Winner Takes All (18 page)

If you want to keep your winning record, just play the Bobcats.

Blake would be damned if that tradition would continue. Not on his watch. He'd always been a winner and nothing had changed.

He found Annabelle outside in the hall, talking to a couple of rally girls who'd brought gifts and food for their players.

“Everything okay?” she asked when she stopped in front of him.

No, it wasn't okay. He should be focusing on tonight's game and all he could think about was Annabelle wearing his shirts.

“I had to bench Corey for his grades,” he told her.

“Yikes,” she replied. She looked over his shoulder, as though searching for the kid. “Poor Corey.”

“Yeah, that's rough,” he said.

She shifted her attention back to him, those bright green eyes of hers seeing way too much. “You feel for him, don't you?”

He gazed down at her, wondering how she did it. “I know what it's like to have the rug yanked out from under you.”

“That's why you're good for them,” she told him. “Because it's more than just a game to you.”

He hadn't thought about it that way, but he supposed she was right.

“How's the knee?” she asked.

“Sore,” he answered, giving his knee a few testing movements.

“That usually happens after your first session because we work on muscles you haven't been using. It'll get better.”

Damn, why did she have to care so much? How did she know he'd be back for more? Was it a mere assumption or could she see through him as well as he could see through her?

If that was the case, he was screwed.

“So…” She dragged the word out, and then wiggled her brows. “I'm just waiting for you to say it.”

He leaned against the wall, using the movement to crowd her. Behind him, his team was preparing for the game and he should be with them. But at that moment, the only place he wanted to be was as close to Annabelle Turner as possible.

“Say what?” he wanted to know. “How much you want to get in my pants?”

Her green eyes narrowed. “I should smack you for that.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “But you won't.”

“Don't be so sure of yourself,” she warned. “I was talking about you telling me how right I was.”

His brow arched. “About?”

She leaned closer to him and whispered, “About me being able to help you.”

He nodded. “Oh, that. Here I thought you wanted to talk about my hot body.”

That had her chuckling, which danced over his skin as smoothly and delicately as her fingers. “Always so cocky. I don't know why I give you the time of day.”

“Because you can't help yourself,” he told her.

She bobbed her head from side to side. “Could be. I also meant what I said about wanting to help you. I don't want you to hurt anymore.”

“I hurt all the time, Annabelle.” And not just from his knee.

She leaned closer and cupped his cheek with her delicate, cool palm. Her skin was so much softer than his, smoothing over the rough stubble on his jaw. “Poor wounded football star.”

“I'm not a star anymore,” he corrected.

“You are to them,” she argued, nodding her head toward the players. “Just remember that and you can't fail.”

When he opened his mouth to argue, to tell her how wrong she was, she lowered her hand over his chest, right above his beating heart. Which thudded wildly like the thing was on crack cocaine. Hell, to him she was crack cocaine.

“I don't mean with winning games. I mean in here.” She accentuated her words with a firm tap of her palm, matching the thumping of his heart. “You don't see how those kids look at you. You give them hope. In there”—she nodded toward the locker room—“you're not the washed up football player you think you are. They see a man who believes in them and has put more effort into this team than anyone else has. To them, they've already won.”

Blake shook his head, not knowing how to process her words, thinking he didn't deserve them. For so long he'd listened to what the country said about him. Cheater. Liar. Fraud. Sticks and stones and all that.

“Annabelle,” he said to her, his voice coming out gravelly. He lowered his forehead to hers, suddenly needing her strength and confidence.

She cupped both his cheeks in her palms. “You don't give yourself enough credit.” Then she pressed her cool lips to his, lingered for a moment, but not nearly long enough.

Then she was gone. Sauntering down the hallway toward the field and leaving him wondering how she'd managed to make him feel alive and vulnerable and human. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.

He wasn't sure if he should pursue it—pursue her—or run in the other direction.

Annabelle opened her studio the next morning, steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

“Want to grab some coffee?” a deep voice said from behind her.

Startled, Annabelle spun around, barely managing to keep her drink from sloshing over the rim. There stood Blake, tall and imposing and so damn hot he was practically on fire. Which would match the fire burning in her loins at the moment.

