Coach answered with a curt nod of acknowledgement.
“Recent reports of your divorce have the proceedings becoming . . . strained.” The woman gave what Stephen thought of as a faux-sympathetic smile. So sorry, so sad, tell me all your secrets now. “Do you believe the fact that sources say your wife—I’m sorry, estranged wife,” she added with all the warmth of a viper ready to strike, “has said candidly that your judgment is impaired, with family issues having an effect on your coaching?”
Stephen could actually feel Trey’s animosity and need to protect wafting off him in waves. Unlike the coach, he was unable to hide his emotions. But Coach Jordan was an iceberg. What showed on the surface was nothing compared to what brewed below, you’d just never know it until you ran right into it.
“My personal life is not up for discussion. Ask a question about the game or we’ll end this now.” The words were calmly said, but only a fool wouldn’t notice the way they were delivered by a man sharpening his verbal sword.
She blinked, then started to speak again when Coach Jordan got up. His ascent was so fast, the chair flipped out behind him as he walked off the stage.
“Shit,” Talbin muttered under his breath, so the mic didn’t catch him. “That’s not going to help matters any.”
“Moving right along,” the moderator began, pointing to another reporter. They turned to Trey, as was typical, and Stephen let himself zone out for a bit as his friend talked about their offense. An offense he was no longer a part of. That had stung, as he now played defense for the first time since high school. It was a different group of guys, a different way of running things. He had an entirely new language to learn. But he’d do it, because this was his life hanging in the balance.
“Harrison.”
Hearing his name snapped him out of his daydream. “Yes?” He searched around for the reporter and found a short man in tweed down front.
“You stepped out with defense for the first time. How did that feel?”
“It always feels good to be an asset to the Bobcats. Wherever I’m best suited, wherever I can make a difference, I’ll give it a go.” He flashed a smile, blinked after a few lights flashed from photographers in the back.
“Does your recent astonishing weight loss have anything to do with the transition? Or perhaps your scuffle over Trey Owens’s girlfriend last season?”
“The scuffle was addressed at the time as nothing to do with Trey Owens or his girlfriend.” It still irked him people tried to make his defending Cassie from a bunch of drunken assholes into some ugly love triangle. “I loved playing with Trey Owens on offense, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat if it was best for the team. Now my calling is on the defensive line. Considering the two quarterback sacks I had today, I’d say it’s working out.”
Coach Talbin nodded beside him.
Another reporter stood in the back, far enough that Stephen couldn’t see who it was. “Are you attempting to regain your weight? Is your loss tied to your sobriety? How’s that going for you?”
Holy questions, Batman. “Yes, yes, and good.”
When the press groaned together at his short, childishly opaque answers, he shrugged a shoulder. “What can I say? When you drop the beer, you drop the pounds. It’s math. I’m working on building muscle mass. I’m stronger, faster, and healthier than I have been in years.”
“Anything motivating you?”
Failure.
“A woman, maybe?” the female reporter who had goaded Coach Jordan asked, smiling like a shark who scented blood. “Reports are you’ve started seeing a woman who keeps you in line and on target. Confirm or deny?”
No sense in putting it off. This was part of the package. If he rid them of the curiosity now, maybe Mags wouldn’t have a hard time with media in the future. “Confirm. It’s amazing what the love of a good woman will do for you.”
“Amen,” Trey said into the mic, and threw him a covert wink.
“Personally, I haven’t tested out this theory myself.” Josiah shifted forward in his chair, adjusting his ever-present backward ball cap over his head. “I’ll just let these two yahoos speak for themselves on the subject,” he added, earning a laugh from the crowd.
That drew the media’s fire back at him. Stephen threw Trey a quick hand signal for thank you under the table, which Trey responded all good to. Josiah was focused fully on the journalist speaking to him, so he let that go. He’d thank the guy later. He had the best friends a guy could ask for.
