Fourth and Goal by Jami Davenport Page B

failure, a head case."
    "He's not a head case."
    "Like you're a good judge of his character."
    "Maybe I am."
    "Your judgment is tainted. He's an opportunistic ass."
    Rachel pictured her brother wearing the rest of the fried rice. Reining in her temper, she steered the subject back to her career choice. “It'd be nice for once if my family supported my dreams instead of tearing them down."
    "Now, Rae, we do—just realistic ones."
    "I did some scouting for the Blockbusters."
    "The Blockbusters. Now that's a joke. You did everything for them, including selling popcorn. You were a one-woman office."
    "I never sold popcorn. Besides, I gained valuable experience."
    "Not pro experience."
    "There are women in pro scouting."
    "Yeah, a few.” He set his jaw, as stubborn as their father. “Those women have balls. You're not like that."
    "You're saying I'm a pushover."
    He shrugged. “Yeah, sorta."
    "Maybe I'm changing."
    "Prove it. Don't let Ramsey manipulate you. Keep your emotions reined in and focus on the goal. Show me how strong you are."
    "I guarantee you we will not have a personal relationship. He's only in my life on a professional level. Nothing more."
    "Professional level?"
    "Derek is paying me to critique his game."
    Mitch frowned and shook his head. “I know you getting closer to him was originally my idea, but I still don't like it. Derek Ramsey is not to be trusted."
    "I don't trust him. This job is a win-win for me. I'll gain valuable experience and have access to Derek and Tyler. I have the next four or five months to unearth the information we need."
    Avoiding his assessing gaze, Rachel shoved the food cartons back in the bag and pushed them at him. She walked to the door, opened it, and waited. “I'll see you at next Sunday's game."
    Mitch took the hint, but his face mirrored his annoyance. She rarely stood up to her family, and her newfound independent streak obviously rankled him. She watched as he walked to his truck, Simon attached to his leg. He shook the dog off and drove away.
    Rachel sat on the corner of the tack trunk and bandaged her skinned knee. She'd tripped over a spur in the barn aisle, a suspiciously dirty spur covered in slobber. Simon watched from a distance and barked when she splatted on the ground. Even the dog made fun of her.
    All her life she'd tolerated the good-natured ribbing from her family of well-coordinated jocks. She couldn't hit a baseball, shoot a basket, or serve a volleyball. She wasn't pretty, popular, or graceful. She was just plain, clumsy Rachel, the smart one of the family without one fingernail of athletic talent. Even horseback riding didn't come easily, but she loved the animals and worked hard at it. One summer her cousin, Miranda, had taken riding lessons. After a few months, she'd entered a show in the same classes as Rachel. Miranda won her classes, while her inept cousin, with years of lessons under her belt, finished at the bottom of every class. Rachel wasn't surprised.
    Pausing in front of a stall, Rachel scratched her old guy, Moe, on the withers. He stuck his lip out and stretched his neck, making funny little sounds. She laughed and threw her arms around his furry neck, burying her face in his mane. She loved this horse. He'd been with her since grade school. They'd been through a lot of good and bad times. She'd cried into his mane when her mother died. He'd stood beside her, a silent yet supportive friend, nonjudgmental in his acceptance of her. He didn't care if she tripped more often than she stayed upright or that she wasn't a raging beauty or a witty conversationalist.
    Moe reached around with his big muzzle and nibbled on her elbow. Rachel drew back and laughed. “Is that a hint, big guy? You want some dinner?"
    The chestnut studied her with his big liquid brown eyes. He waited politely while Rachel put grain in his feeder. As soon as she moved out of his way, he dove in and sent grain flying. Rachel backed away and shut and latched the stall