Takes Two to Tackle

Book 3: Santa Fe Bobcats

by Jeanette Murray

Genres: Sports; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Football player Stephen Harrison has hit rock bottom-he's fresh out of rehab, lost too much weight to be an effective offensive lineman, and has no support system in place. The Bobcats staff suggests that he get a life coach to keep him sober and get him back into playing shape, but Stephen says that his girlfriend will help. Too bad he doesn't have one . . .



Luckily for Stephen, he does have a housekeeper. Margaret has always dreamed of starting her own elite cleaning service, and the money Stephen offers her to play the part of girlfriend is too good to pass up. But while Mags is helping Stephen bulk up and get ready for training camp, she can't seem to block the feelings crashing into her heart-and one night of passion will pull both of their heads out of the game.

Contains mature themes.

Release date: September 15, 2015

Publisher: InterMix

Print pages: 278

Sample

Chapter One

Stephen Harrison held up a hand to the cab driver who idled in his driveway, opened his front door, and walked through for the first time in four months.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. It should have been stale. The kind of odor houses get that have been on the market with nobody living in them. A little dusty, no air circulating. Instead it was fresh, with a faint hint of lemon.

Mags had been there. Recently, he realized, if the gleam on his entryway mirror was to be trusted. He didn’t look at his own reflection—avoided it, to be exact—but could see the shine from a mile away. His housekeeper should have stopped coming while he was gone. No point in keeping the house clean when nobody was living in it. In fact . . . he hadn’t made arrangements to pay her. Just the utilities and lawn guys to keep it looking decent out front.

Damn.

He dropped his bag on the entry bench and wandered through, trying to take measure of his own house as if it were the first time, like a stranger might.

Had it always sounded so hollow?

Maybe, but he’d had friends around often enough to take up space. And his friends weren’t tiny guys. He’d have friends with him right now, if he hadn’t lied and told them he was coming home tomorrow. He just needed to be alone, so he’d taken a cab from rehab. They’d bitch about it when they realized what happened, but he was on his own now. And that’s how he needed it, for the first little bit.

He entered the kitchen, noted the appliances had that just-buffed shine, the granite countertops were sparkling, the bowl he usually kept fruit in was empty but for napkins.

He hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, then opened the refrigerator door. And let the breath out with an anticlimactic whoosh. His alcohol, every drop, was gone. He checked the freezer, then the cabinet he usually kept his good stuff in. All empty. He’d been wiped clean.

That would have been Trey and Josiah’s choice.

What kind of a pussy did they think he was, that he couldn’t step out the doors of rehab, walk back into his own home, and not immediately fall into old habits? He wasn’t a freaking kid. He could handle himself.

No, no, I can’t. I am not an island . . . and all that other AA stuff. His brain still had to catch up to the new way of thinking. He was still too new at this whole sobriety thing. And they’d known that, and given him the step up.

Resentment and gratitude were an ugly mixture, rolling around in his gut.

With a sigh, he sank down into his favorite armchair and stared at the dark television. He’d let the cable lapse while he was gone—it just didn’t make sense to keep it—and it occurred to him he hadn’t called to reconnect it. So he was alone, on his first night back, with nothing to do and nobody to do it with.

Stellar plan, Harrison.

The doorbell rang, and he snorted. Alone, no longer. He slapped his hands on his knees and stood, taking his time getting to the door. When he paused, debated answering it, the person out front knocked hard against his front door.

“Open up, asshole. We know you’re in there.”

Josiah. Stephen grinned, in spite of his mood, and threw the door open. There he stood, with Trey behind him, both holding overnight bags.

Josiah blinked as he stared at Stephen. “I’m sorry, we’re looking for the Harrison residence.”

“Bite me.” Unoriginal but effective. He let them both in and closed the door behind them. “What are you two doing here? Looking for a sleepover?”

Trey tossed his own bag next to Stephen’s on the floor of the foyer. “Cassie kicked me out. I need a place to stay for the night.”