“Never mind,” he told her with a smirk. “I can see you already have some.”

She wagged a finger at him. “You're not getting out of this.” Then she gestured toward the exercise equipment. “Sit.”

His lips twitched. “Yes, Mom.”

She set her coffee down at the reception desk and admired his super-fine ass in this worn blue jeans. And,
damn
, the man filled out a pair of 501s like nobody's business. “Don't give me that tone,” she chastised. “It was your idea to come here this morning.”

He took a step closer, towering over her and filling her personal space with his heat and images of tangled limbs. “Just so I could do this.” Then his arm wound around her waist and yanked her closer.

She jerked forward, unprepared for the feel of his hardness and the way his thighs cradled hers. “Blake,” she murmured while bracing her hands against his chest, more to feel him than to gain her balance.

“Yeah,” he whispered against her lips.

“What're you doing?”

His nose nuzzled hers. “If you haven't figured it out, then I'm doing it wrong.”

Without thinking, because rational thought always abandoned her when he was around, her arms went around his neck. “Is this why you really wanted to come this morning?”

“I always knew you were perceptive,” he said against her ear.

Her eyes dropped closed, because what else was she supposed to do when his fingers were creeping underneath the hem of her shirt? Or flicking his tongue over her earlobe?

“You don't need to schedule an appointment with me for this,” she pointed out. “You could just…”

He drew back and looked at her. “Just…what? Just show up at your house for a quickie? Or maybe grab you during practice and shove you in a utility closet? Because that would sound like something casual, which you say you don't do.”

She blinked at him because he was right. Wasn't he? No, he was correct. She didn't want a casual fling, no matter how tempting it was with him. She'd lose her heart and he'd walk away, leaving her to pick up the pieces of another relationship.

On the other hand, this felt so damn right. Having him yank her into his arms like she belonged there. As though he couldn't stand to go another minute without touching her.

“You're right, I don't.” She unwrapped herself from him reluctantly and stepped back. “So you can't be doing stuff like that anymore.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to sit there and tell me you didn't like it?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.” Biggest lie ever.

He took a seat at the machine, bending his leg and readying himself for his exercises. “You ready?” he asked her with a glance at his watch. “I've got stuff to do today.”

Speechless, because he always had that effect on her, Annabelle stood in the middle of the room and eyed his relaxed pose. Arms draped casually at his sides. Head leaned back. One side of his mouth curled in a smirk that made her panties want to spontaneously combust.

She ignored the flutters in her belly and approached the machine.

Yeah, the man was good. Too good. And yeah, a fling with him would be out of this world. But she had to control herself. For the sake of her heart, which had taken too many beatings in the past.

She cleared her throat as she reached his side and got a whiff of the good stuff he always had on. She had no idea what he washed with or sprayed on his person but, damnation, it was good stuff. Probably called
orgasm in a bottle
.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You're surprisingly upbeat considering the team's loss last night.”

“I'd forgotten about that, so thanks for bringing it up.”

She doubted that. “Are you okay?”

He shifted his good leg. “I had a good cry when I got home last night and ate a gallon of ice cream. Watched some
Steel Magnolias
, so I'm good to go this morning.”

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “All right, you've made your point.”

“Just wanted to make sure you realized you've mistaken me for a woman.”

As if anyone could mistake Blake Carpenter for a woman. “You have way too much testosterone for that.”

His gaze dipped down her front, leaving a fiery trail across her breasts, spearing through her midsection and spreading to her toes. “Here I was afraid you hadn't noticed.”

They both knew that wasn't true.

“Let's get started,” she instructed, and pushed him through three reps of ten leg extensions on the machine, giving him time to loosen his knee and warm it up. Amazingly, she avoided touching him, when her therapist instincts were to place a comforting and encouraging palm to his leg. But she knew, deep down, the touch would stem from more than comfort. It would be selfish because she'd only be doing it to feel him. To remind herself of how hard and powerful he really was.

Thirty minutes later they'd finished, with Blake slanting her a look as he climbed off the machine. “You're brutal,” he told her.

The knowledge that she'd made the great and mighty Blake Carpenter break a sweat had her grinning. “That's why I'm so good.” She offered him a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, which he accepted.

