Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (17 page)

“You have no idea,” she admitted. “Should I
show you around?”

“I’ve got the gist of it. Bedroom, bathroom,
kitchen, right?”

Annoyed at the dismissive attitude, she
still tried for a gracious tone. “I made some fresh coffee. Or
there’s beer. Or mimosas, of course.”

“The coffee smell great, thanks.”

The compliment—despite its impersonal
nature—made her insides lurch, so she hurried into the kitchen
before she embarrassed herself, calling over her shoulder, “Make
yourself comfortable.”

“What’s this?”

She doubled back and saw him eyeing the
cover of the ASK WYATT notebook. “Hey, that’s for later.”

To her surprise, he set it back down without
an argument. Then he walked over to her, his lean body towering in
that way it did as he said in a husky voice, “That reminds me.
There’s something I want to talk about. But later, like you said.
After the lesson.”

“Do it now,” she said breathlessly.

“Later.”

“Do you still want coffee?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Ugh, just have a seat,” she muttered. “And
don’t
look in the notebook.”

“No problem.”

She was dying to know what he wanted to talk
about, although so far, the clues weren’t encouraging. He had no
desire to see her bedroom, for one thing. And he wasn’t at all
curious about the notebook, probably because thousands of fans all
over the country compiled ASK WYATT notebooks, some with nude
photos and panties included.

Returning with a mug of black coffee for him
and a sparkling water for herself, she asked him, “Are you hungry?
I could make turkey sandwiches.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“You didn’t eat airplane food, did you?”

His eyes twinkled. “Never. Go ahead and eat
if you’re hungry.”

“I’m good. So . . .”

“Yeah.” He patted the seat beside himself.
“Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

• • •

One hour later, Darcie’s head had finally
stopped spinning as she adapted to Wyatt’s high-paced, demanding
teaching style. Not that he wasn’t patient, but there was a
no-nonsense philosophy he clearly held sacred. And despite his
original shot at her, this was no children’s book. It was how Wyatt
Bourne played football. The reason they called him the Surgeon.

He had started by hand-drawing various plays
right in front of her eyes, always showing the quarterback and the
offensive line first, then filling in the pieces for the offense,
and then drawing arrows to show how he—the QB—would hand off the
ball, or drop back to throw it. Or sometimes pretend to hand if off
to one player, while keeping it for himself, either to throw or
run. Play after play—apparently limitless variations—and always
with one Shakespearean theme:
The play’s the thing.

If everyone did their job, the chances for
success were outstandingly high. Or at least according to Wyatt. In
contrast, one missed assignment, one miscalculated route, one zig
where there should have been a zag, and the odds plummeted. It was
Wyatt’s job to save that play if he still had the ball or could
block for a player in trouble. And occasionally another teammate
might make a miracle save. But that was no way to win football
games.

He much preferred well-thought-out schemes
that were perfectly executed by all.

Just when she thought she had the hang of
it, he brought in the defense and she laughed sheepishly. Of course
it couldn’t be as simple—as fluid—as it looked. Wyatt laughed at
her too, saying he had wondered why she didn’t notice the absence
of the opposition.

“It’s just so beautiful the way it’s drawn
and executed,” she explained. “But of course, the defense is going
to ruin everything, aren’t they?”

So they went over all the plays again, this
time with some formidable X’s to undermine Wyatt’s strategy, break
up the plays, and in some worst-case scenarios, “sack” him, cause a
fumble, or intercept the ball.

“They don’t sack me very often,” he assured
her. “My O-line’s decent, and I’m strong on my feet. With excellent
balance. And they don’t strip it from me—ever.” Rather than
sounding boastful, he seemed contemplative. “Everyone notices the
precision passing and quick progressions, but those things don’t
matter if you can’t stay on your feet. Complete the play no matter
how many opponents are on you.”

To her amazement, she was really getting it.
Not just the techniques but the rhythm. The excitement. A glance at
the clock told her their hour was almost up, and as much as she
wanted to design a play of her own—to score a kiss, or at least
another round of towering—she wished they could spend a few more
minutes on the diagrams, just so she could learn about kickoffs and
special teams, which she assumed would be next week’s fodder.

