One Night with a Quarterback by Jeanette Murray Page B

told Trey a lot about his gut feelings on the subject. “Cool it. You know Coach Jordan will rip you a new one if he finds out you’re acting like a sloppy sorority girl all over town. Nothing stays a secret forever, and we can’t keep walking behind you with a dust pan sweeping up your shit.”
    Stephen opened his mouth—most likely to argue—but snapped it shut again and rolled onto his stomach with a groan.
    â€œGonna hurl?”
    â€œNo,” came the muffled reply.
    â€œI’d say that’s a pity, but it’d only be punishing your housekeeping service who would have to clean it up anyway.”
    â€œJust go away.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy?” came the whiny question.
    â€œBecause I love your stupid ass. So start being worthy.”
    The chuckle sounded painful.
    â€œI’m not kidding, man. Who’s gonna protect me in the pocket if you can’t play because Jordan benched you? I need you, man.”
    There was more to it. They both knew that. They’d been best friends for years, and Stephen was like a brother to him. But guy code insisted now was not the time for the truly mushy stuff. So it came down to using lingo they could both relate to.
    Football.
    â€œI’m always there.”
    â€œYou haven’t been, lately. You’re showing up late to meetings, slacking off in weights. You look like hell. And if you don’t mind me saying so . . .” Trey nudged his friend’s hip, watched his body rock and settle again. “You’ve put on a few.”
    â€œThey always want me to put on a few. They’re asking me to put on another twenty. Every pound’s another pound between you and a gorilla from another team.”
    True. But still . . . “It’s not healthy, especially if most of it is from beer. If you drop dead of liver failure on the field, you’re really going to piss me off.”
    â€œThat would piss me off, too.” Stephen rolled over onto his back and draped one arm over his eyes. “I don’t have a problem.”
    Yes, you do
. “If there’s no problem, then give up the drinking for awhile. Just to shut me up. You know I can carry on like a little girl if I don’t get my way.”
    Stephen’s laughter was a bit stronger this time. “How true that is.”
    â€œSo just . . . lay off for awhile. If it’s not a problem, then you should have no trouble. I’ll be proven wrong—a rare occurrence, indeed—and we can move on.”
    His friend held out the hand not shielding his eyes from the light for a handshake. “Whatever.”
    Whatever, indeed.
    * * *
    Clothes put away in the dressers . . . check.
    Notepad full of things for Anya to send . . . check.
    Set up office and email to boss . . . check.
    Email mom to update her . . . check.
    Die of boredom . . . in-progress.
    Cassie pushed back from the desk, letting the rolling chair glide over the wood floors of the guest bedroom. Her head fell back and she observed the whitewashed ceilings. It was college finals week all over again. Staring blankly at a point on the wall and losing track of hours at a time.
    Maybe she should go over and knock on the back door of the main house, ask if her father was around. But she just got here . . . was that too presumptuous? Then again, if he’d just met her when she told him she’d be coming in, she wouldn’t be wondering where he was.
    There was a knock at the door, and she bolted up in the chair and sprinted toward the distraction. Then skidded to a halt when she saw through the glass front door, not her father, but two teenage girls.
    His daughters. Her . . . sisters.
    The shorter one waved and grinned, bouncing a little in her old-school penny loafers. The taller one raised a brow, in an extremely scary imitation of her mother. Both had light blonde hair and pale