One Night with a Quarterback (5 page)

“And from there . . . just behave. I expect it of my teenagers, so I will give you the same guidelines. The media watches the Jordan family, locally anyway. And you better believe if something major happened to my children, national media would be all over it. You are, by extension, a part of that family now. But I find out you're lying, or doing something to tarnish the name or cause stress for my family—the three women I love most in this world—then we'll have to cut this reunion short. I have two young girls to think about.”

It was a hard line, but one she had expected. Which was exactly why she'd taken the last night out to get the jitters out of her system.

No, no thinking about Trey. Her breasts tingled a little just remembering his touch from the night before. And how much she was going to be thinking about it for the long, well-behaved season ahead. She battled a flush as she looked her father in the eyes. “Sure thing, Ken.”

His brows rose a little at that. Was he surprised at her easy acceptance, or the name? Damn if she was going to call her father Mr. Jordan. But she also wasn't about to call him Dad.

That was a position he'd have to earn . . . just like she'd earn her way into the family she'd always dreamed of.

* * *

Trey walked into the conference room and settled down next to the assistant head coach, Burt Talbin, and blinked back the fuzzy haze that crept in the edges of his vision.

A night wasted. Or, more specifically, the last dredges of a night and the dawn wasted. Picking Stephen up from the drunk tank and taking him home to babysit was not how he wanted to spend the rest of the evening. His plan to return to Cassie's room an hour later had been squashed. And this morning, when he called the hotel to be connected to her room, the phone had rang without answer.

With a full day of meetings and a workout scheduled, he couldn't afford to call again until that evening. He could only hope she was back in her room by then. Or that she hadn't checked out and was gone.

To his left, running back Josiah Walker slid a to-go cup of coffee in front of him. “Need a hit?”

“Nah. I'm good, thanks man.” He smiled with gratitude to his best connection.

“That stuff is poison,” Burt warned under his breath.

“My body is a temple,” both Trey and Josiah said together in monotone.

“Jackwipes,” Burt said with a smile. “Both of you.”

“You love us,” Josiah crooned in his country-butter-rich voice. “You really loooooove us.”

“Holy trinity knows why.” Ken Jordan, Bobcats head coach of five years, stalked in the door and shut it with a snap behind him. “Can we start with business or do you two have to finish a karaoke set first?”

Josiah cleared his throat and wiped the smile off his face with the back of his hand. “Sorry, Coach.”

Trey just smirked. Ken blew more hot air than a heater in Maine. He wanted to be a hardass, but could never quite pull it off. At least not with people who knew him enough to see through the act. He was strict, but not quite the callous coach he wanted to portray. The burly chested Hawaiian—whose real first name was Keolamauloa, but had shortened it to Ken to spare everyone the pain of pronunciation—was a marshmallow inside. Loving husband, devoted daddy to two young girls who had him wrapped around their pinkies.

None of which meant he wasn't a force to reckon with on the gridiron. His chessboard–like ability to anticipate plays three downs ahead made him a football genius.

Ken tossed a clipboard and notepad on the table and sat across from them. “Sorry I'm a few minutes late. Got caught up with Simon. The man loves to talk.”

Simon Poehler, Bobcats head PR man. A chatterbox in the best of times. At worst, you could be cornered for an hour listening to him rant about the evils of reality TV and how it was destroying true media. Trey avoided him at all costs.

“Boys, we're in for quite the year. We need to get our heads on straight. I wanted to run a few things by you first, and then we'll be bringing them to the team. But as captains, you know the drill. You need to be on top of this information.”

As Ken continued with the same speech Trey had been listening to since his first year with the Bobcats, his mind drifted a little. Apparently a little too much. At one point, his eyes caught movement out the side window and he would have sworn he saw . . .

Cassie? A woman in a dark blazer with long dark hair pulled back was walking out of the large outer office and into the hallway. He blinked repeatedly then focused again. But the woman was gone.

Jesus, was he that tired he was projecting his fantasies in real life now?

Burt nudged him in the shoulder. “Pay attention,” he muttered under his breath while scribbling in his notebook.

Right. His job. He concentrated again on Ken's voice. The smooth, dark tones almost lulling him into a coma.

“Are we boring you, Owens?”

