Midnight Play Page 8

  “Since the season opener he’s abided by the terms of his contract with our team and he’s maintained one hundred percent accuracy on all field goals. Who wouldn’t be satisfied with stats like that?”

  That didn’t stop him from persisting, though. “Even you have to admit it was a risky move to acquire a player suspected of so many transgressions.”

  “Dibbs is healthy and giving our franchise the results we want. What would football be without risky moves? You never know what action I’m going to take next. Don’t ruin all the excitement by trying to predict me.”

  This earned a wave of laughter, and the reporter blushed as though embarrassed to have even broached the subject.

  The next question was for the head coach. “How might new discoveries in the Alessandro Franco investigation affect your roster?”

  “Ask me again after more discoveries are made, and you’ll get a better answer,” was Kip’s laid-back reply. “Right now I can say that this club has a well-prepared second string. Each individual on our team is an asset, but no one’s indispensible. We all like to think we’re irreplaceable, but at the end of the day we’re components of a team, and the team’s success trumps everything.”

  Amid the murmurs and camera flashes was someone waving a plastic object toward the stage. A member of security hovered before Kip signaled for the object to be tossed to him.

  Danica laughed as he showed her the bobblehead before setting it on the table beside his water glass.

  “Ah, damn, my wife warned me that these hit the market,” he said on a groan. “I didn’t think anyone would have the balls to give me one.”

  “Do you think it’s a good likeness?” Danica asked, picking up the novelty toy to hold next to his face. The media ate up the banter, cheering in approval of the figure that exaggerated Kip’s wide, lopsided grin and the dimples that bracketed his mouth. It held a clipboard in one hand and half a pair of sunglasses in the other.

  “To who? Me or Richie Cunningham?”

  “That can’t possibly represent Kip Claussen,” Tem countered in good humor. “The bobblehead nods. Kip never nods. He’s one of the most disagreeable men I’ve ever met.” Mimicking a prize model, she gestured to her husband with a graceful flourish. “And he’s the other.”

  Danica looked toward her father, saw him give an ever-so-slight nod of satisfaction. She’d handled herself well, and for him this press conference had just become another victory. Checkmate.

  *

  How the hell did they do it? Dex pushed his Corona across the bar with a forefinger and motioned for another. He was at the Hard Rock Hotel’s sports bar with his eyes glued to the prerecorded broadcast at Slayers Stadium playing out on a plasma screen. He had to give the Blues and Kip Claussen credit for twisting what was going to be a painful press conference into a goddamn variety show.

  Danica Blue’s blatant—at least to him—manipulation of the reporter who’d started up about TreShawn Dibbs had set the tone. There was something in the way she leaned in, with one shoulder forward and a black-painted fingernail drawing up and down the neck of her mic, that compelled him to stare at her. Even as she appealed to every male fiber of his being, he saw through her act. He couldn’t define what was hidden behind the clever flirtation and ballsy attitude she flaunted to the press, but there was more to her than a beautiful face, a smart mouth and a honeyed voice that would sound so good moaning his name.

  The woman on-screen appeared too carefree to be sad in the depths of night, too self-involved to spare time on a man who’d promised her nothing in return. But Dex knew better. He knew that she’d been home alone, nursing some private wounds, after her friend’s wedding. He knew that when she’d given her word to help him get back onto the field, she meant it.

  Fishing for a few laughs, throwing people off with a curve of her pillowy lips, were tactics, he realized. Watching her on television, as he waited for her to join him at the bar, was more about curiosity than anything else. She’d had the media snug in her back pocket since she’d hit the NFL scene, and today he’d wanted to observe how she went about transforming a pack of bloodthirsty lions into purring cats. At the close of the conference, all Dex had confirmed was that she was a mystery. And sexier than anyone had a right to be.

  Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. Maybe if his brain repeated it enough, his dick would get the message.

  Fact was, he was skeptical that one woman could right his reputation, and he didn’t want to take a roundabout route toward proving that he’d been a target. At eighteen, he’d chosen sports over a future in Oregon agriculture. The football field and all it represented had become his home, the team his family, the game his life. But his “family” had betrayed him, gutted him, and righting the wrong was something he couldn’t walk away from.

