Night Games

by Lisa Marie Perry

  Sighing, she turned to find her bra, mentally patting herself on the back for maintaining the dignity—okay, stubbornness—to not hide her traitorously alert nipples.

  “See, staying with you longer would only get in the way of something that I’ve really wanted for a long time, Nate.”

  “We can’t have that.”

  The mournful note in his voice nearly shook her where she stood. Could letting her go really affect him, when women probably moved through his life like fallen leaves down the road, and there were likely dozens still partying in VooDoo who could easily take her place? Could an instant connection—no matter how electric—matter that much to him? “Haven’t you ever had a goal to push for, something that takes priority over everything else?” she asked thoughtfully.

  “I do, as a matter of fact.”

  “And it’s bigger, more important, than this thing between us, right?”

  “Yeah,” came the gravelly response. “It really is.”

  “You’ll be all right.” She pulled on her dress in record speed. Hoping for levity, she added, “That thing guys say happens to their anatomy after getting all worked up with no follow-through? Bull.”

  “You’re killing me,” he replied, escorting her to the door. Still shirtless. Still delicious.

  “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

  “If I had your phone number, I could make sure we do, Lottie.”

  “Can’t do that. If I give you my number, I’ll be expecting you to call. Guess I’m needy that way. And I don’t want to put you—or me—through that whole phone-call-expectation thing. We know each other’s first names, so if we’re meant to find one another again, it’ll happen. If not, so be it.”

  “So be it,” he echoed in a voice that was controlled but couldn’t disguise his regret. “Goodbye.”

  With a wiggle of her fingers, Charlotte hurried out of the suite and away from hands down the hottest almost-a-fling of her life.

  Chapter 3

  Halfway down the stairs Charlotte paused, pressing herself against the handrail to avoid the stampede of patrons rushing past her. Faceless, indistinct, unmemorable—the whole lot of them. The one person she saw each time she blinked her eyes was the man she’d just left in the hotel’s Cariocas Suite. Not wanting to loiter on his floor waiting for the elevator, she’d rushed to the stairs and hoped to catch the elevator on a lower level. As she picked her way through the crowds to VooDoo, she reminded herself that he was just a stranger.

  But that nagging little thing called guilt told her she ought to be ashamed of herself for not being up-front with him. He’d asked for her phone number and she’d turned him down because she didn’t want expectations. Or so she’d said.

  Well, that wasn’t really true. She’d grown up popular—an athlete who many people said had been lucky to inherit her mother’s Miss Nevada beauty, but she was cursed to take after her “my way is the only way” father. Charlotte did what she wanted and had cared less about her looks and more about playing football, getting dirty and generally defying anyone who tried to stop her from marching to her own tune.

  Attention from boys—flowers and phone calls—had never mattered a lick. Now that she was well past grown and had kissed her share of frogs that had turned out to be men who were insults to amphibians everywhere, she wasn’t about to expect anything from a man.

  Letting Nate think she was the clingy type who waited for the phone to ring was a cop-out, all right. But wasn’t that better than the absolute truth? She was the Charlotte Blue, whose name, at this very moment, was being dragged through sports-media mud. The truth was too personal to share with a stranger. And for all she knew, judging by how effortlessly smooth he was, interested women were a dime a dozen and, like plenty of the people sidestepping her on the stairwell now, he’d come to Las Vegas for play only.

  Yes, she was ready to finally move forward and put Wade behind her. But even though it made no sense, she could tell from how Nate had made her go from zero to horny in two seconds flat that he was no ordinary frog. Give somebody like that an inch and he’d be liable to take her heart. Which wasn’t an option. A practically anonymous hookup was one thing. But a recurring fling with Nate would be a terrible mistake.

  Are you sure about that?

  That nagging thing called guilt sure sounded a lot like the annoying thing called doubt that was buzzing in her mind’s ear like an unswattable fly.

