Home Field Advantage (6 page)

"Oh, it's okay." He
glanced at the sheaves of paper fanned across his bed. The statistics on the
two teams were the kind of thing he'd need to pull from his hat tomorrow during
the broadcast.

"It ought to be quite a
game," he added. "But I forgot, you're not a fan, are you?"

"I'm afraid not. Emma
made us promise to watch you, though."

"You trying to give me
stage fright?"

Her chuckle, low and
delicious, came from too far away. With an increasing ache, he could see those
dimples and the gentle curve of her mouth.

"Millions of people are
already watching you," she pointed out. "I don't think Anna and Jesse
are very critical."

He couldn't resist.
"What about you? Are you critical?"

"You could tell me three
downs made an out and I wouldn't know the difference."

"I wasn't really talking
about football," he said. "I was talking about me."

There was a moment of silence
before she answered obliquely, "I'm looking forward to seeing you on
TV."

"What's that mean?"

"You live in a different
world."

"Yeah, in hotel rooms
that have less character than my horses' stalls. Or are you imagining glamour
and the high life?"

"Well..." Her laugh
took away her constraint. "All right, you've got me. I figured a pro
athlete makes tons of money and always has a blonde on each arm."

John grimaced. There'd been a
time that he'd seen the life that way, too. He had even lived it for a couple
of years, before he'd grown up. Marriage and a baby and too many aches from too
many hits had a way of doing that.

"I'm a has-been nowadays,"
he reminded her. "It's not the same."

"That's right."
There was a smile in her voice. "I'd almost forgotten the ugly scars on
your knees."

"That's one thing about
kids. If I have any flaws, you'll hear about 'em."

Again that chuckle.
"Emma tells me you have scratchy cheeks because you only shave when you
have to. She says that you yell sometimes when you're mad, but she knows you
don't really mean it. She says..."

He groaned. "I get the
point. I don't have a secret left to my name."

"I don't, either,"
she said, inexplicably sounding a little sad.

"Obviously our lives
have become too staid and boring." He kept his tone light. "Maybe we
ought to dump all the kids and you could come with me some weekend. Live that
life of glamour."

"You should have asked
before you disillusioned me," she countered, equally lightly.
"Speaking of a life of glamour, I'd better be getting the kids to
bed."

Was that a warning? Back off,
he thought. Take it slow and easy. Quit imagining the raw silk of her hair
tangled around him, the gentle weight of her breasts in his hands, her dark
eyes dreamy with passion. Quit imagining how it would be to make love to her,
slow and easy.

His voice was husky with the
effort he'd made. "Emma sounded happy. Any problems?"

"None at all," she
said. "We'll see you Monday morning?"

"Right. Although you'll
see me sooner if I decide at half-time tomorrow to grin at the TV camera and
say 'Hi to Marian and the kids.'"

"You wouldn't."

"Hey, I'd be the one
losing my dignity, not you. Besides, it's in a great tradition. Ahmad Rashad
proposed to his wife on camera."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. It was very sweet
and newsworthy. She even blushed."

"No wonder," Marian
muttered. "I'm not sure I will watch tomorrow!"

Laughing, he said good-bye.
For a moment he toyed, not at all seriously, with the idea of asking her from
the broadcast booth for a date. Then with a sigh he reached for the notes he'd
taken on the Rams' hotshot new quarterback. Personally, he had doubts the kid
would know what to do under real pressure.

But then, everybody had to
learn sometime, John thought. After all, he'd figured it out, hadn't he? And
he'd been a hotshot once, too.

But no more. He knew better
now than to force a pass deep. He'd learned that slow and easy got the job
done, too. But the impatience he'd once conquered tightened his fingers on the
sheaf of papers. "Take your time," he said aloud to the empty hotel
room. "There's no hurry." But he was frowning as he forced his
attention back to the stats.

*****

Emma told Marian
knowledgeably that they ought to watch the pregame show Sunday afternoon.

"That's practically the
only time you can see Daddy. The rest of the time you only hear his
voice." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "And then he's talking
about football."

"That is what they pay
him to talk about," Marian pointed out in all justice.

"Yeah, but it's
boring." Emma brightened. "I wish he was in something different. Like
Star Trek."

"I don't know if I can
see him with pointy ears," Marian said doubtfully.

"And purple hair,"
Emma suggested. "I like purple. It's my favorite color."

Switching on the TV, Marian
concluded that pointy ears and purple hair wouldn't look any more outlandish
than football gear. She would never have recognized John McRae with a cage
across his face and white streaks on his cheeks to reduce the glare and those
silly pads on his broad shoulders. When the camera panned in on a player
trotting away from it, however, Marian decided that the tight pants weren't too
bad.

"Tell me when this game
is over, okay?" she asked. "I'm going to fold some laundry."

It wasn't long before the
little girl called, "Marian! There's Daddy!"

Marian dropped the heap of
towels and hurried into the living room. She was just curious, she told herself
defensively. Why her heart took an odd thump when she recognized Emma's father
on the screen, she didn't try to explain to herself.

She sank slowly onto the
couch while Emma grabbed Anna and thrust her face almost up to the screen.
"See? That's my daddy. He's on TV."

How bizarre, Marian thought.
She'd never actually met anyone who was on television before. But there indeed
he was, leaning comfortably back in his chair, his gestures emphatic as he made
some point about a prevent defense. Whatever that was.

The twins stared wide-eyed at
the television, Anna sucking on her thumb and Jesse clutching his tattered
white rabbit. After a minute Anna unpopped her thumb to say in a small voice,
"He's little. Make him big again."

