The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2)

by Nancy Herkness

  As he thought of Miranda, he remembered the sympathetic look she’d given him and the genuine warmth of her smile. There had been real understanding there, but also some intriguing banked heat in her big brown eyes. Both had caught his attention because they were unexpected.

  She’d turned down football tickets, too. No one did that. He knew her boss was going to sell the ones he’d accepted—he could see it in the way the man refused to meet his eyes. But Miranda, who was the injured party, had rejected his first peace offering. He suspected she had accepted the football just to appease him and Spindle.

  He’d waited for her afterward to offer his assistance because he could tell that her boss was unhappy. She had put him off then, too. It was interesting.

  So was the fact that behind that serene mask she wore, she had reacted to him. Most women didn’t try to hide that.

  Trevor picked up the pizza and ripped off another bite. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have a chance to do wild stuff when I was young and stupid.”

  Luke’s hangover made his stomach heave at the sight of the congealed pizza, so he took his brother’s plate and tossed the rest of the pizza in the garbage. “At least eat something healthy.”

  Trevor stood up and leaned forward so his face was just inches away from Luke’s. “I don’t have to eat healthy, because I don’t make my living with my muscles. I use my brain.”

  There it was. The one weapon Trevor could use to jab at his overachieving older brother. Luke stepped back to avoid the bits of pizza Trevor was spewing.

  “I spend hours reading and researching and analyzing and writing and discussing ideas. It’s exhausting. Up here,” Trevor said, tapping his temple. “You don’t understand that.”

  Luke crossed his arms and thought of the hours he spent watching video and reading scouting reports, pinpointing his opponents’ strengths and weaknesses, devising plays with the coaches, memorizing and running them with his teammates. It was exhausting, too, but that’s what it took to do his job to the absolute best of his abilities.

  Trevor had always been the smart one. Their parents had been so proud when he had been the salutatorian of his high school class and gone on to Harvard for undergrad and his doctorate.

  Luke, on the other hand, had taken the courses he had to in order to play football. His parents had been stunned when Luke received the National Football Foundation’s High School Scholar-Athlete Award, one of five given in the entire country. Their baffled astonishment when he’d told them about the luncheon at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City had been both gratifying and hurtful. They’d accompanied him, of course, but had spent the afternoon looking at the professional football stars attending the event—people he hoped to emulate—as though they were aliens.

  Luke pushed that memory away. “I have a meeting at the Empire Center.”

  “Go ahead!” Trevor shouted. “You with your helicopter waiting on the roof! With the groupies panting for your attention! With the view of the Statue of Liberty!” He waved his hand at the sliding doors that opened onto the penthouse terrace, where Lady Liberty’s torch showed above the railing. “You’ve got it all, and I’ve got nothing.”

  Anger boiled up inside Luke, but he slammed the lid down on it. “You have a wife who loves you,” he said in a flat tone. “That’s worth more than all the groupies in the world.”

  Shock silenced Trevor for a moment. He stared at Luke with his mouth opening and closing before he said, “You could have any woman you want.”

  He’d had a lot of women he’d thought he wanted.

  Thirty minutes later, Luke faced Head Coach Junius Farrell across his huge oak-and-chrome desk. “With all due respect, Junius, I think we should keep the play as is. We can change it up for next year after we have time to work on it in training camp. But reconfiguring it in midseason is going to cause a lot of confusion on the field.”

  He’d been through this with the coach before. It was Junius’s first time as a head coach, and he wanted to put his stamp on the Empire, so he kept trying to fix things that weren’t broken. As the veteran quarterback, Luke got the job of running interference to keep the new coach from screwing up the current season. That’s why he was at the Empire Center on a Tuesday when every other player had the day off.

  “But if we run the pick, it would free up Marshall,” Junius said, jabbing his finger against his desk authoritatively.

  “You’re right,” Luke said. “But it’s tricky and we haven’t had time to practice it often enough. If we try to run it this week, we’ll have the guys tripping over each other at the forty. How about using it against the Colts?”