The curiosity would die down after he did a few more appearances with Mags. When something was out in the open, nobody cared. It was the dark, hidden stuff that got everyone’s juices flowing. Now he had to stop putting off their media debut and put that step behind them so they could focus on being a real couple, in private, without an audience.
Chapter Twenty
The next afternoon, Stephen sat at his kitchen counter, eating the veggie omelet Mags had made him, watching while she cleaned up her kitchen.
No, his kitchen. It was his. She just seemed so at home there, happy there, he’d started thinking of the domain as hers.
Maybe she had, too. The idea warmed him.
“There’s a benefit auction we have to attend this weekend.”
Mags dropped the pan she’d been cleaning at the sink and stared at him. “We? Don’t you mean you?”
“No.” He took another bite, pleased to note he’d actually gotten used to the idea of veggies mixed in with his eggs. Wasn’t half-bad, thanks to some combination of spices she’d added in. “I mean we. It’s a bring-a-date thing.”
“Okay,” she said slowly, grabbing a paper towel. “Is this a casual thing? Like, would I wear a skirt?”
“Uh, not casual.” He took a sip of water. “I’ll be in a tux. Black tie.”
She stared at him, mouth gaping, and he wiped his chin. Nope. Looked down at his shirt. All clear there. “What?”
“I have two days to pick out a dress and heels and jewelry and find a place to get my hair done—and cut,” she added, picking up the end of her ponytail and staring at it like it had suddenly announced itself as her mortal enemy. “You can’t just spring this junk on me at the last minute!”
Ooookay. He had sisters. He should have known better. “Call Cassie. Oh!” He grinned. “Call Anya. She’s in town. She’s amazing at this whole thing. It’s part of her job or something.”
For whatever reason, that made things worse, and storm clouds gathered in her eyes. He wasn’t sure if she was about to throw the pan at him, or cry.
He’d prefer the pan.
“Yeah, I met Anya. She’s . . . something.”
“She’s hilarious. Tries to pass herself off as all quiet and aloof, but she’s got a heart of gold. She’ll know where to look for a dress.” He picked his fork back up, then set it down again when Mags’s face didn’t change. “Okay, what’d I do wrong?”
“Did you and Anya ever hook up?” She slapped her hand over her mouth the moment the words came out, eyes widening. “Oh my God, don’t answer that. I don’t need to know. It’s not my business. Ignore that. Seriously, ignore that. Oh my God.”
The words were muffled, but he heard every single one of them. And suddenly, it all made sense. Standing, he went to the sink, where she’d turned her back on him. “Mags.” No response. He rubbed his hands down her arms. “Mags. Margaret. Come on, look at me.”
She turned, but her face was beet red, and she was looking everywhere but in his eyes.
“Anya and I never hooked up. I met her the night Cassie and Trey hooked up. She’s Cassie’s best friend. She was a friend to me, too. Anya’s a good person, but I’m not attracted to her like I am to you. I don’t want her the way I want you.”
She softened, her flush dying down a bit, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Okay. Sorry. That was stupid.”
He just rubbed her back a little.
“I said, that was stupid,” she said a little louder.
Right. Cue his line. “
Of course it wasn’t stupid.”
“Could you sound any more placating?” She pulled her upper half away, still gripping his waist, and smiled up at him. “You’re terrible at the reassuring-boyfriend part.”
“Just trying to keep up with the script. Now will you call Anya?”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I’m sorry I overreacted. She was nice to me. You’re right, she’s the perfect person to call about this.”
“Good.” After he thought for a moment, he dug in his jeans for his wallet and pulled out a credit card. “Here.”
She stared at it. “It’s not grocery day.”
“No, for the dress and shoes and sparkly junk. Whatever.” When she didn’t reach for the card, he pushed it into her hand.
She set it immediately down on the counter as if it were straight out of the fire. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
Now it was his turn to be completely confused. “What?”
“I can pay for my own things,” she said in a quiet voice, in a strong, emphatic sort of way that told him she was fighting back tears.
Oh, sweetheart, just throw the pan at me.