"That's dumb," Emma
said, sounding offended. "My dad's not little!"

Marian bent to hug her son
and daughter. "Emma's daddy isn't inside the TV. That's a picture of him,
just like we have in our albums. Like your baby pictures, except this kind
shows him moving and talking."

Anna looked doubtful, but
stuck her thumb back in her mouth and continued to stare at the screen, where
the two men tossed jargon back and forth. Their greatest interest seemed to be
in pass rushes and sacks. Marian had a suspicion it wasn't brown paper ones
they were talking about.

Eventually the other
broadcaster leaned toward Emma's father. "Okay, John, it's time to put you
on the spot. What's going to triumph today? The flashy passing attack of the
L.A. Rams, or the powerful defense of the Washington Redskins?"

John directed a crooked smile
at the camera and began to answer. The lazy humor in his eyes made Marian's
heart do a peculiar dance. She felt as though he were looking only at her.

"A million other people
feel the same way," she muttered.

Emma bounced on the couch
beside her. "What, Marian?"

"Nothing." Marian
blinked. A commercial was galloping raucously across the screen. "What did
he say? Did you hear?"

"I think he said he was
prejudiced. What's that mean?"

"That he wants the team
he used to play for to win. It was L.A., wasn't it?"

"Um hm." Emma gave
an additional bounce. "Can we go ride Snowball now?"

Marian gave her a startled
look. "I thought you wanted to watch your dad?"

She shrugged. "I've seen
him. I don't want to watch football."

Marian wondered if Emma said
the word in quite that disgusted way around her father. If so, it would keep
him humble. Except, Marian remembered, that Emma had sounded proud because her
father was famous.

"I wouldn't mind
watching for a while," Marian said. "I'd be embarrassed to tell your
father we'd turned him off before the game even started. Can you guys color for
a while?"

"I guess." Emma
flounced off the couch and headed for the table. "C'mon. Let's make a TV
show. We can color the pictures and then tape 'em up and make a story. What do
you want to do, My Little Pony?"

Grateful for Emma's
bossiness, which resulted in all three children settling happily at the
dining-room table, Marian soon found herself drawn into the game, despite her
ignorance. There was something compelling about the sweating, grunting,
slamming bodies on the television screen. She especially liked the long, high,
arcing passes that were apparently called "bombs."

At half-time she hustled the
kids out for one of the fastest pony rides in history. Even Snowball looked
startled when she surprised him into a fast trot with Emma flopping around on
his broad back like a loosely tied bundle of sticks.

"Ride again?" Jesse
asked as his mom hurried them back into the house.

"I want to see the rest
of the game," Marian said. "Later we can ride again."

"I thought you didn't
like football," Emma protested.

"I guess I'd never
watched it before. It's interesting."

It didn't hurt, of course,
that the camera flashed from time to time into the broadcast booth, showing
John with headphones on, watching the game with an intensity that shouldn't
have surprised Marian, considering his success at the sport. There was no question
who was the authority, as he made crisp, unexpected analyses, spiced with an
occasional dash of humor. Marian had to ask herself whether it was the game
itself that interested her, or the man commenting on it. But how could she
separate the two?

In the final seconds L.A. had
a chance to kick a field goal for the victory. Marian found herself on her
feet, breathless as she watched the ball spiral toward the uprights, at the end
barely clearing the bar.

"How come you're
screaming?" Emma asked with interest. "Did someone die or
something?" She stared avidly at the TV, while Jesse and Anna stared at
Marian.

Feeling foolish, Marian shut
her mouth. "No, uh, I just got excited. Your dad's team won."

"But Daddy doesn't play
anymore."

Thank God, Marian thought,
picturing the way the behemoths on the other team had swarmed over the young
quarterback, who had looked frail in comparison. Although the quarterback
hadn't been hurt today, Marian couldn't help but remember the scars that
symbolized the end of John's career.

"There's Daddy
now!"

Headphones off, John
proceeded to sum up the game with a few perceptive comments. At the end he
looked directly into the camera with a distinctly wicked smile.

"If I may be allowed to
indulge myself for a moment, I'd like to say hi to Marian and Emma and the
kids."

Struck dumb, Marian stared at
the television. As the other commentator tossed a joking remark back at John,
who looked unperturbed, Marian's cheeks blossomed with heat. He'd actually done
it!

Emma got her voice back first.
"Hey, that was cool!"

Marian started to laugh. She
couldn't help it. "Your dad is crazy.

"I know." His
daughter looked smug. "But he's neat, isn't he?"

Still laughing, Marian gave
Emma a hug. "Yeah, he's okay."

*****

On Monday morning, the first
thing she said to him was, "You actually did it!"

Hands in his pockets, he
stood on the front porch, his grin disarmingly mischievous. "I couldn't
resist. You sounded so horrified."

Marian just shook her head
and stepped aside to let him in. "I think Emma's all ready to go. The kids
are watching 'Sesame Street' while I clean up the kitchen."

"You want some
help?"

"I only require that if
you don't pay your bill."

There it was again, that
slow, warm smile that crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes and turned
Marian's insides to jelly. "In that case," he said provocatively,
"maybe I'll pretend that I forgot my checkbook."

Marian decided not to react
to that. How could she? What would he think if he knew how bittersweet his
presence in her kitchen had been?

Edging away, she called,
"Emma! Your father's here!"

"Coward," he said
softly, but a whirlwind erupted out of the living room, distracting him.