Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (32 page)

Now it was all in jeopardy. Finding the
right surrogate was daunting enough, but did he even have the right
to bring a child into the world without another parent to soothe
over the rough spots?

He had planned on nannies to provide the
necessary maternal balance, but wasn’t Darcie right? He would be
paying
them to agree with him.

Subdued, he pulled into a shady parking
place, fetched his Red Sox cap from his rolling case and then
pulled the visor low over his face. Along with his sunglasses and a
baggy sweatshirt he completed a makeshift disguise and made his way
along the edge of the field, staying in the shadows, greedily
appreciating what these other parents had.

The kids were bursting with vitality. Not
one of them cracked four feet in height, but they had energy to
burn, laughing happily as they kicked the ball down the field. The
blue team dominated in the boys’ game, but it didn’t really seem to
matter. Everyone was a star because everyone was someone’s precious
son.

He told himself he had the Bourne kids to
turn to if he wanted to experience the joys of vicarious
fatherhood. Danny and Joe, and maybe someday little Nathan. And to
be brutally honest to the guys, niece Annie had the most amazing
reflexes of them all. He had learned
that
playing badminton
with her. Or rather, getting killed playing badminton. He had even
suggested she try out for the girls’ volleyball team, earning
himself an eye roll of epic proportions.

The boys’ game was breaking up and he was
about to return to his car, when a familiar figure caught his
eye.

Coach Spurling?

Was it possible John Spurling’s famous dad
spent his off-season coaching children’s soccer? To Wyatt, the guy
was royalty, not to mention a former role model from his high
school and early college years. The best darned coach in the NFL
for fifteen years. Then Aaron Spurling had retired due to serious
coronary episodes. After that, the Jets and the Lancers began
squaring off, and Spurling and Bourne—the Player versus the
Surgeon—became the media’s favorite rivalry.

Because of that, Wyatt hadn’t jumped back on
the coach’s bandwagon even when the old guy came out of retirement
to spearhead a brand-new expansion team in Los Angeles. Still,
Wyatt hadn’t doubted that the Rustlers, as the team was dubbed,
would thrive under the brilliant guidance of Aaron Spurling.

“Coach Spurling?” he asked, approaching the
icon with respect.

Spurling turned toward his voice, appraised
him in an instant, and smiled warmly. “Wyatt?”

Relieved, he extended his hand for a firm
shake. “It’s great seeing you, sir. We met once before—”

“I remember,” Spurling assured him. “I
bragged about it for weeks. Meeting the famous Surgeon. It was
quite a thrill.”

Wyatt smiled ruefully. The meeting—a
ten-second encounter at a crowded Hall of Fame ceremony—had
definitely made an impression on a young quarterback. But Aaron
Spurling? He must meet dozens of athletes every week. All of them
assuring him he was their idol, their mentor, their
inspiration.

Had Wyatt said those things back then? He
hoped so, because they were all true.

“You played one helluva Super Bowl, son,”
Spurling told him warmly. “I’d be lying if I said you should’ve
won, since my boy played great too. But we all saw what you did.
Impressive by any standard.”

Honored, Wyatt motioned toward the kids who
were piling into SUVs and minivans. “Are any of those your
grandsons?”

“They all live in San Diego. So I coach the
neighbor kids instead, and God love ’em, they never let me
down.”

“It looks like fun,” Wyatt murmured. Then he
gave Spurling an apologetic smile. “I know you hear this a lot, but
you really kicked ass with your Rustlers. An expansion team winning
nine games out of the slot? Going to the playoffs their first year?
We all expected it with you at the helm, but still, it was fun to
watch.”

Spurling’s cheerful expression faded. “But
was it worth the price?”

“Huh? Oh . . .” Wyatt nodded
grimly. “You’re talking about Luke Stoddard? How’s he doing?”

As Spurling struggled for a diplomatic
response, Wyatt remembered how QB Stoddard—a number-one draft
pick—had skyrocketed to fame in his rookie year, only to flame out
in spectacular fashion in the wild card round of the playoffs. The
same kid who threw more touchdown passes in the regular season than
any rookie in the last twenty years, including John Spurling or
Wyatt, had thrown three picks and fumbled twice by halftime. By the
third quarter, he had fallen apart completely. His coach had tried
to take him out for his own good, but the kid had gone ballistic on
network TV and Spurling had wisely allowed him to salvage whatever
immature pride he had left.

