To Win Her Back

Book 4: Players

by Mackenzie Crowne

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Sports Romance

Synopsis

Will the mistakes of the past ruin their future? As public relations coordinator for the Manhattan Marauders pro football team, Victoria “V” Price has the wealth, prestige, and glamour she only dreamed of growing up. All she’s missing is a man to share it with. V thought she gave up her shot at love when she left her childhood sweetheart in the dust of her rural Texas town, along with the painful secrets of her family life. But the past comes roaring back when Sam Fitzpatrick, the only man she ever loved, is hired as the Marauders’ new offensive coordinator. Despite Sam’s reluctance to work alongside V, his distrust of the woman who broke his young heart is no match for their swiftly rekindling passion. Yet even as V’s tough PR persona gives way to her softer side, Sam wonders if their chemistry is enough to overcome the wounds left unhealed between them. But when the devastating truth of V’s past is exposed, threatening both her career and their second chance, Sam finds himself asking a different question: does he have what it takes to win back her love?

Release date: January 24, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 216

Sample

 

“All right. Last item. I want Samuel Fitzpatrick, people, and I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Victoria Price choked, nearly spewing a mouthful of sparkling water over the half-dozen paper-pushing office jocks seated at the long conference table. Every eye in the room turned her way. She gasped, struggling to drag in a lungful of oxygen as the air in the Manhattan Marauders’ well-appointed conference suite suddenly evaporated.

Attempting to disguise her dismay, she pasted on an apologetic smile and blindly set aside the bottle in her hand. Unfortunately, the thick binder in front of her ruined her aim. She bolted forward as the bottle tipped, fumbling to catch it before the contents spilled onto the glossy teakwood.

Beside her, Tom Walden leaned in and whispered, “You okay, V?”

She shot the Marauders’ players’ liaison a sidelong glance. The concern in his blue eyes made her wince before panic set in. God. Did he know about her and Sam? How? And since when?

The answer smacked her in the forehead like a flat palm. Jake, that son of a bitch. She was going to strangle him and bloody his big mouth.

No. That couldn’t be right. She was simply being paranoid. Guilty relief eased the panic as quickly as it had come. Tom and Jake might have been friends since before she’d followed Jake to New York, dragging her battered heart behind her, but he wouldn’t blab about something so private. Jake wouldn’t do that. Not to her. He wouldn’t dare.

She forced a smile, nodded at Tom, and shot a nervous glance down the table. At the far end, Caroline Wainwright quirked a quizzical brow.

“Sorry. Clumsy.” V offered the team’s owner a sickly smile then quickly looked away. She set the bottle to rights and, feigning a casualness she wasn’t close to feeling, snatched up her copy of the afternoon’s meeting schedule and scanned the bullet points. The blood drained from her head as her gaze stalled on Sam’s name.

Holy hell! How the hell did I miss that? Her heart performed a manic thump-and-roll in her chest, and her fingers jerked involuntarily on the page.

Across from her, George Tipton, the team’s general manager, leaned on his elbows and shook his head. “I thought Fitzpatrick had been scratched from the list. He’s still under contract.”

With a manicured fingernail, Caroline tapped out three staccato beats on the tabletop. Determination narrowed her keen green eyes. “Not for long. His contract runs out in less than two weeks and, from what I understand, negotiations have stalled. Bob Duggan insists Fitzgerald is the best man to replace him. I agree.” She shifted her gaze to V. “I want you to take the lead on this.”

V’s stomach muscles clenched, and she stared at the woman she considered a friend as well as her boss. In the seven years since Caroline had acquired the Marauders franchise, she’d shown an uncanny knack for assembling winning teams, both on and off the field. Three trips to the big game had netted two rings for her players and staff, and made her a force to be reckoned with across the league. With very few exceptions, Caroline got what she wanted. V had no interest in handing her a rare defeat.

