by Lisa Rayne
“Calm down, Dash.” Pete pushed his chair away from the desk. “You have a contract. A very good contract. I should know. I negotiated it.” Although Pete had a law degree, he’d opted to allow his state bar license to go inactive once he decided to become a full-time sports agent. “DuChamps’s hands are tied absent a clear contract violation.”
“I can’t calm down. That bastard as much as said this was a contract issue. A contract issue? Can you believe that? He wants to make this about the morality clause in my agreement.” Dash stopped moving. “Since when does sexual orientation become a morality issue? He’s twisting this to suit his purposes. The man’s wanted me gone since the cheerleader incident last season.”
“Actually, he’s wanted you gone since long before then. I’d say it dates at least back to that first Griffins party you attended, where you danced more with his wife than he did.”
“What!” Dash’s jaw dropped open.
“Or the fundraiser for Mrs. DuChamps’s pet charity your second season when the two had an argument and DuChamps found her crying on your shoulder in the hotel gardens.”
“That man can’t seriously think I’m romancing his wife. She’s nearly old enough to be my grandmother.”
“But she doesn’t look it. And let’s face it, Dash. You’re not known for being discriminating where women are concerned.”
He shot a glare Pete’s way, wishing he could shoot laser beams from his eyes and scorch the high-priced fade right off his head.
Pete put his hands up and laughed. “Don’t look at me that way. I know you would never go there. But DuChamps?” He shrugged. “Like I said, he wants you gone. Maybe that’s why. Maybe not. Either way, he simply hasn’t been able to find a way around our contract … or Coach Waterman who’s intent on keeping you.”
Crossing his right ankle over his left knee, Pete continued, “You and I both know this latest scandal isn’t a morality issue, but DuChamps will do what he always does. He’ll play a little fast and loose, get his expensive lawyers to poke through the paperwork and try to give him what he wants. He’s got nothing. Be smart. Follow his edict and go to Ibiza with Naomi and see what you can find. Your best defense lies in knowing who your opponent is and why he went on the offensive in the first place. I’m working from my end on the photo authentication angle, but Naomi’s probably twice the sleuth I am. Why not let her help you figure this thing out? Just play along.”
“I am not ‘playing along.’ I’m not getting on that damn plane. And I’m definitely not letting that woman push my buttons again.” Dash slapped his hands against Pete’s desk, the volume of his voice rising to just above a yell.
Pete jumped from his chair and leaned with palms on his desk until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Dash. “I’ve got news for you, pal. Judging by your behavior, clearly she already has.”
Dash frowned in confusion.
“She’s got those buttons of yours pushed so firmly you’re on the verge of short-circuiting.” Pete straightened. “Quit acting like a prima donna. It’s beneath you. Get your head on straight and focus. You’ve got a game to win tomorrow night. I need you in the zone against Atlanta. You can’t afford to lose this game.” His fists found his hips. “Then after you kick some Falcon ass, get up Friday morning and get your butt on that plane.”
Dash huffed and whirled towards the door. Grabbing the doorknob, he glared at his agent. “Make this go away, Pete. Make her go away. Without me having to fly thirty-three hours to gay-pride playland. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”
Pete growled and grabbed a crystal paperweight off his desk. Dash darted through the door and pulled it closed. He doubted Pete would actually heave the weight, but he wasn’t taking any chance. The former pitcher could still throw a fast ball at least ninety miles per hour with extreme accuracy. Dash wasn’t interested in feeling that connect with his head.
“I’m not some flunky, Janssen,” Pete yelled through the door. “Get your ass on that plane Friday. Give me something else to work with here.” The crack of something heavy smacking against a wood desk resounded through the door. “Damn, professional-athlete prima donnas!”
Dash grinned. If he couldn’t be at peace about this situation, then neither should Pete. Sauntering passed Marsha’s desk, he winked at the slack-jawed secretary. He’d give Pete something else to work with all right, starting with the hide of a certain overly-ambitious female journalist.
Chapter 6
The thunk of her tote hitting her bottom desk drawer had barely receded when the smell of Aqua di Gio cologne hit Naomi’s nostrils. The lithe athletic body of Ray Jackson lodged itself against her work station. He was eighteen years her senior, but it did nothing to detract from the charismatic allure exuded from playful hazel eyes and a sexy swagger envied by men a decade or two younger. “Hello, Queenie.”
She smiled at his use of the pet name he’d given her the moment he’d found out her ancestry. Her great grandmother had been a revered voodoo priestess. Ray had told her that made her the descendant of royalty, a Creole Queen, and had referred to her as “Queenie” ever since.
“How’d the ambush go?” He smiled at the wide grin that spread across her face. “That good, huh?”
“He’s all mine for the next week, and all expenses are being covered courtesy of the Kansas City Griffins.” Naomi swirled in her desk chair, the grin too explosive to fade.
“Wow. You actually got tightwad DuChamps to spring for sending you and Janssen to Ibiza? How’d you manage that?”
She wordlessly continued to swivel and batted her eyelashes at him.