His gaze narrowed over the top of the bottle. “Is that what people tell you? If they were honest, they'd call you sadistic.”

She leaned closer to him because,
damn,
he smelled good. “I just think you don't like being worked over by a girl.”

His attention raked down her body as he took a slow chug of the water. “Girl, huh?”

“What else would you call me?”

He lowered the bottle and stared at her out of half-lowered lids. “You really want to know?”

Okay, bad question.

“Want to grab some lunch?” he asked, throwing her for a loop.

“I'd love to,” she told him. “But my next appointment is in twenty minutes.” The one morning she'd actually love to have a cancellation.

“Bummer,” he stated with a glance at his watch. “I'm heading out of town until tomorrow. Thought I'd catch a minute with you before I left.”

Look at him being all relationshipy and stuff. It was almost enough to play hooky with him.

Almost.

“Where are you headed?” she asked him.
Must
she sound like the needy girlfriend? Seriously annoying.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” He grinned.

Cocky bastard. And then he was out the door, leaving her to stare after him and wondering what the hell had just happened.

T
he bottle of OxyContin he'd refilled on Friday sat on the kitchen counter, daring him to leave them alone. The one pill he'd popped yesterday before leaving on his overnight fishing trip with Brandon and Matt hadn't been enough. But he'd left the pills behind, in an attempt to do away with the temptation to take more. When he'd returned this morning, they'd still been sitting there. He'd only been home for a few hours, after catching diddly-squat on the lake, and he'd already picked the bottle up half a dozen times, only to set it back down. As Blake placed two cans of soda into a lunch sack, he tossed the bottle another look.

Just take me,
they said.
You don't have to deal with the pain. I can make it go away.

Sweat dampened his palms at the thought of skipping a day.

He turned to the fridge, forcing the desperate need from his mind, and grabbed a paper sack full of fried chicken and a plastic container filled with sliced watermelon.

The clicking of nails on the tile floor sounded behind him, along with the rapid panting of a dog that had endless energy and was probably drooling all over the floor. Blake kicked the fridge door closed and eyed his uninvited guest.

“If you think I'm leaving you in this house all by yourself, you've got another think coming,” he told the dog. Staubach tilted his head to one side, then lowered his rear end to the floor.

Probably waiting for a treat.

“All right, fine,” he muttered, then dug around in the pantry for the bag of treats he'd picked up. When he'd gone to the pet store, he'd only planned on buying essentials. Food, bowls, and a collar. But then he'd strolled past the toy section and thought, what the hell. Dogs needed toys, didn't they? And they liked treats and bones. So he'd ended up grabbing a bag of rawhides, biscuits, and half a dozen plush toys. Two hundred dollars later, here he was tossing a dog treat to an animal he hadn't planned for or wanted.

“I ought to dump you back at my bastard cousin's house,” Blake told Staubach as the dog inhaled his treat, then wagged his tail, as though waiting for more. “That's all you're getting.”

The dog stood and nudged Blake's thigh, wagging his tail so hard, his entire body wagged back and forth along with it.

Okay, yeah. The dog was kind of cute. And fun to play with. Last night they'd played tug-of-war with one of those rope things. Blake had admitted defeat when Staubach had started grunting and thrashing his head back and forth. After letting go of the rope, for fear Blake would have his shoulder dislocated, Staubach had settled on the carpet and gnawed on the rope for half an hour.

Blake walked around the dog and finished packing his lunch. He ought to be watching game film and studying how they'd managed to eff up their last game. Instead he was packing an impromptu lunch for a woman he should be staying away from. Not only should he stay away from her, but she also wasn't even aware of his plans. Going by the seat of his pants had never been this thing. Blake was a planner and thought carefully before each move he made. So when he'd decided to detour from his original plan and starting throwing together food, he'd surprised himself.

Look at him, being all spontaneous.

Funny because spontaneity had never been his thing.

He took all the food and drinks from the counter and stored them together in a bigger bag. Grabbing his keys from the counter, Blake turned to leave. But not before laying eyes on the Oxy one last time.

You need me,
they taunted.

