The 90 Day Rule (5 page)

Taking my hand, he did the thing with the thumb, but even more slowly this time, as his eyes raked me with a hard darkness I couldn’t begin to interpret.

Whatever was going through his mind was cascading up my nerve endings, leaving long unused muscle groups to clutch spasmodically.

Someone said something, someone else responded, words registering at a level of perception that had nothing to do with the total sensory immersion the man’s sure touch commanded.

“Are you ready?”

That was Jack. Asking more than one question. I might be naïve … but I read. And there was way more to that than
are you ready to go to dinner
,
are you ready to talk about your future
? The subtext was clear and concise:
are you ready for me to fuck you senseless?

Heart stutter-stepping in a near panic I managed to say, “Yes … yes, I am.”

Chapter Four: The Deep End of the Court

I managed to negotiate three flights down without breaking an ankle. Jack Ryan hovered solicitously without interfering, a pretty good feat given neither one of us qualified as petite. He held the door open and guided me through without making me feel like an invalid or entitled. I suspected his momma done raised him right.

Hanging with Chazz reminded me of the accents from my days on the team, all of us trash talkin’ and outdoing each other on the incomprehensible language scale. As a Pittsburgh native I had the local patois down cold, the cricks and the soda pops and redding up and dropping infinitives right and left.

“I’m parked in the lot down by the bookstore. Forgot it’s Saturday.”

Nodding agreement, I followed slightly behind the man as we headed down the hill to East College Avenue, admiring the view. Like me he’d gone casual with jeans and a deep blue golf shirt with the Nittany Lion logo on the pocket, worn loose in deference to the heat that boiled off the sidewalks. Scuffed cowboy boots that might have once been a shiny black finished off the outfit.

That end of town had changed. Gone was the hole-in-the-wall pizza joint that had been a part of the town for almost fifty years. I asked Jack if they’d gone out of business.

“Nah, they just moved up North Atherton. Fancier place that what you might remember.” He smiled and asked, “Do you want to go there?”

Shrugging, I said, “I’m easy,” and nearly choked on the words. His eyes crinkled with mirth but he plowed on, directing me to another joint, this one clearly take-out.

“I thought maybe we’d take it back to my place. Easier to talk.”

“Uh, sure. That would be nice.” It would be. The town was awash with fresh young faces, the influx for the start of fall semester in full swing and the noise level outside and in reflected that exuberance.  

“What do you like?”

“Not anchovies.”

“Do you mind extra cheese and meat?”

Staring at his broad shoulders straining the knit shirt had me agreeing with an ‘um’. After placing the order, we retired to a less raucous corner and waited quietly until the bell dinged and our order was up.

“I’ve got beer at home.”

“Huh?”

“You said you liked beer with your pizza.” His brow creased with worry that he might have misunderstood.

“Oh, uh, yeah, no … I do.” Cripes, shoot me, now.

 Blindly I followed behind him until we stopped at a large pickup truck that he chirped open. It was one of those monster models with the double cab or whatever they called it. In any case it looked big enough to accommodate all the starters plus a team manager or two.

Jack shoved the pizza box onto the rear seat and indicated I should—his words—
hop up
into the passenger side seat.

Biting my lip I surveyed my options. Ladder, no. Folding stool? No. Running boards, we don’ need no stinkin’ running boards.

The jeans were brand new, stiff as a board, and I let that thought hover while I pondered next steps, literally and figuratively.

“Just grab that there handle,” he pointed to a leather-covered U-shaped object alongside the edge of the door. Another, similar device sat on the dashboard. “I’ll help…”

“No, I’m fine.”

I can do this. I can.

Mr. Helpful locked onto my waist and hoisted me with barely a grunt while I hauled, using long atrophied upper body strength. His palms burned an indelible imprint through the thin nylon fabric, letting his left hand brush down the length of my denim-clad hip as he pulled the safety belt and leaned across my lap to settle the snap into its slot.

Inhaling deeply, I nearly swooned. The man smelled so … good. Natural. Warm. Like after a spring rain. Clean.

He looked at me curiously.

“Um, it smells really good.” He moved the cross belt to a comfortable position across my … oh my dear sweet lord. “The p-p-pizza.”

“We’ll have to warm it up.”

“Warm it up?”

“Yeah, I live about eight miles away.”

Oh.

He drove at a sedate pace along back roads, heading east into the country. I’d never had much chance to explore the surrounding area, school and practice and travel keeping me tethered to campus and the squad. Jack explained the history of the area and the Amish traditions. I was surprised at how much he knew about Happy Valley and its environs.

“How long have you lived in this area, Jack?”

“Coming maybe … twelve, thirteen years. Did my time in the navy, then at VATech for a coupla years. Got the invite and a chance at a Big Ten post. Not something a young man from the back of beyond turns down.”

I did the numbers game, tallying up years here and there, added twelve and came out with maybe forty or forty-five tops. He looked younger than that, his hair still sandy brown with no hint of grey.

We pulled into a narrow driveway that ran back through a section of woods to a single story frame house. It was small but tidy, the yard free of debris but there was no landscaping to speak of. Jack parked the truck under an overhang and jumped out to help me down. Reversing the procedure he again grasped me by the waist and eased me onto the ground with exaggerated care, the distance between us so miniscule that I felt the heat pouring off his chest and him branding me with those clever thumbs.

The thin fabric of my blouse seemed a huge barrier to what I wanted, what I needed. To feel those rough hands on skin,
my
skin. A chill wash of longing sped up and down my spine, the shiver involuntary.

He had to know. He had to.

“I’ll, uh, get the, uh…”

Whispering, “Pizza,” I moved away so he could open the small door to access the back seat. With two hands engaged he flipped his head toward the front door. “It’s open, go on in.”