He blinked again, and realized his head was not upright, as he'd slumped over and pillowed his head on his arms. Shit.

“Nice nap, Trey?” Josiah asked with a shit-eating grin.

“Bite me,” he snapped, then rolled his neck and sat up. “Sorry, Coach. Long night.”

Ken opened his mouth like he was going to lay one out, then paused to reconsider. “Problem?”

He debated saying something, anything, about Stephen's little mishap. Maybe an ass chewing from the head coach would straighten him out like Trey had yet to do. But he couldn't throw his best friend under the bus. He wasn't ready yet to take it that far. “No problem. Just . . . lost track of time.”

Ken scowled at that. It sounded irresponsible, but it was the best he could come up with. “Head in the game, Owens.”

“Yes, sir.”

And that was the end of that.

Trey listened through the rest of the meeting, which wasn't so much information, more so a pre-cursor to the full team meeting they would have on the field later. But Ken believed in having the captains as well versed in team knowledge as the coaches. Leaders on the field, leaders off, the Bobcats way. Then he sent them out, much earlier than expected, saying something about “shit to do today.” Whatever that meant. Didn't they all have shit to do?

Trey stood up, but Burt settled a meaty hand on his shoulder and pushed back down.

“I assume this has something to do with Stephen. How bad?”

Trey couldn't pretend to misunderstand. “Just the drunk tank. No damages, no fights, just some rowdiness and a trip downtown in a black-and-white taxi.” At least, that's how he'd left it early that morning when he'd been confident Stephen wouldn't choke on vomit and he could race to the office for the meeting.

Burt shook his head, then pressed his thumbs to his eyes in a gesture both Trey and Josiah recognized. They slid glances at each other, silently daring each other to be the first to say something.

Burt leaned back in his chair and grunted before saying, “How bad are we talking? Counseling once a week bad, or in-patient rehab bad?”

Trey debated a moment. “Probably the former, but I'm not a shrink. And frankly, I think you'll be hard-pressed to get him to go to rehab.”

“If he wants to play, he's gotta change something. He can't play from the inside of a cell, and it sounds like that's the direction he's heading,” Burt pointed out.

Trey didn't disagree.

“Ken will lose his shit if he finds out there's been trouble.” The coach's dark eyes watched Trey warily, then said, “Fix it.”

The minute Trey walked out the door, Josiah put a hand on his shoulder to slow him down.

“Where's the fire?”

He kept his face bland and took the speed-walk down to a stroll. “No fire. Just anxious to check on a few things.”

Josiah's face sobered a little. “You heading right over to talk to Stephen?”

“Not quite yet. Frankly, I doubt he'd be awake anyway.” And they both needed a little time to let the ramifications of his teammate's actions to sink in. “I've just got a few things to get done before the meeting.”

His friend nodded and veered off at an intersecting hallway. “See ya later then. I'm off to go charm April out of a cookie or two.” April was the team's social media director, and she always had a stash of sweets in her desk.

It was on the tip of his tongue to mock his friend for sweets while in training, but then his mind drifted back to a damn good plate of pancakes and some delicious company. Wisely, he waved in good-bye, waited several seconds, then kicked it up a notch to bolt out the building. He barely managed a “See ya later, Kristen,” to the front desk assistant before stepping into the muggy morning air. It was the opposite of a fish out of water. Suddenly, his lungs felt like they were drowning.

He fought the urge to gasp for fast breath and controlled his intake to slow, steady breaths. God, after a handful of years, you'd think he'd have acclimated by now. But it almost always caught him off guard. But then again, coming from Minnesota, this was about as far out of his comfort range weather-wise as you could get and still be in the US.

His phone was out of his pocket while he walked, head down, toward the parking garage. He found the hotel number, dialed, and gave them Cassie's room number. After five rings, he muttered a curse and hung up.

Okay, so she was out shopping with her friend. Or doing . . . whatever it was she was in town to do. He'd try again in a few hours. Maybe again after practice. If that didn't work, he might just
happen
to be in the area again that evening.

And was this how stalking started? He reached into his pocket for keys, preparing for the cool shade of the parking garage just steps away when he heard the telltale shriek.

Damn.

