The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) (9 page)

The doctor was right. This kind of pain made him avoid moving in certain ways, and that limited his options. Not to mention that the press was allowed to come to the Thursday practice. Some of those reporters had been around football players longer than Luke had been alive. They could spot an injury a mile away. Better to admit he was taking time off after D’Olaway’s hit than to have the newshounds speculate he was covering up something more serious.

Not that he would stay away from the Empire Center. He could watch film and work on the new plays Junius wanted to institute with his teammates.

“You’ve convinced me, Doc,” Luke said. “I’ll take a couple of days off.”

“A couple is better than nothing.” Cavill grinned, which made him look younger. “I don’t think I had anything to do with your decision, though.”

“How do I take care of payment?” Luke asked.

“The paperwork goes to Miranda, and you pay her,” Cavill explained. “Another layer of discretion.”

And she would add her commission. That’s how it worked with concierges. Luke didn’t begrudge her the payment. She’d saved him from a lot of official crap that the league required team doctors to go through when a player was injured. All he had to do now was have a chat with Junius and tell the reporters he had some bruising from the tackle.

He thought of the twinge in his shoulder. If it happened again, he was coming back to see Cavill.

In the limo, he and Stan worked out their strategy for Farrell. Stan was going to call the head coach and express his concern about Luke’s condition, without mention of the visit to Dr. Cavill. He would advise Farrell to convince his quarterback to take some time off. Farrell would call Luke to tell him he needed to rest. Luke would object before agreeing. That way the head coach would credit himself with persuading Luke to let the bruising heal.

The limo pulled up at the Pinnacle’s private entrance. Luke ducked out of the car, which headed on to New Jersey to drop Stan off. As Luke stepped into the elevator to his penthouse, he dialed Miranda’s number.

“Miranda Tate. How may I help you?” she answered.

There was something about her voice. It poured smooth and rich out of the phone, like heavy cream, and made him picture the perfect, pillowy curve of her lips.

“It’s Luke Archer. I wanted to thank you for setting me up with Dr. Cavill. He’s a great guy.”

“I’m glad you were pleased with his service.” That was her professional response. Her tone changed to a more personal one when she asked, “Are you all right? Or is that top secret?”

“No cracks, no breaks. Just bruising. It’ll heal quickly.” That was
his
professional answer. He added, “Here’s the secret part—I’m taking a few days off to speed up the process.”

The elevator door opened into his entrance hall, and he wedged his foot against it to keep it that way.

“That sounds wise. If you need anything while you’re resting, let me know.” With ringing sincerity, she added, “Thank you again for a truly memorable day.”

He wanted to have done something real to earn her gratitude. “You’re welcome. And that’s the last word on it.”

“If you say so.” He heard amusement in her tone, and then she disconnected.

He stepped out of the elevator and walked into the living room. Trevor was sprawled on the couch in front of the flat-screen television, his bare feet propped on the glass top of the coffee table. Beside his feet sat a bottle of Gran Patrón tequila, a dish of salt, a plate of limes, and two shot glasses, one of which held a few drops of clear liquid.

Trevor pointed the remote at the set, muting the sound before he turned to his brother. “You were quite the hero in the last minutes of the game, bro. Such poise and precision. But then, you’re the Iceman. Nothing shakes you out of your cleats.” He leaned forward to pick up the bottle of tequila, filling both glasses. “We should celebrate your win.”

Anger spilled through Luke so fast and hot that it shocked him. He swallowed it back down. “Thanks, Trev, but you know I don’t drink during the season.”

His brother gave him a look of exaggerated surprise. “You were pretty loaded on Monday night, so I thought you’d loosened up on that rule.”

The anger simmered. “That was a mistake.” In more ways than one.

“So you can drink with two strangers, but not with your brother. The hell with you.” Trevor pinched up some salt to sprinkle on the back of his hand. He licked the salt off and tossed back the tequila, finishing up by sucking on a wedge of lime. He slammed the shot glass onto the table so hard that Luke thought it would break. Miraculously, both table and glass stayed intact.

