Chapter 21—Third-Down Conversion

Tyler stood on the practice field waiting for the no-pads scrimmage to start. He should be listening to the offensive coordinator’s instructions. Instead, he stood off to one side. He stifled a yawn and tried to look engaged. Behind him, Lavender sat in the small set of bleachers. Thanks to his big-mouthed cousin, the guys knew about his chaperone and gave him no end of grief in the locker room. Assholes, all of them.

Even worse, her presence distracted him from his job, one more piece of evidence pointing toward his waning interest in the game. In the not-too-distant past, a woman would’ve never registered on his radar when he had football on his mind. Unfortunately, football wasn’t on his mind. Lavender was, along with tonight’s airplane ride. He shifted his stance as his cock rose to the task. Down, boy. Not yet.

A small group from the local press corps crowded nearby. They’d jostled for his attention all morning. He’d been a no-show at every press conference since the Super Bowl, and they wanted answers he wasn’t willing to give. Earlier he’d snarled at them, and they’d backed off somewhat. He doubted for long.

Damn, but he was in a crappy mood. Murphy made it all the crappier. The defense gathered around the jerk like he was the fucking god of football. Especially the young guys, they ate up his every word. Their hero worship of the interloper didn’t sit well with Tyler. As long as Zach Murphy wore a Steelheads jersey, team unity was shot to shit. Somehow, he’d find a way to get the guy traded or cut before the first regular-season game. He’d show the front office Murphy didn’t have it anymore. The guy’s ancient joints couldn’t withstand the rigors of another season. You couldn’t win on heart alone. Tyler frowned, uncomfortable with his own thoughts. Obviously, you could win without heart, as evidenced by his own uninspired play last season, but he doubted there’d be a repeat if he didn’t get his game back.

“Harris! Get your head out of your ass.” The offensive coordinator slapped his clipboard against his thigh. “Are you ready?”

With a sheepish shrug of one shoulder, Tyler swallowed and faced his pissed-off coach. “Uh, could you run through that one more time?”

“For the love of… What the hell is it with you?” Exasperated and obviously nearing the end of his patience, Coach Carter slammed his clipboard to the ground, a trait he’d picked up from the head coach over the years.

Tyler clamped his jaw and kept his mouth shut. No excuses, he was guilty as charged for letting his attention wander. His offensive line grumbled comments questioning whether certain parts of his anatomy were male or female. His receivers stood to one side, arms crossed over their chests, disgusted they’d have to suffer through a lecture by the coaching staff courtesy of their quarterback. Several feet away, Murphy watched the exchange with more than a casual interest. His defense gathered around him, glaring at Tyler with defiance, something they never had the guts to do pre-Murphy.

Hubert Jackson, the Steelheads’ fiery, young head coach, stalked over to add his two cents. Wonderful. Just wonderful. Tyler braced himself for an old-fashioned ass-chewing, one of HughJack’s signature traits, along with clipboard throwing. His coach wasted no time stepping into Tyler’s personal space, not intimidated by the quarterback’s height advantage.

“What the fuck is up with you, Harris? Get your head in the game. I know it’s just a scrimmage, and maybe you think you’re too fucking good to be bothered. Maybe you’d rather get your nails painted or get your hair highlighted or some other pansy-assed thing. We’re here to play football. The only person impressed with your past accomplishments is you. I’m about today and tomorrow. We compete every day, every hour, every minute. Either you’re with us 100 percent or get your sorry ass off this field.”

The old Tyler would’ve lit into his coach and given it right back to him. This Tyler took it and said nothing. HughJack stared him down. Tyler stared back, willing the smallest emotion from showing in his face. The accusing eyes of several dozen teammates burned into his back. Tyler looked away first. He shoved his helmet on his head and turned toward the field. Wrong move. HughJack snatched his facemask and wrenched Tyler’s head around. He swore he heard something snap, most likely a vertebra.

