The Devil Wears Blue Jeans (One Pass Away: A New Season Book 1)

by Mary J. Williams

  Like a sponge, Darcy absorbed football. She learned by watching and by listening to the voices on the television and the comments from her fellow obsessed viewers. By the end of October, she had the basics of the game down pat. When the calendar changed from November to December, she’d formed a fanatical attachment to one team—the Seattle Knights—and could spot an off-side penalty in her sleep.

  The Sunday before Christmas, the game was in the fourth quarter, less than two minutes to go and Darcy’s Knights were down by four points. On the edge of her seat, certain victory was only seconds away, she watched as the quarterback drove her team down the field.

  Third down, five yards to the end zone, and the opposing team called a time out. Darcy groaned.

  “Time to go, kid.”

  Shocked, stunned, Darcy tore her gaze from the television long enough to shoot Shel an appalled look. Leave? Now? When the Knights were about to pull out a win? The man was crazy?

  “No,” Darcy said and turned back to the game.

  “Don’t tell me no, young lady,” Shel said, his patience thin. “When I say it’s time to go, you say, yes, sir.”

  Shel grabbed Darcy’s arm and Darcy grabbed hold of the table with the kind of strength only a devoted football fan would understand. She kicked, she screamed, she melted down into an epic temper tantrum loud enough to rival the eruption of Mount Vesuvius.

  “Jesus, Shel. Let the girl watch the end of the game.” Sheriff Dick Boles said from his seat at the end of the bar. “If you don’t, I’ll arrest you.”

  “On what charge?” Shel bellowed, his fingers biting deeper into Darcy’s tender flesh.

  “Child abuse?” Bev offered as she came to Darcy’s rescue, slapping away Shel’s hand.

  “Fuck abuse. I’ll drag your ass in on obstruction of the game watching process,” Dick said with a steely glint in his dark eyes. “Football’s a religion, son. Ain’t no way you’ll get off with less than six months—hard labor.”

  As the adults argued, Darcy watched with eager eyes as the drama played out on the television. Breathless with anticipation, she tuned out Shel, the sheriff, everything but the glorious action on the field.

  Seconds later, the Knights’ quarterback sent a sizzling pass straight into the arms of his waiting wide receiver. The home crowd went wild and Darcy’s heart almost burst with excitement.

  Basking in the glow of victory, Darcy calmly slipped on her coat, unconcerned by the chaos she’d caused. The Knights won! The Knights won! Nothing else mattered.

  “We can go now,” she said, giving Shel a satisfied smile.

  “Why you little—” he sputtered as his face turned a mottled shade of red.

  Whatever Shel might have said, Darcy would never know. Before he could finish, the front door burst open. A man ran into the tavern.

  “Semi. Out of control.” He gasped out the words, his gaze landing on Shel. “Took out your car.”

  “What?” Shel ran to the parking lot, Bev, the sheriff, and Darcy on his heels. “Holy shit.”

  Shel’s ten-year-old Corolla lay in a flattened heap under the front wheels of a truck emblazoned on the side with the Walmart name.

  Not a scratch on him, the truck driver stood with his hands on his hips, a stunned expression on his face.

  “Breaks went out,” he explained. “Lost control. Boom.”

  “Damn good thing you weren’t inside, Shel,” the sheriff said as he walked around the wreckage. He snorted. “You should thank Darcy.”

  “Why?” Shel asked, still in a daze.

  “I’d say her little tantrum saved you. Both of you.”

  Staring at the crushed metal, Darcy knew better. She wasn’t responsible. Football, the most glorious game ever invented, saved their lives.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ▲ ▼ ▲ ▼ ▲

  THEY CALLED HIM the devil—with good reason. Sexy and handsome—in a rugged, screw the world kind of way—his smile drew a person in, made them comfortable. Deceptively lethal, once your guard was down, he went for the kill.

  A.K.A. Joshua McClain, he had a well-earned reputation for oozing charm one second and shooting venom the next. Women loved him, then hated him, only to love him all over again. Men envied him, aspired to be him, despised him behind his back one second, and praised him to his face the next.