Luke combed his fingers through his hair as guilt pricked at him. “How about we take the party out to the fire pit?”

The guilt jabbed even harder when Trevor’s face lit up. “Now, that’s more like it. You gotta celebrate the good times in life.” Luke could hear the slurring in his brother’s voice now. He checked the level of the tequila and figured his brother had had several shots already. Luke needed to get some food into him.

“But you can’t drink tequila without salsa and chips. And maybe some quesadillas.” Luke headed for the kitchen. His housekeeper made fresh salsa for him, and he could throw together chicken and cheese on a whole wheat tortilla.

Trevor followed him, bouncing off the door frame into the kitchen before he plunked down at the table. “You know, there were two
SI
swimsuit models in the box with us,” Trevor said. “Man, their legs just go on forever.”

Luke winced as he rummaged around in the refrigerator. He hadn’t known who else had tickets for the box he’d put Trevor in. He should have been more careful after the incident on Monday, but his brother had never been such a letch before. “Yeah,” he said, setting out quesadilla ingredients. “They’re paid to have long legs.”

“Probably paid by the inch,” Trevor said, snorting out a laugh. “You ever dated one of them?”

“Once or twice, maybe.” In those heady early days of fame, he’d dated actresses, models, and the daughters of very rich men. None of them had interested him as much as football.

“That’s as often as you date anyone,” Trevor pointed out. “Once or twice. Have you ever made it to three times?”

“Not in a while.” Luke shrugged. “I have other things to focus on.”

“And I don’t?” Trevor’s tone was bitter.

“You’re married, Trev. You found the right woman.”

“Sometimes I’m not so sure.” Trevor stared down at the shot glass in his hand.

“What’s going—” Luke’s cell phone rang. He dropped the cheese grater and pulled out his phone. It was the head coach. “Damn, I’ve got to take this. Be back in a few.”

He swiped “Answer” and walked toward his office. “Hey, Junius.”

“Stan called.” Junius’s voice was brusque. “He says you got more banged up by Rodney D’Olaway than you let on.”

“It stiffened up on me.” Luke kept his tone easy. “It’s just bruising, though. I got it looked at.”

“I want you to give it a rest so you can heal faster.”

Now Luke had to read from the script. It was easy, because he’d said the same things before when he meant them. “I’ll heal fine without any rest.”

“You’re taking the week off, including the game.”

Shock ripped through Luke like a barbed wire fence. “No way, Junius. It’s a bruise. I’ve played with worse.” He was no longer faking his objection.

“When you were younger and less valuable. I can’t afford to have you get seriously injured because you’ve been slowed down by this one.”

Well, at least Junius had called him valuable. But old.

The coach continued. “We’re playing the worst team in the conference, so it’s a good time to give Brandon some game experience.”

It was hard to argue with either point. Brandon Pitch was the backup quarterback—a young, talented, but inconsistent player whom they’d drafted in the second round a year ago. He needed some game exposure. It might settle him down.

Luke cursed mentally. “It’s your call, Coach, but I’m capable of playing right now. How about I take two days to rest and practice on Wednesday?”

“Luke, we have a chance at the Super Bowl, and I’m not going to risk it by playing you against a crap team when you’re hurt. I don’t want to see you on the field or in the weight room for a week.”

“Yes, sir.” Luke heard the note of finality in Junius’s voice. In fact, he found it in himself to admire the new coach for overriding him. “What are we going to tell the press?”

“That I’m resting my star and giving my rookie some seasoning. The reporters will fill in the blanks about what team I’m playing my rookie against. They won’t suspect anything else, especially after your postgame appearance today. No one guessed you were hurt.” There was disapproval in the statement.

“Because it’s not serious.”

Junius hung up.

Luke walked into the living room, picked up the full shot glass, and tossed back the tequila before he threw the glass into the fireplace. It shattered with a satisfying explosion of glass shards.

“Holy shit, what was that?” Trevor came to the kitchen door and stared at his brother.

“I’ve been benched.”

