Down Deep (Going Deep Book 1)

by Virna DePaul

  Heath glanced at his watch: they were cutting it close and they had to leave now in order to get back in time for Alec’s appointment. Part of him almost wanted to ask Alec to skip it entirely—screw Coach, he thought—but that wouldn’t be fair to his friend.

  Before Camille went outside, he pulled her aside.

  “We gotta get going,” he said. “Alec has an appointment and we can’t be late.”

  “Of course. Thank you for coming. Here, let me get you guys some party favors.”

  She handed each of them bags of candy, saying that she’d give them cake but couldn’t very well cut into it before Emma blew out the candles. Kyle took out the noisemakers instantly, making a racket and hooting along with all of the noise.

  Camille led them to the door and out onto the porch, shutting the party noise off behind them. “You made Emma’s day. Her year. Thank you again.”

  “It was our pleasure,” Kyle said. He and Alec stepped off the porch and moved toward the car. With a final glance at him, Camille turned to walk back outside. Before he knew what was happening, he reached out and cupped her elbow. For a split second, he couldn’t speak, fearing anything he said would just make things worse. Only how could they get any worse? He couldn’t let things end between them. Not like this.

  “Camille, I miss you. I miss talking to you. I miss seeing you at games. I know this isn’t the time, but can we talk? Later?”

  She stared at him before looking away. “That’s not a good idea, Heath. You did the right thing, breaking things off early. It’s not like we had any type of true future together, anyway. Even if I don’t end up getting that call from the NFL…” Her gaze returned to his and she shrugged. “We shouldn’t have ever been together in the first place.”

  He reached out and took her hand, clasping it to his chest. “Don’t say that. I don’t regret our time together, Camille.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t regret getting to hold you in my arms. I don’t regret watching you lose yourself to passion or getting to see you work or even just talking to you or getting to know Emma. I want more of that.”

  “Heath, we can’t—” Camille began, blinking away tears.

  “I fucked up again,” Heath said reaching out and cupping her face with his free hand. “And I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m asking for it. Give me another chance.”

  * * *

  Despite the resolve on his face and the beat of his heart underneath her palm, Camille knew she couldn’t give in. There was too much against them. They’d never last. She hated to admit that, but it was true. And she’d had enough experience trying to salvage a broken relationship with a professional athlete to know when it wasn’t worth moving forward.

  “Say something,” he said. “What are you thinking?”

  She pulled her hand away from him. Taking deep breaths, she forced herself to get her emotions under control. “You don’t know how much it means to hear that from you. But Heath, I let you into my life, even into Emma’s to a degree, and you walked away from us. You made your choice.” She shook her head. “You think you want me now, but what happens when you start to freak out again? I can’t do that. Not to myself and not to Emma.”

  “So that’s it? It’s just over and done with, like we never happened?”

  “That’s what you wanted.”

  “And you didn’t put up a fight. Not at all, Camille. So we were both wrong. There’s still time to remedy that.”

  “So what? All of a sudden you’re committed to us? As committed to us as you are to football? You said football was the most important thing to you. You’re living your dream; what if I asked you to give it up so I could live mine?” When his eyes flickered, she read his answer there. She read the sudden doubt that entered his mind. She shook her head. “I’ll always remember you and what we had. But that doesn’t mean we keep forcing something that isn’t going to work. Sooner or later it was going to end. We were doomed from the start.”

  He gazed at her for a long while, his throat working. His cheeks were flushed, and he seemed to be struggling with what to say. She prayed he didn’t try to persuade her. But a tiny voice inside admitted that she wanted him to fight for her, to tell her how wrong she was.

  Instead he reached out and caressed her cheek. “You’re just as unforgiving as you were in high school. Only my watergirl could tell me to get the hell out without missing a beat. But can I ask for one last thing before I leave? Can I kiss you?”

  Oh God. He was so wrong. If he only knew how much this was breaking her heart. But since her heart was already breaking, what would one last kiss matter?

  When he cupped her cheeks, smoothing away the tears, she realized she’d calculated wrongly. And then when he kissed her, his mouth gentle and coaxing, she knew her heart was breaking into a million more pieces with that single touch.

  When they parted, he looked like he was going to say something else, but he just kissed her forehead. “Goodbye, Watergirl,” he said simply.

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  “So, were you surprised he showed up?” Sheila asked as she took the bag of trash from Camille.

  As much as she loved Sheila and appreciated her friend’s help cleaning up after the party, Camille couldn’t help but wish Sheila had left with the others, so Camille didn’t have to try so hard to hide how much she was hurting. Normally, she wouldn’t hide such a thing from Sheila, but she knew her friend. She’d urge Camille to give Heath another chance, knowing it was what Camille wanted in her heart of hearts, but this time she had to stick to her guns. She didn’t have a future with Heath, and she had to accept that. “Thanks, and yes,” she said finally. “I really didn’t think he’d come. I mean, what NFL player would want to come to a random eight-year-old’s birthday party two hours away?”

  “Yeah, but you’re not random. He obviously cares about you, Camille. You and Emma.”

