PLAYING FOR KEEPS
Liz Matis
Copyright © 2011 Elizabeth Matis
Print ISBN: 978-0-98400098-1-7
Digital ISBN: 978-0-98400098-2-4
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, scanning, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition October 2011
Contents
CHAPTERS
Also by Liz Matis:
Love By Design
Going For It – coming April 2012
This book is dedicated to my teachers who never stifled my creativity with rules. Thank you.
He’ll hold back the dawn
a moment longer, to
study the delicate features of her face
feel her heartbeat under his palm
breathe in the scent of her skin, to
imprint the memory, to
carry him through the long day
until dusk settles in the sky
then they will embrace again
love again, so
he will let the dawn come
Liz Matis
Chapter 1
“Miss, we need to see your credentials.” Two guards stood firmly in front of the New York Cougars’ locker room.
With her index finger, Samantha pointed to the press card attached to her crisp white blouse. She tried to duck past them, but they didn’t budge.
“It says here, Sam Jameson.”
As other sportswriters breezed by, she conjured up a polite tone and explained, “That’s my byline; it’s short for Samantha.”
“I’ll have to verify your credentials with the head of security,” the taller of the two said. She read his name badge. Tom. The man stepped to the side, flipping open his radio like he was a Secret Service agent, while the other guard, Jerry, still barred her way.
Samantha said nothing. Being a journalist led to confrontations such as this and she had more than her fair share, in far worse situations. Still, frustration nagged at her, even as she reminded herself the guards were just doing their jobs. Though if she were a man she doubted she’d have this much trouble.
She bet the star tight-end for the NY Cougars believed women didn’t belong in this inner sanctum, as well. He’d certainly come a long way since playing college ball with her brother, but she doubted that included his views on women as anything but playthings. Ryan Terell. The thought of him evoked vivid memories.
Shoulder length black hair falling in waves like rumpled satin, deep green eyes that seemed to know what she was thinking at any given moment, and hands made for more than catching passes. Much more. Sure, great packaging, but underneath the chiseled exterior was a man who hadn’t socially evolved from dragging his knuckles on the ground. If only he’d worked as hard on his interior.
Thank God she was no longer a silly college girl who fantasized about him. She was a woman now. She’d been around the world and around all types of men. Even big, hulking Marines who rescued stupid reporters. Yup, she was definitely over Ryan Terell.
If the arrogant egomaniac hadn’t changed since their days at Notre Dame, her job would prove more difficult than getting banned from the locker room. And she needed this sports writing gig to work out. She couldn’t go back to writing hard news. Not ever.
She imagined a sign reading, ‘No Girls Allowed’, like the one her brothers had hung on their clubhouse door. Well, she’d torn that sign down and mentally did the same with the one she imagined now.
Tom came back and whispered something to Jerry.
“How do we know you’re not some groupie?”
“Do I look like a groupie?” Samantha placed her hand on her hip.
“Well, actually you look like one of those lesbians. If so, then it wouldn’t be a problem letting you in.”
Samantha realized this was an initiation and it had Ryan written all over it. Pretty lame. If she handled the sand spider the reporter threw into her tent in Iraq, she could handle anything. Okay, so she screamed like a teenage girl in a horror film, and had every Marine at camp running to her rescue.
The two guards in front of her were nothing compared to that sand spider. She decided to play along, not that she had much choice. Her deadline loomed. “Oh, that’s me. I’m one of those lesbians.”
With the magic word spoken they parted and even opened the door. Armed with a notepad, she took a deep breath and walked into the Cougars’ locker room.
A mixture of sweat, meatball subs, and Ben Gay immediately assailed her senses. Through tearing eyes she focused on the deep gold carpet covering the floor. Emblazoned in the center was a huge Cougars insignia. As her vision cleared she scanned the room. Each player was assigned a locker that looked more like a stall. The space was made of wood with a small but sturdy stool in front. Each locker was filled with helmets, pads, uniforms, and several pairs of cleats. The players walked around in various stages of undress, shouting and laughing, riding high on the days win. Reporters, mostly male, were engaged in interviews with the heroes.
Someone snapped a towel inches from her face, startling her. She must have looked shell shocked. She’d been in war zones, raids on drug lords, and in the aftermath of hurricanes, but nothing could quite have prepared her for this. Not that this testosterone-laden playground compared to those events. Still all her senses heightened into overload.
Looking at her tormentor, she recognized the kicker, Steve Probost. “Thanks.”
“Any time, rookie.”
“Me? I’m not the who missed a field goal today.”
“Ouch.”
Samantha asked him a few questions and then moved on, spotting Ryan at the far end of the room. Might as well get this over with. It wasn’t like she could avoid him; he caught five passes for 125 yards and scored a touchdown. Her readers would expect a quote.
As she drew closer, she noticed he’d gained about ten pounds since college - all muscle. His hair was cut in a military type buzz. Did the owners of the team make him cut it? Or was he trying to hide a receding hairline?
Fresh from the shower he wore a towel wrapped around his hips. Drops of water still clung to his well-muscled shoulders. The urge to lick each droplet away abruptly entered her thoughts. She shook off the craving, reminding herself that she was a professional journalist and not some love struck teenager. Apparently the ‘girl now a woman’ theory wasn’t holding up.
Should she show disinterest or put him off guard with a smile to show she wasn’t intimidated by a roomful of giant naked men? A roomful of naked men? What am I doing here?
“Hello, Terell,” she said with false bravado.
He turned to face her. Was it possible he was even sexier without the long locks? And when did he get the starburst tattoo around his navel? She clenched her notebook so she wouldn’t reach out to trace the lines with her fingertips.