Chapter 7

At six thirty Monday evening, Miranda slumped back in her desk chair, thankful for a lull in her noon-to-ten shift. Mondays were always busy because everyone woke up and decided they needed to get their week planned. It generally took them until noon to figure out what they wanted to do, and that’s when the phone started ringing. She loved this shift, because she only overlapped with Orin for a few hours, and it was lucrative when it came to commissions and tips. All money that could be put toward the loan on her brother’s cheese-making equipment.

But it was exhausting. She grabbed her water bottle and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls. She still had to get theater tickets and some dinner reservations for next weekend, but those could be taken care of later when the phone was less demanding.

She groaned as the ringer went off again. She couldn’t even pretend to be busy and let someone else pick it up, because it was coming through on her direct line. Sitting forward, she checked the caller ID.
Luke Archer.
She grabbed the phone.

“I thought I told you no more thank-yous,” he drawled in that disarming Texas accent.

She had sent him a note as soon as she got in that day. “My conscience wouldn’t rest until I’d written a proper note.” And she’d hoped it would induce one last encounter with the gut-meltingly gorgeous quarterback. Even his voice on the phone was enough to make her breath quicken.

“A conscience can be inconvenient.” He paused, which gave her time to wonder which part of his life he referred to. “But I don’t get a lot of handwritten letters, so I appreciated it.”

Again, she felt the fizz of gratification. She’d given something unusual to a living legend. And it was such a little thing. “Then it has done its job.”

Another pause before he said, “I want to take a tour of New York. Tomorrow. See some cultural stuff.”

All these years of living in the city and he hadn’t had time to see the sights? Football was a demanding mistress.

“Of course. Are you interested in art, performances, or historical landmarks?” She was already flipping through her mental guidebook.

“Not landmarks. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. How about museums?” He sounded oddly tentative.

“Absolutely. I can set up lunch and dinner and add a show of some kind. Just let me know how many people will be accompanying you.”

“Only one.”

“Any food allergies or ethnic cuisine preferences?” Miranda had her stylus poised over her tablet.

“I’ll eat anything. How about you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I need a tour guide, and I’d like to hire you.”

The stylus clattered onto the tablet’s screen. “Me?” she squeaked as a mixture of shock and excitement rippled through her.

“I’d like you to show me the things I’ve never had time to see before.”

“But I have to work tomorrow.” She tried to think of how she could get out of it. Turning down a whole day with Luke Archer would be downright painful.

“I’ll call Spindle and tell him I consider this part of your job as a concierge. And I’ll give him VIP box tickets this time.”

“I’d have to get someone to cover for me.”

“Let your boss deal with that. It’s his responsibility.”

That was a little high-handed, but he wasn’t wrong. She went back into her professional concierge mode. “Well, of course, I’d be happy to accommodate you, as long as Orin approves it. Shall I send you a list of possibilities to choose from?”

“No, surprise me.”

That didn’t make her job easier. “Shall I arrange transportation?”

“I have a limo. What time do we start?”

“Generally, museums open at ten.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Miranda hung up. The most famous quarterback in the world had chosen
her
to show him New York City. She wanted to do a jig around her office. Instead, she forced herself to sit with her hands on her desk and breathe normally.

This was nothing more than a client availing himself of the concierge service. She shouldn’t feel this bubbling elation, and she certainly couldn’t let Luke Archer suspect that his request made anticipation burn through her veins.

She forced herself to pick up her tablet and stylus, and then the nerves hit her. What on earth would a superstar quarterback want to see?

As Luke started to shove his phone back in his pocket, it rang again. Gavin Miller’s name appeared on the screen. Luke frowned at it for a moment. His mood had shifted from restless to anticipatory, and he didn’t want to screw with that.

But he might as well find out what the writer wanted.

“Archer, I hear that hit knocked the stuffing out of you.”

“Just some bruising. Nothing serious.”

“Is that why you’re sitting on the sideline for Sunday’s game? Some bruising?” Miller sounded skeptical.

