Love Game

by Maggie Wells

  To her surprise, he didn’t direct his question to her but spoke to the man sitting next to her.

  “Director Samlin, at five forty-three this evening, a private plane owned by Richard Donner, one of Wolcott University’s biggest boosters, touched down at Nashville International. Witnesses at the airport confirmed that the plane was carrying former Northern University football coach Danny McMillan.”

  Kate’s gaze immediately flew to the mystery man at the back of the crowd, but the snake charmer was gone. Everyone in the room seemed to be waiting for Mike’s reply. Turning to look at the AD, she found Mike wearing a mildly curious expression. But the man’s eyes were sharp.

  He offered an apologetic but confused smile. “I’m sorry, was there a question I missed?”

  “What is he doing here?” Chambers asked. “Are you thinking of hiring him to replace Coach Morton when he retires?”

  “Coach Morton has not informed me of any retirement plans, so I think it would be a bit presumptuous to start looking for candidates to fill his job,” Mike answered smoothly.

  “Then what is Coach McMillan doing here?”

  The smile Mike turned on the reporter probably got him laid back in his playing days based on wattage alone. “Perhaps he wanted to come watch the game.”

  “But you and Coach McMillan played together—”

  Mike held up a hand to stop the reporter. “People, I can honestly tell you that no one employed by the Wolcott athletic department is thinking about anything but basketball tonight. This is Coach Snyder’s and her team’s night, and if you don’t have any further questions pertaining to tonight’s stellar championship victory, I’m going to thank Coach for doing us all proud once again and let her get back to the celebration she so richly deserves.”

  The room exploded with shouts and calls, but Mike ignored them all as he pushed his chair back and rose. She stood too, and the moment their eyes met, she knew every word he’d just said was complete bullshit.

  *

  A week later, Kate stood inside the Warrior Center, her back to a spanking-new trophy positioned under a glowing spotlight. The damn thing had just been placed on its pedestal two days ago. There hadn’t even been time for a layer of dust to settle on it. She should have been on top of the world. Yet here she was, watching a train wreck unfold right in front of her.

  She assumed her sideline stance—arms crossed over her chest, chin up, eyes wary and watchful. Her shoulders ached from the exertion of keeping her spine straight, and her fingernails bit into the thin knit of her sweater. But all the while, she was plotting. Planning. Sketching out plays in her head and wiping them away in the blink of an eye.

  She was a fast-break girl. A woman unafraid to attack the goal. And somehow, this game was moving slowly and disconcertingly fast at the same time.

  “A rolling stone and all that crap.”

  Kate jumped and turned, grimacing as she rubbed at the knot of tension below her ear. The Wolcott men’s basketball coach, Tyrell Ransom, lounged against the corner of the massive display case. His posture was as casual as Kate’s was taut, but his dark eyes were focused on the small cluster of people gathering on the steps just beyond the athletic center’s glass doors, like hers had been moments ago.

  “Rolling stone?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

  “Gathers no moss, right?” Ty kept his eyes locked on the commotion on the front steps as he straightened. The man was long and lithe, nearly six foot eight and as graceful as a panther. Sleekly handsome to boot.

  Aside from his looks and grace, Ty was talented. Not just on the court, but on the sideline as well. It might take some time, but he’d get the men’s program up to snuff. There were few men who’d made the transition from the NBA to coaching look as seamless as Ty did. Just as there were few people in the world who might recognize the restless gleam in the man’s eyes. But Kate did. The man practically shimmered with the impatience of a person who was used to winning and hadn’t been lately.

  “Mike already had an ace in the hole when he took the job as AD.” He smiled as he turned to look at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Shifting his attention back to the scene beyond the doors, the smile faded. “Within just a few years, he’s managed to bring me in, and now this guy.”

  His brow puckered. “You’re a no-brainer, of course. Alumna, all-star, winner of all things great and good. But me and this guy?” He wagged his head in bewilderment. “I’m thinking Mike must have had a thing for nursing broken birds when he was a kid.”