“Hey Sami, your brother said you’d be starting today.”
Ryan bent forward to give her a quick kiss on the forehead, like she was his kid sister. She didn’t want to be his kid sister, but never wanted to be one of his ‘women’ either. Not that he was asking. But he did ask you once before and you turned him down.
“He said to take it easy on you.”
Embarrassed, she stepped back and looked around, wondering why everyone was staring, then realizing they were waiting to see how she’d react to Ryan’s set up with the guards. “Umm…I got a few questions.”
“A little late, aren’t we? Did you stop to powder your nose?” he mocked.
She bit back a smile. How could she forget Ryan’s sense of humor, which at times was more dangerous than his handsome face? His wit had a way of chipping at her resolve to have nothing to do with him. “Yeah, well two guards at the door thought I was some sex-crazed groupie.”
“Yeah, I know.” He casually leaned against the side of the locker.
“And how would you know?” She played her assigned role as laughter filtered around the room. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“I set you up.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
His teammate, Jake Miller, added, “And he bet us a c-note you’d say you were a lesbian to get in.”
Samantha turned to Ryan and winked. “Yeah, but he cheated.”
“Cheated?” The question echoed in the locker room in unison.
“I am one.”
Laughter broke out again and the crowd of players dispersed. Pure genius! If they thought she was a lesbian, she wouldn’t be hit on and they might give her some respect. Though knowing the reputation of pro athletes, they might try to get her in a three-way with one of their groupies. She might have to re-think her strategy but for now she said, “So Ryan, it’s good you make five mil a year. That was an expensive bet.”
“Yeah, like they believe you.”
“You’re in trouble man,” said Jake. “She already knows how much you rake in. I knew no woman could be after you for your looks.”
“Shut up, Jake.” Ryan turned back to Samantha. “You got off easy. You don’t even want to know what we did to Jacobs from The Post.”
“You call this taking it easy on me? Outing me?” Oh, that was good. “I don’t think that’s what my brother had in mind.”
“Outing you? Spare me.”
“Don’t give him a hard time. It’s just our way of welcoming you,” Jake interjected.
“Well, I feel all warm and fuzzy now.”
Ryan jumped on the comment. “I’ve waited ten years to hear you say that - well, maybe not exactly that, but it’s close enough.”
“In your dreams.” Samantha smacked him with her notepad. Sometimes he was as irritating as her brothers though what she felt for him even after ten years was not what she would call brotherly love.
“I love it! A woman who finally put you in your place.”
“That’s enough, Miller. The lesb - oh, I mean the lady is here to interview me. And it’s not my bank account she’s after, but my dazzling conversation.”
He turned back to Samantha. “Okay, ask away, but first…“ He took a dry towel from his locker and handed it to her. “You should strip down and put this on. I think it’s only fair, you know. Equality. I know how important all that equal crap is to you.”
She threw the towel back at him. “Maybe you should get dressed.”
“It would be more fun my way, but if you insist.” Ryan whipped the towel off his body. Some of his teammates whistled. He smiled, his eyes daring her to take a look.
She didn’t. Oh, she wanted to. Desperately. But that would be unprofessional. Samantha raised her notepad to block her view.
Relieved she’d passed some sort of test, she fired off questions he or any other player had been asked a thousand times and he answered in turn. Surprisingly, there were no self-serving remarks.
“Where’s the earring?” she asked as the interview came to a close.
Ryan’s hand automatically went to his ear lobe. “Is that a personal question or are you going to write about that?”
“Forget it. I was just curious,” she said a little more sharply than she meant to.
“Whoa, I was only kidding. It didn’t go with the haircut.”
“What happened to the hair?”
“Now, that is a personal question, which means I get to ask you one.”
“Forget it. I was just-”
“Curious. Okay, you can look now.” Ryan smirked.
Samantha peeked over her notepad. He was still shirtless, but she could deal with that, couldn’t she? She was over him. Right? “Okay, thanks. I’ll see you around.”
“Am I forgiven?”
“Don’t sweat it. Oh, but you might want to sweat the payback, though. It’s a bitch.”
With a click of her pen, she turned on her heel and went to find her next interview.
***
Ryan grabbed his shirt and eased his bruised elbow into the sleeve. As he slowly buttoned it with swollen fingers, he watched Samantha work the room. With that sparkling smile no one could resist answering her questions. Even Glock, the running-back, who currently wasn’t speaking to the press, was spilling his guts to her.
Ryan wanted to spill more than his guts to her, but he wasn’t going to waste his time trying to win her over like he did back at school. Even tutoring her until three in the morning before her college math exam did him no good. Not even a lousy peck on the cheek.
No matter what he did she said no ---the first and only girl to say no. Hell, he never had to ask. Maybe she was a lesbian. That would explain a lot - and soothe his ego. But deep down he knew she wasn’t, which meant she found something lacking in him. Though what she found attractive in those loser poet types she dated in college he could never figure out.
But that was Samantha, a problem to solve because there was something about her that didn’t add up. Why ask him about the earring and hair? He was surprised she even noticed. And while his appearance had changed from his college days, Samantha’s hair was the same shade of golden auburn, which reminded him of autumn leaves. He longed to dive into the glorious mane like a kid diving into a pile of freshly raked leaves.
His noted her clothing and the way they hung loosely on her body. Her brother, Patrick, said she’d lost weight. Ryan had the sudden idea to ask her out to dinner.
“Man, you’ve got it bad,” said Jake. “Not that I blame you. She is-”
“A lesbian.” Maybe if they believed it the guys would leave her alone.