His coach lowered his voice until only Tyler and Coach Carter could hear. “I’m watching you, Harris. I don’t give a fuck if you’re the best quarterback in this league, if you don’t leave it all out on the field, I don’t want you. I let it go last season, figured you’d work it out on your own, while the rest of the team picked up the slack. Not this year.” HughJack pointed toward Murphy. “We signed Zach to give this team some dedicated leadership, the type we used to get from you.” HughJack jerked on Tyler’s facemask a final time for good measure then stomped off.

Anger flowed through Tyler’s bloodstream, but anger at himself. He turned on his teammates.

“What the fuck are you guys staring at? Get to work,” he bellowed, giving them a glimpse of the old Tyler.

The guys shuffled their feet and kept their distance, their expressions ranging from sympathy to annoyance. Turning his back on them, Tyler bent his head over the offensive coordinator’s clipboard and studied the plays.

A few minutes later, he stood behind center. The offense avoided his gaze, while the defense’s contempt shone in their eyes. Murphy’s blatant disrespect and the coach’s dressing down undermined the team’s confidence in their quarterback, not to mention the rampant speculation by the sports media as to his mental state. His leadership role was in serious jeopardy. When it came down to it, he had no one to blame but himself.

Determined to prove them wrong, Tyler took the snap and stepped back into the pocket. He ran through his options but didn’t see one open man. The next second, he was slammed to the ground with the wind knocked out of him. As soon as he filled his lungs with oxygen, Tyler shot to his feet.

Murphy grinned at him. “Sorry, man, I couldn’t stop fast enough.”

“You fucking asshole. You did that on purpose.” Tyler stood toe-to-toe with the jerk. The chuckles of his teammates infuriated Tyler all the more.

Murphy shrugged one shoulder. He knew as well as anyone this was a no-tackle scrimmage. “Just like old times, huh? Aren’t you glad I’m on your team now? I won’t be knocking you on your sorry ass during real games.”

“I don’t want you on my team, asshole. You’re washed up.”

“What does that say about you, since I knocked your ass clear to I-5, and I’m not done.” After delivering his final words like a slap in the face, Murphy laughed and strutted back to his tight group of defensive players.

Teeth clenched, Tyler called the next play. He took a quick step back. Derek sprinted across the middle heading for exactly the right spot, an easy first down. Tyler hesitated a split second too long. Realizing his mistake, he hurled the ball at his cousin. The ball was too high and way off to the left, and Derek dove for it at the same time as Murphy. Their helmets slammed into each other. Both men were slow getting up.

Derek rolled his head around then rubbed the back of his neck. Breathing hard, he stalked back to the huddle and turned on his cousin in a rare moment of temper. “You fucking idiot. That’s the kind of throw you complete in your sleep.”

Wide-eyed, the rest of the offense stared at the best friends. Tyler flicked his gaze to HughJack, who hadn’t missed a thing. His coach balled his fists and glared at him. It was going to be a damn long practice.

Murphy laid him out two more times during the scrimmage. He fumbled once, and Murphy recovered. HughJack and his coaching staff never said a word to Murphy about his overzealous sacking of their quarterback.

Meanwhile, Tyler did nothing to prove Murphy was too old to play. His passes fell to the ground, overthrown and underthrown with an inaccuracy uncharacteristic of him. When he finally managed to throw a few on target, his receivers dropped every one of them. To add insult to injury, Murphy intercepted the last pass of the day and ran it back for a touchdown. The guy zipped all over the field like a one-man wrecking crew. HughJack paced the sidelines and barked orders, slamming his clipboard to the ground several times. Not a good sign.

The torture finally ended. Head down, Tyler pushed past the rabid media and into the locker room. His teammates stayed clear, even his cousin. Murphy gloated from his corner, enjoying every minute, as he recounted the day’s events loud enough for everyone to hear.

