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Playing for Kicks
Playing for Kicks
Playing for Kicks
Ebook543 pages8 hours

Playing for Kicks

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Sean Decker takes pride in his reputation as the best kicker in the league. His other reputation—for falling in love with every girl he meets—is more of an urban legend. Sure, he likes women, but he just wants to meet a nice one and settle down, especially since his latest hookup has gone all kinds of wrong. If he can just extricate himself from that suffocating mess, he swears to learn from it. And when he meets the blend of fresh air and independence that is Tess Colby, he knows she’s the one to help him.

Tess has no interest in being Sean’s latest conquest. Not only has she heard the rumors, but she’s focused on making the jump from bartender to sportswriter. In exchange for an interview, she’s willing to give him the same in-depth advice she always gives brokenhearted guys across the bar. But date him? No way.

Sean claims he doesn’t want to date. Just hang out. Although for some reason, his definition of hanging out includes kissing. It’s fun, but Tess knows she needs to stay strong. Not just for her own sake, but maybe for the kicker’s, too.

About the Author:

Kate Donovan is a Niners fan, a wife, a mother, a lawyer, and an author. She has more than thirty books and novels to her credit, publishing in genres including fantasy, historical romance, legal thriller, romantic suspense, and young adult science fiction. Playing for Kicks is the fourth book in her Play Makers series, following Playing for Keeps, Play Date, and Power Play.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 26, 2016
ISBN9781940846743
Playing for Kicks
Author

Kate Donovan

Kate was born in Newark, Ohio, and lived there until age nine when her family moved to Barrington, Rhode Island. They moved again to California just in time for Kate to attend college in Berkeley, which is where she met her husband-to-be, Paul. Kate and Paul attended law school together and settled down in Sacramento to raise a family: son Paul Michl; daughter Amanda; Murphy the trusty (if tiny) watchdog; and Scooter the cat/hunter. They all live in Elk Grove now, and Kate divides her time between her day job as an attorney for the state of California and her writing. When she's not writing, she hangs out with her family in the vicinity of the TV, reads or cooks the many Mexican recipes handed down to her by her late mother-in-law. Kate loves to hear from readers. You can reach her by email at katedonovan@hotmail.com

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Rating: 4.45 out of 5 stars
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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is a series worth reading, a little bit of everything in it. Loved it!
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    Love this authors work.Her characters are very cool and the storylines just make you laugh really.Looking forward to reading this series.
    Thanks Kate Donovan your an author whose books make this world a happy place for your readers.

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Playing for Kicks - Kate Donovan

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Playing for Kicks

Sean Decker takes pride in his reputation as the best kicker in the league. His other reputation—for falling in love with every girl he meets—is more of an urban legend. Sure, he likes women, but he just wants to meet a nice one and settle down, especially since his latest hookup has gone all kinds of wrong. If he can just extricate himself from that suffocating mess, he swears to learn from it. And when he meets the blend of fresh air and independence that is Tess Colby, he knows she’s the one to help him.

Tess has no interest in being Sean’s latest conquest. Not only has she heard the rumors, but she’s focused on making the jump from bartender to sportswriter. In exchange for an interview, she’s willing to give him the same in-depth advice she always gives brokenhearted guys across the bar. But date him? No way.

Sean claims he doesn’t want to date. Just hang out. Although for some reason, his definition of hanging out includes kissing. It’s fun, but Tess knows she needs to stay strong. Not just for her own sake, but maybe for the kicker’s, too.

Title Page

Copyright

Playing for Kicks

Kate Donovan

Copyright © 2016 by Kate Donovan

Material excerpted from Play by Play copyright © 2013 by Kate Donovan

Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

Beyond the Page Books

are published by

Beyond the Page Publishing

www.beyondthepagepub.com

ISBN: 978-1-940846-74-3

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedication

This story is dedicated to Glenn Frey

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Excerpt from Play by Play

The Play Makers Series

Books by Kate Donovan

About the Author

Prologue

As Tess Colby surveyed her domain for possibly the last time, she wondered if she could really leave it all behind. Sure, it was just a sports bar in the Pacific Northwest, but she had spent three great years here. Helped it grow from a modest watering hole to a thriving hot spot where regular guys—yum—and celebrities—double yum—gathered.

Of course, her new career as a sports journalist would be fun, too, assuming she didn’t crash and burn.

Hey, Colbee, a familiar voice greeted her, and she turned to one of her favorite regulars.

