CHAPTER SEVEN
Checkmate. Veronica had wanted to say the word to her father since before she’d stopped believing in Santa Claus. Her mother wasn’t a worthy chess opponent; Veronica had defeated her at age nine and soon lost interest in challenging her. Joan didn’t seem to mind, as she’d preferred playing pool since her beauty pageant years. Over twenty years and hundreds of matchups later, J.T. was still the chess champion of the Greer household. He held back his superb skill for no one. While her sisters weren’t as interested, Veronica was like Captain Ahab hunting Moby Dick. She couldn’t let it go.
To her, the relentless ache to be victorious was about more than chess. With each loss, Veronica was reminded that she could be predicted, outsmarted…bested. Winning would be a rite of passage, proof that she was mentally strong enough to do what neither of her sisters was capable of—beating J.T.
Veronica shifted in the Gothic striped visitor’s chair that she’d pushed up to her desk, second-guessing her move as she looked across the antique chessboard to her father. You’d think by now she would’ve figured out how to read him. But no. J.T. was relaxed, his jacket over the wide back of her executive chair, and he sat behind her desk with that same hard-eyed, frowning expression that intimidated strangers and loved ones alike.
Today J.T. and Joan had called a press conference in the aftermath of their starting QB’s being pulled late in Sunday’s game. Their head coach, Finn Walsh, had sat out Brock Corday, who’d aggravated his rotator cuff injury. He’d had nothing more to give in the game and would be better off rested and then prepped for the next game. Their second-string backup had performed well enough to lead the Villains to a win—and that’s what mattered.
The media weren’t easy to pacify and demanded details about the currently undefeated team’s stability. Inviting them for a midweek Q&A at the stadium was Aly’s suggestion—but it’d been batted away. Then, as an afterthought, J.T. and Joan had reconsidered and given her mere hours to prep the staff and organize the chat. Aly had pulled it off, though not without first breaking a few things in her office, then recruiting Veronica and a janitor to clear away the shattered glass.
A prepress conference chess match had been J.T.’s idea—something to occupy his idle time until he, Joan, and Veronica would join the head coach and their starting quarterback in the pressroom.
As with every match with J.T. Greer as the opponent, Veronica felt it was less of a game and more of a test.
Joan swept into the office holding an amber vase. Placing it on a shelf, she then buzzed about the room, rearranging knickknacks. “Veronica, won’t you let me redecorate this place? I feel the need to say a prayer before I come in here.” She made a show of poking a moon lamp shade, perhaps to see if it would sprout fangs and snap. “I do love this picture, though.”
Veronica observed her mother trace the frame of the coloring book art she’d held on to for years. Veronica’s crayon strokes were neat, careful. Waverly’s were heavy-handed and sloppily outside the lines. Aly’s were off the page.
Joan turned away from the art, and her gaze stalled on her daughter’s crossed legs. “J.T., did I ever wear leather pants with zippers up the sides? Or a blouse that leaves so little to the imagination?”
“No,” J.T. answered, prying his attention from the chessboard to smile slowly at Joan, “but it’s not too late to start.”
The idea of classic couture Joan rocking skyscraper stilettos, leather pants, and a sheer top made Veronica giggle. The in-your-face getup was for the late night of barhopping she’d promised her assistant, Heather. But after work and before bar stop number one was the private meeting she’d been looking forward to all day. She’d stayed up late talking to Simon on the phone after the reception, but somehow, in those quiet predawn hours, it hadn’t mattered.
“Who’s the leather for?” J.T. asked. “The press?”
Joan moved so light-footedly that she practically floated across the room to hover over his shoulder. Without even thinking, J.T. brought his hand up to clasp her arm lovingly. “Or a date, Veronica? I heard you had no escort to Grace’s wedding.”
“Who told you that?”
J.T. made a move. “Checkmate.”
“J.T., you shouldn’t annihilate your girls in chess,” his wife advised. “It’s not good for their self-confidence.”
“I certainly don’t want him to let me win, Mom.”
“About your leather pants…”
Veronica smothered the urge to roll her eyes. “I dress for no one’s satisfaction but my own these days. I’m going clubbing with Heather. We’re meeting up at the Marquee at midnight. But before then, I’m meeting Simon Smith.”
“Smith? Is this about the QB position?” J.T. demanded. “Corday sits out the fourth, we call a press conference, and now Smith wants in with the GM?”
“No.” But he did say he wanted to be in me.