  Camille wiped the counter even harder. She could leave this until tomorrow, but the thought of going to sleep with her house a mess would keep her awake all night. Well, that and someone else who was never far from her thoughts.

  “I believe he does care about us, Sheila,” she finally said with a sigh. “But that doesn’t mean we should see each other again. His whole world is football and there’s no place for me there.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re a sports photographer. Of course there’s a place for you.” Sheila picked up another bag of trash to take to the curb for tomorrow morning. “You’re both just too scared to take the leap.”

  Had she done the wrong thing, refusing to give Heath another chance? He’d looked so sincere when he’d said he’d made a mistake. That he’d missed her. But he’d pulled her in with pretty words like that before only to push her away time and again.

  On the other hand, he’d attended Emma’s party, even brought his friends, and he’d made a point to participate and be his usual ridiculous self. Had it been merely a kind gesture, one borne of guilt, or a genuine desire to be part of their lives?

  Sheila came back in, and as if she was a mind reader, she said, “You know he didn’t have to go to that kind of trouble. But he did: for you.”

  Camille bit her tongue. To think it was one thing; to hear it out loud was another. But Sheila was right: he did go to a lot of trouble to drive here, with his buddies in tow, to bring a gift and then entertain Emma like he did.

  “Oh hey,” Sheila said suddenly, “I found this on the table by the front door. I thought it was a stray present for Emma, but it’s addressed to you.”

  Camille took the gift with her eyebrows raised, and she realized that the handwriting was Heath’s. It was loosely wrapped in plain wrapping paper, without even a bow on top—a very masculine wrapping job, she thought with a small smile. Hesitantly, she unwrapped the gift, unable to speak as she gazed at what was inside: a whistle. Her dad’s Superbowl XX whistle that she’d told Heath about. Heart pounding, she brought it up to the light, wondering if she were ima
gining things, but it was the whistle, the one she’d cried over when her dad had given it to his favorite player.

  “A whistle?” Sheila asked. “That’s a weird gift.”

  “It’s my dad’s,” Camille whispered. “He gave it away to a Little League player years ago. I had no idea that that player was Heath. He never said a word.”

  Sheila took the whistle and looked it over. “And he gave it back to you? Clearly it meant a lot to him if he’d kept it all these years.”

  Camille could barely wrap her head around the silver whistle now in her kitchen. He hadn’t said anything when she’d mentioned it, but she wondered now if he’d stayed silent in order to spare her feelings. Or because the whistle had meant a great deal to him, and he simply hadn’t wanted to part with it, but in the end, had sacrificed something that he valued to make her happy.

  To think he’d not only remembered what she’d said, but he’d made a point to return the whistle to her. Plus, he hadn’t made a show of returning it: he hadn’t wanted her to feel like he was doing her a favor. He just wanted her to have something precious from her father back in her possession.

  “So, what I was saying before? A guy who does things like this isn’t just looking for a quick piece of ass. He cares about you, Camille. He might even love you. The question is how you feel about him. And what you’re going to do about it.”

  * * *

  The next night, with Emma celebrating her birthday with Rich, Camille was sitting on the couch, mindlessly watching TV and still contemplating Sheila’s questions from the night before, the same questions that had been haunting her for twenty-four hours straight. Was it possible Heath truly cared for her? Maybe even loved her? Was it possible she’d been falling in love with him, as well?

  Conflicted, it was as if a dam suddenly burst, and every emotion she’d been holding at bay came rushing out. She dropped her head in her hands and began to sob silently. She cried until her head hurt and she didn’t have a single tear left to shed. She cried until her face was probably beet red. The sobs kept coming, and she wondered if her tears would be what she needed to move on from Heath. Put him aside and make a life for herself without him.

  She knew she was strong enough to do it. But the simple truth was, she didn’t want to.

  In the end, Camille didn’t succeed in purging Heath from her thoughts through her tears, but she had no choice but to move forward. She had a life and a little girl that needed her.

  Wearily, she reached for the remote to turn it off, freezing when she heard Heath’s name mentioned. Glancing up, she spotted the Bootleggers’ colors and logo on the screen. “Generally speaking,” the reporter was saying, “players are fined for various infractions, but this is Dawson’s first one.”

  She watched as video of Heath played across the screen.

  “According to various sources, Dawson was fined $10,000 for causing his fellow player Alec LeBrun to miss his physical therapy appointment yesterday afternoon, but it’s not the only reason the Bootleggers’ wide receiver is making the news lately. Recently, he was photographed with a mystery woman and they looked very well-acquainted.”

  A photo popped up on screen, and Camille felt her body go cold. It was a photo of her and Heath at the costume store, his arm around her as they exited the dressing room. She hadn’t even known someone had been taking photos, and now it was splashed across the news? Blushing furiously, she scanned the photo to see how rumpled she looked—did they look like they’d had sex?—before the photo was moved to the corner of the screen as the reporter continued speaking.

  “—sources have just confirmed the identity of the woman seen in Dawson’s company. According to our sources, her name is Camille Pollert, and she’s a photographer for the NFL. Isn’t fraternizing between the staff against NFL policy, Molly?” As the two news anchors joked about the dangers of football players hooking up with photographers, trainers, or possibly even other players, Camille groaned, dropping her face into her hands.

