“So, three weeks is going to be enough?”
“My doctor says I should be fit as a fiddle by early October. Just have to keep on the beta blockers and cut down on the salt and cholesterol. And finish the antibiotics, of course.”
Cade nodded. “All right, then. I’m yours for the next three weeks. But you have to fill me in on why you need me. Don’t you trust your assistant coach run the team in your absence?”
“Oh, it’s not that I don’t trust Angie! She’s a genius when it comes to drawing up plays, and the kids worship the ground she walks on.” Lund let out a wheezy laugh. “And what teenage boy in his right mind wouldn’t? She looks more like a supermodel than a math teacher, let alone a football coach. In fact, I think every boy in school is taking calculus now, just to spend his senior year mooning over her.”
As Lund rambled through his explanation, Cade felt everything in his brain shifting and snapping together like the parts of Tony Stark’s Iron Man suit. Angie. Click. Supermodel. Click.
Math teacher. Click. Calculus. Click.
He closed his eyes and flopped back against the couch, stunned and a little amused.
Angela Petersen—the woman who’d rocked his world last night and then given him the coyote ugly treatment—was the assistant coach of the football team. And Harvey Lund wanted Cade to take over the team and be her boss.
Irony was a beautiful thing. He’d been ready to let the whole incident go, even though he’d known it would be easy enough to find her. He just hadn’t seen the point in pursuing her when it was obvious she didn’t want to be pursued.
But now…now he was looking forward to just a little taste of revenge. Not that he’d abuse his position of authority, of course. He had no intention of treating her badly or sabotaging her with the team. He just couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she realized she hadn’t gotten rid of him so easily.
“It’s not her I have the problem with,” Lund finished.
Cade dragged his attention back to his old friend. “Then I don’t understand why you want me to fill in for you as head coach. If you have so much faith in her…”
The older man heaved a breath and shook his head. “It’s Chuck Donnelly, the other assistant coach. He may be twenty years younger than me, but he’s still old school. When I passed him over and put her in charge of running practices and calling plays, he was furious.
Told me I was an idiot to put a woman in that position and insinuated I must be—how’d he put it?—‘banging’ her.” He looked down at himself pointedly and gave a derisive chuckle. “As if, right?”
“If he doesn’t agree with your decisions as head coach, why don’t you fire him?”
“It’s not as easy in high school football as it is in the NFL. Donnelly isn’t my employee; he’s an employee of the school district. I can’t fire him any more than he can fire me. All I can do is assign my staff the roles I think they’re best suited to. Angie was best suited to the lead assistant position, hands-down. But that’s the reason I need someone like you to fill in as head coach.” Lund gave Cade an imploring look. “We have our first real shot at winning the state championship since your senior year, Cade, and it’s mostly because of Angie’s brilliant play-making and play-calling. I can’t take the chance that Donnelly will ruin that because he thinks he should have her job.”
Cade was beginning to appreciate the older man’s dilemma. “So, how do I come into this? What can I do to help?”
“Just be a figurehead. To be honest, I’m not much more than that these days, anyway. Let Angie run practice and call plays like she normally does and make sure Donnelly doesn’t constantly interfere or try to sabotage her.”
“Okay. I do have a question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“Why isn’t she here? Shouldn’t she know what you’re doing?”
“That’s two questions, son,” Lund pointed out.
“Related, though.”
“True.” At that moment, his coach was overtaken by a coughing fit. Lund reached for his glass of water, but his arm was so unsteady that he only managed to knock it over.
Cade leaped to his feet to help, taking the glass to the kitchen to refill it while simultaneously grabbing a towel from the rack to dry up the spill. Once there, he couldn’t help noticing the sink piled high with dirty dishes and the filthy counters and stovetop. Not to mention the empty pizza and Chinese take-out boxes.
Damn it, had no one in Harper Falls realized that Harvey needed help? The man might have been divorced for more than twenty years, but he’d just had a heart attack complicated by pneumonia. He couldn’t take care of himself, for God’s sake.