Luke clamped down on his annoyance. “Coach wants to give Pitch some real game seasoning.”

“I thought I’d check in on your progress with our little wager.”

Leave it to Miller to use every possible irritant. “No progress. I have a football season to get through first.”

“Let’s see, if you make it to the Super Bowl, you’ll have used up roughly four of your twelve months. You’re a confident man.”

“I don’t like to split my focus.”

“All football, all the time, eh?” Miller chuckled. “You must be a dull date. Except perhaps for a cheerleader.”

The writer knew where to aim. “I can talk horses and cattle, too.”

“So you’re looking for a country gal. That would go with the white picket fence and the sons. No, I remember now . . . you want daughters.”

“I want to be left in peace is what I want,” Luke snapped.

“Well, since we’re talking nothing but football, should I bet on the Empire to go all the way?”

That was familiar territory. “You’re big into gambling.”

“A little risk keeps life interesting.”

Luke decided to dish out some of what Miller was giving him. “How’s the writer’s block?”

There was a tense silence before the other man said, “It’s breaking my back, boyo. It’s strangling my spirit.”

While Luke didn’t understand writer’s block, he knew how he was feeling about being benched, so he cut Miller some slack. “Sorry to hear that.”

“By the way, I think Trainor is ahead of us. He’s already showing signs of being frustrated by a woman.”

For a moment, Luke’s competitive streak reared its head, giving him a shot of negative adrenaline at the thought of being beaten by the CEO. “Sounds like he already had a draft pick in mind.”

“I don’t believe so. At the Bellwether Club, he seemed like a man who was disillusioned with the entire fair sex.”

That reminded Luke of what was required to win the wager, and he decided he was well out of it for the time being. “I wish him luck.”

“Speaking of luck, what’s your answer about your team’s chances for the Super Bowl?”

“We’re going all the way.”

Miller made an exasperated sound. “Dispense with the sports clichés and give me a real answer.”

“I. Just. Did.” Luke put steel into his voice.

Miller whistled softly. “I’ll be placing my money on you for the win, then.”

The writer hung up, and Luke tossed the phone onto the sofa, grimacing as the careless motion sent pain slicing through his side. Miller had turned his mood sour with the crack about being a dull date. No one had ever complained, but Luke didn’t kid himself about what most women wanted from him. It wasn’t sparkling conversation.

His expedition tomorrow was aimed at more than just getting his mind off the fact that he couldn’t play football for the next week. He was tired of having people like Trevor and Miller make him feel uneducated. He could learn culture the same way he had learned football.

Spending the day listening to Miranda Tate’s silky smooth voice talk about whatever she would be talking about seemed like a pleasant way to ease into the project. He pictured her curvy body next to him on the leather seat of the limo and again felt a flash of arousal. Nothing wrong with having that bonus to add interest to the tour.

And she would keep his secret if he revealed his ignorance about whatever paintings she showed him.

The prospect of Miranda’s company put a smile on his face. He walked back out onto the terrace, where his brother sat by the fire pit, drinking a beer.

“Thank God,” Trevor said.

“What?”

“The smile is a major improvement. You’ve been as pissed off as a castrated bull since you got benched.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t remind me about that if you want me to keep smiling.” Luke lowered himself into an armchair. If he was careful, the bruises did nothing more than twinge.

“So why are you smiling?”

“I found something to do tomorrow.”

“Hey, I’m sorry I set up my meetings for tomorrow,” Trevor said. “If I’d known . . .” He trailed off.

He
had
known. Tuesdays were Luke’s day off. And neither one of them had expected Luke to have every day this week off.

“It’s okay, Trev.” Luke leaned forward to grab his water bottle, and agony wrapped around his rib cage. “Oof!”

“Still sore?” Trevor asked. “Have a beer for medicinal purposes.”

“I’d need something stronger than beer.”

“There’s always tequila.” Trevor grinned. “You used to put that away like a champ.”

“If you get up and get it, I’m in,” Luke said.

Since he was forced to take the week off, he might as well take advantage of it.