One Night with a Quarterback (17 page)

But curiosity—and a little courage bolstered from Mellie's trust in her—made her climb the stairs anyway. She could hear a delicate sniffle, and low murmurs coming from what she knew was Irene's room. It seemed wrong to eavesdrop, especially when she'd already made herself come this far. So she knocked.

It was like the air sucked from the room. All movement and voices stopped, freezing time. Then footsteps to the door. Tabitha appeared, looking flushed. Anger glittered in her eyes. “You.”

Cassie blinked. “I was here seeing Mellie and I thought . . . I'd say hi to Irene, too.”

Tabitha opened the door wider, so Cassie could see in. The room was trashed. Clothes draped over an armchair, the desk chair, the headboard. Notebooks sprawled across the floor. Textbooks were turned upside down on the desk. Shallow storage tubs, the kind you keep your off-season clothing in under a bed, were upturned, their contents spilled and scattered.

And Irene sat in the middle of the storm, perched on the edge of her bed, looking like the losing dog in an underground cage fight.

“Um . . . spring cleaning?”

Tabitha snorted. “Jokes. Always the jokes. No.” Arms crossed over her breasts, pulling at the pearls from her throat, she said, “Irene and I have been having a discussion about expectations.” She walked toward a pile of clothing in a laundry basket and hefted it up. Then, she shoved the basket at Cassie's midsection. “These are yours, I believe.”

Cassie caught her breath and looked down. She saw a few tank tops, some shorts, and a few books. Some makeup as well, though more might have been hiding in the folds. Things she'd been missing, that she'd assumed Mellie had borrowed.
Looks like Mellie isn't the only one rummaging through my closet on the sly.
“Yeah . . . look at that. Must have gotten some stuff mixed up with the girls' when I did laundry last time.”

Clearly, the older woman wasn't buying it. “You have no right.” Tabitha looked enraged, her anger so hot she might have burned through the subfloor and fallen into the living room below. “You have
no right
to impose your . . . your ways on my daughters.”

Cassie set the basket down gently and folded her own arms. If she was going to take a beating, she'd take it without a hamper in her arms. “I never meant to impose.”

“
That's all you've done!
” her father's wife shrieked, then looked shocked for a moment. Her eyes glazed over, as if she had no clue what to do with herself after losing her famed control. She took a step back, slid on a spiral bound notebook, and caught herself. “My daughters are mine to raise. Mine to mold.”

Cassie nodded once. No disagreement.

“I won't have you influencing them. I won't have you . . . changing them. They are
mine
.”

She waited for more. There had to be. This wasn't about a tank top and some eye shadow.

“You may be allowed to move in here and slip into our lives like you've always been here, but I won't have you undermining my authority as a mother. I might not be yours, and I might not have control over what you do. But these two are mine, and I do control them.” She pointed a manicured finger at Irene, who sat like stone, unmoving since Cassie entered.

There it was. Finally. The anger and resentment of having Cassie come into their lives was manifesting itself into parental concern for her babies.

“I'm not trying to change them. I just want to spend time with my sisters.”

“No more get-togethers at the pool house.” Tabitha swiped a hand through the air. “No more unsupervised time. No filling their heads with . . . I don't know!” She closed her eyes, took a ragged breath, then seemed to compose herself in a single moment.

Fancy trick. One of these days, when she wasn't so pissed, Cassie would have to ask her how she did it.

When Tabitha opened her eyes again, they were filled with cool contempt, no longer fiery anger. “You are here because Ken wants you here. And because I tolerate it. But believe me, if it comes down to a choice, he will pick the girls over you.”

“I hope he would.” She refused to point out she never asked for a choice. Picking up the laundry basket, she nodded. Not as regally as Tabitha, maybe. But she did her best.

“Mom,” Irene began. “Mom, she didn't—”

“Sorry, Irene,” Cassie cut in. “I shouldn't have offered the clothes. I hope I didn't cause you too much trouble.”

Tabitha motioned for her to leave, and she did. She thought fleetingly of knocking on Mellie's door to say good-bye, but when Tabitha followed her out, she kept walking until she was through the back door and into her own pool house.

