Home Field Advantage

by Liz Lincoln

  “Hang on a sec, Dana.” Quinn looked over at his roommate. “Matt, you going down to eat?”

  “In a few. I’ll see you down there.”

  Quinn dropped his bag next to his bed, then returned to the hall. “Sorry about that, Dana. Now you have me nervous about what Coach said. I felt good today. Caught almost everything thrown at me, and not all the ones I missed were my fault.” That wasn’t ego or denial; even the great Matt Baxter didn’t throw perfectly every time.

  “And you’re keeping up? Able to do all the running and weights and stuff?” Dana asked.

  “You know I can.” The day he finished his inpatient program, he’d hired a personal trainer, a former player, to get himself back in NFL shape. He’d busted his ass for over a year to get to where he was. Of course he could keep up with the conditioning.

  “Just making sure.”

  “Why, what did Coach say? He thinks I look like shit?” Quinn pulled open the door to the cafeteria. The hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by an occasional laugh.

  Much though he didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, he was nervous to hear what Trey Crosby, the head coach, had told Dana. Crosby and wide receivers coach Colin Strassel effectively held his fate in their hands.

  “Calm your tits, Lowry. He thought you looked great. Said he needs to talk to Strassel before he has a full picture, and he’s not making any real judgment until you’ve got more practices under your belt and the first preseason game. But he liked what he saw today.”

  Air rushed out of Quinn’s lungs, like someone had pulled out his plug. Thank fuck. He rolled his neck, muscles popping. He hadn’t realized exactly how wound up he was about today’s practice. He was sore, which was normal after the grueling workouts of training camp. But he’d put extra stress on his muscles with all his performance anxiety.

  “That’s good to hear,” he said, grabbing a plate of food and sliding it onto his tray. He didn’t even look at what it was. He was hungry enough to eat anything. Probably two or three anythings.

  He filled his tray with more food as Dana filled him in on a few specifics Crosby had told her. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, Quinn. And you’ll get that roster spot. It’s entirely in your hands.”

  No pressure.

  “Keep your focus. No distractions.”

  A sweet face with big blue eyes, sassy pink lips, and long blond hair popped into his head. He squeezed his eyes shut against the image, but that somehow only made Natalie’s face clearer in his head. So he ripped his eyes open again. Nope, still there.

  “What kind of distraction would I even find on this tiny campus?” He suddenly felt antsy. Caged in. Everyone checking on him. Watching him extra carefully. She hadn’t looked at his face, but Quinn remembered how Natalie saw everything. The years could only have sharpened her observational skills.

  Fuck, he wanted a drink.

  “Dana, I gotta go. I’ll check in with you Wednesday, OK?” Before she could answer, and before he could do something dumb like admit how deeply he felt the craving for a couple shots to take the edge off, he ended the call and slid his phone in his pocket.

  “So,” he said as he slid his tray onto a table where three other wide receivers sat, “everyone else feel as shitty as I do?”

  Chapter 2

  Holy hot damn. Dragons head coach Trey Crosby lived in a bona fide mansion out of some sort of luxury homes TV show. The kind of house Natalie had been convinced only existed in Southern California. She knew wealthy people owned large homes in Wisconsin. But she’d never imagined they existed on this scale. When she pulled her cherry red 1951 Ford 3100 pickup around the circular drive to the sweeping front steps, she knew her mouth was hanging open.

  As fancy and awe-inspiring as it was, who the hell needed this much house? Did he and his wife have seventeen children? Did six other families live with them?

  Reluctantly handing her keys to the tuxedoed valet attendant—she didn’t like trusting anyone driving her baby, even though she was sure Crosby hired the best—she stepped back to take in her surroundings. Predictably, the lawns were impeccably manicured. He probably employed an entire army of gardeners and landscapers to keep it looking this Pinterest-perfect.

  She barely had time to take in the lush rosebushes edging the front porch when a sound she hadn’t heard in years but would recognize anywhere filled the air.

  Quinn. Or, more precisely, his black 1969 Camaro. The one she’d helped him refurbish the summer they were a couple.

  It shouldn’t, but it warmed her inside to know he still drove the car he’d christened Sweetness.

  She shoved down the memory of how the two of them had gone about christening the car.

  Torn between waiting to ask him about the vintage beauty and hurrying away before he could see her, she stood frozen in indecision, staring at the immaculate piece of machinery she’d taught him to build nearly from scratch. Then he caught her gaze, caught her staring, and nodded in her direction.

  Now she’d look like a fool if she ran and hid. So she waited as he got out and handed the keys to a different valet. He said something to the man before clapping him on the shoulder with a grin.

  The smile faded as he again caught her gaze. Nevertheless, he approached her. “Natalie.”

  Her cheeks heated, hearing her name on his lips after so long, in his low, sexy voice. She tensed her arms so they wouldn’t tremble. “Hi, Quinn.”

  It had been six weeks since they saw each other again for the first time. Training camp was over, preseason games were behind them, and tonight marked the official beginning of the regular season. Coach Crosby was having the entire team and coaching staff, plus their families—and she got the exclusive press access—to his house for a season kick-off cookout. When he said he’d play the Thursday Night Football game between Pittsburgh and Jacksonville, Natalie had assumed he meant he’d have it on a TV somewhere. Now she fully expected there to be a theater in his basement with enough stadium seating for everyone attending.

