Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  He winced, and she knew she’d poked a sore spot. But he’d asked her to be his partner in this, and partner she would be. An accountability partner asked the hard questions because they cared.

  “It’s there. And honestly, I’m not sure how I’m going to handle it. I guess it’ll just depend.”

  “Call your sponsor,” she suggested. “Brainstorm. Do it on the bus when you’ve got time before you get there. Or the first night. Hell, call him every night. That’s what he’s there for.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His cheeky grin made her want to push him like a teenager flirting. “Plans tonight?”

  Oh, sure. I’ve got men lined up around the block waiting to take me out to fabulous clubs and spend lavish amounts of time worshipping me.

  “Nothing.”

  He gently took the washcloth from her hand and set it down. “Hang out with me tonight?”

  “Okay.”

  ***

  As Trey would say . . . this was inadvisable.

  But Trey’s job was to be a thinker on the field. Stephen’s job was to be a human battering ram, a brick wall, a mountain to climb over. Thinking was, in theory, not really something expected of him often.

  Not that he cared for the dumb-jock expectation. He’d graduated college, for God’s sake, and done well. But still.

  With Margaret sitting less than a foot away, by his side at the kitchen island, eating dinner, he was struggling to remember why he’d come home so early tonight. He could have gotten away with slipping in for a quick nap around two in the morning, packed in a hurry, and been out the door before she woke up, when Cassie swung by to get him. Instead, he was torturing himself with one more night.

  Because he couldn’t have survived three weeks at camp without one more night beside her. Even platonically.

  “Can you pass the pepper?”

  He jolted, dropping the spoon into his soup with a plop. She chuckled.

  “Dozing off? That trainer working you too hard?”

  “No, I . . . no.” He reached and passed her the shaker. “Just letting my mind wander.”

  “You’ve been busy these past few days.” She said it casually as she sprinkled the spice over her bowl. “Everything okay with the team and all that?”

  “‘And all that’?” he asked with a grin. “You have no clue what I do all day.”

  “None,” she admitted, smiling around her spoon sticking out of her mouth. She pulled it out with a pop and pointed it at him. “I have ideas, though.”

  He could guess. “Tell me.”

  She raised a brow and took another sip of soup before asking, “You sure?”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve any male-on-male sexual contact fantasies or locker room showers, I’m game.”

  “Damn,” she muttered, glowering into her bowl a moment. He let out a snort of surprise. “Okay, you get there and you . . . work out.”

  “Yeah.” He settled sideways on the stool, so his knees bracketed her body a little, and leaned one elbow on the counter. His mother would have a fit over the position . . . but his mother wasn’t here. “And then?”

  “And then you work out some more. Maybe some football plays on one of those whiteboards. Xs and Os and arrows all over the place.” She drew her finger over the countertop to illustrate, zigging and zagging around the silverware, salt and pepper shakers, and cups. “He shoots, he scores!”

  “Wrong sport,” he said dryly.

  “I know. Kidding.” Hand back on her lap, she continued without looking at him. “More meetings. Some I’m the most amazing thing ever press conferences.”

  He frowned at that. Was that how she thought of him?

  “Then the entire team gets massages from some sexy Swiss misses in short white dresses.”

  “Ah, there you’re wrong.” He waited until she looked at him before adding, “They’re sexy German misses. Germans have the best masseuses.”

  “Ugh.” She rolled her eyes at that. “Then more back patting, running around in circles, hitting things, throwing things, working out, and home you come.”

  “It’s eerie how accurately you’ve described my job.” He waited for her to smile smugly. “But no. Also no, and some more no.”

  “Darn.” She snapped her fingers, and he had his lighthearted, easy-to-talk-to Mags back. “And I was so sure.”

  “Them’s the breaks. Hey,” he said, taking her bowl with him to the sink as he put his own in there and rinsed. “Instead of Netflix, how about a board game?”

  “Scrabble,” she said instantly.

