The Final Quarter

by Anne Lange

  Then, maybe, just maybe, he could consider giving her what she wanted.

  Chapter Two

  Serena Ryland put the last dish in the cupboard, wiped the counter down and started the dishwasher. For the past three out-of-town games, she’d worked late and eaten light, preferring that to being at home alone while Mitch was on the road. But this week, even though the game was in town, he’d stayed away. He’d spent his days at the gym or on the training field, and the nights with some of the other guys going over game footage. Each night she’d fallen asleep on the couch, only to wake up to discover her husband home and already in bed. He hadn’t even bothered to wake her.

  In all honesty, that in itself wasn’t so strange during football season. It was the emotional distance she felt from him that bothered her. So, instead of focusing on him, she’d kept busy. Every surface in the house shined, the ceramic and porcelain sparkled, and not a dust bunny could be found. Hell, she’d even spent two hours ironing clothes from her closet—something she never did. At least she’d managed to stop herself from searching through Mitch’s side of the walk-in for wrinkles begging to be smoothed.

  After yesterday’s cleaning frenzy, she’d spent today cooking. By the time she’d hung up her apron, she’d made four casseroles, three pies, two lasagnas and two dozen brownies. When would they eat all of it? She had no freaking idea. She couldn’t even explain the sudden need to become Suzie Homemaker. But at least she had a clean house and a freezer full of food. When Mitch finally decided to spend a few days at home, she wouldn’t have to cook.

  Which would give them plenty of alone time. Time they needed to reconnect. Time they needed to talk. Since hinting about the possibility of starting a family, she’d sensed her husband pulling away. Nothing overt—they had conversations—but they didn’t talk about anything. While on the road, he’d called her almost every night. But he’d been quiet during their telephone calls, letting her do all the talking, and evading questions about how he was doing.

  She’d watched every game. The team wasn’t having the greatest season, but they weren’t at the bottom of their division either. And he appeared to be on his game, though he did take a hard hit during tonight’s game.

  It wasn’t uncommon, certainly not the first time, nor would it be the last. The other players did their best to protect their quarterback. Unfortunately, this time, the other team had managed to block the Mayhems’ wide receivers and Mitch hadn’t been able to make a pass, forcing him to try to run the ball. An enormous player on the other team—Lord, the man had been a mountain on legs—had tackled Mitch. He’d flattened her husband out on the ground and left him lying there like a discarded piece of trash while the player accepted high-fives for the accomplishment.

  She remembered holding her breath until Mitch rolled to his hands and knees and finally stood. Each minute dragged by while she waited on the edge of her seat, digging her just-painted nails into the heavy cotton of the sofa.

  But he’d shaken off all offers of assistance, making it to his feet under his own steam before walking, albeit slowly, off the field, cradling his arm. He hadn’t returned until later in the final quarter.

  Relief had flowed over her at seeing her husband take up his position again. But he’d seemed to have trouble passing and his speed had appeared compromised. He’d managed to make a pass that his receiver caught and held tucked in close to his body until he reached the end zone for a touchdown in the final seconds of the game. But it wasn’t enough for them to win.

  The phone rang, and she hurried into the living room, snatching up her cell she’d left sitting next to a half-empty glass of wine in front of the television. After grabbing the remote, she muted the sound and dropped on the sofa. She leaned forward to pick up her glass, but remembered how the fruity odor had turned her stomach earlier, so she reclined into the comfortable furniture instead.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Serena. How are you?”

  She sighed. “Oh, hi, Mason.”

  “Sheesh. Not the warm welcome I typically get.”

  “I was hoping you were Mitch.”

  “He’s not home yet?”

  “No. I thought he might be calling to let me know he was on his way.” The game had ended a few hours ago, so she expected him home soon. Preferably before I fall asleep this time.

  “I need to get in touch with him. When he finally makes an appearance, have him give me a shout, would you?”

  “Sure. Is everything okay?”

  “I wanted to share some news with him.”

  “Is this professional news or personal news?” Mason was also Mitch’s agent, so it was good to know which hat he was wearing when she spoke to him.

  “Family stuff.”

  She shifted forward on the sofa and clutched her stomach. “Oh, my God. Nothing’s happened to Elaine or Grant, I hope?” Mitch would be devastated if anything happened to his foster parents. He’d always refused to speak about his childhood before the Walkers had taken him in. To him, they were his family, and his biological parents remained an off-limit topic.

  “They’re fine. Jack got married.”

  She blinked. I guess pigs do fly. She’d never seen him with the same woman twice in the years she’d known him. “What? Jack? To who? When?” Mitch’s brother, or rather foster brother, Jack Bishop, had retired from his baseball career after he’d injured his pitching arm last season. He’d been pretty scarce since then, and the family had been worried about him.

  “To a woman from his past. And last week.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  Mason cleared his throat and coughed a bit.

  “You okay, Mason?”

  “Yeah. Um… I sent him to Las Vegas for the weekend.”

  “And she just happened to be there and they just happened to hook up?” Talk about coincidence.

  “They both had a little help.”