“We’ll review the basic penalties after our
sandwiches,” he told her, his eyes twinkling as he stacked up the
hand-drawn plays and tore the papers in half, then stuffed them
back into his briefcase.

“We’re having sandwiches?”

“Does the offer still stand?” He jumped up,
stretched his tall, lean body, then scooped up the ASK WYATT
notebook. “We can go over these while we eat.”

Chapter Five

As she made lunch she had to smile. He was
in the bathroom washing up and would soon see her kitchen as well.
So much for not touring the house. The bedroom seemed like a long
shot, since he had made it clear his flight for San Francisco left
at five sharp, so he’d need to depart Darcie’s house by three
thirty to battle his way to the airport. Also, they hadn’t even
kissed yet, besides the yummy fake one in the vegetable garden, so
the bedroom would be a stretch even for someone as infatuated as
Darcie.

She kept things simple—turkey and mayo on
wheat toast with some token tomatoes and lettuce, along with her
favorite side salad of cucumber and red onion slices marinated in
gorgonzola dressing. When he walked in, his remarked approvingly,
although he also shifted his place setting until he was across the
table from her rather than in the cozy spot beside her.

Worth a shot,
she told him
silently.

For a man who had originally rejected the
meal, he seemed ravenous, wolfing down his first sandwich and the
salad and responding with relief with she noted there was more of
everything on the counter. Luckily, she had seen Bam Bannerman eat
lunch, and knew these NFL types burned a ridiculous number of
calories even in the off-season. Which made sense, since they
needed to continue their workouts year-round in order to keep
fit.

Fit
being the understatement of the
year.

He quizzed her about her visit to Portland,
and while he was careful not to invade Bannerman’s privacy with
specific questions about the contract negotiations or terms, he had
no problem invading Darcie’s, especially when it came to her social
interactions with the Triple Threat.

“Bannerman’s fiancée wasn’t there?”

“She’s a kindergarten teacher, so she had to
be at school.”

“A kindergarten teacher?
Man . . .” He caught himself but continued in the
same vein. “What about Spurling’s wife?”

“She was there. We were all
celebrating.”

“And Decker?”

“He was out of town.”

Wyatt grinned. “I was sure he couldn’t stay
away from you.”

Deciding not to mention the subsequent
get-together, she reminded him, “Sean’s involved in a serious
relationship with a lovely woman.”

“Right,” he drawled. “That explains the
panting.” Before she could retort, he turned his attention to the
notebook. “Your turn. Let’s have the first question.”

“Oh!” She had almost forgotten about that.
“We could save it until next week—”

“Let’s just get it out of the way.”

For the first time, it occurred to her he
was intentionally dragging the lesson past the first hour. And
hadn’t he said they’d do penalties next? Was it possible this guy
wanted to satisfy his three-hour obligation with a one-day marathon
session?

No wonder he seemed so cheerful.

She was tempted to object, but what would be
the point? If he was that desperate to get it over with, why fight
it? They were getting along, and as usual, there was a nice vibe
that she was sure was sexual in both directions. If he insisted on
ending the lessons, she would reluctantly agree, knowing they would
meet again at an upcoming NFL bash.

Maybe he’d even ask her to be his fake
escort date for that one.

Still, she felt a wave of disappointment as
she opened the notebook and scanned the questions, looking for just
the right one.

“Let’s take them in order,” he
suggested.

“You’re not calling the plays here,
remember?”

He laughed. “Humor me. I want to hear the
first question.”

“Promise you won’t get mad? I mean, we’re
getting along pretty well, so . . .”