  “Scrabble?” Great. He watched her. “Seriously?”

  “You’ve got it. I know you do. I’ve seen it in one of your closets when I . . .” She trailed off, blushing from the neck of her T-shirt to the tips of her ears. “Never mind.”

  “When you what? Margaret? Mags.” Dish rag in hand, he pointed. “You were organizing again.”

  “Your entire man cave was a pit!” Hands thrown in the air, she paced. “How can you expect me to clean in there and not notice the fact that the closet won’t even close? That the games are all completely jumbled together? That the cards are just tossed in a shoe box and not even separated into real decks?” She pivoted and stared at him, hands on hips. “You can’t. It’s just not possible. I organized your game closet. Sue me.”

  Her face, her tone, her entire body language said she was spoiling for a fight. So to throw her off, he walked by her, brushing a kiss over her forehead. “Thanks.”

  That definitely made her think. She didn’t move for another ten seconds, then she simply walked past him and into his man cave. Which, now that he had a female hanging out with him in it, he’d probably have to rename the rec room or something.

  Not nearly cool enough. Cave sounded much better. But it couldn’t be a man cave if he let women in.

  Clubhouse problems for the male adult.

  “Why Scrabble?” he asked, sitting down at the large poker table in the corner and setting his water glass in the cup holder. “Favorite game growing up?”

  “I could play it by myself. I didn’t have siblings, and my mom was too busy to play board games with me, so I just started finding ones I could play alone.” She said it without any hint of sadness as she carried the box over. He snuck a peek at the closet before she went back to close it. All boxes were neatly stacked and facing outward so he could see the titles.

  “Let me guess, you even went through and made sure each game had all the pieces.”

  That flush returned, delighting him. “Maybe,” she mumbled, picking up the bag of tiles and tossing it from hand to hand. “It was just a logical step of the organization process. Which you’d know, if you ever gave it a try.”

  “Pass. But thanks. How many tiles do I get?”

  “Seven.” She waited for him to take his, not moving or jolting when his fingers cupped hers underneath to hold the bag steady for his big hand. Maybe it was torturing him as much as it was her, but he wanted to make sure to leave her with a memory of him during the weeks apart.

  “I’m warning you,” she said as she set her own tiles up on the stand. “I’m pretty good.”

  “I’ll try to keep up.”

  She frowned at the empty board, then up at him. “I didn’t mean you couldn’t.”

  “I know.” He gave her a reassuring smile. She was one he believed when she said she didn’t consider him a part of the stereotype. It only made him more determined to keep ahold of her. “But I was a business major, not an English major. Ladies first.”

  ***

  “Xi?” Mags stared incredulously at the board, then up at Stephen, who had a mild look on his face. “Xi. That’s not a word.”

  “It is.”

  “Not.” There was no way. “X-ray, of course. Pi, yes. But xi?” She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry, I’m gonna pull the dick card and challenge.”

  He reached into the box and pulled out the dictionary, passing it over.

  She star
ted to thumb to the back, then shut it and leaned over the table. “Before I open this, tell me what it means.”

  “Do I get extra Scrabble points if I’m right?”

  Aha. He had no clue. He was just going to take a shot in the dark. She nodded. “Sure, why not?”

  “I don’t want extra points.” His eyes narrowed slightly and his lips curled up. “Let’s bet instead.”

  “Fine.” Since she was about a million percent sure she was right, this would be easy. “When I open it up and it’s not there, you owe me a car detail.”

  He scoffed. “What, and buff off all that decorative rust?” When she scowled, he sighed. “Fine. But when you open up, and you see it in there, and I have the right definition, you owe me . . .” His smile turned a bit wicked, and she felt butterflies start to take flight in her stomach. “You’ll owe me another kiss.”

  So. They weren’t going to pretend it never happened. He had to know there was no way to win this bet. Didn’t he? Did that mean he didn’t want to kiss her?

  She swallowed hard, then joked weakly, “What, nothing like, do your laundry for a week?”

