by Maggie Wells
Her duty done, she edged closer to the wall and let her head fall back. It seemed that in the last twenty-four hours, she’d done nothing but revise strategy and set play after play in motion. Truth be told, all this maneuvering was a bit wearing on a girl who simply wanted to stay put.
“Looking good, Coach,” one of the crew members said as he hustled past her and through the double doors.
She did look good. One hell of a lot better than she had at the courthouse, and if that wasn’t ass-backward, she didn’t know what was. A few hours before, she’d gotten married in yoga pants, a yogurt-stained T-shirt, and her fifth favorite pair of sneakers, but for the National Sports Network, she had to dress up. Men wearing earpieces scurried past her, carrying equipment and cable into the hotel ballroom. Kate couldn’t think of a time when she had done an interview anywhere other than a basketball arena.
At center court.
She glanced down the blandly decorated hotel corridor and shuddered. Yards of cable stretched from the front doors to the sectioned-off ballroom. They had to squeeze the interview in quick. Apparently, there was a bat mitzvah scheduled for that evening.
She peeked into the room and spotted the customary canvas chairs placed in the center of the room. There would be no cozy Costas setup for this interview. They’d promised Brittany, the perky, blond junior reporter NSN had sent to cover Danny’s welcome, an exclusive. This interview would be the last hurrah in the Wolcott battle of the sexes.
The girl sat in the middle chair, the tip of one french-manicured finger poised above the tablet in her lap. Her platinum hair spilled over her shoulders, carefully arranged sections veiling her no doubt perky breasts, the rest a shining fall so smooth it looked like a sheet of ice. She wore the heavy makeup the cameras demanded, but even from this distance, Kate could see her face was smooth and unlined.
Twenty-five, twenty-six at the very most, Kate guessed. Millie had mentioned something about her playing on an Olympic volleyball team. Kate thought about her own Olympic jersey hanging in one of the Warrior Center’s many display cases and grudgingly acknowledged the unexpected kinship with the reporter.
But that was as far as her sense of solidarity went. She didn’t want this pretty, young thing seated between her and Danny. What viewer in their right mind would look at Brittany, then look at her and imagine that Danny McMillan would choose her? Despite the normally healthy state of her ego, Kate was having a hard time buying it herself.
She jumped as a warm, broad hand claimed the small of her back. Danny chuckled, and scents of male aftershave and a hint of makeup wound around her.
“Hey.”
Danny stood close, his broad body bracing her back. Strong. Solid. Set. She gave up a little of her weight, and he took it, wrapping one arm snug around her waist. She stroked his sleeve. The wool of his suit coat was smooth beneath her fingertips. The knot of his tie pressed into the back of her skull. Still, she’d wager it had taken him a lot less time to get ready for this circus. While she’d been worked over by an army of minions operating on Millie’s behest, he’d been holed up with their agents.
“Are you still fired?”
“Yeah.”
“How are things looking?”
“How does North Dakota sound to you?”
“Cold.”
His chest moved in a laugh, but no sound came out. “Yeah, well, I touched the people’s princess. I’m sure most of the top-tier schools are busy locking up their women.”
“I’m the queen, remember?” She turned her head and pressed her cheek to his lapel, inhaling the skin-warmed spice of his aftershave. “And there will be no other women for you. I’d crush you with my powerful thighs.”
“Not them?”
“Only you.”
“What a way to go.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “My mother can’t wait to meet you.”
“I tried to call Audrey, but she didn’t pick up. I texted her. I was thinking maybe we could meet in Nashville for dinner one night, but we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she said in a rush.
“I’m going to meet her sooner or later.” His arms tightened around her. “You can’t undo the damage now, Coach. You called the play, and now you’re stuck with me.”
She let her head loll against his shoulder. “I can’t believe we’re stuck doing this interview.”
“I’m just glad we had Millie on our side. That woman could overthrow dictators.”
“I think maybe she has.” Craning her neck, she peered up at him. “And Mike?”
