Fourth and Goal

by Jami Davenport

  "You're out of breath. Is this a bad time?"

  Who was he kidding? “No, I was outside and had to run to catch the phone."

  "Really? Expecting an invitation to a hot date?” He laughed as if it was funny.

  She swallowed her response. He didn't need to know about her nonexistent social life. Besides, the less he knew, the better.

  He cleared his throat. “How are things?"

  "Fine. Simon is as demanding as his namesake, and your horse, Mac, he's a typical stock horse. Big, unflappable, and a pig."

  "He does seem to eat more than his weight in hay."

  "I'm glad I'm not the one paying for it. How are things going there?"

  "I'm pretty wiped. They work our butts off, and the heat... Damn, it sucks.” The weariness in his voice carried across the miles. She tamped down her feelings of sympathy. Distance. She needed to juggle emotional distance with earning his trust. What a twist of irony—earn his trust so she could betray it.

  "Wuss.” She smiled into the phone like some love-struck teenager talking to her high school crush, which at one time was an accurate description. Not anymore. Not over his dead body.

  "That's me.” Derek chuckled, a warm, inviting sound that made her heart beat a little faster.

  "How do you like the new coaches?"

  "Tough, really tough, but that's how you make champions. And Ty, he's having a rough time. He called the shots with the old coaching staff. These guys won't tolerate his antics, and even he can't blow them off. They have what he wants more than anything—what any football player worth his cleats wants."

  "What?” As if she didn't know.

  "Ah come on. You're a coach's daughter."

  "Not a coach anymore."

  "He'll always be a coach to me. One that has more state championships under his belt than any other high school coach in the state."

  Rachel tensed, glad he couldn't see her. “Just tell me."

  There was silence on the other end. “A Super Bowl ring.” He said it with reverence, as if it was the Holy Grail. For football players, it was.

  "So you think you're going to go from three and thirteen to a Super Bowl in one year?"

  "Stranger things have happened."

  "I doubt any that strange."

  "Never say never.” A ruckus erupted in the background, doors slamming, loud male voices. “Hey, the guys are here with pizza. I should go.” He hesitated, as if reluctant to hang up.

  "Well, then good night.” Her heart sank, not wanting to end the call.

  "Uh, yeah, good night.” He paused. “Rae?"

  "Yes?” She held her breath.

  "Call if you need anything."

  "Okay.” If she needed an even bigger hole in her head, she'd be sure to give him a call.

  Hubert Jackson, known to his friends as HughJack, consulted his clipboard for the third time. “Is this a mistake?"

  Frank Carter, his longtime friend and offensive coordinator, shook his head. “The kid ran world-class times until he blew out his knee."

  "I realize that, but it was before his surgery."

  Frank double-checked his own clipboard as if he expected the numbers to change. “Well, believe it."

  "I remember watching him play in the Rose Bowl several years ago. Every pro coach from here to the East Coast salivated at the sight of him. He had the total package.” Yeah, the kid had had it all: blazing speed, great hands, guts, and incredible instincts, not to mention brains and a work ethic.

  "'Had’ is the operative word."

  "Unfortunately it is. The word on the street is he's lost his nerve.” HughJack frowned and scratched his head. What a shame. The kid possessed all the physical attributes of an All-Pro.

  "A wide receiver with a fear of being hit is worthless."

  "Pretty much, especially when there are a dozen more waiting to take his place.” HughJack rubbed his chin and watched Ramsey as he ran his patterns with perfection. The kid did his homework.

  "Do you think he's salvageable?"

  "Test him. Put him up against our best DBs. Then in the preseason games, make sure he's matched with the meanest, fastest, biggest bad asses the game has to offer."

  "You want me to play him with the first string?” Frank seemed incredulous.

  "The kid has first-string ability. Does he have first-string heart? Let's figure it out before we waste more time on him."

  "He's Harris's cousin. Did you realize that?"

  "Seems I heard that somewhere. Now there's a loose cannon if there ever was one. That guy is a first-class jerk. Cocky bastard."

  "Cocky isn't such a bad thing."