  That game was in three weeks. By then, the offensive line could probably learn the new scheme well enough not to screw it up completely. In addition, it would work better against the Colts than either the Cardinals or the Buccaneers.

  “I’ll consider it.” Junius swiveled to face his computer screen and clicked on his mouse a couple of times. He wasn’t a bad guy. He just didn’t realize he’d taken over an organization that had the talent and momentum to carry him to the Super Bowl if he’d get out of the way.

  As long as Luke’s shoulder held out. He had to stop himself from rubbing at the phantom pain that had appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as fast. No one knew why he’d thrown that interception, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  They discussed some personnel changes and some strategies for Sunday’s game before Junius thanked Luke for coming and let him go.

  Luke walked down the carpeted hallway. It wasn’t empty, because the massive moneymaking machine that was an NFL football team ran at full speed from the beginning of training camp until the team’s last game—and then some. But the office staff members were smaller than the players, so they didn’t take up as much room in the corridor. Luke nodded to a couple of the PR people he passed. He didn’t envy them their jobs. There was always some problem that had to be hushed up. Or spun for the press, if it couldn’t be squelched.

  Luke hoped that Trevor’s little incident wouldn’t end up on their radar. It was pretty tame—a nonevent, in fact—but Luke’s image had been scrubbed clean because it was less distracting that way. However, the press would love to have some dirt sticking to him. He got it: scandal sold papers and drew viewers. He just didn’t want to answer questions about anything other than the game.

  His head was throbbing again. Damn Gavin Miller anyway. He’d tempted Luke with the seductive forgetfulness of single malt. And talked him into that ridiculous wager. He considered calling the writer and telling him the bet was off. It wouldn’t surprise Luke if Trainor had backed out already, since the whole thing had been hatched in a drunken haze of one-upmanship. Who the hell bet on true love?

  He pulled out his phone, found Miller’s number, then put the phone away. Luke had never welshed on a bet in his life. Let the other two call it quits. He could wait them out, because he was going to put it out of his mind until the end of the season and then show them how to run a courtship.

  He headed for the cubicle pen where his assistant, Doug Weiss, worked, along with a battalion of other staff members who handled everything from ordering supplies for the locker room to cutting the players’ paychecks. It was a hive of activity. When Luke leaned into Doug’s cubicle, the tall, skinny young man pulled his telephone headset off and fluffed his mop of frizzy red hair. “Hey, Boss Ice, what do you need?”

  “I need two good tickets to Sunday’s game with a signed football. And I need four VIP box tickets and the works.”

  “The works?” Doug whistled. “Is this for some charity auction I don’t know about?”

  “No, it’s for someone my brother dumped on.”

  Doug grimaced at the mention of Trevor and spun around to his computer, his hands poised over the keyboard. “Let me have the info, boss.”

  Luke gave him the two concierges’ names before adding, “Check on Miranda Tate’s schedule, and have the VIP tickets and the works delivered to her personally.” He
didn’t want Spindle horning in on his apology gifts to Miranda. “You got the list of who else needs tickets for the game, right?”

  “All taken care of,” Doug assured him. “And you saw the addition of the table at the gala next Thursday night on your schedule, right?”

  Luke didn’t curse, but he wanted to. “Remind me whose idea that was?”

  Doug’s freckled cheeks reddened. “Um, Kathy Middleton’s. She’s in PR.”

  “I see.” Kathy Middleton was a hot brunette Doug had a major crush on. Luke lowered his voice. “Have you asked her out yet?”

  Doug shook his head, making his hair flop. “She wouldn’t go out with someone like me.”

  “You just got me to go to her gala. She’ll be positively disposed toward you.”

  “Seriously?” Doug’s eyes were wide. That was one of the reasons Luke liked his assistant; the kid didn’t take advantage of his access to a celebrity.

  “Try it. I’m betting she’ll say yes.”

  His assistant took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Keep me posted,” Luke said.