He summoned up a wide grin and turned as several girls, college age maybe, rushed him. One's shopping bag smacked hard against his knee. Oh, God. Shoebox. Definitely a shoebox . . . with bricks in it.

“Hi there, ladies.”

Autographs were begged for, photos with phones taken. One asked if he'd tweet from her account to her followers, which he did without a problem. Why not? But it was another fifteen minutes before he could extract himself from the semi-circle of fandom and get to his car.

His head hit the headrest with a soft thunk. He never got used to that. The attention and terrifying hero-worship that came along with the jersey.

How was Cassie going to react when he told her the truth? The same fanatic hero-worship he'd just encountered? Or would it not even blip her radar?

Or is she going to be annoyed you lied from the start and wore a disguise, not even admitting who you were once you'd slept with her?

Only one way to find out.

Cassie folded the last outfit and placed it in her suitcase, zipping the top and setting it to the side. Other than her pajamas, she was done packing. Though, she'd only brought a small amount of clothing with her to begin with. If things had worked out, Anya promised to mail her some more clothes from her closet. Properly coordinated, of course.

Not gone three hours, and she already missed her friend desperately. Anya had been a hardcore good sport on the long drive out from Atlanta, for what amounted to a lot of sitting in a hotel room waiting on Cassie. But she'd done it, because that's what they did for each other. And now Anya was in the air, halfway back to Hartsfield-Jackson. Halfway back home.

She had one more night by herself, and in the morning, she'll be meeting her sisters and . . . Tabitha. Okay, stepmother was just too weird of a title. It implied a familial relationship that wasn't there. Yet. But her sisters, she couldn't wait to meet.

Someone knocked at the door, and she grabbed her phone to make sure it wasn't Anya. It would be just her friend's luck to have the flight cancelled and have to take a taxi back to the hotel. But her messages were empty. So a wrong room, since it wouldn't be housekeeping. That's what the “do not disturb” sign was for.

The knock became a bang, and a muffled voice called her name. A deep voice.

“Trey?” She sprinted for the door, catching herself just before she yanked it open in excitement.
Chill, chill . . . try to act like a mature adult.
With a deep breath, she opened the door slowly and smiled. “Hey.”

He stood there, hands in his pockets, half-turned as if prepared to leave. His Henley shirt was a little tattered at the cuffs, the jacket that hung loose over his torso had the collar flipped up, his jeans were worn, and his tennis shoes were scuffed. And the glasses were smudged beyond belief, again. His face registered surprise. “You're here.”

“Yup. I'm here.” She waited a moment, then cocked a hip against the doorjamb. “Did you forget something last night? I was packing up but I didn't see anything left.”

“No, that's not . . .” He took a step back and ran a hand over his neck. Was he blushing? Or maybe it was just the heat. “I wanted to see you again, and I don't have your number. I called your room a few times but you never answered.”

“I've been out. Did you want to come in?”

“Come out with me,” he said at the same time.

They both blinked at each other, then each cracked a smile. Cassie stepped in and held the door open wider. “Come on in.”

He followed her in, and she resisted the urge to brush her breasts against him as he squeezed into the short hallway. Teasing herself would only lead to disappointment. But oh . . . the temptation his butt proved to be in those jeans. They were worn in just the right places, clinging to the curves and hanging loose down the legs.

“You're all packed.”

She had to force her gaze away from his butt, up to his eyes, which were laughing at her.
Caught.
“I said that already.”

“Yeah, but, really packed. Nothing left. I thought you meant you'd just tidied up.”

“Nope. I'm ready to roll.”

His eyes widened a little and he tunneled his fingers through his hair. It stood up in wild tuffs. “Back home to . . . Georgia, you said?”

“Atlanta, but no. I'm staying with family for awhile.”

“Still here then.” He looked relieved, and reached for her arm to pull her down by him on the bed. She let him. Their arms touched as they sat on the bed—the same bed they'd slipped into not twenty-four hours ago and had sheet-scorching sex. At least the hotel maid had cleared any and all evidence of sexy time. She squirmed a little, but when her arm brushed against his, she forced her body to still.

“Go out for dinner with me.”

“I . . .” Her father's words, the photo of her sisters in their silly matching Hawaiian leis, floated through the back of her mind. Her chest felt a pinch when she shook her head and stood, pacing a few steps away. This would require distance. “I'm sorry, but I can't.”