“I know you can. But this is something for my work, and I told you last-minute. I just thought . . .” He hadn’t been thinking. He’d reacted with what he thought was perfectly logical sense. “I don’t understand. There, I said it. I don’t understand why you’re upset. I pay you for being here, don’t I?”
She stiffened at that. “You do, yes. And I’m working while I’m here. Should I start keeping a time clock for when I’m working and when I’m relaxing, so you know if your money is being well spent?”
What? This conversation had taken a dramatic turn from where he’d originally meant it to go. “That’s not it at all. I want you to feel your best this weekend. I wanted to give you the opportunity to shop without worrying about the price. Your money is being put toward your business.”
“I can pay for my own things.” She repeated the sentence again, and it sounded so final, he wondered if she was about to just get up and leave. Through his own misunderstanding, he’d offended her greatly. She wouldn’t even walk by him as she left the kitchen. She took the long way around the island, leaving the credit card, and him, behind.
Please don’t leave. Sweetheart, please don’t.
She headed for the garage, picking up her purse along the way and closing the door behind her with quiet resolve.
Shit. Just . . . shit.
***
An hour later, Mags wandered the most hoity-toity resale shop she’d ever walked into in her life. This was definitely not your corner store Goodwill. According to Anya’s quick research, this was where the Santa Fe society sold off their designer worn-once-can’t-wear-again gowns for cash.
“How about this?” Anya held up a gown in sweet lilac with what looked like a cutout back, though it was hard to tell on the hanger.
“Maybe.” She walked over and found the tag to check the size. “Four hundred dollars? That’s more than I’d pay for a brand-new one at Penney’s.”
“It’s a Badgley Mischka,” Anya said, as if that meant anything. “That’s like, half the price at full retail. And if you go to Penney’s for anything but to use the restroom I will strangle you with this hanger.”
She was about to strangle her shopping “buddy” if she kept this up. “Anya, look. I’m not one of the socialites you’re used to dressing. I’m on a budget. Like, a still-have-to-eat-and-make-a-car-payment budget, and if I go over, there’s no rich husband waiting in the wings to pat me on the head and say, Good try, dearie. Next time let’s not spend the national deficit on your wardrobe, shall we?”
Anya stared at her over a rack of cocktail dresses, one brow raised. “The national deficit? I know these are a bit on the pricey side—”
Mags snorted.
“—but,” she continued, going back to hanger flipping, “they are quality. They are couture. They are timeless. They will not look like you got them off the rack at Target.”
“Target rocks.”
“Target is for hand soap, pizza bagels, and five-dollar flip-flops.” Anya shoved the next few hangers aside in quick succession, a little harder than necessary. Each clatter of plastic on plastic sounded like a gun shot. “A black-tie wardrobe—” Clash. “—was not meant—” Clash. “—to be found in the same store—” Clash. “—you can find greeting cards and windshield wiper blades.”
She had a point on the black-tie part. But still . . . Mags eyed the rack, found a cocktail dress that didn’t scream I’m trying too hard, and looked at the price. Two fifty.
With a huff, Anya stepped over to a new rack. “If we had more time, we could have done some online perusing. I bet we could have found a better deal that way. As it stands, you’ll just have to buy what we find now.”
Margaret’s pride started to whimper, and she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t have shot down the credit card offer from Stephen.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered.
Anya made a sound. “What?”
“I can’t do this.” She wandered over to a tufted mini couch and sat down heavily. Her large purse hit the floor by her feet. “I can’t afford this stuff. I can’t find something that will be presentable. I can’t show up on his arm looking like a Target pizza bagel.”
“Oooookay, and we’re spinning.” Anya sat down beside her and draped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not impossible. Trust me, I won’t let you walk out of the house looking like a Target pizza bagel.” After a moment of Margaret staring at the soft patterned carpet, Anya cleared her throat. “I might be out of line for asking, but since you’re Stephen’s date, and I know Stephen can afford this, why doesn’t he—”
“No.” She’d already gone down that route, turned it away. And besides, if he paid for her clothing, like he already paid for her room and board, and like he would be writing her a check at the end of the season, it would be a step in the wrong direction. A step in the “employee” direction, when she wanted to walk the other way. The girlfriend direction.
