Winner Takes All

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I would like to extend a huge thanks to my husband, whose unwavering and endless support always keeps me going even when I want to stop.

Also, and equally important, the team at Grand Central who collaborated with me to cultivate this series. Without their enthusiasm and nonstop belief in me, I wouldn't have had the chance to delve into the exciting, and oftentimes confusing, world of high school football. Leah, thank you for your patience and helping to fill in gaps in my football knowledge. Lauren, you are missed greatly, but I will always cherish the time we had to work together.

And for my amazing agent, Kristyn Keene, who's been there with me from the beginning and opened a door for me when everyone else had slammed it shut.

H
alf these kids don't know a blitz from a fumble.”

Blake Carpenter had to admit this assistant coach wasn't wrong. Most of these kids couldn't pass for shit. The kicker couldn't find the goalposts if they had flashing lights on them. And these boys couldn't take the Colorado heat without bitching like a bunch of little girls. Damn, Blake hated it when his best friend was right.

How had his life come to this?

A year ago he'd been playing pro football, something he'd dreamed of since he was a little kid. Making more money than he knew what to do with and enjoying every advantage and privilege a multimillion-dollar contract could throw his way.

Yeah, life had been good.

Great, actually.

Until it had all come crashing down after multiple knee surgeries and an early retirement due to a positive drug test. Testing positive once had been bad enough. But after his coach had warned him that his second test would most likely be positive, Blake had taken matters into his own hands and retired. He'd warned his trainers to not give him that “medication” they kept injecting because of his torn ACL. He should have known better.

It had cost him everything he'd worked for. His contract. His career.

His passion.

And no football organization in their right mind would hire someone who had a history of using performance-enhancing drugs, not even for a front office job. So he'd left football and returned to Colorado, where he'd grown up, fully intending to live out the rest of his life in peace. That had lasted about a year before he'd been bored out of his mind, since there was only so much solitude and hiking a person could do before that got old real fast.

It was only after watching the high school football team die a slow death of humiliation and defeat, ending their eighteenth losing season, that Blake ended his pity party.

Now here he was, a week into his new job of coaching a high school football team that hadn't seen a winning season since the Clinton administration.

Needless to say, it had been a pride-swallowing moment.

He had no one to blame but himself for his fall from being a football god to a thirty-four-year-old high school coach who'd received more wary looks from parents than a stripper at confession.

Apparently some moms and dads didn't want the likes of him coaching the children they felt could be the next Aaron Rodgers or Peyton Manning.

Whatever.

Blake didn't have the heart to tell them the only way these kids could be Aaron Rodgers was if they stole the guy's identity.

In other words, not gonna happen.

In other words, he had his work cut out for him.

And you've only got one season to make it happen, pal.

That was another little tidbit that chapped Blake's ass. If he couldn't pull off a winning season, then he'd be shown the door faster than he could call his next play.

The school district's athletic director had made that point very clear when he'd hired Blake. Bring the team to the play-offs this season or find another job.

Sure.

Piece of cake.

“What the hell is number twenty-four doing?” Cameron muttered. Cam's blue eyes were hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses, despite the overcast day. But Blake could feel his best friend's gaze, analyzing and scrutinizing each move the kid on the field made.

Cameron Shaw was a play-calling genius who could turn a ballerina into the next Heisman winner. He and Blake had played ball in high school together, then in college, and Cam had been coaching high school ever since. Blake had agreed to do the job only if he could have Cam by his side.

“Strickland!” Cameron bellowed to number twenty-four, whom he'd had a close eye on since practice started. Cam crooked his finger for the kid to approach.

Brian Strickland, a junior with the heart of a lion but the talent of a ten-year-old, whipped his helmet off and ran toward them.

“Yeah, Coach?” Brian asked with a noticeable tremor to his voice.

“You decide to take a nap out there, or what?” Cameron barked.

Brian's gaze flickered to Blake's, then back to Cameron at the same time that his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a buoy in a storm.

“No, sir,” the kid answered as he licked his lips and cleared his throat because his voice had cracked. Actually cracked.

“You got some hot rally girl on your mind?” Cam asked.