She helped put away the chessboard because it gave her a fantastic excuse to avoid eye contact.
“Then, what could he possibly want with you?” Joan asked.
Well, ouch. Obviously the woman who couldn’t keep her husband satisfied couldn’t hook a pro football player, right? Chance had women accosting him with seduction in mind on a daily basis. Simon wasn’t any different.
“It’s what I want with him,” Veronica said brightly. “I think he’s being truthful about what happened with Luca Tarantino and the team. The man got screwed, he wants to play, and he needs a push in the right direction. I’m going to help him look good for another team. Free advice for him. A can’t-miss project for me.”
“Simon has been clear about getting back what he says was taken from him,” Joan said. “You know what he wants from us. You also know what we want from him. The names—”
“Mom. Dad. I’m not asking him for names. We should start interviewing all of last season’s Villains again. I’m talking about interrogating. Grilling. Because we’re not using Simon to sift through our roster.” At Joan’s series of blinks, and J.T.’s twitch of a frown, she softened her approach. “We wouldn’t want outsiders to get the impression we need someone no longer affiliated with our franchise to help us manage it. It’ll show shallow faith in our staff and in your competence.”
This was met with nods and murmurs of agreement. And back on their good side, she was. Close call. Thankfully she’d figured out by now how to push back without them quite realizing it. While everything seemed to be changing around Veronica, the one constant she clung to was her relationship with her parents. She would never jeopardize one of the few things in her universe that still made sense.
“The trade deadline is right on our asses,” her father said. “No time to beat around the bush with last season’s men. Get Joan the contracts of each player by tomorrow start of day, Veronica. The three of us will make some decisions in the p.m.”
Which meant tonight’s barhopping would be cut short if Veronica intended to sleep before gathering the material and delivering it to her employers. “Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Get it across to Smith that he won’t have his hand on any part of this organization.”
About that. He’s already had his hand on me, but neither of you would believe me if I told you. Keeping the snark to herself, Veronica made a grab for her purse as two firm raps sounded at the door.
She swiveled toward it, grateful for the interruption. Opening the door, she met Finn Walsh with a benign, reveal-nothing smile. Working closely with him, she knew more about the head coach than she knew about any of her nonfamily colleagues. The consequence of that was on the flip side, Finn knew a great deal about her, too.
Fresh from a practice, he was all hard-nosed coach in jeans, a team-issue sweatshirt, a ball cap, and possibly the tenth pair of designer sunglasses she’d seen him wear since first meeting him months ago. The man was notorious for taking out his frustration on his eyewear. “Got a minute, Veronica?”
“For you? Always.” She snagged the opportunity to escape J.T. and Joan’s drill sergeant approach to management.
Finn wasted not a moment as they took to the hallway that was peppered with business-casual front office staff, IT experts in graphic tees and frayed jeans with ID tags dangling from neon-colored lanyards, catering staff in jackets decorated with the Villains Club Lounge logo. “The passing game was shit today.”
Not what Veronica wanted to hear. “Give me the injury update. What do Whittaker and the other trainers advise?”
Pulling off the cap and dragging a hand carelessly through his short golden hair, Finn grimaced. “Brock Corday’s iced and wrapped. He won’t be at the press conference. Rest today. Light on practice tomorrow.”
At the elevators she punched the down button. “And Sunday? Can he be relied on to start?”
“He’s probable. If his form and accuracy straighten out in tomorrow’s practice, then yes, he’ll start. It’s a slight aggravation, Veronica. Not nearly as severe as the original injury. Still, Corday wants more strength than he has, and if he pushes himself too damn far, he’s going to go from starting to warming a bench. J.T., Joan, and I discussed this already, but I want to stress to you that it’d be a good idea to give our second and third guys more snaps.”
There was no other feasible option if Brock Corday couldn’t play. The Villains had spent economically, considering the names they’d acquired. A rising star like Corday, not to mention highly sought-after draft picks, hadn’t been cheap. Veronica’s concentration was split between the ball club’s budget, contract clauses, and acquisitions as she preceded Finn into the pressroom.
Taking a seat at the table, she closed her hand over the mic in front of her and meaningfully raised an eyebrow at the head coach. Today’s developments would not be made public.
The live broadcast began once J.T. and Joan got seated onstage. As at the start of every press conference, they both sized up the gathering of columnists, reporters, and photographers, and reminded Veronica of a king and queen observing their subjects. Would that make her a princess or a lady-in-waiting?
