“Probably.” He gave her a careless shrug and a wicked grin. “I seem to be immortal. God knows, your mother did her best to kill me off while we were married. But you’re missing my point. For ballplayers like me and Jordan, the game’s in our blood. We live for it. Coaches change, managers change, and a team’s needs change, season to season. None of that matters to us. All we care about is another day on the field, and we’ll do whatever it takes to get it. Football beats the crap out of us, and like some obsessed lover, we keep running back for more. We’ll ice our knees ‘til they’re numb, run laps at dawn, play in rain or snow or blazing heat. We shrug off the weather, tape up the bruises, and play through the pain. And yes, we’ll even sign with a different team, if it gives us the chance for another day on the gridiron, one more game, one more quarter, one more play—until football has taken everything from us and we can’t put on the cleats anymore. Sometimes, that happens ‘cuz of a sudden death, like it did for your dad, and sometimes, it happens due to a serious injury, like with Jordan. Me? It’ll probably be the arthritis that does me in eventually. But no matter how it comes or when, we know the odds going in. The end is always looming there in the distance. We know it, and we don’t care. Nothing matters more than the game.”
His voice was a harsh whisper by the time he finished his speech. Cam couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him talk about anything with so much passion.
She swallowed the reality sandwich he fed her with a curt nod. Facts were sometimes hard to accept, especially when they contradicted emotions. “Did Jordan ask for your opinion before...before he signed with the Privateers?”
“No. But if he had, I would’ve told him to go. Those kinds of opportunities don’t come around every day.”
Looking at the situation with candor, the way he asked her to, she had to admit Bertie’s insight made sense. Still...
“None of that explains what happened at the hospital in Houston.”
His lips tightened into a thin line. “No, it doesn’t. Which is why you two need to clear the air. Something ugly reared up between you.”
“Yeah.” Bitterness stung the air. “Paris Redmond.” Except she wasn’t ugly. At least, not on the outside. Inside, though...
She grimaced.
Bertie shook his head. “I don’t for one second believe Jordan was ever romantically involved with that piranha, but whether he was or wasn’t doesn’t change the fact that you and he lost your way somewhere, either right before or right after that proposal.”
She shoved away from her desk and spun her chair toward the wall of windows looking out over the river. “I told you—”
“I’m not saying you did anything wrong, or that he did, either.”
Whirling the chair around, she faced him again. “Then what are you saying?”
“Ask. Him. To. Lunch.” He reiterated each syllable. “Sit across from one another. Talk. Tell him why you’re angry at him, let him tell you why he’s angry with you. Maybe you’ll find you’re both wrong.”
She grabbed a pen off the desk and pointed the tip at him. “You know something you’re not telling me. What is it?”
“All I know is that, for two people who claim to care so little about each other, you’re both tiptoeing around your feelings like you’re walking through a mine field.”
“You talked to him?” She sat up straight in the chair. “When? Why?”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Relax. We just talked football.”
“Football?”
“Uh-huh.”
Whenever Bertie wanted to talk about something serious without referring to the actual people involved, in her case it was usually about her mother, he’d fall back on talking football. He claimed couching something in football terms made it easier for him to remain objective. Thus, his need to remain objective when talking with Jordan could only mean one thing: they talked about her.
She leaned her chair back and feigned boredom, folding her arms over her chest and staring out the window again. Meanwhile, her pulse thundered behind her eardrums, and her lungs stuttered on the whole inhale-exhale routine. “What pressing football matter did he need to discuss with you?”
“He was reliving one of his past mistakes. Wanted my advice on how I would’ve handled the situation.”
Outside her window, and many stories down, a ferry slipped across the silver surface of the water. She focused her attention on the grace and calmness of the simple white line left in the boat’s wake until her breathing and heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm. “Uh-huh. And how would you have handled it?”
“I told him I would’ve gone with a fumblerooski.”
“A fumblerooski...”
The ferry glided on while she pondered what exactly he was trying to not tell her. Of course, she knew the play. She just had no idea how it referred to her and Jordan.
“Ask. Him. To. Lunch.” When she didn’t immediately react, Bertie balled up a blank sheet of paper and tossed it at her head.
She whirled then. “Hey!”
“What are you waiting for? Pick up the phone.”
She picked up the phone.
CAM WAS ALREADY SEATED at a table when Jordan rolled inside The Blue Comet. Even among the thick crowd, he could still zero in on her whereabouts, as if they shared some voodoo radar. Her plum-colored blouse brought a tinge of honey to the razor-thinned ends of her hair where it brushed her collar, and a warm glow suffused her complexion. She took a delicate sip from a glass of white wine while her gaze stayed fixed on one of the televisions in the bar area, turned to, of course, a sports channel.
A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he stared at the brass-and-mahogany décor, the cozy saddle leather booths, and the horseshoe-shaped bar. The restaurant had been a favorite of theirs when they’d dated all those years ago,