Bobby! We were afraid you wouldn’t show.

To her delight, he wasn’t alone. And unless she missed her guess, the pretty woman with him was the famous Jenny—a co-worker he had been whispering to Tess about for months.

Confirming that suspicion, Bobby said proudly, This is Jenny. The girl I told you about. Jenny, this is Colbee. The best bartender in the world.

Jenny’s nose wrinkled. You told her about me?

Huh? The poor guy’s face fell. No, not really. Just that—you know—you’re so nice.

Tess wanted to rescue him but didn’t really have a fix on Jenny yet. Was she actually pissed? Or just embarrassed?

As a bartender, Tess could read men pretty well, but women? That was above her pay grade.

Jenny’s suspicious brown eyes dipped to Tess’s chest, either to confirm her name, which was stitched in blue thread on her white T-shirt, or to evaluate the cleavage. Luckily, Tess had chosen this modest scoop neck to be attractive to guys while also assuring girlfriends, wives, and assorted other female patrons that Colbee didn’t date her customers. She just wanted to show them a good time, platonically speaking, and send them on their way. She even wore her blonde hair in a ponytail to reinforce the girl-next-door image.

Totally harmless.

It’s such a relief to meet you, Jenny, she tried carefully as she filled an order for one of the waitresses. I almost gave up hope seeing you before my last day here.

You’re leaving?

Tess laughed at the hopeful tone. "That’s the rumor. But I’ll miss these guys. They’re all so adorable, right? I’m madly in love with all of them, but let’s face it. Ever since you and Bobby pulled that all-nighter on the Simmons account, his heart belongs to you and you alone."

Jenny’s annoyance faded as she turned back to Bobby. You told her about that? You saved my job that night.

"I wouldn’t want to work there if you weren’t there, he assured her huskily. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long amorous moment, then he told Tess, We’re on our way to that French place you recommended. I just wanted her to meet you. And you keep saying you’re leaving, so I figured we’d better do it soon."

Before Tess could respond, a chorus of rabid cheers went up from the far side of the circular bar. Laughing, she said, I guess we scored. I’d better get over there so I can take credit.

"You always get credit, Bobby said with a grin. You’re our lucky charm."

Jenny eyed him curiously. Do you want to stay and watch the game?

Huh? No way. I’ve been planning this date for weeks. But . . . He glanced sideways at Tess as though seeking advice. I could just check on the score if you girls don’t mind.

Go, Jenny told him. I want to talk to Colbee anyway.

Two minutes, he promised, but only after Tess gave him a slight nod to confirm it wasn’t a bonehead move. She could see he wanted to do something affectionate with Jenny—squeeze her arm, peck her cheek, drag her into a corner and make babies—but he settled for smiling wistfully then slinking away.

After serving one of her regulars his regular—Scotch neat—she told Jenny, "We love Bobby so much. Please tell me you’ve got a huge crush on him."

For months, she admitted. I’ve been dropping hints, but he’s so shy. Plus he’s worried because I’m his supervisor and he doesn’t want to get me in trouble.

Not a real supervisor though. Just team leader, right?

"Wow, he really does tell you everything."

Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. She’s so beautiful. She’s so smart. She’s so funny. Blah blah blah. Tess flashed a teasing smile. Thank God you’re real.

Jenny blushed, then asked carefully, He comes here a lot, right? I mean, practically every night?

Probably twice a week year-round, but more during football season. He hangs with a really sweet group of guys. They have a couple of beers, crack jokes, and make five-dollar bets. Male bonding at its best, trust me. Hesitating, because she didn’t want to mess things up for her friend, she said carefully, "If you want to see for yourself, come back on Sunday. Mariners versus Angels. There will be blood."

Will you be there, too? To keep me company?

I’ll make a point of it, Tess promised. And even if it’s not your cup of tea, I think you’ll be reassured. Plus I’ll give you the dirt on his buddies. I love them to death but what a bunch of losers. Oops, here comes Prince Charming. She beamed at Bobby as he walked back to them. Are we winning?

Tie score, but we have the momentum. He moved in close to his date as though confirming she was still there in the actual flesh. We should get going. Right, Jenn?

She smiled up at him and nodded.

Oh, my God, you guys are too adorable, Tess complained.

Then someone yelled, Hey, Colbee! and she spun toward the voice, laughing at the insistent tone.

