Fourth and Goal (4 page)

It'd been tough. Life and fate placed a heck of a lot of roadblocks in her path.

By a tragic twist of fate, her mother had survived cancer only to die in a car accident just before Rachel's senior year of college.

Through it all, Derek had hovered in the background, a quiet yet supportive fixture in their family. They'd hung out together. She'd leaned on him through high school and her mother's cancer, told him her fears, her hopes, her dreams. He'd done the same. They'd forged a connection not easily forgotten.

After her mother died, they'd had one more thing in common: his mother had abandoned him when he was eight years old. Growing up as kids, she'd wondered how it felt to not have your mother around. Then she'd found out. It felt like hell.

Even after five years, it still hurt, like nothing she'd experienced before. Hardly a day went by that something didn't remind her of her mother. She still reached for the phone to call her and share something, only to stare numbly at the receiver, an empty hole in her heart.

Rachel swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks and choked back a sob. She hadn't caved then; she wouldn't now.

Sighing, she sat up and got out of bed. Charlie, her cat, cast an annoyed look over his shoulder and shifted from his spot nestled next to her. Throwing on a robe, she padded to the kitchen to make coffee. She paused to gaze at the neat and tidy little home she'd made for herself, even though she wouldn't be here long.

She loved this little old house that Derek, according to Cass, had lovingly and painstakingly restored earlier this summer. Was there anything the guy couldn't do? If there was, she hadn't stumbled—literally—across it yet. One person with that much talent should be illegal. It wasn't right. Heck, half the time she couldn't put one foot in front of the other without tripping.

A car rumbled down the driveway. She peeked through the curtain as Tyler's car bombed past, the two cousins bound for training camp. She half wished Derek had knocked on her door to say good-bye, but should have known better.

Downing a cup of coffee, she threw on some clothes, splashed water on her face, and walked out the door. Simon waited on the porch. His tail slapped on the wooden rungs of the railing, his ever-present ball stuffed in his mouth. Sighing, she signaled for him to follow. Pausing halfway to the barn, she turned to regard her temporary home.

A half hour from downtown Seattle in good traffic, the two-bedroom cottage sat on the edge of the woods, painted white with red shutters, a red front door, and a covered porch complete with a porch swing. For the next few months, it was hers. She'd enjoy every minute of it.

Rachel headed for the barn. Nothing special, the large red metal building boasted a modest indoor arena and about ten stalls, all of which were empty except for her horse and Derek's old stock horse.

An envelope with her name on it in his big, sloppy handwriting was tacked on the bulletin board near the feed room. She removed it and found her keys and a brief note inside:
Rae, I found these late last night. Sorry about that. I'll be in touch. Call me if you need anything. Dare

Rachel fingered the note, tracing his name. Dumb, but a warm feeling spread through her from a simple note. Casting a wary glance at Simon, she stuffed the keys in her pocket. The Lab danced around her feet, dropped his ball, and looked up expectantly. His tongue lolled out one side of his mouth, and his eyes burned bright with an obsessive fever.

She tossed the ball down the aisle, and Simon scrambled after it, momentarily leaving her in peace.

Rachel fed Derek's big, stocky stock horse named Mac. Returning to the feed room for more grain, she discovered the grain scoop and Simon were both AWOL. She called for him, not expecting a response and not getting one. That damn dog needed an intervention—or rehab. Shaking her head, she rummaged through the cupboard over the feed bins for something to use and found a coffee can.

Her old, faithful gelding, Moe, waited politely as she dumped a scoop of grain in his feeder. He nuzzled her before burying his head in the bucket. She'd owned the gelding since junior high, shown him in all kinds of events, and couldn't imagine her life without him.

"Hey, you
are
still here."

Rachel turned at the sound of her brother's voice. “Where else would I be? I have no other job."

"Well, you can blame Ramsey and his asshole cousin for that."

Rachel sat down on the tack trunk and stared at the wall. “I saw Dad last night."

Mitch's mouth turned down. His dark eyes filled with concern. “How is he?"

"The same. Living in squalor and drinking his meals."