  “You’re already doing my laundry.”

  True. She looked down at the closed dictionary in her lap, then back up. It didn’t matter, anyway. She’d get her car detailed, he’d lose the game, and they’d move on as they had been.

  Him, with a solid career in the NFL, and her . . . a housekeeper.

  “Fine.” She pointed at him. “Prepare to lose. What’s the definition?”

  “A letter.”

  She raised a brow, picturing sticking a xi in an envelope and shoving it in the mailbox. “That’s it? I was expecting something more creative.”

  “It is what it is.” He shrugged and settled back in his chair, watching.

  She flipped, flipped some more, then backtracked when she’d gone too far. “X, x, x, here. Okay. It is . . . here.” She stared, dumbfounded. “A Greek letter.”

  “The fourteenth, to be exact. And it’s pronounced more like ziiii, rhyming with hi. Not zee.” He waited for a moment, then took the dictionary from her limp hand and placed it on the table beside the board. “Should I mark my own score down?”

  She nodded without a word, shoving the pad of paper and pencil toward him. She watched as he added up his score, noted it down, and then—cocky bastard—drew a cartoonish pair of lips beside it. Damn the man, he’d totally taken her for a ride on that one. He’d already proven to be her best opponent since, well, the last time she played against herself. But he wasn’t just good, he was fun. He used pop-culture words, and things that made her laugh.

  He made her laugh, period.

  Stephen set the pencil down, then stuck his hand in the tile bag for another tile. He was seriously playing again. He’d thrown down the kiss bet, won, and then thought they were just going to finish their cheery game of Scrabble.

  “Your turn.”

  She blinked, then stared at her tiles. The letters all sort of jumbled together . . . sort of like the butterflies in her stomach, which had stopped fluttering and started playing bumper cars.

  Who knew butterflies were such horrific drivers?

  “Mags?” His voice was low, gentle even, but still laced with heat.

  “Uh . . . yeah.” With hands that were embarrassingly shaky, she played three tiles.

  He craned his head to the left. “Goot? Sure you didn’t mean goat? Or good?”

  “I . . .” She looked back down, saw nothing, and looked back up into his concerned eyes. “I can’t remember.”

  “No more soda for you,” he chided, taking her empty can of diet away. “The carbonation is going to your head.”

  “There’s nothing in there.”

  “I know, it’s empty.” He set the can aside.

  “I meant my head.” She just . . . couldn’t think. So she let her mouth run. Because really, why not? “You took that bet and knew you’d win. You want to kiss me.”

  “Mags.” His smile was full of humor and gentle concern. “Look at you. What single guy wouldn’t want to kiss you?”

  “You’ve kissed me before, in public, and I get why. I’m not upset about it,” she rushed to tell him. “But then the other night, when we were alone . . . and then you just disappeared. You avoided me.” She blinked quickly because that hurt more than anything. “Why did you avoid me?”

  “Mags.” This time, his voice was full of exasperation. But it was all for himself, she could tell. He cupped her cheek with one big hand and leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. “I couldn’t handle being around you without wanting to keep doing that. And it wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Oh. Right. Of course.” Not a good idea? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Should she be insulted? Was she not good enough? Or maybe she was too good . . . Seriously. Men had no clue what their vague phrases did to a woman’s brain.

  He pulled back enough to look in her eyes, then shook his head. “It’s not right. There’s no ‘of course.’ I’m not explaining this well. What I’m saying is, I’m about to leave for three weeks. I didn’t think it was right to make moves on you, build this thing up, and then have to go away where we’ll barely talk for twenty days.” His smile turned more toward a smirk. “I thought I was being noble, damn it.”

  “And instead, you crack and make a bet on xi.”

  “Stupid. I shouldn’t have done that. In fact . . .” He looked at the board, then her. “You should probably go up to bed. I’ll straighten the table up and get some sleep, too.”

  He was running again. Why? But she simply nodded. “Fine. Will I see you in the morning before you go?”