Give me ten seconds and I’m yours, she called back.

The group of guys—all regulars, all great tippers—chuckled knowingly.

Then she turned back to the happy couple. Have fun at dinner, you two. No funny business, Bobby.

He laughed. I’ll try to restrain myself. If you’re not here next time, good luck with the new job.

I’ll be here Sunday. After that . . . She bit her tongue, so tempted to tell him she would be interviewing the reigning Super Bowl quarterback in less than twenty-four hours. But it was a little soon to count those chickens, wasn’t it? She had to get past the quarterback’s wife first, because apparently the great Johnny Spurling had a gatekeeper. Then she needed to write an entertaining article, sell it, and hope that someone, somewhere, read the darned thing.

So she settled for waving to the couple as they walked hand in hand to the exit. If her bartending career ended on this note, she’d never regret it. But in the meantime, five lusty males were calling for her, demanding that she officiate their latest arm-wrestling match.

But first she had to examine those big, strong muscles, didn’t she? Just to ensure it wasn’t too much of a mismatch?

And you’re giving all this up? You must be crazy . . .

Chapter One

Just be yourself. Meaning don’t be Colbee.

The thought made Tess smile as she waited for her first interview as a professional journalist. As much as she enjoyed her bartending persona, it was a bit over-the-top for a girl raised by well-behaved academics. Not that she hadn’t mouthed as a kid, but at least she had known how to act in public, especially around overachievers like Erica McCall-Spurling.

According to Tess’s research, Erica was a successful ad exec at the age of twenty-eight. And since the results were apparent—a halftime Super Bowl commercial for Lager Storm beer starring Erica’s then-future husband, Johnny Spurling—Tess was already a fan of the wife as well as the hunky quarterback.

Ms. Colby? Ms. McCall will see you now.

Great. Tess took a moment to let the McCall name register. Having always planned on keeping Colby as her last name when she married, she also knew she’d make an exception for a gorgeous guy like Johnny Spurling.

Tess Spurling.

It had a nice ring to it.

Apparently Erica McCall was made of steel.

Before Tess could reach the doorway, the new bride stepped into view, confirming in an instant why the Super Bowl winner had fallen so hard for her. Not just gorgeous and sophisticated in her charcoal gray suit, but wild, too, thanks to waves of dark hair cascading to her waist.

In the next life, Tess wanted to be this babe.

Tess? Erica offered her hand in welcome. "I’ve been dying to meet you. A philosophy major working in a sports bar? I can’t wait to hear that story. And please, she added as they entered a huge window office, ignore the mess. It’s been crazy around here lately."

Tess eyed the stacks of folders sympathetically. For a high-tech company, you still do it old-school?

Erica settled behind the desk and motioned for her guest to sit. I’m tactile, especially when I’m stressed. But they let me play with the new technology whenever I want. Remind me to show you later. Her tone grew conspiratorial. My West Coast office is here at Rorsch Enterprises. But Rorsch is just one of my clients. My biggest for sure, but I have a few others. Including Lager Storm—the beer Johnny made the ad for.

It’s so cool you can work in Portland to be near him.

Erica smiled. I’m supposed to spend every other week in New York but we’ve only been married for a few months, so it’s almost impossible to tear myself away.

Trust me, I’d never even get out of bed, Tess joked. Then she winced and insisted, I mean if I had this much work to do.

Erica’s laugh told her she knew exactly what Tess really meant: if she were married to a stud like Johnny Spurling, it would be clothing-optional all day long.

Thanks a lot, Colbee.

So, Tess, Erica said brightly. Tell me how you ended up at the University of Hawaii. You grew up in Connecticut according to Johnny’s agent.

Tess hesitated, then smoothed her ruffled black skirt to buy some time.

If only she had worn something less ridiculous, but she had assumed these creative types—not just Erica but the geeky brainiacs at Rorsch—would wear expressive, eclectic outfits. Instead it was either business suits or stone-washed jeans and corny T-shirts with Einstein slogans. Not only were Tess’s ruffles out of place, her red huarache sandals seemed more tacky than kitschy.

Time to redeem herself, so she answered Erica with a non-answer. "It’s a long story and you’re so busy. So shouldn’t I ask you about your career? Laughing, she admitted, Can you tell I’m new at this interviewing deal?"

You’re a natural. So tell me how you ended up in journalism. With bartending books, right? But tongue-in-cheek? I’m dying to read one.