  “You’re hardly a broken bird,” she retorted.

  “I could have scored major endorsement deals for splints, and we all know it,” he shot back. “Funny how after that meeting with Donner, all Stan could talk about was retiring.” His eyes narrowed as if searching his memory for any clues the old football coach might have dropped. “I don’t remember him mentioning any desire to buy an RV and explore the campgrounds of the world.”

  Kate’s snort faded into a chuckle as she pictured Stan Morton, Wolcott’s pudgy, pugnacious football coach, wedged behind the wheel of a luxury motor home. “No. Last I heard, he was having a hissy fit over the fact that his daughter was trying to set a wedding date for a Saturday in late September.”

  Ty laughed. “That had to be intentional.”

  “Of course it was.” For the first time since she’d walked out of that jam-packed conference room, Kate smiled and actually meant it. “The man named his only daughter Lombardi, for cripes’ sake. He had to know retaliation would come at some point.”

  Kate stifled a sigh when Ty moved to stand beside her. At six two in her stocking feet, there weren’t many men in the world who made Kate feel small, but this one did. Ty was living proof all the good ones were taken. Most of them by women more than ten years younger and about fifty shades blonder, like Ty’s wife, Mari.

  His chuckle went a long way toward dispelling some of her tension. They’d become friends since he’d come to Wolcott, but that didn’t mean the sight of his thick gold wedding band didn’t ding her battered heart. To this day, Ty had no idea that his hiring had thrown a wrench in her ex-husband’s ambitions and pounded the final nail in the coffin of Kate’s marriage.

  “Not much of a turnout for a press conference,” he commented, nodding to the small knot of reporters gathered at the base of the steps. “You’d think there’d be more, what with all the scandal he stirred up a few years ago.”

  About halfway down the stairs, Millie Jenkins, Wolcott University’s public relations guru and one of Kate’s closest friends, flitted around the two men positioned at dead center. The woman was in her element. Millie was born to direct, position, and basically boss people around. She was a master of spin, and this little one-act play was her brainchild.

  “It’s not a press conference,” Kate murmured, not taking her eyes off the two men at the eye of the storm. Mimicking the self-proclaimed PR goddess, Kate gave a fluttery wave as if wielding a magic wand. “It’s an impromptu gathering of select members of the press.”

  Ty barked a laugh. “Right. Of course it is.” He pursed his lips as he watched the small throng of reporters shift impatiently. “Frankly, I always thought the guy was kind of a scapegoat.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows. Was Ty actually going to stick up for a man who’d been ridden out of Division I coaching on the proverbial rail? “He admitted to having an affair with a grad student.”

  Ty waved the point off. “Not that. The recruiting violations, sanctions, and that stuff. He wasn’t doing anything everyone else wasn’t doing. He just got caught, and they needed to make an example of someone.”

  Kate snorted. “I can’t believe you’re defending him.”

  He raised both hands. “Not defending him, just saying I’m not sure I believe everything I hear about the guy, that’s all.”

  “Where there’s smoke—” she began.

  “There’s usually someone like Millie fanning a match,” he concluded.

  Kate laughed. Ho
w could she not? He was right. So much of their world was little more than smoke and mirrors. “Point scored.”

  Grinning, he pushed off his pivot foot and nodded to the shiny new trophy. “Beautiful prize there, Coach.” He turned in the direction of his office and called over his shoulder, “Enjoy the circus. And be careful. Don’t let the clowns in tiny cars run over your feet.”

  Kate pursed her lips as she watched Ty walk away, his gait thrown off by a slight limp that favored his right leg.

  The minute he rounded the corner, she returned her attention to the scene unfolding beyond the tinted glass doors. Circus was right. Millie was damn good at her job, but soon it would be three rings around here—with one guy at the center of it all.

