Winner Takes All (27 page)

Full-body contact while standing in the living room, or a kitchen, or a sandy beach was nothing compared to a soft bed. Especially a bed big enough to move around and one that smelled like her. The fresh flowery scent that always lingered on her skin was all over the sheets, sending him images of her tangled up in them.

He reluctantly tore his mouth from hers and gazed into her green eyes. “Do you know how long I've waited for this?” he asked her.

She bent her knees around his hips and threaded her fingers through his hair. “Do you know what this means to me?” she countered, instead of answering his question.

He knew exactly what it meant to her, because it meant the same to him. That this was anything but casual. The very thing he'd tried so hard to prevent, he was now smack in the middle of. A part of him wanted to blame the witchy spell she had over him. That she'd enchanted him with her slow smiles and seductive laugh and generous heart.

The truth was, it wasn't enchantment or craftiness or spells. It was just her. Annabelle Turner, a woman who made him feel alive and excited and territorial.

He framed her face with his palms and brushed his thumb across her cheekbone. “I have a pretty good idea.”

And the last thing he thought about for a long time was the understanding that flashed in her eyes.

Blake hated gardening. Hated flowers, hated fertilizer and pulling weeds. They were a haven for bees and allergies and everything else he'd rather not deal with. So when Annabelle asked him if he wanted to help her in her garden, of course he'd said yes. Because he'd do anything for this woman. Which included wielding a ridiculous pink shovel thing so she could drop perky yellow flowers in the ground.

After making love like a couple of horny rabbits, they'd made some food, made love again, then got dressed. The getting dressed part had been Annabelle's idea. He'd been perfectly content with spending the rest of the afternoon in bed. Maybe mix a shower in there somewhere, because he'd been consumed with the idea of smearing soap all over her backside.

Apparently Annabelle hadn't been consumed with the same thoughts. After their second round of lovemaking, she'd slid out of bed, pulled her shorts back on, and asked him if he wanted to work in the garden with her.

He'd lain on his side, propped up on an elbow, and watched with disappointment as she fixed her bra over her breasts. “As long as you don't tell anyone the head coach of the Bobcats was planting flowers, sure,” he'd told her.

That had coaxed a grin out of her and she'd leaned over the bed and dropped a kiss on his mouth. “I promise not to say a word. In fact, if someone asks, I'll tell them we were working with tools or something manly like that.”

He'd quirked a brow at her. “Something manly?”

“You know”—she'd waved a hand in the air as she'd slipped her T-shirt over her head—“because we wouldn't want your ego to be compromised.”

Yeah, they wouldn't want that. Which was why, half an hour later, he was digging in the dirt and sprinkling fertilizer over mums, or whatever Annabelle had called them.

Despite his dislike for gardening, it actually wasn't half bad. The sunshine was nice and the breeze was cool. Not to mention, working side by side with Annabelle, the woman who'd scored her fingernails down his back not two hours ago, was just about the best thing he'd done in months.

The conversation was easy and she'd asked him about his parents. He'd spent the next twenty minutes telling her about their retired life in Arizona and how he didn't get to see them nearly as often as he'd like. About how supportive and understanding they'd been when his football career had ended.

“Sounds like you have a great relationship with them,” she commented as she pulled her wagon closer and took another tray of flowers out.

Blake dropped a bunch into a hole he'd dug with the trowel. “Yeah, I do. They're good people,” he added, wishing he was able to see them more. To tell them how much the unfailing support really meant to him. They'd never once questioned him. Never asked him if he'd really done performance-enhancing drugs. Because they knew better and would never dream their only son could do something like that.

His parents and Brandon had been the only ones who'd believed him without a second thought.

Until Annabelle had come along. She hadn't judged, hadn't lectured, hadn't asked him what he'd been thinking. How he could not have known. She'd never looked at him with pity or contempt. She'd accepted and hadn't used his past mistakes against him.

“I'd say they'd have to be to raise a man like you,” Annabelle responded to his statement.

He glanced at her, but her attention was on her task in the dirt. A wide-brimmed hat shaded half her face, slashing a line of shadow across her nose.

“What?” she asked when she caught him staring at her. “You think I'm blowing smoke up your ass?”

Blake shook his head. “You're just about the only woman I know who's ever said the phrase ‘smoke up your ass.'” After filling the hole he'd just dropped the flower in, Blake patted the ground flat, then sprinkled fertilizer. “Tell me about your ex-husband.”

