Expelled breath whooshed through the earpiece. “Well, now, son, that’s hard to say. What I can tell you is that a Statue of Liberty is a pretty expected play these days. But you know what no one ever expects to see? A fumblerooski. Whatever happened to a good old fumblerooski?”
“I have no idea.”
Oh, he knew the fumblerooski, a play of misdirection where a QB placed the football on the ground as if fumbled, then the offense tricked the defense into following the wrong player downfield while the real ball carrier headed in a different direction. The idea was to gain as much yardage as possible before the opposing team noticed they were chasing the wrong guy.
And while he could perfectly diagram the play, he had no clue how it pertained to his problem with Cam.
Who was the quarterback in this fumblerooski?
Him? Or...her?
Chapter 5
Cam took extra care with her appearance the next day. Jordan knew all her ugliest secrets and wouldn’t be afraid to use them to throw her off her game. His “fond regards” toward her mom yesterday told her he wasn’t above playing dirty. God knew why, but he wanted to bust her chops.
Mom always said, “Your clothes are your armor.” So, okay. Let’s see what protective gear I can find in my closet.
She chose a pair of soft, suede leggings in a fawn hue, spiked leather boots in a darker brown that came just to her knees, and a cream-colored blouse, which she planned to pair with a maroon blazer. Studying her image in the full-length mirror in her bedroom, she tried to draw up a veneer of confidence. On the outside, she might look like a woman in control, but inside, her soft heart had melted to mush and her nerves bristled at the thought of seeing Jordan again.
Face it, honey. You never got over him.
Tears stung her eyes, and she turned away from her reflection before they fell and stained her cheeks. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t stand beside him and pretend she didn’t care. Every emotion she felt for him, all the love she still harbored, would show on her face, no matter what color blazer she wore.
Had he ever loved her? Or was she just his entry into professional football society, easily discarded when she’d served her purpose? If the latter were true, why would he have asked her to marry him?
Her mother’s sneering voice echoed in her skull. You should have accepted his proposal. A girl of your size won’t get that many opportunities to get married. You’re too big, too masculine. Men like their women small and dainty. Feminine. You can put an evening gown and flawless makeup on a pig, but it’s still a pig.
“Thanks, Mom.” She pressed her nose up and snorted.
She didn’t regret turning down Jordan’s proposal years ago, regardless of her mother’s prediction about her looming spinsterhood. She’d simply not been ready to roll those ugly dice, and avoiding long-term loneliness seemed a stupid reason to say yes.
The first teardrop landed on her sleeve, leaving a blot of tinted moisturizer on the cuff. “Dammit!” Now, she’d have to change her outfit and redo her makeup. Frustration released the tap, and her tears fell in earnest.
She grabbed a moist wipe from her vanity and proceeded to scrub her face clean. Defeat settled on her shoulders, heavy and debilitating. Legs weak and shaky, Cam collapsed on her bed, prepared to call Bertie to tell him to go to the meeting in her place.
No.
She couldn’t give Jordan the satisfaction.
On a deep breath, she unbuttoned and whipped off the shirt, tossing it in the corner. The boots came off next, followed by her socks and her pants. In just her underwear, she strode to the full-length mirror and stared levelly at her reflection. She didn’t need clothes to be her armor. She was her armor. Her business acumen, her experience, her intelligence, her quick wit, she was the whole package.
Screw her clothes, screw her broad shoulders and her excessive height, and her cellulite thighs and her nowhere-near-flat belly. If any man couldn’t handle all of her the way she was, including Jordan, they didn’t deserve any of her. She was also tough enough to take advantage of their vulnerability.
Fired up, she headed to her walk-in closet and looked through the garments hanging there. She wouldn’t dress for Jordan. She intended to dress for her.
An hour later, she stood outside the building she hoped to acquire, her construction supervisor, Antonio Marrone, at her side. She wore a pink-and-green floral flared A dress with a hot pink jacket and pink suede ankle boots. Whenever the breeze picked up, the skirt fluttered around her legs. The ensemble made her feel fun and pretty, and brought a smile to her lips. She wouldn’t apologize for eschewing staid business attire for a spot of color to cheer her dreary mood. Nor would she dress to fade into the background or to appear smaller, as her mother and society often demanded.
Jordan arrived at three-fifteen, rolled his wheelchair up the sidewalk, gave her the once-over, and exclaimed, “Wow! You look great, Cam. What’s the occasion?”
Already annoyed at his tardiness, she didn’t appreciate the comment—as if she needed to explain her wardrobe to him or anyone, for that matter. With a toss of her hair, she replied, “No occasion. You’re late.”
“Yeah, sorry. Some idiot truck driver used the handicapped spaces in the