Before returning to the living room, Cade resolved to hire someone to cook and clean for Lund, at least until he was back on his feet. The pneumonia might not kill him, but his coronary problems weren’t going to get any better if he ate nothing but pizza and Chinese takeout.
After he’d taken a few sips of water, Lund’s coughing eased, and Cade returned to his position on the couch.
“Angie’s not here because if she knew what I was doing, she’d refuse to let me do it.
First, she’d be determined to handle it by herself. Second, she’d be angry with me for not trusting her to be able to. And third, even if she would allow this, if she isn’t hostile toward you, Donnelly will be onto you in a minute. He’ll only believe you’re really in charge if Angie believes you’re really in charge.” He covered his mouth as he coughed again, this time more gently. “Well, if you knew her, you’d understand.”
Cade smiled to himself. He did know her. Intimately.
“Come to think of it, though,” Lund continued, scratching his stubbly chin, “maybe you do know her. If I remember right, she was a freshman when you were a senior.”
The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. The sensation that he knew her from somewhere—it hadn’t been his imagination. He did know her. Angie Petersen was the name of the tall, gawky girl with the thick glasses and long hair who’d told him they’d never win with only twelve plays. The girl who, over a few simple conversations that year, had been as responsible for making his career as anyone.
And she hadn’t told him who she was. Had actually, now that he thought of it, flat-out lied when he’d asked.
Why hadn’t she told him? Was she insulted because he hadn’t remembered on his own?
It was the sort of pettiness he could imagine a lot of beautiful women engaging in, given past experience, but it didn’t seem to fit in Angela’s case. Partly because she didn’t seem aware of just how beautiful she was, and that made sense now, too. She hadn’t been beautiful at fourteen, and she hadn’t adjusted yet to the fact that she was nothing short of a knockout now.
He shook his head. Women! They made no sense at all. He didn’t understand why she’d pretended they didn’t know each other, and he didn’t understand why she’d left without a word.
But now, at least, he was damned sure he was going to find out.
###
Whether it was because his shoulder was healing better than he thought or because he was looking forward to getting to the bottom of the mystery of Angie Peterson—and maybe even to the bottom of her again—Cade’s “audition” with the Vikings that afternoon went exceptionally well. The GM gushed with enthusiasm over the fact that Cade hadn’t lost his touch despite the long recovery, and the head coach had been impressed with his range and accuracy as well as his ability to read defenses and fit into their existing offensive system without advance preparation.
When the interview was over, Cade was fairly confident that they’d offer him the position, and with trade conditions favorable enough that the Texans might want to do the deal.
Cade could refuse to accept the trade, of course, but getting back on the field today had been such a rush, he was rethinking his opposition to the whole “hired gun” thing. But before he could even consider accepting an offer, there was someone he had to talk to first.
&n
bsp; He stopped at a liquor store for a six-pack of beer and then headed to Regions Hospital in St. Paul. Getting to Warren’s room took a little doing, since the hospital had him parked in a private room in a private wing with access only granted to family and the close personal friends on the list Warren had provided. Cade’s name was not, as it happened, on the list, but the security guard immediately recognized him and let him in without question. Giving the guy his autograph probably hadn’t hurt, either.
Warren was in Room 426, an IV line poking out of his arm and one leg in a cast all the way up to his hip and suspended from one of those slings hanging from the ceiling. Cade winced at the sight of that immobilized leg as well as the stitched and butterflied cut above Warren’s right eye. His accident and injuries were obviously a lot worse than the Vikings’ publicists had let on.
“Hey,” he said from the doorway, holding up the six-pack of Warren’s favorite Minnesota microbrew, “you allowed to have a drink or are you getting it all intravenously?”