Cassie Wainwright, daughter of the Bobcats’ head coach, had hooked up with Trey the year before. Stephen had had the pleasure of watching their initial meeting happen. After Cassie had connected with her father—having never met the man before—she’d decided to put down roots in Santa Fe instead of Atlanta.

“Uh-huh.” Last he’d heard, Trey and Cassie still weren’t living together—much to his friend’s disgruntlement—so nice try on that one. Since his other friend wasn’t currently involved with anyone, he gave Josiah his best What’s your excuse? face.

Josiah let his bag drop. “My potted fern kicked me out.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that spilled out of him. “You two are such assholes.” Slinging an arm around each of them, he walked back to the kitchen. “Which one of you stole my liquor?”

“Oh, we had a big-ass party here while you were gone.” Josiah slapped his back and went for a water. “Poured it all out in the pool out back and went swimming. Stuff of legends.”

“If we’d known you were coming back today,” Trey said as he took the bottle Josiah handed him, “we would have stocked your fridge with more than water.” Giving Stephen the once-over, he smiled a little. “Or maybe some Jenny Craig meals. Dude, you’re half-missing.”

“Apparently,” Stephen said dryly, “alcohol is fattening.”

“You don’t say,” Josiah said in a hushed whisper, eyes widening over the bottle he tipped up. “Didn’t I tell you to stop buying this plastic crap? Get a damn filtration system and a water pitcher. Glass,” he added. “Pretty sure you can handle that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sat down at the kitchen island on one of the bar stools. Last time he’d tried that, the stool had creaked under his weight. “I’ve got a meeting on Monday with the coaches.” He glanced down and noted the way his shirt hung off his frame. “I’m screwed, aren’t I?”

“You’ve lost a few pounds,” Trey conceded, then grimaced when Stephen lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry, man. I don’t know your stats. How the hell much did you lose?”

“Too much.” Football was all he knew. And being the biggest guy out there was all he was good at. Without the added weight, there was no way he could do his job as effectively. “I need to put some pounds back on.”

“So you’ll do it the healthy way this time.” Josiah set his bottle down and bent to look Stephen in the eye. “We’ll lift weights together. You can check with a nutritionist about the right diet plan. There are other ways to put weight back on without resorting to old habits and bingeing on cake.”

Trey grinned. “Look at it this way . . . at least you’re looking pretty good. The ladies are gonna love it.”

Stephen let his forehead fall to the cool granite.

***

Margaret Logan managed to get the door open, slip inside, and close it behind her with her toe, all without setting the two sacks of groceries down.

That, sadly, was her first win of the day.

She blew hair out of her eyes and moved toward the kitchen, humming along with the bump music the podcast on her phone was playing via her earbuds. Normally, she preferred to watch the news when she cleaned, as it was the only time she actually had to see the rest of the world around her. But Stephen had cut off cable when he went out of town, so she’d been bringing her old, refurbished iPod with her, loaded down with podcasts that were inspirational and listening to those while she cleaned. Everything from business to finance to self-help guru motivational speakers, she had it.

Went out of town. She rolled her eyes. Mags knew exactly where he’d gone, as did almost everyone else. He was in rehab somewhere, and thank God for it. Stephen Harrison was the sweetest man, but he clearly had a problem. Even so, she wouldn’t mention it if they crossed paths while she was there. Her business was dependent on her discretion. She could keep her lips closed even with the KGB torturing her.

Stephen was due back today, she knew, since she’d spoken to Trey Owens when she ran into him the week before while he was cleaning out Stephen’s fridge and cabinets of alcohol. The man was blessed with good friends . . . and good-looking ones. She smiled a little as she set the bags of groceries on the counter.

So it wasn’t her job to do the grocery shopping. He’d done something good for his health, and he should be greeted home by some healthy food to help out with the transition.

As she hummed and put groceries away, she ticked off the items she planned to do before he got home. Since he’d been gone, she’d popped by every so often just to keep the place from going stale, dust it up and run the water and double-check that everything was okay, security-wise. Simple things. Not even half her usual cleaning load.