Despite herself, she couldn’t help the rush of pride over Caroline’s recognition of Sam’s talents. With several Division Two championships on his résumé, he definitely had the chops to take over as the team’s offensive coordinator when Bob left. But, damn it! Their disastrous history made V the last person on Earth who should be negotiating his hire.

And there was no freaking way she was admitting that in front of the office jocks or Caroline.

V wracked her brain for a believable excuse to decline the task, one that wouldn’t send up any red flags with her friend, and came up with zilch. Still, it wasn’t in her to back down. “I’m your PR consultant, Caroline, not one of your scouts.”

“You grew up in the same town. You know him.”

Well, yeah, but…. “I knew him a long time ago, and we weren’t exactly friends.” Guilt weighed down her heart. There was a time she and Sam had been good friends. More than friends, in fact. Then she’d gone and screwed up. Big time.

“He knows you, and that’s what counts.” Caroline flicked her hand in a dismissive slash, and shards of brilliant color shot from the customized Super Bowl diamond gracing her finger. “Anyway, the offer has nothing to do with friendship. It’s a business proposition, and you’re part of this business.”

True, and V loved her job far more than she’d expected when she’d been offered a position with the team. After twelve years of scrambling to keep Jake Malone’s image out of the crapper, her lifelong friend and famous client had traded in his playboy status for the family plan, and his cleats and helmet for wingtips and a microphone. She’d long since limited her client list to him alone and their association had left her wealthy enough that jumping back into the cutthroat world of representation held little interest. Retirement, however, was out of the question. She’d needed a new challenge, and Caroline had stepped in to provide it.

However, approaching Sam Fitzpatrick with an offer to come to Manhattan was more of a challenge than V had bargained for.

She mentally clamped down on the rush of alarm threatening to engulf her and held Caroline’s steady gaze. “Does he know the Marauders are looking at him?”

“He will when you tell him.” The team’s owner pushed to her feet and held out her hand to the ever-present assistant waiting at her back. Accepting an envelope, she slid it across the table to V. “Our offer and all the incidentals are inside. Bob’s in his office. He’s expecting you. He’ll answer any questions you might have. In the meantime, Fitzpatrick is accepting some kind of award during the half-time ceremonies tomorrow night at your old high school. Your flight for Texas leaves at ten AM.”

V bit back a panicked groan, and any argument she might have made died on her lips as Caroline swept from the room with her assistant on her heels. The office jocks gathered binders and cups, then wandered off to their cubicles throughout the complex. Teeth gritted, V slid her flight itinerary from the envelope and sighed. At least she wouldn’t be spending the night.

Barlow, Texas.

She squeezed her eyes shut. What were the odds she could slip in and out of town without the residents finding out? Her throat went dry and she swallowed against the invisible layer of east Texas dust she’d never been able to completely scrape off her tongue.

As if going back wasn’t bad enough. The thought of facing Sam….

She refused to throw up.

 

Eighteen hours later, her stomach was still giving her fits as she slowed her rental car to a stop in the parking lot of Barlow High’s football stadium. She glanced around and couldn’t help a reminiscent smirk. The field on the edge of town had been ground zero for the football-crazy citizens of Barlow since before man had walked on the moon. Calling the place a stadium, however, was a stretch.

A faded blue, polyurethane oval circled the battered grass field. Perched atop the far set of bleachers and emblazoned with a fiery red rocket, the two-level press box sported a new coat of white paint, as did the concession stand at the far end of the field.

It was early yet, with more than an hour until kickoff. The parking lot and stands sat mostly empty, but the home team boys went through their warm-ups on the field. Smoke curled from behind the gymnasium, suggesting the boosters were on hand and had fired up the grills. Soon the enticing scents of grilling burgers and popping corn would greet the crowds streaming in for tonight’s gridiron battle.

The late afternoon sun hung low on the horizon. To V’s left, heat waves shimmered off the empty, time-dulled metal bones of the home-team bleachers. She eyed the spot beneath them where she’d unwillingly lost her “kiss cherry” to Brian Hayes during the last quarter of the homecoming game in her junior year. She flexed the fingers of her right hand and her lips thinned at the memory. The shock on Brian’s face after her fist had connected with his eye had been worth the bruised knuckles.