  “You still have Sweetness.” She shook her head slightly. “Do you call it that anymore?”

  A vague smile tugged at his mouth but didn’t take hold. “Yeah.” He gestured for her to precede him onto the brick path that appeared to lead around the side of the house.

  They fell into step together and if it weren’t for the pressure against her chest, all the words she wanted to say but didn’t know how to find, it could almost feel like no time had passed. Like he was still one of her best friends. “You still work on cars?” She reached for one of the things they’d had in common back then.

  He shot her a quick glance but looked away before she could meet his eyes. “I didn’t for a long time. Too busy, I guess. Lost the taste for it. But after I—” He cleared his throat and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

  She cut a sideways look at him, taking in the perfect fit of the dark denim. Not too tight but not so loose she couldn’t see the power in his thighs or the perfect curve of his ass. His royal blue polo shirt brought out the blue flecks in his hazel eyes and his tanned face was covered in a few days’ worth of bronze stubble.

  Even fully dressed, he was too damn lickable.

  She had to ignore an urge to pull out her phone and send a quick Help! text to her best friend Annie.

  “After I got out of rehab, I stayed with my folks for a few months before I was ready to get my own place. I needed a hobby and it had to be one I knew neither of them would try to do with me. My mom thinks cars are men’s problem and my dad is above getting his hands dirty.” Frustration laced his voice. “Things they made sure to tell me any chance they got when I lived there.”

  They reached the backyard and paused at the edge of the patio. Though words like yard and patio didn’t seem to fit. The space was larger than the small county park by her. The footprint of the flag
stone patio had to be larger than her house. Natalie spent most of her days brushing up against an immense amount of wealth, but rarely did she see it displayed quite so blatantly as today.

  “How are Sylvia and Ken?” She’d met his parents a few times in college. They’d both struck her as politely pleasant people who didn’t allow themselves further emotional depth. And as their only child, Quinn had suffered for it. She had no doubt they loved him, they just didn’t know how to show it.

  She didn’t miss the tension that rippled over him at her question. “Sylvia and Ken are…Sylvia and Ken. They are exactly the same as they’ve always been.”

  To someone who didn’t know him, that might sound like a non-answer. But to her, it spoke volumes about the struggles he continued to have with them.

  Except it wasn’t accurate to say she knew him. Even if his parents were the same, he wasn’t. Besides getting sober, there was a calm in Quinn that hadn’t been there before. While most of the time he seemed to be the same confident player he’d always been, she caught flashes when the cocky mask slipped and he looked almost vulnerable.

  And that was a part of Quinn she’d never seen before.

  Shoving away those thoughts, she took the moment to look around and truly absorb the surroundings. To their right was the gargantuan house, at least three stories of cream brick towering over them. In front of them was the stone patio that led to an outdoor kitchen. It had a large gas grill, manned by four members of the coaching staff. Women she didn’t recognize—coaches’ wives?—worked along one of the granite countertops preparing food. Another counter served as a bar, with two special teams coaches acting as bartenders.

  Past the kitchen was a short set of stairs leading down to an in-ground pool. There was a chill in the air, but the pool must have been heated because kids of all ages and a handful of players’ wives were in the water and lounging on the deck.

  Beyond the patio, terraced grass led down to a sparkling lake. The water was to the west of the house, a perfect surface for reflecting the glow of the setting sun. Players, coaches, wives, and a few children scattered along the lawn, playing various games, talking, laughing, drinking.

  At the water, there was a dock jutting into the lake with a pontoon boat on one side and speedboat on the other. It was edged by another large patio with not one but two seating areas surrounding firepits. Next to the pits, three large screens had been set up and were playing the pregame shows.

  So much for a theater in the basement. Crosby was giving them a lakefront theater.

  “Holy shit,” Quinn murmured.

  Natalie had been so busy taking it all in, she’d forgotten he was there. “I don’t think that comes close to covering it.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I know coaches make amazing money, but still. This seems excessive.”

  “His wife is some big shot entertainment lawyer. Their other home is in Malibu. They probably think this one was a bargain.”

  Natalie gaped some more. Two firepits. An outdoor kitchen as big as her indoor kitchen. She hadn’t missed the five-car garage out front.

  “Two firepits.” She couldn’t have said why, but her brain was caught on that detail.

  “Close your mouth. That’s Mrs. Crosby right now.”

  If they’d been seated at a table, his tone implied he would have kicked her under it.

  Natalie snapped her jaw shut as a woman around forty approached them, a wide smile on her grape-colored lips. Her flawless brown skin glowed. She was so stunningly beautiful, Natalie wanted to hate her, but her dark eyes were far too warm and welcoming. And she looked casually chic in slim white pants and a gold Dragons polo.

  She held her hand out for Natalie. “Welcome. I’m Kiya Crosby.”

  Natalie shook the other woman’s hand, noticing that her nails were short and unpolished. The only regular thing about the seemingly perfect woman. Somehow that small detail made her instantly more relatable.