Annabelle wasn't deterred from her task. She dug a hole next to a bush, then retrieved a carton of flowers from the tray. “Why would you want to know about him?”

“Because he's part of what makes you who you are.”

“Nathan hasn't been a part of me for a long time.”

Blake sat back on his haunches and draped his arms over his knees. “What you went through with him is a part of you.”

She stared at him for a moment, her hands held frozen above the fresh dirt she'd been cultivating. With a heavy sigh, she resumed her planting. “Nathan was good-looking, charming, and successful.” She shot him a grin when he glared at her. “He was also shallow, dishonest, and manipulative.”

Not that she needed to add the last part. He wasn't jealous of the guy. On the contrary, Blake wanted to smack the shit out of any man who was stupid enough to take a woman like Annabelle Turner for granted. How could this Nathan asshole not see what an amazing thing he'd had with her?

On the other hand, Nathan's screw-up turned out to be Blake's good fortune. Had the prick not broken Annabelle's heart, they'd probably still be married with a couple of kids. Annabelle was the family type. She'd be the mom who'd cut the crust off the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Or walked their kids to the bus stop—

Wait.
Their
kids?

When had he started thinking about them in those terms? He had the sudden image of taking her out to dinner on their anniversary or rubbing her feet when her ankles would swell up from pregnancy.

Whoa. A year ago, imagining something like that would have sent terror through his system.

Blake cleared his throat and moved on to the next spot to plant another flower. “How long had you known him when you got married?”

“About six months. And before you say anything, I know it's not enough time to know someone that well—”

“I wasn't going to say anything,” he told her. “My parents knew each other for two months when they got engaged. Sometimes you just know.”

“Yes, but it sounds to me like your dad is nothing like Nathan.”

Blake nodded and dropped another plant in a freshly dug hole. “You're right, he's not. My point is that the length of time doesn't matter. You don't have to know someone for a long time to realize if they're the right person for you.”

She looked up at him and opened her mouth as though she had something to say, but she clamped her lips tight and sighed. “Obviously with Nathan, it did matter. If I'd given the relationship more time, I might have seen him for the person he really was.”

“From the way you talk about him, probably not. Or maybe you were just blinded by love,” he added, having a hard time even saying the words.

“No,” she answered right away. “What I had with Nathan wasn't love. At the time, yes, I thought I did love him, but now I realize I didn't.”

Blake patted the dirt after placing the flower. “How can you be sure of that?”

Annabelle didn't answer right away. Her capable hands worked the roots of another carton of flowers. “Because I'm not the person I was when we were married. People grow and mature and change. It wasn't until years later, after I'd finally moved on from his betrayal, that I realized I was never in love with him. I didn't wake up needing to see him or ache for his touch. I was just”—she shrugged—“indifferent.” She placed her deep green eyes on him. “You don't grow indifferent when you're truly in love with someone. That's how I knew it wasn't real.”

Yeah, Blake knew that. As scary as it was, he knew exactly was she was talking about because that's how he felt about her. Love was a creepy son of a bitch who claimed victims without warning.

“Have you ever experienced that?” she asked without looking at him.

He gazed at her profile, noting how the sun glanced off her jawline and accentuated the creaminess of her skin. “Yeah,” he answered without thinking. And there he went again. Blurting shit out without taking the time to stop himself.

What an ass.

Annabelle shifted her focus to him, staring with an unreadable expression in her eyes. “Did she break your heart?”

This time he did pause before answering, because it was a question he couldn't answer. Annabelle did have the power to break his heart. Funny, but Blake had always considered himself too ironclad for that sort of thing. Men weren't supposed to have their hearts broken. They were the heartbreakers because they were pigs who wouldn't know a gem of a woman if it were to hit them in the ass.

“Blake?” she pushed when he remained silent. “Is it too painful for you to talk about?”

“No, she hasn't broken my heart yet,” he answered. “But she has the power to.”

Her brows pinched above her eyes, which were filled with questions. She wanted to ask, that much he could tell; Annabelle was a curious creature who wanted to know everyone's secrets and cure them.

He could tell the moment realization dawned when her mouth fell open. She shifted on her knees. “Blake—”

“You don't need to say anything,” he said with a shake of his head. “I'm not even sure what it is.” He gazed into her knowing eyes. “I just know I've never felt it before.”