Rolling her shoulders, she squinted through the windshield. She ignored the uniformed teenagers doing calisthenics on the fifty-yard line to scan the gathered crowd of adult males stalking the sidelines. Unfortunately, she found no sign of the muscular form that insisted on haunting her dreams.

She sighed. From what she knew, Sam’s parents had remained in Florida after he’d graduated, and the home he’d grown up in had been sold long ago. Presenting the team’s offer to him in private would be preferable, but with no idea where he now lived, she’d have to take what she could get. She could either wait until he showed up at the game and hope she’d get a moment to speak to him privately, or swing by the gossip central counter at the Barlow Inn and inquire after his address.

She stiffened her shoulders against a shudder. No way in hell. Esther Gimmly not only ran the only motel in town, she chaired the local chapter of the chamber of commerce and had been president of the town’s unofficial grapevine since before the advent of the cell phone. She was also V’s mother’s best friend and would no doubt inform Anita Price of her daughter’s reappearance in Barlow before the bell on the Inn’s front door stopped chiming.

On the passenger seat, V’s leather Gucci satchel buzzed. Shifting into park, she pulled her phone from the outside sleeve. She growled deep in her throat at her mother’s name on the screen. For God’s sake. She’d driven into town three minutes ago and had yet to speak to a single soul. Had the chamber of commerce installed satellite surveillance?

Shaking her head, she slid from the car, shut the door, and tucked the phone into the pocket of her blazer. Unanswered. If she was going to speak to Sam after all these years, she needed to do so with a clear head. She’d deal with Mom later.

She slumped against the hood. Sam was supposedly receiving his award at half time, but she knew damn well he wouldn’t disappoint the townsfolk by missing a single second of the game. He’d be in his seat before the coin toss. All she had to do was wait—and ignore the nerves ricocheting around in her belly like pinballs on crack.

Five minutes later, sweat had begun to pool between her breasts. She swore beneath her breath. It figured a heatwave would accompany her on this fool’s errand. Slipping open the button on her blazer, she flapped the lapels to create a breeze. She’d chosen the sleekly sophisticated suit because the crisp cut and creamy color pronounced her a serious businesswoman, and the heavy weave would protect her from the chill winds that usually blew this time of year. More importantly, the skirt and blazer held no resemblance to the worn jeans and football jersey she’d worn the last time she’d seen Sam.

When she’d literally added insult to injury by walking out on him wearing his number emblazoned on her back.

The all-too-familiar spiral of bittersweet memories and regret twisted her insides into knots, and she yanked the blazer off her shoulders and down her arms. What would life have been like if she hadn’t been such a coward? If she’d been upfront with him from the beginning? The instant chilling of her blood took care of the clammy sweat.

Even fifteen years later, the thought of baring her soul to him, to anyone, left her cold. And damn it, exposing the vile secret she’d kept locked away in the dark recesses of her mind hadn’t been necessary. Not with Sam. When he’d touched her, the past hadn’t mattered. To her utter surprise and joy, the warm touch of his lips brushing hers had banished the memories of hot breath stinking of whiskey. His big hands were gentle, his touch sensual instead of sickening. And far from frightening, the press of his solid body against hers was exciting.

She’d moved beyond the terror while surrounded by his protective arms, and for a short, sweet time, the gleaming light of normalcy had shimmered before her. Knots of tension pulled her shoulder muscles tight. The harsh truth was, she’d reacted instinctively and cruelly when that light was extinguished in the blink of an eye, but not even the warm promise of Sam’s love had been able to quell her panic at the thought of returning to Barlow once his dream of a pro career was dashed.

She tossed her blazer onto the hood beside her. Water under the bridge. As cowardly as she’d acted, she’d made her decisions and there was no going back. Still, if she were a better woman, one whose heart hadn’t been hardened to coldness by the cruelties of life, she’d have found a way to apologize for any regrets she’d left him with when she’d run.