Oh, Lord. Tess arched an eyebrow in warning. "They’re fine, but mostly for other bartenders. And lucky for me, some of the big bartending schools have included them on their reading lists, so ka-ching. But please don’t buy them. Save it for the sports article, although I’ll send you a complimentary copy, obviously."

Erica’s gray eyes danced. Johnny’s agent told us you want to write about sports celebrities and product endorsement. A subject dear to my heart. What’s your angle?

Tess sighed. Erica’s interviewing skills were clearly better than hers, so why not give her the lead? So she explained, "Working in a sports bar, I watch so many commercials. And I always wonder if the celebrities actually use the products they endorse. Does John Spurling drink Lager Storm beer? Does Alexi Romanov drive a Porsche? That sort of thing. She took a deep breath. So I mentioned it to my editor—whose name is Ed, believe it or not—and he told me his roommate from college was a sports agent and might be able to help. And the rest is history, because Mr. Murphy offered to hook me up with you and Johnny. Basically the Holy Grail. And he represents Alexi Romanov too, so I’ll be interviewing him in a few weeks. Hopefully in the backseat of a Porsche."

Mortified, she added quickly, "That was a joke. Oh, Lord . . ."

Luckily, Erica was laughing. "You’re so funny. And you’re right, Alexi will totally hit on you. And there’s someone else you should meet. He’s perfect for you because he’s in the process of deciding whether to endorse a product for the first time. So he’s wrestling with the same issues you’ll be exploring."

Tess felt her confidence returning. That would be amazing. Does Mr. Murphy represent him, too?

Erica nodded. It’s Sean Decker. Our team’s kicker, and one of Johnny’s best friends. Mine too.

Oh, my God, he’s so good, Tess gushed, remembering Decker’s stellar performance in the Super Bowl.

He’s the best. Not just as a player but as a great guy.

Is he as superstitious as they say? Tess wondered aloud. Or is that just PR stuff? Pancakes before every game is the rumor.

Erica grinned. He claims it isn’t superstition. Just ritual. But he’s pretty superstitious about that ritual.

Wow. Tess had been so hot to write the product-promo article. Now the superstition angle owned her heart. Maybe I could write about that too at some point. Thanks, Erica. You’re a gold mine.

To her surprise, the ad exec measured her next words carefully. "Sean’s a very private person, so I’ll need his permission before I tell you more. About the pancakes or the possible endorsement. But I’m sure he’ll agree."

Be sure to tell him I won’t print a word if he’s opposed to it. I mean . . . She flashed a hopeful smile. I love the superstition angle so I might pursue that anyway, but I can find other players. Especially in baseball, because I already know a few squirrels. So no worries either way.

Don’t give up on Sean, Erica protested, but the harsh ringing of her desk phone distracted her. Ugh, do you mind?

Are you kidding? I’m just grateful you worked me in at all.

Glad for the break, Tess tried to get her thoughts together while Erica took the call. For one thing, she needed to come up with better questions. And the prospect of interviewing Sean Decker was intriguing too. Most of all, she was hot to write an article about superstitious athletes, and Decker’s pancakes were the perfect lead-in.

Unfortunately, she was nosy by nature, and even though Erica had spun away in her chair, her frustrated tone couldn’t be missed. She was upset about something—business, not personal—so Tess assumed the interview was over.

Too bad you didn’t ask whether Johnny drinks Lager Storm beer in real life, she scolded herself. Wasn’t that the whole point?

Just as she was about to kick herself out the door, Erica ended the call, then grimaced in apology. Sorry, Tess. We just hit a roadblock with a client.

No problem, I’ll see myself out. And thanks again, Erica.

Wait! We’re not done. I just need to—well, regroup. Tilting her head to the side, she asked, Mind if I show you something?

I’m all eyes.

With an appreciative smile, Erica picked up a remote control, then gestured toward a large monitor in the corner. "So here’s the set-up. The client is a national jewelry chain and they want a Christmas advertisement. The traditional stuff—a tree, a pretty girl sitting on a stool, a handsome guy in a tux kneeling in front of her, and an engagement ring in a fancy box. All they wanted from us was a tag line. You know what that is, don’t you? They suggested ‘Diamonds are for Christmas’—pardon me while I puke—but they were supposedly open to better ideas. So here’s what we came up with."