A pink flush filled the kid's cheeks. Oh yeah. There was definitely a rally girl.

Brian shook his head, then swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. “No, sir. I mean, she's not really my rally girl but—”

“Yeah, okay,” Cameron cut him off. “I'm just trying to figure out why you're not running the play I gave you.”

Brian shook his head, as though not sure how to answer the question. Probably because he didn't know. Probably the kid thought he had been running the play, only the play in his head wasn't the play Cam had given them.

Blake kept silent while Cameron did his thing with the player.

“Remember, ninety percent of the game is in here,” Cameron said as he tapped the kid on the forehead with his knuckle. Then he slapped Brian on the shoulder. “Now get your ass back out there.”

Instead of responding, Brian replaced his lid and sprinted back on the field. Blake hooked his hands on his hips, blew his whistle and clapped his hands three times. The kids, recognizing the signal to lend their undivided attention to their coach, snapped their heads toward Blake. Some of them removed their helmets; others tried to get their labored breathing under control.

“You expect to win games with that half-assed display you just showed me?” Blake called out to his players. The kids alternated between panting and shifting their feet on the grass. “If you expect people to spend their hard-earned money on tickets to watch you play, you've got to do a hell of a lot better than that. Otherwise all they're going to get is a bunch of sorry-ass pansies who couldn't outplay a peewee league.”

The team stared back at Blake with wide eyes, reminding him he was dealing with a bunch of kids who didn't have the hardy exterior of professionals. Were they not used to a coach who told them like it was? Blake rolled his shoulders, attempting to loosen his muscles and the tension that came with the enormous responsibility of whipping these kids into shape.

“I didn't hear a ‘yes, Coach'!” Cameron called out.

The kids responded with a “yes, Coach” that sounded like a bunch of defeated rejects, bringing Blake back to the reality of their situation. Seeing their faces, looking into the eyes of kids who'd never tasted victory, who'd never known the exhilaration of having the town at their backs, stands filled with screaming fans, was like someone letting the air out of Blake's balloon. Having experienced that firsthand, Blake knew how walking around on cloud nine could fuel a player's motivation to exceed to the next level. To elevate the game even higher so the fans knew they could depend on them to bring them another win.

These poor kids didn't have the first clue what that was like, and they deserved to feel it, even for just a brief moment. Blake swore to himself they would have that for more than just a moment.

“Again!” Cameron demanded. “Make them hear you in Pagosa Springs! Remind those guys that we're still here!”

This time their collective “yes, Coach” was loud enough to be heard on top of Chimney Rock.

Blake blew his whistle again. “Y'all will keep running that play until you can execute it in your sleep!”

The grunts and smacking of helmets that followed brought a fresh wave of nostalgia over Blake. There wasn't quite anything like the sounds and smells of the game. The feeling was something only someone with a passion and drive for football could understand. For years it was all Blake had known. All he had cared about and he had never wanted or imagined doing anything else with his life.

He only had himself to blame for effing it all up. Knowing how things ended, would he have done anything differently?

Hell yes, he regretted the use of illegal drugs to enhance his body. And, sure, he could've outed the trainers. But ultimately, he was the one responsible for his own body. Ultimately, he'd allowed them to do whatever it took to win.

Blake turned his attention back to the kids on the field as Matt West, his cousin's son, executed some serious blocking, paving the way for Scott Porter to move forward and receive the ball.

“Now that's the kind of passion I like to see.”

Blake gritted his back teeth when Drew Spalding sauntered up next to him. The school district's athletic director managed to radiate cockiness and charm all at the same time.

“Something I can help you with, Drew?” Blake asked as he kept his focus on his players, hoping Drew would take Blake's not-so-subtle hint and go the eff away.

“Just thought I'd stop by for a few minutes and watch the first practice of the season,” the guy answered.

Invaded was more like it, because they both knew Drew was there to see the coaching staff more than the kids. Drew and Cameron had a rivalry that went back to high school, and things had only gotten worse from there.

Drew pointed toward the end of the field. “Why is Cody doing push-ups over there? Seems to me he ought to be running the play with his team.”