  If Slayers Stadium would never again be his home, then so be it, so long as another team valued his potential. So long as the Slayers franchise and the media regretted shutting him out.

  Dex turned up the bottle for a deep swig, then swiveled around to put his back to the television. The move granted him a comfortable view of the bar—which was right away obstructed by a cluster of autograph-hungry fans. He might be unemployed, but to the people grinning and holding out objects for him to sign, he was still a Las Vegas Slayers quarterback, still jersey number eleven.

  He accepted the Sharpie a bartender tossed him and in a blur signed a cell phone case, a napkin, a baseball cap, a handbag.

  Then someone appeared on the fringes of the group. “Darn it. I don’t have anything for you to sign. Poor, poor me.”

  He raised his eyes to the woman. Danica. Watching video footage of the press conference hadn’t prepared him for the full effect of seeing her in leather pants that wrapped her long legs like a second skin, and a shirt that exposed her arms, shimmied over her breasts and brushed her hips.

  “Yeah, you do. Want me to show you?”

  “Go for it.”

  Dex got off the bar stool. Grasping her arm, he drew the pen over her skin, just above the bend of her elbow. He signed with pride, with a little cockiness in his stroke. He then lowered his mouth as if to drop a kiss there, but gently blew across the ink.

  Danica’s laughter stole his attention. A no-holds-barred grin showed off a set of white teeth and wrinkled the outer corners of her eyes. “What a smart-ass!”

  She turned to skim her surroundings, and the lightness of the moment fell away. Patrons craned their necks to spy from the bar and the edges of booths. “Busier than I thought it’d be on a Wednesday.”

  “Rethinking being with me in public?”

  “On the contrary. Public means I’ve got nothing to hide. Private means secrets. I have my secrets, Dex, but being here with you isn’t one of them.”

  She zeroed in on the nearest television. Tension tightened her shoulders as the sports analyst on-screen promised a rundown of league-wide developments after the commercial break.

  “Saw the press conference. The bobblehead bit was genius.”

  “That wasn’t a bit, Dex. It wasn’t planned.”

  “Still took the heat off Claussen.”

  Danica planted a fist on her hip. “Claussen doesn’t need anyone to take the heat off him. If he did, he wouldn’t be our head coach. Don’t knock his abilities. In fact, you would’ve worked well with him—” Catching herself, she stopped, and he could damn near see the tension strapping itself on to her like armor.

  No. He wouldn’t accept more of that. Damn the masks, the pretenses, the hiding. Screw everything that took away the woman who’d let him sign her arm and had laughed freely for him. The hard-shelled persona was nothing more than a piece of clothing—something to project an image.

  She’d dropped that persona once, and now that he’d seen what was underneath, he wouldn’t settle for a facade again.

  “Cards on the table. Remember that? Say what’s on your mind. I like you better when you do.”

  “Then let’s take this talk someplace else,
” she suggested, with another glance at the television. “A place without all-sports TV?” She pointed to his Corona. “I’ll buy your beer.”

  “My beer’s paid for.” Dex tossed the Sharpie onto the counter, then added an extra twenty to an already generous tip. “So make it a tequila. I know a place.”

  One corner of her mouth inched up. Not a full-on smile, but close enough to give him a sting of pleasure, like a woman’s teeth to his shoulder. “Not your place, ’cause that’s not happening.”

  “Don’t worry, Danica. I’m abiding by your rules. It’s a public place, but private enough to talk, and there’s no sports TV. The question is, will you be okay with a situation you don’t have complete control over?” He turned, and there she was, at his side, with a spark in her eyes to go with that bounce in her step.

  “I’ll follow you there. I’m not getting in your car. What would people think?” She gave him a grab-the-man-by-the-loins wink. “Besides. I trust my Boxster to no one.”