As she activated the recording, a wonderland sprang to life. Snow falling amidst leafless white branches, and from those branches hung dozens of slender, sparkly bracelets, some with diamonds, some emeralds, some rubies. Just like icicles but a million times more breathtaking.

And apparently the attractive couple wandering among the gems agreed. The man’s face shone with love. The woman seemed mesmerized. Enchanted. Completely smitten.

And the tag line?

Dazzle her.

Tess stared in delight. It’s awesome. Are you saying the client had issues? Because to me it’s perfect.

The ad exec arched a frustrated eyebrow. "He’s willing to tolerate the icicles if we put a chair in the middle of them, and if the woman sits while the man kneels and proposes to her. And the tag line is—wait for it—Marriage is for Christmas. He sees that as proof he’s being flexible. Ugh."

Poor you, Tess murmured. "But you know how guys are. They like results. So what if you combine the two concepts? They’re wandering among the icicles, then the dude turns to the girl and pulls out a ring. And she’s sold. Then the tag line—hmmm, instead of Dazzle Her, it could be Merry Her. M-E-R-R-Y, right? Or . . . She retreated into her seat, hoping to seem invisible. Don’t mind me. I just like the shiny stuff."

In a hushed tone, Erica insisted, "I love it. Love, love, love it. And you’re right. He wants results. How did you know that?"

It’s a gift, Tess said with a nervous laugh. Plus I work with drunk men, so there’s that.

"Merry her? It’s so transformative. Wow."

Tess smiled in relief. "We both know Dazzle Her is better. But men gotta be men, right?"

Erica’s euphoria evaporated into determination. We’ll see if it flies. If it does, we’ll pay you a consult fee.

Be serious! Your job is so much fun I’d do it for free.

Really? Because . . . She eyed Tess intently. I have some clout at my agency these days. So if you’d like to try your hand at it. As an intern, I mean. The money’s not good to start, but my instincts tell me you’ll blow the doors off the place.

Me? I was just kidding. It’s in an office, right? I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to that. But thanks, she added sincerely as she scooped up her purse and briefcase. You’ve been great, Erica.

Where are you going? Don’t you have questions? My afternoon just opened up, she insisted, leaning back in her chair with a broad smile. Ask me anything.

Exhaling in relief at the second chance, Tess went for it. "Did you design the Lager Storm ad first, then brainstorm athletes to play the role of the stand-up guy? Or did you design it for Johnny from the start? Because that’s how it seems. Like it was made to order. Oh, and how did his dad react? He always said Spurlings don’t do product endorsement, so shit meets fan, right? And does Johnny actually drink Lager Storm? For pleasure?"

Whoa, Erica said, laughing. "Let’s start with the most important thing. He insisted on tasting the product before he would endorse it. And he liked it so much, we stock it at our house. He would never endorse something he didn’t believe in."

Tess’s pulse raced. "And that’s the point, right? He’s the ultimate stand-up guy. Pure integrity. That’s the guy in your commercial. And you designed it for him, right?"

Even though I hadn’t met him yet, Erica agreed. I was a huge fan of his since college. And you’re right, when Lager Storm came calling, I knew Johnny was the one, so I built the campaign around him, then prayed I could talk him past his father’s objections. And I did.

Okay. Tess nodded slowly. "I won’t ask about the romantic parts, even though I’m dying to. But I would like to hear about the process. For my own edification. Do you film it like a movie? Was that his real voice? Were the other guys in the commercial his friends? That sort of thing."

Erica hesitated, then said, "Come to our house for dinner this Friday. Johnny’s at a clinic in Astoria for incoming college players, so he’s out of town until then. You can interview us both at the same time. And I’ll ask him to bring Sean Decker too, since they drove up together. Three interviews for the price of one. You can’t beat that, can you?"

Stunned, Tess forced herself to respond without gushing. Just tell me where and when. Mr. Murphy’s letting me use his suite at the Ashton Hotel this week, so I’ll still be in town. As long as I wrap things up by Sunday morning, because I’m working a shift in Seattle that afternoon.

You’re still tending bar?

Not for long, Tess assured her. It’s too much of a grind, since my shifts last until midnight and I’m not much of a morning person, so I never have time to write. Plus, she said with a rueful laugh, it’ll make my father happy since he thinks I’m surrounded by rape-y drunks day and night.

"That was my first reaction, too, Erica admitted. You’re so pretty, you must get tons of unwanted attention. Doesn’t it scare you?"

