Hot Read: The Originals (Seattle Steelheads Book 5)

by Jami Davenport

  He needed a healthy dose of confidence because this was his team for the remainder of the year. Not that the guys would ever know he harbored doubt. On the surface, he was the model of a self-assured quarterback. He had to be. Football was the one thing that kept him sane in an insane world.

  He watched game film until his eyes wouldn’t stay open. He slipped out of the film room about dinnertime and walked outside into the crisp, cold Seattle evening. Stars shone in the midnight-blue sky, and the sliver of a moon didn’t do much to illuminate the surrounding parking lot, slick and shiny from an earlier burst of rain. Walking far enough to be out of earshot of any nosy teammates, Brett dialed Estie’s number, which he’d entered into his phone within minutes of her writing it on his palm.

  A grin spread across his face as he recalled her soft touch, her sassy smile. He held his breath and waited for her to answer.

  He’d almost given up when he heard her voice, femininely husky and breathless. Oh, God, probably just how she sounded in bed. He gripped his phone tighter and swallowed hard, sweat pooling between his shoulder blades.

  Had he interrupted—

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Uh, hi, it’s Brett.”

  He couldn’t hear her answer over barking dogs in the background. She yelled at the pups, and they quieted after much whining.

  “Brett? Right? This is Brett?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” His voice lowered an octave of its own accord, as if it slipped into seduction mode without his permission.

  “Hi, what’s up?”

  “I wanted to know how Tyler was doing.”

  She snorted. “Cranky as hell. Surgery went well. He’s home, but he keeps Lavender on her toes. I think she’s about to run away from home.”

  Brett laughed. “I’m glad it’s her and not me.”

  “Don’t speak too soon.” Estie’s throaty laugh weakened his wobbly knees even more. “He’s already talking about how he’s going to spend his time at Steelheads HQ tutoring you as soon as he’s on crutches.”

  Brett jerked his thoughts back to football, hard as it was. “How soon will that be?” Part of Brett wanted to lean on Harris’s uncanny ability to dissect defenses with a quick glance, and part of him would be packing his bag with Lavender.

  Estie laughed again, a teasing wicked-witch laugh. “What? Tell you and ruin the surprise?”

  Brett groaned.

  “I should be going.” She hesitated, and his foolish heart jumped on her hesitation as if it meant something, like maybe she didn’t want to end the call any more than he did.

  “Okay, uh, hey, one more thing, can you keep Bongo in two weekends? We have a home game this weekend, but the following one is away.” Brett waited, praying she’d say yes and give him another chance to see her again.

  “Sure, I’d love to. It’s the least I can do after Ty screwed the poor baby’s daycare chances.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’d be glad to compensate you.”

  A long silence had him pacing up and down on the sidewalk.

  “Well, there is something you could do. I’m working on an animal rescue fundraiser, called Yappy Hour. It’ll be at the Maple Valley Grange. We’ll serve doggie appetizers and human alcohol, along with speed-dating for adoption.”

  He blew out a sigh of relief. “I’d love to.” Anything to be with her, and especially for an animal charity.

  “I’ll need to fill you in on everything, but I have to run. I know Tuesdays are the NFL’s day off. How about you come to my house next Tuesday night for pizza?”

  “Sounds great.” Brett wiped his hand on his sweats, then transferred his phone to the other hand and wiped that hand too.

  “Wonderful, thanks so much.” She hesitated. “Brett?”

  “Yeah?” He held his breath.

  “You’re a star.”

  She’d called him a star. Him. Brett Gunnels. A star. That made his day. “It’s my pleasure.” Hell, it was his pleasure just to talk to her.

  “Good night, Brett.” God, the way she said his name did all sorts of things to him, and not just sexual, though there was a good dose of that.

  “Good night.” Brett listened to dead silence on his cell, then he slumped against the wall of the building. Holy crap.

  “Hey, you making plans to get some action soon or something?” Bruiser, his best friend and the team’s starting running back, studied Brett with that intensity he was famous for on the field.

