so low, even Trey could barely hear over the laughter and grunting effort of his teammates.

Trey closed his eyes a moment, thumb rubbing over the ridges of the grip. “Better than it was, not as good as it could be. He's either going to straighten his shit out on his own, or Coach is gonna do it for him. The only difference is how much of a fool he makes of himself in the process.”

“Can he last the season?”

“Sometimes, I think yeah. Others, I don't think he'll last a week.”

“Owens!”

Trey bolted up, guilty at the secret conversation, then conked his forehead directly into the bar. “Oh, fuck me sideways.” He laid back down as Josiah burst into gut-wrenching laughter. Looking straight up at the ceiling, he watched stars shoot across his ever-darkening vision.

Coach Talbin stood over his bench, a scowl on his face. “Trying to kill yourself before the season even starts?”

Trey shook his head, then regretted it. The instant headache pounded around inside his skull. He closed his eyes and tried very hard not to move a muscle.

“Jesus,” Coach Talbin muttered, and took a knee by the bench. It was then Trey realized the weight room had gone quiet. Everyone was watching to make sure he wasn't seriously injured. Everyone needed to know he was all right. Their chance at victory hinged on his health.

Fun place to be in. Not.

“I'm good,” he said, loud enough for others around him to hear. “Stupid, but good.”

He heard a few chuckles, and slowly the room went back to its normal noise level again. Each clang of metal against metal was like a bomb exploding in his brain.

“You okay?” Coach asked quietly.

“Yes. Just don't make me sit up for a few minutes.”

“That's fine. You can listen to this one lying down.” He heard a rustle of papers. “Caught you in the blogs this morning.”

He groaned. Blogs. Who could give two shits when his head was cracked like an egg?

Coach Talbin cleared his throat and read in an announcer-style voice. “‘QB Owens Makes Surprise Appearance At Pizza Dan's Makes Fans' Day.' You made an unsanctioned appearance?”

Trey groaned again, but this time it had nothing to do with his head. He swiped one hand over his face. “Of course not. I went in for a pizza, got caught up in the fan excitement.” Close enough, anyway.

“Uh-huh.”

“Doesn't sound negative, so why does it matter?”

“Because it's about ninety-eight percent out of character for you?”

“To be a nice guy and sign some autographs?” Trey waved him back an inch and slowly eased up. His head still hurt, but at least he wasn't seeing double. “That's not a very high opinion of me you've got there.”

“I know my players. And you prefer to fly under the radar. You're a delivery guy, not a pick-up-and-hang-out-with-crowds guy.” Coach eyed him warily. “Something you wanna share?”

“Nope.” Honest truth there. “It's all good. I was hungry, I got a pizza, I shook some hands, and that was it.” Semi-honest truth there.

“Just . . . stay out of trouble. We've got enough shit coming down the pipeline to deal with this pre-season. I don't need you making me regret my career choice, too.”

What other shit? Stephen? He wanted to ask, but bit his tongue. As Talbin walked away, he turned his head to say, “Take the rest of the day off. Grab some aspirin. And watch where you're putting that fat head of yours.”

Josiah laughed behind him.

“Bite me,” Trey muttered, not sure who he was aiming the insult to.

“If I'm gonna take a bite out of someone, it's not gonna be your hairy ass.” Josiah sat down next to him on the bench. “Thanks to pre-season, it's back to monk-time. No time for women. The good ones, anyway.”

“No more stadium stalkers for you, huh.”

His friend shook his head, looking morose over the idea. “The appeal has passed on easy tail.” Then he looked horrified. “Oh, my God, are we getting old?”

“Buddy, in the NFL, we're fucking ancient. We're over thirty. Grab the walker.” He stood and stretched his neck, waiting to see how his head responded.

Hurt like a bitch. That's how.

“How'd it feel, playing to the crowd?”

Trey knew what he meant. “I hated it. You know I hate that shit. And if Stephen keeps pulling crap like this, I'm going to stop rescuing him.”

“Might be doing him more harm now,” Josiah said quietly.

“I know.” Trey caught himself just before shaking his head. “I'm not a professional. I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like if he loses football, he's going to spiral down harder. But he doesn't have enough consequences to keep him running straight, either.” The utter drama of it all made him want to throw up.

Josiah was quiet a moment, then clapped him on the back hard enough to make his teeth rattle and his head pound. “Well, look at the bright side. You got to play Crowd Favorite for awhile. It's a role you so dearly love—”

Trey's molars ground together.

“—so I'm sure the ladies will be lining up again for you this season.”

“Oh, goodie,” he muttered as Josiah started removing the weights from the bar.