  “I’m sure,” she muttered, flicking her finger next to her ear as if to thump doubt to oblivion. Charlotte stopped short and through the crowd saw Joey still sitting at their table. Alone. Maybe the guy who’d been so attentive to her earlier was in the restroom or off somewhere making a phone call or…

  Joey propped her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands with enough force to toss her hair forward.

  “Dang,” Charlotte whispered, already steamed at the man who’d lifted her friend’s hopes only to drop her the second he realized she wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t making assumptions; she knew in her gut what the score was.

  Fishing into her purse for a twenty, Charlotte wiggled her way to the bar again. “Rum and Diet Coke, please. Quickly.”

  Armed with the drink, she returned to the table and set the glass down. “I think you ordered this?” she said to Joey, who was still cradling her head.

  Startled, her friend dropped her hands and eyed her with incredulity. “Forever ago. You’re still here?”

  “Yes, and I feel really sucky for skipping out with—”

  “Adonis.”

  Charlotte conceded and grinned. “His name’s Nate. Forget about him, though. It’s not gonna fly with us.”

  Joey took a gulp of the drink. “Too bad. He turned your head, chica, and that’s saying a lot.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. You’re…what’s the best way to describe it?”

  “Particular?”

  “Loca is more like it.” Joey polished off the drink, then took a deep breath. “What’s wrong with him, then? Let’s hear it.”

  Charlotte pulled up the chair beside Joey, removed her friend’s cane and sat. “Nothing,” she said, steadying the cane across her lap. “That’s what’s wrong with him. He appears perfect, which is obviously not possible. He’s not a good candidate for a short-and-sweet fling, you know.”

  Although he had several minutes ago had that magic mouth on her underwear.

  “Hmm. I also know you appear flushed and your lips have that ‘I’ve been had’ look. Just sayin’.”

  Blasted Joey. The woman had tossed back at least two drinks and was still probably the most observant person in the room. Insane levels of perception and know-it-all must be prerequisites for DEA agents. “Then I’ll fix my makeup in the car on the way to the party. Let’s go, Jo.”

  “‘Let’s’? I’m not—”

  “Coming to the party? Yes, you are, and don’t even think about passing this up. I’m not leaving you here to wallow in the Land of the Glow Sticks.” To emphasize her point, she subtly tilted her head toward the group nabbing the table behind theirs. Both men and one of the women were waving around the crayon-bright neon sticks. “Definitely time for a change of milieu.”

  Joey shook an ice cube from the glass and popped it into her mouth. “Two different men came up to me tonight, Lottie. Two. And they both lost their huevos and ran off once they found out that not only do I not dance, but I can’t walk more than three steps without this.” She put down the glass and grabbed the cane from Charlotte’s hands.

  “Maybe they realized you’d bop them with it if they tried anything ungentlemanly.”

  Joey’s laugh lit her face, and Charlotte knew she’d won this round. “Put that cane to use and let’s get out of here. Pop’s probably wondering where I am now.”

  Leaving VooDoo, they took a few minutes to freshen up in the ladies’ room at the Rio before Charlotte called her private driver. It went without saying that news camera crews and reporters and paparazzi
were already swarming around the party, and it was unlikely she could slink into it without someone snapping at least one shot of her with smudged lipstick. For her mother’s and father’s sakes, she would make an impression at tonight’s party that they could both be proud of. Or she’d at least try to.

  Marshall and Temperance Blue were big believers in the whole “reap the rewards of hard work” philosophy, which was why her father had finally acknowledged that Charlotte’s determination and proven professional victories made her a viable candidate for the assistant athletic trainer position. If not for her blood and sweat—and the tears that she was now an expert at hiding—she would’ve been overlooked for the job simply because her parents had never really, fully accepted that their firstborn daughter was more warrior than princess and sometimes wanted to be rough-and-tumble and untamed when they thought she should be more gentle.

  All eyes were on her, all right. Particularly Marshall’s and Tem’s. Just that morning, Charlotte had gotten up at dawn for a jog and found her mother’s neatly written Post-it on the door to the Bellagio villa bedroom she shared with her sister Martha.