  She was as brilliant at evasion as he was at throwing a football. But her resistance intrigued him when it should’ve frustrated him. He let her exit the bar ahead of him, warning himself that sooner or later he’d regret letting recklessness take over. For every reason he had to step back from her, he was shot with the urge to get even closer. His bloodstream was damn near poisoned with the want to know her, touch her—

  Getting into his Corvette, he slammed the driver’s door. The sudden noise jarred his thoughts for a slice of a moment, and he was glad for it. As pretty and complex as Danica Blue was, she was also the woman who’d cut him from his team and had smiled while doing it.

  In his rearview mirror, Dex could see her car. Occasionally a traffic light or the twin beams of his brake lights streaked across the front of her vehicle, revealing her behind the windshield. Head bopping, lips moving, one hand slapping the top of the steering wheel.

  At the Luxor she was all cool, serious businesswoman as she met him at the entrance with an expectant frown.

  “On the road, were you singing in your car?”

  The only sign that she was flustered by the question was a quick succession of blinks, which only drew his focus to the sexy catlike shape of her eyes. “I was.” She wiggled her fingers at the building. “You brought me to the Luxor to talk?”

  “Our stop’s the very low-key lounge inside. Been here before?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Pleasure and discretion were what the exclusive, intimate lounge provided. That he was the man introducing her to this place and the unspoken possibilities teased his ego.

  “I’m not really acquainted with the Vegas club scene, Dex.”

  The surprises kept coming. Her ex-husband was constantly in the news, photographed at parties and clubs that some men would give their left nut to have access to. Her younger sister was a hard partier. He’d come across that fact firsthand at a casino some weeks ago, had caught a glimpse of Martha Blue unplugged—loud, freewheeling and belligerent—and he’d muttered good luck to any man masochistic enough to try to catch a fireball like that. Yet Danica, the woman who ditched her inhibitions in the privacy of her car to sing along to the radio, wasn’t a club-goer.

  “I’m going out tonight, though,” she continued as he led her inside, “so I can’t stay past midnight.”

  For these few moments, it was just the two of them journeying through the dimly lit halls. So he asked. “What happens after midnight? Something turns into a pumpkin?”

  She chuckled. “I’m impressed with your knowledge of fairy tales.”

  All thanks to my kid sister. To be fair, Erin was an adult now. But after almost fifteen years of estrangement, what he remembered most about his life as an older brother were the moments he should’ve appreciated but hadn’t. The times she pestered the hell out of him to read her a story, ran to him for protection from playground bullies, tagged along when he’d finally gotten a license and all the freedom that had come with it.

  Erin had sent him a letter his rookie season in New York—nothing more than a “I hate you for not telling Mom and me that your dreams came true” note that had slipped past the team’s publicity department in a batch of fan mail. Because he’d still been grieving his father’s death and hadn’t figured out a way to freeze his heart against his remaining family, he’d hung on to that contact. Playing for a team across the country, he’d been limited to an occasional visit home and sizable checks to support his mother and Erin. His mother’s death had left Erin as his only connection to his past. She was his one chance to do right by his family; his parents had depended upon him to protect her.

  To ensure that she got an education and never had to leave home, he paid for Erin’s college in Corvallis and purchased their family’s cherry orchard and turned it over to her. Keeping her in Oregon and himself in Las Vegas was for her own good, even though she’d been stubbornly putting herself in the public eye with a gig posting home design and organization videos on YouTube. He was giving her the safe, out-of-the-limelight life his parents had wanted for both Dex and Erin—the life he hadn’t wanted.

  They emailed regularly—or had, up until she’d gotten word of his release from the Slayers.

  “Come home,” she’d begged. “Come back to the farm for a while. Or I can come to Las Vegas and stay with you. We’ve got to find some way out of this mess.”

  No, he wasn’t interested in going back to Gunner, Oregon, with his tail tucked between his legs. And letting his small-town sister wander into the middle of a place that was called Sin City for a reason was out of the damn question. The emails and voice-mail messages that he’d left unanswered were beginning to accumulate, but it seemed the best way to deal with his sister was through silence. Still, he’d hate himself if he lost the girl who’d looked up to her big brother and believed in fairy tales.