  “Natalie Griffith. Thank you so much for having us.” Us in the global sense. Not us as in her and Quinn together. She almost corrected herself, but that would be far too revealing.

  “Natalie, of course. Trey said he invited a reporter.” Kiya leaned in. “Exclusive access and they’re letting you post on social media. Quite the coup.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Natalie knew the Dragons’ owners wanted more media transparency in their organization and had specifically hired Crosby as the new head coach because he shared that philosophy. But she was still adjusting to the change.

  Kiya turned her attention to Quinn. “And you must be Natalie’s boyfriend?”

  Natalie’s temperature was instantly a thousand degrees and her cheeks had to be as bright red as her truck.

  Quinn shifted uncomfortably and held out his hand. “No, can’t say I’m that lucky. Just a player. Quinn Lowry.”

  Kiya held his hand between both of hers. “I am so sorry. Just ignore me and my big mouth. Of course, Quinn, the new wide receiver. We’re so happy to have you.”

  Before things could get more awkward, the coach’s wife stepped back and gestured toward the kitchen and bar. “We have a fully stocked bar, so go get yourself whatever your poison is. Food should be ready very soon. Make yourselves at home.” She wiggled her fingers at them, stepping away. “So nice meeting you both.”

  Once she left, the awkwardness hit full force. Quinn focused on his shoes and Natalie stared out at the lake. Would things ever get easier between them? They had to orbit the same circle for at least the next four months. More if the Dragons made the playoffs. At some point, she’d have to do a story about him that was more than her observations. She’d have to talk to him and ask him questions. Ellen wasn’t going to let her get away with skipping that for an entire season. They had to find a way past their uncomfortable history.

  “I think I’ll—”

  “Do you—”

  Clearly shedding the discomfort wasn’t happening anytime soon.

  “I’m gonna get something down there.” Before he could respond, she followed the path down to the bar. If she had to tiptoe around Quinn all night, she was going to need a drink.

  * * *

  —

  Club soda was disgusting, ginger ale made him feel like he was ten and had a stomach bug, root beer was too sweet, and lemonade had never been his thing. So what the hell was an alcoholic supposed to drink at a party? Hi, I’m Quinn, and I’m an alcoholic. Got any Gatorade?

  He’d choked down one iced tea but it had been overly sweet and they didn’t have unsweetened. So he ordered a water with lime and was about to head back to where he’d been watching the first half of the game with Matt and Jaron when he heard his name.

  Wide receivers coach Colin Strassel stood with a small group, waving him over. Quinn snagged a plate with three sliders and headed to talk to his coach. There were more screens and projectors set up around the pool so no one had to risk not seeing every moment of the game.

  “Hey, Quinn. Wanted to introduce you to my wife, Kristen.” Colin had his arm around a petite blonde with a wide smile.

  They shook hands—he felt like he’d shaken over a hundred hands in the past hour. “So nice to meet you. I’ve been a big fan since you were at Northwestern. That’s my alma mater, though we missed each other by a few years,” Kristen said.

  Quinn chuckled. Even though they were at the smallest school in the Big Ten Conference, Northwestern fans were no less loyal than the larger state schools they played.

  “Have you met Natalie? We were just discussing some of our favorite spots on campus. You two must have been there around the same time.”

  Quinn sighed internally. Of course Natalie was over here. He’d been enjoying himself, joking with the guys, meeting a few wives who were also very into football—wow, could Jaron’s wife string together some creative obscenities to describ
e what she thought of the refs when they blew a call—and generally relaxing and having a good time, crappy iced tea notwithstanding. He’d almost forgotten Natalie was even at the party.

  “Yes, Quinn and I knew each other in college.” Natalie’s smile was strained.

  “Oh, how fun. And now you work together. It must be so neat to catch up.” Oblivious to the tension pulsing between them, Kristen beamed.

  Neat wasn’t the word he’d have chosen.

  “It is.” Natalie’s words were almost as tight as her jaw.

  At least she was as miserable around him as he was around her. Their uncomfortable conversation earlier and now this were why he’d done his level best to avoid her since the first day of camp. He didn’t need a reminder of the pain she’d caused him; he didn’t need any distractions if he wanted to have a good season and get his contract extended. He knew he had more than one year in him.

  Besides, the only thing he really wanted to say to her was Why the hell did you leave me in the middle of the fucking night then break up with me via email?

  But it didn’t matter anyway. He was a different person now. She might think she knew him because his parents still drove him nuts, he still drove the car she’d taught him how to rebuild, and he still loved football. But he barely recognized the man he’d been back then. Hell, he hadn’t been a man. He’d been a kid. A stupid drunk kid.

  Because everyone else standing around the high-top table knew at least some of the history between Quinn and Natalie, they all looked as uncomfortable as he felt. Thankfully, tight end Marcus James spoke up to change the subject. “Since we’re doing introductions, have you met my fiancée, Dr. Bree Novak?”

  The pretty brunette with Marcus smacked him in the chest. “If you introduce me that way one more time, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

  Marcus held up his hands, a picture of innocence. “I’m not supposed to call you my fiancée?”