  "Cocky confidence is a good thing. Cocky to the point of stupidity isn't. I don't like that kid."

  "We don't have to like him to win with him."

  "No, but it makes our jobs a hell of a lot easier. We do have to be able to work with him. On that point, the jury's still out."

  "And Ramsey?"

  "All the physical talent in the world may not fix his problems."

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  Chapter Four

  Safe Is Good if You're Talking Baseball

  "Ty? You asleep?” Derek directed his question to the large dark lump in the small bed a few feet across the room.

  "Mmmmm.” The lump moved and grumbled.

  "Ty.” Derek aimed a pillow and pegged his cousin on the head.

  Tyler shot up in bed and shook the hell out of the alarm clock. Then he jerked his head in Derek's direction. “What the fuck do you want? It's three fucking thirty in the morning."

  "I can't sleep.” Derek smiled in the darkness.

  "Tough shit. I fucking can.” Tyler collapsed on the bed with a dramatic groan.

  "I need to talk."

  "I don't. Go to fucking hell.” Tyler pulled the blanket over his head and turned his back.

  "Ty?"

  "Goddammit. Would you shut the fuck up!” Tyler sat up in bed and glared at him. Even in the darkness, heat radiated from his pissed-off expression.

  "Remember when we were kids and we dreamed about this?"

  "I never dreamed about this."

  "Not this, specifically, but playing for the Jacks."

  "Why don't we go back to sleep, and we can dream about it some more."

  "Look, I'm serious here."

  Dead silence. Derek waited—he knew Tyler better than anyone.

  "Crap.” Tyler took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah, I remember. We dreamed about winning the Rose Bowl for the Cougs, and we did it. Harris to Ramsey, remember that? We heard it over and over again from high school through college."

  "Junior high."

  "Yeah, whatever. We're gonna hear the broadcasters say that again.” Tyler's voice softened. He lay back on the bed and turned toward Derek, bumping his elbow in the process. “Shit. Dammit. Fucking little beds. How the hell do they expect us to sleep on fucking baby beds?"

  Derek ignored his tirade. Tyler had a short fuse, short memory, and short attention span. “It's not quite like we imagined, is it?"

  "Hell no. I thought I'd get at least eight hours of fucking sleep a night until they assigned you as my fucking roommate."

  "We thought we'd waltz out of college straight onto the pro field and win a championship for Seattle in our rookie year."

  "So our schedule's off."

  "Yeah. I guess."

  "What the hell has you feeling so despondent?"

  "I'm impressed. That's a big word for you."

  "I read the dictionary in my spare time, asshole."

  Derek sat up and placed his feet on the floor. He put his hands on his knees and propped his head in his hands. “What if I don't make it?"

  "Quit dropping my fucking passes, and you'll make it."

  "Is that the only adjective in your vocabulary?"

  "Fuck yeah, but it's versatile. I also use it as a verb, adverb, and a noun."

  "I'm surprised you know what those are."

  "Are you questioning t
he validity of my 1.5 GPA?"

  Derek snorted, then sobered. “HughJack doesn't seem impressed. I don't think he likes me."

  "Football's not a popularity contest. He doesn't like anyone."

  "Good thing for you, or he wouldn't hire you as a stadium beer vendor. Really, though, I can tell he's not thrilled with me."

  "Bullshit. I've seen him watching you."

  "Yeah, in disgust."

  "Look, buddy, we've been in this together since diapers. I'm not going through HughJack hell alone."

  Tyler might be an ass, but Derek loved him like the brother he'd never had. He'd give his life for Tyler and Tyler for him. They'd been raised together from birth. Derek's mother had considered her children a burden and hated ranch life. She'd escaped to the city as often as possible and dumped her kids on her sister-in-law.

  Derek still remembered the day she'd left to try her luck in Hollywood. It happened to be his eighth birthday. Some producer filming a movie on the ranch next door lured her away, not that it took much. She said she'd be back, but the days turned to weeks, then to months. Her phone calls became less frequent until they stopped altogether.

