Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (25 page)

“Yeah, I did. What's for dinner? Hey, Graham.”

“Hey, kid.” Graham held out a hand for a high five as Zach passed by. “Homework done?”

“Ye . . . no. Dang it.” Looking sullen, he headed for his room. “Forgot math.”

“Finish it before dinner,” Kara suggested, “and you can FaceTime with Matt.” His best friend from his old school.

“Got it. C'mon, Boscoe, let's go play with numbers.”

The pup, hearing the key word “play,” yipped and raced off behind him, running into a wall before making the final turn for Zach's room.

“That dog is going to leave dent marks in every piece of drywall we have.” Shaking her head, Kara stood and went to the fridge to start pulling out the fixings for dinner.

Graham walked up behind her—his knee had fully healed, thank God—and pulled her back against him. Nibbling on her neck, he asked, “How long do you think he'll be preoccupied with math?”

“Since he's more of a word nerd than he is a math geek, a while.”

“Hmm.” His hand worked lower, grazing the waistband of her yoga pants. “Maybe we should go discuss tonight's meal plan first. Alone.”

“I could be up for a discussion of such.” She twisted around to lock her lips firmly on his, holding him down so she could fully take advantage. “Yup, let's go ‘meal plan' for a bit. I'm thinking about something spicy.”

He followed her to the bedroom. “Whatever you say, yoga
girl.”

TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF JEANETTE MURRAY'S NEXT SANTA FE BOBCATS NOVEL

COMPLETING THE PASS

COMING SOON FROM
INTERMIX!

J
osh Leeman walked into the Bobcats headquarters and gave Kristen a wary smile. “Hey, I think someone is expecting me for . . . You okay?”

Kristen, the front office's high-octane, almost unbelievably efficient administrative assistant, gave him a weak smile in return. “Sure, I'm fine. Thanks for asking.”

Josh couldn't help noticing she was wringing her hands as she said it. And for the first time since he'd met her several seasons ago, she was missing that certain polish that she carried around with her. Her hair was down, rather than back in its typical smooth bun, and looked a little tangled, as if she'd forgotten to brush it before heading to work. Her sweater was baggy, and if she wore any makeup, he couldn't tell.

“Right. That's good.” He rocked back on his heels, taking in the front lobby. It was a rare day he ended up in the front offices. Not much call for him here. He was the guy who stuck to the shadows of the team. Forgotten, until called upon. And he'd never wanted to be called upon.

Somehow, it had happened anyway.

“So, I think Coach Jordan is expecting me.”

She nodded, nibbling on her lip and making a quick call to announce him. When she waved him on toward the double doors, she looked . . . worried.

Kristen was a known mother hen for the team. If she was worried, there was something to worry about. With this career, the options were pretty limited. He was being traded, or just straight cut. Try as he might, he struggled to think of a worse situation than being cut from the team he'd spent four years with.

He walked through the hallways, feeling insignificant beside the team photos of Bobcats past. Not to mention the few gigantic portraits of the NFL MVPs the Bobcats had held on their rosters over the decades.

As he entered the main bay of offices for the coaches and the owners, he approached the desk that sat in the middle of the open space with trepidation. There was something about Frank, the man who manned the desk, that terrified him. Maybe that was a pussy thing to say, that he was terrified of an old guy who might have been sixty-five, or maybe ninety-five . . . but it was also the damn truth.

“Hey, Frank.” The man didn't look up from his typing. With hands that looked gnarled as tree roots, he was typing what had to be at least eighty words a minute, and he wasn't stopping anytime soon. “Uh, Kristen sent me back.”

“Coach Jordan's office,” the older man barked, nodding his head toward the left back corner office. His fingers never stopped. “Go on in.”

“Right.” Josh paused a moment, then said, “Thanks.”

Might as well have said nothing at all, for all the attention Frank paid him. Heading back, he wiped his damp palms on his jeans before knocking on the door.

The worst they can do is cut you. You try out for another team, or you go on to something else. Calm down.

“Come on in,” he heard Coach Jordan say. When he entered, he saw the quarterback coach sitting across from the head coach in a comfortable leather high-back chair.

The head coach and the quarterback coach. This . . . was unexpected.

“Kristen called and said you needed to see me?” Josh took a few steps in, pausing by the door.

Coach Jordan nodded at it. “Go ahead and close it. Have a seat.”

He closed the door and took a seat beside Clayton Barnes, the quarterback coach who'd joined the team last year. Clayton reached over to shake his hand, but said nothing. No smiles, no friendly winks, nothing.

The worst they can do is cut you.