Then again, he’d stopped paying her when he’d “gone out of town,” so she didn’t feel too bad about half-assing the job.

She pulled a bag of celery out of the sack, turned, and screamed.

“Jesus Christ!”

There stood a man who looked sort of like Stephen Harrison, buck-ass naked, in front of her. She dropped the celery, covered her eyes with one hand and reached for her purse—which had her cell phone—with the other.

“Who are you?!”

She heard him move—away from her, it sounded like—and she tried to breathe. Did Stephen have a brother coming in from out of town? If so, what the hell was he doing, walking around his brother’s house naked? Rude much?

After digging around blindly in her bag, she managed to get her cell phone. “I’m calling the cops!”

“No, you’re not.” The phone was plucked from her hand and she heard it clink down on the island granite. “Mags.”

She blinked. Okay, that was definitely Stephen’s voice. She peeked through two fingers, saw he’d wrapped a blanket from the family room couch around his waist, and sighed. Taking a step back, she laughed, a little shaky. “Sorry. You scared me.” Then she blinked. “You’re . . . home,” she finished lamely.

Home was not the first word that came to mind. Hot was. He’d been adorable when he left. Cute, but the effects of too many beers had shown.

The beer gut was gone now, along with the hint of sadness that had followed him, which he’d always covered up with false cheer. The false cheer was gone, too. Now . . . he was a stranger.

A hot stranger. He wasn’t ripped, but he was definitely lean. Actually, maybe on second—fine, third—perusal, a bit too lean.

And she’d spent way too much time staring at his torso now. Looking up—and up—into his eyes, she caught a gleam of amusement.

“Weight Watchers,” he said simply.

That made her smile. “Yeah, right.”

They both eyed each other warily before Mags broke from her frozen spell and reached for the dropped celery. They’d always had an easy employer-employee relationship before . . . Why was she feeling so awkward now? To put something in the silence, she added, “Welcome home, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Apparently comfortable with his near nakedness, he settled on a stool to watch her put away the groceries. She waited for a moment, then shrugged and went to work.

“The lawn guys were here weekly, in case you were curious.” She loaded the veggies in the crisper and started on the next shelf up.

“Applesauce?” Stephen’s voice was full of disbelief as she set the apparently offensive food item in the fridge. “I’m thirty-one, not three.”

“Applesauce—no sugar added—is a good snack.” She pulled a cup from the crate and tossed it to him. He caught it one-handed in a palm the size of a baseball mitt. The rest of him had shrunk . . . his hands had not. “Snack time.”

He raised a brow but leaned over the island and reached into a drawer. Then his hand swept around, knocking a few dish towels to the ground. “What the . . .”

“So, funny story.” Mags reached into the drawer containing the silverware and slid a spoon toward him. “Remember how I kept telling you your kitchen was a disorganized wreck?”

He scowled as he ripped open the foil top of his applesauce, a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I remember telling you I didn’t care.”

She ignored that and put some apples in a shallow wooden bowl by the never-used KitchenAid mixer. “And remember me begging you to let me reorganize the drawers and cabinets?”

Stephen pulled the spoon from his mouth and pointed it at her. “I remember saying no.”

“Since you weren’t here, I decided to do you a favor and organize your house for you.”

When he just stared at her, she added, “You’re welcome.” With that, she pulled her hair into a knot, tossed the cloth bags in the hallway by her purse, and reached under the sink for the cleaning supplies.

“I didn’t pay you.”

“I know.” She sprayed down the granite and got to wiping.

“Why did you keep coming if I didn’t pay you? I thought the agency would stop sending you.”

She would have preferred the news, but company was a nice second place while she cleaned. “Being able to organize your house was payment enough.”

“So it was you who moved my linen closet around, leaving me towel-less after my shower.”

She nodded and wiped.

“And why I couldn’t find any boxers in my drawer before coming downstairs.”