  Brett stood up straight. “No, nothing, just chillin’. Thinking about the game.”

  “You’ve got that same shit-eating grin Harris has when he’s about to throw the winning touchdown pass.” The guy had just gotten married, and he was insufferably happy with himself. Brett was jealous, disgusted, and thrilled for his buddy all at the same time.

  “Really, well, I guess I’m visualizing kicking some Giants’ butt all the way to the Olympic Mountains and back.”

  Bruiser narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. One blond eyebrow crept up his forehead. “Let’s get inside then. Their defense is one of the toughest in the NFL. Time to go back to work.”

  Brett nodded, forcing Estie into her own compartment, one of those places he reserved for things he didn’t want to think about, like the debacle in Afghanistan and his estranged family. Yet part of him wanted to think about Estie, about her love for animals, how her eyes lit up when she talked football, and how in her just-so world, there was room for a little dog hair.

  Only he couldn’t think about her. She was wearing a ring, off-limits, and a distraction he didn’t need.

  Estie walked into the pet rescue office for her regular Saturday volunteer time, her step a little lighter and her heart a whole lot happier. Working with homeless animals always brightened her day. Not only did she handle the rescue’s bookkeeping, but she also assisted with the animals when and where needed.

  Her best friend, Sylvia Roberts, looked over the rim of her glasses as the door opened.

  Sylvia, a tall, elegant Black woman, ran the rescue with her two sisters. Sylvia also had a day job as a veterinarian with a busy practice of her own where she spent five days out of the week, volunteering at the pet rescue on Saturdays. Estie felt like a slacker in comparison, even though she maintained her own busy schedule.

  Sylvia was her BFF, but most days Estie experienced more than a twinge of envy toward the woman who lived the life Estie only dreamed of living. Not that she’d trade places. After all, she had a fulfilling, challenging career of her own, a handsome fiancé, and a devoted family—even if they were hard to take at times.

  Everyone loved the gregarious, outrageous Sylvia, and Estie had yet to meet a man who didn’t grovel at Sylvia’s size-ten feet. Despite her tendency toward the dramatic, when Sylvia worked with the animals, she exuded quiet confidence and calm efficiency.

  “How’s Humphrey today?” Estie indicated the Great Dane lying on the dog bed in the corner, head between his paws and his brow scrunched up in worry. He watched as Estie walked closer and gave one half-hearted thump of his tail.

  “Not good, but I can’t find a thing wrong with him.”

  “I think it’s a broken heart. He misses his daddy.” Estie straightened the magazines on the worn coffee table and fluffed the pillows on the equally threadbare couch. She bent down to scratch the big dog behind his ears. Humphrey’s human had been deployed to the Middle East. Six months later, the soldier’s wife had run off with her husband’s best friend and left the dog with friends. When she didn’t return, the friends brought him to the rescue, and here he would stay until Sergeant Brennon returned for him.

  Estie sighed. So many of these animals had similar or worse stories, and it broke her heart to see them homeless and confused, like the fifteen-year-old blind cat who was thrown out of his owner’s apartment when her family put the old lady in the nursing home. They hadn’t even bothered to find their mother’s loyal pet a home or take it to a shelter. Gretchen had almost died, but Sylvia came to the rescue wi
th her tireless refusal to give up. Now Gretchen spent the last of her nine lives lolling on a plush office chair in the corner of Sylvia’s vet clinic.

  Gretchen’s story had a happy ending. Now if only Humphrey’s would. The sad-looking dog reminded her of another person, someone she’d fought hard to ban from her mind, yet he kept sneaking back in.

  Maybe Brett would like to foster an older Great Dane. He’d love this place, love that it took care of so many needy animals. A stab of guilt reminded her who paid a large portion of the bills at this rescue. Richard’s parents, Eunice and Gary, donated a sizeable amount each month, thanks to their soon-to-be daughter-in-law’s great sales job that had hooked them as donors, or perhaps in spite of it.

  After giving Humphrey a final scratch behind the ears, Estie washed up and went to work, paying bills, balancing the books, and then helping Sylvia administer meds, replace bandages, and give flea baths.