But she wasn’t that woman. Never had been and never would be.

“Everything around here seemed so much bigger when I was seventeen.”

With a soft yelp, she jolted away from the hood and spun around. Staring into Sam’s familiar, slate-gray eyes, dizziness swamped her. She staggered slightly on her heels. He shot out a hand to steady her. The heat from his broad palm seared her ribs through the silk of her shell top. Her nipples pebbled in helpless welcome. She bit down on a dismayed groan and took a wide step back. His hand dropped away as she snatched the blazer from the hood and held it before her chest like a shield.

Flustered, she shot a darting glance at the field. The coaching staff and players had yet to notice his arrival. The moment of privacy was one she hadn’t expected, but it worked to her advantage. It wouldn’t last long, however. The quicker she delivered Caroline’s offer, the sooner she could leave Barlow and its memories behind.

“Sam, I—”

She stumbled over what to say as she catalogued every nuance of his six-four frame. Starved for the sight of him, she slid her greedy gaze over the muscled body she’d known so well for too short a time. Cowboy boots had always been his preference, and she nearly smiled at the scuffs marring the toes. Her gaze climbed over the faded denim encasing his long legs. The soft fabric stretched tight over muscled thighs and cradled the bulge of the impressive package she remembered. She swallowed and jerked her gaze higher, past the tweed suit jacket covering shoulders and a chest that were wider than they had been at seventeen.

The laugh lines bracketing his mouth and spraying out from the corners of his eyes were deeper, and a smattering of gray wove through the jet-black hair at the temples. Neither detracted from the rugged appeal of his familiar face.

Oh, God. He was wrong. Not everything had been bigger when he was seventeen. Back then, he’d been larger than most of the boys his age, but he’d still been on the cusp of manhood. He stood before her now, broad-shouldered and proud, a man fully grown, and the soft gray eyes that used to look at her with love held nothing but disdain.

His lips curled in a sneer. “You’re the last person I’d expect to find in Barlow. Slummin’ it, V?”

She stiffened her spine and refused to wince at the sarcastic bite of his words. His animosity was no more than she’d expected. No more than she deserved.

That didn’t mean she had to like it. If he’d expected more all those years ago, so had she. Her dreams had been crushed right along with his when he’d blown out his knee. And wasn’t life a bitch? Hell. She was a bitch, or so she’d been told on a number of occasions. Sam obviously agreed. She snorted inwardly. She’d take the title of bitch over victim any day.

She jacked her chin to an extra snotty angle. “Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in this dump of a town, but since you’re here and I need to speak to you, here I am.”

“Speak to me?” He crossed his arms. “That’s a complete turnaround from the last time we saw each other.”

Since his mocking claim was true, she’d give him that one. She pasted on a fake smile. “I have a business proposition for you.”

From the far end of the field, one of the coaches called his name. Sam lifted his hand in a silent wave, then turned back to her. Though he was a foot taller and topped her by nearly one hundred pounds, she’d never been afraid of him. Yet, the way he stepped forward, crowding her against the car, made her nervous. She refused to flinch as he lowered his head until his face was less than an inch from hers.

“Baby, any business we might have had together was finished a long time ago.”

The direct hit was like a blow to her belly. She absorbed the pain. Embraced it. Put it behind her, the way she always had, and focused on the business at hand. While a pop in his nose would be more satisfying, in her experience, a dangled carrot normally delivered better results. Sam’s hostility might be justified, but he was still a man, and a competitive one at that. She’d bet her favorite Louis Vuitton bag he wouldn’t let her walk away without finding out why she’d come.

With a careless shrug, she pivoted away. “Suit yourself.”

He stepped back as she opened the door and slipped into the seat, then prevented her from slamming the door in his face by propping a forearm on the window frame.

“That’s it?” He leaned down to meet her gaze, his broad chest and shoulders filling the crack of the open door.