You know, the not-fake girlfriend route.
“Just . . . no. I have to do this myself. I have to make it work.”
“We’re about the same shoe size, so you could borrow a pair of mine.” When Mags looked at her, she shrugged and tossed some hair over her shoulder. “I like to travel prepared. You’re definitely not the same bust size as me, though, so borrowing a dress of mine won’t work. And Cassie is way too tall.”
“Are you ladies finding everything all right?” A saleslady approached who looked to be in her fifties. She wore a black pantsuit, with a crisp white shirt underneath, and sensible black heels, and her pearly white hair was cut in a flattering bob around her naturally tanned face. Her makeup, too, played on the elegant-and-sensible theme. “Are we having trouble finding what we want?”
“We’re fine,” Mags said on autopilot. Just get the woman away so she could continue her little sulk party in peace.
“Actually, could I speak with the owner a moment?” Anya stood, putting a hand on Margaret’s shoulder to keep her down.
“That would be me. I’m Cynthia, and you are?”
“Anya Fisher.” With a beaming smile, she looked back at Mags. “Keep looking, okay? Find a few pieces you like and you think would work with your personality. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Ignoring the direction, Margaret kept her arms crossed and surveyed the store from her seated vantage point. All she could see were racks of dresses and gowns, mocking her with their ridiculous ticket prices and unattainable glory.
She let her mind wander to more pleasant things. Something like Stephen. Stephen at home, relaxing. Stephen taking his shirt off after a workout. Stephen stepping out of the shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist . . .
Okay, she was going to get herself in trouble if she didn’t quit that. After a moment’s thought, she dug through her purse to send him a text. He hadn’t m
eant to spring the event on her last-minute, he was just a guy, with a guy’s sense of timing. And with an hour of distance between the argument and now, she could see why he offered her the credit card. He must have known what she hadn’t . . . that this would be all but impossible without his help.
I’m sorry I snapped at you.
His answering text came back almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting for it. That made her smile, and everything seemed just a bit more hopeful.
I’m sorry I hurt you. I’ll make it up to you.
She was about to send him a sexy suggestion of exactly how he could make it up to her when Anya strode back through, a massive grin on her face.
“Problem solved.” Looking supremely pleased with herself, Anya sat on the couch beside her. “Margaret, this is Cynthia. Cynthia, your first spokesmodel.”
“I . . . what?” Margaret bent down and let the phone drop back in her purse. “I’m so confused.”
“Anya here has brought a very intriguing idea to my mind.” Cynthia sat primly at the edge of a chair on the other side of a glass end table.
“Cynthia says she gets business from Santa Fe, but not as much from Albuquerque as she’d originally hoped for. Being smack in the middle of the two, she thought she’d see equal business. But it’s as if she doesn’t exist to those down south.”
“And Anya thought of a lovely idea. Donating a few of the lesser gowns—” She frowned at that, then waved it off as if unconcerned with how it sounded. “The gowns that are perfectly lovely but are not designer or might be a bit out of style—which I normally don’t accept—to local high schools for girls who struggle to afford appropriate gowns for their dances.”
“Oh.” Mags blinked and looked between them. Cynthia looked demure, serene about the whole thing. Anya was a bundle of vibrating nerves. “That sounds really nice of you. I don’t get what that has to do with me.”
“You’re going to be her first spokeswoman.” Eyes shining, Anya clasped her hand. “When someone asks where you found your gown, you’ll flip it around and talk about this program you are supporting that donates gowns to the local high schools, and your gown was from Cynthia’s shop. Just little sound bites. I can help you work that out. I worked with a similar charity in Atlanta, and it was a great benefit to everyone.”
Takes Two to Tackle Page 20