  “How’s your week going?” Sylvia slanted one of her sly glances in her direction. Estie swore the woman either read minds or body language, or both, probably due to her extensive time spent with animals. Subtle body language didn’t lie, and Estie must have given something away.

  Feeling exposed and vulnerable, she looked into the distance and sucked her lower lip into her mouth, debating on whether or not to tell Sylvia about her weird connection with Brett. It would feel good to hash out her feelings about the man to someone who wouldn’t judge her—they’d always shared each other’s secrets—but putting her feelings in words would make them more real.

  Sylvia arched one of her perfectly shaped brows. “Spill it, girlfriend.”

  “I babysat a parrot for one of my brother’s teammates.”

  “And?” Sylvia obviously knew there was more to this story.

  “African Gray. You know how neurotic they can be.”

  “Do I ever.”

  “Well, this bird has spent too much time around my brother.”

  “Let me guess. It likes the F-word.” Sylvia filled a syringe with the proper dose of meds while Estie held a squirming toy poodle.

  “Loves it.” Once Estie got started, the words spilled out of her like water down a cliff, as she launched into a detailed account of her meeting with Brett as she put away the poodle and carried a cute little mutt to the stainless table.

  “So the bird’s owner is an animal lover, unlike Richard.” Sylvia rarely said much about Richard; usually she just pursed her lips and held her tongue, like a kid swallowing cough syrup.

  “Richard donates a lot of money to this rescue.”

  “His parents do. It’s a write-off, and they don’t fool me one bit. They’re doing it for you. They couldn’t care less about the animals.”

  “Richard asked them to donate.” Estie stood up for her man because that was what a loving fiancée did.

  “Estie, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the money they’ve put into this rescue. In fact, it’s vital to the health of the place.” Sylvia gave her one of those pure Sylvia looks, as if she felt Estie were delusional. “I think Richard’s an okay guy; I’m just not convinced he’s the right guy for you.”

  “He is. Really.” At the skeptical look on Sylvia’s face, Estie rushed to further justify her relationship with Richard, unable to stop herself even though it sounded as if she was trying to convince herself instead of her friend. “Richard is just what I need.”

  “Seriously? I don’t buy it. You like that you can control him or appear to control him. There’s more to that guy than what you see.” Sylvia did the eyebrow thing again.

  Amazing how much the woman could convey with the simple lift of an eyebrow. Her friend focused her attention on the whining little puppy she was examining. “So, this animal lover with the parrot—is he cute?”

  “Yeah, in a way. I mean he’s not drop-dead gorgeous, but he’s handsome. And attractive. Kind of rugged looking.”

  “Is he a nice guy?” Sylvia’s eyes narrowed. Estie knew that look. Sylvia used it on recalcitrant dogs and their owners. She also used it on Estie when she wasn’t buying what Estie was selling.

  “Really nice guy. But—” Estie hesitated.

  “But what?”

  “There’s something about him, like there’s this profound sadness that lurks under the surface, like he has these places in his mind that even he doesn’t dare go. Don’t ask me how I know that, but I do.”

  “And you, my dear Estie, want to rescue every stray and take him home then organize his life. Now you’ve found a man who fits the bill.”

  “He’s hardly a stray.” Estie refused to admit to anything, though she’d concede Sylvia had a point. Estie had been bringing home stray animals for as long as she could remember, and the sorrow in Brett’s eyes reminded her of a homeless puppy begging for someone to love him, or at the least, give him a pat on the head. Estie snorted at that thought.

  “So, who is Parrot Man?” Sylvia sized her up shrewdly, knowing there was more than she was saying.

  “Brett Gunnels.”

  “Ahhh. Shorter than you, isn’t he?” Sylvia understood shorter men. In fact, she dated all sizes of men and didn’t discriminate.

  Estie squirmed. “Not really, as long as I don’t wear heels. Not that it matters.”

  “You like your heels. Wasn’t he the guy who was in the military for four years right out of high school then walked onto the Boise State team and made it?”

