Fourth and Goal

by Jami Davenport

  The phoenix had risen from the flames.

  HughJack watched Derek stride down the hall toward the locker room. A newspaper lying on a table in the hallway caught his attention. The sports headline read: HUGHJACK AND HIS JACKS: CAN HE JACK THEM UP FOR THE SEASON? He shook his head. He swore headquarters hired him just so the press could make corny remarks about Jack and his Jacks. At least they weren't using “jacking off.” Yet.

  A triumphant roar pierced the morning air from the vicinity of the locker room. HughJack jerked his head toward the noise and allowed himself a smile.

  "What the hell was that racket?” Frank Carter barreled out of the nearby video room with Razor on his heels, ready to do battle.

  HughJack raised a hand to slow them down. He pointed at the locker room door. Frank slammed on the breaks, and Razor almost rammed into him. “That, gentlemen, was the sound of the man you're going to mold into an All-Pro wide receiver or die trying."

  The two men stared at the door as if it held the answers. Frank looked back to HughJack. “What man would that be?"

  "Ramsey's back on the team."

  "That means Myers is—"

  "Out for the season."

  "Damn. He was our best.” Razor wrung his hands together. An obsessive worrier, he had already started worrying about how to fill Myers's shoes.

  "Not any more. That job is wide open.” HughJack gestured toward the doorway. “That young man is getting a second chance. He's all yours. Good luck."

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  Chapter Seven

  Dropped Passes

  After cleaning the three stalls, Rachel swept the barn aisle. Simon followed her, most likely waiting for an opportunity to steal something. She'd found one of her horse brushes half buried in the arena sand earlier that day. The day before that he'd stolen an expensive riding glove. When she'd tried to retrieve it, he played keep-away with it for fifteen minutes. The animal should be sent to reform school. Better yet, a canine prison.

  She stared down at her clothes: breeches, boots, and a polo shirt. She'd pulled her hair into a ponytail and put on makeup, all very put together. How stupid. She missed her jeans and T-shirts. But she'd promised Cass she'd play it her way for a month. Dumb deal to make considering she couldn't afford the clothes she'd charged on her now maxed-out credit card.

  With Derek cut from the team, things had changed. As much as she'd like to run far and fast, she couldn't. She needed information, even a confession, from the brown-eyed heartbreaker. The type of information that took time to get. If another team didn't pick him up, his career would be over. Perhaps he'd be more willing to spill his guts with the stakes raised.

  Pausing, she bent to rub her shin. She'd tripped over a bucket in the barn aisle earlier that day. Footsteps sounded in the aisle and drew her attention. Derek walked her way in all his impressive masculine glory.

  "Hey. How's it going?” He avoided her gaze and bent down to pet his dog. The animal shamelessly wagged his tail and played the innocent victim.

  Her heart two-stepped across the aisle at the sound of his sexy voice. Of course, the damn thing tripped on the way, picked itself up, dusted itself off, and cozied up against him. The rest of her watched in disgust.

  "You didn't return my calls.” Hurt crept into her voice despite her best intention of concealing it.

  "Sorry, I didn't feel like talking to anyone."

  "I heard the news.” Despite it all, she felt a grain of sympathy for him. He had to be devastated and frustrated.

  "The good news or the bad?” He straightened and met her gaze. The corner of his mouth twitched. He didn't look all that upset.

  "You got cut."

  "That was the bad news.” His eyes were bright with tamped-down excitement. She knew him well enough to notice.

  "What's the good news?"

  Simon trotted by. A lone spur dangled from his mouth. Rachel lunged for the thieving Lab. The dog faked left and escaped to the right. She grabbed at nothing but air. Derek snagged her arm before she hit the ground and hauled her to her feet in a smooth move that betrayed how often he'd rescued her in the past.

  "You okay?"

  She nodded. “I'm fine. But are you?” His behavior seemed odd for a man who'd lost his grip on his dream.

  Derek literally bounced on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy. “I'm more than fine. I'm back on the team."

