Play Date (Play Makers Book 3) (35 page)

She could feel everyone staring, even Bannerman. But no one said a word, so she tried for a cheerier tone. “Meanwhile, I
love
teaching. It’s what I was born to do. I had choices, thanks to Dad and Yale. But I made the right decision and I’ve never been happier.”

If only someone would say something, but no one did. And the silence was deafening, so she added doggedly, “I’m a very private person. I’d feel uncomfortable knowing details about the financial situation of a man I was dating. And imagine what would happen if Vince and I broke up. You’d have melodrama galore in your office. Surely you don’t want that.”

She couldn’t think of anything else, so she turned to Bannerman and said pleadingly, “You can probably explain it better than I can.”

He turned to Murf. “You heard her. It’s a no-go.”

Murf gave them a warm smile. “I have to admit, Rachel. Now that I’ve heard you think on your feet, I want you even more. So consider it a standing offer. And in the meantime, we move forward with Darcie. She’ll be free from her current duties in a couple of weeks, and we can set up another dinner. For now, just believe me, you’ll love her. She’s going to knock it out of the park.”

Rachel relaxed, appreciating that the focus had shifted back to where it belonged: Bam Bannerman, the real prize.

The sports agent didn’t disappoint her. “So here’s the deal, Vince. We can renegotiate your contract even though it’s got some time left on it. They’ll pay you for every possible scenario. If you show up at voluntary OTAs? Ka-ching. If the sacks stay below a certain level—which they will—that’s a payday as well. Protecting John is your gold mine. We saw that last season. But when you score yourself? Trust me, it’ll cost ’em.”

“That all sounds good,” Bannerman told him quietly. “Let me think it over. I’ll give you my decision next week.”

“You must have questions,” Murf said cheerfully. “Ask away.”

“We’re good. And we’re out of here.” He shrugged to his feet, then gave Rachel a quick look. “Let’s go.”

She stared up at him, shocked by the new game plan.

“What about dinner?” Erica asked, her tone almost plaintive.

“Enjoy,” Bannerman said flatly. “We’ve gotta be somewhere.” To Rachel he added briskly, “Ready?”

She nodded. Not that she understood any of this, but she knew whose team she was on. So she grabbed her purse and stood, sweeping her gaze across the others, trying for a friendly but unapologetic smile. “It was wonderful meeting all of you.”

She would have lingered, just to be polite, but her date was already heading for the exit, so she ran after him, turning only to make quick eye contact with Sean, who shook his head as if to say he had no idea what was going on.

But Rachel knew. Or at least, she had an idea. Things had gone south, and rather than let it worsen, Johnny and Bannerman—QB and halfback—had aborted the play. She had seen them do it before, hadn’t she? The halfback had even provided the narrative during the Super Bowl, pointing out when the big dog didn’t like what he saw, so he spiked the ball.

Or something like that.

Hurrying after him, desperate to keep up with his Thor-like strides, she reminded herself what had gone wrong. Murf had sucker-punched them by pretending to focus on a prospective client, then recruiting a new agent instead.

A new agent who just happened to be sleeping with the prospective client.

What a jerk,
she decided indignantly.
No wonder we’re leaving.

Bannerman had played this one smart, teaching Murf he couldn’t manipulate him. The real issue was, would he give Murf a second chance? She was almost sure the answer was yes. They had the agent on the ropes now—they being the halfback and the QB. They had taught him a lesson, reminding him who was the gold mine, who was the suitor. Now they could have a real conversation.

Trailing her date to the parking lot, she pleaded, “Vince? Can’t we slow down?”

He didn’t answer, and she suspected his focus was back at the dining table. What was Murf saying? What damage was Sean doing? What miracles were the QB and his savvy bride orchestrating?

Finally they reached the rental car, a shiny black BMW sedan, and she exhaled in relief. Now she would get some answers. But she was too curious to wait until they were on the road, so as soon as he opened her door for her, she said breathlessly, “This is strategy, right?”

“What?”

His expression actually scared her. Angry eyes, no warmth, no hint of the man who didn’t hate anyone.

