He thought about that for a moment. Was football all he honestly had? Friends, sure. They wouldn’t dump him if he got cut. Family, yes, though they were farther than he’d like.
But Mags had awoken him to something more. The reason he’d taken those business courses in college instead of majoring in PE or general studies like so many others had. An entrepreneurial spirit. A head for business. He’d liked, truly liked, helping Mags think of business slogans, ideas for training employees, theories for marketing campaigns. It had engaged him on another level like he hadn’t been before.
And he only loved her that much more because she’d believed in him, asked him, trusted him instead of seeing him as the simple brick wall so many had before.
“No,” he said slowly. “It’s not all I have.”
“Excuse me?” Simon said, his voice taking on an almost-prissy tone. “You are a football player, if you remember. This is what you do.”
“It’s what I do, but it’s not all I do. It’s not all I am. I’ve got more in me, more I can do. I’m not going to take on a life coach. I am going to try and get my girlfriend back instead. And I’m not doing any interviews with her, period. If that bothers you, or you’re worried about how it will affect the team, cut me. I’ve got more I can do with my life. I love this team, I love my teammates, and I love this sport. I’ll play until I’m run-down and used up.” He stood and held out a hand to the coach. “But I can’t let it be the only thing motivating me anymore.”
Coach Jordan stared for a moment at the hand Stephen extended. “Looks like you’ve got some work cut out. Take the day off, sort life out at home.” He squeezed hard before standing. “Just don’t come back tomorrow looking as pitiful as you did today.”
“Yes, sir.” Ignoring the sputtering Simon, Stephen jogged for the door and down the hallway. When he passed Kristen’s desk, he gave her a quick wave but didn’t stay to chat.
He had a housekeeper to win back.
Chapter Twenty-four
“He paid you to go away?” Irene’s voice was so full of righteous indignation only a fool wouldn’t recognize her as a teenager. Nobody did indignant like a teen. “He hired you, then had sex with you, then paid you and let you leave? Like a hooker?”
Mags shot Mrs. M a dark look. “I told you we should have waited until she left before talking about this. She’s only seventeen.”
Irene snorted and started gathering supplies needed to polish the silver. She set them down on the counter where Mags and Mrs. M sat, obviously not intending to go anywhere. “Like I don’t know what sex is. Just because I go to a private Christian school does not mean my classmates all took a vow of chastity. And plus, Cassie moved in with Trey. I doubt they spend all night doing crossword puzzles.”
“Back in my day, young ladies waited until marriage for sex,” Mrs. McGovern said in a very uppity, not-at-all-like-her voice. She waited while Irene and Mags both froze. “Of course, back in my day, we all wished we had the, how do you say it now? The lady balls to defy that and do it anyway.”
Irene burst out laughing so hard she doubled over. “Mrs. M said lady balls.”
Mags just smiled. It was so like her friend to make her point theatrically.
“Delightful phrase, the lady balls.” With a small smile and a sip of her tea, the older woman continued, giving Irene a firm stare. “We also knew better than to go that direction until we were old enough to understand the consequences. You take my meaning?”
Laughter subsiding, Irene nodded soberly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I didn’t think you were stupid. Now, back to our Margaret’s problem. He didn’t treat you like a hooker, dear, as our sweet, naïve friend here suggested. He treated you like a very confused man. In other words, he did what he thought best at the time. They always think they know what they’re doing. Their hindsight is usually a tad more clear.”
That helped not at all. “He handed me money and said he didn’t need me anymore.” Or something close enough to that effect. “What if he does? What if he has a weak moment? He’s so strong, but everyone has a tipping point. Football is everything to him. If my leaving means he falls off the wagon because I’m not there to push him back on . . .” She buried her face in her hands, and her skin was hot to the touch. “I won’t forgive myself. If he loses football because I couldn’t keep my stupid love to myself—”
“Love is never stupid.” When both Mags and Mrs. M looked at Irene in surprise, she shrugged and sat down across from them with a rag and the set of silver. “It’s not. I go to therapy twice a week. Because we’re from a broken home,” she added with a roll of her eyes. “Mom makes us. But when I told him I felt guilty for loving both my parents still, when I felt like I was supposed to only love the one I was with at the time, my therapist snapped me out of it. Love isn’t stupid. Maybe it makes you do stupid stuff, but it’s not a stupid emotion.”