She went through the motions of putting the clothes away, the makeup in its place, the books back on the shelf. Then she did the only thing she could think of.

Picking up the phone, she dialed number one in her contacts.

“Hey, Mom.”

Trey sat in Coach Jordan's office, waiting for his return, cracking his knuckles with the stress.

It was worse than being called down to the principal's office. He had no clue what the man wanted. Usually, if it was football related, he wanted Josiah in with him. Captains together. But he'd been called in solo this time.

He glanced around the office, looking at the photos. He found several of the coach and his wife, a few of the girls, and a couple of the four together. But none of Cassie.

She'd been around Santa Fe for nearly three months, been working with the Bobcats' Nerd Herd for almost two. And the man still had no photos of her in his office. Not one. Intentional? Or just hadn't gotten around to it?

He shouldn't care. It wasn't his business to begin with. And he hadn't missed how, as the season started heating up with exhibition games, in preparation for the first home game of the season on Sunday, Cassie had become a little more distant. Not pushing him away, but less accessible. He knew it was from the stepmother keeping a closer leash on her and the girls. But she made the effort. She still texted him back when he sent her a message, she returned his calls if he left a voicemail. And when she could, she came over to hang out with him.

She'd made lunch for him, Stephen, and Josiah again, and had slipped in easily with his friends. Not intimidated by the three large males who, maybe, cursed a little more than they should in her presence, or who bitched about a sport she didn't really understand. She made her presence known and was able to keep up with the conversation, even steer it in the direction she wanted it to go when she felt the need. And never once did she feel a desire to mention how “cool” it was to be hanging out with them. Or ask for autographs. Or break out her phone to tweet about it.

The anonymous life was suiting him just fine. Except, he wanted to do normal-people date things, too, damn it. Not that he minded staying in and watching a movie, or doing some low-profile activities around the city. He loved showing her around to the more out-of-the-way areas and restaurants. Just driving around and pointing out things. But if he wanted to take her out to a nice dinner, then he should be able to take his girlfriend out.

He ran a hand over his face. This was getting more complicated than he realized.

The door opened and he jolted up from his slouched position. “Hey, Coach.”

He nodded, settling down in his own chair behind the desk. Holding up a finger, he clicked a few times on his laptop. His eyes scanned the screen for a few, his brow scrunched up in what Trey assumed was concentration or thought, then he scowled and closed whatever it was. “Women,” he muttered. “I'm surrounded by women.”

Trey glanced around the office. “Invisible ones?”

Coach huffed a laugh. “Probably why I ended up in this business. God knew I needed some testosterone in my life or I'd go crazy swimming in the estrogen pool at home.”

“Ah.” The wife, the two girls . . . and Cassie. “Is everything okay?”

Fishing. He was definitely fishing. But when they stopped playing Super Spy with their relationship and started stepping out in public, the coach's approval and support was their first line of defense. He needed to know where things stood before bringing it up.

“
Okay.
What a word.” Coach Jordan raked his fingers through his hair, setting a few strands on end. “You can't please everyone, right? Haven't I always said that? Sucks taking your own advice.”

Trey said nothing.

“My wife is annoyed with the hit the charity is taking, I'm annoyed people aren't focusing on the damn field, and Cassie . . .” He shook his head. “Seems to be taking it better than most. But only because she spends most of her time either at the house or here at the office where nobody will bother her. I don't even think she reads the papers or blogs to know what's being said.”

She did. Daily. She also kept up with the social media and had a search alert for her name on Twitter and Facebook. If something was said about her, about the family, or about The Prodigal Daughter—as the media so stupidly coined her—she knew.

And it hurt. It hurt a lot. When they mocked her for running to daddy because adult life was tough—absolute bullshit—she wanted to strangle someone. When they made fun of her younger sisters for being pushed aside in the resulting fall out, she was ready to punch a wall. When they spoke about how she didn't quite fit in with the family, an ostrich in a muster of peacocks,
Trey
was ready to punch a wall.

