“Give her a minute.” Aileen checked her note cards. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I—”
“Hey, uh, did you know Margaret left?” Killian asked, popping his head in the game room.
“We watched her walk out,” Stephen said with a snort. “We noticed.”
“I mean the house. She grabbed her keys and took off.”
Stephen and Aileen stared at each other for a second. “I’m gonna go check on her,” Stephen said after a minute.
“We can try again later. Call me. I’ll just leave the setup. We’ll go grab some dinner.”
“Dinner?” Killian perked up. “Score. All Harrison has is healthy food in here. It’s depressing. Let’s go get some pasta or something.”
“You’re a real friend,” Stephen muttered as they left. He waited for them to pull out of the driveway, then he called Margaret’s cell. No answer, straight to voice mail. So that was out. He called Cassie and asked her to let him know if Mags headed her way, and then did the same with Mrs. M. That one was a bit harder, given the fact that she let him have it with both barrels for causing her sweet Margaret a moment’s pain.
And the only thing left he could think of was to wait. Waiting had never been his strong suit.
Grabbing his keys, he headed for his SUV and pulled out of the driveway. Halfway to the grocery store, he pulled up and swerved into a parking lot. What the hell was he doing? Where the hell was he going?
Going on a damn beer run. Life got complicated and he immediately reverted to old habits. He’d been on straight autopilot. Jesus. He shoved the car into park and let his forehead fall to the steering wheel.
When his cell phone rang, he jolted, then grabbed at it. “Mags?” he demanded, even though it was Trey’s number on display.
“No, dipshit, it’s Trey. Your best friend? Remember me, the guy you’re supposed to call if you can’t get to Mags and you need a friend stat?”
“That’s my sponsor,” he mumbled and let his head fall back to the seat.
“Well, you’re not talking to him, either, so you screwed up twice. You call me, asshole. Mags told me to meet you at your place. She’s temporarily passing over her duties to me.”
The fact that, even upset, she’d thought of keeping him on track, made him relax just an inch.
“I’m coming over.”
“I’m on a beer run.”
“What?” Trey yelled. “Pull over, pull over right now.”
“Already did. I caught it.” He sighed. “I caught it. It almost hurts, but I did.”
“Go home. I’ll be there in ten.”
“It takes twenty to get to my place from yours.”
“Fine, fifteen. Just be home when I get there and if I smell beer on your breath, you’re a dead man.”
There was nothing but dead air after that. Knowing Trey was serious, Stephen kicked his car back in gear and worked his way home.
Chapter Twenty-three
She was a coward. A fool. Five kinds of stupid.
It had taken exactly twenty minutes of driving around for her heart rate to return to normal and her breathing to even out. Twenty-five minutes before she started feeling foolish. An hour before the full ramifications of what she’d done sank in.
Her first call, before she’d even managed to leave Stephen’s neighborhood, had been to Trey. Though he’d struggled to understand her, he’d gotten as much as he’d needed to in order to go check on Stephen. Her second, a good hour later, had been to Aileen. She’d apologized profusely for her panic attack, begged her to not let it reflect badly on Stephen and to see if there was a way to use what little she had done before cutting out.
Aileen had been sweet about the whole thing, reassuring her constantly. Of course, Aileen thought Mags had had a panic attack over being on camera, not because she’d felt the relationship lie come up and choke her. The fact that the journalist had been so kind and understanding about it all just added to the pile of sins.
She’d thought about heading to Mrs. M’s house. Or Cassie’s, since Trey would be gone. But this was something she had to do with Stephen. They had to talk it out, walk through the steps, and come to a conclusion.
When she pulled into the driveway, she parked and simply sat for a moment. This house had begun to feel like a home. Not because she loved the space, or the kitchen, or the big backyard. Because of the man that walked through the door each night.
And she’d risked that.
She gave a sidelong glance at Trey’s car as she headed for the front door. The men had left it unlocked, and she followed the sound of the football game back to the family room.
