Skin in the Game (8 page)

“I’m sure you can.” In fact, Cade would bet the nurses would let Warren Harris get away with just about anything, not only because he was rich and famous, but because he was both charismatic and good-looking. He and Cade had spent enough of their off-seasons together for Cade to know that when it came down to it, more women were interested in getting into Warren’s pants than his.

Warren pushed a button on the remote attached to the bed railing and pointed to the chair beside him. “Have a seat. One of the advantages to the hospital VIP treatment is that it won’t take long for one of the nurses to come running.”

Sure enough, a few seconds later, a petite middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs appeared in the doorway. “What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?” Even though she was obviously almost old enough to be Warren’s mother, her tone held the brightness of a teenage girl with a crush.

“My friend here brought a six-pack of beer instead of flowers. I know I’m not supposed to drink on this medication, but I wondered…”

The nurse seemed to notice Cade sitting in the visitor’s chair for the first time, and her eyes widened a notch. “Aren’t you…?”

Cade stood up and extended his hand. “Cade Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms.—” He quickly read the name badge slung around her neck. “Wallem.”

She clasped his hand, her cheeks pink with pleasure that he’d bothered to discover her name. “No, the pleasure’s all mine. My husband isn’t going to believe it when I tell him I’m nursing Warren Harris and I met Cade Reynolds. Only the two greatest football players in Minnesota history.”

Cade laughed. “I’m pretty sure Fran Tarkenton and Alan Page would disagree with that, but I’m flattered you think so.”

“So, I can have that beer, then?” Warren interjected.

Nurse Wallem smiled. “I’ll just notify the doctor, and he’ll order your IV drip turned down a bit. But only one,” she cautioned, wagging a warning finger before ducking out the door and leaving the two of them alone.

Cade fished the bottle opener he’d purchased for the occasion from his pocket and cracked the caps from two of the longnecks.

Warren took his and raised it for a toast. “To not being dead.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Cade declared, clicking his bottle against his friend’s. After several healthy swallows, he decided it was time to broach the subject. “This looks like more than six weeks on injured reserve to me.”

“Uh, yeah, no shit.” Warren gave an exasperated snort. “But you know how it is. They want to appease the fans. Don’t want to tell them the season’s flushed down the toilet until the water’s actually swirling in the bowl.”

Cade nodded. It had been the same when he’d been injured. The Texans’ spokesman had made early predictions of Cade’s swift return to the field, hoping to assuage the public’s anxiety over losing their star quarterback midway through a winning season. Of course, the need for such comforting assurances had quickly evaporated when Cade’s neophyte replacement, unlike Warren’s, had not only stepped into Cade’s shoes but filled them so well, they’d become his own. The knowledge that he’d been so easily replaced still chafed.

Which brought him back to the reason he was here.

After taking another long pull from the sweating bottle, Cade asked, “What the hell happened, anyway?”

“Some idiot in a motorcycle was weaving through traffic on the 35E. He cut off the woman in the lane next to me, and she swerved to avoid him, but she caught the rear corner of the Maser. Next thing I know, I’m spun around backward and the guy behind me is plowing into me head-on at fifty-plus.”

Cade let out a low whistle. “That sounds bad.”

“I tell you, when I saw that SUV coming for me, I thought for sure I was a goner.

Considering it took them half an hour to cut me out of the Maser—and let me tell you, I tried like hell to convince them to save the car, not me—I’m one lucky SOB. Although now I’ve got a leg full of pins and plates to match your shoulder.”

“Maybe when we retire from football, we can open a chain of hardware stores,” Cade joked. “Harris and Reynolds’s Patch ’Em Up Parts.”

Warren smiled, but the expression was grim. “I may need that backup plan sooner than later.”

“Whoa, you’re not saying this is going to end your career, are you?”

His friend shrugged. “Hard to tell. My ankle was crushed between the clutch and the floorboards. The doctors promise I’ll be able to walk again, but they’re not giving me a whole lot of hope for anything more than that. Of course, until the break heals and we find out how the rehab goes, I guess I have to believe there’s a chance.”

