Draw Play: A Sports Romance (18 page)

“
S
o
, what do you think, Miss Morrison?”

“Please, call me Abby,” I said, looking out over the expansive football stadium. It was such a thrill, even with it being practically empty.

“Ever been here before?” the team’s head coach, Arthur Cramer, asked with a benevolent smile. He was a grizzly bear on the sidelines, I’d heard, but a teddy bear in real life. He struck me as being somebody’s grandfather. “Don’t I remember reading on your resume that you grew up around here?”

“Yes, sir, not far from Pensacola. My father was a flight school trainer for some years, before being transferred to Germany.”

“I see. That’s how you ended up in Europe, huh?”

“Yes, sir. If five years working as a physical therapist for rugby players and footballers out there didn’t prepare me for the NFL, I don’t know what will.” We both grinned. I’d never stepped foot inside the stadium before, though football had been one of my family’s passions. We caught every game, not to mention a variety of college teams throughout the South. It was part of the reason why I went into sports therapy.

“Well, I think you’ve seen all you need to see in the offices. I thought we could take a look around here for a while—I see a handful of my players sitting across the field.” The coach pointed, and I smiled knowingly.

“Watching cheerleading practice,” I observed with a chuckle.

“Yeah, well, some of them are completely incorrigible,” he said. I thought he was blushing a little.

“No worries. Remember: I’m used to professional sports players. I’ve heard it all, I’ve seen it all. I have thick skin—not much gets to me.”

“Good, because they’ll put you through the ringer,” Coach Cramer warned. “I mean, not to be offensive, but a beautiful woman like you …”

I smiled and hoped I didn’t offend him when I reminded him, once again, that it wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d been hit on, cornered in the locker room, cornered in the therapy room, asked to check out groin injuries that didn’t exist. I’d been flashed, patted, groped by players who “were just being rowdy.” I was used to it. And I’d studied self-defense as a result. I would never earn a black belt, and I didn’t want to. I only wanted to know how to make a man go away and stay away when I wanted him to. Some men didn’t know how to take “no” for an answer. A swift kick to the fucking balls usually did the trick or a knee to the nose.

Sometimes I wished I hadn’t been blessed with a tall frame and generous curves. Or my red hair, which always seemed to attract attention. Green eyes, full lips that gave men the wrong idea.

I’d spent most of my high school days wishing I were pretty, hoping boys would like me. I was too tall, too skinny. My hair always frizzed, since nobody ever taught me how to do anything with it. There were many instances in which a mother would have come in handy. My military father didn’t know anything about straightening irons and conditioning serums. I wore glasses back then, too, big thick glasses that made my eyes pop even further. I knew nothing about how to dress, how to wear makeup.

Once I blossomed—admittedly late in the game—I wished I were less noticeable. There was no winning. I’d picked up tricks from girlfriends I’d made in Germany, then in Paris when Dad was stationed there and I’d visit over breaks. Other Air Force brats had been around the world and taught me a thing or three.

I couldn’t help noticing the cheerleaders as I walked along the outside of the field with Coach Cramer. A blind man would have seen them, bouncing and cheering and swinging their ponytails around. I wondered what it felt like, having to be cheerful and supportive even when the game was going down the toilet. I was never one who could avoid cursing and throwing pillows across the room when the team fell asleep on the field.

I would have sold my soul to look like one of the cheerleaders when I was a kid. They were my idols, the girls who looked like that. At the same time, I used to wish they would all die in a fiery crash on the bus while traveling to an away game. They’d pretended to be nice to my face, then they’d snicker behind my back. I made it a point to keep the bitterness inside me and off my face while the coach told me more about the team and what I could expect from the players.

“They’re all good guys. I see the ones sitting up there right now—I think you’ll like them. I know you know this since you said it already—but if they act like a bunch of pubescent teenagers, it’s only because they’re together. Catch ‘em separately and you’ll see they’re all good guys.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cramer. I’ll keep that in mind,” I said with a smile. Yes, I understood that, too. Men felt the need to look manly when in the presence of their friends. They needed to make crude jokes and laugh and elbow each other like little boys. I’d seen plenty of it across the pond. The sports themselves might have been different, but the players weren’t.

“Guys! Front and center, please.” I watched the eyes of every player focus on the coach. He’d trained them well. “I want you to meet the newest addition to our physical therapy team. Abby, meet the team—or, rather, the members of the team we have with us at the moment.”

I smiled, nodding at each of them in turn. They introduced themselves one at a time. Jared, Garrett, Chad, Trey, Joe, Brent, Randy. I nodded to all of them, knowing I’d never remember who they were and figured I would have to look them up later.

There was a man in the middle of them, sneering at me. Big, broad shoulders, and tattoos along both forearms and biceps. Brown hair, too messy. Piercing blue eyes. A beautifully shaped mouth that looked just perfect for kissing. A jawline for days. Tanned skin. Absolute perfection.

And I could tell by the look on his face that he had no idea who I was.

“Max Anderson, quarterback.” He sounded like he expected me to bow before him or something, like the mere mention of his name and position on the team would be enough to melt my panties. It was enough, too, but for no reason, he seemed to figure out. I thought I’d bide my time.

