Playing For Keeps (3 page)

Even if it didn’t last, at least Samantha would be distracted from her past. But what if Ryan broke her heart? That could be even more devastating than a gun at your head. And Hannah knew Samantha had already lived through that.

Chapter 3

Samantha bought a diet soda from the machine in the hal way and headed for her desk. She popped the top as she sat down. After taking a long drink she began writing her piece about Sunday’s upcoming game.

“What kind of sportswriter are you? We drink coffee around here, not wimpy diet drinks.” Mike Burry, her editor, leaned against the wal of the cubicle. His suit drooped over his lean frame, his clashing tie wasn’t even tied, and his shoes were one step away from the garbage can.

Samantha leaned back in the chair, smiling up at her new boss. “Coffee? And here I was expecting beer on tap.”

“I can see you’l fit in. You’re Jameson’s daughter through and through.”

She should be used to living in the shadow of her father’s legacy. You’d think after writing hard news for years the guys in the industry would cut her some slack. But no, she’d always be known as Jerry Jameson’s little girl. “Yup, I’m a chip off the old block.”

“What are you working on?”

“I just got back from interviewing Coach Tucker about his game plan for Sunday.”

“How did you get him so early?’

“I know where he eats breakfast.”

“And he let you interview him?”

“I paid or rather you did.” She opened her purse and handed him the receipt. Samantha gave him a questioning look as he crumpled the receipt and shot it toward the garbage can like he was Michael Jordan. He missed.

“Did you ask him if Mil er’s ankle injury wil stop him from playing?”

“I asked, he didn’t answer. You’d think it was a national secret.”

“Yeah, you’l find coaches are as tight lipped as the military. Um…if you need anything my door is always open.” Mike hurried away, probably thinking the word military would remind her of Iraq and she’d freak out.

Samantha shook her head and picked up the story where she’d left off and the words flowed onto the screen. Her muse had come out of hiding.

No more reporting on gunfire, car bombings, and hijackings--especial y her own! Nope, al she had to do was creatively use footbal terms and her linguistic skil s to describe a game. Piece of cake.

Finishing her article, she lifted the soda to her lips and almost choked in mid gulp when she heard Ryan’s voice.

“Now that would make for a great commercial,” he said.

She pul ed the can away from her lips, sloshing a drop on her blouse. Was the sudden churning in her stomach from the soda or his heated gaze?

He wore a gray linen suit, a crisp pink shirt, and a tie in a swirl of pink and gray. That was a brave choice. It took a real man to wear pink. And Ryan was certainly al man. Unlike Mike’s one-size fits al suit, Ryan’s fit as if it were created just for him, which it probably was. The man obviously couldn’t buy off the rack.

Damn, he looked good. Big men in suits normal y resembled apes forced into straight-jackets, but there he stood looking like he stepped off the cover of GQ, ready to take on the world. Or her.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.

“About as long as it took you to give me the once over.”

Samantha blushed. “I’ve never seen you in a suit before.”
Good cover, girl, and it’s not even a lie.

“And you like what you see.” His lips curved into a devastating smile.

“The suit is nice. Who’s the designer?”

“It’s not the clothes you’re checking out and you know it.” He leaned over, his fist resting on the desk.

She did know it, but wasn’t about to admit that fact to him. God, he was ful of himself, cocky even. Cocky? She must
not
use that word again.

Maybe, he hadn’t changed at al . “What are you doing here?”

“If you’re not going to return my cal s, what else can I do?”

“Take a hint and leave me alone.”

Ignoring her answer, Ryan sat on the corner of the desk. She took her gaze off his wel -muscled thigh and stared at the monitor, pretending to be deep in thought.

“Don’t you even want to know why I cal ed?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do. Your curiosity is kil ing you right now. It’s the reporter in you. But I won’t keep you in suspense. Your brother wants us to have lunch with him at your father’s pub.” He raised his hands. “See, nothing sinister.”

“A friendly lunch with you, my brother, and my father? Sounds sinister to me.”

“Ah, a reporter’s suspicious nature. A conspiracy theory around every corner.” Ryan wiggled his fingers in a spooky manner.

“If the gossip columnists got wind of it--”

“Samantha, we al went to col ege together. I’m stil good friends with your family. It would look weird if we
didn’t
go to lunch.”