“He’s working it as best he can,” Danny assured her. “Too bad Martin’s such a stubborn ass.”
With a shaky sigh, she turned her head to gaze straight into his piercing blue eyes. “Please tell me they put mascara on those eyelashes.”
“Sorry. No mascara.”
Poking her lower lip out, she sulked. “So not fair.” She relaxed against him, letting him support a little more of her weight. “Would you let me?”
“Let you what?”
“Put mascara on those inch-long eyelashes.”
“No,” he said firmly, but his hesitation indicated a willingness to let her do just about anything she wanted to him.
Turning her face into his neck, she brushed a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You’d look so pretty.”
“You’re a cruel woman.”
Another crew member rushed past them, waving some kind of gewgaw that must have been a vital cog in the works, because the minute he ducked into the ballroom, the frenzy of activity became more purposeful. Kate tugged at her skirt and forced herself to stand tall. “I prefer the term ‘tough broad,’ if you don’t mind.”
Danny stepped in front of her, putting himself between her and the scene of their soon-to-come public hand slapping. “I’ll just play it safe and stick with beautiful.”
Only halfheartedly imagining the mile-long lashes coated in glossy black, she searched his eyes until she found the confidence she’d momentarily misplaced. It was there, as always. Right there with the smirks, the stares, and the cocky jock swagger. It was no wonder she hadn’t recognized it at first. This man’s unswerving belief in them looked a hell of a lot like real love, and she’d never loved anyone the way she loved him.
He brushed her hair back, tucking a piece behind her ear. “Why do you do that?” she asked.
“Hm?”
“You always push my hair back behind my ears. Why?”
He cocked his head, studying her quizzically. “I don’t know. I guess I just see you do it, and I like…” Finally, he gave a helpless shrug and traced the curve of her exposed ear with his fingertip. “I like your face. I like your ears. It’s fun to watch them turn pink.”
As if he’d given the damn things a cue, they started to burn. A sly smile cocked one side of his mouth. He planted his hand on the wall and leaned into her. She couldn’t have torn her gaze from his if she’d tried.
“They’re tender and soft and taste so damn sweet.”
“All that from ears,” she whispered.
He gave a slow nod, his expression solemn but his eyes bright. “Just imagine how I feel about the rest of you.”
“I love you,” she blurted.
“Coach? And, uh, Coach?” a young man called, breaking the spell.
“Good. Otherwise, we made a big-ass mistake today.” They both turned toward the scrawny assistant fidgeting in the doorway, tablet in hand and headset draped around his neck. Danny pushed away from the wall, but instead of distancing himself from Kate, he took hold of her arm and urged her forward. “You ready for us?”
“Yeah, we’re all set,” the kid called back.
Danny’s hand slid to its usual spot in the small of Kate’s back as they made their way to Brittany’s side. “Just let me handle most of this, okay? I made the mess, I’ll clean it up.”
“I have a stake in this too. Aside from you, I mean,” she clarified.
“You do?”
“The world doesn’t revol
ve around you and your drama, Danny.”
“I never meant to imply that it did.”
His placid tone set her off. He could pretend to be panicked or at the very least ruffled, damn it. She pulled away from him just shy of the baseline. “That figure I gave Mike? My salary? I asked for more than they’re paying Ransom.”
“Whoa.”
“I won’t settle for less.”
“You shouldn’t. Your record has his beat to shit.”
“Just so you know,” she said, straightening her hem, “it’s possible they won’t pony up. And I wouldn’t be here come fall anyhow.”
“If this doesn’t work, I won’t be here tomorrow,” he countered.
“Always trying to one-up me.”
He smiled and tucked her hair back behind her ear again. “No, just letting you know that, although the choices we’ve heard so far aren’t ideal, it doesn’t matter to me where we end up now. I know we’ll be together.”
“Are you two ready?” the assistant asked again, turning the clipboard in his hands nervously. He grimaced in apology and shrugged. “We’re live in three minutes.”