  “Nothing will turn into a pumpkin,” Danica told him. “But I’ll owe someone an apology and a drink.”

  Ushering her through the lounge, he watched her take notice of the candlelight, dark furniture, the DJ and the scatter of high-roller guests who were too absorbed in conversation and heavy petting to toss up more than a glance.

  “A guy someone?” he asked, sitting across from her at a shadowed table.

  Anyone could’ve picked up on the thin edge of jealousy in his words. Dex wanted to smack himself upside the head for asking that question. Why should he care if she had a date lined up?

  “My assistant. I’m not seeing anyone,” she answered, with a hesitant smirk that spoke volumes. She was pleased that he’d asked, but she knew she’d taken a risk in telling him that she was single. “Uh, apparently, man-hunting is more fun when women go in pairs.”

  “What type of man are you hunting for?”

  “I’m not. And as for type…well, I never thought about it.” She shifted with a nervous energy. “Been out of the dating loop for a while. Which I’m sure you know, if curiosity and easy access to Google got the best of you.”

  She almost had him there. Yes, he’d been tempted to do some online digging. But the bigger appeal was in discovering her through that push-pull that reeled him into a debate with her at every turn. They always seemed to be on the borderline of disagreement, and maybe he was crazy, but he liked it that way.

  “I know you were married to Marion Reeves, and now you’re not.”

  “God. It’s not that simple.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I was in high school when I met Marion. I looked at him and saw this fairy-tale future. He was so charming. My parents were in his corner. Best of all, he wanted me. I graduated, married him right away. After ten years, it was over. The next guy I dated pursued me, and that was okay, except…I wasn’t the one who made the move that matters. For me, the kiss—not a peck on the cheek, but a mouth-to-mouth kiss—changes things.” Danica cleared her throat. “I think it’s time for that tequila.”

  At the bar they knocked back a round of tequila shots, with salt and
lime wedges. Then Danica let a mixologist talk her into a harvest-moon cocktail, which she took back to their table. Instead of reclaiming her seat, she took the one beside him, crowding him deliciously with that tight little body, rattling him with the sparkle of mischief in her smile. “Dex, your social life’s as legendary as your NFL career. It’s also a huge part of the image that the public sees. So let’s talk about that. About your relationships.”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “Actually, no. We talked about mine, and my image is fine.”

  “Yeah, except I have a hell of a hard time believing you’ve been into just two guys your whole life.”

  “Those weren’t my exact words. Might want to fix that selective listening thing if you want this—” she gestured from him to herself with an index finger “—to work out. My first crush happened when I was five.”

  “Give me a name. Or I won’t believe you.”

  “Steve Perry. It’s true. And for the past few years Blair Underwood’s been looking really good to me. Now—” Danica gently nudged him with her shoulder, catching him with those inviting chocolate-brown eyes “—your turn. First crush. Current crush.”

  “All right. Marisa Tomei. Been sold on her since My Cousin Vinny.”

  “Wow, the same woman for several years. You can commit.”

  “A Hollywood crush is one thing—”

  “And reality is another. In reality, you don’t commit. I get it—it’s a choice. Your life’s an open door to…let’s see. Models. Actresses. Legions of beautiful fans. I’m not judging you,” Danica added, the humor in her voice replaced with sincerity. “Just getting a clearer picture of Dex Harper, the man. That’s the part of you in need of a reboot, because without it you can’t resurrect Dex Harper, the pro quarterback.”

  “What is it about me that needs improvement, then, Danica?”

  “Try to see this from the public’s point of view. You want to be someone that average Joes might admire. Show the world that you’re down-to-earth. A man who can be humbled, who deserves empathy, who’s fun to be around. Your involvement with Habitat for Humanity would be a plus if your bad behavior didn’t work against it. Appearing in gossip rags with a different model on your arm every week? Unleashing your temper every time a reporter asks you about the investigation? It tells people that you’re a careless hothead. And people will love to hate you.