Cade was silent as he digested this information. If Warren couldn’t come back, then Cade wouldn’t be stealing his job if he accepted the Vikings’ offer, which he had no doubt would be forthcoming. Moreover, if Warren was forced into retirement by his injury, the position with the Vikings could be what Cade wanted—an opportunity for a long-term contract and maybe even a Super Bowl ring.

The problem was, it was too damn soon to know. And there’d be no knowing for weeks, if not months. Certainly not before the trade deadline in November.

“I met with the team today,” he said at last. He knew he didn’t need to elaborate as to which team or why.

Warren nodded. “I figured.”

“I think they’re going to offer me the job.”

“You should take it. You’ll slide right into the offensive scheme.” There was no hint of bitterness or envy in Warren’s voice.

And that lack of emotion was what made up Cade’s mind. His friend was still in shock.

“We’ll see.” Cade nodded and the two of them lapsed into silence as they finished their beers.

When Cade left twenty minutes later, he was sure of two things. First, Warren had a long road back to the NFL, if he made it back at all. Second, Cade was not going to be the man who stood in Warren’s way if he did.

***

Angie resolutely ignored the vibrating cell phone in her pocket as she grabbed her clipboard and whistle from her desk and headed out of the coaches’ office.

It was not him. It couldn’t be him. She’d made sure of that. And that was the way she wanted it. No sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, no angsting over whether a man meant what he said when he promised to call.

So why did she jump a little every time the phone jingled? Intellectually, she knew it could not—and would not—be Cade Reynolds. Even if he wanted to be bothered to try to find her, which was doubtful to begin with, both her cell phone and her home phone number were unlisted. Besides, he was probably already back in Texas by now. Why would he hang around Harper Falls any longer than necessary? He hadn’t been back in sixteen years, so it didn’t seem likely he had any sentimental attachment to the place.

But none of that logic had stopped her heart from fluttering every time a phone rang—or vibrated—for the past two days.

The vibrations stopped…then started up again.

Angie took a deep breath, fished the phone from her pocket, and glanced at the display.

Rachel. Not Cade. Of course not.

Although she was already running late to practice, Angie knew if she didn’t answer the phone, her friend would keep calling until she did.

A few students still wandered the halls, their voices echoing in the corridors, so Angie hurried through the double doors that led out to the ramp up to the field before pushing the talk button.

“Hey, Rach,” she said quickly, “what’s up? I’m late for practice.”

“What’s up?” Rachel demanded. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

“What messages?” Angie’s stomach pinched with instant anxiety. Was something wrong with her father? Had Harvey taken a turn for the worse? Damn it, she shouldn’t have ignored the phone all day. She should have checked her messages at lunch, at least. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“The three I left since this morning. But never mind. I just thought you’d like to know that I got a phone call from Cade Reynolds this morning.”

“What?” Angie stopped halfway up the ramp, her mind racing. It was a coincidence. It had to be. There was no way Cade could possibly know that she and Rachel were friends. In fact, there was no way Cade could know Rachel at all. “What about?”

“He said he was worried about Harvey. Asked if I could arrange for an in-home caregiver for him. Apparently, Harvey’s been eating nothing but take-out and hasn’t cleaned the kitchen since he got home from the hospital. I guess Cade got my phone number from Harvey’s fridge and figured I’d know who to call.”

Angie breathed a slow, deep sigh of relief and started walking again. She could hear the excited voices of her players as she neared the top of the ramp and wondered what the ruckus was about. Probably Donnelly dissing her for being late.

“And this was critical for me to know because…?”

“Because I sent Donna Halstedt over to Harvey’s about an hour later and guess who was there?”

Of course, Angie didn’t have to guess. She knew. “Cade.”

So he was still here in town. So what? It didn’t mean anything. He’d stayed to visit Harvey, not because he was trying to track her down like some latter-day Cinderella.

“Uh huh,” Rachel confirmed. “But that’s not all.”