Warren cracked a grin. “Nah, this is just blood-thinners, not painkillers,” he said, tugging on the IV line for emphasis. “They’re afraid I might throw a clot. I seem to recall I’m not supposed to drink alcohol while I’m on them, but I’m sure I can get the nurse to approve one bottle of beer.”
“I’m sure you can.” In fact, Cade would bet the nurses would let Warren Harris get away with just about anything, not only because he was rich and famous, but because he was both charismatic and good-looking. He and Cade had spent enough of their off-seasons together for Cade to know that when it came down to it, more women were interested in getting into Warren’s pants than his.
Warren pushed a button on the remote attached to the bed railing and pointed to the chair beside him. “Have a seat. One of the advantages to the hospital VIP treatment is that it won’t take long for one of the nurses to come running.”
Sure enough, a few seconds later, a petite middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs appeared in the doorway. “What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?” Even though she was obviously almost old enough to be Warren’s mother, her tone held the brightness of a teenage girl with a crush.
“My friend here brought a six-pack of beer instead of flowers. I know I’m not supposed to drink on this medication, but I wondered…”
The nurse seemed to notice Cade sitting in the visitor’s chair for the first time, and her eyes widened a notch. “Aren’t you…?”
Cade stood up and extended his hand. “Cade Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms.—” He quickly read the name badge slung around her neck. “Wallem.”
She clasped his hand, her cheeks pink with pleasure that he’d bothered to discover her name. “No, the pleasure’s all mine. My husband isn’t going to believe it when I tell him I’m nursing Warren Harris and I met Cade Reynolds. Only the two greatest football players in Minnesota history.”
Cade laughed. “I’m pretty sure Fran Tarkenton and Alan Page would disagree with that, but I’m flattered you think so.”
“So, I can have that beer, then?” Warren interjected.
Nurse Wallem smiled. “I’ll just notify the doctor, and he’ll order your IV drip turned down a bit. But only one,” she cautioned, wagging a warning finger before ducking out the door and leaving the two of them alone.
Cade fished the bottle opener he’d purchased for the occasion from his pocket and cracked the caps from two of the longnecks.
Warren took his and raised it for a toast. “To not being dead.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Cade declared, clicking his bottle against his friend’s. After several healthy swallows, he decided it was time to broach the subject. “This looks like more than six weeks on injured reserve to me.”
“Uh, yeah, no shit.” Warren gave an exasperated snort. “But you know how it is. They want to appease the fans. Don’t want to tell them the season’s flushed down the toilet until the water’s actually swirling in the bowl.”
Cade nodded. It had been the same when he’d been injured. The Texans’ spokesman had made early predictions of Cade’s swift return to the field, hoping to assuage the public’s anxiety over losing their star quarterback midway through a winning season. Of course, the need for such comforting assurances had quickly evaporated when Cade’s neophyte replacement, unlike Warren’s, had not only stepped into Cade’s shoes but filled them so well, they’d become his own. The knowledge that he’d been so easily replaced still chafed.
Which brought him back to the reason he was here.
After taking another long pull from the sweating bottle, Cade asked, “What the hell happened, anyway?”
“Some idiot in a motorcycle was weaving through traffic on the 35E. He cut off the woman in the lane next to me, and she swerved to avoid him, but she caught the rear corner of the Maser. Next thing I know, I’m spun around backward and the guy behind me is plowing into me head-on at fifty-plus.”
Cade let out a low whistle. “That sounds bad.”
“I tell you, when I saw that SUV coming for me, I thought for sure I was a goner.
Considering it took them half an hour to cut me out of the Maser—and let me tell you, I tried like hell to convince them to save the car, not me—I’m one lucky SOB. Although now I’ve got a leg full of pins and plates to match your shoulder.”
“Maybe when we retire from football, we can open a chain of hardware stores,” Cade joked. “Harris and Reynolds’s Patch ’Em Up Parts.”
Warren smiled, but the expression was grim. “I may need that backup plan sooner than later.”