Coach Jordan glanced at his wall a moment, as if still gathering his thoughts. His naturally tanned skin—thanks to his Hawaiian ancestry—seemed even darker. Likely he'd been on vacation with his two teenage daughters, one of whom Josh was pretty sure should be heading to college this summer. He followed his coach's gaze to the wall of photos. There were ones of his two teenagers, when they were younger. A few of him and the girls with his now-ex-wife. Awkward. And a few newer additions with Cassie Wainwright—now Cassie Owens—his daughter from a past relationship with whom he'd only recently connected.

In the center of the grouping was a large photo of Cassie, her father, and two sisters on Cassie and Trey's wedding day. The bride wore white, and a smile that could light up the Bobcats stadium for
Monday Night Football
.

“Nice picture,” he said, because the silence was killing him. When Coach glanced at him, he pointed to the wedding photo. “She looks happy.”

That brought out a small smile on his stern face. “She was gorgeous. Prettiest bride you could ask for. Perfect day.”

Josh nodded, because it was polite. He hadn't been
there—hadn't been invited, not that he minded. No way could the couple invite the whole team, and while he and Trey—the Bobcats' star quarterback—were friendly given their positions, they weren't really friends.

“That brings me to what we need to discuss.” Settling back in his chair, Coach Jordan steepled his hands together and tapped his chin a few times.

The worst they can do is cut you.

“Cassie and Trey are currently on their honeymoon,” he went on. “They delayed the trip because Cassie had some conferences and such. Nerd Herd stuff.” Josh nodded again. “There was an . . . incident.”

Josh blinked, then looked over at Coach Barnes. But the quarterback coach simply sat, stone-faced.

“Incident?” He wiped his hands on his jeans again. “Is everyone okay?”

“Nothing life threatening. Cassie is fine. I'd have had to kill him if he brought my daughter back hurt,” the coach muttered. “But no, the injury was Trey's.”

Those hands that had continued to sweat started to feel clammy. “Nothing major, I hope.”

“A sprain,” Coach Barnes said, sounding annoyed more than upset. “Left ankle. Who tells a multimillion-dollar quarterback hang gliding is a good idea?”

“Easy,” Coach Jordan said. Coach Barnes glared, but settled back in his chair. “It's a pretty bad sprain. We can hope he'll be back for Game One.”

Josh nodded again.

“You get where he's going with this?” Coach Barnes asked.

“Uh . . . Trey's hurt.” Barnes gave him a disbelieving look. “But he's going to be okay. Right?”

“It's a sprain. His foot didn't fall off.” Coach Barnes looked at Coach Jordan with a
What's with this guy?
look.

“We can't guarantee he will be back by the first game.
He definitely won't be playing in the preseason matchups. So that means we're looking at you to carry us forward.”

Josh froze, looking between the two coaches. “I'm sorry, what?”

Coach Barnes just rolled his eyes.

Coach Jordan seemed to have found some Zen in the whole thing. “Leeman, we're saying you're our go-to guy right now.”

“But you're looking for a replacement. Right?” His hands started to shake, so he shoved them in the pockets of his jeans. “To step in.”

“
You
are the replacement. It's what you're paid for,” Barnes snapped.

“With Trey only missing preseason, and maybe a game or two, we don't feel it's prudent to grab another quarterback at this time,” Coach Jordan said more diplomatically. Then he paused. “That's code for ‘It's not in the budget.'”

He could respect a budget. He was raised with the words “it's not in the budget” being a weekly mantra from his single mother.

“So you're it.” Coach Barnes stood and slapped him on the shoulder. “I hope you're ready for the spotlight. Because when it becomes news Owens isn't starting Game One, you're going to be the person everyone starts watching. Closely.” He stood and left without another word.

Coach Jordan just gave him a wan smile. “We told you this now, in May, so you're ready to put your nose to the grindstone in July for training camp. Don't put on twenty pounds of fat we have to work off of you before you're any good to us.”

“Yeah. Sure. Right.” He was nodding again like a damned bobblehead. “Don't get fat. Got it.”

“Stay healthy. Stay in shape. And for the love of God, don't go hang gliding.” His coach motioned to the door with his head, and Josh was dismissed.

As he walked back down the hallway, he paused in front of the 1989 Super Bowl championship Bobcats team photo. He took in the mullets, the pornstaches, the out-of-control curls . . . and wanted to vomit.

Apparently, cutting him
wasn't
the worst thing they could do.

*   *   *

CARRINGTON
Gray walked into her father's hospital room with a quick
knock-knock
.