  Their entire family had survived in a numb state of limbo. Every night Derek rode his horse until it was too dark to see, or he played basketball in the driveway, shooting basket after basket until his legs wobbled and his arms shook when he took a shot. His ten-year-old sister holed up in her room and escaped into her books. His father sat in a chair in the living room and looked out the bay window for hours on end. He'd sip a whiskey and stare into the darkness, searching for headlights coming up their long driveway. He left the porch lights on because “Mary always hated how dark it was in the country."

  Months later, on the arm of a popular actor, Mary Ramsey, now Mona Lea, smiled for the cameras at the Academy Awards. The next day she served his father with divorce papers. Dad turned off the porch lights that night and moved the chair away from the window.

  Tyler's mom took care of Derek and his older sister while his dad worked the ranch. His dad remarried three years later to a wonderful woman Derek considered his mother.

  His mother. How had his thoughts twisted around to that taboo subject? When he'd been a teenager, he'd called her, asked to visit, and been told to go to hell. No one except Tyler knew about that devastating phone call, not even his dad.

  "Hey, did you fucking hear anything I said? Shit, you wake me up and then you don't even fucking listen."

  "Sorry. I took a walk down memory lane."

  "Rachel?"

  Derek laughed, a sound that was short and pained even to his ears. “I wish it could be that simple."

  "Hell, it is. You make things too complicated. Just get her in bed and screw like rabbits. You'll feel much better for it. Then maybe both of us can get some sleep."

  "Like that's going to happen. My life for the next six months is football,” Derek vowed, more to himself than his cousin.

  "Seven months counting the play-offs and Super Bowl."

  "The Jacks have never been to the Super Bowl. Hell, they haven't been to the play-offs in twenty years."

  "The longest drought in professional football."

  "That's a record to be proud of.” Derek sighed.

  "Gotta be proud of something. We're going to change all that. Deal?” Tyler reached his hand out in the darkness, and they shook on it.

  "Yeah, deal. Ty, one other thing."

  "What?” Tyler growled.

  "Could you find another word other than the F word?"

  "Fu—What's the matter, am I disturbing your virgin ears?"

  "I just think it loses its effect if you use it every other word. Save it for when you need a little emphasis."

  Tyler chewed on that for a second. “Fine. I'll think up something else. Good frigging night.” He rolled over and was snoring within seconds.

  Derek lay on his back and stared at the ceiling for a long time. His lifelong dream hovered within his grasp, yet he hung on by a thread. Any second that thread could break, leaving only regrets and wasted chances. His life had to be all about football; nothing would get in his way. No distractions allowed—not even Rachel.

  Definitely not Rachel.

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  Chapter Five

  Down and Almost Out

  Rachel settled into her seat next to Mitch, several rows up on the 45-yard line. The tickets were her brother's one splurge every year. She usually reimbursed him for her seat when she had the money, which wasn't this season.

  Grinning with excitement, she breathed in the sights and sounds of the stadium—the blare of the announcer, the images flashing on the large scoreboard, the beer and hot dog vendors wandering the aisles. On the field, Cass and her cheerleading squad paraded around in their skimpy outfits, waving to the fans, gossiping in tight little circles, and practicing routines. Players clustered in groups to review certain aspects of their game.

  HughJack stalked from place to place, barking orders, doling out encouragement, and making notes on his clipboard. Commanding respect, he intimidated with a glare and praised with a nod.

  Derek ran wind sprints from one end of the field to the other with a couple of other backs. Breathing hard, he paused, hands on hips, and stared into the distance. She wondered what he was thinking.

  She loved football season and everything that went with it. Most of all, she loved football. Even though she'd never played the game, butterflies raged in her stomach when the team stepped onto the field for the first game of the season. Adrenaline rushed through her veins at the roar of the crowd on the kickoff. Not that the Jacks had enough of a crowd to cause a roar, but hey, there was always tomorrow. She was a longtime fan, and her heart soared when they won and ached when they lost.

  Someday she'd be a part of building a winning team, making a difference, and bringing a community together. Someday her pride would go beyond the pride of a mere fan.

  Someday.