A loud guffaw burst from his lips, before they spread over straight white teeth in a seductive smile that kept him ever-popular with the ladies despite being eons past his pro football days. “The man didn’t stand a chance.” He adjusted to a more comfortable position and crossed his arms over his chest, his expression turning serious. “How’d Janssen take the news?”
The swiveling of the chair stopped. She frowned. “He protested at first, but he ultimately agreed. DuChamps didn’t give him much of a choice.”
“Which may not be good for you. You sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” She pulled open her file drawer.
“Be careful, Queenie. Janssen’s a scrapper. He may be blond and fair, but that boy has ‘hood written all over him.” He adjusted his pant leg and propped a hip on her desk. “He came up through the school of hard knocks, and he knows how to give as good as he gets. This is his career he thinks you’re messing with, even though you had nothing to do with that picture. You don’t back a man like that into a corner and not expect him to come out swinging.”
“Dash would never hurt me.”
“You mean not physically.”
She looked away with cheeks burning. She gathered several manila folders from the file drawer and placed them on her desk. “That’s ancient history, Ray.”
His fingers found her jaw and turned her face towards him. “Is it?” What he saw in her face must have worried him. He shook his head. “Dangit, girl.” His arms flopped to his lap, wrists crossed. “You’re still in love with the man.”
She pulled her tote back out of the drawer and began jamming folders in. She no longer felt like working at the office. “No. I’m. Not.” She whirled towards him. “I need this story.”
Her situation with the editor had been coming for a long time. She’d had to work twice as hard as the rest of the personnel to become the number two sports reporter at the Daily. No easy feat when all the other sports reporters were male and the bias against females covering male sports still thrived in earnest.
She’d managed to out scoop, out write, and out commentate all but Ray year after year. Nevertheless, it hadn’t been until she’d started dating Dash a few years back that she’d managed to advance at the paper. Even then, she knew bias was at work. Her boss had tossed her a bone or two to make sure she didn’t take her direct line to a professional quarterback to one
of his competitors. He’d gambled that information she might garner during pillow talk would lead to better headlines for the Daily.
The special concessions had annoyed her and made her a running joke with the guys. They’d guffaw in her presence about which player they could sleep with to keep her from stealing their jobs.
Dammit. She’d earned that promotion long before Dash had come into the picture. The good ole boys network just hadn’t seen fit to give it to her until they’d seen something in it for them. She shouldn’t have been perceived as playing the sex card to advance at her job. She loved sports, especially football. She knew the game better than just about every guy on the job, except for maybe Ray, which is why she’d only risen second to his best.
Ray was a standup guy and true reporter. Despite his long-held, and well-deserved, position as the number one sports guy, he’d mentored her along without hesitation or bias when she first got to the paper. He’d warned her that her relationship with Dash might ultimately hurt her more than it would help her. She should have listened. Unfortunately, her heart had overruled her head.
“You need this story, but you alone with Janssen across the ocean without backup may not be a good thing.”
“You know as well as I do I’ll get better content with Dash on site to up the ante.”
Ray sighed. “Yeah, I know. Just be careful, Naomi.” He stood, a fierce look in his eyes. “I stayed out of your drama with Dash last time because you begged me to. If he steps out of line this time, I’m going to hunt that boy down and beat his ass. Understood?”
Naomi stood up and hugged him. He was more than a mentor, sometimes he felt like a surrogate father. “Understood. Thanks, Ray. But I got this.”
He hugged her back. “Yeah. Yeah. Famous last words.”
*
Dash leaned with both hands against the bathroom sink, staring blankly at the steam-fogged counterto-ceiling mirror behind the faucet. Fresh from the shower, he stood naked and half wet. A towel draped from one hand down the side of the bathroom cabinet. His body hurt from the pounding he’d taken last night. They’d beaten Atlanta, but just barely.
He knew he had no physical issues. The team doctors and trainers had looked him over thoroughly last night before he left the stadium. His teammates would be filing in later this morning for their physical evaluations, but he was excused because he was supposed to be getting on a plane and heading for the lovely island of Ibiza. At least, he guessed it was lovely. He’d never heard of it until two days ago and had no idea where it was until Naomi’d told him. Through a search on the internet, he’d found details about the island’s highlights and points of interest.
His head reeled; his splintered emotions worked him over harder than any defender ever had. The idea of going to a tropical isle with Naomi to flush out a story with him at the center didn’t thrill him. The idea of going to a tropical isle with her for sundry other pleasures thrilled him to no end, and therein lied the problem.
That he could want her despite not trusting her confused him.
He wanted to get her alone. He wanted to get her alone with her sole interest focused on him and not the story he represented, but fat chance on that. His weakness disgusted him. She’d run her game on him once. He wasn’t some idealistic chump who didn’t know the score. He knew better than to fall for feminine wiles. What was that old expression? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice …
Dammit. He tossed the damp towel onto the counter. He still wasn’t feeling a trip to Ibiza. If Naomi wanted to play Diane Sawyer, let her. He didn’t need to fly to the Mediterranean to figure this out.
