Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (21 page)

Only two items remained on his checklist:
re-signing with the Jets and visiting his mother. In that order.
Both were long overdue, and while he had his reasons for putting
them off, it was time to sack up.

Then he’d hang out with a beautiful,
green-eyed wisecracker until one or both of them got restless or
the logistics interfered with their careers.

Who are you kidding?
he decided with
a rueful grin.
You’ll never last that long. Not with
your
ego and
her
mouth.

But it would definitely be fun while it
lasted.

• • •

Now that Darcie had seen Rachel’s dream
cottage—all eleven hundred square feet of it—she was anxious to
return to Portland and find the perfect place. But before she could
make her flight plans, Murf called from Dallas.

“Hey,” he boomed. “Are you busy getting
waxed and buffed for the big date? Or can you take an assignment
for your poor old boss?”

She laughed. “I think I can squeeze you in.
What’s up?”

As she listened, he explained the situation.
A client in Cleveland who had seen better days was being
unrealistic about what he deserved, compensation-wise. To make his
point, he was threatening to skip some voluntary team activities
and perhaps even a mandatory mini camp. According to Murf, this
would be a huge mistake. Sammy Hoyt still had value to his team,
and the Browns seemed willing to placate him to a point, but there
was a limit to their patience.

“There are penalties for missing the mini
camp, right?” she asked.

“It’s worse than that. They may decide to
just cut him loose. It’s not just his unreasonable demands. He’s
been grousing on social media too. Nothing overt, but we need to
shut that down. I’ve tried,” he assured her, exhaling in
frustration. “But he sees what other defensive ends are getting.
Unfortunately, those guys are on the way up. Sammy has probably
peaked if we’re being honest.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“You’re perfect for it,” Murf admitted.
“He’ll hold his temper better, maybe even listen for a change. The
plan is, I’ve sent you two DVDs of video and data by messenger. I
personally made a highlight reel of his best plays last season.
Particularly his two sacks and a forced fumble along with some
great tackles. I also made a compilation of low-lights. Missed
assignments, blown tackles. Study them, then go to Cleveland and
watch the whole thing again with him. See if we can feed his ego
but bring it down a notch.”

“Two sacks? Is that good?”

“He’s comparing himself to guys who made
seven or eight. So . . .”

“Got it.” Her pulse quickened. “I can do
this for sure, Murf.”

“Yeah, I think so too. I’m including a
spreadsheet of the salaries and bonuses of every other player in
his position. Plus their ages. Years of experience. Pro Bowl
appearances. All the good stuff.”

“Great. I’m all over it.”

“You’ll meet up with him on Thursday. Spend
the day with him. Build his ego but make sure he has all the facts.
Then I’ll fly in on Friday for a few hours and we’ll do a mock
negotiation right in front of his eyes. A hard-hitting one with me
playing the role of team management and you advocating PMA’s
position.”

“Good cop, bad cop?” She smiled, imagining
how much fun that could be. “Thanks for trusting me with this,
Murf.”

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a chance he’ll
be hostile even to someone like you. If that happens, just pack up
and leave. Then
I’ll
deal with him and it won’t be nearly so
pretty.”

“Is he hostile by nature? Or just
frustrated?”

“He’s always been a good guy. And an
unselfish teammate, which is one of the reasons the Browns are
giving him slack.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. Maybe you won’t
even need to join us on Friday. I’ll be good cop
and
bad
cop.”

He chuckled. “I’d like to see that.”

“Emily needs you in Dallas. To run
interference with the big G. How’s that going, anyway?”

“She tried to buy a gun using my PMA credit
card—”

“
What?”

“Luckily they called first so I was able to
kill the deal. Other than that, and teaching Zack to curse in
French, it hasn’t been too bad. She loves the kids, so that’s worth
a lot.”

“It’s worth everything,” Darcie agreed, then
she spun toward the sound of knocking on the front door. “Is it
possible your messenger’s here already?”

“Yep. So get cracking. And thanks again,
Darce. This rookie stuff is definitely working for me.”

“Me too! Give Em and the boys kisses from
me. Smoochie too.”