Her heart hammering, she gave Danny’s hand a squeeze and started toward the semicircle of chairs, adding a little extra sway to her step as a reward. “I’m set,” she said, smiling sweetly at the production assistant, “but I think the pretty boy could use a little pancake. Looks like he has a pimple.”
Danny barked a laugh and caught up to her in three long strides. “She thinks I’m pretty,” he said, affecting a simpering tone. But when the makeup woman hustled across the floor clutching a plastic tube and a sponge, he waved her off. “My face is fine.” He shot Kate a glance out of the corner of his eye. “And she thinks so too.”
Kate refrained from further comment, her focus set on the chair to Brittany’s left. Positioning oneself on an opponent’s weak side was a strategy so fundamental old Mack Nord probably used it to determine which side of the bed his wife could sleep on each night. In watching the young woman prepare for the interview, she’d noticed that Brittany was right-handed. That meant she’d be naturally inclined to focus on the person to her right. Kate would cover the left. Out of the line of fire, but right there to protect Danny’s flank if push came to shove.
She was really good at pushing and shoving.
The interview unfolded at a slug’s pace. To start, Brittany aimed a volley of razor-edged questions at Danny but lobbed only softballs at her. The knowing looks the younger woman darted in her direction made Kate wonder if she was supposed to thrust a fist of feminist solidarity.
Frankly, the sanctimonious little twit was pissing her off. Who was she to question Danny’s integrity? Who were any of them? Everyone made bad choices. People lived with consequences. Danny had, and every time they knocked him down, he got right back up and called his next play.
The questions and answers flew. Brittany kept trying to make each one a knockout blow. She must’ve forgotten she was dealing with a man who spent the majority of his adult life staring down three-hundred-pound behemoths hell-bent on smashing him into the turf.
The reporter paused to take a drink of water, and Danny’s gaze met Kate’s above the young woman’s head. He tried to smile, but the misery he must’ve felt each time those manicured nails picked at another old wound dulled the luminescent blue of his eyes.
Millie had been all about controlling the story, but at the moment, it felt like they had no control. Funny, just a day ago, all Kate had been thinking about was cutting Jim Davenport off at the knees. Well, the schmuck got what he deserved for taking the cheap shot at the press conference. His piddling newspaper story was about to be scooped on air by the biggest sports network in the nation.
But whatever triumph Kate felt in besting Jim was dampened by having to sit quietly and watch Danny field one hostile, impertinent question after another without stepping in. Biting her tongue and sitting on her hands was nothing short of torture. But she couldn’t interfere. Millie was right. He needed to come clean about what happened in his past once and for all, before they could deal with their future.
“Do you ever hear from LeAnn Cushing?”
The question jolted Kate from her reverie. Brittany spoke the woman’s name as if it should be known in every household. This time, Kate didn’t bother trying to mask her scowl.
“Well, she is married to my brother, so I’m on the Christmas card list.”
His answer was stiff and terse. It hurt Kate to hear the pain in his tone, but the realization that the mere mention of LeAnn still had so much impact on Danny cut her to the quick.
Brittany pounced. “She married your brother?”
Danny glanced over at her, his eyes a vivid plea for help. In that moment, she understood why he never spoke about the relationship that caused his fall from grace. The woman wasn’t the one he missed; it was his brother. Sitting up tall, Kate charged into the fray and swatted the question like she was blocking a shot.
“Family connections can be complicated,” Kate said, inserting herself into the conversation for the first time since the interview started. “But I don’t see what his relationship with his brother and sister-in-law have to do with football.”
Brittany blinked as if Kate had ripped a strip of hot wax from between her perfectly arched brows. “I’m sorry?”
The woman’s blank expression made it too damn easy for someone with the instincts of a natural-born winner to go on the offensive. “My ex-husband was too threatened by my success to stay married to me, but no one ever asks why. I just think it’s funny that you’re peppering Coach McMillan with asinine questions that have absolutely no bearing on his ability to be a successful football coach.”
