Fourth and Goal
Page 6
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Chapter Six
Sudden Death in Overtime
Rachel jammed her finger against the doorbell and held it there. Even then it took several minutes before a disheveled Cass yanked open the door.
"Cass, you've got to help me.” She snapped her fingers in front of her friend's face in an attempt to force her to focus.
Cass held her hand to her mouth and yawned.
"I need a makeover."
"Wonderful. I need another three hours of sleep.” Cass tried to push the door shut on her.
Not to be deterred, Rachel pushed her shoulder against the door. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Cass gazed longingly over her shoulder in the direction of her bedroom. She rubbed her bleary eyes. Without another word, she stumbled to the living room and slumped on a couch. Rachel shut the door and followed.
"I was asleep."
"It's almost noon."
"That's too fucking early.” Cass scowled at the sun shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Tyler's waterfront condo. “Of all days for it to decide not to rain in Seattle. I've got a mother of a hangover.” She squinted into the sun, then smiled. “Oh yeah, I remember last night now. Me. Tyler. Empty football stadium and bottle of good whiskey. That man can—"
"Cass.” Rachel held up a hand, not interested in traversing that sex-laden path. She'd be too jealous. “I brought you something."
Cass perked up. She could be bought. Easily. “I hope it's diamonds or white gold. I'm partial to white gold."
"Actually it's mocha.” Rachel held the large cup of java out to her friend.
Cass latched on to it and sucked it down. “As good as an orgasm. Well, almost. Tyler is a naughty, naughty boy with a deviant streak."
"I so do not want to hear this.” Rachel plopped onto the overstuffed, beige leather chair. Her own sex-starved brain flashed to a high-def image of a shirtless Derek, his sweat-dampened body glistening in the afternoon sun.
"Let me paint a picture for you."
"I'd rather be left in suspense.” Rachel groaned.
"Not a freaking chance in Hades. You wake me up, you pay. Last night and into the early hours, I roughed the passer and was penalized, and can that man penalize! The Ty-man ran several touchdown plays of his own. I'll never look at the three-hundred level of Jacks Stadium in the same way."
"You did it in the stadium?"
"In several different positions."
"I've heard enough.” Rachel held her hands over her ears.
"You ever imagined doing it in a stadium?"
"No, I haven't. I barely imagine it on a bed."
"Honey, you need to expand your horizons."
"Let's expand one thing at a time."
"We could start with your ancient views on sex. Sex doesn't need to be forever. It needs to be right now, hot, sweaty, nasty, and daring. Live in the moment. If it's good enough, the guys keep coming back for more. End of story. Love is a myth. Screwing is the reality."
"Put a hold on reality for now. Let's start with my clothes. Remember? Makeover."
"Oh yeah, you want a makeover. What are we making over exactly?"
"My image. I need to expound on the power suit."
Cass narrowed her eyes and studied her. Rachel looked out the window, suddenly enthralled by the view.
"What does a power suit have to do with your image?"
"When I dress in power suits, it's like I crawl into this other woman's skin. I have more confidence, more nerve. I treat Derek more professionally, keep him at arm's length. I know it's a stretch, but it's all I've got. Plus I want to be seen as professional. I need to be taken seriously if I'm going to get another job in a man's world."
"The man's world stuff I understand. The keeping Derek at arm's length part is fucked."
"Not for me. Besides, this is a career choice more than anything. Every interview I've gone on in the past couple of months has been lukewarm. I think this could be the key."
Cass sighed. “So much work to do, so little time. Stand up. Over there.” Cass pointed to the middle of the room. Rachel stood and walked to a spot in front of the windows. Cass looked her up and down, circling her and tapping a finger on her chin.
"If I do this, you have to trust me completely. Do what I say, dress the part even in the privacy of your own home."
"I'm not dressing up in my home."
"Yes, you are. It needs to become a part of you, as comfortable as jeans and a T-shirt. Pretend the part and eventually you won't be pretending anymore. You never know when fate will come knocking on your door. Or a hot man with a hard-on."