After his shower, Tyler sat on the bench in front of his locker and laced his shoes. When the usual locker room ribbing and jaw-jacking faded to silence, he glanced up.

HughJack strode across the room, heading straight for him. With a sigh, Tyler waited for his next ass-chewing.

His coach looked him up and down, as if he’d never seen him before. “You were forcing it out there, not making wise decisions, and you let Murphy get to you. Pollard takes the snaps tomorrow in scrimmage. Maybe he can make something happen.” HughJack spoke with a quiet intensity, which scared the crap out of Tyler more the man’s trademark temper tantrums.

* * * * *

Lavender followed Tyler to the back of the floatplane. He squeezed into the back window seat. She took the one next to him, the sole passengers on the eleven-p.m. flight to the San Juan Islands. The pilot settled into the cockpit separated from them by a doorless bulkhead and a few rows of empty passenger seats.

The pilot donned a pair of earphones and set about his job. A few seconds later, they taxied across the water on Lake Union then built up speed for a takeoff. In no time, the plane was airborne. Below them, the lights of Seattle illuminated the night sky through the haze of rain.

Shoulders slumped, Tyler stared outside. He’d wallowed in self-pity all evening. They’d eaten a tense dinner at a seafood restaurant on the water. Tyler spoke little and ate even less. Lavender attempted conversation a few times, but the man only grunted in response. Eventually she lapsed into silence and let him brood.

But now she’d endured enough of his silent treatment. Smacking sense into him didn’t seem the right thing to do. Seeing his cocky façade ripped away to expose vulnerability brought out an inexplicable tenderness in her.

“Tyler, please don’t take your day out on me.” She reached for his hand and held it. He wrapped his fingers tightly around hers in response, almost as if she were his lifeline.

A muscle worked in his jaw. “I’m sorry. It was one shitty practice.”

“I know. I was there.” She lowered her voice and stroked his palm with her thumb.

“HughJack and Murphy made me look like a rookie. I played like crap.”

“Then find a way to make it better. You’re not a quitter.” He wouldn’t get sympathy from her. That wasn’t what he needed.

He turned toward her, confusion rather than anger in his troubled blue eyes. “I never was before. Now it’s all on me. I’m losing the team. Murphy is leading the mutiny, but I gave him the ammunition.”

Lavender held his face in her hands, searching his eyes for some sign of the man she knew he was. “Get them back. Be the guy you know you can be. Be a fighter.”

“I’m trying. The harder I try, the worse it gets, the further I get from where I used to be.” He broke his gaze away from her and stared back out the window. His jaw tensed, his body tightened into an unyielding knot of despair.

“You’re trying too hard. You need to relax, let it flow, rediscover the joy you once had for the game.” She ran a hand down his arm. The muscles bunched, hard as concrete. “Take a deep breath. Find your zone.”

“If only it was that fucking easy. It’s the zone that eludes me.” He rested his head on her shoulder, seemingly oblivious to his use of the forbidden word. “I’m tense and tight. I’m forcing throws, not seeing open receivers, not using my instincts. I made it through last season on technical skills alone.”

“Your technical skills are the best in the league.”

“Technique won’t be enough. Not this season.” Frustration forced his voice into a tight rumble in his chest.

“What am I going to do with you?” Lavender nuzzled his neck. The man needed to relax before he shattered into pieces. Tyler sucked in a breath and rested a hand on her thigh. His fingers tightened around her leg. He lifted his gaze and met hers again. She touched his model-worthy face, ran a finger along his strong jawline, uncompromising lips, and over the cords in his neck. Reaching up, she slipped her fingers through the silky strands of his shaggy dark hair.

“When I’m with you, I forget all this shit.” His blue eyes sliced through her. “Help me work on that relaxing thing.” His voice sounded hopeful, somewhat out of breath.

“How do you propose we do that?” She swallowed as her body tingled in anticipation, suspecting and dreading the implication.