“From the mouths of babes,” Mrs. M murmured, then stood up, walked over, and gave Irene a hug. Mags felt her throat close a little as Irene sank into the embrace, obviously needing it as much as Mrs. M needed to give it.
“She’s right, though.” Standing beside Irene, picking up another rag and a spoon to polish, Mrs. M went on. “Your love was neither stupid nor wrong. Love is what it is. And don’t you go assigning blame to an emotion.”
“Fine, my stupid action of telling him I couldn’t stay. There.”
“Maybe.” Finished with one spoon, she looked over at Irene. “You know, I think she’s better at polishing than you were, dear.”
Irene shot Mags a cocky smile.
“Fine, smartass. You can be my first employee when I start my company.” That just brought a fresh wave of self-loathing. “He gave me a check for the business. I haven’t even cashed it yet.”
“Was it the full amount?”
“Why does that matter?” Mags asked the youngest of the three women, who seemed to have an awful lot of opinions for not even being old enough to vote.
“Seems to me,” she said, concentrating on the tines of a fork, “if he paid you only a . . . What’s that word? The one like if you only do half the job, you get half the pay?”
“Prorated.”
“Yes. Prorated. If he paid you the prorated amount for what you did, he’d be seeing you as a job. If he paid you the whole thing, it might mean something.”
“Or it means he has more money than sense,” Mags shot back, then sighed and let her forehead hit the cool countertop. “I don’t know. I didn’t open it.”
“Didn’t open it? That’s good money, young lady. And you did the work, sure enough, even if your heart had other ideas of the endgame. I won’t let you rip that check up and abandon your dreams.”
“I wasn’t going to rip it up.” She might put it in the shredder, so the pieces of the check matched the pieces of her shredded heart. Then she shook that off. Pathetic. “I’m just not sure what I want to do with it yet. So until I’ve decided, I’m going to let it sit.”
A car pulled into the driveway, the sound reaching them easily in the quiet afternoon. Mags looked at Mrs. M and Irene. “Either of you expecting someone?”
“No, I drove myself today . . . oh.” Irene went to the window, then looked back. “They’re heading toward the garage, not the front.”
Something in her vibrated, like a tuning fork. Her hand shook as she reached for her glass of water. “That’s odd.”
Mrs. M snorted now. “That’s bull, and you know it. We all know who’s in that car, and it took him long enough to get here.”
“You don’t know that.” She wanted it to be him. She wanted so badly, she almost feared she’d willed him there by some sort of love spell. Yup, love had definitely made her stupid.
“Oh, it’s definitely Stephen.” Irene stood, glued to the window like a nosy neighbor. “I’d recognize that butt anywhere.”
“Irene!” they both scolded.
“What? I’m seventeen. I’m biologically required to think about sex, lik
e, twenty times a day, likely because I’m not having any. When I actually have sex, I’ll probably think about it less.”
“Not likely,” Mags muttered.
“Heard that,” Irene sang. “He’s walking up the stairs to your door . . . wait, no. He’s walking back down. Back up . . . and back down. It’s like watching an exercise video.”
“Let me see that.” Mrs. M went to the window and peered out beside Irene. “Oh, dear, he looks rather confused.” With an amused glint in her eye, the older woman looked over her shoulder. “One too many knocks to the noggin, do you think?”
“Mrs. McGovern,” Mags said in low warning.
“Ah, there’s the spine. He’s knocking. You’re not answering. He’s knocking again. He’s yelling something—presumably your name, followed by . . . oh.” She held up one hand and covered Irene’s outside ear, pressing her other to her shoulder. “I believe that was something like Open the damn door, Margaret.”
“Heard that,” Irene sang again.