“Open? You don’t lock it?”

“Darlin’, I’m from the country. I ain’t got nothin’ worth stealing here, ’cept the cats and ya gotta catch ’em first.”

Holding the door so he could get through with the oversized box allowed me another vicarious brush with his chest. Our arrival was greeted with feline complaints from three of the biggest cats I’d ever seen.

“Let me crank the A/C up. Got a little hotter today than they called for. I don’t like to leave my boys here without the comforts of home.”

Jack set the box on the kitchen counter and disappeared down a hall to the left, I assumed it led back to the bedrooms. That gave me a few moments to be a voyeur. The space was surprisingly tidy, almost as if it wasn’t lived in. Of course, with his schedule—practices, games, travel—he might not be around much to make the mess you’d expect a single guy…

Oh crap. He was married. Or he had a live-in.

So much for those sexy, hard, smoky blue eyes. And those amazing thumbs. And the way he leaned in, close … interested.

Deflated, I flopped onto the sofa and waited. It didn’t take long. The grey long-haired presented himself first, then the tuxedo and finely a brownish striped short-hair. Wriggling my fingers elicited mild interest and no small measure of disdain.

I loved cats but Robert was allergic so we never had animals. I always thought it made a house less a home without them.

“That’s Reggie, the one kneading your, um, thigh.” I scooted back against the cushions, giving Reggie more real estate. “Max is the black and white, Ozzie’s the tiger-stripe.”

Apparently neither Ozzie or Max were impressed. They wandered away to tend to affairs of state while Reggie ensconced himself solidly on my lap.

“Big boy.” I was happy to have a safe topic to discuss. It took my mind off the man’s relationship status. Unfortunately it did
not
take my mind off the man.

“Yeah, last time he was to the vet’s he weighed in at sixteen pounds and change.”

I laughed, “And it’s all muscle and hair, I suppose?”

“Ya got that right.” He motioned to the sliding glass door at the rear of the living room. “I was going to suggest we eat outside but it’s kinda hot still. Once the A/C gets going, it’ll be nice enough inside. Do you mind?” He wandered off toward the kitchen.

“Can I help?”

“No, you jes sit, darlin’. You’ve got a job. It’s not for me to interfere.”

We chatted about pets while Jack set out paper plates, silverware and mugs for the beer.

“With it being so hot, I don’t think we’ll need to nuke the slices. You okay with that?” he slid next to me, so close Mr Reggie’s poofy tail wouldn’t fit between the gap.

Ignoring the plates, Jack pulled the box onto his lap and handed me a slice. We ate in companionable silence for a while until he exclaimed, “Oh shit, I forgot the beers. Be right back.”

Reggie grumbled, adjusted his spine, then decided visiting hours were over. Jack returned with frosted mugs and two bottles of beer.

“Hope you like Stella.”

“Um, never had it,” I took a sip and licked my upper lip. “This is go—” Jack was staring, transfixed, at my mouth.

Damn.

Then the light switch clicked and he scurried away, opening up a Grand Canyon’s worth of space between us.

Double damn.

Oh yeah. Wife. Remember the maybe mystery wife.

Stretching impossibly long legs on the worn coffee table, Jack launched into the sales portion of the evening. It made little sense why or how he’d be all that concerned about a middle-aged woman looking to re-invent her life. Surely the world was filled to the brim with twenty-somethings, lean of build and perky, who would make better candidates than someone with no job resume or life skills.

Other than a brief foray into assault and battery.

And look how well that went.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Uh, nothing, just thinking out loud.”

“So, Jes…” Yay! He used my name for the first time that evening, the Ma’am and Miz always on the tip of but not quite making it into my air space. “We have a spot open for a TA with one of our assistant coaches who also does double duty with the intramural squads. It would require twenty hours a week and pays a small stipend in addition to tuition…”

Basically my brain shut down at that point. Without the burden of tuition, I could afford to stretch my windfall over the two to three years necessary to complete the degree. After that, the sky was the limit, either in the academic or professional ranks.

Martin Luther King’s speech echoed in my head … I had a dream, a real dream. I could be the person I always wanted to be, not an accessory to an ego, a brainless vapid whore to an American Dream that had failed me at every turn.

I had a strong urge to kiss the man but decided that clenching my thighs together as tight as they’d go would be a reasonable alternative. The stiff seam made for a ridge along the length of the crotch. The urge to swivel my hips was almost overwhelming.

An urge that Jack Ryan, ole eagle eye, didn’t fail to notice. His head was bent at an angle but the quirk to his lips was unmistakable. He moved a hair’s breadth closer. I stopped breathing. Not long enough to turn blue, thank God.

And then the Republican Conservative cynic reared her ugly head.

“Mr. Ryan.” Prim, proper, legs still clenched in a vise grip, I decided to find out exactly how much this man knew about me, my situation, and why it mattered a rat’s ass to him.

I had a clue and the name of that clue was Tonia McMahon did it in the Boardroom with a very large donation to the Athletic Scholarship Fund.

I said as much. He didn’t deny it.

Man-whore.

Oh, so what. Grow up. He’s married. Or involved. Or something. If he wants to prostitute his position in the service of the greater good, so be it. At least some kid from the ghetto would get a chance at an education.

Big picture, woman. Don’t look at a gift horse…

Of course, that’s exactly what I did.

And he was rubbing his chin mindlessly, trying to follow whatever emotions flitted across my face. Everyone said I was an open book. Well, Mr. Nosy had just poked the bee hive. From the look on his face, he had to know the jig was up, that I was onto their little charade. And he obviously had been tasked to see to my compliance … or else. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out.