by Candis Terry
“I’ll admit, sir,” Dean’s previously clenched jaw slid into his good-old-boy wink-wink-nudge-nudge grin. “I do get paid a lot of money to play.”
The blood in Emma’s veins froze. Her jaw dropped. And her heart stuttered.
He hadn’t even made it back onto Texas soil yet, but playboy Dean was already open for business.
“Come on, honey. You know I was kidding. That man had no business insinuating anything. I was just trying to deflect.”
Emma tightened her grip on the wheel of Dean’s monster SUV and gritted her teeth. “It didn’t sound like you were kidding. Principal Prince didn’t think you were kidding. And I certainly didn’t think you were kidding.” She glanced over at him, then shot her eyes back to the road. “That’s three strikes.”
A dark brow lifted. “And I’m out?”
“So go the major league baseball rules.”
“But I’m a football player.”
“Among other things.”
He gave a great sigh like he’d just lifted the weight of the world. “Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want things to end this way.”
“End?” Her stomach clenched. A few days ago he’d asked her to live with him. Now he was saying goodbye? Literally?
She glanced across the cab of the SUV. Creases marred his perfect forehead.
“Poor choice of words,” he said. “Please. Pull over.”
“Fine.” She flipped on the blinker and eased to the side of the highway. He was about to get on a plane and fly out of her life. Was it temporary? Or permanent? She had to face the truth. No matter how much it might hurt. She forced her eyes back to his. “You’re not usually one who has trouble with words, Dean.”
“I am when they count. In case you haven’t noticed, I say some really dorky things when I’m around you.” He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I care about you, Em.”
“I care about you too.” She clasped a hand to the front of her coat while the grilled cheese sandwich in her stomach curdled. She had to say it. Get it over with. Know the truth. “In fact, I’ve completely fallen in love with you.”
No emotion registered on his face. Several silent heartbeats passed. And Emma realized she’d been foolish to think he would respond otherwise. While she’d told him she loved him, he sat there looking at her like she’d eaten a worm.
“Guess you’re used to hearing that a lot.” Still no reaction. Great. Before she shriveled into a blubbering idiot, she reached for the ignition. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.”
He stopped her from turning the key by bringing her hand up to his mouth and pressing his lips to the backs of her fingers.
Her gaze traveled up his arm, to his oh-so-handsome face.
“You’re the first,” he said, eyes dark and serious. “And the only in many ways.”
“What?”
“You’re the first and only woman I’ve ever made love to without protection. You’re the first and only woman who’s ever told me she was in love with me. And you’re the first and only woman I’ve ever opened myself up to.” He framed her face with his hands and drew her toward him. “When I say I care about you, Em, it’s more than that. You mean a lot to me. More than I ever thought possible.”
He lowered his head and his mouth covered hers in an almost reverent kiss which ended much too soon. He tilted his head back and looked her straight in the eye. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded. In that kiss she found more meaning than a wordy declaration could ever express.
“I’m glad,” he said, then gathered her in his arms. They sat in that SUV, hugging each other until a car speeding by laid on the horn. They eased apart with a laugh.
“Guess we’d better get you to the airport.”
“Yeah.” He leaned back in the seat. “Want me to drive?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” He smiled. “Then I can sit here and look at you the rest of the way.”
When he leaned across the seat and kissed her again, happiness settled into a nice little place in the corner of her heart where she could keep it safe.
The rest of the drive they talked about the camp organizer prospects Dean had interviewed and the projects he or she would need to complete to have the camp ready to open by the beginning of summer. Too soon Emma pulled into the parking lot of the Missoula Airport and parked in a spot near the terminal. After a bit of shuffling, they both got out of the SUV.
Dean grabbed his bag from the backseat, dropped it to the ground, and pulled her into the warmth of his arms. “I’m going to miss you, Em.”
“I’ll miss you too.” She would not cry. She would not . . . Damn it.
He kissed her mouth. Kissed her tears. “Don’t cry, honey.”
She nodded against his shirt, then with a sniff let him go.
He picked up his duffle, slung the strap over his good shoulder, and gave her one more quick kiss. “I’ll call you as soon as we land.”
“Okay.” Love you.
With a wave he walked through the big glass doors and disappeared.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Springtime in Houston delivered vibrant shades of green and carpets of dazzling flowers in a rainbow of color. Much different than the day before, when he had traded the snow flurries in Deer Lick for Texas t-shirt weather. Dean wasn’t sure which he preferred. Colder weather did have its advantages. Cuddling with his favorite blonde sat high on his list.
Alone in his enormous kitchen he pushed the “liquefy” button on his blender and watched the yogurt, fruit, and powder swirl in the glass container. Time to get back to his daily routine of protein shakes and grueling workouts. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be out on the field again and trying to avoid having his shoulder driven into the turf by three-hundred-pound tackles. He needed to be at 110 percent. No more scarfing on Kate’s cheesecake cupcakes. No more late-night snacking after a vigorous round of making love with Emma. His chest squeezed just thinking of her.