But she was made of stern stuff, and she'd stiffened her spine to the crap and kept moving on.

Damn, he loved that about her.

A brief knock sounded, then the door opened. “Hey, Coach, I . . . oh.” Cassie froze, halfway through the door. Her hair was in a messy knot at the top of her head, she wore minimal makeup, and a zip-up hoodie lay open over a Bobcats Nerd Herd T-shirt. “Sorry, Frank said you weren't with anyone.”

“Frank!” Coach Jordan bellowed. “Very funny.”

Frank wheezed out a laugh from his computer.

“Cassie, come on in.” Coach waved her in. She stepped, hesitantly, into the office.

“I just had a few memos from the tech area. They wanted to know if you wanted to update your bio on the website to . . .” She coughed a little, glanced his way from the corner of her eyes, then added, “To include me.”

Coach Jordan held out a hand for the folder. She handed it, then stepped back.

He glanced through it. Without looking up, he pointed at Trey, then Cassie. “You two have met, right?”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

More casually, Trey added, “You introduced us at the practice field.”

“Ah,” he said, distracted by the papers. He picked up a pen and scratched something out, scribbled something else in.

Trey glanced at Cassie, whose hands were twisting that band again on her right hand. “You coming to the game on Sunday?”

She startled, as if shocked he'd speak to her in front of her father. He bit the inside of his lip to keep from grinning. “Yes. I'm coming with . . . well. With the Jordans.”

“Coming with your family,” her father rumbled, without looking up.

She nodded. “That.”

“We're playing the Falcons,” Trey said, his voice serious. “I hope you'll be cheering for us.”

“Of course I would. Why wouldn't I . . .” She trailed off, as if connecting the dots. Her eyes narrowed, promising retribution.

He winked, just before Coach Jordan lifted his head and handed her the folder back.

“That should be good. They're not working you too hard, are they?”

“No.” Her eyes lit up. “It's great. Everyone's great.”

“Not scaring you off with weird computer talk?”

“I speak the language,” she reminded him with a smile. “Uh, okay. Well, then I'll just . . .” She walked backward, bumped into the door, then turned around and fled. The door closed quietly behind her.

The coach frowned. “That was odd.”

Trey found it funny, not odd. It was all he could do to keep from laughing.

Looking at him, Coach Jordan's mouth pulled tight. “I'm hoping she doesn't have a crush on you.”

That made him blink. “Huh?”

“I think she's smarter than to start acting like a star-struck groupie.” He pinned Trey with a steely glare, the one that made rookies piss their jockstraps in fear. “But just in case, don't take advantage of it.”

“Right. No taking advantage.” He'd let her do all the advantage-taking . . .

Josiah burst through the door, tossing a backpack on the floor and slamming into the seat next to Trey. His forehead was beaded with sweat. “Sorry, traffic sucked.”

“Tell me you didn't bike here in this heat,” Trey said.

“Then I won't.” Josiah and his crusade to single-handedly change the environment was a running joke. Everyone expected the country-bred boy to drive a big, dusty pickup truck. In reality, he peddled wherever he could and thought gas-guzzling trucks should be illegal.

Trey started to say something else, then stopped. If Josiah was here, then that meant it was a team issue after all. Which meant he was in the clear.

He barely resisted the urge to sigh in relief, then forced his mind to focus on the meeting about Sunday's game.

* * *

“Why aren't we wearing Bobcat shirts?” Cassie looked down at the trim tan suit and blue camisole Tabitha had picked for her to wear to the first home game. It was a cool summer pantsuit, making the heat a little less unbearable, and some simple beige heels. But she'd still rather be in a pair of shorts, a tank, and some flip-flops. “Isn't that the point? You show up in a T-shirt and face paint and wave one of those stupid foam fingers Miley Cyrus likes to—”

Tabitha's gaze cut her off.

“No foam finger,” she said weakly.

“You are wearing Bobcat colors,” her stepmother said primly. She walked over and pinned something to Cassie's lapel. “There.”

Glancing down, Cassie saw the outline of a Bobcat in sparkling jewels. “So . . . this is it?”