It’s nothing like that, Tess murmured, discouraged that everyone saw her as such a victim. "For one thing, our bouncer is the best. Not only can he throttle any guy on the planet with one hand behind his back, but he’s got ESP. All a perv has to do is think about touching me and he’s out on his ass. Dropping the playful tone, she insisted, Sports bars are different than the hard-core kind. My customers are nice guys who would never take advantage. And they’d protect me if some random creep tried anything. It’s why I love sports fans. They’re the reason I’m branching out into sports writing. To sing their praises."

Wait until you meet Sean Decker, Erica said breathlessly. He’s that guy for sure. And so is Johnny, obviously. They’re gonna love you, Tess.

Great. She stood and smiled. Friday night? Thanks again, Erica. You’re awesome. And I promise I’ll wear something better than this. In other words, no ruffles.

You look adorable, Erica assured her as she got up and walked around the desk. But we’re casual at our house, so wear shorts and a T-shirt, okay? Or better still, I’ll supply a Lancers jersey for you. Subliminal advertising, right?

Tess nodded happily.

I’ll text you the directions. Just call from the gate and I’ll buzz you in. Let’s say six thirty. So we can have drinks first.

I can’t wait to meet your husband. I’m such a fan.

And you’ll love Sean too. He’s private, so he doesn’t get as much publicity, but he’s darling. Gorgeous green eyes, a smile that could melt your heart, and a laid-back attitude that puts you right at ease.

Oh, no. Tess stared in dismay. Is this a fix-up?

Is that how it sounded? Erica laughed. Sorry, I just love him so much I guess it shows. But he already has a girlfriend if that’s what you’re asking.

Whew! Tess flashed an apologetic smile. "I see so many blind dates at the bar, and they always go wrong. So I’m gun shy."

I’m not a fan of them either, Erica assured her. Even though I’m sure there are exceptions.

"I’m sure there are, but blech. Not for me." Extending her hand to shake Erica’s, she was pleased when the ad exec gave her a loose hug instead and then walked her to the door, where a harried secretary was lying in wait with a list of urgent messages.

See you Friday, Erica said briskly. If you need anything in the meantime, just call. Promise?

I promise, Tess assured her. See you Friday.

• • •

When Erica McCall-Spurling returned to her desk, she tucked the list of messages from her secretary into her pencil drawer, then sat back, surprised by her own audacity. Setting up a blind date for Sean? He was practically engaged! Spoken for. Completely off the market.

But Tess Colby was perfect for him. Like the proverbial breath of fresh air. Charming, non-threatening, subversively sexy. Sweet but not too sweet with her honey-colored hair and huge blue eyes. She would make him laugh, draw him out of his funk, remind him how much fun he used to have with normal females. How much fun he could have again.

You’re going to hell, she warned herself. "He has a fiancée. What on earth is your plan? That he’ll dump Kerrie? He’d never do that. He’s too loyal."

But Tess was unbelievably cute. Didn’t that create a cosmic loophole?

Despite her cringing, Erica couldn’t feel too guilty. She had tried to accept Kerrie. To include her in their group. She actually liked the woman. Felt sorry for her. Hoped she’d find the right guy someday. But Sean wasn’t that guy and the relationship was destroying him before their eyes. Gutting him. Ruining the best years of his life.

Still, Johnny would be shocked. Not that he approved of Kerrie either—far from it—but he believed in staying out of other people’s business. Except, of course, this wasn’t other people, it was Sean. Wasn’t that another loophole?

You can deal with Johnny, she decided. He’ll give you a lecture, but halfway through . . .

The prospect made her flush. Even when he tried to take a stand on something, he got distracted by their chemistry. And since she was just as susceptible, she sympathized, and almost never took advantage of it.

Except for a good cause.

The bigger danger was that Sean himself would catch on and get defensive on Kerrie’s behalf. But Erica would be subtle, so with any luck, he would just be reminded—subconsciously—that he didn’t thrive on melodrama like Kerrie did. He needed someone calmer. Mellower. Playful but not manically so. Someone who wanted to wander through a winter landscape of dazzling icicles with him.

But if he does realize it’s a set-up, he’ll be furious, she warned herself. Then he’ll never break up with her and it’ll all be your fault.

That would be terrible, but the alternative—sitting by silently while he ruined his life—was worse. And it wasn’t like she expected him to marry Tess Colby. Just to see the possibilities he would be throwing away if he married Kerrie. He had painted himself into a corner with her, but it wasn’t over yet, was it?