  "What?” Was he drunk? She sniffed the air. He didn't smell like alcohol. His eyes didn't look glassy or unfocused. In fact, they danced with excitement. A Jacks duffel bag was slung over his shoulder.

  "I was off the team and back on within twenty-four hours.” He flashed a grin brighter than stadium lights on a clear night. “I made it, Rae. I made it."

  She smiled too and forgot about the spur theft. She rarely used the things anyway. “Oh, Dare. I'm so happy for you."

  "Thanks.” He made a move toward her, then appeared to have second thoughts. “Now I have to work my ass off to prove myself."

  "You can do it.” She believed he could if she didn't destroy his dream first.

  "Thanks. Your faith means a lot to me.” His brown eyes searched hers, causing her heart to slam in her chest. With a superhuman effort, she resisted the urge to throw herself into his strong arms and hold on tight. His male magnetism beckoned her back to forbidden ground.

  "Well, congratulations.” Rattled, she backed up a step and glanced around for a distraction. Her gaze settled on Simon, now sitting at Derek's side and panting happily, minus the spur. “Can't you keep that animal locked up during the day?"

  "I try, but his ability to escape rivals his thieving skills."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  "He's attached to you."

  "Wonderful. Maybe you could find a girlfriend for him to hang with."

  Derek laughed. “The answer to every man's problems. Hey, I'll buy you dinner tonight. I'll make an offer you can't refuse."

  Any offer by him would be an offer she should refuse, but she knew she'd accept.

  A few hours later, they sat at a table at Character's Corner, the neighborhood bar. Derek bit into a greasy taco as he surveyed the room. The place was quiet. A few hardcore Mariner fans watched the game from a corner booth. A couple of regulars sat at barstools and nursed their drinks. No one paid notice to him, which spoke volumes about the state of the Seattle Lumberjacks, the league's perennial doormats. He and his teammates weren't exactly household names. In the year he'd played ball in Seattle, not one person on the street had recognized him. He liked the anonymity, yet he knew it wasn't a good sign for the team.

  His gaze settled on Rachel. Earlier she'd looked like she was dressed for a horse show. Now she looked like she was going to work on Wall Street. He didn't like this new look. It disconcerted him, and the feeling wasn't welcome. He liked his world warm and familiar, not cold and icy.

  "You did something different to your hair."

  "Cass trimmed it. That's all."

  He shifted his weight in his chair. That wasn't all, but talking about hair made him as uncomfortable as her new look. For a moment, he stared at a stranger, searching for a glimpse of sweet, clumsy, insecure Rachel. At least the clumsy part of her still existed. He took a little comfort in the fact.

  "So how can I help you?” Her professional voice held no emotion, like she was talking to a client or business partner. Aw hell, maybe that was how she saw him. If she wanted a business proposition, he'd happily comply. A business relationship was safer and smarter for both of them and kept distractions to a minimum.

  "This is my turnaround year, my defining moment. You know me as a football player like no one else does—what I'm capable of, my strengths, weaknesses. You have a great eye."

  "Tell that to all the men who laughed at me when I interviewed for a scouting position."

  "You'll get there. I have no doubt. Someday they won't be the ones laughing. We could make a deal mutually beneficial to both of us."

  "I'm l
istening.” Her cool demeanor thawed a little. She leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table.

  "I'm prepared to offer you a small salary in exchange for your assistance."

  "You're going to pay me to coach you? If the guys get wind of this, you'll never live it down."

  "I can take care of them. I have the utmost respect for your football knowledge, your dedication to the sport, and your organizational abilities. Once the season's over, I'll do everything I can to get you a job in the front office of a pro team. It most likely won't be a scouting job, but you can work your way into it."

  "I just need my foot in the door."

  "I know.” He smiled. He'd never doubted her determination or her passion for the game. “So it's a deal."

  She lifted her emerald green gaze to his and smiled like the old Rachel. “It's a deal. Now let's talk money and performance bonuses."

  So much for the old Rachel.

  After hitting the Submit button, the last of Rachel's meager savings disappeared into cyberspace. The ten-week online pro-football scouting and management course drained her financially. The class came highly recommended and was taught by the best in the business. She'd work her ass off to earn the coveted completion certificate. Once finished, the school offered job placement. She didn't care what team, as long as she stuck her big toe in the proverbial men's room door.