  “Yes.”

  Sylvia beamed like a proud mother. “I know my football.”

  “That you do.” No one with a brain would argue that point.

  “Brett Gunnels. Hmmm. Quiet guy, team player, never causes trouble. Pretty much blends into the background and flies under the radar.”

  “That’s him.”

  “You’re crushing on him.”

  “I am not.” Estie’s face burned with embarrassment. She wasn’t. Not at all. She was an engaged woman. Engaged women in control of their futures didn’t crush on teammates of their brothers they’d met for a sum of five minutes.

  “Hey, it’s okay. You’re not dead. Nothing wrong with window shopping, especially when you haven’t bought the goods yet.” Sylvia grinned, showing perfect white teeth set off by her brilliant red lipstick. Estie marveled at how put together her friend looked no matter how many hours she’d worked. Estie cleaned up well, but she didn’t always bother.

  “He’s on layaway, and I’m just about to whip out the credit card and pay the final payment.”

  “Once you pay that price by putting your signature on that wedding license, it’s done.”

  “I know,” Estie muttered, staring down at her hands clasped in front of her.

  Besides, Brett Gunnels did not figure in her long-term plans. Other than sharing her love of animals, she knew very little about the quiet man who seemed to like to fade into the background.

  Richard was the perfect complement to her controlling, borderline OCD personality.

  And she’d keep telling herself that for as long as it took.

  Sunday morning, Richard showed up at Estie’s house to pick up his golf shoes he’d left behind the other night. When she opened the door, he looked her up and down in her Steelheads navy and gold and grimaced. Estie scowled right back. Richard wasn’t into sports unless it was golf.

  She’d been friends with Richard so long she couldn’t visualize life without him any more than she could without her brother or sister, but was that any way to think of a future husband? What about passion? What about mutual interests and hobbies? What about needing him like she needed to breathe? Yes, what about all that?

  Overrated, romantic crap, her practical self insisted, not to mention messy. She hated messy. Richard was boring, said her suppressed wild side. But Richard had been her friend through the worst of times. That was worth a lot. He’d been her crutch when she’d most needed one after her father died, and her defender to her ruthless, critical family. He was safe.

  “Let’s go golfing and spend some couple’s time
together. We rarely do that.”

  “I love football. You know that.” She perched her hands on her hips and braced herself for yet another argument regarding the value of professional sports.

  “Your brother isn’t playing, so why go?”

  “I told you. I love football.”

  Waking from his slumber as if on cue, Dozer—her huge St. Bernard cross—made a dive for Richard. Estie grabbed the large animal by the collar. Richard hated dog slobber, and Dozer fancied himself a professional drooler. In fact, he drooled all over Richard every chance he got. Who said dogs didn’t have a sense of humor?

  Her fiancé jumped backward and almost fell down the front steps. He wrapped his arms around the one of the posts holding up the porch and clung to it like a spider to its web. Interesting comparison, one she didn’t dare psychoanalyze.

  Straightening and wiping off his shirt, he stared at the dog. Strings of saliva hung from Dozer’s lips and his big tail thumped on the wooden porch. The poor guy forced a smile on his face and reached out a tentative hand. “Nice dog.” Her St. Bernard happily slimed Richard’s arm. Richard snatched it back and gaped at the grinning dog.

  Estie gripped Dozer’s collar and pulled him back. “He adores you. Give him a chance. He’ll grow on you.”

  Richard heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’m trying. Big animals like that scare me.”

  He didn’t exactly like the small ones either, but Estie held her tongue. “You just weren’t raised with them. You’ll learn to love them.”

  “It’s you I love, not a slobbering elephant that spreads hair around like a…” Richard snapped his mouth shut, as if realizing he’d said too much.

  “Sit,” Estie ordered. Dozer sat, whined, and shook his head, splattering more drool on Richard’s pants. Not to be ignored, Marilyn, her old, diva golden retriever, shoved her nose around her leg to greet their guest. Estie pushed them back inside the house and slammed the door shut on them. “Sorry, they’re hungry.”