Fourth and Goal (10 page)

Pausing in front of a stall, Rachel scratched her old guy, Moe, on the withers. He stuck his lip out and stretched his neck, making funny little sounds. She laughed and threw her arms around his furry neck, burying her face in his mane. She loved this horse. He'd been with her since grade school. They'd been through a lot of good and bad times. She'd cried into his mane when her mother died. He'd stood beside her, a silent yet supportive friend, nonjudgmental in his acceptance of her. He didn't care if she tripped more often than she stayed upright or that she wasn't a raging beauty or a witty conversationalist.

Moe reached around with his big muzzle and nibbled on her elbow. Rachel drew back and laughed. “Is that a hint, big guy? You want some dinner?"

The chestnut studied her with his big liquid brown eyes. He waited politely while Rachel put grain in his feeder. As soon as she moved out of his way, he dove in and sent grain flying. Rachel backed away and shut and latched the stall door.

She stopped at the sound of Derek's pickup sliding to a stop in front of the barn. He walked in, limping slightly, then grinned when he saw her.

"Hey, I was hoping I'd find you here.” His dark gaze picked her up and held her tight, refusing to release her. A traitorous part of her wanted nothing more than to jump the man's bones, ready and willing to make him a happy man tonight. She slapped the wanton hussy down and put on her best game face, breaking eye contact.

"Do you need something?” She watched him from beneath lowered lashes.

He raised both eyebrows as if that was a stupid question.

"Are you okay?” Rachel pointed at his leg.

"Oh, hell yeah. I'm great.” His gaze zeroed in on her torn breeches. “Are you?"

She waved off his concern. “Just the usual."

He didn't look convinced. “Our first regular season game is tomorrow at home."

"I know."

"I wondered if you did.” He studied his shoes, doing a great impression of a shy little boy. That was all it was, an impression. She knew him well.
Shy
was not an adjective used to define Derek Ramsey. Quiet at times, yes. Shy, no.

"Me? Not know the Jacks’ schedule?"

He grinned. “How about I buy you dinner, and we watch some game film later tonight?"

"Sounds like a deal.” Rachel almost laughed. Only the two of them would spend the night watching game film together.

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Derek sat on the bench, helmet in his hands. He glanced at the clock—four minutes and thirteen seconds left in the fourth quarter. The Jacks were well on their way to their first loss of the regular season. HughJack paced back and forth in front of the bench, fit to be tied, yelling at offense and defense alike. He'd thrown his clipboard several times, which didn't bode well for the after-game locker room speech.

They sucked. Turnovers and penalties were killing them, mistakes a team coached by someone of HughJack's caliber should never make. There'd be hell to pay, and it didn't matter that Derek hadn't been in on one play. He felt as responsible as the next player.

Despite their countless mistakes, they weren't out of it. Yet. If Tyler completed a few passes—a rarity so far, they'd stand a fighting chance. As Derek watched, his cousin threw a quick pass over the middle, right on target if he'd been playing for the other team. HughJack stomped his feet and slammed the clipboard to the ground again. The hotheaded coach roared until Derek expected an artery in his neck to explode or his face to burst into flames.

Tyler stalked to the bench and threw his helmet on the turf near Derek's feet. HughJack followed right on his ass, yelling obscenities that ranged from insulting Tyler's manhood—or lack thereof—to his choice of sexual partners. To Tyler's credit, he stood there and took it, his jaw tight and fists clenched.

The coach turned away, muttering something about dumb-shit, prima donna quarterbacks and how he'd be better off with Bob the Beer Man.

Tyler slammed his butt down on the bench next to his cousin. He snatched a sport drink from a rookie and guzzled it down, not seeming to notice as it dribbled down his cheeks. For once, appearance-conscious Tyler didn't seem to give a shit how he looked to the TV cameras.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Tyler wadded the cup into a ball and shot it into the nearby garbage can.

Funny how when he was pissed, he always said
fuck
in threes. It must have more impact that way.

Dante Reed, a veteran wide receiver, advanced on Tyler, looking ready to do battle. Not good. Frowning, Derek positioned himself within easy grabbing distance to break up a fight and braced himself.