“I pushed him too far,” the coach insisted
finally. “I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“In your defense, sir, we
all
thought
he was ready. That arm alone—man, how could you resist using
it?”

“Thanks, son.”

He sensed the coach needed more, so he
assured him, “He’ll rally, Coach. With that kind of talent? That
hunger for success? He’ll lick his wounds then come back stronger
than ever.”

“He wanted to play,” Spurling mused. “But I
should’ve made him sit out a year.”

“That would have been worse,” Wyatt
countered loyally. “He was ready and he knew it. You knew it too.
You
had
to play him.”

“I appreciate you saying that, Wyatt. You
were a starter your first year too. One of the best rookies we’ve
ever seen. But you had the maturity to handle the losses as well as
the wins. Luke couldn’t do it, and my fear
is . . .”

Wyatt winced. “He’s still in bad shape?
Who’s he working with?”

“You mean besides Johnny Walker and Jack
Daniel’s?”

Wyatt’s gut knotted. Such a waste of great
potential. And it was obviously killing Spurling to stand by
helplessly.

“Have you thought about bringing in a
veteran quarterback? Someone to take the pressure off him for the
first few games this season? Or longer if that’s what he needs.
Give him time to rebuild his confidence.”

“Are you volunteering?” Spurling joked.

Wyatt chuckled and was about to assure him
he wasn’t doing anything of the sort. Then he stopped himself,
intrigued at least in theory. So he said lightly, “Don’t tempt
me.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds,
then the coach’s demeanor grew wary. “We’re just shooting the
breeze, son. That’s how you see it, right?”

Wyatt nodded.

“Refresh my memory,” he continued, his tone
almost shaky. “Who’s your agent?”

“I fired him in February. Now I represent
myself.”

“Can’t be done,” Spurling scolded him.
“Don’t get me in trouble here, Wyatt.”

“We’re just shooting the breeze,” he
reminded him, trying for a casual tone even though his pulse was
racing. Were they really having this discussion? Was there a chance
in hell it could happen?

Spurling’s gaze was like twin laser beams,
detecting every bit of data available in Wyatt’s expression. And
apparently there was a lot of information to digest, because he
asked carefully, “Do you like chili dogs?”

“Sir?”

“Come over to the house tonight. I’ll serve
some up and we’ll shoot the breeze some more. Nothing specific,
obviously. Just two enthusiasts picking each other’s brains.”

Wyatt nodded, trying not to panic. What were
they saying? That Wyatt would desert his team of eight years? The
conference champions? Could he do that even if he wanted it?

And more importantly,
did
he want it?
The Rustlers had a brilliant coach but little else. Which made
sense given their brief history in the NFL. They were building
toward the future, and while it would surely happen, it was a long
way off. Whereas the Jets were projected to go all the way to the
Super Bowl again this year.

Maybe even win it this time.

“I like chili dogs, Coach,” he said finally.
“A lot.”

“See that big white house over there?”
Spurling gestured to a tree-studded corner on a nearby street.
“Three houses in, there’s a yellow two-story with the sharpest lawn
in town. Be there at six.”

“Is that where John and Jason grew up?”
Wyatt asked without thinking.

“I raised all three of my boys there. My
niece Sophie too. It’s the perfect place to talk football.” He
cleared his throat. “One of my assistant coaches is marrying my
niece next month. Fellow named Jake Dublin. And that boy
loves
him some chili dogs.
And
football. So I’ll ask
him to join us if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds good, Coach. I’d like to invite
someone too if you don’t mind.”

Spurling’s bushy white eyebrow quirked. “A
date?”

“She’s a lot more than that,” Wyatt said
with a chuckle. “She’s a genius. My number-one advisor these days.
And I’m guessing she likes chili dogs too.” Dropping the banter, he
added carefully, “She’s a new agent in town. Destined to be one of
the greats. But she’s not
my
agent. Just a good friend.”