  L—

  Much to do before the get-together. See you tonight. Please no Charlotte Slipups.

  —T

  A “Charlotte Slipup” ranged from running her mouth off to thumbing her nose at authority and was pretty much any action that aggravated her mother or provoked her father’s heartburn episodes and caused him to reach for the antacids he carried in the inside pockets of his tailor-made jackets. Though she had two younger sisters who’d both experienced rebellion of varying shades, her own so-called slipups were the ones that her parents always seemed to recall and hold on to like ammunition to shoot down her ambitions.

  No, Charlotte would never come close to perfect. But this time she wouldn’t land on her face. She’d worked her tail off to carve out a place for herself in the NFL, and she was going to reap the rewards of it by keeping her team fit for success. It would smooth things, though, to have respect—the media’s, the team’s…her family’s.

  “Cool down, Lottie,” Joey said, noticing Charlotte’s nervousness as they stepped out of the BMW and headed for the Bellagio. An escort greeted them with a smile and led the way into the hotel toward the Tower Ballroom, where the Slayers’ party was probably in full swing.

  There were flashes and clicks of cameras, shouts from reporters surging forth with microphones and eager questioning eyes. Charlotte remained silent, maintaining a neutral expression on her face as she walked—neither too slowly nor too quickly.

  Once inside the ballroom she was greeted by upbeat music and some familiar faces. Almost immediately she was swept into the fray and joined in conversation with a few of her cousins who lived locally and then a few guys from the team whom she’d met previously at one meeting or another. Once she could break away, she and Joey located Marshall and Tem, surrounded by other well-dressed guests.

  In a matter of months, since the official announcement that the Blues had acquired the Las Vegas Slayers franchise, her family had reached a new strata of fame. Some compared them to the Kardashians. The Blues were seeing a different level of attention than they had when an all-partied-out Martha had returned to school to become a publicist, or when Danica had sponsored a nonprofit organization dedicated to getting at-risk youths out of gangs and into the classroom. Thankfully, these items had been given some recognition earlier that week, when they’d been interviewed by the producers for a BET program that highlighted up-and-coming African-American families.

  Charlotte doubted there would be much footage of her, since she’d already resigned as athletic trainer for the UNLV Rebels and the official statement announcing her hiring hadn’t yet been released and at that time, while Danica was the newly minted general manager and Martha one of the team’s new publicists, Charlotte had been the only Blue daughter who wasn’t a part of the Slayers franchise. Afterward her mother had reprimanded her for being unapproachable simply because she’d refused to discuss her personal life with the interviewer and had been adamant about focusing only on her past achievements and hopes to eventually participate in the NFL’s head-injury studies. But after today’s news she’d likely be seeing that very same interviewer again for an update before the segment’s airdate. “Excuse me, everyone. Just want to let the ’rents know I showed up after all.”

  “Charlotte.” Her mother, coiffed and plucked and fresh as the fragrant jasmine and magnolias that filled the ballroom with their scent, folded her into a brief hug and murmured, “That dress is a little revealing, don’t you agree?”

  “You look nice, too, Ma.”

  “Oh, Lottie,” Tem said, sounding put out. “You aren’t just the team owners’ daughter. You’re a trainer. Have a care about how you interact with the men—”

  “It’s a party, Ma. Take a break from griping and have a glass of champagne or something.” She ducked out of Tem’s grasp and said, “I invited Joey along. The more the merrier, right?”

  “Josephine, you’re always welcome,” Tem said warmly, but shooting Charlotte a we’re-not-finished look. “Help yourself to the food.”

  Joey wandered off to take immediate advantage of that offer, and Charlotte said to her father, “Pop, Kip Claussen’s here, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” Marshall said, handing his wineglass to a nearby waiter. “You haven’t met the new HC yet. Let’s take care of that now.”

  He offered his elbow and they approached a broad-shouldered blond man who Charlotte pegged to be in his late forties. He could’ve just stepped out of the pages of GQ with his well-coordinated Armani suit and Cartier watch. He pointed his glass of Bacardi at Marshall as he said, “Aha! There’s the man.”