Tyler pulled her onto his lap. The vulnerable guy of a few moments ago replaced by the in-charge, take-no-prisoners asshole. “Perhaps a little sexual therapy in the sky would help.”

Her eyes popped open wide as she guessed the direction his mind was taking. “Tyler. What are you doing? The pilot—” She cast a nervous glance in the direction of the cockpit. The pilot paid them no mind as he worked the controls and talked on the headset to an unseen person.

“You started it.”

Tyler had a point. She did start it but merely to comfort and not to have sex on an airplane. Well, maybe she did consider such a thing, but just a little. “Really, let’s wait until we land.”

“He won’t notice.” Tyler ran a finger across her lips and parted them with the tip of his index finger.

“Won’t notice? I’m noisy, remember? And so are you. He’d have to be deaf not to notice.” Despite her feeble protests, she parted her lips and sucked his finger into her mouth.

Tyler groaned and closed his eyes for a moment. “Now do that to my cock, darlin’, and you’ll make me one happy man.”

She grasped his wrist and removed the finger from her mouth. “Tyler. We can’t.”

“Sure we can. Our best sex happens when you’re pissed at me or we’re pushing the limits. You don’t hold back, and I fucking love it. If you prefer, I could do something to piss you off. I excel at that.” He grinned, his wicked, to-hell-with-everyone-else grin, and slid his hands up her sweater. “How’s this?”

The jock knew her hot buttons, and he pushed more than a few as his fingers did a little tango along her rib cage. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she rewarded his “unwanted” attention with a sultry groan.

“Am I pissing you off?”

“Very much so.” She did nothing to stop him, couldn’t if she wanted. Lavender gripped the waistband of his jeans, pulling him closer, rather than pushing him away. She pressed her shoulders against the back of the seat in front of her and gasped as he pushed her bra and sweater up to her neck. The cool air pebbled her nipples into hard nubs.

“Are you furious?” He grinned at her, looking every bit like the obnoxious Tyler she’d grown to appreciate.

“Absolutely. I’ve never disliked you as much as I do now.”

“Good, I’m doing my job then.” His husky voice exposed the ragged control he had over his emotions.

“Oh, yeah.” She’d become putty in his big hands. If he asked, she’d strip naked and do him in the center of Pike’s Place Market. Yeah, that’s how much she disliked him and his ripped athlete’s body.

“Honey, I can make you really mad at me. We’re going to fu—uh, screw while we fly thousands of feet in the air. It’s our destiny.”

“That’ll do it. I’ll heap tons of passionate fury on you.” She rolled her head back and allowed his mouth easier access to her neck. He jumped on the opportunity, mauling her with a combination of lips and teeth. Most certainly, he left his mark more than once.

“I like the passionate part. Yeah. Really like it.”

Bending his head, Tyler covered his bases. He sucked on one nipple, squeezed the other with the fingers of one hand, while his other hand slipped between her legs. He unzipped her jeans, banging his elbow on the armrest. He cursed a blue streak, grabbed her around the waist, and raised her off his lap into a standing position. Yanking her jeans down to her ankles, he pushed the soaked crotch of her panties aside.

“Honey, thinking of me and not Murphy better be the reason you’re fu—effing wet.”

“What do you think, buster? I like Murphy, which makes him boring. I don’t like you.”

His warm chuckle gave her heart a boost. “Keep it that way. I’ll make you forget the man’s name.”

“Whose name?”

His threw back his head and laughed. She loved his hearty baritone. Nothing like the promise of sex on a plane to bring a man out of his funk and send a woman flying without needing wings.

“Get these damn things off.”

She didn’t wait for a second invitation. She kicked off her shoes. The jeans and panties followed. Pressed against the cramped quarters of the space between the two seats, he’d effectively fenced her in. She couldn’t move.