The two men were sprawled out on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, sodas resting on their stomachs. Zoned out with the glazed expression that told her they’d been watching the vintage football showcase for so long without moving, they weren’t in the real world anymore.
Clearing her throat, she had the perverse pleasure of watching both of them jerk guiltily and drop their feet to the floor. Cassie probably gave Trey hell for it at home, too. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Setting his can on the coffee table, Stephen stood and approached her slowly. She hated his apprehension. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I . . .” She scrubbed a hand down her face, willing herself to have the strength to say what needed to be said. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.” Watching her, without taking his eyes off her, he said, “Trey, get out.”
“You’re lucky I don’t take offense to that like some others might.” With a sigh, the other man heaved himself off the couch and walked by them, tossing his soda can in the recycling in the kitchen. “Call if you need anything.”
“Later.” Eyes never leaving hers, Stephen reached for her. He trailed a fingertip down her cheek. The moment the front door closed, he said, “I’m sorry.”
She blinked. He was apologizing to her for running out on him? Maybe he’d scrambled a few neurons at yesterday’s practice. “Sorry for what?”
“For making you do that interview. It was wrong.” He stuffed his hand in his pocket, as if unsure what to do with it. “I let Simon—that’s our PR guy—convince me it was the best option. I tried to rationalize it by using Aileen, who I trust, but when you told me about your stage fright, I should have put a stop to it.”
“Oh . . . no.” She couldn’t let that continue. “Stephen, no. That’s . . . not why I left.” Heart hurting, pulse thudding, she nodded to the chairs. “Can we sit?”
“Yeah, sure.” He waited for her to pick a seat—the armchair, which somehow just seemed like the right choice—and he sat on the sofa as close as possible. “What’s up?”
“First off, I’m the one who should apologize about running out. I was upset, but I didn’t handle it well. And leaving you in that stressful situation . . .” She shook her head, too disappointed in herself to go on.
“Stressful sit . . . with Aileen? An interview? Hell, Mags, that’s nothing. I do those in my sleep.”
“Oooookay,” she drew out, “then I’ll just apologize for being rude and ruining the interview. But that’s not the point. I was nervous, yes. But I left because I couldn’t handle the lie any longer.”
That had him sitting back a bit. “The lie.”
“Yes. The lie about us.” He said nothing. “The one where you told your coaches you had a girlfriend?” Blank look. “And you asked me to move in and you’d pay me . . . Is any of this ringing a bell?”
That shook him out of his zoned-out state. “Yeah, right. Sure.”
The curt answer, out of character, took her by surprise. “I just couldn’t handle the lie any longer. It was eating me alive, and I just let my emotions override common sense, and I bolted. I drove around a bit, let myself think.”
“Expensive way to think,” he said in a dry voice. “Next time, just head for the nearest parking lot and wait it out.”
Next time. “Stephen, I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much.” Too much for her hear
t. “I have to stop the lie.”
If she hadn’t been such a coward, she would have added, I actually do love you. But she was a coward. And something in her said she needed to know how he would react before she went that little extra step. The step that couldn’t be taken back.
He looked away a moment, as if absorbing that. “So you’re done.”
“I have to be.” I can’t be with you daily and not be with you.
“Okay, then.” He slapped his hands on his knees and pushed up. The Bobcats shirt he wore rode up, showing off a sliver of skin above his waistband, and she ached to reach over and trace it. “I’ll get your check.”
She forced herself to stop looking at his waist and look up at him. “My . . . what?”
“Check. You know, for the job. Accountability, housekeeping, pseudo-girlfriend, that whole thing. For your business.”
He walked away, up the stairs, looking cool as a cucumber, and she felt like she might cry. She’d missed the mark completely on this one. She’d said no more pretend, and he’d shrugged and gone to get his checkbook. No asking why, no asking if she’d stay, no wanting to discuss it more.