"You threw a perfect pass on the last play. Too bad it was to the other team. Try hitting me in the numbers or even within five yards of the numbers, asshole, so I stand a rat's ass chance of catching the damn ball."

"Go to hell.” Tyler flipped Dante off but kept his butt on the bench.

"Yeah, tough guy. You're real hot. Quit shooting off your mouth and put effort into your play instead."

Tyler's eyes narrowed. Derek laid a steadying hand on his shoulder to hold him down. “Ty, we're all on the same team."

"Reed, you're a fuckhead. Fucking arrogant bastard. Fuck you.” Tyler's voice was quiet but deadly.

Dante shrugged, not the least bit impressed. “You might try adding a few more words to your vocabulary."

"Fuck you."

"I know. You said that. You're getting redundant. Just like your interceptions."

"Fu—Go to hell."

"Not very original, but at least it's a start.” Dante turned away. A couple of his buddies snickered.

Tyler started to stand up. Derek pushed him back down. “Don't do it, Ty. Keep your cool. He's getting to you on purpose. Trying to fire you up. Let it work to your advantage.” Derek acknowledged the defense jogging off the field. “Get out there."

"Fine, whatever.” Tyler snatched up his helmet in one angry motion and crammed it on his head as he ran onto the field. The crowd booed their displeasure at his return to the game.

A couple of plays later, deep in their own territory, Coach came over. “Spell Dante for a few plays. See if you can get your hotheaded cousin to calm down and throw the fucking ball to the right team.” Nodding, Derek ran to the huddle.

Derek caught a short pass on a slant route for five yards, then watched Tyler get sacked for a loss the next play. Dante came back on the field, sending him to the sidelines.

Derek warmed the bench the remainder of the game while his team lost without him.

"We need to talk."

Derek slammed his locker shut and gazed into the amused brown eyes of the wide receiver coach, Razor Barnes. All around them, teammates dressed in street clothes and a few talked to reporters, oblivious to the two men.

Tongue-tied in front of his idol, Derek shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared at the floor. How the hell did a guy talk to an icon like he was a normal person? Damn, he'd idolized Razor since he was a kid, never dreamed they'd be part of the same team.

Razor didn't smile or change expression. “Meet me at McCoy's in thirty minutes."

"What?"

"You heard me.” Razor sauntered off without another word. Derek stood there, mouth hanging open, feeling like a fucking starstruck teenager. Razor was the best wide receiver, maybe best athlete, to ever set foot on the gridiron. After a career-ending injury last season, HughJack had persuaded him to join the Jacks’ coaching staff. Derek watched him with reverence, hung on his every word, but they'd never talked beyond superficial comments.

An hour later, Derek walked into the bar, not knowing what to expect. Had he pissed Razor off, impressed him, or none of the above?

Razor sat in a private corner booth, watching baseball and nursing a beer. Derek slid into the seat across from him. He couldn't contain his excitement and grinned like an idiot. Signaling the waitress for a beer, he focused his attention on the future Hall of Famer.

"It's an honor to be sitting here with you."

Razor laughed at that. “I don't know if I deserve that honor."

"You do to me.” Derek looked around the sports bar. No one paid them any attention. The Seattle Lumberjacks hadn't been on too many people's minds the past few years. Most of the patrons watched the Mariners game playing on the flat screens hanging from the ceilings. “It must be strange for you."

"What?"

"You'd be mobbed anywhere else, but here no one pays any attention to pro football."

"Why is that?"

"Seattle used to be a football town, but we've dwelled in the basement for so long we barely make a blip on the local sports radar. A Jacks player can go anywhere in this town and rarely be recognized."

"You could help change that.” Razor's gaze drilled into his.

"Me?” Derek tapped his chest in disbelief. He shook his head as if to clear it.

"You and that arrogant asshole cousin of yours.” One corner of Razor's mouth lifted in a half smile.

Derek laughed. “If that's the worst you can come up with, you must actually like him."

"I'm not sure ‘like’ is an accurate description."

"Believe it or not, he's an okay guy underneath it all. Nothing is as important to him as the game."

Razor nodded. “He knows the plays. He works his ass off in practice.” He sipped his beer and swirled the gold liquid around in the glass.