  The men exchanged greetings in their equally booming voices, then addressed a trio from the offensive line who, though cleaned up in silk shirts and pressed slacks, appeared just as strong and ferocious as they did on the field. Finally, Charlotte barged into the conversation with “Kip, it’s good to meet you. I’m Charlotte Blue.”

  Kip turned a pair of flummoxed blue eyes to her before raising his brows expectantly at Marshall as if to gibe, “Is she like this all the time? What a piece of work!”

  At the unapologetic interruption, her father looked at her with an expression that was dashed with irritation. “Right, right, Kip. My daughter asked for you personally.”

  “Can I be flattered?” Kip’s nonplussed look melted into what had to be his version of charm when dealing with the gentler sex. His mouth stretched into a white toothy grin that showed the man clearly wasn’t used to smiling.

  “We’re teammates, Coach. There’s no need for flattery here,” Charlotte said, sticking out her hand for a shake, which he didn’t hesitate to provide. “You’re a busy man, so it’s expected that we’ve had a devil of a time getting together. I was really hoping to meet my new boss before training camp.”

  Marshall took that moment to stride off to parts of the room unknown.

  “Kip, I thought I’d get to know you a bit. Find out who I’m working with. It’ll be easier to get the particulars out of the way before we all come together in Mount Charleston.”

  Kip nodded to the mix of players and security personnel who’d been lingering quietly and they moved away. “Charlotte, let me be frank. I get the feeling Marshall and Temperance want to make a statement with this franchise. Out with the old. In with some changes. Marshall’s the muscle and he’s gonna do whatever the hell he wants. The media’s calling it the ‘Blue Dynasty.’ My concern’s that with this statement, they—and you—are overlooking the challenges you’re going to face.”

  “My parents didn’t hire me to make a statement,” she objected, pausing to take a slim carrot stick from the tray of a passing server. “I know this won’t be an easy job, but I’m the best person for it. I just happen to come with a different set of equipment than the rest of the training staff.” She bit into the carrot with a smirk.

  “Funny.” Kip ges
tured with his glass for emphasis. “Funny’s good. You’ll need a sense of humor.”

  “Check.”

  “And balls. Bravado, I mean, of course.”

  “Check.”

  Serious now, Kip said, “Listen, Charlotte, an all-male locker room’s a world away from what you’re probably used to. Some of these guys around the league are creeps. They’re not on the team because they’re the nicest guys on the planet but because they can play. They aren’t looking forward to curbing how they talk and act because a woman’s been thrown into the mix.”

  She finished the carrot. “I’m not on this team to make all these guys politically correct.”

  “You’ll change your tune the second you hear a lame-as-hell T & A joke.”

  “Come on, now. I don’t discriminate. I’m insulted by any lame-as-hell joke.”

  Pure surprise filled Kip’s eyes, and after a moment he nodded and took a swallow of his Bacardi. “Well, now that we’ve got those particulars out of the way, what do you want to know about me?”

  “Lottie!”

  Charlotte whirled around to see her sister pushing through the clusters of guests. “Need you for a moment.”

  “Martha, I’m in the middle—”

  “A party crasher’s asking for you.” Never one to let herself be put off, Martha jammed her hands on her hips and frowned in a way that would’ve seemed childish and unattractive on anyone else. Dolled up in a blue-black dress and high heels that showcased her gazelle legs, she said, “Hi there. I’m Martha, the gal who’ll be making all you men look good.” She took Kip’s hand in a way that could have been seen as cordial or licentious. “I’m a publicist. And Charlotte’s younger sister.”

  “Down, girl,” Charlotte murmured to Martha. At twenty-two, Martha was the “surprise” her parents had had late in life—a fact she never got tired of flaunting. She disengaged her sister’s hand from Kip’s. “Where’s this party crasher, and why didn’t you let Pop know?”

  “He wants you. Try not to get lost in his eyes.” Martha led the way to the built-in stage behind a curtain that was nothing but dark nooks.