“Is that why you came down naked?” She hid a laugh by ducking down to wipe the floor where she’d dropped the celery. He just grunted. “Yes, guilty. I rearranged your drawers and closet.”

“I thought it was the guys playing a prank or something.”

That brought her up short. “That reminds me. Why did they tell me you were coming home late tonight? And if you’re here, why aren’t they? Why would they make you spend your first night home from rehab on your own? What’s wrong with them?”

“Whoa, easy.” He held out one hand, used the other to toss the applesauce cup into the trash can across the room. “Little harsh on my friends, aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t you more harsh?” She paused by the island, waited a beat, then made a shooing motion. He picked up his forearms so she could wipe down where he’d had his snack.

“I lied and told them I was coming home today, and took a cab by myself yesterday. And yes, they found out anyway, showed up last night, and spent the night here. I kicked them out early this morning so I could get ready and make it to my meeting later. Plus . . .” He ran a hand through his hair, then just draped himself over the island. She bit back a sarcastic comment about having just wiped it down. “I needed some quiet. Real quiet, not that manufactured zen yourself out junk in rehab. You know?”

She did know, and could sympathize. “Fine, then.” He looked so lost, she wanted to perk him up a little by annoying him. “I also rearranged the furniture in your small guest room.”

“What the hell for?”

“Funsies. So how’s the whole sobriety thing going for ya?”

He blinked, thrown off. “You don’t dance around it, do you?”

“Should I?” Feeling more cheerful now, she tossed the rag in the washrag bin and put the cleaning solution under the sink.

“No. God, no.” He ran a hand over his face and huffed, sitting back up again. The edge of the counter had imprinted a line into his skin. “I just assumed people would be all delicate about it, not wanting to mention rehab.”

“What, like it’s Voldemort?”

That made him smile. “Basically.”

“I’m not very tactful. But you know that, since we’ve had numerous arguments about how stupidly your pantry is arranged.”

“It’s not stupid,” he defended, pointlessly, in her opinion. “I put the stuff I eat most at eye level. That’s common sense. And aren’t you worried one of these days I’m gonna get fed up with your backtalk and fire you?”

“Nope. I’m too good at my job. You’d be an idiot to lose me.”

He grumbled, but she caught the corner of his mouth twitching. As he stood, he looked around the kitchen. “Thanks for the groceries. I’ll get your automatic payments set back up. Leave the receipt and I’ll write you a check before I go for those.”

She hadn’t planned on it. Buying the groceries—the few items she had gotten—was like bringing a casserole to someone who was sick. Just something you did.

He left the room without a backward glance, hitching the blanket up a little as he walked.

Too bad it didn’t just fall to the floor.

Okay, maybe that was uncharitable to think. The guy wasn’t a side of meat on a plate. He was a good man who had always paid her fairly and treated her with respect—unlike so many other clients over the years. He had a long road ahead of him, but he was tougher than others gave him credit for, even off the field.

She grinned and picked up her cleaning caddy fully of polish, rags, and wipes. Time to earn that paycheck.

Chapter Two

“Hey, Stephen.”

As he approached the front desk of the main HQ offices, Kristen popped out from behind the desk and came to greet him with a warm hug and a smile. They all loved her. She was like a big sister, or maybe your young, cool aunt who always had cookies handy and an ear ready for gossip, but could kick your ass back into place if you strayed off the path. Though she was probably only five or so years older than him, he knew she thought of them all as a bunch of kids, and managed to walk the line between being personable and professional. Probably why she was so damn good at her job.

“Missed you, stranger.” She rubbed his back and pulled him an arm’s length away. “Or I missed what’s left of you. Where’d you go?”

“Jenny Craig’s no joke,” he said, and she smiled again and patted his arm before turning on stick-thin heels to go back to her desk. With a pat of her hair and a smoothing palm over her skirt, she once again took her seat at the throne of organization. “I’m here for Coach. I think he’s expecting me.”