A sportswriter from the Las Vegas Sun directed his question to J.T. “Brock Corday was benched in the fourth. What’s the likelihood that he’ll play Sunday?”
“He’ll play.” J.T.’s imposing stature and the buoyancy in his voice lent Veronica comfort. Her whole life, he’d slain her every dragon and had been the one to emphasize the importance of success. Anything she wanted could be hers if she found the right way to go after it. She believed it, believed in everything he and her mother said. If he was confident that Corday would play, then her worries stopped there.
“It’s a preseason injury that’s still healing,” her father was reiterating. “For optimum results, and for the longevity of Corday’s career, he’ll rest when he needs to. Twenty-ten score. I think we can all agree that Cruz Shankman wrapped up the game nicely. Next.” J.T. jabbed a finger toward a news reporter at the far left of the room.
“Question for the general manager.”
Veronica sent the reporter a coy grin. He faltered for a moment, backlit by the flashes of cameras, but that fleeting hesitation was all she needed to know she could handle whatever he dished out.
“How satisfied are you with Omar Beckham?” the reporter asked, referring to the kicker Veronica had hired in spite of his checkered past and the firestorm of talk about his prior experiences with performance-enhancement substances.
“Since the season opener he’s abided by the terms of his contract with our team and he’s maintained one hundred percent accuracy on all field goals. Who wouldn’t be satisfied with stats like that?”
That didn’t stop him from persisting, though. “Even you have to admit it was a risky move to acquire a player with so many transgressions.”
“Beckham is healthy and giving our franchise the results we want. What would football be without risky moves? You never know what action I’m going to take next. Don’t ruin all the excitement by trying to predict me.”
This earned a wave of laughter, and the reporter blushed as though embarrassed to have even broached the subject.
The next question was for the head coach. “How might new discoveries in the Luca Tarantino investigation affect your roster?”
“Ask me again after more discoveries are made, and you’ll get a better answer,” was Finn’s laid-back reply. “Right now, I can say that this club has a well-prepared second string. Each individual on our team is an asset, but no one’s indispensable. We all like to think we’re irreplaceable, but at the end of the day we’re components of a team, and the team’s success is highest priority.”
Amid the murmurs and camera flashes, was someone waving a plastic object toward the stage. A member of security hovered before Finn signaled for the object to be tossed to him.
Veronica laughed as he showed her the bobble head before setting it on the table beside his water glass.
“Ah, damn, my wife warned me that these hit the market,” he said on a groan. “I didn’t think anyone would have the balls to give me one.”
“Do you think it’s a good likeness?” Veronica asked, picking up the novelty toy to hold next to his face. The media ate up the banter, cheering in approval of the figure that exaggerated Finn’s wide, lopsided grin, and the dimples that bracketed his mouth. It held a clipboard in one hand and half a pair of sunglasses in the other.
“A good likeness? To who? Me or Richie Cunningham?”
“That can’t possibly represent Finn Walsh,” Joan countered in good humor. “The bobble head nods. Finn never nods. He’s one of the most disagreeable men I’ve ever met.” Mimicking a prize model, she gestured to her husband with a graceful flourish. “And he’s the other.”
Veronica looked toward her father, saw him give an ever-so-slight nod of satisfaction. She’d handled herself well, and for him this press conference had just become another victory. Checkmate.
◆◆◆
How the hell did they do it? Simon pushed his beer across the bar with a forefinger and motioned for another. He was at the Hard Rock Hotel’s sports bar with his eyes glued to the prerecorded broadcast at Villains Stadium playing out on a plasma screen. He had to give the Greers and Finn Walsh credit for twisting what was going to be a painful press conference into a goddamn variety show.
Veronica Greer’s blatant—at least to him—manipulation of the reporter who’d started up about Omar Beckham had set the tone. There was something in the way she leaned in, with one shoulder forward and a black-painted fingernail drawing up and down the neck of her mic, that compelled him to stare at her. He couldn’t define what was hidden behind the clever flirtation and ballsy attitude she flaunted to the press, but there was more to her than a beautiful face, a smart mouth, and a honeyed voice that would sound so good moaning his name.
The woman on-screen appeared too carefree to be sad in the depths of night, too self-involved to sacrifice time for a man who’d promised her nothing in return. But Simon knew better. He knew she’d been home alone nursing some private wounds after her friend’s wedding. He knew that when she’d given her word to help him get back onto the field, she meant it.