“Well, it looks like Burner over there is trying to convert her.”
Ryan clenched his fist. Billy Burner, the rookie tight-end, was eyeing Samantha up and down while she interviewed him. What kind of name was that anyway? “Lesbian or not, her brother is a NYPD detective. Spread it around, will you?”
Jake eyed him a moment, then shook his head. “Sure thing.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” Ryan asked again.
“Never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“A puppy begging for a bone.”
Ryan gawked at his teammate and friend of eight years. “Man, I think you hit your head out there, because you’re seeing things.” He quickly stuffed his gym bag.
Jake cleared his throat and Ryan looked up. Samantha sashayed toward him. Alight with amusement, the gold flecks in her light brown eyes reminded him of sparkling apple cider.
“Ryan, Burner reminds me of you ten years ago.”
“He can’t shut up, can he?”
“Nope. Thank God.”
“Take it easy on him, he’s a rookie.” Ryan didn’t know why he was defending the jerk, probably because Samantha was right; Burner was a lot like Ryan.
“Easy? Like you guys were on me today?” Samantha shook her head no as she waved goodbye.
“See you,” Ryan said lamely as she walked away again.
Jake belted out a laugh. “That was pathetic.” Then added a whimpering bark.
Ryan grabbed the bag and headed for his car. He pulled out of the stadium parking lot, driving with the skill that a Porsche required. He came to a red light and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Jake didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d never begged for a woman’s attention. If Samantha didn’t want it there were plenty of women who did and the women who already had wouldn’t describe him as a puppy. More like his team’s namesake, the Cougars.
But Ryan didn’t want other women. At least not right now. Samantha had him in heat and he needed to bury himself in hers. He had talked himself into believing he could treat her like his best friend’s little sister. That was clearly not going to work, not with his imagination already kicking into gear with sex scenarios – the fifty-yard line, the end zone, up against the wall in the tunnel leading out onto the field, the--
A horn blasted and he looked up. Damn, the light had turned green. He checked the rearview mirror again and roughly shifted gears. Behind him he saw Jake laughing and waving like he knew what Ryan had been daydreaming about.
Couldn’t a guy fantasize in peace?
What was he even doing thinking about her in that way anyway? The poor girl had been through enough. He shouldn’t mess around with her especially when he wasn’t the settling kind.
But a woman like Samantha could make a guy re-think his position on the state of matrimony.
During those three days when she went missing in Iraq, all he did was worry. He sat in vigil with the family as they awaited news and selfishly thought he missed his chance on making Samantha his.
Details trickled out slowly. Samantha went rogue without the protection of the Marines she was embedded with. A car bombing was reported. A later call informed them she wasn’t among the wreckage, but taken hostage by insurgents. An excruciating twenty-four hours dragged by before they learned of her rescue by the very Marines she abandoned. Stupid girl.
His hands tightened around the steering wheel. The thought of her, so small and helpless, going to hell and back, ate at his gut. He’d never felt so powerless in his life. Not even when he was a boy and dragged to yet another foster home.
Ryan would never forget the call. While her family celebrated in joy, he only remembered the feeling of relief washing over him. Another emotion followed in its wake. Hope. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
Samantha had blocked all his moves in the past. It was time to write a new chapter in his playbook.
Chapter 2
With her hands full of packages, Samantha waited impatiently as her roommate unlocked the door. Hannah Hahn, the super-model and super-friend, had taken her in without a word when everyone else bombarded her with questions.
“Wait a minute, the lock is stuck.”
She shifted the bags of groceries and leaned against the door. The lock came free and she stumbled forward. Hannah caught the eggs in mid-air. “Oh sure, save the eggs.”
“When you’re only allowed protein…”
Hannah, bless her heart, worked at being model thin. She was the poster girl for a high-protein diet. Hannah also obsessively worked out seven days a week unlike Samantha whose only fitness came periodically from what the Marines came to call as her demon-runs.
After putting away the groceries and hiding a box of Captain Crunch cereal she’d snuck in, she plopped down on the overstuffed sofa in relief. It was good to be back in the States. Hot water, burgers and fries, speaking English on a regular basis and not being kidnapped by terrorists topped the long list. But despite the relief at her homecoming, she was having trouble adjusting to a normal life. She’d been gone so long she felt like a foreigner in her own country.
Hannah came into the living room and started picking up after herself. “So, how’s the new job?”
“Okay.”
“That’s all you have to say? You went in the locker room, didn’t you?”
Samantha knew what she wanted to hear but decided to tease her a little longer. She shrugged. “It’s a room with lockers and showers.”
Hannah jumped next to her on the couch in an un-super model-like fashion. “And naked men! What was Jake Miller wearing? Or better yet, not wearing! Details, girl, I need details.” She held her breath waiting for Samantha’s answer.
“Geez, Hannah, I’m only there to interview the players, not scout for Playgirl magazine.”
“Oh, now that’s a job I’d sign up for.”
“Hannah!”
“What?” Hannah gave her best innocent look, which wasn’t very innocent at all. “So you didn’t sneak a peek at all? Not once?”
Samantha shook her head. “All you look for are the whites of their eyes and not the whites of their tan lines.”
“Not even Ryan, your college sweetheart?” Hannah made a kissing sound.
Samantha hit her with one of the couch pillows. “He was not my college sweetheart.”
“Don’t think he got the memo -- he called.”
Pushing down the giddy rush quelling up inside her, she calmly asked, “What did he want?” Now it was her turn to hold her breath.
“Not until you tell me what happened.”