That high-def image snuck into Rachel's mind again, and she squirmed. Keeping Derek at arm's length involved more than power suits and makeovers, but it'd be a start.
"It's all part of my therapy when I'm doing hair. My clients eat it up,” Cass said.
"I can't wear power suits in the barn."
"You can wear a nice pair of breeches and a polo shirt. We'll work it. We're not talking always wearing power suits. We're going for casual business wear.” Cass held Rachel's hair back from her face.
"Okay.” She chewed on her lower lip.
"Your raw material is incredible. You've got those exotic green eyes with insanely long lashes going on. Your lips are just the kind men dream of having around their cocks."
Rachel choked while her unruly imagination swerved off the road and indulged in a little fantasy of her kneeling before a naked Derek, her hands on his cock. She lowered her mouth to the tip, paused, and glanced up to see the lust burning in his dark eyes. She licked the tip, his groan rewarding her efforts.
"Rachel!"
Rachel jumped with a guilty start and cringed at Cass's knowing smile.
Cass shook her head. “Your hair is beautiful, fantasy material. Your breasts are the perfect size for most men. Tyler likes them bigger, but we're not after Tyler here."
"I'm not after a man. Just the opposite."
"You've got the best set of legs—long, shapely, great thighs."
"Cass, I said professional businesswoman, not professional hooker."
"One and the same, honey—prostitute your mind, your body, your wares, whatever they may be. Guys think with their cocks first. When you're a woman in a man's world, you can't fight like a man. Let them hire you initially for your sex appeal, after which you wow them with your football knowledge and instincts."
"I'm not sure I came to the right place."
"Oh, you did. You did. Trust me. This is my area.” Cass smiled her most predatory smile. “I'll make over your appearance and your uptight attitude toward sex. With your body fitted into business suits and hair pulled back in a bun, you'll be gorgeous, an untouchable, pure woman. Nothing will drive men wilder. You'll have ten job offers in no time."
"Yeah, but what kind of job offers?"
"Trust me."
"Coach, you wanted to see me?” Derek hesitated in the doorway. His eyes swept the coach's office. Besides HughJack, the offensive coordinator and wide receiver coach sat around a small conference table. Their grim expressions didn't bode well. Derek met each man's gaze with false confidence, determined not to show the slightest weakness. They didn't look ready to congratulate him on a great catch or welcome him to the team.
"Thanks for joining us.” HughJack leafed through some paperwork in front of him.
Derek cleared his throat but couldn't dislodge that lump of fear, and he'd be damned if he'd let them hear his voice crack.
"Have a seat.” HughJack gestured to an empty chair. Derek nodded and eased his bruised body onto the hard seat. Coach consulted the papers on the table, then looked up. “Derek, your attitude this year is impressive. You're trying, maybe too hard."
Derek swallowed and nodded. He clenched his hands under the table and waited.
Frank, the offensive coordinator, added his two cents. “You have more raw talent than the rest of our receiving corps combined.” His gaze held Derek's, steady and
unreadable, giving him hope.
Talent counted for something. Right? Derek relaxed, a little. This would go well. He'd made the team. He knew he had. Still, something didn't feel right. He glanced at the receivers’ coach. Razor Barnes, a future Hall of Famer and one of the best receivers ever to play the game, squirmed in his seat and stared at his own pile of papers. He said nothing.
Derek chewed on the inside of his cheek. Had he heard a “but” in Hughjack and Carter's words of praise? Forcing his expression into a mask of indifference, he clenched his jaw until he thought his teeth might shatter from the pressure. Under the table, he wrung his sweaty hands and prayed for this torture to be swift and painless.
"This was a tough choice for us. We made the final decision only fifteen minutes ago.” HughJack took a deep breath, then looked him in the eye. Derek swallowed. He caught the flicker of pity in HughJack's eyes and braced himself. “We have to cut you."