“It was a hard sell, just like you predicted,” she reminded him. “Don’t take it too personally.”

“Let’s go.”

She winced, surprised again by his cold attitude. What had Murf said to set him off this way? Recruiting Rachel was beyond the pale, but they had punted it, hadn’t they? And the remark about her being beautiful? It was shoddy, but not really offensive.

So what was it? He seemed disproportionately angry, and for the first time she wondered if she had missed something huge.

So she asked hesitantly, “You didn’t want me to take the job, did you?”

He stared at her as though she had just said the stupidest thing in the history of stupid things. Then he shifted his eyes from her to the seat and drawled, “Just get in the car, Rachel.”

Chapter 14

She stayed quiet while they exited the parking lot, trying to figure out what was actually bothering him. The more she thought about it, the longer the list grew. Murf had approached this meeting all wrong. Had projected an air of power rather than collaboration. And then had had the nerve to treat Rachel like a pawn. Someone he could buy off with a few hundred thousand in order to gain millions in commissions.

She also considered the emotional trauma. Bannerman had a loyal streak a mile wide, yet he had fired his old agent this very week. And Murf had treated it so cavalierly, while Bannerman was surely hurting. Feeling like a traitor, or at least like it was the end of an era.

It was the best theory she could come up with, so she murmured supportively, “It must have been tough, firing your old agent. You guys have been together for a while, right? And even if he wants to fish, it’s still a changing of the guard. Do you want to talk about it?”

“It was a mutual decision,” Bannerman assured her, his gaze never shifting from the road.

Oh, my God,
she told herself in horror.
It’s not about agents at all. He’s upset about something else. Something personal.

Taking frantic inventory, she realized how many signals she had missed. Hadn’t he said it when she returned from her snit in the restroom? His friends had told him he was “blowing it” with her. Had sabotaged his confidence at the very moment he needed it most. Undermined his bravado when he should have been on top of the world. He was a prize client for every hungry agent in the business. He should have felt like a king. But instead, his friends had let him down.

“We did the right thing,” she said loyally. “Leaving like that. Let Murf sweat for a while, right?”

He didn’t answer, so she tried again. “Murf has something you want, namely know-how and clout. But he’s salivating to sign you, so you’re in the driver’s seat.” She warmed to the concept. “He thinks he can improve on your current contract. And you think so too, right? So maybe we should get a copy and spend a few hours pulling it apart. Find the gaps, so we can discuss them intelligently with him
and
with
other prospective agents.”

“Wouldn’t that be
awkward?”
he asked her bluntly. “Getting the details of my finances? Since I’m just some guy you’re sleeping with?”

His words struck like a blow to the windpipe, nearly incapacitating her, and she drew back, stunned. But this couldn’t be happening, so she asked in disbelief, “You’re mad at
me?”

“Just drop it, Rachel.”

“What are you saying?” Her pitch was too high, her tone too desperate. “Some guy I’m sleeping with? I never said that. I didn’t
think
it either. How could I?” She steadied her voice, desperate and still in shock. “My God, Vince, I’m so sorry if that’s how it sounded.”

He shot her a cold glare. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she reminded herself this was an emotional time for him. Confusing and threatening. He had fired a loyal ally. Now he was being courted by a wolf. With his “friends” looking on, helpless to assist.

Breathing slowly, methodically, she finally steadied her voice. “I don’t blame you for being upset. I’ll make a pot of coffee and we’ll figure this out. I didn’t say you were just some guy.” Her spirit cracked. “I can’t believe you think I did. But we’ll figure it out.”

“I’m gonna head back tonight. We can talk next week.”

It was another body blow, almost worse this time. “What are you saying? You’re flying back to Portland tonight?
No,
Vince. No. We need to talk about—”

“We’ll talk next week.” He shot her another cold look as they turned onto her street. “I need some time. So just let it go for now.”

Her heart pounded as she reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

And finally her tears spilled down her cheeks. “Don’t do this, Vince.
Please
don’t do this.”

He ignored her, pulling up to the curb. “Don’t worry about it. Just go inside.”