Fishing for a few laughs, throwing people off with a curve of her pillowy lips, were tactics, he realized. Watching her on television, as he waited for her to join him at the bar, was more about curiosity than anything else. She’d had the media snug in her back pocket since she’d hit the NFL scene, and today he’d wanted to observe how she went about transforming a pack of bloodthirsty lions into purring cats. At the close of the conference, all Simon had confirmed was that she was a mystery. And sexier than anyone had a right to be.
Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. Maybe if his brain repeated it enough, his dick would get the message.
Fact was, he was skeptical that one woman could fix his reputation, and he didn’t want to take a roundabout route toward proving that he’d been a target. At eighteen, he’d chosen sports over a future in Oregon agriculture. The football field and all it represented had become his home, the team his family, the game his life. But his “family” had betrayed him, gutted him, and righting the wrong was as vital as a heartbeat.
If Villains Stadium would never again be his home, then so be it, so long as another team valued his potential. So long as the Villains franchise and the media regretted shutting him out.
Simon turned up the bottle for a deep swig, then swiveled around to put his back to the television. The move granted him a comfortable view of the bar—which was right away obstructed by a cluster of autograph-hungry fans. He might be unemployed, but to the people grinning and holding out objects for him to sign, he was still a Las Vegas Villains quarterback, still jersey number eleven.
He accepted the Sharpie a bartender tossed him and in a blur signed a cell phone case, a napkin, a baseball cap, a handbag.
Then someone appeared on the fringes of the group. “Damn it. I don’t have anything for you to sign. Poor, poor me.”
He raised his eyes to the woman. Veronica. Watching footage of the press conference hadn’t prepared him for the full effect of seeing her in leather pants that wrapped her legs like a second skin, and a shirt that teased him with no mercy.
“Yeah, you do,” he said. “Want me to show you?”
“Go for it.”
Simon got off the bar stool. Grasping her arm, he drew the pen over her skin, just above the bend of her elbow. He signed with pride, with a little cockiness in his stroke. He then lowered his mouth as if to drop a kiss there, but gently blew across the ink.
Veronica’s laughter stole his attention. A no-holds-barred grin wrinkled the outer corners of her eyes. “What a smart-ass!”
She turned to skim her surroundings, and the lightness of the moment fell away. Patrons craned their necks to spy from the bar and the edges of booths. “Busier than I thought it’d be on a Wednesday.”
“Rethinking being with me in public?”
“On the contrary. Public means I’ve got nothing to hide. Private means secrets. I have my secrets, Simon, but being here with you isn’t one of them.”
She zeroed in on the nearest television. Tension tightened her shoulders as the sports analyst on screen promised a rundown of league-wide developments after commercial break.
“Saw the press conference. The bobble head bit was genius.”
“That wasn’t a bit, Simon. It wasn’t planned.”
“Still took the heat off Walsh.”
Veronica planted a fist on her hip. “Walsh doesn’t need anyone to take the heat off him. If he did, he wouldn’t be our head coach. Don’t knock his abilities. In fact, you would’ve worked well with him—” Catching herself, she stopped, and he could damn near see the tension strapping itself on to her like armor.
No. He wouldn’t accept more of that. Damn the masks, the pretenses, the hiding. Screw everything that took away the woman who’d let him sign her arm and had laughed freely for him. The hard-shelled persona was nothing more than a piece of clothing—something to project an image.
She’d dropped that persona once, and now that he’d seen what was underneath, he wouldn’t settle for a facade again.
“Cards on the table. Remember that? Say what’s on your mind. I like you better when you do.”
“Then let’s take this talk someplace else,” she suggested, with another glance at the television. “A place without all-sports TV?” She pointed to his beer. “I’ll buy you another.”
“Already paid for my beer.” Simon tossed the Sharpie onto the counter, then added an extra twenty to the tip. “So make it tequila. I know a place.”
One corner of her mouth inched up. Not a full-on smile, but close enough to give him a sting of pleasure, like a woman’s teeth to his shoulder. “Not your place, because that’s not happening.”
“Don’t worry, Veronica. I’m abiding by your rules. It’s a public place, but private enough to talk, and there’s no sports TV. The question is, will you be okay with a situation you don’t have complete control over?” He turned, and there she was, at his side, with a spark in her eyes to go with that bounce in her step.
“I’ll follow you there. I’m not getting in your car. What would people think?” She gave him a wink. “Besides. I trust my car to no one.”