It had been about twenty-four hours since he'd taken his last pill. As he'd driven home from the fishing trip that morning, all Blake could think about was snagging the pills and dumping all the contents down this throat. But when he'd gotten home, his self-preservation had won out. He'd stared at the bottle for several seconds before abandoning them and heading for the shower. Except his hands had shaken through the entire thing. They'd trembled as he'd washed his hair and trembled as he'd stood there, head tilted up toward the spray of water. After he'd hastily rubbed a towel over his body, his skin was heated. And he knew it had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

The lunch bag was clutched tight in one hand, truck keys in the other as Blake stared at the bottle. His back teeth ground together as the pull they had over him intensified.

For however much he told himself he needed the solace they gave him, even if temporary, Blake would be damned if he'd become another statistic of pain pill addicts. So he turned his back on them, curses flying through his mind, and let Staubach through the newly replaced back door before striding out of the house.

The early afternoon was clear and breezy, perfect lake weather.

Vallecito Lake was a mountain oasis nestled among snowy peaks and flanked by aspens. The resort had just about everything to offer, from fine dining to campgrounds. Blake had spent his fair share there as a kid with his parents and Brandon.

He started the truck and cruised through the neighborhood, toward Annabelle's house. He couldn't help the smile as he exited his truck and walked to her front door.

He gave the solid wood front door a brisk knock and grinned at the sound of her footsteps. Even the way she walked was precise and measured. Controlled, just like everything else she did. Except when she was around him.

But when he got an eyeful of her, the smile slipped. Denim cutoffs, ripped at the knee, left her beautifully toned calves bare, along with gold toenails, slipped into a pair of flip-flops. A snug tank top revealed pale shoulders with a light dusting of freckles and gave the perfect impression of high, full breasts.

“Blake.” She blinked at him. Her gaze dipped down his body, in response to his own admiration of her. “What're you doing here?”

He leaned against the doorjamb, only to inch his way closer to her. “I was on my way to the lake and wondered if you'd like to join me.” Props to him for making it sound like her invitation had been a last-minute thing. As though he hadn't woken up that morning, in a freezing cold tent, conjuring a way to spend more time with her. At least time that didn't involve a locker room full of sweaty high school kids or a football field.

“Right now?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I've got some food in my truck and wanted to get out for a few hours.”

She brushed a chunk of hair over her shoulder, which was pulled back from her face with a scarf thing tied into a knot at the top of her head. “I thought you were away for the weekend.”

“I came back this morning,” he answered.

Annabelle glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “I was actually getting some food put together to take over to my mom. I'd love to go, if you wouldn't mind running me over there first.”

“Of course,” he told her, trying to squash down the satisfaction at her acceptance. He pushed away from the door frame. “I'd like to meet your mother anyway.”

Annabelle rolled her eyes away from him. “Don't get ahead of yourself. My mother's not the typical nice little old lady you'd think. And,” she continued as her attention skittered over him, “she's not as enamored with charm as—”

“As you are?” he finished for her, knowing instinctively that's what she was about to say.

“Actually, I was going to say, as you'd think she'd be.” She tilted her head. “But you can go with that other one if you'd like.”

Yeah, he'd like. He also knew she was full of it.

She turned from the door, knowing he'd follow her in. “Let me just get a few things together first.”

“Need a hand?” he automatically offered.

She led him into the kitchen, where she had three casserole dishes on the counter. “No, I got it.” She offered him a smile while removing pots from the stove and setting them in the sink. “I'll just be a minute.” Then she disappeared through the door and left him standing there.

While he waited, he poured some dish soap on the sponge and went to work on the first pot. She must have been cooking the entire morning, given how many dishes she'd dirtied, not to mention the state of the stove top and counters. Is this what she did with her free time? Cooked food for her mother and whatever other chores were required? When did the woman take time for herself?

A vacation? A boyfriend?

That last thought sent a surge of irritation through his system, and he sloshed water over the edge of the sink. Blake cursed himself for being so…

Well, just being an ass.

So what if she were to have a boyfriend? Or even have a man take her out, indulge her in an expensive meal or buy her something nice?

Seems as though she deserved that kind of attention, given how much of herself she gave to everyone else.

And you want to be that man.

Except he didn't do relationships.

And Annabelle was better than a quick and meaningless screw.