Angie had just reached the top of the ramp and could now see the members of her team clustered in a large semi-circle on the opposite side of the playing field, their backs to her. They had quieted, and their attention was fixed on someone or something she couldn’t see from her vantage point. It was not, however, her assistant coach, Chuck Donnelly, because he stood off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, watching whoever or whatever was monopolizing her players.

What the hell?

“Did you hear me, Ange? There’s more.”

“Yeah,” Angie answered absentmindedly as she broke into a jog.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to peer through the mass of padded and uniformed bodies to see what the boys were focused on.

“Angie, where are you now?”

“On the field. And something weird’s going on. I’m going to have to call you back later.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear, ready to hang up, but Rachel’s urgent voice stopped her.

“No, wait! I know what’s going on. It’s why I called. I wanted you to be prepared.”

Angie came to a halt in the middle of the grassy field, about twenty feet from the crowd.

“Prepared for what?”

At that precise moment, the source of the team’s excitement stood up. Every ounce of blood left her brain as her gaze met Cade’s over the heads of her players and Rachel said, “Cade’s taking over the head coaching position until Harvey gets well.”

Angie stopped dead in her tracks, aghast and furious.

To think that she’d been worried he might steal her heart when, unfathomable as it seemed, he’d apparently come to Harper Falls to steal her job.

No, not just her job. Her life.

The last person Cade expected to find waiting for him in the high school’s parking lot when practice was over was Angie Peterson. But as he approached his rented Cadillac CTS, he had no doubt whatsoever that the tall, curvy blonde resting her hip against the hood was none other. She could have passed for a car show model if she hadn’t looked angrier than a wet cat.

Which made her even sexier somehow.

One would think from the way she glowered at him that he’d given her the coyote ugly treatment the other night, not the other way around.

After her hasty retreat from the field after practice, he’d figured he wasn’t going to get either an apology or an explanation for at least another few days. She’d barely acknowledged his existence throughout the two-hour-long practice, not that he’d been inclined to push the issue in front of forty-four teenage boys who all plainly worshipped the ground she walked on. Despite their obvious excitement at meeting—and being coached by—a real, live NFL star, Cade wasn’t one hundred percent sure they wouldn’t all try to beat the living crap out of him if they thought he’d done anything to hurt their beloved Coach Pete, as they called her.

In any event, the parking lot was deserted but for the two of them and a few cars, and he wanted answers. Perhaps a little contrition. And most of all, another night with her naked and moaning in his bed.

Actually, the last would almost make up for everything else. Even now, with her eyes spitting angry fire at him, he was mentally undressing her, peeling off her jeans, sliding his hands up her forever-long legs, and bending her over the polished hood of the car.

“I’m glad you waited,” he said when he knew he was in earshot. “I figured you were going to run out on me again.” Surprisingly, the words held no real sting. His brief, lurid fantasy had taken the edge off his outrage.

Hers, on the other hand, hadn’t dissipated. She pushed away from the car, stood up straight, and crossed her arms. “Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I didn’t know there was a subject.”

“Then I’ll make it simple for you. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. I’m perfectly capable of coaching this team by myself.”

Ah, there it was. At least they had that out in the open. Too bad he couldn’t explain that the team wasn’t the problem, but he respected Lund’s intuition enough to keep his counsel.

“I know you are,” he said.

She let out a frustrated breath. “Then why are you doing it?”

“Because Coach Lund asked me to.”

“And if I ask you not to?”

A part of him—especially the part below his belt—would have liked nothing better than to do whatever she wanted, particularly when she was standing right there and he could have her in his arms inside of two seconds. He could be kissing her, tasting her delectable lips, cupping the round curve of her buttocks, coaxing her back into his bed this very second if he just said yes.

But another part of him was still angry. She hadn’t even acknowledged what she’d done the other night, let alone apologized for it, and he’d be damned if he was letting her get away without doing both.

And right now, the only way he could think of to get them was to be in her life, whether she liked it or not.

“Sorry. I gave my word to Coach. I won’t go back on it now.”