It’s a Hail Mary pass, she decided with grim determination. Two seconds left in the game, fourth down, we’re on the fifty yard line, losing by five, but damn if we won’t at least try to make one last play.

• • •

Thanks to sports agent Patrick Murphy, a man she had never met but whom she definitely wanted to marry, Tess had the use of a fancy hotel suite in downtown Portland for the entire week. Rushing back there after interviewing Erica, she buried herself in more and better research, not just about the Spurlings but about Sean Decker, super kicker.

As much as she loved her original idea for an article, she would have ditched it in favor of writing about superstitious athletes if she hadn’t made a commitment to Ed the editor, who was sure he could market the advertising piece based on the success of her previous stories about tending bar in sports establishments. Not that she had made much money on those, or caused a ripple in the literary world, but the anecdotes had earned some hilarious feedback from other bartenders, some of whom in turn recommended them to die-hard customers.

To Tess, that made sense since her shtick was based almost completely on observing sports fans in their natural habitat. Sure, she knew how to mix a great drink, but she earned outrageous tips because of her knowledge of televised games and the guys who watched them. She had even been invited to lecture prospective bartenders on the difference between regular bars and the ones that catered to sporting events, and had gotten some laughs when she explained it was less about the perfect martini and more about what total and complete bums the officials were.

Now as she drove her RAV4 up to the private gate of the Spurling residence on Friday evening, she shivered at the prospect of meeting two Super Bowl champions—Johnny Spurling with his broad shoulders, gorgeous face and commanding attitude; and the kicker, a nice-looking guy with the best boot in the NFL. It was nearly impossible to find photos of Decker sans helmet, telling her he was either as private as Erica thought, or despite his game-saving field goals and reputation for eating pancakes, he just couldn’t attract the kind of press that made Johnny a household face.

Maybe that will change if he decides to do commercials, Tess murmured to herself as Erica buzzed her in. While she didn’t actually have a good fix on Decker’s face, she had zoomed in on some championship footage and knew he had a lean, athletic build. According to the Internet he was an inch over six feet, which was Tess’s favorite height in a guy, although she was willing to make an exception for taller, broader, hotter dudes like Johnny Spurling any time.

Laughing as she navigated the circular driveway to an imposing lodge-style home, she reminded herself to settle down. Sure, she had met a fair number of professional athletes in her time, but always with a thirty-inch slab of oaken bar between them. Plus, it was Colbee who had met them, wasn’t it?

It would be a bit different as professional journalist Tess Colby.

In other words, don’t flirt, she advised herself as she climbed the steps to the front door. At least she wasn’t nervous, and for that she gave Erica credit. They had hit it off so well, they might have become friends one day if they both lived in Portland.

Then she could introduce Tess to all the Lancer hunks.

And then what? she challenged herself. Are you looking for a new boyfriend or a new career?

The answer was simple, and so, at Erica’s suggestion, she had kept her outfit casual. She had even considered a ponytail but feared the Colbee vibe, so she had left it loose, scrunching it into waves with gel-coated fingers. Her T-shirt was one of her favorites from the University of Hawaii, not that it mattered since her hostess had promised a Lancers jersey for the occasion. And if Erica didn’t come through? This faded pink tee always gave Tess confidence.

But a Lancers shirt would be fun, especially if Johnny Spurling and the kicker would autograph it. Just thinking about it gave her a rush.

At that moment, Erica yanked open the door and exclaimed, Tess! like they were long-lost sisters. Then without waiting for a response, she grabbed her by the hand, pulled her into the entry hall, stood back and smiled happily. You look so cute!

So do you, Tess said with a laugh, noting that her hostess’s tank top, shorts and bare feet were adorable. I didn’t realize we were going for ‘cute,’ but I’m glad we succeeded.

Erica laughed too. You thought this was just an interview? But it’s so much more. We’re going to be friends. All four of us. I can just feel it. Anyway . . . She seemed to shake off the excess energy and said more calmly, Thanks for coming. They should be here any minute, so let’s sit on the deck and chat while we wait, okay?

That sounds nice. Tess glanced around at the Spurling residence, which, while huge, seemed more like a sports chalet than a mansion. Lots of cozy places to curl up and read. Or just gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The living area appeared to be mostly on one floor, although there was a spacious loft above them and a second staircase leading to a lower level. And best of all, a sumptuous multi-level deck that was visible through wide French doors.