“You’d better stop calling her that,” Murf
warned with a laugh.

Darcie grinned, knowing he was right. Emily
had made her displeasure over the nickname abundantly clear.

“Gotta go, Murf. Say ‘hi’ to Genevieve for
me. I’ll check in on Thursday afternoon for sure.”

• • •

After a rocky start in Cleveland, with Sammy
Hoyt basically insisting he wanted Patrick Murphy, not some airhead
assistant, Darcie managed to shame him into at least giving her a
chance. Luckily, he was a pretty nice guy underneath it all, and
after encouraging him to vent, she could feel his resistant
attitude subside. From there, she followed Murf’s advice, pumping
up his ego while quietly laying out the facts of life,
NFL-style.

Meanwhile she decided the Browns were smart
to keep this guy. His body might not be chiseled like Wyatt’s or
Sean’s, but it was freaking enormous. In a dark alley late at
night, she might choose
this
client out of all of them as
her escort. And against a line of beefy offensive bullies on the
playing field? He was football gold.

By the time she checked in with Murf at
dinnertime, she announced cheerfully, “I think he’s underpaid.”

“Geezus,” he complained with a laugh. “You
were supposed to convince
him,
not the other way
around.”

“He knows the score now,” she assured him.
“So here’s what I think. We restructure his contract to get him
some of those performance incentives that don’t even kick in unless
he does better than he did last year. If you and the Browns are
right, it won’t cost them a dime. And if he surpasses last year’s
performance, they’ll be happy to pay him. I didn’t mention this to
Sammy yet, of course. But it’s a solid idea, right?”

When he was silent, she murmured, “What am I
missing?”

“Nothing. That’s actually what I came up
with too. I just wasn’t sure he’d go for it. You really think we
can convince him?”

“I think he’d
love
it. The chance to
prove everyone wrong.”

“If he agrees to this approach, I can
probably get his roster bonus bumped up by ten thousand or so.”

She sighed with relief. “He deserves that,
too. I just didn’t think—but of course, I should have known you had
something up your sleeve.”

“So do I join you tomorrow?”

“No, we can do it by phone. I’m having
dinner with his wife and kids tonight, so let’s do a conference
call at ten tomorrow morning. Then,” she added with a fond laugh,
“I’ll still have time to get waxed and buffed for the Surgeon.”

Chapter Seven

By noon on Saturday morning, Darcie wasn’t
just waxed and buffed. She had also soaked for forty-five blissful
minutes in a mud bath made from volcanic ash. Anything to feel calm
and centered when Wyatt showed up for their first date. And since
he hadn’t sent a text, she knew his plans hadn’t changed. He would
pull up in front of her house at one o’clock sharp, looking
confident and gorgeous. Maybe he’d want to finish off the last hour
or so of their football lesson, or maybe he’d want to answer more
questions from ASK WYATT.

She’d be fine either way, since almost any
interaction served as foreplay for them. As much as she wanted to
believe she was attracted to his nobler side—protecting her on the
plane while she slept, showing respect for his sick uncle, talking
wistfully about the father who had died in service to his
country—she knew what really made her hot. All the sexy banter,
playful arguing and verbal sparring.
That
was the Wyatt
Bourne who could score on her at will.

Every time her brain tried to think about
the pesky pull-out issue she warned it away. Sure, it would have
been nice if they had gotten off together. But even with his
bizarre insistence on pulling out, it had been the best sex of her
life. Was it a bit of a red flag, as Murf would call it? Maybe,
maybe not. Wyatt was an NFL superstar, so who knew what kind of
shenanigans he had faced? Better to sit in a deposition for a bogus
paternity case and assure opposing counsel he never,
ever
came inside a woman than argue about what had happened on one
particular occasion.

And maybe he’d make an exception for Darcie
once she earned his trust. Or make an exception for
other
reasons, like the black lace camisole that had apparently driven
him crazy on the plane. And so as she prepared for his arrival, she
slipped into the sexy top, this time without a bra, paired it with
loose black running shorts, and went barefoot for the occasion.