Samantha relayed the day’s event, feeling like a sixteen year-old again when she dished about Ryan whipping off his towel. Hannah whistled. A couple of days of living together had them acting like teenagers on an extended sleepover. Like nothing had changed, but everything had. She finished the story with, “He’s different from the guy I knew back in Notre Dame.”
“What did you expect, Samantha? He’s a man now, not a college boy.”
“True.” She mulled over Hannah’s reasoning. Could ten years change a man? Not that he was ever a bad guy, just a frustratingly arrogant playboy; and who could blame him? As a handsome, smart, and sure to be rich football star, the girls on campus had literally thrown themselves at him. Not her, though. Samantha never wanted to be one of his girls. “So, what did he want?” she asked again.
“He didn’t say. He left his number on the answering machine.”
“Hannah!”
“What? As a journalist you should appreciate my skill in getting you to talk.”
“I’ve taught you well. Too well.” Samantha got up and went into the kitchen to listen to the message. What could he possibly want? She’d just seen him three hours ago. Hitting the play button didn’t prepare her for the deep timber of his voice telling her it was nice to see her and to call him. Butterflies took flight in her belly. Samantha replayed it three times, wanting to read something more into his call. He probably wanted to talk about the game.. She bit her lip. What did you expect? An invite to dinner? To bed?
“Are you going to call him?”
Startled, Samantha put her hand to her heart.
“Sorry,” Hannah said.
Samantha took a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Then why do you need his number?”
“In case I need a last minute quote or something.”
“Mmm…something.” Hannah arched her eyebrow the way only she and Mr. Spock could.
“Let’s go watch T.V.”
As they walked backed to the living room Hannah said, “If you’re not interested in him, maybe I can give him a call?”
“What about Jake Miller?” Samantha felt a momentarily flutter of panic. It wouldn’t be her roommate’s first time dating a pro football player and her super model body was made to order for Ryan’s bed.
Hannah curled up on the couch with a satisfied cat-like smile. “See? You are interested.”
“Look, I’ll concede the man is hot. Okay? But Hannah, I can’t date anyone from the team. People will think I’m trading sex for the inside scoop. I’d lose my creditability and that’s not worth a lay even if it would be a good one.”
Hannah flipped her hair back. “True, but it’s a shame you have to limit your dating pool.”
“You have no idea how shitty a woman sportswriter can be treated if she’s known as a jock-hunter.”
“Then, I don’t want your job.” Hannah grabbed the remote and flipped on a reality show.
Samantha’s eyes glazed over. She dealt with way too much real life on a regular basis, and when she wanted to unwind, comedies seemed to do the trick. She’d played her own game of Survivor, but without the million bucks at the end. Instead, she was rewarded with nightmares. As the showed droned on, her thoughts turned back to Ryan.
She could sure talk big about not dating anyone on the team, however Ryan wasn’t just anyone. He was her college crush, her brother’s best buddy, and a family friend - the reason why she was back. So why the reversal? Was she scared? Or had reality set in?
Her mother loved Ryan. What mother wouldn’t love the charming rich guy who racked up the brownie points by opening doors, pulling chairs out, and offering to help with the dishes when he knew full well her mother would refuse? But if her mother ever discovered he’d tried to seduce her daughter, she’d …well…actually she’d probably be glad. But her mother didn’t realize that Ryan wasn’t the marrying kind. Samantha did and so did her father, but that still didn’t stop her from the fantasy that was so dangerous. Where Ryan wasn’t the playboy football player. Physically he looked the same - nothing to improve on there - but he would be the type of guy who liked to cuddle on the couch, cook for her, and rub her feet. In his spare time he’d rescue puppies and write poetry. Emotionally, he was loyal and dedicated only to her and not the whole female population.
Hopefully, Ryan would do something stupid or say something outrageous the next time they met. Then she could start to rebuild the wall around her heart, which had crumbled over time without her even knowing it. But hadn’t she fought for this plum assignment using all the pull she had in this town so she could be in his world again? Perhaps, she wasn’t scared of him, but the outside world. She let out an involuntary sigh.
“Everything okay?” Hannah asked.
“It’s been a long day, I’m heading off to bed.”
“Sami…you can talk to me…you know that, don’t you?”
In the past, Samantha confided in Hannah, but this wasn’t high school where they could talk about anything, because that anything was stuff like boy trouble or how her math teacher was really an evil robot to keep her in high school forever with a D-minus.
She couldn’t tell Hannah what truly happened in Iraq. Samantha couldn’t tell anybody. Even in her last article, filed while she waited for a flight home, she sugarcoated the ordeal. A reporter shouldn’t become the story. Her job was about other people’s experiences, not her own. Other journalists would’ve sucked the life out it, maybe vie for a Pulitzer, but not Samantha. Not now, anyway. She learned her lesson. No one would ever know the whole story, nor the guilt or shame she carried away from it.
“I appreciate that, but it’s all down for posterity in black and white. There’s nothing more to tell.”
Trying to lighten the mood, Hannah said, “Do you think they really have scouts at Playgirl?”
Samantha laughed. “Goodnight, Hannah.”
***
Hannah hated to see her friend this way. Samantha seemed lost and distant unlike the carefree teenager she remembered. She wanted to help, but she didn’t know how. Okay, so she’d given up her spare bedroom - big deal. It wasn’t like she was using it for any great purpose other than to store a hundred pairs of shoes to go along with the other hundred in her walk-in closet.
She needed to do more. Samantha needed a man - a sexy, big, hulking, and capable of protecting her sort of man. Ryan Terell.