She was as brilliant at evasion as he was at throwing a football. But her resistance intrigued him when it should’ve frustrated him. He let her exit the bar ahead of him, warning himself that sooner or later he’d regret letting recklessness take over. For every reason he had to step back from her, he was shot with the urge to get even closer.
Getting into his Corvette, he slammed the driver’s door. The sudden noise jarred his thoughts for a slice of a moment, and he was glad for it. As pretty and complex as Veronica Greer was, she was also the woman who’d cut him from his team and had smiled while doing it.
In his rearview mirror, Simon could see her car. Occasionally a traffic light or the twin beams of his brake lights streaked across the front of her vehicle, revealing her behind the windshield. Head bopping, lips moving, one hand slapping the top of the steering wheel.
At the Luxor she was all cool, serious businesswoman as she met him at the entrance with an expectant frown.
“On the road, were you singing in your car?”
The only sign that she was flustered by the question was a quick succession of blinks, which only drew his focus to the sexy catlike shape of her eyes. “I was.” She wiggled her fingers at the building. “You brought me to the Luxor to talk?”
“Our stop’s the very low-key lounge inside. Been here before?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
Pleasure and discretion were what the exclusive, intimate lounge provided. That he was the man introducing her to this place and the unspoken possibilities teased his ego.
“I’m not really acquainted with the Vegas club scene, Simon.”
The surprises kept coming. Her ex-husband was constantly in the news, photographed at parties and clubs that some men would give their left nut to have access to. Her younger sister partied hard. He’d come across that fact firsthand at a casino some weeks ago, had caught a glimpse of Aly Greer unplugged—loud, freewheeling, and belligerent. Yet Veronica, the woman who ditched her inhibitions in the privacy of her car to sing along to the radio, wasn’t a clubgoer.
“I’m going out tonight, though,” she continued as he led her inside, “so I can’t stay past midnight.”
For these few moments, it was just the two of them journeying through the dimly lit halls. So he asked. “What happens after midnight? Something turns into a pumpkin?”
She chuckled. “I’m impressed with your knowledge of fairy tales.”
All thanks to my kid sister. To be fair, Erin was an adult now. But after almost fifteen years of estrangement, what he remembered most about his life as an older brother were the moments he should’ve appreciated but hadn’t.
Erin had sent him a letter his rookie season in New York—nothing more than a “I hate you for not telling Mom and me that your dreams came true” note that had slipped past the team’s publicity department in a batch of fan mail. Because he’d still been grieving his father’s death and hadn’t figured out a way to freeze his heart against his remaining family, he’d hung on to that contact. He’d been limited to an occasional visit home and sizable checks to support his mother and Erin. His mother’s death had left Erin as his only connection to his past. She was his one chance to do right by his family; his parents had depended on him to protect her.
To ensure that she got an education and never had to leave home, he paid for Erin’s college in Corvallis and purchased their family’s cherry orchard and turned it over to her. Keeping her in Oregon and himself in Las Vegas was for her own good, even though she’d been stubbornly putting herself in the public eye with a gig posting home design and organization videos on social media. He was giving her the safe, out-of-the-limelight life his parents had wanted for both Simon and Erin—the life he hadn’t wanted.
They emailed regularly—or had, up until she’d gotten word of his release from the Villains.
“Come home,” she’d begged. “Come back to the farm for a while. Or I can come to Las Vegas and stay with you. We’ve got to find some way out of this shit.”
No, he wasn’t interested in going back to Gunner, Oregon, with his tail tucked between his legs. And letting his small-town sister wander into the middle of a place that was called Sin City for a reason was out of the fucking question. The messages that he’d left unanswered were beginning to accumulate, but it seemed the best way to deal with his sister was through silence. Still, he’d hate himself if he lost the girl who’d looked up to her big brother and believed in fairy tales.
“Nothing will turn into a pumpkin,” Veronica told him. “But I’ll owe someone an apology and a drink.”
Ushering her through the lounge, he watched her take notice of the candlelight, dark furniture, the DJ, and the scatter of guests who were too absorbed in conversation and heavy petting to toss up more than a glance.
“Owe who a drink?” he asked, sitting across from her at a shadowed table.
Anyone could’ve picked up on the thin edge of jealousy in his words. Simon wanted to smack himself for asking that question. Why should he care if she had a date lined up?
“My assistant. I’m not seeing anyone,” she answered, with a hesitant smirk that spoke volumes. She was pleased that he’d asked, but she knew she’d taken a risk in telling him that she was single. “Uh, apparently, man-hunting is more fun when women go in pairs.”