“That’s it.” She pushed the sunglasses down her nose to fry him with a pointed glare. “Now, if you don’t mind….” She let the unspoken suggestion he go to hell dangle in the air between them.

“It happens I do mind.” An angry crease marred the tanned skin of his brow.

“Sucks to be you.” She tugged on the armrest, but he held the door firm.

His voice vibrated with an impatient growl. “What’s the proposition?”

She could just imagine how much it stung him to ask, since he’d cut off his throwing arm before he requested anything from her. Guilt softened her voice. “A job offer.”

His mouth twisted in a derisive smirk, and his eyes traveled over her body in an insulting survey before he lifted his gaze to hers once more. “I’ve sampled what you have to offer, Red. No thanks.”

Now he was just being nasty, and the old pet name, spoken in such a cutting tone, hurt enough she was tempted to tell him to go fuck himself. Instead, she tossed out Caroline’s dream offer, and hoped like hell he was too angry to accept. “Not even if the job is offensive coordinator for the Manhattan Marauders?”

He snapped straight and his eyebrows shot to his hairline. They quickly lowered to a dangerous tilt. “Last I heard, you were a sports agent, not a recruiter for the pros.”

She tossed her head. “Caroline Wainwright offered me a job as the Marauders’ public relations coordinator when Jake retired from the field.” Tugging the envelope from her satchel, she held it out.

He hesitated for a moment before snatching the thick envelope from her fingers. “Bob Duggan—”

“Was recently diagnosed with cancer.”

He stared at her in silence and the hostility in his eyes eased with the pained grimace wrinkling his brow. “Damn. I hadn’t heard.”

She hardened her heart against the rush of empathy tightening her throat and lifted her chin. “Not many have.”

His shoulders sagged. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough he’s retiring as soon as his replacement is found.” The team had kept the well-loved coach’s diagnosis out of the press so far, but that wouldn’t last long. Not with the Marauders searching for his replacement. If Sam accepted the position, he’d learn the details soon enough. Still, he hadn’t taken the job yet. “That’s privileged information, by the way.” She bumped her chin toward the envelope. “Since those papers represent an official offer of employment, and they’re technically in your custody, we expect you to keep Bob’s condition, and every other detail contained in the offer, to yourself.”

Affronted irritation sparked in his eyes, but he dipped his chin once in a curt nod.

She snapped on her seatbelt with a click. “Bottom line, Bob Duggan and Caroline Wainwright want you in the position once he leaves.”

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze sliding over her face as if searching for the lie in her claim. “And you?”

“I want you to take your hand off my door.”

Surprisingly, he did so. He stepped back, and she slammed the door shut. Twisting the key in the ignition, she jammed the shifter into drive and nearly ran over his toes as she tore out of the lot.



 

 

“Son of a bitch.” Sam sent the town’s mayor and his wife a final wave and climbed into his truck. Blowing a frustrated breath, he shoved the key into the ignition. Four hours of shaking hands and making small talk when all he could think of were the contents of the envelope in his pocket—and the woman who had delivered it—had been an exercise in torture.

His hand shook as he slipped the Marauders’ offer from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Angling the sheaf of papers toward the glow from the parking lot lights, he began to read. His pulse accelerated with each page until his heart jackhammered against his ribs. His breathing quickened and his palms went clammy.

Jesus. She’d been telling the truth. Offensive coordinator for the Marauders.

Adrenaline surged, and he pounded his fist against the steering wheel in a half-dozen celebratory thumps. From the day he’d made that lateral cut, tearing his ACL so badly he would never play football again, he’d worked his ass off, earning his degree at an accelerated pace, with one goal in mind: to get his foot in the door with a pro team. But he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for the door of the reigning Super Bowl champs.

Dropping his head against the rest, he stared at the emptying field and stands. The underlying reason for Bob Duggan’s retirement made him sick to his stomach, but with the playoffs about to begin, the Marauders couldn’t afford to leave the job open. If Sam didn’t take his place, someone else would. And, damn it, he’. . .