The Company You Keep

by Tracy Kelleher

  When the opposition is too delicious to ignore!

  Running slam-dunk into Vic Golinski at her college reunion leaves Mimi Lodge with a lot of questions. Back in the day, they were Grantham University’s star athletes and polar opposites. If she said left, he said right. If he said hot, she said cold. All of that opposition had an unexpected consequence: a heated attraction….

  So will she and Vic still clash like the fiercely competitive jocks they once were? Life might have softened their beliefs, but clearly that incredible chemistry is still there. As the reunion unfolds every meeting is a study in grown-up lust—and restraint—as they decide where these exhilarating feelings are taking them.

  “There’s something between you and me.”

  Vic smiled. “Although I’ve always thought we were completely wrong for each other.”

  “Maybe we’re actually attuned to each other in ways unimaginable?” Mimi suggested.

  “Oh, I can imagine all right,” he said teasingly. They continued to shift and sway as they stood there in the moonlight. Their faces close, so close to contact, but not quite.

  Mimi felt giddy, felt herself tremble. “You know what they say? Opposites attract.” She grabbed his finger when he pointed it at her. She felt possessive.

  He looked at her hand on his. “Why’d you do that?”

  Because she wanted him. “Because you shouldn’t point at people,” she answered instead.

  “You’re teaching me manners now?” He angled his head one more time and brought his lips near hers.

  She angled her head the other way, but kept their mouths only an inch apart. “So, is this where you assert your manliness and kiss me?”

  “Bossy, too.” He put his hands on her waist. Drew her hips to his.

  And that was the type of assertion she wanted from him.

  Dear Reader,

  When I was in college, I was a jock—not the first thing most romance writers tell you.

  I was a member of the varsity women’s crew at Yale University, and in my junior year was elected captain. But I also served as an undergraduate representative on the university’s Title IX committee. This group of faculty, administrators and students evaluated the effects and compliance actions regarding the federal measure to ensure equal opportunity for men and women competing in intercollegiate athletics.

  The head of the committee was the athletic director at that time. He was intensely loyal to Yale, and his family had a long relationship with the university. He also understood the emotional, social and historic aspects of sports, in addition to the physical benefits. Yet above all else, he valued the importance of doing the right thing.

  Luckily for me, he took me under his wing, and I learned a lot about patience, kindness and the joy of life despite hardships—of which he had suffered more than a few. And because of him, I made regular pilgrimages back to my alma mater for the annual Yale-Harvard crew race on the Connecticut River. I returned for more than the race, though. I returned because I learned the importance of keeping in contact with true friends.

  And, now in retrospect, I realize he was the genesis for this School Ties miniseries.

  Warmest regards,

  Tracy Kelleher

  PS—As always, I love hearing from my readers. Reach me through my website, www.tracykelleher.com

  The Company You Keep

  Tracy Kelleher

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tracy sold her first story to a children’s magazine when she was ten years old. Writing was clearly in her blood, though fiction was put on hold while she received degrees from Yale and Cornell, traveled the world, worked in advertising, became a staff reporter and later a magazine editor. She also managed to raise a family. Is it any surprise she escapes to the world of fiction?

  Books by Tracy Kelleher

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  1613—FALLING FOR THE TEACHER

  1678—FAMILY BE MINE

  1721—INVITATION TO ITALIAN

  1762—ON COMMON GROUND*

  1774—A RARE FIND*

  *School Ties

  Other titles by this author are available in ebook format.

  Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  I’d like to thank Audrey Zak for providing insight into training methods for the sport of water polo.

  This book is dedicated in loving memory of Delaney Kiphuth, a smart and gentle man.

  You left us all much too soon.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  PROLOGUE

  Grantham University

  Twelve years ago

  “WHAT ROCK HAVE YOU BEEN living under for the past twenty-two years?” Mimi Lodge wailed. She shook her fist, the wide sleeve of her black-and-orange-pinstripe class jacket slipping down her arm.

  Grantham University, an Ivy League college in Grantham, New Jersey, had been educating future world leaders for centuries in a pristine setting of academic Gothic architecture, ornamental shrubbery and a strong sense of entitlement. And every year its senior class picked a new jacket to wear for Reunions weekend before graduation. At five-foot-nine, with wide strapping shoulders from years spent competing in water polo—and the long, sleek torso from being in top physical condition—she was one of the few who could carry off such a garment with aplomb.

  Of course, maybe it was just her forthright attitude that substituted for shoulder pads. She continued to fume. “In case you didn’t know it, this is the twenty-first century. Men and women are equal. Women have had the right to vote for almost one hundred years. You know the twentieth amendment?”