“What type of man are you hunting for?”
“I’m not. And as for type…Well, I never thought about it.” She shifted with a nervous energy. “I’ve been out of the dating world for a while. Which I’m sure you know, if curiosity and easy access to Google got the best of you.”
She almost had him there. Yes, he’d been tempted to do some online digging. But the bigger appeal was in discovering her through that push-pull that reeled him into a debate with her at every turn. They always seemed to be on the borderline of disagreement, and maybe he was crazy, but he liked it that way.
“I know you were married to Chance Kershaw, and now you’re not.”
“God. It’s not that simple.”
“Then what is it?”
“I was in high school when I met Chance. I looked at him and saw this fairy-tale future. After ten years, it was over. The next guy I dated pursued me, and that was okay, except…I wasn’t the one who made the move that matters.”
“What’s that?”
“The first kiss—mouth-to-mouth—changes things.” Veronica cleared her throat. “I think it’s time for that tequila.”
At the bar they knocked back a round of tequila shots, with salt and lime wedges. Then Veronica let a mixologist talk her into a harvest moon cocktail, which she took back to their table. Instead of reclaiming her seat, she took the one beside him, crowding him deliciously with that tight little body, rattling him with the mischief in her smile. “Simon, your social life’s as legendary as your NFL career. It’s also a huge part of the image that the public sees. So let’s talk about that. About your relationships.”
“Irrelevant.”
“Actually, no. We talked about mine, and my image’s fine.”
“Yeah, except I have a hell of a hard time believing you’ve been into just two guys your whole life.”
“Those weren’t my exact words. Might want to fix that selective listening thing if you want this—” she gestured from him to herself with an index finger “—to work out. My first crush happened when I was six.”
“Give me a name. Or I won’t believe you.”
“Santa.”
“The fuck? Seriously?”
“Seriously. A department store Santa. He had the kindest laugh and the softest beard, and he was so…warm. All my life my dad has looked like a guy who rides motorcycles, crushes beer cans on his head, and murders people over territory. Santa was different and I loved him immediately. With a desperation I still can’t describe. I wanted him to take me away. It was my wish. I remember whispering it in his ear.” She shrugged. “I don’t think he told my parents, thank God.”
Veronica gently nudged him with her shoulder, catching him with those inviting gray eyes. “Your turn. First crush.”
“All right. Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny. Had it bad for her for years after I saw that movie.”
“Wow, you can commit.”
“A Hollywood crush is one thing—”
“And reality is another. In reality, you don’t commit. I get it—it’s a choice. Your life’s an open door to…let’s see. Models. Actresses. Legions of beautiful fans. I’m not judging you,” Veronica added, the humor in her voice replaced with sincerity. “Just getting a clearer picture of Simon Smith, the man. That’s the part of you in need of a reboot, because without it you can’t resurrect Simon Smith, the pro quarterback.”
“What is it about me that needs improvement, then, Veronica?”
“Try to see this from the public’s point of view. You want to be someone that average Joes might admire. Show the world that you’re down-to-earth. A man who can be humbled, who deserves empathy, who’s fun to be around. Your involvement with Habitat for Humanity would be a plus if your bad behavior didn’t work against it. Unleashing your temper every time a reporter asks you about the investigation? It tells people that you’re a careless hothead. And people will love to hate you.
“Now that the feds and the league are wringing out Luca Tarantino, reporters are greedy for information. With them it comes down to competition. Ratings. Popularity. There’s only so much you’re at liberty to discuss, I realize that. But what’s going to impact your future the most isn’t what you say, but to whom you say it. Strategy.”
“Manipulation,” he countered. “Call it what it is.”
“Perceive it however you wish. It’s going to get you into a football uniform this season. Rethink the company you keep. Want to continue living it up with your hordes of friends, racking up models and actresses and groupies? Be more discreet about it.”
Even before he was released from the Villains, he’d grown weary of the one-night stand routine. The women were different, but the situations always seemed the same.
The last woman he’d fucked who wasn’t motivated by money and status, who’d proven to be a legitimate friend, was Samantha. Sex with Samantha came with more complications than benefits, and for the sake of their sanity, he’d drawn the line weeks ago. Regardless, it riled him up to have someone give him dating directions. Especially when she was the same woman who’d hijacked his dreams two nights in a row.
“The women I see aren’t anyone’s damn business, Veronica.”