  Back out in the corridor, he debated whether to watch some video or go home. Instead, he shrugged into his leather jacket without zipping it and jogged across a couple of vast parking lots to the stadium. Swiping his security badge into the players’ entrance, he cut past the locker rooms and headed out into the big shell of the arena.

  A couple of maintenance crews worked on the field, their black fleece jackets contrasting with the emerald green synthetic turf. A gust of wind pushed chilly air through the cotton of Luke’s shirt, but he kept walking until he was right in the middle of the Empire logo on the fifty-yard line.

  He performed his weekly ritual, turning slowly in a full circle to imprint the empty seats and near silence on his brain. On game day he would use this image to overlay the roaring, heaving crowd of spectators so he could block out everything except the players on the field. His college coach had taught him the technique after his first game freshman year, when he’d been distracted by all the commotion on the sidelines and beyond.

  Luke had always had natural field vision, the ability to see how a play was developing and what patterns the players were running. This visualization was one of the ways he’d honed it to a precision tool.

  “Hey, I figured I’d find you here.” Stan Gatto jogged up to him. The older man had been Luke’s trainer since day one at the Empire. “We gotta talk.”

  “About what?” Luke folded his arms across his chest.

  “You know about what. And let’s do it inside. It’s colder than the hair on a polar bear’s butt out here.” He looked at Luke. “I know they call you Iceman, but you don’t have to take it literally.”

  “Seriously, Stan? I’ve played in blizzards.” Still, Luke started walking back toward the tunnel.

  “That’s different. The adrenaline keeps you warm.” As they passed through the big doorway, Stan glanced around and lowered his voice. “So what happened on that last pass on Sunday?”

  “It got intercepted.” Luke kept walking.

  “Yeah, even that moron announcer Chris Hollis could figure that out. What made you throw a pass that got intercepted? You could have connected with Marshall with your eyes closed, but you threw it right at the Patriots’ cornerback.” Stan put his hand on Luke’s nonthrowing shoulder and pulled him to a stop. “Talk to me.”

  “In the training room,” Luke said, nodding toward a door farther down the hall.

  Stan jogged beside him as he strode along the corridor and into the empty room. The trainer closed and locked the door behind them before he turned to Luke. “Well?”

  Luke allowed himself to roll his shoulder. He should have known he couldn’t fool Stan. “I was cocked to throw to Rob when I saw that Marshall was wide open. I tried to make the change when this pain just ripped through my shoulder and arm. It came out of nowhere, and then it was gone again. That’s why I screwed up the throw.”

  “Sit down,” Stan said, pointing to a chair. He came up behind Luke and started probing his shoulder and upper arm. “Does it hurt now?”

  “Only when you jab your fingernails into my skin.”

  “Smart ass.” Stan jabbed especially hard. “Answer my question.”

  “No, it doesn’t hurt now. It hasn’t hurt since after I made the throw.” But it might in the next game.

  The trainer took Luke’s arm and moved it through various positions before he stepped back. “There’s no damage that I can find. But we should get the doc to run an MRI to be sure.”

  “No. This stays between you and me.” Luke met Stan’s eyes with a hard look. “It was just a twinge because I tried to change directions too fast. Give me some exercises to stretch and strengthen my shoulder.”

  “I can give you all the exercises in the world, but neither one of us is getting any younger.” Stan patted Luke on his left shoulder. “You gotta watch the sudden moves.”

  That wasn’t what Luke wanted to hear.

  That evening, Miranda walked back into her office for her next shift. After her encounter with Luke Archer, she’d gone home to her apartment in Jersey City, fallen into bed, and slept for eight hours. Her dreams had been shockingly vivid encounters between herself and the quarterback, minus the T-shirt and jeans he’d worn that morning. She’d awakened feeling restless and unsettled.

  The one task she’d accomplished that made her feel good was sending in another payment on the loan for her brother Dennis’s cheese-making equipment.