"He pored over the playbook all summer. We both did. It's his attitude that gets in his way."

"Attitude will make you or break you.” He stared so intensely that Derek fought the urge to squirm. He wasn't referring to Tyler anymore. He looked away and sipped the beer the waitress placed on the table. “You could use a little of his attitude."

"Yeah.” Derek didn't need to be told; he knew he needed to find some attitude. Maybe he would once he backed it up with his performance on the field. “Why did you invite me here tonight?"

"I've been watching you."

"That's your job.” Derek sat up and gave Razor his undivided attention.

Razor sat back and folded his arms over his chest, assessing him. “Ramsey, I've never seen so much God-given talent in any one football player. In fact, if the league designed the perfect wide receiver, you'd be it."

"Physically, maybe.” Derek ducked his head as embarrassment heated his face. He'd heard it all before and failed to live up to everyone's high expectations over and over again.

Razor nodded. “Attitude is everything. Confidence. A cockiness that says to the world without using words: ‘Here I am. I deserve to be here, and all of you are lucky to witness my greatness.’ Somewhat like Tyler, but he needs to produce first."

"You produced. Is that how you felt?” Derek laughed.

"Damn right.” Razor leaned forward and jabbed his index finger into Derek's chest. “You're better than a third-string receiver. You're not only first-string material, you're All-Pro. You need to believe in yourself before anyone else believes in you."

"I'm trying.” Derek leaned back, moving out of range of Razor's sharp finger.

"Well, today is your lucky day because the best receiver in league history has chosen to pass the torch to you."

"Is that the quiet cockiness you're talking about?"

"That's an example, yes. I'm going to be all over your ass at every practice and every game. Either you're going to realize your potential or we'll both die trying. I'm making you my special project, Ramsey, but strings are attached."

Derek's heart pounded in his chest. “Whatever they are, I'm in.” There wasn't a wide receiver playing the game who wouldn't give an entire year's salary for an opportunity like this.

"No partying, no late nights, no blonde bimbo football groupies that suck you dry. Even when you aren't on the field, your life will be nothing but football. I want you living and breathing it 24-7. Get together with some of the guys and work after hours on your timing, your motor skills, everything. I'm going to be tougher on you than anyone else. I'm not going to show favoritism. When it's all said and done, you'll thank me. You're going to live clean, work like a fiend, and think nothing but football for the next five months."

Derek stifled a grin. “Six."

"Six?"

"Six months if you count the Super Bowl."

A slow smile spread across Razor's face. “I like that thinking. Keep it up. Do we have a deal?"

Derek took the hand held out and shook it. The first two would be easy—no partying or late nights. The third was a no-brainer; blonde bimbos didn't do it for him.

"One other thing."

"Yeah?"

"You're strung too tight. Trying too hard. You need to loosen up. Relax. Let it flow.” Razor studied him with knowing eyes. “When's the last time you got laid?"

"Uh. It's been a while.” Derek felt the heat spread up his neck to his cheeks.

"I know some guys don't agree, but I always had a good romp the night before a game."

"You said no blonde bimbos."

"You've been paying attention. Good. You can't afford a princess who'll demand attention and suck you emotionally dry with mind games. A low-maintenance woman with no emotional strings, that's what you need."

"A fuck buddy?"

"Yup. Get one. A good-looking, young guy like you shouldn't find that a problem. Just keep emotions out of it."

Easier said than done. Right now, only one woman interested him. She was the last woman on earth who'd agree to something like that, and he'd never ask her.

Rachel walked through the door of the coffee shop and glanced around the room. Not comfortable in even the most modest heels, she walked with short, tentative steps, afraid she'd turn an ankle. Right on schedule, she stumbled just before she reached the table.

Razor Barnes reached out and grasped her arm to steady her. “Are you okay?"

Embarrassment heated her cheeks, but she managed a composed smile. “I'm sorry. I'm accident-prone."

Razor glanced down at a small bandage wrapped around her index finger. He nodded and shook her hand.

"I'm Rachel McCormick. Mr. Barnes, so good to meet you.” She accepted his firm handshake, all the while wondering what the heck she was doing here.