  The All-Pro linebacker charged like a rhinoceros on steroids and rammed into Derek just as he caught the ball. He went one way; the ball went the other. His body crashed into the ground so hard his teeth should have been drilled right through his skull. At least that's what it felt like inside his helmet.

  Hauling himself to his feet, Derek ignored his complaining muscles and limped to the huddle. The entire Milky Way galaxy swirled in front of his face. Leaning in to hear the call, he rubbed his bruised hip. He'd be lucky to remember his name, let alone the play.

  Across the huddle, Tyler shot daggers at him with laser-sharp blue eyes. “Shit, hang on to the fucking ball, will ya, asshole?"

  Derek ignored him. He'd grown immune to Tyler's insults years ago. Besides, there wasn't much to say. He'd dropped another perfect pass and added one more nail in the coffin of his pro-football career.

  With a disgusted snarl, Tyler turned to the rest of the team and called the play, his back rigid with anger and frustration. His day wasn't going much better than Derek's.

  Derek threw a bone-jarring block on the next play, allowing their running back to move the ball to midfield. On third down, Tyler put up a long bomb. It was overthrown. Derek didn't stand a chance in hell of catching it. Even so, he got a few fingers on the ball before it bounced into the arms of a defender.

  Pissed as hell, Tyler stalked to the sidelines. Derek hobbled behind him. Every bruised muscle in his body protested the slightest movement while his brain swam around in his skull like fish in a fishbowl. Skirting the coaches and their disapproving glares, he slumped onto one of the benches. Swigging down some water, his cousin slammed his ass down beside him, fire in his eyes.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you, Ramsey? I used to throw a ball anywhere in your vicinity, and you'd catch it. Fuck, now you'd drop a fucking beach ball from three feet away."

  "Hell if I know.” Derek couldn't muster the energy to shoot back a smart-ass reply. Defeat weighed on his shoulders, and he'd never worn defeat well.

  "Well, w
hatever the fuck it is that you don't know, you sure as hell had better figure it out and fast.” Tyler's eyes flicked to HughJack as the coach scribbled on his clipboard.

  "I wish I could."

  "Look, buddy.” Tyler leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Coach had enough confidence to put you with the first string. Pull your fucking head out of your ass. I want that guy back who flipped the world off and proved them all wrong. Can we say Rose Bowl? How about Olympics?” Tyler tapped on his cousin's forehead. “Hey, are you still in there or did they operate on your fucking head at the same time they fixed your fucking knee? I never thought I'd see the day that you'd lose your fucking nerve and fucking give up."

  "I haven't lost it.” Derek clenched his jaw. Tyler was right unfortunately. He hated it when Tyler was right. Getting one up made his cousin an insufferable asshole, even more than usual.

  "You gave up on me out there. What the fuck was up with that?” Tyler narrowed his eyes.

  "I didn't give up. It wasn't a catchable ball."

  "Since when is a ball I throw your way uncatchable? You didn't used to think like that."

  He didn't. In the past, if it was still in the air, it was catchable. Once again Tyler was right. “I tried."

  "Yeah right. Fucking bullshit.” His cousin stood and moved a few steps away to watch the defense from the sidelines.

  Derek put his head in his hands. Damn. Damn. Damn. He took deep breaths, grasping for something to hold on to, to use against the despised self-pity bubbling inside him.

  The last preseason game. Final cuts on Monday. He teetered on the edge of making it or breaking it. A dismal pro career with a dismal end—in with a bang, out with a fizzle.

  Well, not if he could damn well help it.

  Irritated at Tyler and angry with himself, he ground his self-pity into the turf and savored the anger. Anger gave him ambition, renewed his drive, and brought out the fight in him. Derek stood up and squared his shoulders. Enough of this crap. Hands on hips, he stretched his hamstrings and prepared to reenter the battle.

  "Let's go! Don't fuck this one up.” Tyler smacked him on the shoulder pads as the offense trotted onto the field. Derek followed him to the huddle, head held high. Determination radiated through his body. Three quick plays later, they were on the 23-yard line, fourth down and six. Tyler wanted to go for it. Coach let him have his way.