He was in Kansas City. The team was in Kansas City. DuChamps was Kansas City. Whoever was messing with him had a connection to here. He just needed to figure out what. He wasn’t letting some passive-aggressive punk fool with his life using anonymous, false press tips. He’d worked hard for everything he had, and he intended to keep it.
No one had ever given him anything, not even a real set of parents. His birth parents had died together in a car accident when he was an infant. Only a few months old, he’d ended up a ward of the state of Nebraska. By all rights, he shouldn’t have a professional football career. A foster kid with a chip on his shoulder and a juvenile record, he’d done just about everything he could to ruin his life as an adolescent. If not for one faithful day the summer after his freshman year of high school, he suspected he’d be in jail right now.
His cell phone rang. He reached for the phone on the counter. Glancing at the caller ID, he smiled at the coincidence and answered his foster sister’s call. “Peyton, this is a surprise. I was just thinking about you.”
She laughed. “Oh, really? And to what do I owe such an honor?”
He hesitated before answering.
“Ah. So not necessarily good thoughts. Thinking about that day in high school?”
“Something like that.” Dash folded the previously discarded bath towel and laid it bunched along the edge of the bathroom counter. He propped his naked butt against it to avoid the cool granite and the hard counter edge.
“When I think about what would have happened to me that day if you hadn’t intervened, I still shudder,” Peyton said.
“Which is exactly why it’s the last thing I want to talk about.” He didn’t want her reliving those memories.
She always argued they’d both been blessed that day. He had a bit more perspective about the incident now, but that day neither of them had had much to feel blessed about. He’d changed the trajectory of his life, and hers, with an act of anger many construed as an act of chivalry.
Chivalry had had nothing to do with it. He’d been pissed, a common emotion for him back in the day. He’d gotten fed up with a man, his foster father at the time, who took advantage of someone smaller and too afraid to fight back. Dash had lost the tight lid on the contempt he’d harbored for the man for months. He’d blown the top that day, and everything else had been a fluke, a bizarre twist of fate that had freed him and his foster sister from an abusive home and put him on the path to a professional football career.
“If Coach Johnson hadn’t been there to step in, I’m not sure what I did would have mattered.”
“That’s just it, Dash. If you hadn’t acted, I wouldn’t have been there long enough for the coach to get involved.”
Dash remembered the incident as if it had happened yesterday. He’d been on the school track in mid-June. A few weeks before, he’d run in the Nebraska state high school track championships. He’d qualified to run in two events, but he hadn’t made the top eight to achieve All-State honors. He’d been determined to change that outcome his sophomore year and had been on the track running sprints.
The sound of an angry male voice had interrupted his self-imposed drills. He’d looked up to see his—and Peyton’s—foster father pulling her across the school courtyard towards the parking lot. The man had stopped long enough to shake her and say something in anger Dash couldn’t hear, but the look of complete horror on Peyton’s face had made Dash’s gut twist.
He’d glanced at his watch and noted it wasn’t even two o’clock in the afternoon. That meant his foster mother wouldn’t be home from work yet, but his foster father had chosen to pick Peyton up early from her summer enrichment classes. When Peyton had looked up at Dash, he could tell—even from a distance—that she had tears in her eyes, and that feeling in his gut had intensified.
Their foster father had yanked her by the arm towards the car. With Dash watching, Peyton had resisted but not enough to make a scene. The look of hopelessness, and worse, of resignation on her face as she turned away from him in embarrassment had enraged him.
He’d interrupted the old man tussling with her three nights prior. He had rushed into Peyton’s bedroom at the sound of a commotion and caught the old man in her room. The man had jumped away from Peyton when Dash entered and claimed he’d just been disciplining her for some alleged infraction of the kitchen rules. The way Peyton had been clutching
her robe together and the bulge in front of the old man’s pants had suggested otherwise.
Dash had refused to leave the room. He’d ended up with a black eye when the old man had tried to make him. Despite a few painfully well-placed adult fists, Dash hadn’t budged. They’d made so much noise that eventually his foster mother had come to investigate and dragged his foster father from the room. Dash had spent that night and the next two sleeping on the floor in Peyton’s bedroom.
Not deterred, their foster father had shown up at school to try and get Peyton alone with no one home. Dash knew exactly what the pervert had in mind, and the frustration that he stood too far away to stop the man had nearly burned his insides to ash. Then, he’d spied a stray football on the field. He hadn’t stopped to think about what he was doing. He’d grabbed the football and hurled it with everything he had.
The ball had flown in a perfect spiral over the athletic fence into the parking lot and nailed his foster father in the back of the head, making the man crack his forehead against the top of his expensive car. During the man’s stunned aftermath, Peyton had the sense of preservation to run from him to Dash. When his foster father had attempted to follow, the high school football coach had intervened. After figuring out what was going on, Coach Johnson had made sure neither Peyton nor Dash ever stepped foot in that foster home again.
Later, the coaching staff had calculated out that, from where Dash had stood on the field to his foster father’s parked car, Dash had heaved the football nearly seventy yards. The head coach had told him to bring his arm—and all his anger—out to football conditioning the next morning. The rest, as they say, is history.