Her bones melted under his touch. Her open thighs welcomed him, inviting him to do as he wished. She suspected he wished to do a lot. Parting the folds of skin, he slid his index finger inside her soaked pussy. The droning of the engine and whirring of the propellers drowned out most of Lavender’s whimpers and cries. Tyler expertly worked her pussy with his fingers until she almost came, then he withdrew. She protested, pissed as hell that he’d stopped. He had a habit of doing that just to torture her. Panting, she leaned against the seat back and wiped the sweat from her brow.

“Ride me,” he ordered, holding his breath, most likely in hope she wouldn’t balk at his alpha-male posturing.

Hesitating, she glanced over her shoulder. Tyler did, too. The pilot seemed oblivious, which amazed her. The sexual sparks arcing about the plane should’ve lit up the cockpit’s dashboard. Maybe he’d seen it all.

After one last uncertain glance, she straddled Tyler’s thighs, facing him. Legs spread wide, she lowered herself down. He guided his hard cock into her soft pussy. Once the head penetrated her opening, her common sense and remaining modesty flew out the window and drowned in the Strait of Juan De Fuca below.

Tyler grasped her butt cheeks and pulled her down on top of him until she was fully impaled. His pubic hair abraded her smoothly shaved pussy. He shoved his hips upward and held her down at the same time, driving deeper. His blue eyes shone with passion and unrestrained lust. They shone with something else, too. Something in opposition to their claims of mutual dislike. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Damn, she loved the feeling of fullness, being stretched to her body’s limits by his impressive cock. Every time her body managed to accommodate him.

They moved together, settling into their now-familiar rhythm, bodies slapping together. Tyler grunted with each thrust, while Lavender bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. The emotions built inside her, like a flash flood sweeping her away down the mountain. The pressure built inside her.

Lavender plummeted head first into the spell woven by the joining of their two bodies, by the depths of heat in Tyler’s blue eyes, and by the inexplicable connection between them.

Denial wasn’t working anymore.

It wasn’t just about the sex.

* * * * *

Tyler couldn’t remember ever being so turned on, and that was saying a lot considering this past month he’d spent fucking Lavender in every possible location and position. He stared at her, locking his gaze with her own, as he grasped her hips and pressed her down onto his cock.

“Tyler. Ty. I need you to make my day.” Her throaty whisper did more for him than any screams of passion. Damn, but he craved sex with this woman, any time, any place; he’d be there, locked and loaded like a good little soldier. All she had to do was call out his name just like she was doing right now.

Never one to disappoint a woman, Tyler held her waist in a vise-like grip. He banged her up and down on his cock in rapid succession.

He nipped at her shoulder, and she cried out, obviously beyond caring about the pilot. He pumped harder, faster, driving deep and hard with each hungry stroke. Their bodies collided in an unrestrained frenzy of slapping and thrusting. Positioning Lavender’s legs over his shoulders, he drove in deeper and harder. She begged for more. Oh, yeah, his lady liked it rough at times. This happened to be one of those times. Ignoring his aching muscles and protesting cock, he rammed into her over and over. She slammed her incredible pussy down onto his dick until it ached in the most freaking incredible way.

His balls tightened, his dick jerked. He leveraged her upward, slammed her down, and ground his cock deep and high inside her. She shuddered and leaned back, pressing him even deeper. Her legs wrapped around his waist with surprising strength for one so small.

Her pussy tightened around him as he came in a fevered eruption of passion. Emptying all that he was or would be inside her, he left it all out on the field with a fervor that eluded him when it came to other aspects of his life. She shuddered on top of him and came, the incredible high written all over her face. Obviously, it was as good for her as it was for him.

He slipped into a temporary lust-induced coma. Holding her close, he whispered nonsense in her ear, terms of endearment, sweet promises of devotion, crap he never said to any woman.

He bit back the most terrifying phrase of all: I love you. Even as it sat on the tip of his tongue.

Buried in the haze of incredible sex, his brain played tricks on him. It had to be.

He looked up to meet the pilot’s eyes. The man winked at him and went back to his business.