She could definitely see why Samantha liked him, and she did like him. Hannah knew it. All the excuses were a typical Samantha roadblock used to keep people at a distance. Ryan was the opposite, using a string of women to keep his heart safe. She knew the type well. In fact, Hannah could be a female Ryan when it came to love.
But the latest news from the gossip pages had been quiet in regards to his dating habits. Hannah remembered him from a couple of parties and bars. He was quite the playboy in his day, but she had a feeling those days were over. She’d have to ask around to be sure.
Even if it didn’t last, at least Samantha would be distracted from her past. But what if Ryan broke her heart? That could be even more devastating than a gun at your head. And Hannah knew Samantha had already lived through that.
Chapter 3
Samantha bought a diet soda from the machine in the hallway and headed for her desk. She popped the top as she sat down. After taking a long drink she began writing her piece about Sunday’s upcoming game.
“What kind of sportswriter are you? We drink coffee around here, not wimpy diet drinks.” Mike Burry, her editor, leaned against the wall of the cubicle. His suit drooped over his lean frame, his clashing tie wasn’t even tied, and his shoes were one step away from the garbage can.
Samantha leaned back in the chair, smiling up at her new boss. “Coffee? And here I was expecting beer on tap.”
“I can see you’ll fit in. You’re Jameson’s daughter through and through.”
She should be used to living in the shadow of her father’s legacy. You’d think after writing hard news for years the guys in the industry would cut her some slack. But no, she’d always be known as Jerry Jameson’s little girl. “Yup, I’m a chip off the old block.”
“What are you working on?”
“I just got back from interviewing Coach Tucker about his game plan for Sunday.”
“How did you get him so early?’
“I know where he eats breakfast.”
“And he let you interview him?”
“I paid or rather you did.” She opened her purse and handed him the receipt. Samantha gave him a questioning look as he crumpled the receipt and shot it toward the garbage can like he was Michael Jordan. He missed.
“Did you ask him if Miller’s ankle injury will stop him from playing?”
“I asked, he didn’t answer. You’d think it was a national secret.”
“Yeah, you’ll find coaches are as tight lipped as the military. Um…if you need anything my door is always open.” Mike hurried away, probably thinking the word military would remind her of Iraq and she’d freak out.
Samantha shook her head and picked up the story where she’d left off and the words flowed onto the screen. Her muse had come out of hiding. No more reporting on gunfire, car bombings, and hijackings--especially her own! Nope, all she had to do was creatively use football terms and her linguistic skills to describe a game. Piece of cake.
Finishing her article, she lifted the soda to her lips and almost choked in mid gulp when she heard Ryan’s voice.
“Now that would make for a great commercial,” he said.
She pulled the can away from her lips, sloshing a drop on her blouse. Was the sudden churning in her stomach from the soda or his heated gaze?
He wore a gray linen suit, a crisp pink shirt, and a tie in a swirl of pink and gray. That was a brave choice. It took a real man to wear pink. And Ryan was certainly all man. Unlike Mike’s one-size fits all suit, Ryan’s fit as if it were created just for him, which it probably was. The man obviously couldn’t buy off the rack.
Damn, he looked good. Big men in suits normally resembled apes forced into straight-jackets, but there he stood looking like he stepped off the cover of GQ, ready to take on the world. Or her.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.
“About as long as it took you to give me the once over.”
Samantha blushed. “I’ve never seen you in a suit before.” Good cover, girl, and it’s not even a lie.
“And you like what you see.” His lips curved into a devastating smile.
“The suit is nice. Who’s the designer?”
“It’s not the clothes you’re checking out and you know it.” He leaned over, his fist resting on the desk.
She did know it, but wasn’t about to admit that fact to him. God, he was full of himself, cocky even. Cocky? She must not use that word again. Maybe, he hadn’t changed at all. “What are you doing here?”
“If you’re not going to return my calls, what else can I do?”
“Take a hint and leave me alone.”
Ignoring her answer, Ryan sat on the corner of the desk. She took her gaze off his well-muscled thigh and stared at the monitor, pretending to be deep in thought.
“Don’t you even want to know why I called?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. Your curiosity is killing you right now. It’s the reporter in you. But I won’t keep you in suspense. Your brother wants us to have lunch with him at your father’s pub.” He raised his hands. “See, nothing sinister.”
“A friendly lunch with you, my brother, and my father? Sounds sinister to me.”
“Ah, a reporter’s suspicious nature. A conspiracy theory around every corner.” Ryan wiggled his fingers in a spooky manner.
“If the gossip columnists got wind of it--”
“Samantha, we all went to college together. I’m still good friends with your family. It would look weird if we didn’t go to lunch.”
“You think so? Well, don’t blame me if they turn our little get together into something else. Before we know it, we’ll have an illegitimate child from our college days.”
“That’s not fair. We didn’t even have sex.”
She laughed and then, remembering where she was, glanced around the room. A few of her colleagues took notice. She needed to get him out of here. Fast. “What time are we supposed to meet him?”
“Around two.”
Samantha checked the clock on the wall. “It’s one now, so I’ll see you over there.”
“I’ll meet you out front in forty-five minutes.”
“Do you ever listen to what I say?”
“I listen, but I don’t want your brother on my case for letting you take the subway over. So, you’re stuck with me.”
“Is that what this is? My big brother told you to watch out for me, didn’t he?”
“No one tells me to do anything. Besides, I’d watch you anyway.” Ryan winked and smiled, showing off his glistening white teeth, reminding her of a wolf. She felt like a quivering rabbit caught in his sights. Well, that confirmed it. The bubbling in her stomach was definitely not from the soda.
