Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  ***

  Mags waited. Not patiently, but she waited. The time between leaving the stadium—security in tow, and wasn’t that a weird experience—and Stephen getting home had given her the opportunity to pull off what she hoped ended up being a fun surprise.

  It was either fun or crazy. Fine line, maybe.

  When she heard the garage door go up, she ran into place, praying he would take it the right way. She tracked his movements by sound. Door from the garage opening, keys hitting the little bowl by the door, bag hitting the floor—she grimaced at that. Then feet on the stairs.

  She sat on the edge of the coffee table, mouth gaping. He went upstairs? What, did the man need a nap so badly he couldn’t even be bothered to come find her and talk about the game first?

  “Mags!” he bellowed from upstairs. “Where the hell are you?”

  A sly smile pulled at her lips. Ah. He had been looking for her. “Down here! Kitchen.”

  He tromped down the stairs again, as if his feet were too heavy to lift more than the absolute barest amount. Poor guy. Then he turned the corner, and stopped dead in his tracks. “What . . .”

  “Welcome home!” She threw confetti—she’d be the one cleaning it up anyway—and watched the confusion continue to spread over his face.

  “I . . .” He glanced from her, to the banner hanging above the fireplace, to the streamers she’d done her best to twist from wall to wall, to the confetti settling on the carpet. “Welcome home, from having been here this morning?”

  “No, silly.” Okay, maybe she was the silly one. This had been an impulse she had run with . . . and maybe not a good choice. “I just thought I’d celebrate your first game.”

  “Was the welcome home stuff on sale?” Slowly, he walked around the couch, taking it all in again. Taking in the small cake she’d bought with the same sentiment written in icing sitting on the coffee table. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s twofold. Welcome home, because you didn’t exactly get a party when you came back from rehab.” As he stepped into her, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “And welcome home, because I saw an extra little spark in you today that I haven’t seen before. The spark from getting on that field and kicking some ass. You love the game,” she added when he closed his eyes and let his forehead rest on hers. “So I thought maybe the welcome home stuff would be appropriate. But maybe it should have said welcome back. Except, you know, stores don’t carry that stuff.”

  He laughed, and the sound was a little husky. As he leaned down, she expected him to kiss her. But he grabbed her instead under the butt and lifted her high against him until she could wrap her legs around his waist. He started walking, and she had no clue where he was headed. “You’re insane.”

  “Probably.” She kissed down his neck, loving how he rumbled approval in his throat. The vibrations, the feel of his stubble, the rough cords of his tendons were like an aphrodisiac. She bit gently and shook, laughing when he groaned and paused at the foot of the stairs.

  “Can’t . . . can’t wait.” He set her down on the third step and started unbuttoning her jeans. “Can’t make it up the stairs.”

  “I’m fine with that.” While he worked on her pants, she reached around, tugged the Bobcats shirt from the waistband of his jeans and pulled until it came over his head. God, the man was incredible. Even with the bruises.

  Bruises. Oh, man. His torso was covered with red welts and newly formed bruising. His biceps had what looked like carpet burns, and on the side by his hips was a spot that looked like it could have passed for road rash. “God.” Running her hands down over his skin, lightly so she didn’t irritate any sore areas, she sucked in a breath. “Stephen, are you okay? You shouldn’t have been carrying me like that. Your poor body.”

  “This is nothing. Just wait until play-offs.” He settled back as he yanked her jeans down, taking her panties with them, and shot her a grin. “Mags, come on. You’ve seen me beat-up and sore before. Remember that time you came to clean and I scared the shit out of you, immobile on the couch icing my ankle?”

  That had been two years ago. “All I saw was a bum ankle. But seeing this . . .” Her voice trailed off as she explored. Unsnapping his jeans, she investigated how far down the road rash–esque burn went. It stopped at the top of his left thigh. She pressed a kiss there, as lightly as she could. “It’s different seeing it like this, on you.”

  On the man I’m in love with.