He didn't want a line of ladies waiting outside the locker room. He didn't want anyone waiting for him. Reporters, analysts, groupies . . . the attention bothered him. Bothered him in a soul-deep level that caused a little gnawing ache just under his heart. Like heartburn.

Why couldn't he have been a championship bowler? Bowlers didn't have problems eating dinner without being bothered.

Just a few more years, and he could retire and relax. Pick up coaching, maybe. Or start over and do something new. A few more years of playing dodge-and-weave with the spotlight.

Think calming thoughts. He closed his eyes and tried to picture something—anything—calming amid the sharp noises and funky smells. A beach. Or maybe some grassy meadow . . .

Cassie.

Her horrible dancing made him smile. The utter lack of self-awareness to what others thought had been amusing, refreshing. Her easy conversation and jokes at the diner had felt easier than any intentional date he'd been on in years. Her passion between the sheets—or even up against a hotel room wall—had been icing on a damn fine cake.

He needed to find her again. If he tore the city apart, he
would
find her.

“Yo. Trey, you okay?”

He blinked and found Josiah crouching in front of him, an uncharacteristic worried look on his face. “Hmm?”

His friend leaned in another inch, staring at his eyes. “You fell asleep sitting up, or something. I think we need to see the doc. Rule out a concussion or something.”

Trey blinked a few times. “I just let my mind wander. Stop worrying, Mommy.”

Josiah rolled his eyes and stood. “Fine.”

Trey stood and shook out his arms. “I'm going home. Taking some aspirin and stuff.” And going to start searching online and maybe call the hotel. Just to see what he could find out. The less he had to throw his name around to get information, the better it would be.

“Fine, fine. Abandon a guy mid-workout. I see how it is.” When Trey flipped him off, his friend laughed. “Just so you know, you've got a nice lump and an imprint of the bar grips on your forehead. So, have fun with that.”

Trey cursed as he walked out of the room and into the darkened hallway. He reached up and . . . yup. There it was. A goose egg just below his hairline, above his left eye. He couldn't feel any ridges, but it wouldn't shock him if his bruise took on the distinct crisscross pattern of the grip when it fully fleshed out.

Lovely.

So he'd give that a few days before chasing Cassie down. And until then, thank God for baseball caps.

Cassie shook her clammy hands out as she stood before the front door of what she'd aptly named The Jordan McMansion. And her mind drifted back to a not-so-distant memory of wiping her hands over her jeans outside the door of Ken's office two days earlier.

The concept of having to ring the doorbell at her own father's home was a foreign one. Even after moving out, her mother insisted she keep a key to her childhood home, to come and go as she pleased. Walk in, do laundry if she needed, grab a snack, watch some TV. It was no shock to her mother if she found Cassie on the couch taking a nap while her clothes ran through the spin cycle when she came home from work. But of course, her mother raised her. She met her father two days ago.

Talk about a Dr. Phil family hour waiting to happen.

Without giving herself a chance to second-guess, she rang the bell. And waited . . . and waited . . .

Finally, the door opened and Cassie pasted her best smile on. The smile went a little crooked when, instead of one of her sisters, she found who she assumed was the housekeeper standing in the doorway.

“Ms. Wainwright?” she asked, giving Cassie a look that said,
I find you unimpressive.
Her accent was as starchy as her white button-down shirt, which was tucked neatly into a black skirt that hit at mid- calf, and she wore black shoes that looked like something a lunch lady would wear. Her hair was as uncomfortable looking as the rest of her outfit, and was scraped back into a tight bun that looked like a migraine waiting to happen.

“Yes. Hi, call me Cassie.” She stuck out a hand to shake, then dropped it when the woman merely gave her a cool gaze that had her worrying about frostbite. “Um, Irene told me to come by for dinner?”

“Yes, the ladies are expecting you in the south salon.” She waited for Cassie to step through, then closed the door quietly behind her. “Follow me.”

South salon?

The south salon turned out to just be a living room whose window faced south. Frankly, the room could have just been dubbed Living Room Number Three, for all Cassie could tell the difference. But when Tabitha stood, elegant and graceful in tailored silk pants and a peach-colored blouse and matching light cardigan, she realized the south salon's name served a purpose . . . at least in her stepmother's mind. It set the stage for her
lady of the manor
persona.

“Cassie, thank you for joining us.” Her eyes drifted up and down Cassie's outfit. “Did you settle in? Should I send Rose over to help you unpack?”

“No, I'm all unpacked, thanks.” That's just what she needed . . . some stranger pawing through her underwear, sniffing in disgust at her selection of thongs.

The image of Mellie sitting on her floor and digging around in her pile of jeans with glee made her smile.

“Oh.” After a pause, she waved a hand to the side sofa—or did it have a fancy name too?—where the girls sat. “I understand you've met the girls already, but I'll formally introduce them myself. Irene is our oldest, at sixteen. Honor student and speech and debate team captain.”