Thank God she hadn’t put it all out on the line. The situation was mortifying enough as it was. If she’d told the man she loved him, and he’d acted like it was no big deal—or worse, shown pity—she never would have been able to walk out with her head high.
As his feet thundered back down the stairs, she realized she hadn’t moved an inch since he left, and had been staring into the distance for nothing. Her head was stuffed with cotton.
He crouched by her, holding out a plain white legal-sized envelope. “Mags.”
She stared at it, not moving. “I didn’t finish the season. The deal was for the season. I can’t take that.”
“Yeah, you can.” When she didn’t take it, he gently lifted one of her hands and slid the envelope into it. “Please.”
“And the coaches?”
He smiled at that, but it was only a small one. “If they’re not satisfied with my progress by now, then let them hire a damn life coach. I’ll survive. But I’ll be okay. You got me through the darkest parts.”
She would not cry. She would not cry. “I guess . . . I’ll pack my stuff, then.”
“There’s no rush.” He stood when she did, taking a step back to give her space. “Really.”
“I’m just going to go organize a few things, take them over to Mrs. M’s.” She held the envelope up, noticing he’d sealed it. “Thanks for this.”
“Yeah.” He looked like he might say something more, so she waited. Then, as if shaking off the urge, he ran a hand over his hair and averted his eyes.
So, that was that. The way to her room had been blurred by tears, though she’d kept it together enough before closing her door. Now more than ever, she was grateful she hadn’t taken him up on the offer to borrow a drawer or two in his room. It would have been eternally awkward to sneak back into his space after that and grab a handful of panties. She reached for items at random, shoving two duffel bags full. It would be enough for a first load.
Stephen wasn’t downstairs when she left. His car was missing from the garage. Yesterday, he would have left her a silly note telling her where he’d gone and a joke about it.
Gone to Target for one thing. Will return with twenty things. Target is magical like that.
Now she didn’t rate a note.
Your own fault, idiot. You didn’t have the lady balls to say you loved him.
The entire drive to Mrs. McGovern’s, Mags managed to keep it together. More, she’d steeled her spine enough that tears no longer pricked the backs of her eyes, and her breathing wasn’t shuddering in her chest anymore. She looped the two duffel handles around her shoulders and made the short walk to the main house’s front door, ringing the doorbell. Something she hadn’t done in a long time.
When Mrs. M opened the door, a look of faint surprise on her face, Mags went for a smile.
“Hey, Mrs. M, is the apartment still available?”
The older woman’s shrewd gaze quickly took in the duffel bags, and her hand dropped from the door. “Oh, sweetheart, what happened?”
“I did something stupid.”
“What?”
“I fell in love.”
***
Stephen sat in a corner, staring at the mat at his feet, not even caring he wasn’t putting in the effort for weight training. His body hurt. His head hurt.
No, mostly just his heart. That hurt like a son of a bitch. He’d been drop-kicked into traffic, hit by a semi, then dragged for three miles.
She hadn’t come back. It had been a week. More than enough time to rethink things and come back. More than enough time to open the damn envelope, look at his check, and come home. But she hadn’t. And that should have said enough.
“Better get up, Stephen,” Josiah said, walking by. His towel snapped at Stephen’s knee. “Coach Jordan’s on his way in. Sitting is not going to impress him unless you’re doing some arm curls while you’re at it.”
“Bite me,” he muttered, letting his head fall into his hands.
“Shit. Tell me you’re not hungover.” His friend crouched, pushing the backward baseball cap farther away from his eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Enough for me to break off and feed to a rabid neighborhood dog. Go away. I’m not drunk, I’m not hungover, and I’m not sick. I’m just tired. Can a guy be tired after spending his weeks getting hammered from linemen?”
“Harrison!”
He jolted as the normally mild Coach Jordan hollered his name. The typical chatter of the weight room stopped in an instant, and a few weights clanged to a stop so everyone could eavesdrop like a bunch of old biddies. “Yeah, Coach?”
