They asked the same damn questions over and over, stupid questions, not the questions he’d ask if he’d been in their shoes, and not the questions that he would assume the average viewer would want answered.
Bruiser glanced over their heads to Harris, surrounded by a similar group. The guy soaked up the attention like a sponge, grinning and giving the reporters the amusing, blunt responses they’d come to expect from him. Bruiser used to rival Harris in the quick comebacks department. Not today. His answers sounded stilted and disinterested, especially to his own ears, and even a little impatient.
“Bruiser!” One of the most annoying local reporters shouted at him and brought him back to the present.
“Uh, sorry. What was the question?”
“How did you feel about the fourth and one play where you were dropped for a loss?”
That tight rubber band of control inside Bruiser snapped. “How the fuck did you think I felt? Happy? Pleased? You fucking idiot. The team trusted me to get a first down, and I missed the hole. And you’re asking me how I felt? I felt fucking pissed.” Bruiser snapped a towel in the direction of the reporters, and they quickly backed up.
“I’m done answering questions. Get these fucking things out of my face.” The words spewed from his mouth like an evangelist preaching hellfire and brimstone. Instead of carefully measuring his responses and always being the perfect interviewee, he’d shocked them all by saying what he thought for once.
The reporters scurried away. The news stories wouldn’t be singing his praises for his hundred-yard day but instead chastising him for losing his temper. They’d blow it all out of proportion, and rumors would fly. He’d either be on drugs, ready to quit the game, or having a fight with his girlfriend.
Bruiser froze. Well, shit, maybe he was having a fight with his girlfriend.
He escaped to the privacy of the showers. So far, the assholes didn’t follow the team into the showers, though he expected that day would come. He stood under the warm water, waiting for it to wash away his frustration and anger. But it didn’t. When he finally returned to the locker room, only a few of the guys lingered, one of whom was Harris, and his laser-blue eyes were trained on Bruiser like a stinger missile homing in on its target. Bruiser buried his head in his locker.
“A little testy for a guy who’s predicted to have a record-breaking season,” Harris said in his ear.
“Yeah.” Bruiser stood and toweled off his wet hair.
“It’s not like you to lose it with those assholes. Something pissing you off?”
“Just them.”
Harris studied him with eyes that made rookies pee their pants and veterans take a step back. “Bullshit. You’ve been on edge all day. Not your businesslike self.”
“I got the job done, didn’t I?” Bruiser snapped.
Harris blinked a few times, almost smiled. “Yeah. Can’t complain.”
“Damn straight.”
Harris’s eyes grew bigger and a sly smiled crawled across his face. “It’s Mac.”
“How would you know?”
“Because the only person who can tie me in the knots like that is Lavender. It’s always a woman. But not just any woman. The woman.”
“I’ve got a lot of stuff on my mind.”
“Take my advice. Make it easy on yourself and her. Admit defeat, quit making excuses, and go after her.”
“Spoken like a man who’s been there.”
“Definitely a man who’s been there.” Harris grinned, pulled his shirt on and buttoned it, and slapped Bruiser on the back. “Good game.”
The quarterback sauntered from the locker room, looking every inch like a man in control of his destiny. Yet he’d admitted defeat and given in to a woman. Only Bruiser’s problem wasn’t like that.
This wasn’t a battle of wills with Mac. This was a matter of her misplaced priorities and strong guilt overriding her life. And Bruiser knew all about those two things, which made them kindred spirits and an impossible match.
* * * * *
The Steelheads won their first game, and Mac missed it. And for what? Another wild goose chase that came to nothing. Ben’s former employee admitted he’d just been trying to cause trouble for Ben. Mac wasted a weekend on another dead-end lead. Now she was back at work and glad to be away from her father’s scheming and obsessing for at least a day.
She put away the gardening tools in the storage shed. She glanced up as Jed approached. His guarded, businesslike expression scared the crap out of her.
“Mac, I need to see you in my office when you’re finished here.” Jed refused to look her in the eye.
“If this is about the scholarship, I already know.”
“It’s not.” Jed walked away.
“Okay, I’ll be right there.” Mac’s internal emergency broadcast system slammed into full disaster mode. After running to the bathroom, she washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and walked to the gallows of her boss’s office filled with more dread than a free agent with a poor training camp performance. Call it a sixth sense; she knew the news wasn’t good, not even close. Mac ran through the scenarios in her mind. Finally, she bit the bullet and knocked on Jed’s door in the maintenance area.
“Come in,” he called.
Mac entered the room and sat in the folding chair next to Jed’s messy desk. One pile of paper leaned precariously, just waiting for the air conditioner to kick on and send it fluttering across the room like birds scattering when a hungry tomcat shows up.
“So, what’s up?” Mac clutched her hands in her lap and faked a casual smile.
Jed didn’t smile. In fact, he squirmed like a man about to deliver some very distasteful news, and Mac was the recipient.
“Jed?” Her smile stuck on her face, almost painfully.
“Mac, this is hard for me.” God,
