Al Trunk Mahoney, Defensive Line Read online

  When she returned, he was pushing up on his arms, groaning. “What hit me?”

  “A bottle of tequila,” she said, softly.

  He turned his head and squinted up at her.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was hit by a truck. What time is it?”

  “Ten.”

  “Geez. Practice in three hours.” His hands slid out from under him, and he flattened on the bed again.

  As she was about to reply, the buzzer sounded.

  “Who the hell is that at this hour?” She went to her rooms and looked out the window. “Shit. The mattress guys.” She went down and let them in. “Just a second, guys. I have someone I have to move before you can put that on.”

  One of the men gave her a lusty look, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “He’s just a friend. Stopped here to sleep it off.” She climbed the stairs, calling to Trunk.

  “Please don’t yell,” he said, placing his hands over his ears.

  “Sorry. You’ve got to move, Al. The men are here with your new mattress.”

  “Timing.” Trunk shook his head. He pushed to his feet, rubbed his scruffy face, and headed for the bathroom.

  Carla stripped the bed then watched the guys unwrap the new mattress, put it on the frame, wrap the old one, and take it away. She heard the shower running and forced herself not to think about Trunk Mahoney, naked, wet, and only a few feet away.

  When they left, she tapped on the bathroom door. “They’re gone. Give me a hand, will you?”

  Al opened the door with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Carla sucked air at the sight of his finely muscled chest, covered with a light coating of brown hair. The urge to touch was overwhelming. She stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets to keep control.

  “Maybe I’d better get dressed first, unless you want your own, private strip show. Which I’m sure you don’t.”

  Don’t be so sure. “Fine. I’ll be outside. Call me when you’re done.”

  She went back to her room, paced, and gazed out the window at the empty street and barren trees. Monday morning at ten, Monroe was not a busy place. She checked her watch, annoyance filling her when she saw it had been twenty minutes. Typical male. Takes forever to dress. And they talk about women!

  “I’ve got stuff to do today, Trunk. Let’s get this done,” she said, approaching his door. She opened it to find him dressed in snug jeans, bending over, smoothing the spread on the mattress. His T-shirt outlined his pecs perfectly. The teal color highlighted the blue in his eyes. “What the?”

  “I made the bed. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “I only wanted you to help me.”

  “Well, now it’s done. Got anymore Advil? I took four from your medicine cabinet and finished the bottle.”

  “Thanks. Yeah. Sure. I keep a big bottle in the bar.”

  “For headaches the customers get?”

  “For the headaches they give me.”

  He laughed as he descended the stairs then groaned and rubbed his head.

  “Laughter and a hangover don’t mix,” she said. She grabbed the pills and followed him into the kitchen. “I think you need food. I know I do.”

  He made a face and rubbed his belly. “I’m not sure. Coffee would be good.”

  Carla took the coffeemaker apart, loaded it with grounds then water, and hit the button. “Fix you right up. A couple of scrambled eggs and toast too. Can you handle toast?” She arched an eyebrow at him.

  “I made the bed, didn’t I?” He sat on a stool near the toaster. “I didn’t do anything out of line last night, did I?”

  Carla opened the fridge and pretended to search for the eggs, which were right in front of her. Depends on what you mean by out of line, honey. “What?”

  He joined her, spied the carton, pulled it out, and then nabbed the butter. “Did I do anything? Make a pass or anything?”

  “Uh, nothing out of line. No.” She turned away to hide her face. Mom always said I was a bad liar.

  “Good. Good. I thought I did. Might of. And I wouldn’t want to do anything to offend you.”

  You’re offending me right now. “Fine. You were fine. Once I got you to your room, you just passed out.”

  His cheeks pinked. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

  Carla cracked egg after egg into a bowl. Trunk found the bread and took out four slices.

  “Like I haven’t seen that a thousand times.”

  “Maybe. But never seen me like that.”

  “You’ve been close. Tell me, Trunk. Do you have a drinking problem?”

  “Why? Because I got blasted last night? Hell, you would too, if you were going through a divorce.”

  “I get plenty of people in your situation. Where do you think they come when they hear the news? Right to me. But they don’t all get so wasted they can hardly stand up.”

  He hung his head.

  Carla stepped closer. She rested her palm on his shoulder. “There’s no shame if you have a problem. You can always get help.”

  “I don’t think I do. I have been drinking more, just recently. I knew this was coming. Somewhere in my gut, I knew. Just didn’t want to admit it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere along the line, we drifted apart. Stopped doing things together.”

  “There’s got to be more to it than that.” Carla plopped a spoonful of butter in a pan.

  “There is. But I’m not going to discuss it.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. Just trying to be helpful.”

  He patted her arm. “I know. But it’s personal and painful.”

  “I get it. Third degree is over. But you should watch your drinking. You’ve stepped it up quite a bit.”

  “You noticed?” His sharp eyes stared at her.

  Crap. Caught. Blood rushed into her neck. “Bartenders keep track. No biggie. I just noticed is all.”

  “Oh,” he said, nodding, but he didn’t remove his gaze.

  Her pulse sped up, and her heat level rose. She went to the window and cracked it open.