  She'd take advantage of Derek's large collection of game DVDs. Picking a few players from each team, she'd study them on the screen and on paper, writing down her observations and honing her scouting skills. On Friday nights, she'd watch Mitch's high school team, clipboard in hand, and evaluate the kids.

  The more she thought about it, the better Rachel liked their deal. She'd never bust into the coaching ranks. Working in the Seattle Lumberjacks’ front office or any other front office could morph into her dream job.

  Her ears picked up a ruckus on the front porch. A small war raged outside the walls of the cottage. Rachel ran to the door and yanked it open. Pinned against the porch railing, Mitch roared expletives that would've shocked Tyler. Undeterred, Simon hung on to his leg and vigorously humped away.

  Hustling out the door, she grabbed Simon's collar. “Stop it! Simon, behave.” Simon sat down but whined and slobbered, a crazed look in his dilated eyes. “I've never seen him like this. I'll hold him while you go in the house. Maybe it's your cologne."

  "There's nothing wrong with my cologne.” Cradling his bag of Chinese takeout, Mitch stomped into the house.

  "Not if you're another dog.” Sliding in behind him, Rachel slammed the door in Simon's face. The obnoxious Lab scratched on the door and whined. She turned the dead bolt, not putting anything past the canine criminal.

  Mitch shot her a withering look.

  "I'm sorry. He's never reacted like that.” She covered her mouth to hide her giggle.

  "That dog is a menace to society."

  "Boy, did you hit the nail on the head."

  "He shouldn't be running around loose.” Mitch glared at the door, mouth tight, pissed as hell.

  "He also has a ball fetish and a penchant for thievery."

  "Don't forget horny and any leg will do. Put him in a kennel and throw away the key."

  Rachel almost agreed. She'd been telling Derek that for weeks. “He'll head home in a while. He comes down here when his owner is gone."

  "He's not yours?” Mitch blew out a breath. Helping himself to a plate and silverware, he dished up some Chinese food.

  "No, he belongs to—"

  "Ramsey. Figures. Same personality.” Her brother's mouth turned downward, his eyes grim.

  "It's great to see you too. Did you come to bitch or because you missed your sister?"

  "Men don't bitch."

  "No, they lecture and control."

  Mitch's expression softened a little but not much. “I'm sorry. I don't like that guy."

  "Tell me something I don't know.” Rachel helped herself to Mongolian beef and fried rice.

  Mitch shoveled food into his mouth, his answer to all things related to guilt. By now he should be bigger than a house. Instead he was almost as buff as his college days.

  She sat next to him, knowing there was a purpose to his visit and not wanting to hear it. “Thanks for bringing dinner."

  "You're welcome. I love you, sis; you know that."

  "I love you too, Mitchie.” She squeezed his arm. Her eyes watered a little. The men in her family struggled with expressing affection. She'd learned to live with it. Whenever they did say something, it shocked the hell out of her and made her all teary-eyed.

  Swallowing a mouthful, he regarded her with green eyes much like her own. Why he didn't have a girlfriend, she'd never understand. In high school and college, he'd switched girls every week. It had to be another fallout from her mother's death and her father's emotional distance.

  "What's with the clothes?” He assessed her from top to bottom and frowned. Her black slacks and powder blue shell clearly surprised him.

  "I'm changing my image."

  "You're at home."

  "It's a long story.” She sighed and wiped at a stain. She'd already spilled wine on her blouse.

  "Are you doing it for him?"

  "Not the way you're insinuating. Give me some credit."

  Mitch ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. “Rae, don't take this the wrong way, but did you ever consider doing something a little, well, a little more ordinary?"

  "I want a career I'm passionate about."

  "You working as a scout in professional football is crazy, Rachel. Give it up. A woman can't be effective because she's never played the game."

  "But a man can.” She bristled and stabbed an innocent piece of beef with her knife.