Irene smiled cooly, mini-Tabitha in training, and nodded her head once. Not as gracefully done as her mother would have, but she was trying. She wore a skirt again, this time a simple black number and a cream cardigan that looked eerily similar to her mother's. Her blonde hair was in a simple French braid, and small pearls studded her ears.

“And our youngest, Melinda. She's a wonderful tennis player, and hopes to make varsity next year at St. Christopher's.”

Mellie grinned and waved, bouncing a little. “Do you play?”

Cassie blinked. “Tennis?”

Irene snorted a little.

“Um, no. Sorry.” When Mellie's smile dropped, just a fraction, she heard herself adding, “But maybe you could show me a few things. Never too late to start, right?”

Her youngest sister's smile brightened back up, then she bounced out of the seat and came to grab Cassie's arm. “We usually wait here for Daddy before going into the dining room, because he always gets ready after Mom's finished. Says if he tries to dress at the same time she does, he'll end up smelling like a cloud of Chanel No. 5. That's a cute top, where did you get it? And your jeans, these aren't the ones you were wearing yesterday.” Mellie sat on a second sofa, perpendicular to the one she'd occupied with Irene, and kept chatting, all the while holding onto Cassie's arm like she was afraid to let go.

Tabitha stood and motioned with a gentle wave of her hand for the girls to stay seated. “I'm just going to check on your father and see what the delay is. If we don't go in soon, Rose's lamb will cool.”

Irene waited until her mother was gone before looking at Cassie. “I don't know how you did things back in Atlanta, but here, we eat like civilized people.”

Cassie counted to five before answering innocently, “So, I shouldn't use my hands to spoon out the soup?”

Mellie giggled.

Irene's gaze turned icy. “We dress for dinner. It's rude to come in jeans.”

Cassie looked back down at her outfit again. The jeans were clean, a dark denim with no detailing or distressing. They flattered her hips and thighs, and paired with the simple flats and cap-sleeved shirt, she'd left the guest house thinking she looked nice. Now, three sentences from a teenager had her feeling like one of the geeks being tortured by the popular kids at lunch.

Mellie rolled her eyes so hard Cassie wondered how she didn't hear them rattle around. “Get over it, Irene. You don't like dressing for dinner any more than I do. We do it to keep Mom from complaining.”

Irene seemed to have no answer for that, so she simply looked away.

Under her breath, Mellie muttered, “Sisters suck.”

“Hey.” Cassie glared, and Mellie laughed.

“Sorry. Forgot. Do you have a lot of clothes like this? Where'd you get it?” She fingered the simple cotton of the sleeve.

“Uh, it's a year or so old. I can't remember.”

“Do you go shopping a lot? Do you have a lot of friends? How about a boyfriend? Lots of boyfriends?”

Cassie's mind spun with the rapid-fire questions. “No, enough, no and definitely no.”

“Definitely no boyfriends?” Mellie looked crushed. “Not even one?”

Her mind drifted back, completely unbidden, to the face hovering over hers, with her back pressed against a hotel room wall. The feel of his chest pressed against her breasts, his lips brushing over her skin until she shivered with anticipation.

“Oooooo, she's blushing!” Mellie laughed and tugged on her hand, bringing her back to the moment. “What's his name?”

“Uh . . .” Cassie's eyes roamed around the room, stalling. But she saw Irene staring at her with something akin to interest on her face. A stark difference from the ice princess routine she'd been perfecting thus far.

“I honestly don't have a boyfriend. I've been in relationships in the past, but I'm not currently in one.”

Mellie seemed to absorb that for a moment, though Cassie already knew she was just gearing up her next round of questions. But Irene surprised her by asking one first.

“What's it like, having a boyfriend?”

Cassie blinked.
The Baby Ice Queen thaws for man-talk.
Mellie's weakness seemed to center on clothes. Irene's, surprisingly, on boys. “It sort of depends on who the guy is, I guess. A good guy that's decent makes for a pretty good relationship. If he's a complete di . . . dill weed,” she finished lamely, coughing to cover herself, “then honestly, it sort of sucks. It's better being alone than being stuck in a crappy relationship.”

Irene looked skeptical, though whether it was the pathetic cover for her near dick slip, or that she didn't buy the whole “better to be alone” routine, Cassie wasn't sure.

“Either of you have boyfriends?”

Irene's eyes went from interested to icy again in a snap. She turned her head, nose pointed just a little up, and ignored her. Mellie squeezed Cassie's arm and whispered, “We don't date.”

“Why not?” At fourteen, Mellie might be a little young for dating, but Irene's sixteen was the typical age for testing the high school dating waters.