“You think so? Wel , don’t blame me if they turn our little get together into something else. Before we know it, we’l have an il egitimate child from our col ege days.”

“That’s not fair. We didn’t even have sex.”

She laughed and then, remembering where she was, glanced around the room. A few of her col eagues took notice. She needed to get him out of here. Fast. “What time are we supposed to meet him?”

“Around two.”

Samantha checked the clock on the wal . “It’s one now, so I’l see you over there.”

“I’l meet you out front in forty-five minutes.”

“Do you ever listen to what I say?”

“I listen, but I don’t want your brother on my case for letting you take the subway over. So, you’re stuck with me.”

“Is that what this is? My big brother told you to watch out for me, didn’t he?”

“No one tel s me to do anything. Besides, I’d watch you anyway.” Ryan winked and smiled, showing off his glistening white teeth, reminding her of a wolf. She felt like a quivering rabbit caught in his sights. Wel , that confirmed it. The bubbling in her stomach was definitely not from the soda.

Samantha scanned the room as he left, glad that everyone had lost interest or at least they were pretending to.
Just like me.
She could feign indifference al she wanted, but the truth was he made it impossible to dismiss him, impossible not to want him. She’d need a string of performances worthy of Meryl Streep to keep everyone fooled.

Thousands of miles of distance should’ve cured her of him. At the very least, ten years of growing up - becoming a woman of the world - ought to have rid her of puppy-love teenager syndrome. Or maybe it was something much worse like Ryanitis. Like the cold, but deadlier.

Ryanitis: obsession with tal , dark, and handsome footbal players named Ryan. No known cure.

There had to be other females inflicted with the il ness. Maybe there was even a support group. In a way there was - his fan club. She laughed out loud.

“What’s so funny over there, Jameson?” A deep, gravel y voice filtered over the cubicle.

“Just laughing at myself,” she said.

“They said you might crack up.”

Samantha stood up sharply and looked over the half wal . The voice belonged to an old timer who covered boxing. An unlit cigar hung from the corner of his mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you lost more than your edge in Iraq.”

“Yeah, what would you know about it?”

“I covered Vietnam.”

Samantha looked down at the balding hard-nosed man and tried to picture him as an eager, young reporter. It was hard to do. His eyes wore the same haunted look she saw in the mirror before she went to bed at night and woke up to in the morning. But he survived; al these years later he was stil working, when most men had settled into nursing homes. Maybe he knew how to deal with the nightmares. Some nugget of wisdom that eluded her. “Got any advice?”

He pul ed his desk draw open and a pint of Jack Daniels lay neatly inside. “Alcohol.”

“Thanks.” Samantha sat back down as she heard the drawer close. Alcohol wouldn’t wash away what happened. Not for long anyway. If the nightmares, like the one she had last night, were her penance for her actions in Iraq, then so be it. She deserved nothing less.

She had to keep busy and concentrate on other things, like planning the payback she owed Ryan for yesterday’s fiasco with the guards. Like shaving cream in his cleats. No, that would mark her an amateur. Bengay in his jock strap? An evil smile briefly lit her face, but no, she real y didn’t want to damage the goods. Besides, it’s been done before. She needed something big, bold, and never attempted. Then it came to her. Yup, payback was a bitch.

***

Ryan casual y leaned against his 328I. The traffic buzzed behind him as he waited for Samantha. Maybe he should have taken the Porsche. Or the Hummer. Or the Harley. Nah, the Harley wouldn’t impress her. In fact, he’d probably get a lecture on the dangers of motorcycles. He looked at his watch when she emerged from the building. Exactly forty-five minutes. He couldn’t help but smile as she approached. He held the car door open for her. “Hey, babe.” She scowled at him and slid into the seat.
Note to self: Don’t call her babe
. He quickly got in on the driver’s side, and started the engine.

“Nice car.”

“Thanks, but--”

Samantha started playing with some of the buttons on the dash.

“What does this one do?”

“Don’t touch it.”

“Oh my God, you’re not of those guys who’s obsessed with their cars are you? Should I take off my shoes?”

“You can take off anything you like. But that button is the ejector seat.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Yeah, I am. But that would be cool, wouldn’t it?”