The muscle in Blake's jaw clenched even tighter. “He mouthed off to Cameron.” Damn, was this guy going to question everything he did?

“You shouldn't overwork your quarterback,” Drew scolded. “He could pull a muscle.”

He shot the athletic director an impatient look. “Then he shouldn't be talking back to his coaches. The kid needs to understand that he's not in Texas anymore.”

Cody Richardson was one of the few kids on the team with real talent. The problem was he had a chip on his shoulder the size of Rhode Island and an entitled attitude to go along with it. In Blake's world, respect had to be earned. Apparently Cody had gotten used to it being handed to him.

Blake whistled and motioned for Cody to rejoin his team. He tugged on the bright red practice jersey and jogged toward the huddle.

“Maybe Cameron was being too hard on the kid,” Drew commented.

“Cameron was doing his job,” Blake shot back. He jerked his head toward the benches behind them. “Why don't you take a step back and let me coach my team, Drew.”

Drew looked as though he wanted to argue. Knowing the guy, he probably did. Blake didn't give a shit. Drew might be Blake's superior, but on the football field, Blake always had the final word. The kids needed to know that just as much as Drew did.

“This isn't high school anymore, Blake, so you don't need to keep one-upping me,” Drew commented in a hard voice.

Blake turned to face the athletic director. “I'm not trying to one-up you, Drew. I'm trying to do the job you hired me to do.”

The guy held his hands up in surrender, but the slight tilt of his mouth contradicted the benign gesture. “I just wanted to see how the team looks.” He lowered his hands and took a few steps backward. “It might be too early to tell, Carpenter, but one season may not be enough time for you to get the job done.”

One season was more than enough time, but Blake kept the argument to himself as Drew walked away. Let the cocky asshole think he had the upper hand. Blake would prove himself on the field; then Drew would have to keep that trap of his shut. The play ended and Cameron signaled for the kids to run it again. They got halfway through when a shadow appeared beside him. A long, slender, and curvy shadow, followed by the scent of…something flowery and feminine. Blake didn't know the distinction between the smell of a rose and a carnation, but whatever it was was damn good. Like attention-getting, hair-standing-on-the-back-of-his-neck good.

And the soft voice that followed was the perfect match to the knock-you-on-your-ass scent messing with his concentration. “Coach Carpenter?” the woman asked.

Blake kept his attention on his players. “If you have a problem with the way I talk to your kid, then I suggest you don't come to the practices,” he told the woman.

“Uh…,” she started, clearly taken aback by his abrupt statement. “No, I'm not related to any of the players, Mr. Carpenter.”

The play finished and Blake blew his whistle. “Water break, gentlemen,” he called to his players. He waited a moment before turning to the woman who'd interrupted his practice. When he did, the hazel eyes that blinked back at him just about knocked him on his ass. And yeah, she was way too young to be the mother of a high schooler.

So what the hell was she doing here?

Besides clouding his thinking with whatever the hell she sprayed on herself.

“What can I do for you, Miss…” He waited, arching a brow above his sunglasses.

She blinked at him, then stuck her hand out. “Turner,” she answered. “Annabelle Turner.”

Her full lips curved into a small but oddly seductive smile, which was like a punch to Blake's gut.

What the hell?

He took her hand, noting how much smaller and softer it was than his. Her petite fingers curved around his palm, but instead of shaking her hand, he just held on to it. As though he were some jackass who had never gone through a hand-shaking ritual before.

“Again, what can I do for you?” he wanted to know.

She withdrew her hand from his and rubbed it up and down the top of her thigh, which was covered in some kind of black spandex. As though she'd just come from the gym. Probably had considering how lean she was.

“I wanted to come and introduce myself before we started working together,” she answered.

His brow twitched in confusion. “Working together?” he repeated.

“With the players,” she clarified with a wave of her hand toward the field.

“I'm not following you, Ms. Turner.”

“I'm the physical therapist,” she explained. Her teeth stabbed into her full lower lip when he didn't respond to her announcement. “Drew Spalding hired me to work with the kids,” she went on. “Do you know Drew? He's the athletic director—”