  “What did you do?” Sometimes her brother-in-law had a bad habit of poking his nose where it didn’t belong. Elaine joked it was his inner female and that someday it would come back to bite him on the ass.

  “Jack can dish up the details if he chooses. Let’s just say it all worked out in the end.”

  She sensed a whole lot more to the story. “I didn’t know matchmaker was on your job description, Mason,” she teased.

  He sputtered.

  She decided to let him off the hook. “I’ll give Mitch the message.”

  “Thanks, hon. Hey, you doing okay? You sound tired.”

  She was tired. Serena sighed. “Yeah. Just a little. And I miss my husband.”

  “Why don’t go with him on the next away game? He’s in Dallas next week.”

  Yeah, why don’t I? Normally Mitch traveled home as much as possible, even when the team was on the road for extended periods. Or she’d go to him if her schedule allowed it and the distance wasn’t too far. Since they didn’t have any kids, only her job occasionally held her back.

  But these last few weeks had felt different. This time he hadn’t even asked her to accompany him. And he claimed to be too busy to come home.

  “It’s been really hectic at work. But I’ll think about it.” And she wondered if her husband would even want to see her. He sure didn’t seem too keen on speaking with her lately.

  “Look, I gotta go. Let Mitch know I called, and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to give me a shout.”

  “I will. Goodnight, Mason.”

  She hung up, reached for her glass of wine, and, without thinking, took a large gulp. A shiver of disgust rolled through her. Yuck. It must have gone bad. She went to the kitchen to empty the glass down the sink and wash her mouth out with cold water. Then she settled in to wait for her husband.

  She let her gaze travel around the living room. They’d bought this home not long after they’d married. After spending a significant portion of his life in foster homes—including Elaine and Grant’s—Mitch craved the stability of a place to call his own. A home to enjoy during
his breaks and to one day—she hoped—raise a family in. Though he never spoke about having his own children. Each time she’d tried to broach the subject over the years, Mitch had sidestepped the discussion as easily as he dodged players on the field.

  And until a few weeks ago, she’d let him. But her biological clock was ticking. It was time to consider taking that step. Raised as an only child who’d craved a mother’s compassion and the bond of siblings, she longed to have her own children.

  During regular season, she was lonely at home on her own. Owning a moderately successful gallery where she focused primarily on work produced by local artists, her opportunities to travel were limited. She enjoyed the times she traveled to watch Mitch’s games, but, at heart, she was a homebody. She’d always envisioned being a mother.

  Her own mother had preferred a professional career to motherhood. It was her father that Serena had gone to whenever she’d needed comforting. A corporate lawyer, her mother came alive when she argued a case or debated policies, but she’d withdrawn when her daughter had asked for help with her hair or advice about a boy. Whereas her father, a popular high-school teacher, understood his daughter, and far better. He was the one who had encouraged her choice of the arts instead of following in her mother’s, or even his, footsteps.

  A friend of hers had been urging her to branch out, or at least feature some of her own work in the gallery. She had to admit, the idea intrigued her. The possibilities were endless, but also daunting. She tended to be a creature of habit, and introducing change in her life, though exciting, also came with a lot of work and significant risk. And it was risk she had a problem embracing. Putting herself out there was scary.

  When her cell chimed, she grabbed it from where it was on the cushion beside her and hit connect. “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  Relief coursed through her upon hearing her husband’s voice. “Mitch. Are you on your way home?”

  Silence.

  “Mitch?” Worry burrowed in her gut.

  “Sorry, lots on my mind. Listen, I’m just leaving now. I’ll be home in about thirty minutes.”

  “Are you okay? I saw the game.”

  “That’s why I’m running late.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll wait up.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “It’s not long and I want to.”

  “I’ll see you soon.” He disconnected.

  Serena hit end and set her phone down, her concern mounting, and stifled a yawn. Something was definitely not okay. Had he been hurt more than she’d thought?

  Serena puttered around the house for a few minutes, anxious to hear the keys in the front door. With each set of headlights that passed on the street, she darted to the bay window to see if it was Mitch. Overcome with exhaustion, she finally laid down on the sofa, turning the television low so she’d hear him come in.

  * * * *

  “Hey, Serena. Wake up. It’s time to go to bed.”

  Serena blinked, bringing into focus her husband’s tired eyes. She rubbed hers and sat up.

  “Hi. I guess I fell asleep.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t get away as fast as I thought. It’s late. Let’s head up to bed.” Mitch started to turn away, but she grabbed his left arm to stop him. These days he sported a light scruffy beard and it looked sexy as hell. He kept his dark hair short and cut close around his ears, but the top had length, and it curled and waved just so, like it did now, especially if he’d showered and not bothered to blow-dry it.

  She pictured herself burying her fingers in his hair while he had his head between her legs. Unfortunately, it had been a while. “I’d prefer to talk.”

  Mitch hesitated, frowned, then nodded.

  “What happened tonight? Were you hurt in that hit I saw you take?”

  He dropped next to her on the sofa. He nodded, but wouldn’t look at her.

  “How bad?