“They are when you’re famous. Your talent made you famous, even if being tracked by paparazzi and criticized by ESPN analysts isn’t what you signed up for when you entered this league. I understand that more than you might believe, Simon, and I’ve come to accept that my life isn’t my own anymore. And this is coming from a GM, someone behind the scenes who’s not front and center on the field or tied to endorsements.”
Did she resent that her life wasn’t her own anymore? She didn’t seem to. The media worshipped her. She fired people with a smile on her face.
“That’s just part of the biz. My sister Waverly’s as stubborn as they come, loves to do things her way, but even she had to learn that lesson.”
“What about Aly? She’s the publicist in the family. Shouldn’t she be the expert in spinning conversation?” Instead of making herself the subject of it?
“I taught Aly everything she knows. How she uses her knowledge makes sense to only her.” Veronica drummed her shiny black nails on the table before lacing her fingers. “Let’s go back to basics, Simon. You got into LSU with decent grades, some impressive SAT scores and, of course, a canon for an arm. What happened before LSU?”
“Not much,” he said stiffly. “Busted my ass doing what I could to get recruited someplace far from Oregon. LSU and going pro is all that mattered to me.”
“Basics, Simon. Before Baton Rouge. All the time in Oregon, where you were born and raised, is just a blurb in your file.”
“Oregon’s got nothing to do with my career.”
“It has plenty to do with you. Your roots.”
“I’m a farmer’s son. My father was the first to put a football in my hands. He taught me the game, but he meant for my career to revolve around our cherry orchard and carpentry. Using my skills to help others—that’s where Habitat for Humanity came in. That was his path, his father’s. Tradition.”
“Why wasn’t it your path?”
“I didn’t see myself in agriculture or a town that’s so quiet a man can lose his mind. I wanted exactly what New York and Las Vegas gave me—noise, women, fast cars, an open bar at any time of night. More than anything, I wanted to make pro and prove that talent like mine shouldn’t be wasted as some farmer’s hobby.”
“What’d your family think about that?”
“There was a falling out. I started going into the city, hanging with guys who dreamed big about having a shot at the NFL. My abilities raked in a lot of attention. Friends, cold beer, girls, weed. It all started to come so easily. Life was good.”
“It didn’t stay that way, though, Simon. What happened when life stopped being good?”
“My parents said I was turning into a man they didn’t want in their lives. The city was changing me fast. When LSU came knocking, I had a choice—see where football would take me or stay put. Leave, or fall in line. They gave me no leeway. I made my choice.”
Veronica was silent for a long moment, and there was nothing but the pound of music between them. “Who’d you leave behind?”
“Mom. Dad. Younger sister.”
“None of them ever came to a game or talked to you?”
“Just my sister, Erin. Dad died when I was still at LSU.” He’d died before Simon could decide to go home, apologize, and shake hands with the man he’d wanted to be proud of him.
“And never your mother?”
“She watched my games on TV. I never asked her for more than that. Veronica, she died my first year with the Villains.”
“I saw nothing in your file about that.”
“Wasn’t relevant to the game and what I could do for my team in the play-offs. I asked the head coach and Luca Tarantino for leave so I could bury Mom and be there for my sister. They said no. I was told to say a prayer for my mother and play. This was the test to see how committed to the team I was.”
“You played those games. You went to the Super Bowl,” Veronica said softly.
“Yeah. That’s how committed I was. What did that commitment earn me?”
“I’m sorry for you. I—I just find it heartbreaking.”
“I don’t want pity,” he told her.
She pushed her drink to the center of the table. “But to be alone? I can’t imagine not having my family to count on. My parents—they’re my rock.”
“That’s great for you, Veronica. That’s not my life.”
“It’s your past, so it matters. The farm, the carpentry? Habitat for Humanity? These are things you care about. It’s what we need to sell.”
“Sell? As if my family, my history, the secrets of my life that matter most are commodities? No. Make that hell, no. I never agreed to exploit my family. My little sister’s all I have left, she’s safe and sound in Oregon, and I’m not going to drag her down with me. Leave it alone, Veronica.”
“Don’t you want to be humanized to the public? I knew there was more to you than your stats, this scandal and your collection of women.”
“I’m finding it hard to think the public’s entitled to that kind of transparency. Even you’re not an open book—unless it’s true that you get a thrill out of firing people and living as though life’s a game of Minesweeper.”
“Minesweeper?”
“Strategizing, thinking carefully about the next move, always afraid of detonating something.”