Samantha scanned the room as he left, glad that everyone had lost interest or at least they were pretending to. Just like me. She could feign indifference all she wanted, but the truth was he made it impossible to dismiss him, impossible not to want him. She’d need a string of performances worthy of Meryl Streep to keep everyone fooled.
Thousands of miles of distance should’ve cured her of him. At the very least, ten years of growing up - becoming a woman of the world - ought to have rid her of puppy-love teenager syndrome. Or maybe it was something much worse like Ryanitis. Like the cold, but deadlier.
Ryanitis: obsession with tall, dark, and handsome football players named Ryan. No known cure.
There had to be other females inflicted with the illness. Maybe there was even a support group. In a way there was - his fan club. She laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny over there, Jameson?” A deep, gravelly voice filtered over the cubicle.
“Just laughing at myself,” she said.
“They said you might crack up.”
Samantha stood up sharply and looked over the half wall. The voice belonged to an old timer who covered boxing. An unlit cigar hung from the corner of his mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you lost more than your edge in Iraq.”
“Yeah, what would you know about it?”
“I covered Vietnam.”
Samantha looked down at the balding hard-nosed man and tried to picture him as an eager, young reporter. It was hard to do. His eyes wore the same haunted look she saw in the mirror before she went to bed at night and woke up to in the morning. But he survived; all these years later he was still working, when most men had settled into nursing homes. Maybe he knew how to deal with the nightmares. Some nugget of wisdom that eluded her. “Got any advice?”
He pulled his desk draw open and a pint of Jack Daniels lay neatly inside. “Alcohol.”
“Thanks.” Samantha sat back down as she heard the drawer close. Alcohol wouldn’t wash away what happened. Not for long anyway. If the nightmares, like the one she had last night, were her penance for her actions in Iraq, then so be it. She deserved nothing less.
She had to keep busy and concentrate on other things, like planning the payback she owed Ryan for yesterday’s fiasco with the guards. Like shaving cream in his cleats. No, that would mark her an amateur. Bengay in his jock strap? An evil smile briefly lit her face, but no, she really didn’t want to damage the goods. Besides, it’s been done before. She needed something big, bold, and never attempted. Then it came to her. Yup, payback was a bitch.
***
Ryan casually leaned against his 328I. The traffic buzzed behind him as he waited for Samantha. Maybe he should have taken the Porsche. Or the Hummer. Or the Harley. Nah, the Harley wouldn’t impress her. In fact, he’d probably get a lecture on the dangers of motorcycles. He looked at his watch when she emerged from the building. Exactly forty-five minutes. He couldn’t help but smile as she approached. He held the car door open for her. “Hey, babe.” She scowled at him and slid into the seat. Note to self: Don’t call her babe. He quickly got in on the driver’s side, and started the engine.
“Nice car.”
“Thanks, but--”
Samantha started playing with some of the buttons on the dash.
“What does this one do?”
“Don’t touch it.”
“Oh my God, you’re not of those guys who’s obsessed with their cars are you? Should I take off my shoes?”
“You can take off anything you like. But that button is the ejector seat.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah, I am. But that would be cool, wouldn’t it?”
“Way cool.” She rolled her eyes like it was anything but. “So why can’t I touch it?”
“It’s a nitro booster.”
“Men.”
An awkward silence followed.
“So who’s Hannah?”
“Oh, the answering machine? She’s my roommate. You probably know her, Hannah Hahn.”
“The model?”
“Yup.”
Ryan let out a whistle. “Only know of her. Jake would probably give up Sunday’s game plan for a date with her.”
“Really? Good to know. But not you?”
“Nah, I’m a rock. How did the two of you end up roommates?”
“We went to high school together. When I got back she offered me a room. Since I wasn’t up to staying with my parents or dealing with finding an apartment on my own, it worked out well.”
Ryan wanted to take the sudden lost look in Samantha’s eyes and replace it with happiness. He parked in a garage a block away from the pub and got out of the car, but before he could reach the passenger door Samantha was already stepping out. Cheated out of an excuse to touch her, he gritted his teeth and fell into step beside her. They walked silently until they reached the storefront.
Jameson’s Bar etched in gold block letters arched across the middle of the window, with illustrated pots of gold at the four corners.
Samantha groaned. “This is so embarrassing. I come from a stereotypical Irish-American family.”
“How’s that?”
She pointed her finger at the window as evidence. “Come on. You know Mom still crochets those lace doilies and goes to church every day. Two brothers and two sisters. One brother is a fireman, the other a cop, one sister is a teacher and the other a nun. A nun!”
Ryan started to laugh.
“You think this is funny?” But she started to giggle. “And that’s not all! Look at all the kids my brothers and sisters have. We could start our own country.”
Ryan stopped laughing. “You don’t like kids?”
“I love kids. I just don’t want a brood of them. Come to think of it, it’s probably why I’m not married yet - delay the baby making process as long as possible, that way I end up with only one or two.”
“You’re not married yet because you’re waiting for me to come to my senses,” he said in a joking manner but deep down he was serious.
“Well, if that’s the case, I might as well join my sister in the convent,” she bantered back.
“Or there’s always that lesbian thing.”
“How could I forget?”
Ryan cracked a smile and opened the carved oak door, touching the small of her back as she walked by him. The contact sent a jolt through his body. His hand itched to trace along her delicate spine to the back of her neck. Maybe it was better if he didn’t touch her, yet he couldn’t seem to let go.