Her long lashes swept down over her eyes, and then a single tear leaked out. It crept past her lower lashes, then ran down her smooth cheek. Blake stopped the moisture before it had a chance to drop to her bare shoulder. He swiped it away with the pad of his thumb, then lingered on her cheek, taking a moment to remind himself how soft she was and how much he loved touching her.

“I'm not sure what to do,” she whispered. “I know I've said I've moved on from Nathan, and I really have,” she reassured him. “But I'm still scared. What I went through with him altered my entire view of relationships.”

“I'm a little scared too,” he admitted. “I've never felt this way about a woman before, so I'm not sure how to handle it.” He dropped his hand from her face and picked up a clod of dirt. “The thing is, I need to focus on getting the Bobcats to the play-offs. Drew has made it clear if they don't get that far, I'll be out of a job.”

Annabelle nodded. “And you don't need any distractions,” she concluded.

He cupped her chin and lifted her face to his. “You're not a distraction, Annabelle. I just don't think I can jump into anything right now.”

“Of course, you're right,” she commented, resuming her digging in the dirt. Her hands gripped the trowel and slid into the soft grit to make room for another flower. “Your job has to come first, I understand that.” She offered him a warm smile, but the warmth didn't reach her eyes.

The two of them continued working side by side in the warm afternoon sun, with the birds chirping around them and the breeze lifting the strands of Annabelle's hair. Blake told himself he was relieved. Relieved he'd finally gotten his feelings out for her and relieved that she wasn't going to push for more than he could give her. Even though he wanted to.

So why did he feel like he'd just blown it with her?

T
he Bobcats were about to enter their final regular season game with a record of 5-4. Not great, but enough to get them in the play-offs, provided they won tomorrow night's game. If they lost, it would be over. Their season would end with the final tick of the game clock.

And Blake's career as a high school football coach along with it. Yeah, no pressure or anything.

He'd pushed the kids hard this week. Extra runs. Harder tackles. Screaming in their ears to get the hell off their asses. He'd felt like a dick the entire time as the kids had been pushed beyond exhaustion. But they'd never been this close to a play-off game before, and it was high time they knew what it felt like to be winners. The whole time he'd been stealing peeks at Annabelle while she stretched with the players, since it had been over a week since they'd made love, then planted flowers in her garden. Seeing her on the field and not being able to yank her in for a kiss or whip her sweatshirt over her head had been torture. Pure torture, but he was a mature, professional adult and had managed to keep his hands to himself.

Corey had come back after his academic probation and now the kid didn't have anything lower than a B minus. Probably because he was too scared shitless to have anything worse than that. Scott had sat out the last two games, but Blake fully intended on playing him tomorrow night because, damn it, they needed him.

And Cody Richardson…well, that one was a different matter. Blake didn't know what to make of their quarterback. He was as likely to show up to practice pumping his team up as he was not wanting to participate. In last week's game, which they'd lost, Cody's attitude had been shit. Not listening, changing plays, and talking back to the coaches. His defiance had caused tension between him and other players, which had resulted in a fist-on-fist brawl in the locker room at halftime. Blake had been in the middle of reaming their asses when Brian Strickland had taken a shot at the QB. Just planted his fist into Cody's too-pretty square jaw and knocked him off the bench. Cameron had jumped in, which had earned him a black eye, and broken the two kids up.

Since then, tension on the team had been high. The locker room crackled with it, and it was the last thing Blake needed as they entered their most important game of the season.

The team had practiced that morning and after school, and Blake left to run a quick errand. He pulled up to Cody's house and parked along the curb. The Richardson parents were the only parents Blake had never met. They'd never come to watch a practice and had never been to a game.

The home was a modest one-story ranch with black shutters bracketing newly updated windows and a neatly trimmed yard. He made his way up the walk, not sure how these people would respond to a visit by their son's football coach. Blake didn't know a whole lot of coaches who did this kind of thing, but…what the hell?

He tapped the back of his knuckles on the stained-glass window of the door. A second later came the sound of rapid high heels on hardwood floors, followed by the door opening. On the other side stood an attractive woman with blond hair cropped to her shoulders and long legs covered in a pair of elegant slacks.

Blake nudged the brim of his hat up his forehead so she could see his eyes. “Mrs. Richardson?” he asked.

“No, I'm Mrs. Warren,” she answered in a cool voice.

Blake glanced behind him, then turned back to her. “I'm looking for the parents of Cody Richardson.”