  “It’s early, so don’t feel like you have to set an alarm. I’ll finish packing tonight and just get up in time to brush my teeth and go.” He grinned. “Perk of having someone else drive you to the bus . . . you get a few more minutes to sleep.”

  She swallowed and nodded, not trusting her voice. God, she’d miss him when he was gone.

  It’s only for three weeks. Get ahold of yourself.

  “Okay, so, I’ll . . . see you in three weeks.” She put on her bravest face, then stood up to hug him and whisper, “Good luck. Be safe,” in his ear before hurrying out of the rec room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Play with fire, get singed. Natural consequence. Every parenting book probably has a chapter on it. And yet, here he sat, with scorched flesh, wondering what happened, like a four-year-old, and wondering how soon he could do it again.

  He shouldn’t have made that bet. The fact that it flustered her to the point of her not being able to spell her next word—while flattering and a little amusing—was counterproductive. He was scaring her, not enticing her.

  He dumped the tiles still on the board into the bag and pulled the cord, cinching it tightly before tossing it into the box.

  Maybe this was part of that self-defeating thing they were always speaking about in group therapy, where you set yourself up for failure—consciously or unconsciously—so you didn’t have to face what success looked like. It was why a lot of drunks became alcoholics, and why they relapsed. Success was, for many people, terrifying.

  Success on the field? Yeah, he was good with that. Craved that. Needed that.

  Success everywhere else? No clue.

  Stephen shoved the game back into his closet, marveling at the ruthless organization Margaret had instilled on the small area when he wasn’t looking. And he’d just fucked it up by throwing the game in wherever looked good. With a deep breath, he pulled it back out and found the spot it had originally come from. When he took a step back, he had to admit, it looked better, and was easier to find everything. Though her ninja organizing all over his house was driving him batty, there were worse habits living with someone. With that, he flipped the light off and headed upstairs.

  Despite his resolve to leave her alone, he found himself pausing beside her door to listen for movement. There was none. She must have conked out early.

  He
finished packing what little he would really need—most gear was provided by the team, so it was only his personal items—and set the suitcases down by the bedroom door. Then he turned to his big, comfy, empty king-sized bed.

  No. He didn’t want emptiness. He didn’t deserve emptiness. And maybe it wasn’t the smartest choice, but he’d take the first step toward what—and who—he wanted to solve that problem right now, and damn the timing.

  His knock on her bedroom door echoed through the hallway, and he winced. If she really was asleep, he didn’t want to wake her. But he had a feeling . . .

  A moment later, a wide-awake Mags answered. She’d changed into a thin cotton tank—thin enough for him to see the outline of her nipples—and some short shorts. Her hair was twisted up into some bun thing, and her feet were bare, with pink toenails looking adorable curling into the carpet. She never wore slippers, he’d noticed.

  “What’s wrong?” She blinked, taking in his posture leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you need help packing?”

  Stephen went to answer, but his throat suddenly felt dry. Sahara Desert dry. He shook his head, since that’s all he could do.

  “Ooookay,” she said slowly, leaning back a bit. “Did you forget to tell me something?” When he just kept staring—Talk, damn it! Talk!—she tried again. “Some security code you never mentioned, or that you secretly have a pet gerbil I’ve never seen before but will have to feed? The cure to cancer? I need something more to go on, here.”

  “Company,” he croaked out. “Keep me company.”

  She tilted her head just a little, then shrugged. “If you’re sure.” She reached over and grabbed a hoodie from the chair—stupid hoodie—and slipped it on before following him to his room. His suitcase and piles of clothes dominated his bed, so she curled up on his armchair—or chaise, whatever the decorator had called it—and wrapped her arms around her knees.

  “It doesn’t look like you’re taking much,” she said after he just stared at the empty suitcase. “Are you sure that’s all?”

  “They gave us a list.” Ah, words. Well done, dumbass. “Can you check it for me while I load the cases up?”