  Vic Golinski, the object of her tirade, slowly peeled off his blue blazer. Vic was also graduating from Grantham, but he was wearing more sedate attire—or at least, had been wearing—until Mimi had upended a water pitcher all over him in a particularly heated moment. They were participating in what was supposed to be an open panel discussion.

  Reunions organizers often featured panels with faculty members, administration officials and occasionally students to discuss topics of interest to returning alumni. Theirs had been anything but routine. With the subject being The Impact of Title IX on Participation in College Varsity Sports, the session had drawn a lar
ge crowd. Title IX was an amendment to the Civil Rights Act that prohibited discrimination based on sex in regards to school sports. And while the university abided by the law, there were any number of Grantham alumni from the once all-male bastion who felt it was undermining long established men’s teams.

  And it appeared to Mimi, these former students—meaning, old, stuck-in-the-mud type guys—were not alone. Vic Golinski might be all of twenty-two, but as captain of the football team, he appeared to be firmly stuck in the mud. How else to explain his statement, “I believe the university’s football program must inevitably suffer due to siphoning off dollars to create so-called parity programs in minor sports. What’s going to happen next? The call for creation of a women’s football team when girls programs don’t even exist in high schools around the country? That would be the height of absurdity, all in the name of so-called equality.”

  Whoa there. Minor sports? (Meaning hers, no doubt.) Height of absurdity? So-called equality? Talk about reaching a tipping point. Mimi had seen red. Her hand had migrated to the water jug. And upended it—all over her classmate.

  “Giving women the right to vote was the nineteenth amendment,” Vic corrected, his voice low as if he was trying to keep his temper in check.

  Mimi stood there, barely keeping still, while Vic yanked his arm out of the sleeve of his soaking blazer…when…when she momentarily forgot her anger. Instead, she realized that when water comes in contact with a man’s dress shirt, it turns the material virtually translucent. Translucent and amazingly pliable, she couldn’t help noticing, as the thin cotton molded to Vic’s biceps and triceps, in addition to his well-contoured pectoral muscles.

  She stopped in midstride, took a deep breath and willed herself to replay what he’d just said. “Details,” she scoffed in rebuttal. Vic Golinski wet might be better than any firemen’s pinup calendar, but that didn’t excuse his reactionary sentiments.

  He loosened the knot of his orange tie and undid the top two buttons of his blue dress shirt. A few dark curls from his wet chest hair peeked out through the opening. “The devil is in the details,” he responded.

  Mimi gulped and turned away. She exited the building and marched away from Baldwin Gymnasium where the panel had been held. She walked a short distance along the path, before she cut between two of Grantham’s Social Clubs, the university’s version of coed fraternities. Ahead lay the Alexander Hamilton School of International Studies, an elite branch of the university. She had wanted to ditch Vic, but he kept up stride for stride, shoulder to shoulder—forcing her to keep acknowledging his presence.

  “You deserved that soaking—and more,” she muttered, her eyes focused on the uneven sidewalk. “What you said is just so infuriating…such a personal affront to me as captain of the water polo team, one of your so-called ‘minor sports.’” She raised her hands and gestured with her fingers to form quotation marks. “You have no idea what you are talking about.” Without bothering to look she jaywalked across Edinburgh Avenue, oblivious to the fact that she’d also crossed against the light.

  Her statement was met by silence. Surprised, Mimi looked over her shoulder—and realized that Vic Golinski was waiting for the light to change and the “Walk” signal to flash. Mimi shook her head. “What’s the matter with you?” she scolded him. “There’s not a soul, let alone a car, in sight. Don’t you believe in taking the initiative?”

  The light changed, and Vic stepped off the curb. “That’s no reason to disregard the rules,” he said patiently.

  Mimi waited with hands on hips.

  He stepped up next to her, towering over her despite her above-average height. “You may have gained some satisfaction in pouring water all over me, but this is my only dress shirt—and I need it for graduation in a few days.”

  “I’ll get it dry cleaned for you.” She raised her chin.

  He lowered his. “That’s your solution for everything, isn’t it? Throw money at it?”

  Mimi didn’t back down. “Well, I hope you’re not expecting me to break out the ironing board.”

  Vic narrowed his eyes. “Spoken like someone who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. I bet you don’t even know how to iron.”

  He was right, dammit. Mimi whipped around and marched on. On the right was the courtyard for Allie Hammie, as the Alexander Hamilton School was affectionately known. The whole area was paved in white marble, the same stone that clad the exterior of the school with its attenuated columns and narrow arcade. A row of magnolias ran along the far side, and in the center of the courtyard was an ornamental pool out of which rose an abstract metal sculpture. Water jets splashed its rusty surfaces and droplets bounced off and rained down to the water below.