  Darcy watched as McClain worked the room, shaking hands, eliciting laughter with his easy banter. The man was a seasoned pro at pulling people into his orbit of charm and bullshit.

  “I hear when he played for the Raiders, McClain slept with the entire cheerleading squad—at the same time.” A man Darcy recognized as Roger Templeton, a reporter from a local radio station, delivered the gossip with barely stifled glee. She didn’t know the other men who surrounded him.

  “Locker room bullshit,” another man she didn’t know said with a shrug. “Probably started by the Devil himself.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Templeton continued. “I covered the Raiders at the time. Witnessed his magic in person. Women flocked to McClain. Still do.”

  “Hm,” the second man grumbled. “Still say his reputation, on and off the field, is more fiction than fact.”

  “Can’t argue he was an elite player,” Templeton said. “Caused a lot of chaos, but damn, McClain could run an out route like no one I’ve ever seen. Too bad his knee gave out or he might still be in the game.”

  “Heard he’s changed,” a third man in the group piped in. “Burned off some of the wild.”

  “The Devil?” A fourth man scoffed. “Doubtful.”

  “You think Riley would have hired Joshua McClain if he was still a loose cannon?” Templeton shook his head. “She learned the game at her grandfather’s knee and mark my word, Douglas Preston taught her well. The well-being of the team comes first.”

  “Riley’s proved herself to be a stellar owner,” the man conceded. “But you must admit, her latest moves are questionable. First, she signs McClain as head coach, a man with well-documented anger issues. Then, hires a woman as the team’s general manager? What the freaking hell? Sounds like football suicide to me.”

  Deciding she’d heard enough, Darcy stepped forward. She was tall and aided by a pair of stiletto heels, topped the men by several inches. The look on the reporter’s face when he realized she must have heard every word they spoke, was priceless.

  “Suicide is a bit of an exaggeration,” Darcy said with an easy shrug. “As you said, Riley puts the welfare of her team first. I may be new to the general manager game, but I ask you to keep an open mind, Mr. Templeton. At least until after the draft.”

  “Do you plan to take a defensive back with the team’s first pick?” Templeton asked as she walked away.

  “You’ll know when the time comes,” Darcy said without looking back.

  Careful not to let the starch out of her shoulders, Darcy let out a silent sigh. She was ready to go home, put her feet up, and indulge in her favorite pastime—reading scouting reports. Fortunately, the afternoon’s meet and greet, meant as an informal introduction of the new head coach and general manager, was close to winding down.

  The lavish buffet, once stocked with an assortment of locally sourced goodies from crab legs to pastries, had been pounced upon by the invited local press and several Seattle bigwigs. Little remained beyond some crumbs and a few sad-looking lettuce leaves.

  Tired but aware of the image of strength she always needed to project, Darcy kept her head high and ignored her sore feet as she shook the mayor’s hand. A big part of her job—the part she could do without—was public relations.

  The fun stuff of building a football team happened behind closed doors. Even now, her mind raced forward in anticipation of pouring over depth charts while her computer brain figured out how she could manipulate the NFL salary cap to the team’s best advantage.

  Darcy slowly pulled air into her lungs then gently breathed out. After years of hard work. The low-level grunt jobs. A
fter all the times she thought she’d climbed a rung in the ladder only to be kicked down and told women don’t belong in football at any level, she’d arrived. Her office door read General Manager in gold letters. General manager of a national football league team. And not just any team. The freaking Seattle Knights.

  Now and then, if the stars aligned just right, dreams did come true.

  “Riley knows how to throw a party.”

  Every muscle in Darcy’s body tensed at the sound of a deep, slightly husky voice. Joshua McClain. The one thorn in her bouquet of sweet-smelling roses. Why couldn’t he just evaporate like a bad nightmare?

  Stifling a groan, she turned and looked into a pair of arrogant emerald green eyes and reminded herself nothing—even her hard-won dream job—was perfect.