“Not allowed,” was all Mellie said with a shrug.

And it started becoming much more clear. The rules, the warnings, the absolute iron fist her father had presented her with when she first met him. These girls weren't just young . . . they were completely sheltered. They went to an all girls private school, they weren't allowed to date, and she'd wager her next paycheck they weren't allowed to pick their own clothes either. The simple fact that she'd been out and on her own for so long seemed like a huge adventure to them.

The weight of the idea that they might look up to her for something—anything—sank her into the cushion just a little deeper.

Tabitha floated back in, one hand twisting the necklace at her throat around so the clasp was in the back. “Your father can't join us tonight, ladies. It's a girls' night in, it seems.”

“Again,” Irene said in a monotone voice.

Was it because of her? Or was he honestly busy?

She wasn't about to ask.

Tabitha motioned for them to follow her into the formal dining room where covered dishes lined the long table. “Oh, and Cassandra, you'll be attending a benefit luncheon tomorrow with me. You're a family friend, if anyone asks. But it is a good starting point for you to learn what this family is all about . . . community relationships and charity.”

“Great,” Cassie said with a smile.

Shoot me.

But as they sat down to a beautiful dinner of roasted lamb, with perfectly plated sides and several selections of wines for herself and Tabitha, she couldn't help wishing she'd been eating a stack of pancakes with glasses of milk with Trey instead.

* * *

Cassie left the Bobcats home office with her head still ringing. How many days in a row would they go over this crap? It'd been two weeks since she'd walked in to meet Ken for the first time. Two weeks of being pushed into a conference room the moment she walked in the door to be grilled by Simon Poehler, the PR rep for the Bobcats. Two weeks of
Don't sit like that, you look slouchy on camera. Don't smile like that, it's too friendly. Soften your voice, it's too sharp in the mic. No, wrong word, try this one.

For the first time in a very long time, she felt like an idiot. She could rebuild a company server from scratch, but apparently she didn't know how to speak into a microphone without making someone's ears bleed.

The quiet PR lessons were starting to grate her nerves. And worse than that were the luncheons and dinners and meetings Tabitha dragged her to. Thank God Anya had managed to pack enough decent clothing into a box and express it to her. She shuddered to think what Tabitha would have said if she'd shown up to a Granddaughters of the Great Depression or whatever meeting she was being forced to in jeans.

The horror. The
horror
.

Cassie checked her watch as she walked toward the parking garage. Her one day off from charity whatevers in fourteen days, and she was going to make the most of it. She was going to sleep, maybe try out the pool, and have a nice, long FaceTime chat with her mom and then Anya.

But first . . .

Cassie veered off the path from the parking garage and walked back onto the street. For the next few days, she was still just an unknown. She wasn't the surprise daughter of the Bobcats' head coach. She wasn't someone to speculate on or care about. So for today, she was going to walk around Santa Fe and get to know the city just a little before the media took over her life.

But first? Sugar. Sugar made everything better.

* * *

Trey wandered out of his favorite deli, sack in hand and baseball cap down low. The owners recognized him immediately; there was no fooling them. But he'd been coming to their deli since he moved to the area, and they loved him. They never made a fuss when he walked in, just quietly served him, made small talk about anything but football, then gave him a wink and a smile as he paid for his food. He loved them right back.

The cap . . . yeah. That was to hide the still-ugly bruise from his very unfortunate meet-up with the bar in the weight room. Now a sickly yellow-green color, it was worse than the vivid purple it had turned the morning after he'd hit it. At least that'd been a cool color. Now it just looked like a booger . . . or so Stephen had told him while laughing so hard he almost pissed his pants.

But football players had bruises all the time. Guys compared bruises and contusions in the locker room like battle scars, sometimes holding contests to see which one was the best. The unfortunate part came from a combination of its location and its owner. The location brought on speculation and rumors of concussions and brain damage—both of which had been ruled out by the doc the next morning thanks to a gross overreaction from the head trainer—and the owner was the quarterback. Why would the QB have a bruise the size of a dollar bill on his forehead?

So he was back to playing Undercover Trey.

When she passed him, he almost didn't notice. It was the smell of Danishes that caught him first. Damn, but Mama Mimi's made the best pastries. And it was the pastries that had him giving the woman a second look.

And the recognition had him doing a third.

“Cassie?”

She was already three steps past him when she heard her name. She froze, then spun on her heel to face him. Her mouth, that perfectly pink mouth, moved into the shape of a silent O. Her hands tightened on the box and she took another step back. “Trey?”

“Yeah. Hey.”
Hey? Really? The woman you turned the city and Google upside down for is standing in front of you and you came up with “hey”?

She glanced around, as if looking for someone watching them. What, was she a covert ops spy or something?