“Whoa, you’re not saying this is going to end your career, are you?”
His friend shrugged. “Hard to tell. My ankle was crushed between the clutch and the floorboards. The doctors promise I’ll be able to walk again, but they’re not giving me a whole lot of hope for anything more than that. Of course, until the break heals and we find out how the rehab goes, I guess I have to believe there’s a chance.”
Cade was silent as he digested this information. If Warren couldn’t come back, then Cade wouldn’t be stealing his job if he accepted the Vikings’ offer, which he had no doubt would be forthcoming. Moreover, if Warren was forced into retirement by his injury, the position with the Vikings could be what Cade wanted—an opportunity for a long-term contract and maybe even a Super Bowl ring.
The problem was, it was too damn soon to know. And there’d be no knowing for weeks, if not months. Certainly not before the trade deadline in November.
“I met with the team today,” he said at last. He knew he didn’t need to elaborate as to which team or why.
Warren nodded. “I figured.”
“I think they’re going to offer me the job.”
“You should take it. You’ll slide right into the offensive scheme.” There was no hint of bitterness or envy in Warren’s voice.
And that lack of emotion was what made up Cade’s mind. His friend was still in shock.
“We’ll see.” Cade nodded and the two of them lapsed into silence as they finished their beers.
When Cade left twenty minutes later, he was sure of two things. First, Warren had a long road back to the NFL, if he made it back at all. Second, Cade was not going to be the man who stood in Warren’s way if he did.
***
Angie resolutely ignored the vibrating cell phone in her pocket as she grabbed her clipboard and whistle from her desk and headed out of the coaches’ office.
It was not him. It couldn’t be him. She’d made sure of that. And that was the way she wanted it. No sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, no angsting over whether a man meant what he said when he promised to call.
So why did she jump a little every time the phone jingled? Intellectually, she knew it could not—and would not—be Cade Reynolds. Even if he wanted to be bothered to try to find her, which was doubtful to begin with, both her cell phone and her home phone number were unlisted. Besides, he was probably already back in Texas by now. Why would he hang around H
arper Falls any longer than necessary? He hadn’t been back in sixteen years, so it didn’t seem likely he had any sentimental attachment to the place.
But none of that logic had stopped her heart from fluttering every time a phone rang—or vibrated—for the past two days.
The vibrations stopped…then started up again.
Angie took a deep breath, fished the phone from her pocket, and glanced at the display.
Rachel. Not Cade. Of course not.
Although she was already running late to practice, Angie knew if she didn’t answer the phone, her friend would keep calling until she did.
A few students still wandered the halls, their voices echoing in the corridors, so Angie hurried through the double doors that led out to the ramp up to the field before pushing the talk button.
“Hey, Rach,” she said quickly, “what’s up? I’m late for practice.”
“What’s up?” Rachel demanded. “Didn’t you get my messages?”
“What messages?” Angie’s stomach pinched with instant anxiety. Was something wrong with her father? Had Harvey taken a turn for the worse? Damn it, she shouldn’t have ignored the phone all day. She should have checked her messages at lunch, at least. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“The three I left since this morning. But never mind. I just thought you’d like to know that I got a phone call from Cade Reynolds this morning.”
“What?” Angie stopped halfway up the ramp, her mind racing. It was a coincidence. It had to be. There was no way Cade could possibly know that she and Rachel were friends. In fact, there was no way Cade could know Rachel at all. “What about?”
“He said he was worried about Harvey. Asked if I could arrange for an in-home caregiver for him. Apparently, Harvey’s been eating nothing but take-out and hasn’t cleaned the kitchen since he got home from the hospital. I guess Cade got my phone number from Harvey’s fridge and figured I’d know who to call.”
Angie breathed a slow, deep sigh of relief and started walking again. She could hear the excited voices of her players as she neared the top of the ramp and wondered what the ruckus was about. Probably Donnelly dissing her for being late.
Skin in the Game Page 6