“Great. Nice to meet all of you,” I nodded, smiling as I had been. It took everything inside me to stay calm. With all of my heart, I wanted to throw myself into Max’s arms, to show him I’d turned out pretty after all. To tell him how much I’d missed him. God, I was so glad I’d worn a skirt and a fitted polo instead of something masculine. I’d debated on whether I should hide or show off my curves for my first meeting with the team and coach.

I watched Max carefully. His eyes displayed no recognition. He really didn’t recognize me. Should I play with him for a while? Maybe flirt with him, get him turned on, then tell him who I was? I’d have to think it over, play it safe.

In the meantime, I could figure out how to get my heart to stop racing. Max. All the old memories came flooding back. I felt like I should be wearing Coke-bottle glasses and a plaid sweater vest.

“All right, boys. Don’t spend too much time out here in the sun,” Coach chuckled. “And don’t party too hard tonight. You still have to stay in shape for Sunday. We’ll meet tomorrow at noon for your workout.” They all nodded. So they weren’t practicing, but they were working out. Interesting.

“I believe in keeping my men strong, but rested,” the coach explained as we walked away. “I’ve seen other coaches drive their players into the ground. One of them insisted his men be in bed by eleven every night—he even checked on them. Can you believe it?”

I could barely hear a word he said. The blood rushed in my ears until I could hardly listen to a thing around me. “That seems a little extreme, Mr. Cramer,” I said, feeling shaky. Max. What the hell? What were the odds? Sure, it had been a last-minute thing, getting thrown onto the team like that. I’d been in Europe for so long, I’d lost track of him. I’d almost forgotten all about him, in fact, my only memories coming up every so often when I’d meet a devastatingly handsome quarterback. Or when I felt unsure of myself. That did it every time, too.

* * *

I
got back
to my new office and closed the door. It was a beautiful room, very sleek if not very large. I intended to work my way up in the organization, no doubt. It was a good beginning. It had windows, at least, and nice hardwood floors. The entire stadium and offices were relatively new, Coach had told me, only having been opened four years earlier.

I lasted all of three seconds at my desk before letting myself fall apart a little. How was it possible? Was somebody laughing at me up there? Putting me in front of the man who’d ruled my heart all through elementary and high school? Who was my reason for getting out of bed and putting up with the losers and bullies? Who helped me not hate school and life quite so much? He was the only jock who was nice to me, probably because he had known me since we were kids. Our fathers were pals, which helped. But some kids would have shunned me in public when they knew I was social suicide. Not Max. He’d stuck by me and didn’t care who knew we were friends.

But he’d never loved me, or even liked me the way I liked him. Hell, the cool girls he dated didn’t even care that we spent so much time together because I was practically one of the guys, anyway. He never saw me as a girl. Nobody did back then, including me.

I didn’t mind when it came to him. If he liked me the way I was, if I was good enough to hang out with, it was all okay.

I took a few deep breaths, concentrating on the present. I had to be professional. I had to keep my career in mind—I’d built a sterling reputation as a physical therapist, to the point where the team’s owners had pursued me when one of their therapists retired. Still, it had been so last-minute and such a flurry of activity involving packing and moving back to the states that I hadn’t had the time to do much research on this NFL team. I wished so much that I had. I could have prepared myself to see
him
again. Looking better than ever.

I folded my arms on the desk, leaning my forehead against them. God, I had loved him. It wasn’t just lust. I had truly loved him, wanted the best for him, worried about him when he got a concussion during one game back in the day. He’d been my best friend, and I thought I was his.

A knock at the office door pulled me from my memories. I picked my head up from the desk, reminding myself to be professional again even though I probably had a red mark on my forehead from my arms.

He had to duck on his way into my office. So tall. Broader than he’d been before—he was always in terrific shape, but he’d bulked up as a man in ways he never could as a boy.

“Hey. I wanted to introduce myself a little better,” he said with a smile. A terribly sexy smile.

“Max. I know. I remember you.”

“What? You do?”

I smiled. “Sure. How could I forget you?”

He grinned, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that was so clearly studied, it made me chew the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He was so ridiculous. I wanted to pat him on the head.

“Well, I guess you would know about me. I mean, you’ve probably done research on all of us by now.” He folded his large frame into a chair next to my desk.

“Some more than others.”

“Hmm … Okay, this is weird.” He grinned, scratching his chiseled jawline.

“Sorry.” I blushed.

“Okay, so what
do
you know about me?” he asked. “Maybe we can talk it over later on—like, over dinner?”

I smiled. It was too easy. “How about I just tell you now? You didn’t learn how to ride a bike until you were eleven. Your right front tooth is a fake because somebody punched it out when you were around twelve or thirteen. You would never pass a cemetery without crossing yourself because it was something your mother would always do. She made excellent lasagna. Your favorite Christmas toy was a set of Power Rangers when none of the kids on the block could get their hands on any. Everybody hated you that Christmas.”

His jaw went slack. “What? Who the hell are you? And how do you know all those things?”

I shrugged. “I’m the girl who punched your tooth out.”