“Without
you?”
A sob wracked her chest. “I can’t. Don’t ask me to. I’ll do anything. Just come inside, please?”

He didn’t respond, other than to touch his forehead with two fingers as though massaging a headache.

She couldn’t let him drive away. He was angry. Furious. Scary, even. But he was still the man she loved, and if she could just connect with that guy—even for a second—they could work this out.

So she said softly, “Will you walk me to the door?”

“I’ll wait here until you’re inside.”

There was a bizarre finality to his assurance that made her gulp for air again. No words left now. Just an icy knot in the pit of her stomach.

For the first time, he showed a hint of remorse, but only enough to say, “I’ll call you next week. I promise.”

“You need to come inside,” she whispered. “Right now. If you don’t . . .”

Her words hung in the air for a long, long moment. A threat? A prediction? Another pathetic plea? Even Rachel didn’t know what it was.

And it didn’t matter, because he didn’t respond. So she shoved open her door and stumbled up the walkway. And because he had an amazing arm span—one of the longest in the NFL, she remembered, sobbing—he easily slammed the car door shut behind her.

• • •

Still in shock, still sobbing, she managed to find her key and get inside her house. Just in time to hear the roar of the BMW’s engine as he drove away.

After that, she could only collapse against the door and moan unhappily, “Come back. Please, please, I’m sorry.
Please
come back.”

A part of her—weak but full of trust—was sure he would. He would reach the end of the street, or maybe drive a few more blocks. Then he would remember what they had. What they were building together.

What he could lose.

Lurching to the kitchen like a zombie, she set up the coffee pot and pushed BREW. Then she remembered the leftover cherry pie in the freezer and took it out to thaw. They hadn’t had dinner, but pie and coffee would suffice for their talk. Or they could order pizza.

Should she do that now? It would take more than an hour to have one delivered, and he was always so hungry . . .

Tears drenched her cheeks again, and she thought about her eye makeup, which had to be a mess. So she headed for the master bathroom to fix it, then froze when she saw the lap-dance dress—both pieces—strewn across the coffee table in the living room. Had they honestly been that horny, that playful, just a few short hours ago? Gathering the dress up, she held it close as though she could connect with him through the flirty fabric.

He’ll be back,
she promised herself.

He cared about her. She knew that for a fact. But he was also angry. Furious, really, to the point of icy coldness. If she hadn’t witnessed it with her own eyes, heard it with her own ears, she never would have believed him capable of it.

Stripping off her chili pepper dress, she chose sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Too heavy for spring, but she couldn’t stomach anything skimpy. And at least they were pink. And not too baggy. If he came back, he’d find them arousing because he was Bam Bannerman and she was his girl.

The only remaining task was to fix her face, but during two quick trips to the bathroom, she studiously avoided the mirror, dreading what she would see. The same thing
he
had seen when he dumped her off: swollen eyes, smeared mascara, blotchy cheeks.

Plus, she was still crying, so why bother fixing it? There were a million other things to do, starting with her phone. She had to double-check that his number wasn’t blocked. Make sure the ringer and vibrate functions were turned up as high as possible so she wouldn’t miss his call. And Sean might call too, so she made sure he was unblocked as well.

The battery was fully charged but she plugged it into the outlet next to the couch, just to be safe. Then she brought a pillow and blanket to the living room, fetched herself a cup of coffee, and settled down with the remote, her attention completely focused on any hint of road noise. She didn’t want to miss his return, so she kept the TV sound muted as she watched the game, speeding forward to the parts where he and Johnny were exchanging signals during complicated plays.

They had done that at dinner. During that pivotal part of the meeting when the focus had shifted to Rachel, but before she said something to upset him.

Just some guy you’re sleeping with . . .

She knew she hadn’t said that. She couldn’t think clearly, and her ribs ached from the occasional gut-wrenching sob, but she knew she would never describe him that way, not even in anger.

And she hadn’t been angry. She had been filled with love, so conscious of him beside her. So grateful to be part of his life. So proud that he was about to be recognized for the sports legend he already was.