“Way cool.” She rol ed her eyes like it was anything but. “So why can’t I touch it?”

“It’s a nitro booster.”

“Men.”

An awkward silence fol owed.

“So who’s Hannah?”

“Oh, the answering machine? She’s my roommate. You probably know her, Hannah Hahn.”

“The model?”

“Yup.”

Ryan let out a whistle. “Only know of her. Jake would probably give up Sunday’s game plan for a date with her.”

“Real y? Good to know. But not you?”

“Nah, I’m a rock. How did the two of you end up roommates?”

“We went to high school together. When I got back she offered me a room. Since I wasn’t up to staying with my parents or dealing with finding an apartment on my own, it worked out wel .”

Ryan wanted to take the sudden lost look in Samantha’s eyes and replace it with happiness. He parked in a garage a block away from the pub and got out of the car, but before he could reach the passenger door Samantha was already stepping out. Cheated out of an excuse to touch her, he gritted his teeth and fel into step beside her. They walked silently until they reached the storefront.

Jameson’s Bar etched in gold block letters arched across the middle of the window, with il ustrated pots of gold at the four corners.

Samantha groaned. “This is so embarrassing. I come from a stereotypical Irish-American family.”

“How’s that?”

She pointed her finger at the window as evidence. “Come on. You know Mom stil crochets those lace doilies and goes to church every day. Two brothers and two sisters. One brother is a fireman, the other a cop, one sister is a teacher and the other a nun. A nun!”

Ryan started to laugh.

“You think this is funny?” But she started to giggle. “And that’s not al ! Look at al the kids my brothers and sisters have. We could start our own country.”

Ryan stopped laughing. “You don’t like kids?”

“I love kids. I just don’t want a brood of them. Come to think of it, it’s probably why I’m not married yet - delay the baby making process as long as possible, that way I end up with only one or two.”

“You’re not married yet because you’re waiting for me to come to my senses,” he said in a joking manner but deep down he was serious.

“Wel , if that’s the case, I might as wel join my sister in the convent,” she bantered back.

“Or there’s always that lesbian thing.”

“How could I forget?”

Ryan cracked a smile and opened the carved oak door, touching the smal of her back as she walked by him. The contact sent a jolt through his body. His hand itched to trace along her delicate spine to the back of her neck. Maybe it was better if he didn’t touch her, yet he couldn’t seem to let go.

Ryan stood a moment admiring Mr. Jameson’s renovations. The polished oak bar and the gleaming brass step rail took up most of the space.

The wal s were painted green with pictures of famous Irish-Americans hanging as some sort of hal of fame. President Kennedy’s photo was centered in the middle.

With Guinness, Kil ians, and Budweiser taps on display, Ryan suspected there wasn’t a Canadian or German beer to be had. With his hand stil on the smal of her back, he felt Samantha stiffen. Only then he recognized several sportswriters sitting at the bar.

Her father came forward. “There you are.”

Ryan shook his hand, thinking about Samantha’s run down on her family history. There was no mistaking Mr. Jameson’s heritage with his ruddy complexion and shock of red hair.

Mr. Jameson turned toward his buddies who were involved in bar-stool debates. The soccer game on the 50-inch television served as background noise. “You al know my daughter, Samantha. And of course, you know Terrel . They both went to Notre Dame.”

There was a general mumbling of yeahs and several of the men lifted a pint before downing the contents. Samantha’s father showed them to a table and handed them menus. “Patrick cal ed and said he’d be late.”

“Aren’t you sitting with us?”

“I wil after I put the orders in.”

Ryan could tel by Samantha’s tight expression as she read the menu that she didn’t want to be alone with him.

“I’l have the Blarney Burger. God, I can’t believe I said that.” Samantha shook her head as she handed the menu over to her father.

Ryan’s mouth watered. What he wouldn’t do for a burger or a steak. His diet consisted of egg whites, salad, and chicken. He was sick of it already and the season wasn’t even half over. Ryan needed to stay at four percent body fat to compete with al the new talent invading the league or maybe he was just getting old. But he couldn’t sit there and watch Samantha eat a juicy burger. It would be torture. He’d want to lick the juices off her lips. The combination might send him over the edge.