The woman pressed a hand to her chest. “Why, did something happen to him?”

Blake shook his head. “No, ma'am.” He stuck out his hand in greeting. “I'm Blake Carpenter, Cody's football coach.”

She blinked at him, then shook her head. “I'm Gabby Warren.” She offered her hand to his. “I'm sorry for the confusion,” she told him. “Cody's dad and I divorced several years before he passed away, so the last names are different.”

Blake nodded. “I apologize. I wasn't aware of that. May I come in for a minute?”

Gabby considered him, probably wondering whether or not to comply or shut the door in his face. Eventually she relented and stood back for him to enter.

The interior of the home was cool and quiet. Nicely decorated with curtains covering the windows, family photos on the walls, and plump pillows decorating the furniture.

“Can I get you some coffee or tea or anything?” Gabby asked.

“No, thank you. I need to make this quick and get back to work.”

Gabby clasped her hands in front of her and waited for Blake to continue.

“Mrs. Warren, I was wondering if something was going on with Cody at home. Anything that could be affecting his attitude on the field.”

Gabby tilted her head to one side. “Has my son been uncooperative with you?”

To say the least. “He's an excellent football player. Probably one of the best on the team. But he's not the easiest player to work with. Especially the last few weeks.”

Gabby nodded. “I'm sorry for that, Mr. Carpenter. His stepdad and I will definitely talk to him about it. Is there anything else?”

For a moment, Blake thought about just thanking her for her time and getting back to business, but the little voice in his head told him to hold off. He had a hunch about the root of Cody's issue and wanted to see if he was on track.

“Mrs. Warren, is there a reason you and your husband don't attend the games?”

She lifted both shoulders, which were covered in an expensive-looking blouse. “My husband and I aren't really into football. Cody understands that.”

Blake wasn't so sure. Cody had left an environment where he'd been loved and adored, practically held on a pedestal for throwing a pigskin ball around. He'd played in a stadium that held thousands of people and was the center of every high school sports story. He'd dominated every championship game he'd played in an arena that the entire state of Texas attended.

Now he was in a small-potatoes league where even his own parents had no interest in the sport.

“I bet it would mean a lot to him if you and your husband came tomorrow night. Maybe show a little support.”

Gabby's eyes narrowed. “My husband and I support him plenty. Cody knows how proud we are of him.”

“I'm sure he does, Mrs. Warren. I don't mean to overstep my bounds here, but I can't help but think that your son's poor sportsmanship is because he thinks no one cares.”

Cody's mother lowered her gaze to the floor, then she paced to the other side of the room. “I know it's not the same here as it was in Texas. Football is everything down there and his father was his number one fan.” Gabby lowered herself to a pristine white couch. “Cody stayed with him after the divorce, but when Cody's dad died last spring, it totally devastated him. Not only did he not have his father, but Cody was also forced to leave the only home he'd ever known and move here with me and his stepdad.” Gabby waved a hand in the air. “I encouraged him to play football, thinking it would make the transition easier, but I know it hasn't. He's not the same.”

Blake lowered himself to the adjacent love seat. “Mrs. Warren, I'm sure you're doing the best you can with him. I really think what Cody needs right now is your encouragement and support. Expressing some interest in what he loves the most will probably go a long way with him. To be honest with you, I think the kid needs the attention. If you can, try to come to the game. If we win, the team will make the play-offs, so it's an important game.”

The woman's chin quivered, showing Blake just how much her son really meant to her. “I honestly had no idea my interest meant that much to him. He's always told me he doesn't care.”

“Because that's what teenagers do. I can promise you he cares more than he lets on.”

She nodded again. “I appreciate your honesty. I'm sorry he's been giving you trouble.”

“Mrs. Warren, your son is a good kid. And a damn fine ball player. He just needs some guidance right now. And extra love.”

Blake left the Warrens' home, not entirely sure he'd done the right thing.

Out on the field, the team went through the plays, tackling, smacking each other's pads, grunting, hollering, and kicking up clods of dirt with their cleats.

“Where the hell's Richardson?” Cameron muttered as he and Blake watched the players execute a Slot Double Z XOXO.

As soon as his assistant coach asked the question, the QB came strolling onto the field, red jersey hanging over his pads and helmet dangling from his fingertips. Blake approached the kid and intercepted him before he made it halfway across the field.