  “Keep doing that and I won’t feel any pain ever again.” He said it through gritted teeth, and she wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t funny. He thrust her legs apart, not even bothering to take her shirt off, and bent down to taste her.

  Her head hit the stairs, shoulders pressing into a corner, and she didn’t care one bit. The way his tongue attacked her center, the way his shoulders pressed against the backs of her thighs, the way her own shoulders felt the bite of the wood against her skin added to the primal lust of the moment. Seeing Stephen’s head between her thighs, she nearly orgasmed just from the sight alone.

  “Close, oh, God, close . . . Stephen, inside me. Please.”

  She couldn’t explain it, but she needed him to fuck her on the stairs. Not make love, fuck. Sex, raw and carnal, to ease the soft feelings she’d let build in her. To make it less about love and more about their bodies coming together.

  He lunged over her, hands slapping the stairs beside her head. With one, he pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough to let his erection spring free. And he thrust into her without a word. The exertion to be careful despite the position slicked his skin with sweat. She wanted him to let go, to let the animal free. But he wouldn’t; not if he thought he could hurt her.

  “Stephen.” She bit his earlobe and whispered his name as he pushed again and again into her, each repetition making her bounce just a little more. Her fists pounded against the balusters to avoid clawing at his already-abused back. When she felt his sharp intake of breath, she let go and came.

  And he came with her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  An hour later, Stephen examined Mags all over from the comfort of his bed. “I still can’t believe I did that to you.”

  “I think we did that to each other.” Lying on her stomach, arms folded beneath her head, she turned and smiled at him while he ran his hands over a red spot on her lower back, just above her ass. “Stop being so worried about it. I’m not china. I’m not going to break.”

  “I should have brought you down to the couch. Or, hell, the floor.” He’d taken her instead on the stairs, like an asshole. The least comfortable place in the entire house. He had dozens of pieces of furniture, soft carpet, even freaking sturdy hardwood floor. But no, he’d had to knock boots with her on the stairs.

  “If you apologize, I’m going to kick you in the head. I loved it.” She rolled, and he had the glorious view of her naked from the front. “And if you tell me you’re never going to take me again on the stairs, I’ll kick you twice.”

  She might kick him anyway, after he mentioned what he had to. Smoothing a hand up her side, he crawled in next to her and cupped her breast out of habit. “I heard you had some trouble with a few reporters after the game. I’m sorry, I should have prepared you for that.”

  “Cassie helped. I feel bad she’s had to go through it, but like, five times worse. With all that stuff going on with the coach . . .” She shook her head, looking sad. “And marrying Trey, this is all she has to look forward to. There’s so much more to her. Did you know she could get a website up and running in, like, four hours? It’s not her specialty, granted, but she could.”

  He kissed her temple, snorting a little as her hair tickled his nose. “She’s pretty good.”

  “She promised she would help me with a website when I’m ready to launch the cleaning business. And Anya, I can’t believe I didn’t like her at first.”

  That surprised him, as he’d enjoyed Anya’s company in the past and thought she was a pretty darn decent person. “Really?”
>
  “Well, I was battling an unfortunate, unnecessary case of jealousy at the time. I’ve since grown wiser. She’s helping me figure out what uniform I want to have my employees wear.” Eyes shining, she turned so they were facing. “I’m going to have employees. Can you believe it? Seriously. Me. Employees.”

  “Of course I can. Why not you?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’ve got this in the bag.”

  With a sigh, she traced a finger around his chest hair, tugging playfully. “I feel like it’s coming together now. I’ve got a plan for the future. I have a logo, a business plan, someone to help with my website, someone to pick out uniforms with, and soon I’ll have the capital.” She snuggled closer to him. “It’s actually going to happen.”

  You’ve got me. Say you’ve got a boyfriend. You’ve got me.

  But she’d gone quiet. She’d mentioned the money, but not him. When talking about the future, it had been nothing but talk of the business. Nothing of their relationship.

  Maybe she still didn’t consider this a relationship. But that also reminded him . . .