She was in love with him.
Even now her words stumbled around in his heart. At first he hadn’t known how to take her declaration. For a moment those words had blindsided him. He hadn’t known what to say or how to react. But the last thing he’d ever wanted to do was to hurt her. So he’d been honest. Sitting in that car, looking at her beautiful face, he’d let her know he cared for her. But he’d stayed far away from the word love.
He didn’t do love.
He didn’t do marriage.
He didn’t do forever.
He enjoyed touching her, laughing with her, being with her. And when he wasn’t with her he missed her. He felt genuine affection.
But love?
He loved his family. Loved his team. But being in love? He didn’t know what that meant.
Before he’d walked into the airport he’d taken her into his arms and she’d melted into him like a chocolate kiss left in the sun. Then he’d given her a quick wave and stepped through the glass doors of the terminal. Inside he’d checked his bag, gone through security, and stopped at a restaurant for a to-go snack for the long flight home.
Every step he’d taken he’d felt like he’d forgotten something. Like he’d forgotten to pack his shaver, or his toothbrush, or one of those essential items you couldn’t get through the day without. When he’d settled into his first-class seat and buckled the belt around his waist, the sensation had intensified.
By the time the plane had lifted from the runway, he knew by the intense grip on his heart he hadn’t forgotten something. He’d forgotten someone.
He’d looked out the plane window, searching for the parking lot, his SUV, and the beautiful woman with the amazing heart, but saw nothing. As the city lights dimmed to darkness, he wondered if the huge ache rolling through his chest might very well be love after all.
A week later on a sunny Friday morning, Dean trailed behind the medical assistant int
o his surgeon’s office. The week before, he’d gone through a series of MRIs and x-rays, much as he had the night he’d been drilled into the field. Today he’d find out his long-term prognosis. He’d woken feeling optimistic, much as he did on game days. That optimism had never let him down before. It wouldn’t now. As soon as he got the good news, he’d call Emma and make arrangements for her to fly to Houston for spring break. They’d figure out things from there. All he knew was he wanted to be with her. Needed to be with her.
He settled into the leather chair, grabbed a Men’s Health magazine off the table, and waited for the doctor to arrive. He fanned through the pages, not really interested in the manliest restaurants list, and he was too late to learn from the NFL Pro’s How to Prevent Injuries article. He closed the magazine and tossed it back onto the table, just as Dr. Powell walked in studying the chart in his hand.
“How’s the shoulder?” the doc asked.
Again with the depersonalization. “I’m great.”
Powell lifted his gaze over his gold-rimmed glasses and looked at Dean as though he’d said something odd.
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how’s your pain level?”
“Depends. I usually run around a three or four consistently. Are those the test results?” Dean asked, anxious to get the good news so he could get on with his life.
“Most of them. We’re still waiting on the blood screen, but I think we have enough information here to get a clear outlook.”
Dean settled deeper into the chair. “Which is?”
“Not good.”
Those two words hit him like a lead mallet. “Excuse me?”
“The cartilage just hasn’t healed the way we’d hoped. Thus the reason for the lingering pain.” The doctor stuck an MRI image up on the light box, grabbed a pen off the desk, and motioned for Dean to join him.
Dazed, Dean stood in front of the image and looked at all the dark and light areas the doctor quickly pointed to. They made no sense to him.
“There doesn’t appear to be enough blood flow to generate the healing. See these lighter places here?” He pointed to some areas above the bone. “It wouldn’t take much for these to tear again. They’re just weak.”
Weak.
Bam! Dean hadn’t seen that one coming.
“So how long is it going to take to completely heal?”
The doctor looked him straight in the eye. “Six months. A year. Maybe never.”
Fuck.
Dean returned to his chair, dropped down, and put his head in his hands.
“It’s a wait-and-see situation, Dean.” The doctor slid into the chair behind his desk. “I’m sorry I can’t make promises on when or if. I can’t even tell you that this won’t require another surgery, because it might. My professional opinion is that unless something drastic changes in the next couple of weeks, you’ll be out for the season.” The doctor lowered his gaze like he just realized how harsh his words sounded but knew he had to say them anyway. “I tried to prepare you.”
“Yeah.” Dean looked up. “I know you did.” The world spun like he’d drunk a bottle of Jack without the benefit of a mixer.
Out for the season.
When the room slowed to a manageable twirl, he asked, “Does the coach know?”
Dr. Powell tossed his pen back onto the desk. “I always update the patient before the report goes to headquarters.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You’re a hell of a quarterback. I wish I had better news.”
“Yeah, me too.” Scrambled images ran through his head. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Give me twenty-four hours before you release the report?”
The doctor studied his face like he understood what Dean was feeling. But that was impossible.
“No one but you and I need to know before Monday,” Dr. Powell said. “If you choose to talk to the Stallions’ front office before then, so be it. Now let’s go over the next course of physical therapy.”