“You’re talking about Patrick Murphy’s new
hire? The firecracker?”

Wyatt drew back. “You’ve heard of her?
Oh . . . You saw the Romanov press conference?” He
couldn’t help laughing. “Firecracker, huh? That about sums it
up.”

“Bring her along,” Spurling boomed. “And
don’t be late. And Wyatt?”

“Yes, sir?”

“No one else hears about this. Understood?
We
know we’re just bullshitting, but not everyone would
understand.”

“I agree, sir. And I’ll make sure Darcie
knows that too. It’s all about the hypotheticals, right?”

“
And
the chili dogs,” Spurling agreed
cheerfully. “So don’t be late.”

• • •

What kind of person tells another person
he’d be a terrible father?

Darcie had been torturing herself for more
than an hour over her hurtful statements.

And yes, he had hurt her too.
Really
hurt her. But he was a damaged soul. A man who had lost a child and
would never, ever get over it.

What was
her
excuse? A broken heart?
An ache in the pit of her stomach? A yearning to lay eyes on him
one last time?

Even supposing he was the great love of her
life, she’d get over it. Find a way to move on. Maybe even find
someone else someday, or at least she could hope for that. But
nothing
would bring Hannah and the baby back. Or Matt
Bourne, for that matter.

Which meant Wyatt could
never
move
on. But he could shower some fortunate child with love and
attention, couldn’t he? Was that really such a selfish plan? And
even if it was, who was
she
to judge it?

Needing to make this right with him, she
hadn’t waited for him to make first contact this time. Instead she
had called and left a voice mail, insisting he needed to call her.
Then she had texted him. Twice. Always with the same message:
I’m so sorry, Wyatt. I was just upset. PLEASE call me.

Now she waited, staying off her PMA phone
while using her personal cell to return calls from her sister and
brother and some lawyer friends, all of whom had seen her on TV and
wanted to either praise her or tease her. Even her parents, who
were on assignment in Tokyo, had seen the video courtesy of
Emily.

She managed to fake her way through all
those conversations as she waited and waited for the only call she
cared about. Just when she was ready to give up hope, her agency
phone vibrated and she scooped it up gratefully.

“Wyatt? Thank you sooo much for calling. I
feel awful about the things I said to you—”

“Don’t worry about that. I need a favor,
Darce. Something big. I know I don’t have the right to ask—”

“Oh, my God, ask me
anything
. If you
only knew. I’d do anything for you.”

“Great! I’ll owe you forever. I already
do.”

His exuberant tone unnerved her. How could
he sound so happy after that killer session? Wasn’t he devastated?
Crushed? Instead he sounded like his old self.
Better
than
his old self. Almost reborn. Or was it re-Bourne?

What the
hell
was going on?

“I’ll pick you up at five thirty. We’re
going to a private residence for chili dogs, so no need to dress
up.”

“Chili dogs?” Her spirit deflated. “What
now, Wyatt? Fake date? Fake lawyer? Fake mom?”

“Fake agent,” he quipped.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll explain when I get there. Five thirty,
right?”

“Yes, Wyatt. Five thirty. See you then.”

Ending the call, she glanced at the phone’s
display to confirm that it was already four forty-five. Barely
enough time to shower. She had already changed out of her fancy
suit and into shorts and a lightweight tee, but both were pale
blue—all wrong for the staining potential of chili dogs, much less
the rigors of fake agenting.

“What are we
doing,
Wyatt?” she asked
him plaintively. Was it possible he was taking her back to the
Bourne ranch for a picnic? Maybe he had told his family they
weren’t dating anymore, but since he still needed cover, had taken
the agent route. Which meant what? They would roast hot dogs and
talk sports?

Why?

I’ll explain when I get there,
he had
said. But surely if it was about the Bournes he could have said
that straight out. So it was something different. Dinner with
people she didn’t know. In a private residence.

But definitely talking sports. So maybe he
had a jock friend here in LA who needed advice but for some reason
couldn’t consult his own representative. So they’d be doing this
under the table. Although again, why not just say that?

As her mind raced, she changed into a pair
of dark jeans and bypassed her collection of green tops in favor of
a red tank that hopefully wouldn’t show chili stains.