“I liked your sister better,” Mags said, throwing a wadded-up napkin at Irene’s back.
“He’s going back to his car. Go out there.” Turning, eyes wide, Irene gestured toward the front door. “Go, go, go! Catch him! He’s about to leave.”
Mags stayed put. “I can’t. I’m not ready yet.” When she stopped vibrating at the mere thought of him, then she’d be ready. When it wouldn’t feel like he was walking over her heart in his football cleats, then she’d be ready. When it—
“He’s coming back.”
At Mrs. M’s comment, Mags froze. “I’m still not over there.”
“No, I mean he’s . . .” The woman smiled thinly. “I mean he’s coming here.”
The knock on the door sent her pulse thundering. She smoothed down her T-shirt—why, seriously why did she have to look like a slob right now?—and nodded.
But Mrs. M pointed to the back family room. “Go now. I’ll send him on back.”
“But I—”
“I’m calling on my elderly privilege. Do what I say because I’m old and I say so.”
Not much to argue with there. She went to the back room, digging deep to find any reserves of strength to shield herself from the final emotional death blow.
***
Stephen rocked back on his heels, looking up at the old house. It was gorgeous, with character a newer build like his just didn’t have. The garage apartment, while still a garage apartment, carried some of those same characteristics and had been cozy, with overstuffed furniture and enough privacy to make it ideal for one.
And this is where she had run to. Her car was here, but she hadn’t answered at the apartment. Best guess was she was visiting with her friend the landlady. He started to knock again, then pulled back. Was this the best idea? Mags in her apartment was approachable. Mags with an eighty-year-old guard dog might not be. He took a step back, turned as if to go to his car, then back to the door. He had to. Nope, no, he really didn’t have to. He could try again later in the day. Back to his car.
Stop it, Harrison. Do it now.
The door opened as he turned back to knock. “Oh my God. Just make up your mind, already.”
“Irene?” He stared, confused, as the teen, wearing an apron, shorts—God, he hoped she had shorts on under that apron—and a simple T-shirt with yellow rubber gloves almost up to her elbows and her hair pulled into a messy bun leaned against the doorjamb. It was the most casual he’d ever seen her . . . probably because she was out of the influence of her mother for the moment. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here. Or I do for now. Maybe now that Margaret is back, Mrs. M won’t need me.” As if that thought had just now occurred to her, Irene’s gaze turned a bit unsure. Then, snapping herself out of it with that famed Jordan spine of steel, she shook that off and crossed her arms. “What are you doing here?”
That’s right. Mags had told him that. “I’m here for Mags. Margaret. Is she in there?”
“She might be,” Irene said, sounding pleased with her upper hand. “What’s it to ya?”
“What’s it . . . Okay, can I just talk to her?”
“That depends,” said another voice, and Mrs. McGovern stepped out beside Irene, linking arms. Creating a feminine force field around the front door he’d be insane to try and breach. “Are you going to be kind?”
“I need to see her. I need to make sure she’s okay. Please,” he added, which seemed to soften Mrs. McGovern. Irene wasn’t having any of it.
“I think you should go,” the teenage guard said.
“Irene,” Mrs. McGovern said quickly, “I wanted to show you the area of the garden out back that needs weeding. Maybe we can plan a new arrangement for next year together.”
“What? Now?” Wind taken from her sails, Irene slumped under the older woman’s glare. “Fine.” To Stephen, she added, “Don’t screw it up.”
“You got it, kid.” He waited for them to pass, patting Irene’s shoulder. She’d had a rough year. It was good to see her investing in relationships that kept her head out of the muck and on positives. From what little he’d seen—and the plethora Mags had told him—Mrs. McGovern would keep her straight.
He entered the front door as the older woman led the teen, gawking the entire way, around the side of the house. He checked the front sitting room and dining room, which led into the kitchen. All empty, except for the abandoned silverware and rags. “Mags?”
“In here.”
