Buddy Carruthers, Wide Receiver Page 22

  Adrenaline pumped through his veins, slowly at first. But when the Sidewinders fumbled, it kicked up to a serious surge. Buddy stood up and ran onto the field next to Griff Montgomery, and the game began in earnest.

  They played their trickiest strategies yet. Quarterback sneak, phony hand-offs, and, Coach Bass’s favorite, the fake field goal. One minute, Griff Montgomery was looking left, then throwing right, or faking to the right and passing off on the left. The St. Louis Sidewinders didn’t know which way to go or what to expect. But even with all their maneuverings, the Kings had their work cut out for them. The Sidewinders out-weighed them and out-defended them.

  All the trick plays in the world wouldn’t bring victory if the Kings didn’t play their finest game, keeping fumbles and interceptions to a minimum. Watchful of infractions, they incurred fewer penalties in this game than they had in the previous three.

  Buddy was pumped. With his girl in the stands, he could do no wrong, making incredible catches and running like the wind. Griff connected with his wide receivers on almost every pass, his completion rate higher than any other game all season. But would excellent play be enough?

  To say The Kings wanted this victory so bad it hurt would be an understatement. They were willing to do anything, push themselves further than ever before in endurance and skill. Catching the Sidewinders off-guard let the Kings squeeze out their one-touchdown victory.

  Coupling their energy and talent with enough misdirection to keep the Sidewinders off kilter was a winning formula. Twenty-seven for the Kings to twenty for the Sidewinders. The Kings were proud to bring the Super Bowl trophy home to Connecticut.

  The celebration started after the game and continued until the wee hours of the morning. Emmy was pressed into singing for the boys. Drunk on champagne, luck, and victory, the men joked, danced, and ate until they were dragged away by their wives and girlfriends for more private festivities. Buddy passed out in Emmy’s arms before making love.

  A huge hangover the next morning did not prevent Buddy from having sex. He dosed himself with every remedy he’d read about or heard since he was in college, convinced that one would do the trick. Sure enough, he glued himself back together enough to ravage her once before getting sick.

  They spent the rest of the day hanging out, quietly. Emmy worked on new songs while Buddy stretched out on the couch, reading.

  “I’m off until training camp, in July.”

  “Oh?” She turned her gaze from the paper in front of her to his face.

  “Yep. Maybe I can be a roadie for you?”

  She laughed. “You, a roadie?”

  “I’m strong. I can carry stuff.”

  Emmy put her guitar down and cuddled up to her man. “Awesome.”

  He raised his head to connect with her. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  “Yep.”

  “We can plan our wedding too.” He grinned.

  She sat up. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Nope. Don’t win Super Bowls by giving up. Or the hearts of superstars, either.”

  Epilogue

  Pete Sebastian, Coach of the Connecticut Kings, twirled the Super Bowl ring on his finger and hummed a tune as he guided his car down the highway toward home. He had returned his twin daughters to Kensington State University after spring break. As he replayed the game for the millionth time in his head, a smile crept over his face.

  Pete had mentally patted himself on the back for managing to fool the other team with misdirection. But the satisfaction of winning passed quickly as he thought about his life. Preoccupied with getting to the Super Bowl, then winning it, he had had no spare time to feel lonely. Now that he had reached his ultimate football goal, and, with his girls away, endless days alone stretched out before him. It was three months or more before training camp started. He frowned.

  Deserted by his wife, he’d been divorced with sole custody since his girls were four. For years, he had been a most eligible bachelor in the small town of Monroe. Getting a date was easy, but finding a mate was another story. Fussy about his players, picky about restaurants, he applied the same high standards to women. He had yet to meet one who could qualify.

  His cell rang. He turned on the headset. Lyle Barker, owner of the Kings, was on the line.

  “I finally did it.”

  “Did what, Lyle?”

  “Replaced that asshole publicity guy, Banks. I hired a new P.R. veep.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “Parker. Name familiar?”

  Pete grimaced. He’d been hoping for a curvy lady in that spot. The idea of a sexy woman right in the office next door got his blood pumping. Sure, it was lazy thinking, but hey, he’s the coach who brought home the Super Bowl trophy. Did he have to work so hard for everything? “Nope. But I don’t know one P.R. person from the next.”

  “You’re breaking up. Can’t hear ya.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Pete ended the connection.

  Shit! I thought he was going to wait for me before he hired anyone. There must be an attractive woman out there who would qualify. His mood soured, and the long drive back to Monroe didn’t help. He stopped at The Savage Beast for a burger.

  “This one’s on the house, Coach. Thanks for bringing the trophy home,” Carla said.

  “Thanks, but it was a team effort.”

  There were only a few folks in the bar, still, the coach received a standing ovation.

  The next morning, he dressed in workout clothes, intending to hit the gym at the stadium while most of the guys were away. He didn’t bother to shave, since the office would be pretty empty. Maybe take a half day. Hit a movie?

  After his workout, as he approached the exit, he noticed Trunk Mahoney, Griff Montgomery, and Bullhorn Brodsky crowding the door. They appeared to be reading something. Pete looked up. A typed memo was taped to the wall. The three men were grumbling with frowning faces and knit brows.