  God, the photo was bad enough, but to be named, too? Forget the fact that she wasn’t actually an official employee of the NFL, the implication of wrongdoing had already been put out there. And what were the chances that the NFL wouldn’t get wind of this? If the league had been considering offering her a job, this had probably ruined any chance of that happening.

  Her embarrassment soon transformed into anger, though: pure, white-hot anger. Was this why Heath broke things off with her? If so, why hadn’t he had the decency to warn her that she was probably going to be under media scrutiny now?

  Sure, as far as scandals went, it was a rather boring one for the NFL. But it could still jeopardize her chances of getting a job offer.

  She rose and was about to turn off the TV when the anchor’s words caught her attention again. “First Omar Perkins then Alec LeBrun and now? Is Camille Pollert the woman who’s going to take down Heath Dawson? Well, our own reporter, Felicity Jenkins, asked Dawson that very question in a recent interview last week. Here’s what he had to say.”

  Camille froze as she saw Heath appear on-screen. He looked tired. The spark gone from his eyes. When the reporter asked him about the woman he’d gone shopping with and whether things were serious, Heath merely said, “Ms. Pollert and I are old friends from Peachtree High School. Or rather, we’re friends now. Her father was my Little League coach and one of the greatest people I’ve had the pleasure to know. The same is true for Ms. Pollert. I wasn’t such a great guy in high school, didn’t always say the nicest things, and she gave me a second chance. She’s a talented sports photographer. If anyone doubts me, they should go to her website and check out her photographs right now. I wish her all the happiness in the world.”

  Stunned, Camille sat back down on the couch. Her heart ached. And even though having the entire world talk about their relationship didn’t feel great, Heath’s words and the expression on his face as he’d said them were burned into her brain, lighting her with joy and an unmistakable regret. The news anchor had said the interview had been days ago, probably soon after Heath had broken up with her. Before he’d seen her and tried to get her back. Even then, he’d been looking out for her.

  She wasn’t just a challenge for him. What she was was a fool.

  She remembered the warmth of Heath’s hand around hers as he’d placed it over his heart. How he’d looked at her. How he’d teased her. How he’d gently pushed her out of her shell, taking those photographs when she’d been at his house. How he’d come through for her and Emma, even risking being late for Alec’s physical therapy and receiving a fine because of it. He’d been there for her since the beginning, and had even apologized profusely for how he’d treated her 10 years ago, when they’d still been children themselves. He’d never gotten angry with her for her actions against him, either.

  As she remembered everything Heath had done for her, her chest clenched and she felt more tears coming. She realized, with a painful type of clarity that only occurs when it’s too late, that she’d been wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.

  She’d let something precious slip through her hands. All because she was a coward. All because she hadn’t been willing to believe that what she had with Heath was worth fighting for.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’d been two weeks since Heath had seen Camille. Two long, painful weeks that had seemed to stretch into eternity. He’d tried everything to get her out of his head—bar-hopping, drinking, flirting with women—but it was no use. She was there to stay. He just hoped he could focus on football and get through the season without enraging Coach again.

  But no matter how hard he tried, he could only see the tears on her face as she’d told him they had no chance together. How she’d said they’d been doomed from the start. He’d wanted to argue with her, tell her she was wrong, but for some reason, he’d known it wouldn’t have mattered. Then again, maybe he’d just been too scared to be rejected again. He may act like a devil-may-care playboy, but he wasn’t immune to heartbreak, ei
ther. So he’d left Camille, knowing that if he ever saw her again, it would only be as awkward coworkers and nothing more. Their entire history swept under the rug, never to see the light of day.

  Standing underneath the stadium with the rest of the Bootleggers, Heath carried his helmet underneath his arm, waiting to run out onto the field. The fans shouted and screamed, the entire stadium pulsing with energy. The Bootleggers were on the upswing again, but they were predicted to lose against the Cougars, who currently were the league’s number one team.

  “Ready?” Kyle asked as he jogged up to Alec and Heath.

  “Ready not to make Coach blow a gasket? Yeah, let’s hope,” Heath said grimly. “If it weren’t illegal, he probably would’ve murdered me by now.”

  “Eh, if he hasn’t murdered Kyle yet, you’re good,” Alec rejoined. “He’s the one that gets under Coach’s skin the most.”

  Kyle gave them both the bird. “Fuck y’all, Coach loves me. Now let’s get out there and whoop some Cougar ass.”

  “Yes!” They bumped fists. That’s when they got the signal, and the entire team burst onto the field. The crowd erupted, and Heath could hear shouts of “Dawson, Dawson, Dawson!” that energized him even more. Deciding to live in the moment, he put his hands up, signaling to the crowd. The fans screamed. Waving and doing his touchdown dance, he milked the audience for all it was worth, increasing the overall energy tenfold.

  His heart may be broken over Camille, he reasoned, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still have fans that loved him.

  “Dawson, get over here,” Coach called.

  Heath grinned one last time at the crowd then, as one of the team’s captains, made his way to the center of the field. The ref flipped the coin. Heath watched it wink in the sunlight before calling tails.