Kate thought she heard Danny groan softly, but Brittany shot ramrod straight in the canvas chair. “I’m sure Coach McMillan has the technical skills to be an adequate tactician,” she said coolly. “What I’m questioning is whether a man who dates students—and according to rumor, fellow staff members—should be the man we look to as a role model for young men in sports.”
Danny leapt into the argument. “Ms. Cushing might have been a graduate student, but she was twenty-six years old when we started seeing each other. I wasn’t that much older—”
“But still quite a bit older,” Brittany interjected.
“Huh. I wonder how much is too much?” Kate turned to Brittany, a frown deep enough to make Millie’s head explode bisecting her brows. “Is three years a better spread? Would five be stretching it?”
“I’m not sure I know why you’re asking,” Brittany replied cautiously.
“Well, you seem to think you’re an expert, so I’m trying to get a feel for what would be an appropriate life choice for Coach McMillan and what wouldn’t.”
“Kate, please…” Danny started.
“Does it vary from man to man? Ty Ransom is eighteen years older than his wife, but I don’t see anyone heating up tar and plucking chickens.” Kate looked directly into the camera. “Sorry, Ty. Nothing personal. I just want to get the rules straight.”
“We’re not here to talk about Coach Ransom,” Brittany said primly.
“No, we’re here so you can peck more holes in Coach McMillan.” She shuddered delicately. “It’s like watching an old Hitchcock movie.”
“Kate, don’t engage.”
Danny’s attempt to intervene was well intentioned, but she had a head full of steam and needed to release it. The poor guy was trying to fight back a hailstorm with a flyswatter.
Swinging her crossed legs toward Brittany, Kate widened her eyes in feigned confusion. “Does it work both ways? Is there some exponent I should be working with to calculate the male-to-female conversion?”
By now, Brittany looked utterly confused and just angry enough to come at her. Kate couldn’t resist. Dusting off her rusty acting skills, she threw her career and life choices down to flop at the reporter’s feet.
“I was six years older than Jeff Sommers.” Her voice dripped w
ith mock outrage. “Where is Mike Samlin? I can’t believe the university would willfully allow a woman who preys on younger men to roam the campus freely.”
“Oh God,” Danny muttered as he propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and dropped his forehead into his hand.
Poor Brittany glanced down at the tablet in her lap, obviously trying to find the spot in her notes where she’d lost the thread. Kate almost felt as sorry for the young reporter as she did when she pounded a Division II school in the preseason using only her second stringers. It was time to stop playing cat and mouse with the poor girl. After all, she was only trying to make a name for herself. Kate respected her ambition. But Kate wasn’t interested in trading courtesy baskets with a journalist. If there was one thing her coaches taught her, it was that true champions showed mercy for the teams they outmatched. Of course, they didn’t let up entirely until the victory was assured. It was clearly time for her to put this game away.
Kate glanced at the red light on the camera and leaned in close to Brittany as if she were about to share a secret, even though she knew the mic would pick up anything she said. “Danny’s three years older than me. Is that okay?”
The reporter’s head jerked up. The overhead lights made her blond hair gleam like spun gold. Her eyes were still clouded with confusion, but instinct kicked in. Her nostrils flared as she smelled blood. White teeth gleamed as she flashed a deceptively sweet smile. “Is the age difference between you and Coach McMillan significant? Are the accusations Mister, uh”—she checked her tablet—“Davenport made true?”
“Kate.”
Danny spoke her name softly, but the underlying note of warning rang through. She ignored it. She was the woman who always made the clutch shot, no matter what the distraction.
Propping her elbow on the back of the chair, she stared past the twentysomething between them and fixed her eyes on her prize. “Well…”
She drawled the word, infusing the single syllable with a myriad of meanings. Of course, Brittany pounced.
“So you’re confirming that you and Coach McMillan are involved?”