  Her eyes narrowed as she homed in on the man of the hour. Danny McMillan was a fine-looking fella in his own right. Dark-haired, tall, and solid. Not beefy, like so many former football players. Of course, he’d been a quarterback in his playing days. Those guys were expected to be trimmer, more agile than the guys paid to put up a protective barrier around them. Still, he looked like a man who could take a hit and keep his feet under him.

  And he had taken more than his share. She had to admire his stamina. If only grudgingly. This guy had the balls to step foot into her press room, walk onto her campus, and stand on the mica-studded steps of the athletic center her program had built as if he owned them.

  He was the savior they’d all been waiting for—the man who could make Wolcott football something more than a sports radio joke.

  She moved to the doors for a better look, gratified to note that the assembled members of the media looked unimpressed. Jim Davenport was there, of course, but she didn’t recognize the painfully young blond wearing NSN credentials on a lanyard around her neck.

  Did Mike Samlin truly think he could hire the bad boy of collegiate athletics, at a purportedly astronomical salary, and not have that come back to haunt him at contract time?

  Oh, hell no.

  She was a Wolcott Warrior and a champion. These men thought they could waltz into her world and take what they wanted? Not likely.

  The heels of her palms came to rest on the door’s crash bar. She watched as McMillan spoke, trying not to notice the way his eyes crinkled when he squinted against the sun or the open hopefulness in his smile. Attractive he might be, but this man was a rule breaker and a cheat. He didn’t deserve to stand on the steps of the house she built.

  This was her time. Her turf. The center ring belonged to her.

  And she’d be damned if she let some clown run over her to get to it.

  Chapter 2

  Feeling a bit like a sideshow freak, Danny McMillan ignored the small group of people staring at him and took a second to drink in the scenery. The sky was blue, the spring sunshine bright, and the Wolcott campus looked like something Hollywood had nailed together on a back lot. The crowd gathered at the base of the steps appeared to be marginally friendlier than the lynch mob that had converged on Coach Snyder’s conference at the Bridgestone Center in Nashville. That was as optimistic as he could get about this little dog and pony show.

  The last time he’d held a press conference, camera shutters clicked like machine gun fire and flashbulbs flared. This time, the assemblage came equipped with exactly one shoulder cam and a smattering of cellular devices. Hell, the smirky, white-blond cheerleader with the National Sports Network credentials dangling from her lanyard didn’t even bother pointing her phone in his direction. She was too busy thumb-typing. He stared at the razor-thin part on the top of the young reporter’s head and rattled off the usual string of gibberish.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be a Wolcott Warrior.”

  No lie. The last four years were a testament to his mental strength and endurance. It was a good thing he had age on his side. He’d once been one of the youngest coaches to ever lead a major program. Maybe they’d forgive him for being nearly junior-high-girl giddy at the prospect of being restored to Division I collegiate athletics—even if it meant coaching a team that hadn’t won a single game in four seasons. Not even against the Division II teams the school paid to play in their preconference games.

  Though they were a member of the revered and feared Mid-Continental Conference, the Wolcott Warriors were perennial cellar dwellers. But it didn’t matter. Division I was Division I. He was back, damn it.

  Pale spring sunlight glinted off the camera lens. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Once again, his future was bright.

  “Athletic Director Samlin and I met with the team this morning, and I can say these young men have made quite an impression on me.”

  Again, the truth. The world at large didn’t need to know that the program would have more success if they channeled their playoff ambitions into the action offered by a couple of well-oiled foosball tables.

  “Smart players playing smart, fundamentally strong football. It’s hard to beat a team that plays with their heads and their hearts.”

  More home truths. The team had an admirably high grade point average as a whole. Surely a group of young men who excelled in Wolcott’s high-flying academic environment could be taught how to convert four downs into six points. As for the kicking game, one of these boy geniuses must have played a little soccer at some point.

  “Trust me, I have every confidence the Wolcott Warriors will make their mark on collegiate athletics.”