Her big brother worked his jaw. Anger hardened his features. “Damn it. We've gotta make this right."

"We will. He's the only parent we have left. I won't let him die while he's living.” Determination to right the wrongs overrode her other emotions.

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"Nothing. He's closemouthed and stubborn.” Just like his son.

"What about Ramsey? Did he say anything about Dad?” Mitch pulled a piece of hay from a nearby bail and gnawed on it.

"Just that he was sorry to hear what happened."

"Yeah, I bet he is. Dad's covering for one of his players. You know it, and I know it. Ramsey and Harris are his two guys who made the pros. They're the logical ones."

"I know they are.” Saying the words turned her stomach inside out.

"You have to be one hundred percent committed or this will never work."

"I am.” Rachel ground her teeth and resisted the childish urge to kick him in the shins like she had when they were young. “I'll get to the bottom of this. My life is crap because of it as much as Dad's. Yours will be too if you ever try to go beyond a high school coach.” As hard as it might be, she'd see it through to the end.

"Hell, I'm lucky to have a job. The sins of the father and all that."

"Our father didn't sin. He's the most honest, fair man you could ever meet.” Rachel spoke with renewed conviction. “There's no way Dad shaved points in any game, let alone the state championship."

"And one or both of those assholes know the truth. I'm not letting Dad drink his life away to protect them."

"I'm on it."

His eyes bored into hers. Resisting the urge to look away, she met his gaze. “Weasel your way into Derek's life, earn his trust."

"That'll take time.” Simon shoved the ball in her lap and waited for her to throw it. She held the slimy thing in two fingers and tossed it outside. The rabid Lab galloped after it.

"Find a way to get to him."

"I plan on appealing to his innate sense of decency."

"You're placing a lot of stock in him being a decent person.” Mitch's cynicism annoyed her, even though part of her agreed.

Rachel hoped like hell Derek did have that particular trait buried somewhere deep. “If he doesn't, this'll never work. The only way to the truth is to push him over the edge with guilt. I just don't quite know how I'm going to swing it."

"You'll find a way. Help him with his game. Ramsey's got to make something happen this year, or he's done."

She couldn't argue that point. An exceptional athlete from birth, Derek's long legs had given him the speed of a world-class sprinter with an Olympic Gold in the 4x4 relay to prove it. In college his lightning-fast reflexes eluded tacklers. His large hands and long fingers caught any football thrown in his vicinity. His blazing speed left defenders in the dust. Yet all the talent in the world hadn't gotten him any further than a disappointing third-string wide receiver in the pros. She knew. She'd followed every step of his career.

He'd gained twenty to thirty pounds on his lean body, all in muscle, courtesy of professional football. But being a pro had changed something else too, something not so easily defined. She'd read it in his stance, in his demeanor, and definitely in his eyes.

The last time she'd seen him up close, he'd been an eager college senior. His quiet confidence had announced the world was his for the taking. She didn't see that confidence now. Instead he looked as if life had beaten him down too many times, and he didn't quite trust it anymore. Guilt could eat a person from the inside out. Could his current emotional state be attributed to his own culpability?

He'd changed, but then so had she.

Never mess with a woman ready to call a trick play when the game was on the line.

Derek gulped down a large cup of water. He crushed it and tossed it into a nearby garbage can. Squinting into the relentless afternoon sun, he wiped the sweat from his brow. It had to be 102 in the shade. The small eastern Washington college town where the Seattle Lumberjacks held training camp was known for its scorching summers.

Even with temperatures in triple digits, the heat wasn't as scorching as the pressure put on this team to win. Last year, his first year with the Jacks, they'd finished three and thirteen. Two games better than the previous year. Just another below-mediocre season in a sorry decade of football for the Northwest.

Derek had sucked right along with the rest of his teammates. He'd thought playing with Tyler again would be all they'd need to repeat their high school and college glory days. No fucking way. Dropped pass after dropped pass racked up on his stats. Meanwhile Tyler, as starting quarterback, didn't gain any fans with his on- and off-field escapades.