Ignoring the obviously stupid question, Tabitha clapped her hands. “Girls. The car will be here in five minutes. Come down now for inspection.”

She should have Captain von Trapp's whistle. Then she would never have to raise her voice.

Mellie bounded down the stairs, slowing down only on the last few before reaching the bottom. Irene followed at a more sedate pace, avoiding Cassie's gaze altogether. She'd been ignoring Cassie for the last two weeks, since Laundry Basket Gate, as Cassie mentally referred to it.

Mellie came to hook an arm with her. While Tabitha fussed with the shirt under Irene's short- sleeved jacket, her youngest sister leaned in and whispered, “I miss you.”

Cassie squeezed their arms together. “I miss you, too. Movie date sometime soon, okay?”

She nodded just before Tabitha walked in. “Your father won't be meeting us at the arena—” she began.

“Mom.” Irene cut her off. “We've been doing this since we were babies. We know the drill.”

“But Cassandra does not.” In a tighter voice, an equally stiff smile on her face, Tabitha continued. “We will be escorted to the top box, where we will sit quietly with the other coaches' families and watch the game. Please do not cause a scene. Clapping is encouraged, however.”

Oh, goodie. Clapping.

She nodded her understanding, then followed them out to the car. She'd received a text from Trey early that morning saying he was heading in, and there'd be no chance to talk until late that night. She'd at least had the opportunity to text him good luck, but that was all.

The short limo pulled up the circular drive and parked. A uniformed driver stepped out and walked around to open the back.

Style. If you had to go to a football game—and the only way Cassie was going was because she had to—might as well go in style.

Mellie slid in first, then Irene. But as Cassie went to follow, Tabitha grabbed her elbow and pulled her several feet away.

“You will not embarrass me or the girls today,” she hissed.

“Yeah, okay.” She shrugged her shoulder, but Tabitha didn't let go. “Yes, fine. Despite your beliefs, I have no intentions of embarrassing you, or my sisters, or myself today.”

Whether she believed that or not, Tabitha let her go. Cassie bit her tongue against saying something truly nasty. But subtly sarcastic, she could do. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

In her stepmother's eyes, she saw something besides resentment. She saw fear, and maybe a little anger. But mostly, fear. She was operating under the “strike first” mentality.

However much Cassie disliked her methods, Tabitha was concerned for her daughters.

It almost choked her to swallow the sarcasm, but she managed, and gave Tabitha a practiced smile of her own. “Let's go watch a football match.”

“Game,” Tabitha corrected, then guided her back to the car.

* * *

Trey's head was swimming. That might be partly due to the fact that it was hanging off the side of his bed, so all the blood was rushing to his brain. But mostly, it had something to do with the woman draped over his torso.

Cassie slapped a hand on his thigh. The loud smack of palm against flesh cracked in the quiet room. “That was quite a game you played.”

“Thanks, I enjoyed your competitive spirit, too. Especially when you did that thing with your hips.”

She laughed and dodged his hands. “Not
that
game, you perv. I meant football. You know, the thing you get paid to do.”

“Right, that.” He pulled her down to rest on his shoulder, angling his body a little so his head wasn't falling off the mattress anymore. “What'd you think of your first NFL game?”

“It was interesting.” She was quiet for a moment. “I thought it'd be all loud cheering and face paint and excitement. But the box was very quiet. I felt weird even clapping after you and Josiah had one of your . . . things.”

“Things?” He bit his cheek to keep from grinning.

She lifted her left hand, mimed throwing the ball. “Things where you . . . and then he . . .” She used her fingers to run across his chest. “Into the field zone.”

“End zone.”

“Whatever.”

“Completed pass for a touchdown.”

She threw her hand up in frustration. “That.”

“It's a little stuffy up there. Businessmen and all that. The general population's more rowdy, which can be good or bad, depending on what you want out of the game.”

“Mellie would rather be out there with war paint on, I'm sure. Irene and Tabitha looked comfortable enough in there with finger foods and cool beverages available.” She shifted and rolled over his chest. “So, Trey Owens, you've just won your first home match—”