Ryan stood a moment admiring Mr. Jameson’s renovations. The polished oak bar and the gleaming brass step rail took up most of the space. The walls were painted green with pictures of famous Irish-Americans hanging as some sort of hall of fame. President Kennedy’s photo was centered in the middle.
With Guinness, Killians, and Budweiser taps on display, Ryan suspected there wasn’t a Canadian or German beer to be had. With his hand still on the small of her back, he felt Samantha stiffen. Only then he recognized several sportswriters sitting at the bar.
Her father came forward. “There you are.”
Ryan shook his hand, thinking about Samantha’s run down on her family history. There was no mistaking Mr. Jameson’s heritage with his ruddy complexion and shock of red hair.
Mr. Jameson turned toward his buddies who were involved in bar-stool debates. The soccer game on the 50-inch television served as background noise. “You all know my daughter, Samantha. And of course, you know Terrell. They both went to Notre Dame.”
There was a general mumbling of yeahs and several of the men lifted a pint before downing the contents. Samantha’s father showed them to a table and handed them menus. “Patrick called and said he’d be late.”
“Aren’t you sitting with us?”
“I will after I put the orders in.”
Ryan could tell by Samantha’s tight expression as she read the menu that she didn’t want to be alone with him.
“I’ll have the Blarney Burger. God, I can’t believe I said that.” Samantha shook her head as she handed the menu over to her father.
Ryan’s mouth watered. What he wouldn’t do for a burger or a steak. His diet consisted of egg whites, salad, and chicken. He was sick of it already and the season wasn’t even half over. Ryan needed to stay at four percent body fat to compete with all the new talent invading the league or maybe he was just getting old. But he couldn’t sit there and watch Samantha eat a juicy burger. It would be torture. He’d want to lick the juices off her lips. The combination might send him over the edge.
“Ryan?”
“What?” He straightened in his chair when he realized he’d been staring at Samantha.
“My daughter is not on the menu.”
He might have to deny himself the taste of her, but that didn’t mean he had to deny himself the taste of red meat. Screw the game on Sunday. Men needed red meat. It was a genetic thing, traced back to cavemen. Besides, he convinced himself, he wouldn’t be concentrating on her mouth if he was engrossed in his own food. “Sorry, Mr. Jameson. I’ll have the Clooney Burger with the Claddaugh Onion Rings.”
“Good choice.” Mr. Jameson took the menus and disappeared into the back.
Ryan relaxed, but said, “This was a bad idea.”
“Told you so.”
He put his elbow on the table and looked at her. “You didn’t strike me as the ‘I told you so’ type.”
Samantha grinned. “That’s because you bring it out of me or maybe it’s because you deserved it.”
The light was back in her eyes. Maybe, this wasn’t a bad idea. He loved seeing her smile, she didn’t do it often enough, remembering her as always so serious, so controlled. The outfit she had on reflected this. Black, boxy, with no style. He wanted to strip each piece away and find the real Samantha.
“Did you notice that all the dishes are named after something Irish?”
“Couldn’t miss it, but the desserts are named after you and your sisters.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not. And when your father said you weren’t on the menu, I was going to ask about the dessert, but thought I’d better not go there.”
“So over the past ten years you’ve developed some common sense.”
“I’ve developed in other areas too.”
Samantha raised her eyebrow.
“Now get your mind out of the gutter. Besides, I was always well developed in that department.”
“Can we please change the subject? What is my dessert called?”
“Sweet Samantha.”
“Fathers! Do I look sweet to you?”
Ryan leaned over and whispered, “Sweet, no. Hot, yes. But it’s how you taste that matters.” He couldn’t help but drop his gaze to her lips. Then he felt a strong hand on his shoulder and Ryan cringed at the sound of her brother’s voice.
“My Dad asked you two here to diffuse any rumors and instead you’re fueling them.” Patrick pulled up a chair and wedged himself between them. “How’s my baby sister?”
“Good. How’s my pain in the ass brother?’
Ryan watched them as they exchanged playful banter. Samantha may complain about her big family, but he couldn’t help feeling envious. He grew up in foster care without anyone to care for him, without anyone for him to care about. Instead of playful skirmishes between siblings he fought battles with uncaring foster parents and kids who were as troubled as he was.
If it wasn’t for Samantha’s father touting him as the next Jerry Rice, he would’ve gotten lost in the system. Scouts showed up at his high school games and he ended up with more offers than he ever dreamed of. Mr. Jameson helped him decide on Notre Dame, where his son was also attending. Patrick and Ryan roomed together, becoming friends in the time it took for a hundred yard dash. His foster parents lost interest once they lost the quarterly check they received for his care so during college he spent holidays with the Jameson’s. He owed Samantha’s family. Big time.
The food came and Samantha’s father sat down across from Ryan. The conversation revolved around family items, so Ryan bit into his burger. He nearly cried. Yes, real men need red meat.
“Now, what’s this stuff about lesbians?”
Ryan nearly choked at Mr. Jameson’s query.
Samantha pointed her fork at Ryan. “See what you’ve done?”
How was he going to explain his actions? With the truth. Ryan took a deep breath. “Mr. Jameson, you know how it is in there. Better me arranging her initiation than someone else. Who knows what they could’ve dreamed up? And she did great. I think the guys accepted her.”
Samantha’s father settled back into his seat. “Makes sense. Just make sure you keep watching out for our girl.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Samantha’s silverware clanked on her plate. “I can take care of myself. I’m not a girl and I am not a lesbian.”
Her father patted her hand. “You’ll always be my little girl and I would love you even if you were a lesbian.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Samantha’s gaze turned towards Ryan. “Payback is going to be so sweet.”