“I’ve done what I can,” she announced
playfully to the universe as she stepped out onto the porch at five
minutes to one. “Now it’s up to him.”

Still, when he pulled up in a shiny black
Jaguar, she felt almost dizzy. Then he stepped out, dressed once
again in khakis and a dark shirt, his sunglasses still in place,
his jaw made of pure, hard granite. After pulling the glasses from
his face, he fixed her with a stare, his gray eyes molten, his
posture strong and erect, and her insides wrenched with
anticipation.

Be cool,
she warned herself. And it
proved good advice, because he interrupted the flow by taking a few
moments to gather his gym bag from the rear of the sports car, as
though the football lesson still had legs.

Luckily, he also grabbed a garment bag that
she assumed held some kind of sports coat or suit. Maybe even a
tie. Because they were going to dinner in a freaking Jag, and he
had asked her to wear her Irish embassy dress, so he couldn’t—or at
least wouldn’t—just rely on his great body or superstar reputation
to wow the public. When this guy took a woman on a first date, he
didn’t do it halfway.

Resisting an urge to run down the steps and
leap into his arms, she waited for him, and when he neared the top
step she said in a breathless voice, “Hey, Wyatt.”

“Let’s go inside,” he growled, backing her
onto the porch and reaching past her to open the front door. As he
moved her into the entryway he added as though completely
blindsided, “You wore that top.”

“For you,” she agreed. Then she looped one
arm around his neck. “Kiss me, please?”

His mouth crushed down to hers as he dropped
the gym bag to the floor and pulled her close. It started out hot,
but like the kiss in the garden at the Bourne ranch, it grew
leisurely and thorough, telling her he was going to take it
slow.

Fine by her.

“How was the retirement party?” she asked
when they came up for air.

“It went well.” He quirked a teasing
eyebrow. “I gave him the gift card.”

“Perfectly appropriate,” she teased back,
her arm still looped around his neck with the fingers of one hand
playing in his thick hair.

“Yeah. And my accountant told me about a
group that fishes in Alaska. It’s set up for folks with mobility
issues. So Coach and his brother are gonna try it out next
month.”

Charmed, she stroked his jaw. “That’s so
sweet.”

“It’s like
your
idea. Except I get
the credit without having to freeze my ass off.”

“It’s still sweet.”

“So . . . ?” He nuzzled
her neck. “How was your week?”

His hot breath sent a shock wave through
her, and she wanted to drag him to the bedroom but knew she should
acknowledge his attempt at romantic patter. So she told him, “Murf
gave me an interesting challenge. And it went pretty well.”

“Tell me.”

“One of our clients wanted more money. A
lot
more. But the numbers didn’t quite crunch. So Murf sent
me out there to—well, manage expectations, so to speak.” She sighed
as she remembered the long heart-to-heart with Sammy. “He’s a good
player. They’re lucky to have him.”

Wyatt seemed genuinely interested. “I can
see how that would be a huge part of your job. Managing
expectations, I mean. We’re all so full of ourselves.”

“That’s what I like most about you
guys.”

“Is it?” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of
managing expectations, we should probably set some ground
rules.”

“For the lessons? Or for us?” she quipped,
only half joking.

“Let’s sit.” He led her to the sofa and sat
beside her, his gaze solemn. “I’m into you. Obviously. And I
respect the hell out of you. But this is never gonna be more than
it is. I need to know that’s clear to you.” When she just stared,
honestly confused, he insisted hoarsely, “We can go out—dinner,
theater, whatever you want. Or we can stay in. Or travel if that’s
your preference. But when it’s over, it’s over.”

She wondered if he knew this wasn’t bad
news. In fact, it sounded pretty great. So much more than she had
ever dreamed possible with him. Traveling? Like a real couple?

On impulse, she caught his face between her
palms. “I just want to experience this—experience
you
—for as
long as it lasts.”

“Yeah, I want to experience you, too,” he
assured her, his tone deepening. “You’re all I think about. All I
want.” Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her as though he was a
conquering hero and she was the plunder. Then he announced, “We’ll
do the lesson after,” scooped her up, and carried her to her
bedroom.