“He’s in conference room B. Head on back; I’ll buzz Frank.” She winked and waved, picking up the phone as he walked by.

As he wandered back through the hallways, he remembered the last time he’d been into HQ. He’d been signing his last contract with the Bobcats, thrilled at not having to go free agent and uproot his life. He loved it in Santa Fe, he loved his teammates, and loved playing for the organization.

But if he had to go, he’d go. Football was all he knew, and it was what he needed most in his life.

His short walk took him to the outer offices of the coaches, where an old man typed furiously at a computer.

“Hey, Frank.”

The old man didn’t even blink.

To mess with him, Stephen walked over and planted his palms on the desk. Frank never stopped typing. “How’s life?”

Unfazed, Frank grunted, then used one hand to point toward conference room B. Somehow, his left hand never left the keyboard.

“You’ve really gotta stop talking so much. It scares the customers. See ya.” With zero acknowledgement from Frank, Stephen headed for the conference room.

And walked into an ambush. Or at least, his body felt that way when his heart started to pound. Sitting there were not only Coach Jordan—head coach of the Bobcats—but his assistant coach, the offense coach, their strength coach, the team’s nutritionist, and the team’s PR rep. They just sat there, staring at him from across the long table, waiting.

Stephen’s fight-or-flight instincts kicked in and he felt his fists bunch, ready for battle.

“Sit down, son.” Coach Talbin waved at him. “We’re all on the same team here.”

Mouth too dry to speak, Stephen sat. He went for unaffected in his pose, slouching back a little as if the meeting that would decide his fate had no real bearing on his emotional well-being.

After a long silence, the strength coach spoke up. “How much weight did you lose?”

There were times when jokes just wouldn’t cut it. “Maybe twenty.” When the coach raised his brows, he added, “Or a little more.” He hadn’t weighed himself in the last week or so before hitting rehab, and he hadn’t stepped on a scale in over a month. Watching the numbers shrink while in rehab had been too depressing. But if he were being truly honest, he’d guess he was down a good fifty.

His offensive coach groaned and ran a hand over his face. “Damn it, Harrison. What the hell are you doing to me?”

He shrugged.

“We’ll work on it.” The strength coach stood and nodded. “I just needed to see where you were, and what kind of work we’ve got ahead of us.” He walked from the room, clapping Stephen’s shoulder as he left.

“I’ll have a diet plan ready to go in the morning.” Standing to follow their strength coach, the nutritionist held out a hand to shake Stephen’s. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Both of those sounded promising . . . as if they’d already decided to keep him around.

Still moaning, as if his weight loss had been a personal attack against the coaching staff, his offensive coach screwed his thumbs into his eye sockets and didn’t look up.

“You didn’t lose weight on purpose, did you?” Talbin asked quietly.

“Apparently,” Stephen said slowly, willing to throw the elephant right on the table to get it over with, “when you stop drinking your calories, the weight just sort of falls off. It wasn’t planned. I haven’t been this size since . . .” He fought to think of when, and came up empty. “I don’t know.”

Talbin nodded, and kept nodding as if he couldn’t stop the motion. “You’re too small. We have to get you back up. You’re no good to us at this size. Bobby Trenton will blow on you and you’ll drift off into the sunset.”

Stephen scowled as Talbin mentioned his leading rival for his spot. “I’ll be fine.”

The offensive coach moaned a little more, then rocked to his feet. Without looking at Stephen, he left the room.

Talbin smiled a little, though it might have been a half grimace. Stephen couldn’t be sure. “He’s not taking this well. We need you out there, Harrison. You’ve got to get back up to fighting weight, and quick.”

Stephen nodded, hearing the unspoken threat of . . . or else we’ll drop you like a hot sack of shit.

Coach Jordan said nothing, just nodded to Talbin, who gave a curt jerk of his head and left the room.

Stephen waited until the door closed behind the assistant coach and glanced around the previously full room. “Well, I really know how to clear a room.”