“Do you have a boyfriend? Husband?”

She opened her mouth a little on a gasp. “Of course I don't. I wouldn't have slept with you if I did.”

He smiled with satisfaction. “Good. So go out with me.”

The very naughty, very rebellious part of her wanted to say yes.
Yes, yes, oh baby yes.
But . . . “I just can't. I'm sorry. You should go.”

He stared at her a moment, as if he couldn't believe she'd said no. He probably didn't. Guys who looked like he did and had moves like he did didn't hear the word “no” all that often. Frankly, she couldn't believe she'd had enough resistance in her to pull it off.

Trey stood, long legs unfolding slowly. He advanced with a calm Cassie couldn't have even pretended to feel. And when he had her pinned to the wall next to the entertainment stand, he leaned in enough for her to breathe in his scent. Minty body wash, fresh laundry. She wanted to press her nose to the soft fabric of his shirt and breathe deeper.

“There's more here,” his deep voice rumbled.

She remained silent. Plausible deniability.

“Cassie, there's more. You know it, and I do, too. I'm not letting up that easy.”

Easy? He thought walking away from the chemistry they'd created the night before was easy? She snorted a little.

“So prove me wrong. Push me away. Tell me no and show me the door.” He leaned in closer, until his lips were against her cheek, his voice low and seductive. “Don't kiss me.”

She turned her head to do just that, but when her lips brushed his, every tentative brick of resolve she'd stacked against him crumbled to dust. She pressed into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and kissed him. Her tongue licked against the seam of his gently closed lips. And when he didn't react instantly, she tugged hard on his neck until his arms wrapped around her waist and pushed her back against the wall.

His hips ground into hers, his tongue swept in to tangle against hers, to taste her. He wrapped one hand around her ponytail and tugged until the angle of her head changed enough for him to deepen the kiss further. To melt more firmly against her. He nipped at her bottom lip.

The momentary sting snapped her back to reality . . . and the promise she'd made and already failed at.

“No,” she gasped, tearing her mouth from his. His mouth worked down her neck to the sliver of shoulder exposed by her shirt. She almost said no again when he bit her gently, and she lost the will to deny him anything in that moment. His hand crept up beneath the hem of her shirt, settling on her bare back. The touch of his calloused fingers were like little licks of fire on her overheated skin.

“Come out with me,” he whispered, sucking on the skin just below her ear.

“I can't.” The strength it took to utter those words was almost embarrassing.

“Give me your number then. I need to be able to find you. Don't just disappear.”

She shook her head and slowly slithered away, back still against the wall. Truthfully, if she'd tried to step forward, her knees would have given out. As his hand slipped from under her shirt, she wanted to grab it and hold tight. But the timing . . . oh, the damn timing.

“I'm sorry, Trey. It's not you . . .” She trailed off. Wow, was she really about to use that line?

His raised brow said he caught the meaning anyway. But he stepped back and gave her space. Space she desperately needed to breathe again. “So what, I just leave and pray I find you again somewhere in the city?”

She held up her hands, let them fall helplessly to her sides. If he actually managed to see her again, that would take one hell of a work of fate.

He nodded slowly, a smile spreading over his gorgeous lips. “Okay, then. I'll see you.”

“No,” she said cautiously. “I won't be here. I'm checking out.”

He chuckled and walked to her door. “There's no way we won't find each other again. I know it.”

And with that he slipped through her door and closed it quietly behind him.

Cassie pressed the heel of her hand to her still-racing heart. Holy Jesus, the man was insane. Insane in the best way possible.

But there was absolutely no way he'd ever find her again. Santa Fe was too big, and she would be too busy with her family to worry about running around town, bumping into hot men.

She touched her tingling lips with two fingers, smiling slightly.

Damn it.

* * *

Like a bad case of déjà vu, Trey stood on the outside of Cassie's hotel door, desperately wanting to be on the other side, with her.

Fuck.
He scraped his hand through his hair, dislodging the fake glasses. Yeah. He'd panicked at the last minute and thrown them on before leaving his car in the parking garage, as well as the completely unnecessary jacket with the collar flipped up. He didn't want some random desk clerk tweeting he'd gone into the hotel and then watching security footage to see what room he entered. He'd meant to take them off before knocking on her door, but had forgotten.