  “We have an interview with Aileen to do.”

  “Huh?” She rolled slightly away, so she could look up at him. “When did that happen?”

  “Simon mentioned”—okay, threatened—“that because of the publicity you’d gotten after the game it might be best to get to that interview sooner than later. You know, the one where I talk about coming back sober, recovery, and then we introduce you as my girlfriend. That sort of thing. His feeling is it eliminates you as a curiosity and makes you a nonissue, which makes people not want to bother you anymore.”

  “That’s . . . nice? I guess? Not sure how I feel about being called a nonissue.” Her nose scrunched up in an adorable annoyed look. “Is this really necessary? I’m not exactly made for the spotlight. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes sort of person.”

  He wouldn’t push. If she balked at the last minute, he wouldn’t tie her down and make her do it. He wouldn’t even tell her his career was on the line. But he would nudge. “It’s necessary.” Smoothing a thumb over her brow, he kissed her once more. Why couldn’t everything be as simple as it was in that moment? They could pull the covers up and stay in bed forever. Just the two of them in their blissful cocoon, nobody else there to interrupt, no media to intrude. Playing and touching and just being together forever.

  Not realistic. But she was a rock. She could handle it. “I’ll be with you. And it’s Aileen. She’s, like, the easiest person ever. If you want to ask Cassie, she’ll tell you. Aileen did her interview when she and Trey came out as a couple after the whole prodigal-daughter crap hit the fan. She can give you the inside scoop on the whole deal.”

  “Maybe.” Biting her lip, she nodded. “This is what I signed up for, right? So yeah. Okay.”

  Her head pillowed on his shoulder, he felt her relax, then spring up. “The cake! I want cake. Do you want cake?” She stood on the bed, totally naked. “I’m going to bring it up. You’re eating cake,” she ended, pointing an accusatory finger at him, as if daring him to argue.

  “I can eat cake,” he said mildly. With as many calories as he’d burned during the game, cake would be the least of his worries.

  No, he thought as she sprinted out the door, still naked, giving him a fine view of her ass as it turned the corner. His main worry consisted of keeping her with him after the season was over and she had a check in her hand. He couldn’t blame her for wanting the money . . . it had been the arrangement they’d come up with. The sex, the romance, the . . . love. That had all been a surprise, outside the boundaries of their original deal.

  He just wasn’t sure he could survive a kick to the heart like he could a kick to the head.

  ***

  “This is no big deal.” Aileen leaned forward, bumping knees with Mags. “You already got the questions I sent ahead of time, and unless it feels natural and helps to clarify your answer, I won’t veer off from that. I’m not about to start digging or tricking you.”

  Mags forced her hands to flatten against her thighs. Aileen had done everything possible to make her comfortable, up to and including shooting the interview in Stephen’s game room. She’d turned a previously unused corner into a mini-studio with a draped backdrop and a boom on a stand with three stools pilfered from the kitchen. And yet . . . “I’m not really an attention-grabbing kind of person. When I was forced to take choir in high school, I faked sick to get out of our semester performance.”

  Aileen smiled. “Some people just don’t like attention.” Her eyes darted over to Killian, who sat beside Stephen on the couch, talking quietly. “Some people are willing to go to great lengths to avoid you finding their squishy center.”

  Understanding they’d veered off track a bit, Mags waited. Then Aileen cleared her throat.

  “I’ll start with a quick intro, and you can look at the camera or at me. We’re low-budget enough that I don’t have anyone else here but Killian, so don’t get nervous. It’s literally friends hanging out. Use contractions, talk like you normally would, don’t try to speak with any weird accents.”

  “Accents?” That caught her off guard. “Like, what, a British accent? Start with an ’ello, Guvnah and wrap up with a Pip pip, cheerio?”

  Aileen grinned. “I once had a guy who talked without any discernable accent, until the camera was rolling. Then suddenly he was southern as Mississippi mud pie. It was hilarious and frustrating all at the same time. So just . . . don’t do that.”