Derek stared at the three of them. Shock rippled through him, along with waves of pain, physical, deep, sharp, and strangling. He forgot to breathe, then gulped in air before he passed out. “I know I can help this team.” His voice sounded foreign to his ears, like someone else's.
HughJack frowned, impatience furrowed his brow. “Derek, don't make this any tougher than it is. Another team will take a chance on you. There've already been inquiries."
Another team? He didn't want another team. Being here with Tyler had been his best shot. His dream come true.
"Wide receivers with your talent are a hot commodity."
Obviously not hot enough. The three men stood. Derek stayed in his chair, unable to move. He stared up at them one by one. They didn't waver. Not one of them blinked. It was over.
He took his cue to get the hell out of there with the tatters of his dignity intact. Standing, he initiated iron control on his wobbly knees and queasy stomach. Forcing a smile, he shook hands with each one of them. “It's truly been a pleasure working with you. All of you. Thanks for giving me a shot."
Never let ‘em see you bleed. Stiff-backed and proud, he walked from the room.
He knew the drill. He'd been cut a few times in his short pro career. He should go to the locker room and get his stuff. No way. Not now. The team would still be hanging around. He couldn't stomach their pitying stares and sympathetic comments or Tyler's inevitable tirade. Tomorrow was everyone's day off. He'd drop by and get his stuff then.
Today he needed to go home and lick his wounds.
Rage at the injustice of it all.
Berate himself for the passes he did drop.
Cry in his beer.
And bury his dream.
Derek paced his deck and leaned his elbows on the railing. He cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes, but nothing shut out the emotional pain and humiliation of failure. How had his life come to this defining moment? The script he'd written hadn't read like this. Someone had rewritten it and not given him any editorial input.
A thin slice of anger cut through his self-inflicted pity. He snatched it from the depths of his despair, pulled it to the surface, and embraced it. Anger brought about action. Pity brought about wallowing. He'd never wallowed before. He wouldn't wallow now.
Damn it. Fuck. Bastards. He'd show them all. They could go to hell. It wasn't over till he said it was over. He'd dig his way out of this pit and claw his way back to the top. He'd caught an uncatchable pass on Sunday. He still had it in him. He knew he did. He'd found that elusive zone. He'd find it again.
Tomorrow. Tonight he didn't have the strength or the ambition.
The anger fizzled out of him, and he slumped into a deck chair, succumbing to mental and physical exhaustion. His phone rang off the hook until he unplugged it and turned off his cell. Six of those calls and numerous voice mails came from his agent. Maybe another team wanted him, but he didn't want another team. Not yet. He needed time, just a few days to formulate a plan. He needed a sympathetic friend. He needed Rachel.
Simon sat next to him and thumped his tail. He spit his ball out on Derek's shoes. Derek patted his head and tossed the slimy toy into the nearby woods. Simon scrambled off the deck and scattered two chairs and a table in his wake.
Derek ignored the destruction and squinted into the darkness, looking for a light in Rachel's little cottage. She wasn't home yet. He should've accepted Tyler's invitation to get drunk at the neighborhood bar.
But damn, he needed her, not Tyler and not a hangover. He needed her gentle acceptance, her sympathetic ear, her sweet smile, the way she made him feel better by just being there. He didn't have any right to need her, and he knew that. So between the needing and the guilt, he felt doubly miserable.
Why the hell did he have to be such a fucking nice guy? Being a guilt-free asshole like Tyler had its advantages. Except he'd never be able to live with himself.
He reached for his cell and started to call his father, hesitated, and laid the phone on the patio table. His dad and stepmother were on an anniversary trip to Mexico. His sister was in grad school working on a thesis. He felt abandoned by everyone who cared for him. No surprise there. He had been abandoned by his real mother. So he guessed a shrink would say he had abandonment issues. Hell if he knew. Right now that subject was too damn heavy to consider.
Simon trotted out of the woods with ball in mouth and waited for him to throw it again. With a pat to Simon's head, Derek trudged into the house and grabbed a beer from the fridge and popped the top off the bottle. He brought it up to his lips, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat. Maybe he'd get stinking drunk by himself, but somehow that didn't appeal to him either. Simon curled up on the rug in the corner and started snoring. Oh if only Derek's life could be so simple.