  The tiny cluster of reporters snapped to attention, and he clamped his mouth shut, wishing the words back. He hated himself for asking for their trust. Only used car salesmen asked people to trust them. Well, car salesmen and men who’d publicly fallen from grace. And only a fool thought that football meant squat around these parts. He was still scrambling for a way to rephrase when the question zinged him right between the eyes.

  “Make their mark? Coach Snyder has won four national championships in the past decade. Wouldn’t you say that made a mark?”

  Danny hid his cringe as he scanned the sad group of reporters. The question came from a tall, nerdy-looking guy standing at the back of the pack. At first glance, Danny had pegged him as an easy target. He looked like a former athlete. The type who didn’t quite have the talent to play beyond college. The glory-days guys used to be his specialty, but it didn’t look like this one could be wooed with a sideline pass and a date to speak to the Rotary Club.

  Shit. How could he have slipped up like that? This was a basketball school. Women’s basketball, of all things. Wolcott University was home to Kate Snyder—basketball star, coaching legend, and media darling. “No. Right. Of course.” He stumbled over the acknowledgment. “I meant in football.”

  Thankfully, Mike decided to put him out of his misery. His old friend, former teammate, and new boss stepped forward and held up a hand. “Coach McMillan will take just a few more questions. He’s got a hot date with some game film lined up for this afternoon.”

  If he didn’t have to be the guy to answer the damn things, Danny would have found the predictability of the questions laughable. But he did have to answer them. Every single time he took a new coaching job. Danny clenched his abs and stood straighter in a Pavlovian response. And here it came…

  “Coach, do you truly think you can build a winning program at a school like Wolcott without resorting to the kinds of…questionable tactics you used at Northern?”

  He didn’t blink. No point in denying the recruiting violations he’d already owned. Even though his staff had only done what everyone else was doing. Because he was their leader and ultimately responsible for the entire program, he’d fallen on his sword when they got caught. At any other time, in any other place, he would have gotten a few wins vacated from his record and a slap on the wrist. His people just happened to step in it at the wrong time.

  He didn’t dare give anything but the faintly puzzled smile he’d perfected in front of the mirror. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  Damn straight he could and would. He’d been the NCAA’s whipping boy for too long. He had so
mething to prove, and what better way to stick it to them all than to turn one of the worst programs in the division into one of the best?

  Danny waited, but the follow-up question never materialized. For one blissful moment, he thought maybe they’d forgotten about the girl. But reporters were like elephants. They never forgot. They’d remember the rest of the scandal that had gotten him fired and essentially blackballed. It was just a matter of time. Instead, this hard-hitting journalist decided to make a name for himself by being completely ineffectual and innocuous. God bless him.

  The beanpole reporter waved away the ethics questions in his rush to state the obvious. “Unlike the other Division I schools you’ve coached for, Wolcott athletics have historically focused on the basketball programs.”

  Once again, no actual question followed. Rather than wait for the attack, Danny decided to grab the bull by the horns and wrestle his way out of this meet and greet as best he could.

  “That’s true. This is one of the reasons I’m so excited to be here. History is the past. I think what Director Samlin is trying to do is look to the future. My goal is to generate the same kind of support for the football program that Coach Snyder and Coach Ransom have for basketball. We’re playing in the big-boy conference. I want to see Wolcott claim its rightful spot.”

  The metallic clunk of a crash bar filled the silence as the reporters dutifully noted his ass-kissing. He heard one of the heavy glass doors behind him hiss a hydraulic sigh, but he paid the commotion no mind. He had only a few land mines to navigate between him and the safety of seventy hours of film analysis.

  A few reporters straightened when they spotted whoever came through the door, but he didn’t dare turn his back on the wolves gathered on the steps. Good thing he didn’t, because the NSN reporter chose that moment to spring into action. She waved her arm to get his attention. “Coach! Coach!”

  “Yes”—he scanned the name on the badge dangling just above her navel—“Brittany?”