Would you like some wine, Tess? Something stronger? Weaker?

I’m good for the moment.

You should change into your new top. Then we’ll visit. Oh, and remember how I mentioned Sean’s girlfriend? We don’t really talk about her for a variety of reasons, so unless he brings her up, I wouldn’t. Okay?

Pardon?

It’s fine, Erica said brightly. Just a touchy subject. I’m sure you don’t want to mess with that. So anyway . . . She picked up a small package from a nearby table. Here’s the jersey. For you to keep, obviously. We’re about the same size so it should fit.

Tess was still trying to parse out the we don’t talk about his girlfriend remark so she accepted the package without comment and followed the hostess’s directions to a guest room down the hall. All she could think was that the poor kicker’s girlfriend was dying of some piteous disease, the mere mention of which would unleash the floodgates.

But if that were true, would he really volunteer for overnight trips and dinners with journalists? So maybe he and the girlfriend were fighting. Or maybe she was traveling a lot and it annoyed the heck out of him.

As she slipped out of her pink tee in front of a full-length mirror, she felt vaguely annoyed that she didn’t know the whole story, but glad for the warning so she didn’t accidentally touch a nerve. And in the meantime, it was cool having an official Lancers jersey. Her regulars loved bringing her shirts and bobble heads and giant foam fingers, usually Seahawks or Mariners, but from other parts of the country as well.

Until now, though, no Lancers memorabilia.

The shirt was blue, gray and white, and was made of extremely stretchy fabric with a V-neck. Not the traditional look of a jersey. And the moment Tess tugged it into place she knew she was in trouble.

Subliminal advertising? she mused aloud. "Unless we’re advertising my cleavage, I don’t think so."

Maybe it was her ever-so-slightly padded bra causing the trouble, but she didn’t think so. Her breasts, while always perky, had never popped like this. If she were a guy, she would totally do herself.

Tess? Erica called from the hallway.

Still unnerved, she walked over and opened the door, then said sheepishly, Ta da.

Oh! It’s perfect.

"Are you serious? I’m spilling out. Literally. It’s just not me."

Trust me, Tess. This is how advertising works.

"Then you wear it. Johnny will marry you all over again."

Erica seemed about to argue, then she spun toward the sound of a door opening. They’re here. Come on.

Huh?

Hey, babe? a deep voice demanded. Are you home?

We’re coming! Erica called back, pulling Tess by the elbow.

Oh, Lord . . . Tess was laughing in spite of herself, knowing Johnny Spurling would be so focused on his hot bride he wouldn’t even realize he had a guest.

Thank God . . .

Reminding herself to act professionally despite her costume, she trailed Erica into the living area, where the reigning Super Bowl quarterback stood, hands on hips, grin on face, hot to see his woman.

When his woman had a stranger in tow, he adjusted quickly, giving Tess a reassuring smile. Hey.

Hey, she murmured, blown away by how much he looked like his photos. Like his footage. But at the same time, so infinitely better than them. Darker hair, bluer eyes, sharper cheekbones, mile-wide shoulders, and most of all, an almost shockingly hot intensity.

Johnny, this is Tess Colby. The journalist Murf told us about. Tess, this is my husband, Johnny.

Nice to meet you, Tess, he said, proffering his hand. Any friend of Murf’s is a friend of ours.

Me too, she said, feeling stupid and euphoric in one outlandish moment as their palms met—one powerful, one trembling with excitement.

The guy was so amazing! Even when his gaze dipped to her ridiculous cleavage, he radiated respect and integrity by quickly looking back up at her face, but not like a guilty man. Just a man in love with his own wife.

What a guy.

And this is Sean Decker, Erica announced. Sean, this is Tess. Tess? Sean.

Tearing her gaze away from Johnny, Tess almost gasped as a bolt of white-hot excitement shot through her, frying her brain, drenching her panties. Sean Decker—tousled hair, dark green eyes, outdoorsy glow—was almost too gorgeous for words. And not just in looks. It was his attitude, too. Three parts adorable, one part raw sexuality, one hundred percent relaxed. Like they had all the time in the world to get where they were going.

And she definitely needed to get there.

Luckily, he didn’t try to shake her hand or otherwise make physical contact. Instead, he just flashed a smile and said, Hey, Tess. Nice to meet you.

Hi, she said, her voice so breathless she didn’t recognize it.

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