The sound of her voice, after a week without, was music. He called once more, and she answered again, leading him to a room off the kitchen that looked like an add-on, furnished similarly to his own game room. Couches, a high table for cards, a pool table. And Mags, sitting on the pool table, feet dangling like it was high summer and her toes were drifting through the water under a dock.
She was gorgeous, and trying so very hard to appear relaxed. But he could see the apprehension in the way her fingers gripped the table’s edge, in the way her heels bounced just a little too hard against the side.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Need to schedule your spring cleaning?”
“Six months early?” He shook his head, started to approach, then held back when she stiffened. “I wanted to talk about us.”
She nodded, staring off into the distance through one of the big windows. “I hope my running out on the interview didn’t hurt your career.”
“Hurt my . . . no. Mags. Please look at me.”
When she didn’t, when he noticed her swallowing hard, he sighed and walked to stand in front of her. Even sitting on the table, her head barely came up to his shoulders. He tilted her chin back to look at him. “You didn’t come back.”
She lifted one shoulder, then the other in a halfhearted shrug. “I couldn’t pretend anymore.”
“I’m not pretending. You didn’t come back,” he said again, emotion making his voice husky. He didn’t bother clearing his throat; it would just happen again. “And I sat there, feeling sorry for myself. I let myself act like a dick, feeling bad about it. A week, wasted.”
“I’m sorry if that interfered with your career.”
“Fuck my career. Just listen.” Her eyes widened. “I left you a bread crumb, but you didn’t use it, so I’m ditching the wait-and-see method and coming here. You left because it got too real, and I didn’t step up and ask you to stay. Am I wrong?”
Her mouth opened and closed like a guppy’s, then she shook her head, then nodded.
That made him smile just a little. His thumb caressed the outside of her lip. “Neither of us was ready to say what we wanted. So we just broke apart. We both sucked at that bit. But then you didn’t follow my hint, and I let you go too easily.”
“Hint?” She shook her head again. “What hint?”
“On the check, which you never cashed, by the way.”
“Wasn’t ready,” she mumbled. “Are you okay? I kept wanting to call and check on you. I texted Trey a few times, but all he would say was you were okay.
”
“I had a few bad moments. I learned a few things the hard way. I also learned,” he went on, when her eyes filled, “that I can do it without having someone hover over me, ready to slap a drink out of my hand like a two-year-old. I followed the steps, I called my sponsor, I went to my meetings. I did okay.”
“You did okay,” she breathed, closing her eyes as if relieved. “So you’re not in trouble with the coaches.”
“Fuck the coaches,” he said, and her eyes snapped open again. “Yup, I said it. I was okay. And okay sucks. I don’t want okay. I went through hell to get sober, to really live. I thought it was for football, because I thought that was all I had going for me. It was for a while. Now . . .” He let his thumb trail over her lower lip. “Now I hope it’s not all I’ve got.”
“I love you.” The words left her like a rush of wind, barely audible. “I left because I couldn’t handle pretending when—”
“When it was real. I know, sweetheart.” He leaned down and kissed her, feeling the wetness from her tears. “Please don’t cry. You’re going to kill me.”
“I left you, and you were fine.” She hiccupped. “You don’t need me.”
“Wrong. So wrong. I need you. I want you, but I need you. I love you. Mags, I love you.”
Her arms and legs wrapped around him, pulling him tight against the pool table and her body. “Please come back. I don’t want an accountability partner anymore. I want my girlfriend, the real deal. No strings, just attached.”
That made her laugh a little, and she buried her face in his chest. “Please tell me you aren’t unemployed, too. We can’t both be out of jobs.”
“No. Coach Jordan gave me the green light to do this on my own without a life coach. But a certain housekeeper clued me in to the fact that there’s more to life than football.”
She mock gasped. “What? You’re kidding. More to life than football?”
He tugged on her ponytail. “Hush, I’m being philosophical. It’s hard for a brute like me.”
She covered his mouth, then tugged on his collar until he bent down to kiss her. “Don’t talk about my man like that,” she said softly against his lips. “He’s brilliant, and so much more than his job. Don’t you forget it.”
Takes Two to Tackle Page 24