  “It’s not hot in here,” he said.

  “It will be,” she replied. With you sitting so close, uh, yeah.

  “You mean the stove?”

  “Yep and the toaster. If you’re cold, grab a sweatshirt.”

  “I’ll just move closer to the stove.” He inched his chair forward.

  Shit. He’s practically in my lap. She could smell his aftershave. A furtive glance confirmed he had shaved. Although she liked his scruff, a woman likes to see a man’s face every once in a while. Did he do that for me? Probably not. Maybe it just itched.

  “You’re right about my drinking. We’re in the playoffs. Might be going to the Super Bowl. I’ve got to dial it back.”

  “Good idea. Eggs are almost done. Where the hell is the toast?”

  Trunk pushed the lever down, opened the bottle of ibuprofen, swallowed a couple more, and then washed them down with water. “Coming right up.” He grabbed silverware and headed for the bar.

  Carla followed him with the pan of eggs. She spooned them onto plates while Trunk retrieved the toast. She went back for the coffee.

  Trunk pulled out her chair when she returned with two steaming mugs. She smiled. No one’s done that for me in a hundred years.

  He took a big gulp of his coffee then tucked into his food. For a man hung over, he had quite an appetite. Carla watched him eat. She liked the way his jaw worked, the muscles, and the way he chewed. I’m an idiot. Eat your food.

  “How do you manage, Carla? You’re around booze all the time, but you never get drunk. I always see you with a drink in your hand too.”

  “I drink ginger ale. Sometimes, I mix it with lemonade. Nice combination. I never drink alcohol in the bar. That’s the only way. It works for me. You should try it sometime.”

  “Ginger ale and lemonade. Sounds good. What do you call it?”

  “The Carla special.”
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  “I’ll try it. Would do me some good to get off the stuff for a while. At least until after playoffs, and then the Super Bowl.”

  “That confident you’re gonna get there?”

  “You bet. We are. The Kings rule. We’re the best.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said, raising her mug.

  She plucked a piece of toast from her plate as she reached for the small pot of strawberry jam. Having breakfast together, like two lovers after a passionate night. She sighed. “What’re your plans?” she asked, after spreading the sweet confection.

  “I have to talk to a lawyer. Then Mary. I don’t have any plans. Taking it one day at a time.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “I’m here, if you need me. You’ve got a lot of friends, Trunk. You’ll be okay.”

  “Thanks, Carla. I just might come knocking on your door.”

  Knock away, honey.

  Once they were finished, they cleaned up together then Trunk went upstairs. He returned with his gym bag.

  Carla stopped him. “Here’s a key. In case I’m not here.”

  “You’re an angel,” he said, stooping to kiss her cheek, then he turned and was out the door.

  Am I an angel? Or am I a fool? Why don’t I just make a play for him? Because he’s still married. What would happen if they reconciled? I’d be odd man out.

  She sighed.

  * * * *

  Trunk put his car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He drove by his house. Sadness filled his heart. When he’d first bought it, he hadn’t had a woman, just the wish for a more stable life. When he’d gone to apply for a loan, he had met Mary.

  Cute, petite, with short dark hair. She hadn’t been gaga over the fact that he was a famous football player, either. He had liked that. Wouldn’t have to live up to her fantasies of what kind of man he was. She had been all business, but when he’d asked her to dinner, she’d agreed.

  They’d started off slowly. He hadn’t wanted to rush her into anything and, clearly, she wasn’t going to jump in with both feet. They’d liked to bowl, eat out, and enjoyed the same movies. He’d taught her about football, and she’d taught him about gardening. Although Mary had never seemed to care much for the sport, she’d put up with it, for his sake. But Al had gotten into gardening in a big way. The idea of planting a seed and then food grew right in your backyard enchanted him. He’d be out turning over soil, fertilizing, and weeding in the off season.

  He parked, got out, and went to the place where his garden had existed. In winter, it was fallow. The brown, broken stalks of old plants reminded him of what was left of his marriage. While he and Mary had never had smokin’ chemistry, the sex had been good. Just not often enough for Trunk. She had seemed content with once every two weeks, while he was hankering for five times a week. If he was honest, he’d admit that her low sex drive was the reason he had gone to strip clubs. But that had been the beginning of the end. At least, that’s the way it appeared to him.

  These thoughts tumbled through his mind. Although he had no answers, the more he thought about it, he and Mary had not truly wanted the same things. Maybe she got tired of doing stuff my way. Maybe she didn’t want to wait to have things her way. Maybe she needed to get out to do her own thing. He couldn’t totally cop out. He knew he’d played a part somehow. He wished he could have fixed it. Mary was a good person. Losing her left him with no one. No one to come home to, no one to champion his cause, no one to miss him, no one to worry if he was late, or injured on the field.

  Al Mahoney hated being alone. Had never liked it. He’d spent too many hours, days, weeks, being alone as a child. It was a death sentence for him. It meant he didn’t matter, not to anyone. Just like when he was a kid. Whether he was there for dinner or not didn’t matter. He remembered when he’d gotten that idea. The day he’d first showed up late at his aunt’s house. He’d been playing ball and had lost track of the time.