  Darcy liked to think of herself as fair; someone who didn’t judge on gossip and innuendo. McClain sent her basic sense of fair play to the breaking point. Something about the man put her on edge. Even the fact that despite her lofty heels, she had to look up—just a bit—to meet his gaze felt like a personal affront.

  “Riley Preston is the best,” Darcy said. “Now that you work for the Knights, you’ll soon discover nothing ownership does is anything but first-class all the way.”

  “Good to know.”

  Waiting for several beats for him to expound on the brief reply, Darcy soon realized Joshua McClain wasn’t big on small talk. Or, he simply had nothing more to say to her. Either way, they weren’t getting off to a great start.

  Reminding herself that she and McClain needed to develop a good working relationship, Darcy kept her expression calm and cool. After all, sneering into his annoyingly handsome face might feel good here and now. In the long run, letting her admittedly irrationally antagonistic feelings show would hurt the team.

  “Care to get something to drink?”

  Without waiting for his answer, Darcy walked to the open bar.

  “Champagne?” McClain asked as they stopped at the raised table located in the back corner of the room.

  “Water,” Darcy told the bartender. “Sparkling with a twist of lemon.”

  “Make it two,” McClain said. “Flat for me. Hold the fruit.”

  Expecting him to ask for a beer, Darcy set aside one of her preconceived notions. Smart man not to drink at a team sanctioned event. Taking a sip from her glass, she surreptitiously took in his appearance.

  Good hands, Darcy thought with a clinical eye. Long fingers, large palms. Made for catching a football. An elite wide receiver and considered future hall of fame material until an injury ended his career before he reached thirty, the fact that McClain played for a rival team hadn’t stopped her from respecting his ability.

  Six years out of the game, if the fit of his solid black sports jacket and the way his jeans hugged his very nice backside were anything to judge by, he seemed as lean and muscular as in his playing days.

  Angry at herself for noticing the shape of McClain’s butt, Darcy focused on his attire. Blue jeans? Ugh. She’d give him props for the buffed leather boots and crisp white shirt. The clean-shaven face and the stylishly tousled dark brown hair were fine. Though she doubted most people would fault his choice of attire.

  However, Darcy wasn’t most people. As five days ago when they were introduced to the city of Seattle—and the world—in a packed to the rafters press conference, she and Joshua McClain became colleagues. In her book, the way he was perceived reflected on her. The least the man could do was wear a freaking tie.

  Darcy took a sip of water as she watched McClain do the same. On the field and in the locker room, he ran the team. Everywhere else, she was his boss. And damn, she thought with an inner smile of satisfaction, the knowledge was sweet.

  “Joshua.” Darcy paused. This was their first informal conversation. “Or do you prefer Josh?”

  “My friends call me Mac,” he said.

  And which am I? Since McClain didn’t give her liberty to use the nickname, she was left to draw her own conclusions. Darcy, despite her good intentions, felt her hackles rise.

  “What do your enemies call you? Devil, or ass—?” She cleared her throat before going on. Then asked, “Do you prefer Ashford?

  Almost, almost, Darcy asked if she should call him asshole. The fact that she was able to bite her tongue at the last second spoke volumes about the self-training she’d endured thanks to years of practice because of men just like the one who stood before her. Knowing from McClain’s file that his middle name was Ashford came in handy. Not the best cover. However, she considered the improvisation good enough considering the alternative.

  Something about Joshua McClain grated on her last nerve. She had to be on her guard around him—even more than usual.

  “You want to call me asshole?” McClain asked with a knowing smile. “Fair enough. Isn’t the first time I’ve heard the word directed my way. Won’t be the last.”

  Darcy appreciated McClain’s honesty. What she didn’t like was the look he gave her—one close enough to a knowing smirk that Darcy wanted to smack his handsome face—hard. Tightening her grip around her glass, she smiled, ice dripping from the corners of her lips.

  “You misheard,” she told him. “I hiccupped as I began to say your middle name. Ashford, not ass. The word came out wrong.”