Funny how life worked like that. One minute they'd stood on top of the mountain, the world at their feet. The next, an avalanche of mistakes and bad luck had swept them downward until they hit rock bottom. Now bruised and battered, they fought their way back to the summit.

At the height of his athletic career, Derek had been the Rose Bowl MVP and a world-class sprinter with an Olympic Gold in the 4x4 relay. But that gold turned into fool's gold, and he was the biggest fool of all. One hit during the first play of his first professional game kept him off the football field for over a year. By the time his knee recuperated, no one had wanted him. Yesterday's hero had become today's damaged goods.

He'd made so many mistakes in the past few years. Now it came down to this one defining moment in what had once promised to be a stellar football career.

His gut told him this was it. He either proved he belonged or admitted he didn't have what it took. No more second chances.

Washed up at the tender old age of twenty-seven. Derek had signed a one-year contract last year, but management hadn't renewed it at the end of the season. His rumored partying and lack of effort hadn't impressed anyone. His ego took a huge hit and his confidence tanked. Three professional teams in four years was not a good indicator of career advancement.

After last year's dismal season, the Lumberjacks’ management fired their entire coaching staff. They shelled out big bucks to lure Hubert Jackson—a successful young coach—away from his championship team, and recommitted themselves to building a winner.

Derek had been invited to attend training camp to contend for a spot with the rest of the hopeful wide receivers. He caught that wake-up call. He'd been fumbling his career and squandering his God-given talent.

No more.

Derek had sworn off what little partying he'd done, removed distractions from his life, and set to work. He studied game tapes all summer and worked out several hours a day. He focused every bit of his being on resurrecting the potential he'd had in college.

Failure was not an option.

Now he walked onto the field at training camp, more nervous than a rookie and more determined than he'd ever been in his life.

The all-new coaching staff watched him with unreadable expressions, made notations on clipboards, and gave nothing away. When Derek dropped an easy pass, the head coach shook his head, threw his clipboard down in disgust, and stomped off. The man had a reputation as a taskmaster and two Super Bowl rings to back it up. He didn't accept excuses or anything short of perfection.

Derek kept his mouth shut and tried harder, but the coach never looked his way the rest of practice. He showered and walked across campus to the dorm room he shared with Tyler. Depressed and discouraged, he picked up the phone and called the one person who could make him feel better.

Rachel scrambled for the phone. She tripped over the coffee table, banged her shin in the process, and tipped over an almost empty glass of water. The glass shattered in tiny little shards on the hardwood floor. Out of breath and hopping on one foot, she fumbled for the receiver.
Damn! Ouch
! “Hello?"

"Hey."

"Hey there.” Her pulse quickened. She'd know that deep, sexy voice anywhere. She took a long, slow breath and forgot about the broken glass and her throbbing leg. Gripping the phone, she sat down on the barstool.

"You're out of breath. Is this a bad time?"

Who was he kidding? “No, I was outside and had to run to catch the phone."

"Really? Expecting an invitation to a hot date?” He laughed as if it was funny.

She swallowed her response. He didn't need to know about her nonexistent social life. Besides, the less he knew, the better.

He cleared his throat. “How are things?"

"Fine. Simon is as demanding as his namesake, and your horse, Mac, he's a typical stock horse. Big, unflappable, and a pig."

"He does seem to eat more than his weight in hay."

"I'm glad I'm not the one paying for it. How are things going there?"

"I'm pretty wiped. They work our butts off, and the heat... Damn, it sucks.” The weariness in his voice carried across the miles. She tamped down her feelings of sympathy. Distance. She needed to juggle emotional distance with earning his trust. What a twist of irony—earn his trust so she could betray it.

"Wuss.” She smiled into the phone like some love-struck teenager talking to her high school crush, which at one time was an accurate description. Not anymore. Not over his dead body.

"That's me.” Derek chuckled, a warm, inviting sound that made her heart beat a little faster.

"How do you like the new coaches?"

"Tough, really tough, but that's how you make champions. And Ty, he's having a rough time. He called the shots with the old coaching staff. These guys won't tolerate his antics, and even he can't blow them off. They have what he wants more than anything—what any football player worth his cleats wants."