For the next ten minutes the doctor ran through timelines and exercises, but Dean barely heard through the buzz in his ears. His heart rate had doubled in speed and seemed like it was trying to push through his chest. Inside he felt hollow. Lost. Ashamed.
Weak.
When finally he left the office, he calmly walked to his Mercedes, opened the door, and slid inside. He yanked the seatbelt over his hips, dropped his head back, and released the roar that had been brewing inside him.
Slowly his heart came back to normal and the buzz in his ears lessened. He grabbed his Oakleys off the dashboard and slipped them in place over his eyes, twisted the key in the ignition, and roared out into heavy traffic.
For the first time in his life he’d been hit with a professional penalty bigger than he could handle.
On Saturday afternoon, Emma finished up her housecleaning and jumped in her car to run errands. A week had passed since she’d taken Dean to the airport. He’d called her when he’d arrived and he’d called her in the middle of the night. She’d never had phone sex before but after several days she’d become quite good. At least that’s what he told her. Sounding positive and upbeat, he’d called her yesterday morning before his doctor’s appointment.
Then nothing.
More than twenty-four hours had passed.
Had he been abducted by aliens? Had he been in a car accident and was now lying dead on some back country road? Had he been given a green light and jumped back into his full work schedule? If so, was he really too exhausted or too busy to call? As her pessimistic imagination ran wild, worry dug razor-sharp nails into her heart.
With her car loaded down with bags from the grocery store, she decided to stop by the Sugar Shack, give herself a break, and treat herself to one of the white-chocolate tarts Kate had concocted last week.
As she went through the shop door, the little bell rang over her head. As usual the place was packed. While Emma waited her turn near the door, Kate looked up from boxing up an order and waved her back. One of the perks of being friends with the shop owners was you got to go behind the counter, select, and package your own treats.
“Hi.” Kate gave her a one-sided flour-dusted hug as Emma came around the counter.
“Wow. Busy today.”
“I know.” Kate shoved a loaf of honey wheat bread into a white bag and added a dozen sourdough dinner rolls. “Which is totally great because I’ve got my eye on a new fryer and it’s going to set us back a little. I’m going to break into a new direction.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Nothing R-rated this time. Just cake pops. People like fried things on a stick. I’m going to rise above and invent something totally fresh and addictive.”
Emma laughed. “You are a baking goddess, Kate.”
“Either that or I’ve completely gone over to the dark side. What’s on your list today?”
“Mmmm.” Emma peered into the display case. “I thought I’d try one of those new white-chocolate tarts.”
“Great. And you’ll be happy to know I topped them this morning with fresh strawberry glacé. Go ahead and help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Emma leaned down, slipped her hand into the glass case, and plucked out one of the desserts wrapped in a frilly tulip shaped baking cup. It looked so delicious she was tempted to stuff the treat in her mouth right then and there.
Kate handed the loaf of bread over the counter to Linda Daylon, the clerk down at the courthouse. “So what did you think of my brother’s news?”
Emma straightened.
“Crap.” Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t he call you?”
A chill shot up Emma’s spine. “The last I talked to him was yesterday morning before he went to the doctor. When did he call?”
Kate glanced up at the clock. “He called Dad around eleven.”
Four hours ago.
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t call you. You know how important you are to him.”
Obviously not.
“Check your cell,” Kate said. “Maybe you didn’t hear it ring.”
Emma pulled her phone from her purse but there were no voice mails, no text messages, no emails. She looked up at Kate. “What did he say?”
“I can’t believe he didn’t call you.”
“What did he say, Kate?”
Her shoulders lifted beneath her pink apron. “Game over.”
“What does that mean?”
“The doctor wouldn’t clear him to play. They released him from the team.”
Nausea rolled in Emma’s stomach. If his shoulder was still too damaged to play, if he’d lost his job, how could he have not called her? She set the once-tempting dessert down on the counter. “Can I pick this up later? I . . . ummm . . .” Her gaze darted toward the bakery door and the new customers who had just walked in. “I have to go.”
On her way out the door Edna Price barged in. “Emma. What are you doing here? I thought you would have flown to Houston to be with Dean.”
Emma took a step back. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s going through a traumatic time, dear. Surely you sensed his distress when he called you after he found out his career was over.”
She would have if he’d actually called.
And how the hell did Edna Price know?
“It was good to see you, Mrs. Price.” She pushed open the bakery door and strode to her car.
Why hadn’t he called her?
Screw it. She wasn’t going to wait for him to call. She grabbed her cell from her purse and tagged his number in her contact list. Her call went straight to voice mail and her heart hit the basement. Two blocks down the road, her hands were shaking on the wheel while her gas gauge bounced on empty. Unable to ignore the real world, she pulled into the G & G to fill up.
A cool breeze blew through the pump islands while she unscrewed the gas cap and stuck in the nozzle. A bell jingled and Emma looked up as Ollie Barnett came out the glass door.
“Hey, Em, what are you still doing here?”
Still? Oh, no. “Filling up my gas tank.”
“Heading out to the airport?” he asked, as he opened the door to his battered F–150.