Veronica’s eyebrows pulled together. “I prefer goal-oriented,” she snapped. “And for the record, I have never gotten a thrill taking someone’s job away. I didn’t enjoy cutting you from the team. That’s the truth.” She appeared to want to stop talking, stop sharing, but the words surged forward anyway. “Minesweeper? I have a heart. It belongs to my family and friends and Faith House.”
Faith House. He knew that she’d founded the organization, but not that part of her heart belonged to it. “What about the rest of your heart? Is that reserved?”
“There’s nothing left. I have a very full life, Simon.” She then softened her face into a gentle expression that would make a killer photograph. Damn, she was good. “I get zero financial or social gain out of helping you. This is just my advice. Think about it before you reject me.”
“I’m rejecting the suggestion that I ‘sell’ where I come from. I’m not rejecting you…or what goes through my head when I’m with you. Even though the devil knows I should.”
She turned fully toward him, wetting her lips as he reached to stroke the scribble of ink on her arm.
“Make your move, Veronica.”
“I don’t do bad, Simon. Never have. This…what we’re walking into…would be beyond bad.” She shook her head, as though confused. “We can’t expect a real relationship. Villains GM here.”
“I’m not a Villain.”
“Because I released you. Aside from that, we argue about damn near everything. I don’t even know if you like me. Or if I like you. There are lines we shouldn’t cross. Remember rule number three?”
“Uh-huh.” She was leaning in but holding herself in check. It took herculean effort to stop touching her, but he had to let her initiate the next contact. “Is that working out for you?”
“No.”
He watched her mouth slowly murmur the word. Whether he kissed her or she kissed him, he didn’t care. He wanted to taste that mouth, indulge in her flavor. But he wasn’t going to compromise her that way. Their table was private; the club wasn’t.
“Do you want to leave?”
“No,” she said again.
His pulse drummed in his ears as she strapped one of those slender, leather-clad legs across his lap. The weight of it settled over his crotch. She dragged her leg back and forth across his lap, quickening her efforts as his cock hardened to concrete.
“Can a man think rationally when a woman touches him like this?” She replaced her leg with her palm. Molding her fingers to his shape, she let her nails scratch his pants. The pressure glided along his shaft, base to tip, again and again. The pleasure was his to take, but she looked caught in fascination.
How far would she take him? How much longer would she tantalize his body and his restraint?
Veronica’s fingers crawled to his fly. A buckle unfastened, a button twisted free, a zipper lowered with a whisper. Eyes on his, she swirled her tongue over her fingertips, and then her skin was on his.
“I’m going to want to finish this, Veronica.”
“Because all you care about right now is how I’m making you feel.” Glancing down longingly at his stiff flesh, she gave another few strokes. “You said you wanted to be in me.”
“Fuck, yes, I do.”
“So get in me.”
Simon guided her head as she slid into position. Pumping into her mouth, he whispered, “I’m not letting you go. Understand that? You’re not going to be free until I fill your sweet little mouth with my come.”
Veronica moaned on his cock, taking it in deeper, eating him slowly.
Watching her move, he said, “Worship this dick.”
She nodded, not letting him go.
God.
Gripping her hard, he rode her until his balls constricted and blinding pleasure ripped through him. Spilling semen into her, he held her in place.
“Forget about Santa, Veronica.”
Another nod.
“You’re on my lap and the only thing you want is my dick in you.”
A moan this time.
“The only man who’s going to take you away is me.”
Veronica resisted him now, and he let her withdraw. “That’s called distraction, Simon, and it’s a dangerous thing.”
Righting his pants was no easy feat. Managing it, he said, “Anything to prove a point, huh? Then show me you can be distracted. Show me I have an effect on you.”
Steadily, carefully, he stroked her from hip to thigh.
“Get your glass. Take a drink,” he advised, his gaze not straying from her as she brought the cocktail to her lips.
“Now what?”
“Stop calculating.” Simon massaged the mound of her pussy, heard the tiny moan she made against her glass. His hand skated over the exact spot where he was craving to bury himself. “Drop the facades. When you’re with me, I want you naked.”
She hesitated, and he had his answer. It wouldn’t happen, not tonight. This wasn’t the time or place, and she wasn’t ready.
But crossing lines, breaking rules, it was inevitable. Lust hunted them. God help them when it caught up.
“This is more than distraction, Veronica. We’re heading for something we can’t take back later.” He let her go, disconnecting himself from her heat. “I’m looking forward to it.”