  He scooted his barstool out of range. “That's right. Most scouts played high school ball at least. You have to understand the team dynamics, how men think, how a guy you're scouting would fit into a certain locker room and the system. There's so much more to it than physical attributes. When you get to the pro level, everyone's physically superior. Winning becomes more mental than physical. A good scout examines the whole player. Hell, look at Ramsey. You couldn't program a computer to create a more perfect physical specimen of a wide receiver."

  "And your point is?” On the defensive, she glared at her brother.

  "He's a dismal failure, a head case."

  "He's not a head case."

  "Like you're a good judge of his character."

  "Maybe I am."

  "Your judgment is tainted. He's an opportunistic ass."

  Rachel pictured her brother wearing the rest of the fried rice. Reining in her temper, she steered the subject back to her career choice. “It'd be nice for once if my family supported my dreams instead of tearing them down."

  "Now, Rae, we do—just realistic ones."

  "I did some scouting for the Blockbusters."

  "The Blockbusters. Now that's a joke. You did everything for them, including selling popcorn. You were a one-woman office."

  "I never sold popcorn. Besides, I gained valuable experience."

  "Not pro experience."

  "There are women in pro scouting."

  "Yeah, a few.” He set his jaw, as stubborn as their father. “Those women have balls. You're not like that."

  "You're saying I'm a pushover."

  He shrugged. “Yeah, sorta."

  "Maybe I'm changing."

  "Prove it. Don't let Ramsey manipulate you. Keep your emotions reined in and focus on the goal. Show me how strong you are."

  "I guarantee you we will not have a personal relationship. He's only in my life on a professional level. Nothing more."

  "Professional level?"

  "Derek is paying me to critique his game."

  Mitch frowned and shook his head. “I know you getting closer to him was originally my idea, but I still don't like it. Derek Ramsey is not to be trusted."

  "I don't trust him. This job is a win-win for me. I'll gain valuable exp
erience and have access to Derek and Tyler. I have the next four or five months to unearth the information we need."

  Avoiding his assessing gaze, Rachel shoved the food cartons back in the bag and pushed them at him. She walked to the door, opened it, and waited. “I'll see you at next Sunday's game."

  Mitch took the hint, but his face mirrored his annoyance. She rarely stood up to her family, and her newfound independent streak obviously rankled him. She watched as he walked to his truck, Simon attached to his leg. He shook the dog off and drove away.

  Rachel sat on the corner of the tack trunk and bandaged her skinned knee. She'd tripped over a spur in the barn aisle, a suspiciously dirty spur covered in slobber. Simon watched from a distance and barked when she splatted on the ground. Even the dog made fun of her.

  All her life she'd tolerated the good-natured ribbing from her family of well-coordinated jocks. She couldn't hit a baseball, shoot a basket, or serve a volleyball. She wasn't pretty, popular, or graceful. She was just plain, clumsy Rachel, the smart one of the family without one fingernail of athletic talent. Even horseback riding didn't come easily, but she loved the animals and worked hard at it. One summer her cousin, Miranda, had taken riding lessons. After a few months, she'd entered a show in the same classes as Rachel. Miranda won her classes, while her inept cousin, with years of lessons under her belt, finished at the bottom of every class. Rachel wasn't surprised.

  Pausing in front of a stall, Rachel scratched her old guy, Moe, on the withers. He stuck his lip out and stretched his neck, making funny little sounds. She laughed and threw her arms around his furry neck, burying her face in his mane. She loved this horse. He'd been with her since grade school. They'd been through a lot of good and bad times. She'd cried into his mane when her mother died. He'd stood beside her, a silent yet supportive friend, nonjudgmental in his acceptance of her. He didn't care if she tripped more often than she stayed upright or that she wasn't a raging beauty or a witty conversationalist.

  Moe reached around with his big muzzle and nibbled on her elbow. Rachel drew back and laughed. “Is that a hint, big guy? You want some dinner?"

  The chestnut studied her with his big liquid brown eyes. He waited politely while Rachel put grain in his feeder. As soon as she moved out of his way, he dove in and sent grain flying. Rachel backed away and shut and latched the stall door.