“Practice starts at four. I expect you here at four,” he told Cody.

Cody stared back at him, then continued on his way, walking around Blake and cutting across the field.

Blake turned around and hooked his hands on his hips. “Did you hear what I said?” he asked the kid.

Cody, probably knowing the push-ups and extra runs he'd have to do, turned around and nodded. “Yes, Coach.”

Thankfully he didn't say anything else, because Blake wasn't in the mood to throw any more shit on the already huge pile he was dealing with.

Practice continued with Cody repeatedly fumbling the ball and allowing himself to be sacked again and again. When he was taken down, and his lid ripped off in the process, Blake blew his whistle and stomped across the field.

“Listen to me, son. Do you realize the game we're playing tomorrow night?”

Cody nodded.

“Mental errors like that aren't acceptable. Now play smart.”

Damn, why did everyone have to be such a pain in the ass? More importantly, why was he so irritable?

Actually, he knew why. He hadn't had any sort of time with Annabelle since they'd tumbled into bed together. He missed her. He missed her laugh. He missed the way she busted his balls. Missed the way she pushed him to be a better version of himself. And his lack of Annabelle time made him a surly son of a bitch. Maybe he ought to go for an extra-long run tonight to expel the tension from his body.

Blake went through the rest of his day without hearing from Annabelle. He thought about calling her, or even texting, but stopped himself each time.

He'd hurt her. That much he knew when he'd all but told her she was nothing but a distraction to him. And yeah, she did distract him. But what he'd failed to tell her was that it was the best kind of distraction. The kind that made him forget himself and football and his sketchy future. Of course, being the oaf he was, it had come out all wrong and now he didn't know how to fix it.

So he left it alone and decided to give the woman some space.

“Your days are numbered,” Blake told Staubach that evening after he'd found the dog chewing on one of his belts. “Where the hell are your toys?”

Staubach turned his head to the side as though he understood what Blake had said. The dog's nails clicked on the hardwood floor as he followed Blake down the hall, nudging Blake's calf with his wet nose.

Damn it, he didn't want to be attached to this dog. But he was cute, with this golden fur, deep brown eyes, and swooshing tail. Blake tickled the dog's head with his fingers as the two of them entered the living room.

Blake was just about to settle on the couch with a beer when his phone rang.

Staubach launched himself on the couch, completely ignoring Blake's threats to stay the hell off.

“Yeah,” he answered on the third ring.

“I was wondering if you'd like to come over and prune my roses for me,” his cousin Brandon greeted. “Seeing as you're so good with flowers and all.”

Blake leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes. “How did you know about that?”

“I know all, see all, my friend,” Brandon replied. “Plus the fact that Annabelle lives next door to one of the nosiest women in all of Colorado. Whose daughter-in-law is the sister of a mother of one of your players. You know how it goes. She told her daughter-in-law, who told her sister, who told her son, who told Matt, who told me.”

Blake blew out a long breath. “Please kill me,” he muttered.

“I had no idea my best friend had turned into Bob Vila. Not to mention you finally got yourself laid. About damn time too.”

Blake pulled the phone away from his ear. “You're breaking up real bad because I'm about to go through a tunnel.” He ended the call and set the device down on the end table.

A second later, it rang, which he ignored.

When Blake didn't answer, the phone vibrated twice, indicating a new text.

With a weary sigh, Blake picked the thing up and read the message.

There are no tunnels in Blanco Valley, asshole.

Blake answered,
That's because I'm not in Blanco Valley. I moved to Montana.

God knows when you're lying
.

Whatever. Blake left his phone alone and flipped the television on. With one hand stroking Staubach's head, he surfed the channels, briefly pausing on ESPN, then almost changing it. The current story, however, stopped his finger from pressing the button. The anchors, with their pinstripe suits and bright ties, were listing off the top ten quarterbacks to ever play football. Blake listened with half interest as they rattled on about Joe Namath, then switched to him.

They played old game footage of some of his greatest plays, rattling off his stats and briefly mentioning his college career. Blake watched himself, with the old familiar nostalgia bubbling to the surface. Strangely, though, gazing upon his own image, watching his former teammates on his former home turf, wasn't as debilitating as it used to be. The usual regret and shame and wishful thinking didn't blindside him and make him want to ram his fist into a wall.

He felt…calm. As though that chapter on his life could finally be closed. And why not close it? Why couldn't he turn the page and start a new chapter?