  Mimi stopped by the fountain and held up her arms in exasperation before letting them fall to her sides. “Okay, I’m sorry.” Her palms thwacked against her black trousers. “In hindsight, the powers-that-be never should have put us on that panel. Maybe they thought we would provide a student perspective besides the usual drivel from the administration flunky and the coaches. But you are clearly a throwback to some Neanderthal age.”

  “Just because I don’t believe that there needs to be a comparable women’s team for every men’s athletic team, doesn’t make me a caveman. And I’m sorry if it offends you, but guys who are friends of mine on the wrestling team—who work their butts off—are pissed, rightfully pissed in my estimation, that their sport is being thrown on the trash heap because there’s no comparable women’s sport. Following that logic, what’s going to happen to the football program?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a club sport.” That wasn’t quite true, as Mimi knew. Club sports received only small budgets, didn’t have paid coaches and didn’t travel.

  “Then why don’t you petition for Women’s Water Polo team to be a club sport instead of varsity?”

  “No way! That wouldn’t be fair because the men’s team has varsity status. You want that to become a club sport, too?”

  “Of course not.” Vic ran his hand through the top of his brown wavy hair. He seemed entirely unaware that it stuck up like a lopsided Mohawk.

  For someone intent on maintaining the status quo on and off the field, he looked remarkably off-kilter. Mimi had an intense desire to fluff up his hair even more, loosen him up and see what lay beneath his stuffed shirt exterior. Actually, she knew exactly what lay beneath his shirt—lots of well-developed muscles.

  Vic seemed completely oblivious to Mimi’s inner ruminations. “Listen, all I’m saying is, before you—or anybody else for that matter—goes jumping into things, they need to weigh the pros and cons, evaluate a program over time, consider making adjustments when necessary. I’m not saying things can’t—or shouldn’t—change just that why rock the boat too much? Why not take it nice and easy?” He furrowed his brow. “Doesn’t that make sense?”

  Raising one eyebrow, Mimi gave him a jaundiced view. “Are you always so cautious? Don’t you ever believe in taking risks? Are you always so slow to make up your mind about something?” It was a taunt, and she meant it.

  “What are you talking about? Risk? I’ve been drafted into the NFL. A career in pro football is all about risk.”

  Mimi waved off his question. “That’s all about seizing an opportunity. Because I bet even though you’re going to give the pros a chance, you have an airtight backup plan—maybe some trainee position at a bank or an acceptance to business school.”

  Vic rubbed the sole of his black leather loafer on the sidewalk.

  “Ah-hah!” Mimi shouted triumphantly. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But some of us can’t simply plan on being world-renowned international correspondents.”

  Mimi had voiced her post-graduation plans when she’d introduced herself at the start of the panel, minus the world-renowned part.

  “We don’t just take off for parts unknown on the chance that we might run into some newsworthy event or use old family connections to get
interviews with generals or presidents,” he continued. “Some of us need to think about things like paying back college loans and getting jobs that provide health insurance.”

  “Oh, please, this is not about health insurance. Because, for your information, I’m not going into this as some rich girl hobby. For four years, after practice, I’ve slogged away at the Daily Granthamite, writing every kind of story under the sun.” She referred to the student newspaper that came out five days a week. “I’m not using my contacts. I’m cleaning out my bank account and getting a one-way ticket to Lebanon, and from there I’ll hunt down stories—stories about the real victims of this world.”

  “And what if you don’t succeed? Then what?” he asked, his face getting closer to hers.

  “Oh, I won’t fail. And I won’t give up,” she said with conviction. “Because to me, it’s worth whatever I have to do to expose the reality behind oppression, racism and especially wars. Wars aren’t just about soldiers. It affects the lives of everyday civilians—families, women and children. And if I run out of money because I can’t get someone to pick up my work, then I’ll simply keep writing until they do. I’m willing to take that chance because sometimes you just can’t take things slowly—moving only after you’ve weighed the pluses and minuses.”

  Vic opened his eyes wide. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  Mimi laughed. “I may be crazy, but no one will be able to look back on what I’ve done twenty years from now and say, ‘Well, she might have made a good war correspondent—even a great one—but she spent too much time worrying about health insurance premiums.’” Then she stuck her finger out toward him. “And what will they be able to say about you? ‘When he was cut from training camp, he didn’t bother trying to get picked up by another team. He weighed the pros and cons and became an accountant instead.’”

  Mimi glared at Vic, expecting him to argue, to say she didn’t know what she was talking about. But he was deathly quiet, menacingly silent. She back-pedaled a few feet, and stumbled against the low wall surrounding the reflecting pool. Spray from the fountain spattered over her head, beading on her ponytail and shoulders.