“Did you get more than jokes at rehab?” Stephen watched as Coach Jordan’s face set into hard lines.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. It was time well spent. And I apologize for needing it.” When the coach said nothing, Stephen realized this was the first time he’d seen his coach face-to-face since the night that had put him over the edge and into rehab in the first place.

The night he’d found the coach’s seriously underage daughter at a bar, had enough sense to escort her outside to wait for a ride, and managed to get himself involved in a drunken brawl instead.

“About that night, sir. I—”

“I know about that night.”

His face was so grim, Stephen knew he didn’t really know. “But if I could just—”

“My daughter told me everything.” Realizing he had to elaborate on which, as he now had three, Coach added, “My middle daughter, Irene. She explained everything. How you were an innocent bystander, just trying to keep her out of trouble. That you didn’t search the fight out, that you were trying to avoid problems and keep her safe.” When Stephen let out a heavy breath of relief, he added, “She also mentioned you didn’t try that hard, and seemed pleased enough to throw punches after the first one.”

Stephen couldn’t disagree, so he stayed quiet. If rehab had taught him nothing else, it was that staying quiet was usually preferable to anything.

Coach Jordan leaned forward, dark forearms resting across the smooth table. “How solid are you feeling right now?”

“Today? Pretty solid.” Stephen felt approximately two feet tall. “But as they say . . .”

“One day at a time. Right.” Coach rubbed a hand down his face, stared out the window for a moment, then sighed. “I need you to be solid day in and day out. This team can’t afford any more bad press. Last year’s . . . issues,” he said after an uncharacteristic stumble, “were unfortunate. And it’s going to get a little worse before it gets better.”

Stephen blinked. “Coach?”

“Ignore that last part.” He slashed a hand through the air. “We need you at training camp, ready to play. You’re not there yet, physically. I appreciate you cleaning up your act, but we need more. You need to put some pounds back on. When the nutritionist or the strength coach calls, you answer. When I call, you answer. When Talbin, or anyone else in this organization, calls, you answer. You are our new yes-man. You are prepared to prove your sobriety and dedication anytime, day or night. If the nutritionist tells you to eat a dozen rats for dinner, you do it with a smile.”

Stephen started to argue. Physically, though he’d lost some muscle mass, he hadn’t felt this good in years. He was quicker, which he knew when he jogged daily. Something about sweating out the toxins . . . He was lighter on his feet. He’d damn sure be able to breathe better in the sweltering heat of camp, under pads, in that stuffy-ass helmet . . .

But no. He was not meant to be a quick, fleet-footed runner. He was supposed to be a refrigerator, with the French doors wide open, so nobody could push through him, around him, over him. He was the first and last defense for their quarterback.

“Harrison.”

He blinked, then nodded. Because this was all he knew. “Yes, sir.”

Coach paused, then leaned back. “You got family in the area?”

“No, sir.” And he missed them greatly.

“I know you’re not married, no kids.” The older man rubbed a hand over his chin. “Girlfriend?”

“Nope.” When the man raised a doubtful eyebrow, he shrugged. It wasn’t like he went to a rehab facility to pick up chicks. He was there for work, or it was all for nothing. “Sorry. Is there a reason you want to know my relationship status?”

“Let’s just say, I’d feel more confident about your ability to bounce back and stay steady if I knew you had someone at home with you daily. A friend’s nice, but too easy to push out the door. A teammate . . . they’ve got their own shit to worry about, and I don’t want them bogged down. I guess you could hire a life coach,” he mused. “A life coach might not be a bad idea. We’ve got one who’s worked with the team in the past. He’ll keep you straight. Yeah, this is the right idea.” He opened his folder and started shuffling through papers, and with each fan of the paper, Stephen’s heart sank.

A fucking life coach? No. He’d put up with the nutritionist making him eat rats, or the strength coach whining about his lost muscle mass. He’d handle the coaches doubting his mental stability, as long as they kept him.

But a life coach? Goddamn it.

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