When he'd first met Annabelle, that's all he'd wanted from her. As he got to know her better, that had changed. And the change had been so subtle that he hadn't realized his priorities had shifted until now. Until he'd seen her standing at the front door, in the middle of making food for her ailing mother, Blake hadn't realized he no longer wanted to get in the woman's pants.

At least not in the way he used to. He'd be lying if he said he was no longer interested in some more intimacy with the woman. And that was just it. He wanted real intimacy. Something that went beyond a quick orgasm and an even quicker good-bye.

Blake finished his second pot and placed it in the drying rack. He reached for a frying pan and went to work on it.

“What're you doing?”

Her soft voice pulled Blake out of his startling thoughts. He glanced at her over his shoulder as he placed the pan he'd been vigorously scrubbing on the drying rack.

“Just thought I'd put myself to use,” he told her. He swiped the dishrag off the counter and dried his hands.

“You didn't need to do that.”

“I know I didn't,” he replied, and set the towel down. “Just like you know you don't need to take care of your mother. But you do it anyway.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. “I'm not as helpless as my mother is,” she pointed out.

He leaned against the counter and braced his hands behind him. “I don't think she's that helpless, Annabelle. I think you just like being needed.” He came toward her and wrapped his hands around her upper arms. “You don't do things for people just because they can't do for themselves. Sometimes it's just nice to do something for someone.”

“That's awfully deep for washing some dishes,” she whispered.

“Funny how you bring that out in me,” he told her, then released her. Turning toward the counter, he stacked the foil-covered casserole dishes on top of each other. “Ready?” he asked.

She blinked at him, as though she had more she wanted to say to him. Lord knew, the woman always had an argument ready. As though she kept them on index cards, categorized by situation so she was always ready.

Wouldn't surprise him.

“Yeah,” she answered. “But don't think doing my dishes is going to butter me up.” She pointed a finger at him. “I'm still not having a fling with you.”

He grinned at her backside, loving how her cheeks reddened whenever he riled her up. And loving how her ass moved in those cutoffs.

“Be careful, Ms. Turner,” he warned her as he followed her to the front door. “I think we might already be there.”

When they arrived at Annabelle's mother's house, Blake expected an unkempt yard. Not because Mrs. Turner didn't care. Because she was older and couldn't even make her own food, much less plant flowers and mow grass. But the grass was green, neatly trimmed, and bordered the house with flowers. Apparently Annabelle took care of the yard work too.

As he parked the truck, she glanced at him. “Before you say anything, no, I don't cut my mother's grass,” she told him, as though reading his thoughts. “She has a gardening service that comes once a week.”

“I didn't say anything.”

One of her sculpted brows arched. “You didn't have to. I knew what you were thinking.”

Had they arrived at that point already? Where they could read each other's looks and tone of voice? The reality of it sent a surge of uncertainty through his veins.

They exited the truck and Blake carried the casserole dishes, following Annabelle to the front door. As they made their way up the walk, Annabelle eyed a nondescript dark sedan parked in the driveway. Not only parked, but parked badly. The vehicle was crooked and just shy of kissing the closed garage door.

“Thought your mom didn't drive?” Blake wondered.

Annabelle stared at the car. “She doesn't. And that's not my mom's car.”

Blake slid the woman a look. “Maybe she has a secret boyfriend.”

She elbowed him in the ribs and he thought he heard her mutter, “Yeah right.”

So Mrs. Turner didn't date either. Must be a family trait.

Annabelle opened the front door without bothering to knock and held it open for him. The gesture rubbed every chivalrous bone in his body wrong, but since his hands were full of three casserole dishes, he let it slide.

“Not used to that, are you?” she whispered to him as he brushed past her.

Shit, there she went again. Knowing what he was thinking with nothing more than a simple look.

“Just don't make it a habit,” he told her, and followed her down the hallway.

“Mom?” she called out. “I came to drop by some food.”

A high-pitched yapping and the scurrying of nails on the hardwood floor greeted them halfway down the hallway. A black and white dog that looked like a mix of a giant Chihuahua and a bulldog stopped in front of Annabelle and barked its little head off. Annabelle ignored the thing and kept walking.