  When he’d run up the steps, he’d looked in the screen door. They had already said grace and were passing the food. No one was standing on the porch, wringing their hands and looking around. No one called his name, or showed up at the schoolyard to tell him he’d better get his ass home, as he was late for dinner. Nope. Dinner began, whether he was there or not.

  Now, his life would be the same. The loneliness that had practically crippled him as a child permeated his bones. It choked him, chilled him. With Carla, he was only a boarder. Again, it wouldn’t matter if he was there for breakfast or not. He shivered for a moment before getting back in his car. He’d hoped he’d find Mary at the house. But it was empty. Trunk’s luck had run out. Now, he needed to get his sorry ass to the stadium and work out. He needed to keep his football life on track. After all, it was all he had.

  Al felt like meatloaf that had been reheated six times. He downed two bottles of water then hit the treadmill. His head still pounded, so he popped more painkillers and drank more water. Setting the pace to slow helped.

  “Hey, Trunk!” Bull Brodsky slapped him on the back, almost knocking him off the machine. “What’s up? Where’d you stay last night? With one of those cheerleaders?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Brodsky. Why the hell do you have to be so loud?”

  “Hung over?”

  “Ya think?” Trunk was yelling.

  “Calm down. Calm down. Where did you stay, or don’t you remember?”

  “I stayed at The Beast.”

  “With Carla?” Brodsky’s eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.

  “Not with Carla, you dickwad. In her spare room. I’m renting it. For a month. Now, let me get this done in peace.”

  “Renting a room from Carla? Whoa, boy. That’s asking for trouble. How the hell are you gonna keep your hands off her?”

  “Easy. She’s not interested. So, that’s that.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, buddy. Hang in there.” Bull gave him another slap before he climbed on a nearby machine.

  Trunk tried to clear his head. She’s not interested. Right? Cloudy images nagged at his memory. What happened? Something. I was probably an asshole. Embarrassment crept up his neck simply at the thought that he’d behaved inappropriately. As he moved, he tried to piece together the events of the night before. He didn’t believe Carla’s statement that he hadn’t acted like an idiot. She’d never tell him the truth. She might hit him, if he made a pass, but she’d never wave it in his face the next day.

  So, what the hell did I do? The more he exercised, the more blood pumped through his veins. The medicine relieved the pressure in his brain, and the food in his stomach sent energy to his limbs. His mind kicked into gear. Mentally, he recreated everything he had done, step by step. Then, he got to the trip upstairs.

  “Holy shit!” he hollered, halting completely until he almost fell off the treadmill, which kept going. He punched the stop button and wiped his face with the towel around his neck.

  Bull and several other players looked at him.

  “What?” Brodsky asked.

  Trunk bent over, burying his face in his hands. “Fucking A. What the hell did I do?”

  Chapter Four

  Across town in the Montgomery home

  From a comfortable, straight-back chair, Lauren instructed Griff what to pack for his trip to Texas to play the Riders. She was large with child, making moving around, among other things, difficult. “I wish you weren’t going,” she said, then covered her mouth. “I swore I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Me too. Dad’s staying. Verna’s got some shindig, so he traded with Monty.”

  “So, you want me to call him if I go into labor?”

  “You could.” Griff put down his boxers and made eye contact with her. “He’s been through two childbirths himself.”

  “Yeah, right. Call Hank. I don’t think so. I’m not going to flash in front of your father.”

  “It’s not
flashing. It’s birthing.”

  “Just get your butt back here fast. Win the game and come home.”

  “Keep those legs closed. Tell little Gracie we can wait a few more days for her to arrive.”

  Lauren smiled. “You love that name, don’t you?”

  “It was my mother’s middle name.”

  “I like it too.”

  Griff leaned down to kiss her as a rocket, named Chip, roared into their room.

  “Da, da, da, da,” the little boy said, spinning in a circle until he made himself dizzy enough to fall on his little behind. He giggled.

  “Getting dizzy. It never gets old,” the kid’s father observed, scooping up the toddler and nuzzling his cheek.

  “Verna said she’d help in a pinch. I’ve got Amy coming to babysit every day you’re gone.”

  “Good. Then you can get some rest.”

  “If I can peel Chip off me.”

  “Hell, you need help just getting up from a chair.”

  “I know. Forget the sofa. It’s off limits.”

  The little boy struggled, so Griff put him down. The youngster tore out of the room again, making noises and laughing.

  Griff got down on the bed next to his wife. “I’m worried about you.” He combed his fingers through her hair.

  Lauren rested her head against his chest. “I’m scared. I admit it.”

  “We have a great doctor. Nothing for us to worry about. Gracie’s okay. You’re okay. Just don’t take any chances, will you? Promise me?”

  “I promise. You know me. I’m not a risk taker.”

  “I don’t know about that. After all, you married me.” He chuckled.

  She smiled up at him. “You’ve got a point.”

  He closed his suitcase. A pang shot through her, as the reality of his going on the road hit home. She wouldn’t admit to herself what a comfort he was during pregnancy and her first childbirth. This time might be different.

  A lingering kiss, a hug for a wiggly little boy, and her husband and lover was out the door on his way to nail down a trip to the Super Bowl.