  Expecting him to contradict her, Darcy was surprised when McClain’s lips twitched, but he didn’t comment. She’d pushed at him, as they both knew. Shoved might be a better description. The fact that he chose not to push back seemed promising. Perhaps the rumors of his reformation were true. She still had her doubts but was determined—for the sake of the team—to adopt a cautious wait and see attitude.

  In his playing days, Joshua McClain’s temper occasionally manifested itself on the field. Darcy understood emotions getting the better of him in the heat of battle. And make no mistake, football on any level was war. When players reached the highest level possible, the lofty air of the national football league, maintaining a foothold was in the trenches, man-eat-man, annihilation.

  At one time, McClain was a master of taking down his opponent. An admirable ability that earned him accolades and a hefty paycheck. Darcy’s problem with him—and she wasn’t alone—was his inability to keep his aggression limited to the football field. His actions after the final gun sounded were what got him into trouble.

  Random barroom brawls were frowned on by the NFL. However, like most talented athletes, since no one ever pressed charges, most of McClain’s bad behavior was overlooked.

  As an elite athlete, one of the best in the game, the perks were endless. People gave you a pass—too often, in Darcy’s opinion. Now that she was in charge, things would change. No more turning a blind eye until the crime was too serious to ignore. There was a new sheriff in town and her name was Darcy Stratham. A fact that Joshua McClain needed to get through his head, here and now.

  “I’ll call you Joshua if you don’t object.” Darcy waited for a beat. “Or Josh.”

  “Josh is fine.” A devilish glint entered his green eyes. “And what should I call you? Ms. Stratham?”

  “I’m not a teacher,” Darcy said. “Although…”

  “I’m not your student,” he countered. “Best we get that straight from day one.”

  “You don’t think you have anything left to learn?” Darcy raised an eyebrow as she raised her glass to her lips. She smiled as she took a sip of water. “I’m always open to discovering new things. If we’re lucky, we can teach each other.”

  “About football?” he asked.

  Darcy searched for a trace of innuendo but found none. Still, she’d worked on the business side of the game since she was sixteen and she’d heard every come on in the book. By necessity, her slimeball radar was finely honed. Instinct told her McClain was on the level. Lord, she hoped he didn’t prove her wrong.

  “Football is the one thing we have in common,” she said. “That, and our desire to make the best team in th
e NFL.”

  “Agreed and amen.” McClain sighed. “Partners?”

  Like it or not. Though he didn’t speak the words, Darcy heard them loud and clear. Taking his outstretched hand in hers, she ignored the unexpected jolt of awareness and gave a firm shake.

  Joshua McClain was an incredibly attractive man—a fact that he knew all too well. Charming. A little dangerous. But Darcy had dealt with worse. Once at her lowest point, she swore she’d make a pact with the devil to make her dreams come true. Now, it appeared she’d done exactly that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ▲ ▼ ▲ ▼ ▲

  DARCY ROLLED HER head in a slow circle, wincing as the knotted muscles and tendons in her neck let out a protest of popping noises. The day had been a long one and a steamy, muscle relaxing, shower had helped. The large glass of whiskey she sipped from continued the theme of mellowing out her mood.

  Dressed in light blue cotton baggy pants, fuzzy socks, and a faded, long-sleeved University of Washington t-shirt, her damp hair held back from her face by a pair of metal clips, Darcy placed the used towel in the hamper and walked from the bathroom.

  Looking around the bedroom, a smile of pure pleasure lit her face. The space was small compared to the boxy, five-room Nashville apartment she’d recently vacated. Not that size mattered since she rarely did more than use the serviceable space to crash and burn.

  Darcy sighed as she ran her fingers over the top of the hand-carved mahogany dresser. What the room—the entire cottage—lacked in square footage, it made up for in amenities the likes of which she’d never known during her thirty-six years on earth.

  From the moment Darcy entered the workforce at the age of sixteen, she worried more about garnering knowledge than she did about her salary. Between paying off her student loans, sending a bit to her mother each week, and just the basics of keeping a roof over her head and food in her belly, money had always been tight.