“Hey, Daddy.” She set flowers on the table and walked over to the chair she knew her mother would have vacated only for an emergency bathroom break or sustenance run. Maeve Gray was a loyal, loving wife. Stooping down, she kissed her father's cheek with care. He'd lost weight.

He turned eyes that seemed a little too cloudy for comfort toward her. The top of his head was still wrapped in bandages from the severe sunburn he'd received. Monitors beeped, and the IV that provided hydration ran into his reddened, bandaged arm. “Hello.”

“Daddy?” What kind of medication was he on? “Dad. How're you feeling?” She hesitated—not wanting to hurt him—then gingerly took hold of his hand, which was pink, but not burned at least.

He shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. “Hello.”

Carri blinked. “Daddy. You know who I am, right?”

He blinked back, as if in a copycat gesture of her own. “Of course. Maeve, sweetheart. You shouldn't be in my room. If my father catches us—”

“Herb.” Maeve walked in quickly, coming to stand by the other side of the bed. “It's Carri. Carrington. Your daughter. I'm Maeve.” In a gesture that made Carri's throat clog, her mother carefully brought her father's hand up to cup her cheek.

“Maeve,” he whispered, eyes watering.

Carri felt awkward, as if intruding on a private, personal moment. With shaking hands, she stood and walked out to the hallway, sinking onto a chair. The cracked vinyl and plastic scratched at the backs of her thighs. A woman in blue scrubs and a white coat walked into her father's room, and a moment later, her mother walked out to sit beside her.

Maeve sighed as she settled down into the chair beside Carri's, then reached over to place a hand over Carri's shaking ones. “I'm glad you could come, Carrington. How was the drive from Utah? Or did you fly?”

“Mom.” It suddenly made sense, why her mother had been so vague about the “accident” that had put her father into the hospital. Who rushed to the ER because of a simple sunburn? “I'm here now. Can you please tell me what's going on? The whole truth this time.”

Maeve's lip trembled, but she firmed it up and nodded once. “I was at work when your father . . . wandered away.”

Wandered away, like a puppy that slipped out an open gate? Like a toddler who jimmied the safety lock? “Mom . . .”

“He was gone for nearly twenty-four hours. In this heat, he was pretty dehydrated, and very sunburned.” She laughed, but the sound was watery. “You know how he always forgot to bring a hat with him when he'd go to your soccer games. With that bald egg he calls a head—”

“Mom.” She said it firmly now, because she was afraid if her mother kept going, she'd break. “Tell me the truth. What's going on?”

“Dementia,” Maeve whispered, looking back toward her husband's open room door. “They'll run a few more tests, but it's nearly impossible to deny at this point. He's been . . . forgetful lately. Calling things the wrong word, calling me his mother's name a few times. I just thought, ‘Hey, old age, right?'” Her mother reached up one hand to wipe at the corner of her eye. “I thought maybe retirement was getting to him; he was watching too much television. I started
bringing home those crossword puzzles and the . . . oh, the numbers in the boxes.”

“Sudoku.”

“Yes.” She laughed again, but it was less watery this time. “See? Happens to everyone, the whole forgetting words thing. It wasn't often, but it had started happening with enough frequency I'd convinced him to head to his doctor. They confirmed it. We were going to tell you when you came to visit next. It's not the sort of thing you talk about on the phone. Then this . . .” Maeve covered her mouth on a sob.

Carri clenched her hands in her lap. They'd deliberately kept her out of the loop.

Her mother continued. “He was . . . was gone. Alone. For hours, Carrington. Hours. Wandering around, no clue where he was going. In just his house shoes, a T-shirt and shorts. They found him at a park, watching children play a junior league soccer game. A parent saw him, spoke to him, saw the burns and called 911.” Her mother swallowed and smiled, though her lips quivered. “He told the police he was watching his daughter. It wasn't even a field you'd ever played at before.”

Carri reached up to knuckle away a tear of her own. “Oh, Mom. Oh my God.”

With a puff of breath, Maeve pulled herself together quickly. “We'll figure this out. We have some long-term care insurance. I can't come home permanently. We can't afford for me to retire right now. But we've been paying those insurance people money for years. They can send a professional to sit with him while I'm gone, make sure he's safe.”

“Of course they can.” Not sure at all what long-term care insurance did or didn't do, Carri quickly made a mental note to look it up, and see if she could help. “I'm guessing you need an official diagnosis first, right?”

“We were still in the testing stage with his neurologist, but I think this should seal the deal on that front. He should be released from the ICU tomorrow afternoon.” Suddenly,
Maeve threw her arms around Carri's shoulders. “I'm just so glad you came.”