  “I would never,” Mags said in a horrible imitation of a bored French accent, and they both cracked up.

  “Sounds like we’re ready to roll.” Stephen wandered over and put a hand on Mags’s shoulder. “You ready?”

  “I suppose so.” She scooted her stool over an inch so he could sit down and still be in the frame. Killian walked behind the camera, double-checking the shot.

  “Okay, you’re rolling. And that does it for me today. I’m getting a snack and I’ll be in the kitchen until you’re finished. Have fun, guys.” With a half wave, Killian left the game room.

  “Ignore the cheesy opening, m’kay?” Aileen grinned, then closed her eyes for a moment, looked in the camera, and began her opener.

  Stephen reached over and squeezed one of her hands. Mags had no clue if their laps were in the shot, but she squeezed back as her heart began to pick up speed. This was a mistake. It was all a mistake.

  “Shh,” he let loose without moving his lips from their half smile. His eyes watched Aileen, but stroked the inside of her wrist. He had to feel the thundering pulse beneath.

  “Margaret,” Aileen began, ready for the interview.

  “Mags,” she corrected automatically, then winced. Should she have done that?

  Aileen’s beaming smile said yes. “How did you and Stephen first meet?”

  She’d prepared for this. She’d written out speaking points for each question. It wasn’t even a trick question, and her mind went blank. Her mouth opened, she meant for something to come out, but then nothing did.

  “Mags was my housekeeper for a time,” Stephen put in when it was clear her mind wasn’t going to unlock anytime soon. “She dazzled me with how white she could get my whites.”

  Aileen chuckled, and Mags put on what she hoped was a smile. “So you might say she helped you clean up in more ways than one, right?”

  “Mags has been there for me from almost the minute I came home from rehab. It’s not been easy.” He looked at her then, and Mags felt herself falling into his gaze. It felt right, just that one single moment. “I’ve had some rough days, some rough nights. But she hasn’t let me fall yet. She’s kept me accountable. I’ll never be able to thank her for that.”

  Okay, if she’d had any hope of being able to speak before now, that ruined it. The lump in her throat put a stop to any answer. So she did her best to say what she thought about the moment, about him, with her own eyes.

  “That’s sweet,” Aileen said. “Mags, there are those who w
onder how a woman could support someone who had such a public battle with alcohol, culminating in what I’m sure Stephen will admit was an embarrassing display that led to rehab. What do you say to that?”

  The mere idea that someone would say something so stupid about Stephen—about anyone who was fighting their way up from the depths like he was—was enough to break through the emotional ball in her throat.

  “I think they haven’t put themselves in another person’s shoes lately. And that everyone has a fault or two, but it doesn’t define them unless they choose to let it. Stephen’s admitting his problem and going to rehab was his way of refusing to let alcoholism define him.”

  Stephen’s hand squeezed hers hard enough she thought it might grind her bones. But she didn’t say anything. Nor could she look at him. Her face was hot enough she knew she was blushing furiously.

  “And has it been easy, as his girlfriend, to deal with alcoholism? What kind of impact has that had on your relationship?”

  What relationship? The one where he pays me money and I disappear at the end of the season? The one where I love him, and can’t tell him because I’m scared out of my mind?

  Relationship. She’d been lying to herself, and that had been bad enough up to now. But now she was about to voice the lie to a very large audience, and suddenly it didn’t seem so easy.

  “I . . .”

  Aileen blinked, then leaned in. “Do you want to take a break? It’s fine, I can cut and paste in edits. I do it all the time.”

  “Mags?” Stephen looked over, concern written on his face. “Everything okay?”

  No. Everything was definitely not okay. Without a word, she stood and walked out.

  ***

  Stephen watched her go, unsure what the deal was.

  “Maybe she needed a drink of water,” Aileen said helpfully. “She told me she’s pretty camera shy. Nerves are hard. Not everyone’s as easygoing with an audience as you are, big guy.”

  He loved her for trying, but that definitely wasn’t it. “Maybe I should check on her.”