Now he was stuck wearing them back down the elevator like a goober.

His phone vibrated with an incoming call just as he stepped off the elevator. He glanced at it, praying it wasn't Stephen with another distress call, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Josiah's name instead. “What's up, bro?”

The warm night air enveloped him as he exited the lobby and turned right to head into the hotel's garage parking lot.

“Dude,” his co-captain groaned. “Help.”

Shit. Just shit.
“Now what?”

“I decided to hang out with Stephen, have some dinner and just chill. But I didn't realize he wouldn't just let it go after one beer, and now . . .”

Trey growled as he hit the unlock button to his SUV. “Josiah. Spit it out.”

“He's drunk and trying to get behind the wheel. It's starting to cause a scene.” There was a grunt and the sound of shuffling in the background. “Get your ass here now. Pizza Dan's on Main.” And then dead air.

Trey cursed as he hopped behind the wheel and slammed the door. The glasses as well as the jacket that had been smothering him since he put it on were tossed into the passenger seat. Son of a bitch. Was he looking to have a permanent spot on the bench? Coach Jordan would blow a fuse.

He cursed the entire seven minutes it took to get there and park, praying the whole time Josiah had exaggerated the entire thing. But when he pulled up . . . no dice.

Two men were staring, gape-mouthed, as Josiah and Stephen did what looked like a bizarre bear-hug dance. Stephen, trying to walk forward, and Josiah with his arms wrapped around, pushing back. No easy feat, given a running back was trying to hold back a defensive lineman. It would have been no contest if Stephen hadn't been swaying.

Shit. Shit, mother freaking shit.
A few diners were looking out the window, pointing. As he watched, one spectator grabbed their cell phone to take either a video or a photo.

Trey threw his car in park, yanked the keys out of the ignition, and did the first thing he could think of. He jogged up the stairs of the pizzeria, as if nothing were going on in the parking lot. “Hey, bro.”

Josiah froze, staring back at Trey with a
what the hell, dude? Help me!
look on his face. He'd apologize later.

Walking into the restaurant with a bounce in his step and a smile he fought to keep lighthearted, Trey noticed the conversations dim just a little, a few heads swivel as he walked up to the counter to order a completely unnecessary pizza to go. The effect was instantaneous. Eyes were on him, not the commotion outside. When he saw one of the two men from the parking lot step in to stare, he knew he'd made the right choice.

He ordered his pepperoni pie—light on the cheese, thanks to training—and sat down at the first open bar stool. He gazed at the big screens showing baseball highlights, seemingly unaware of the attention and waited. Timing. Just like sitting pretty in the pocket, with the chaos surrounding him, he had to wait for the receiver to make their move

The moment came two minutes later with a light tap on his leg. He looked over, then down into the face of a cute little girl, maybe seven or eight, with pink-framed glasses and a lopsided blonde ponytail.

“Are you Trey Owens?” she asked in awe.

He grinned down at her. Of all the fans, kids were his favorites. Their complete lack of self-control when meeting a much-watched athlete was comical, and a little humbling. “That happens to be my name.”

“
The
Trey Owens? Number Sixteen Owens?” She scooted closer and blinked, as if that would make his face more clear.

He leaned over, realizing the restaurant had gone nearly silent. “I'll tell you if you tell me something first.”

She nodded so hard her frames slid down her nose.

In a stage whisper, he asked, “Are you a Bobcat?”

Her smile could have lit the stadium. “I am! I'm a Bobcat! Daddy, it's him! I was right!”

Trey chuckled, then grunted in laughter when she grabbed his left hand and tugged a little. He let her drag him with minimal resistance across the restaurant, passing checkerboard tables full of gaping people, or people trying hard to not look like they were staring . . . and failing.

It was the relaxed kind of place with fat red plastic tumblers for cups and laminated menus, where the napkins sat in a dispenser on the table along with a trifold of the daily menu. It was exactly the kind of place he wanted to bring Cassie to, and just relax. Beautifully normal.

“Come meet my Daddy,
pleasepleaseplease
! I told him it was you and he said it couldn't be and I said of course it could be because it looks just like you and he said you wouldn't come to this side of town and I said why not and he said—”