He looked surprised. “Why would it make me
mad? It’s a football question, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “It’s about franchise tags. So
obviously, it’s going to feel a little personal, since your team
used its tag on
you
this year.” When he seemed surprised
again, she explained, “I’ve done some research on the Internet, and
they say players find it disrespectful when a team does that. I
mean, if I understand it correctly, you’re out of contract, so you
could arguably stay or go, but this way, they keep you another
year.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that
. . .” he began, then he shrugged. “In answer to your
question, yes, players usually feel disrespected in this situation.
But in my case, management didn’t really have a choice. And they
had the decency to make it non-exclusive, so no hard feelings. Not
over that, at least.”

“Why didn’t they have a choice?”

He hesitated, then shrugged again. “They
were ready to give me a lucrative contract right out of the chute.
But for a variety of reasons, I didn’t want to be rushed.”

“Because of the Super Bowl? I haven’t
watched it yet, but I’m sure it was a heartbreaker.”

“That’s one word for it,” he drawled. “The
bottom line is, they’ll offer me the moon, I’ll take it, problem
solved. What’s the next question? Go in order,” he reminded
her.

She sighed, regretting this next one even
more than the first. “This one’s a little personal.”

“More personal than the first one?” He
pretended to be horrified. “Let’s hear it.”

“Do you want a cookie first?”

“It’s that bad?”

“No, I’m just trying to be a good
hostess.”

“I’ll pass. What the question?” He consulted
his watch. “We’re on a schedule, remember?”

“Right. So . . .” She glanced
at the book, hoping she hadn’t worded it poorly, then realized
there was no perfect way to ask this particular question.

So why not just spit it out?

Laughing at herself, she said cheerfully,
“I’m curious why you used a paid escort for the fundraiser. It’s
crazy, Wyatt. As if you can’t get a date? Not a romantic one,
maybe, but someone smart and presentable who cares about you.”

“You think I should have asked
you?
From one chance meeting on a plane?”

Stung, she retorted, “Of course not. I’m
talking about women you already know. Or at least the ones you
haven’t alienated with your wisecracks.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow, but his manner
was sincere when he said, “I wasn’t in a relationship at the time.
And just asking some random female creates confusion. The media
notices those things. Not all the time, but often enough. It can
backfire . . .” He paused as if to clarify his own
thoughts. “I make a lot of money, Darcie. It’s a draw for certain
people. So I avoid casual entanglements. And believe me, I’m not
the only athlete who does that.”

“That actually makes sense,” she admitted.
“Thanks for explaining it.”

“No problem.”

“It must be strange being so famous.
Recognized at the airport, for example. Even with sunglasses.”

He nodded. “It gets old.”

“But the money’s worth it, right?”

“Yeah, the money’s good.” He eyed her
warily. “Are you asking if I slept with her?”

“Who? Oh, the escort?” She felt her cheeks
redden. “No, of course not. I already know you didn’t.”

“I
never
sleep with them.
So . . .” He glanced at his watch again. “Let’s do
one more, then we’ll get back to work.”

Sneaking a peek at the oven display to check
the time, she felt a wave of discouragement. Already two
forty-five. Maybe he really did plan on fulfilling his three-hour
obligation then moving on.

Didn’t he enjoy this rapport? Or was she the
only one getting hot?

What a fool.

She knew she should skip the next question
and find an intelligent football one. But instead she warned him
lightly, “This one is personal too. But it’s about
me.”

His eyes steeled up but all he said was,
“Sounds fair. Let’s hear it.”

“When you called about the anniversary
party, you said since you needed a
fake
date, you naturally
thought about me. What did
that
mean?”

“Huh?”

“Was it because you considered me a fake
sports agent? And do you still feel that way?”

“It wasn’t that.” He exhaled sharply. “It
was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry about it.”

His quick apology stymied her. So
un-Wyatt-like. So she told him gently, “I can’t accept your apology
if I don’t understand what the insult was.”

“It was a joke,” he insisted. “Because of
the way you look.”

“Pardon?”

He managed a tortured smile. “I do the same
thing to my own body, right? Using brutal workouts to re-shape my
muscles. Gain a competitive advantage. Why shouldn’t you?”

For a moment she simply couldn’t follow.
Then she caught on.