  The Tate family dairy farm had been struggling until Dennis read an article about turning the milk he produced into artisanal cheese. Miranda had been a little skeptical, but her brother had rented a trailer equipped to make cheese and started experimenting. Much to their delight, New York City chefs and gourmet shops loved the concept, and the flavor of Dennis’s handcrafted cheeses. She’d even been the one to introduce Dennis’s products to some of the chefs at the multistar restaurants where she sent her clients.

  The farm was already carrying a heavy load of debt, so Miranda had offered to finance the purchase of the equipment. It assuaged some of her guilt about leaving her parents and Dennis behind when she’d headed for New York City as soon as she graduated from community college.

  None of her family had understood her dream of living in the Big Apple. Her father pushed her to join the 4-H club. Her mother wanted her to date the local boys so she could find a nice, solid husband. They shook their heads in bafflement when she saved up her babysitting money to subscribe to New York magazine so she could pore over the reviews of Broadway shows and restaurants. They said such things were only for idle rich people. Even Dennis felt that way, although he was more diplomatic about it.

  Nowadays the guilt lay heavier on her because her brother carried all the responsibilities of the farm since her parents had moved to Florida. He had shouldered them willingly—being a dairy farmer was what he wanted to do with his life. But because it wasn’t what she wanted for herself, she felt as though she’d abandoned him in some way.

  Hanging her coat on the coatrack, she sat at her desk and started clicking through the e-mail requests that had come in since she’d left that morning.

  “Miranda Tate?” A man in a royal blue tracksuit with some sort of logo on the sleeve stuck his head in the door.

  “Yes, I’m Miranda. Do you need me to sign for a package?” Usually the doorman took care of that, especially this late, but maybe it was something unusually valuable.

  “You don’t have to sign for it, but I have a delivery for you.” The man ducked back out before returning with a hand truck stacked with three cardboard boxes.

  Miranda came around her desk as the deliveryman picked up a manila envelope off the top box. “The message is that you should open this right away. Compliments of Mr. Archer.”

  She took the envelope and glanced at the label. Sure enough, her name was typed on it underneath the whooshing blue-and-gold E of the New York Empire. “I don’t unde
rstand. I was supposed to get a football.”

  “Oh, there’s a football in one of these boxes, I guarantee you,” the man said. “There’s also authentic Empire jerseys, posters, towels, polo shirts, T-shirts, baseball caps . . .”

  “Okay,” Miranda said to stop the flow. “But it can’t all be for me.”

  “Yup.” The man nodded emphatically. “Doug—that’s Mr. Archer’s assistant—said you get the works. Where do you want me to put ’em?”

  “In that corner, I guess.” She pointed to the only space where the pile of boxes would fit. She hoped no one stopped by her office tonight, since the look wasn’t in keeping with the luxurious decor.

  The man waved away the tip she tried to give him, saying, “Mr. Archer takes care of me.”

  Once he was gone, Miranda opened the envelope, spilling the contents onto her desk. Four tickets fell out, along with a note scrawled on a sheet of Empire stationery.

  Dear Ms. Tate,

  A football wasn’t enough to make up for my brother’s unfortunate request. Enjoy the game, or at least the food in the VIP box.

  Luke Archer

  A flush of heat coursed through her. Embarrassment or arousal? She wasn’t sure, but she had to stop it now. He was a client.

  She looked at the tickets, which were embellished with shiny gold borders. She sat down and read the note again. On top of being gorgeous, famous, rich, and talented, the quarterback had a sense of humor, a rare attribute among most of the celebrities she had dealt with. Somehow, by going so over the top with his gifts, he had turned this into a charming inside joke.

  It looked like she would be rooting for the Empire from now on.

  That reminded her of her nephew, Theo, who was the ultimate Empire fanatic. She glanced at the shiny tickets she still held in her hand. Theo would love to go to the game. Maybe she could convince Dennis to take a day off and bring his family to see the Empire play. It was less than two hours’ drive from the farm, but Dennis didn’t like to leave his cows with the hired hand.