  “What the fuck? I don’t beat my wife. Do I have to go to this thing?” Mahoney turned to face the coach.

  “Let me take a look.” He read the memo.

  To all players and staff—

  Training camp is being extended by two days to accommodate three anger management seminars, which will be conducted in the press room. Attendance is mandatory. Anyone not in attendance for one session will be fined twenty thousand dollars. If two sessions are missed, the player or staff member will be suspended.

  J. Parker, V.P.

  What the fuck? Pete scratched the stubble on his face.

  “Come on, Coach. This is ridiculous. I don’t beat Lauren. This guy, Parker, can’t mean this for everyone?” Griff asked.

  “Just because Carleton Washburn got arrested for wife beating doesn’t mean we all do it,” Bullhorn said.

  “Yeah. Talk to this asshole, Coach. I’m not doin’ it.” Trunk folded his massive arms across his equally large chest.

  “Now, take it easy. I’ll talk to this guy and find out what’s going on. And it wasn’t only Washburn. Don’t forget our tight end, Corcoran, is on suspension too.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” Brodsky asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just P.R. bullshit. I’ll go straighten out Parker.”

  Coach Bass slung a towel around his neck. He was sweaty from working out, and the air in the hallway cooled his skin. Dressed in shorts and a tank top, he climbed the flight of stairs to the offices. Stupid idea. Just bullshit to get the media off our necks. Parker is obviously a dumbass motherfucker who doesn’t know our team. Judging everyone by those two rotten apples? Pretty stupid. I’ll have to straighten him out.

  Pete’s temper flared. The more he thought about the unnecessary upset to his men, the more he burned. The lines on his forehead deepened. His light brown eyes clouded with anger as his step quickened. I’ll take this asshole out back and teach him something about how to deal with my guys.

  He rounded the corner and stopped at the office before his. Raising his arms to rest his hands against the doorfr
ame, he leaned his trim, six foot two inch body into the space. Pete stared at the person sitting at the desk and raised his brows. “I’m looking for Joe Parker?”

  A blonde woman, facing away from him, swiveled in the chair and leveled her gorgeous, big, blue eyes on him. “Yes?” Her eyes scanned his body before she rested her gaze on his face.

  “No, Joe Parker.”

  “That’s right. Jo. J-o. Short for Josephine. What can I do for you?” She rose from her seat, and Pete’s mouth went dry.

  Even wearing high heels, she wasn’t over five foot seven. She wore a turquoise, silk suit, the jacket open to show a white, silk blouse underneath. The scoop neck revealed enough creamy cleavage to capture his attention. He lowered his arms and stepped inside.

  Her hips were slim, but not skinny, and her legs slender. Raising his gaze, he noticed blonde hair that seemed to glow, framing an oval face. Her peaches-and-cream complexion showed a slight blush around her cheek bones, and her kissable lips shined with a bright pink lipstick.

  Pete had never seen a woman so beautiful in all of Monroe before. Sweat started in his armpits as he realized he was practically naked, sweaty as hell, probably stunk like a skunk, and hadn’t shaved. He rubbed his hand along his chin, as if to hide the wiry scruff there.

  “And you are?” As she approached him, the subtle floral scent of expensive perfume came with her.

  “Pete Sebastian. Coach Pete Sebastian. Head Coach Pete Sebastian,” he stammered, his mind suddenly blank. Smooth. Very smooth, asshole. Like a twelve-year-old.

  She laughed politely with the most delightful lilt, her voice slightly throaty but still light. It was a sound he could listen to all day. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, staring into his eyes and extending her hand.

  He wiped his on his shorts, which weren’t necessarily clean to begin with, and blushed when he remembered that. Her grasp was firm, confident, and just right. He tried not to crush her tiny hand, but couldn’t seem to let go.

  “Lyle tells me the team calls you Coach Bass? Can I call you that too?”

  An attack of nerves closed up his throat and doubled his heartbeat. He nodded.

  She laughed again and gently slipped her hand from his. “What can I do for you?”

  All he could do was stare and pray he wasn’t dreaming.

  *The End*

  About the Author

  Jean Joachim is a best-selling romance fiction author, with books hitting the Amazon Top 100 list since 2012. The Renovated Heart won Best Novel of the Year from Love Romances Café. Lovers & Liars was a RomCon finalist in 2013. And The Marriage List tied for third place as Best Contemporary Romance from the Gulf Coast RWA. To Love or Not to Love is a finalist in a 2014 contest held by the New England Chapter of Romance Writers of America. She was chosen Author of the Year in 2012 by the New York City chapter of Romance Writers of America.

  Married and the mother of two sons, Jean lives in New York City. Early in the morning, you’ll find her at her computer, writing, with a cup of tea, her rescued put, Homer, by her side and a secret stash of black licorice.

  Reach her through email at: sunnydaysbook@gmail.com or through her website: http://www.jeanjoachimbooks.com, where you will also find copies of her newsletter.