“My office, now.” Jordan did a quick circle. “Why is nobody working? Why are you all staring? Move!”
In the flurry of movement, Stephen didn’t miss that Trey and Josiah abandoned their workouts and followed him out. Coach Talbin stopped them both at the door. “Not for you, boys.”
“He’s ours, so it is for us,” Trey insisted.
“Come on, Talbin. Just let us go with the guy.” Josiah took his hat off and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Can’t a teammate support his friend?”
“Back to your reps, and no cheating.” Burt shoved Stephen out the door without another word.
The whole way to the main offices, he practiced his speech. What would he need to say to stay on the team? Would it be begging or reasoning, maybe some groveling, a promise of triple community service, three live-in life coaches . . .
As he approached the coaching offices, the gnarly gnome that guarded the doors didn’t look up from his computer. The man’s hands looked like arthritic tree limbs, gnarled and twisted, but his fingers flew as if he didn’t feel the pain at all. “Hey, Frank, how’s it hanging?”
“He’s waiting,” the man said without looking up.
“Got it. You know, you’ve got to stop taking so much time to chat. You’ll wear yourself out.” When the man didn’t even crack a smile, Stephen sighed. One day, he’d catch the guy looking human. “In I go.”
When he entered, he found Coach Jordan at his desk, but Simon was sitting across from him. Shitfuckdamn. “Uh, you wanted to see me, Coach?”
“Sit.” After Stephen took the second seat, next to Simon, Coach Jordan leaned his elbows on the desk and gazed at him long enough that Stephen had to fight the urge to squirm. “What’s going on with you today?”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Petulant, but he wasn’t in the mood to explain himself.
“You’re not drunk or hungover. I can see that. No signs of overindulgence. Maybe tired, but not sick. So what gives?”
“Just hitting an early slump. I’ll pull out of it. Look, Coach, I’m sorry about the weight room. My mind wandered, and I—”
“Forget it. Simon here has a question.”
With dread, Stephen turned to the man wearing y
et another suit . . . this one navy pin-striped. “Yeah?”
“You haven’t completed the interview with your girlfriend as agreed upon. I gave you ample time, and so we will need to schedule it ourselves and hold you accountable.” Opening a leather portfolio in his lap, he started to shift through papers. “I believe next week, earlier the better. I’ve spoken with—”
“We broke up.”
He might as well have thrown a grenade in the room. “You what?”
Coach Jordan simply sighed and sat back in his chair. His face turned to study the photos hanging on the wall. Without thinking, Stephen did the same. A few frames were clearly missing, evident by the faded space around a square here and there. But a few new ones graced the walls since the last time he’d been there. One or two with Cassie and her sisters, or Cassie and her father. She might have joined the party late, but the girl had gotten what she’d wanted . . . a chance with her family.
“If you’ve broken up, may I ask who will be holding you accountable in your path toward sobriety?” Simon asked with chilling politeness. “I believe that was part of the reason we did not go ahead with a life coach from the start. You had adequate assistance. Now you do not.”
“Leave the boy alone,” Jordan muttered, shocking both of them. “He’s clearly got his head on now, and we haven’t had any problems. You have any problems?” he asked, as if confirming his theory.
“I’ve had a few moments of weakness,” Stephen admitted. “But I haven’t actually slipped yet.”
“Got a sponsor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got friends?”
That made him smile. “Yes.”
“You’ve made it this far. You’ve got football to keep you straight, long as you keep on the same path. Leave the guy alone. Breakups are shitty.”
The haunted, hollow look in the coach’s eyes added more to illustrate that statement than any words could. “Thank you, Coach. I’ll do my best. I have to admit, though, I’ll probably screw up at some point.”
“Who doesn’t?” As if finding the irony amusing, Coach smirked. “Since football is all you have—your words, you’ll remember—I think you can keep it together until contract negotiations for your next years are through.”
Takes Two to Tackle Page 23