Restless, he decided to check on the horses. He took another swig and tossed the half-empty bottle in the garbage. Leaving Simon napping, he slipped out the door.
Dusk settled over the warm summer night and cast long shadows across the tree-lined driveway. The gravel crunched under his feet. An owl hooted in the distance. He rounded a corner and stopped in the shadows.
A vehicle rumbled down the county road, slowed, and turned into the farm entrance. It stopped in front of Rachel's cottage. It had to be Harvey; nothing else made that kind of noise. He hesitated, uncertain what to do, as if he hadn't worn a path in his carpet waiting for her.
He hated being vulnerable, didn't like people to see him bleed no matter how well he knew them.
As he watched, Rachel got out of the truck and headed for her front door. She paused and leaned against her porch railing and stared up the hill at his house. Gripping her cell phone, she dialed a number, waited, then flipped it shut and shook her head. She was trying to call him. Again.
He couldn't stomach her pity. Not after he'd celebrated with her last night, while all the time she'd known he wasn't good enough to make the team. She'd witnessed his performance, and she knew her football.
Tripping over something, Rachel grabbed the railing and righted herself. After a quick glance around as if making sure no one had caught her latest bout of clumsiness, she disappeared into the house.
Like a coward, Derek turned tail and made his way back to his house. Keeping the lights off, he ignored her repeated calls and everyone else's. Images flitted across his big-screen TV, but he never saw them. Numb with grief, he finally fell asleep.
Ignoring the sympathetic look from the security guard, Derek faked a cocky smile and tipped his baseball cap to the old man. He rounded the corner, then stole into the empty locker room. Pausing inside the doorway, he looked around one last time. Tyler's locker featured several pictures of himself, such as a Sports Pulse magazine cover shot. The Jack's All-Pro tackle, Mountain Morris's locker ran over with crap, including several pairs of shoes, pads, and jerseys. Derek never moved too close because it smelled like something might have gotten lost in the mess and died in there. The poor rookies on either side of him couldn't get within five feet of their lockers, not that they'd want to.
Anxious to end the worst twenty-four hours of his life, he stuffed the items from his locker into the duffel bag. He still couldn't believe it. Sure, Coach had been apologetic, said all the expected things, like what a tough choice it was, but they had to go with a sure thing rather than an unknown quantity.
Damn! Derek slammed his fist into a nearby locker. The physical pain felt good. He wanted to rant and yell until he was hoarse. Instead he held it together. He swallowed the lump in his throat and brushed his arm across his eyes. He didn't cry. Never. Not even when his mother had left him as a little boy.
But maybe when a guy's lifelong dreams died a final death, that guy deserved a good cry. Not here, though. Somewhere private. He shoved the remainder of his stuff in the duffel bag, slammed his locker shut, left the locker room, and walked down the hall, shoulders straight, back stiff, and head held high. Never let ‘em see ya bleed.
"Ramsey!"
Derek froze at the sound of Coach's voice. Oh hell, he couldn't take any more of this. Why couldn't they let him tuck his tail between his legs and get the hell out of here? He stopped and waited for HughJack to catch up with him.
"Put your stuff back."
"Excuse me?” He couldn't have heard that correctly.
"Myers is out for the season. I just got the call from the doc. I need another receiver. You're back on the team."
"Oh man. I'm sorry about Myers.” He really meant it. They'd invited him back as a last resort. He'd accept the challenge and prove his worth.
"So are we. He was the best receiver we had. Those'll be tough shoes to fill.” HughJack pinned him with his direct gaze. “This is your shot, kid. Don't fuck it up."
"I won't, sir. I promise."
"I need someone to step up and take his place. You have the talent. Prove to me you have drive and the heart."
Derek nodded. He fought the urge to smile and headed back to his locker. As soon as the door shut behind him, he pumped his fist in the air and let out a rebel yell.