His burger suddenly tasted like the leather on a football. Why couldn’t she understand that what he did was for her own good? He loved his teammates, at least most of them, but they could be real jerks. The added bonus of them thinking she was a lesbian meant he wouldn’t have to kill any teammates who made a move on her. That is, if they believed her.
Lunch was devoured as they talked football and the upcoming game. Of course, he had to reign in his mouth before revealing any information that Samantha could use in a story. She was a reporter, through and through.
Samantha knew her football, which wasn’t surprising as she grew up with a sportswriter father and two brothers who played. But that she was up to date on the latest stats despite being out of the country for several years - that was surprising.
“I’ve gotta go,” said Samantha.
Ryan went to get up. “I’ll drive you back.”
Samantha put her hand on his shoulder. “No, it’s better that I leave alone.”
Patrick piped in, “Let me drive you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Her father said, “We want to make sure you’re safe.”
“Dad, if I can navigate downtown Baghdad then I can certainly find my way around New York City. It’s the rural areas you have to worry about.”
She spoke lightly but Ryan noted that her eyes remained flat. He shifted in his seat with disappointment as her hand left his shoulder and bestowed a kiss on her father’s cheek and then one on Patrick’s. It’s not like he expected a kiss. Besides he didn’t want a sisterly peck. He wanted a kiss that was ten years in the making.
“Bye, Ryan,” she said nervously.
Ryan’s eyes followed her gaze to her fellow colleagues still sitting at the bar. Is this what sportswriters did when they weren’t at one of the practices or a game? No wonder Mr. Jameson opened up a bar, he had a built in clientele with all his old buddies. He took a quick look at the door as Samantha left. His gaze rounded back to Patrick. He knew that look. Oh boy, here we go.
“Samantha’s been through a lot. I know you like her and--”
“What gave you that idea?” Ryan asked. First Jake and now Patrick. Did he wear sign? If so, why didn’t Samantha see it?
“You think a big brother can’t tell when a guy is on the make for his baby sister?”
“Patrick, I never--”
“I know, I know, which is the only reason why you’re still alive.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Remember, I have a license to carry a gun.”
“Hey, you’re the one who invited us here. What’s up with that?”
“Dad heard rumors about you two.”
Ryan’s gaze narrowed. “Who from?” he asked calmly, which was a miracle because at that very moment he was planning the serious ass kicking he was going to dole out.
“That’s not important,” said Mr. Jameson.
“The hell it is,” countered Ryan, his calm slipping away.
“It’s crucial you two remain professional, maybe friends, but nothing more,” Mr. Jameson said. “Besides, she’s not ready for anything more.”
Professional. Friends. But Ryan knew the score. Sure, they were concerned for Samantha’s career and more importantly her mental health. But it was more than that. Her family didn’t think he was good enough. And he couldn’t blame them either, because he thought it too. If he had a sister he wouldn’t let her date a guy like him. In fact, the guy’s ass would’ve already been whooped. “Don’t worry, I understand. Hands off.”
“You’ll still look after her? Make sure none of the guys give her a hard time?”
Good enough to be their watchdog, but not good enough to be part of the family. Ryan’s hand tightened around his glass. “Of course.” He got up quickly and pulled a twenty from his wallet. “I worry about her too,” he admitted. They all looked to her barely touched plate.
“Lunch is on me,” Mr. Jameson said.
“I pay my own way.” He turned and walked out of the bar without saying a goodbye. He pressed the unlock button on the remote as Patrick caught up with him.
“What was that all about?”
“I’ll be your watchdog for now. But don’t expect me to roll over and play dead.”
“As far as my sister is concerned, there is one part of your anatomy that better play dead.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Ryan climbed into his car and closed the door. He shook his head in disgust. When it came to Samantha, that part of his anatomy didn’t understand the command ‘play dead’. Her scent still lingered in the air. Breathing in the light ocean fragrance, his promise to her brother already seemed a distant memory.
***
Back at her cubicle, Samantha’s mind was not on touchdowns and passes where it should be. Never in all the years of reporting had she been unable to concentrate on the story at hand. Never.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the almost kiss. He wanted to kiss her; she knew it when his gaze had zeroed in on her lips. And she would have let him. That’s what the man did to her. She would have forgotten about their audience, her father, her job, and her heart. Luckily Patrick showed up, otherwise her father’s misguided attempt to ‘defuse’ would have blown up in their faces. Then again, if her family would butt out, she wouldn’t have been in this predicament to begin with.
Samantha had to face facts. Even though she was a hard-nosed reporter who had reported from the worst areas of the world, she would always be the baby. She would be worried over, coddled. Like today. Like all her life.
She loved her family, she truly did, but their love suffocated her. So she ran to the far corners of the globe to make a name for herself. Not to be Jerry Jameson’s little girl, because if she had stayed in sports like her father expected, that’s what she would’ve been. Every time she returned, she fell right back into the role they had given her and then she would run again to another hot story.
But she didn’t want to run anymore. She was so tired.
“Trading a little afternoon delight with Terrell for a story?” interrupted Laura, the only other female sportswriter on staff.
Samantha took a deep breath. She really didn’t expect this from a female colleague. Shouldn’t they be sticking together? “I never traded anything, let alone sex, to get a story.” She tilted her head. “Have you?”
“No.” Shame clouded the woman’s face. “I didn’t mean to be snotty. Us gals work hard to be taken seriously and all it takes is just one screw up for us all to go down.”
“Understood. But Terrell is an old friend of the family.” Maybe she should make some sort of announcement to the whole world. Extra. Extra. Read all about it.