  “I’ll be resting my arm for the next few days.” He shoved his hand through his messy hair. “Look, I know I haven’t been around much, but I really need to focus. I’m not going to be able to get home much for a while. Even in between games.”

  She slouched on the sofa, disappointment wrapping around her. “Oh.”

  “Our next home game is three weeks away and I need to spend my time practicing.”

  “I thought you guys were doing fine?”

  He hesitated. “The team is.”

  She sensed a ‘but’. “Mitch?” The hit couldn’t have been as bad as it had appeared on screen. Could it?

  “I’m fine.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Silence ensued, confirming her suspicion that something was not right with her husband.

  ”I’m fine, Serena. I took a blow to my shoulder and the doc and Coach want me to rest it.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’m sitting out the next three games.”

  She sat up, worry over her husband’s injury warring with excitement that her husband could technically be home for more than a few days at a time. Mitch lived for football. He lived and breathed it all year long. Even during off season and training camp, he took very little downtime. Maybe this would give him the rest he needed, and them a chance to spend some quality time together. Maybe start on that family she wanted.

  Her palms itched to touch him. Serena wanted to lay her hands on his stomach and trace his tight abdomen. He’d always loved it when she touched him, almost like he craved affection, but she held back. “If you’re not playing, then why can’t you spend time at home?”

  “I won’t be playing, but Coach wants me assisting from the bench during the game. And I need to be training. I can’t practice with them, but I need to be with them.”

  That was bullshit. He could work from the gym here. She knew that. There was something more going on.

  “I don’t want to get into the specifics right now, but I need to exercise regularly with the trainer to improve my arm before the doc will clear me to play again. I need to concentrate on this, Serena, so I can be in shape to play in the playoffs.”

  Her husband wanted to stay away from home so that he’d be ready to play in a series of games that was still weeks away?

  “You understand, don’t you, honey?”

  I understand that you don’t want to come home when you’re hurting and you need me.

  “Sure, Mitch.”

  “Listen. I’m really tired. I’m heading up to bed.”

  She held back tears that suddenly wanted to fall.

  He stood, leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “See you upstairs.”

  By the time she climbed into bed, her husband was already snoring, his back to her. The same position he’d played for the last month.

  Chapter Three

  “Well, if it isn’t one of my most prized athletes.”

  Mitch snorted at Mason’s greeting—hearing his brother’s voice helped to pacify some of the anger currently raging through his system. “You consider all of your clients your prized athletes,” he said into his cell phone the next morning as he stepped outside the gym for some fresh air. He’d snuck out of the house before Serena woke and headed to the training facility, hoping to work with some weights. But, unlucky for him, Noah had been there and had kicked his ass out after scolding him for not wearing the sling.

  Guilt consumed him for not coming clean with Serena last night. This whole thing was his fault and he didn’t know how to fix it. Not only that, but because of his fuck-ups, he’d now potentially dealt his career the final blow. He knew damn well he could have stayed home and worked with a local trainer. The coach’s request to assist was only for Mitch’s benefit. He hated not being totally upfront with his wife. But he didn’t know how to begin explaining.

  And he couldn’t put off returning Mason’s calls. He needed his professional advice.

  “Yes, but you’re my favorite.”

  “And do you tell the others that? I’m guessing if I were to call Jack or Ethan, they’d be shoc
ked to hear that they aren’t your favorites.”

  Mason’s deep chuckle resonated through the phone.

  “Well, Jack’s no longer an issue, but I will have to make sure Ethan knows so he’ll keep making me money. Besides, if Mom knew I really was picking favorites she’d hold out on dessert at the next family gathering. But I’m pretty sure Jack’s mind is elsewhere these days.”

  Mitch paused midstep. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with Jack?” Last time he’d talked with his brother, they’d ended up fighting when Mitch suggested he needed to back off the bottle.

  “Jack’s great. He’s married.”

  That brought him up short. “He’s what?” Mitch leaned against his SUV. It was unseasonably warm today, and the heat of the sun felt good on his face and body. “Jack’s married? When the fuck did that happen?” And why didn’t anybody tell me? Perhaps if I’d been in a talkative mood, I might have known.

  “It just happened. It was a weekend-in-Vegas thing.”

  “Oh, God. He didn’t marry a stripper, did he?” The bastard probably choked down a cheap bottle of whiskey, hooked up with an even cheaper call girl and ended up at some chapel on the Strip.

  On the other end of the phone, Mason laughed. “No. It’s Devyn Tate.”

  Devyn Tate. That name rang a bell. “The girl he dated in high school?” His foster brother had been scouted by the major leagues and had been given a couple of offers to consider. The girl he’d been dating at the time hadn’t been too happy when he’d chosen a career on the road rather than stick around home for him. But she didn’t understand the need Jack had running through his veins. The same need Mitch, Mason and their brother Ethan felt. They’d been brought together as hard case foster kids. Boys nobody else wanted, including their own families. They’d found a home with Elaine and Grant Walker. And when the Walkers took in Jill and Bethany years later, they’d become a family. But each one of them still harbored a deep-seated desire to create a name for themselves. A name people would remember. A name that wouldn’t be lost in some system.