To Win Her Love Page 3

  Jake Malone’s exploits on the field are normally a thing of beauty, but I’m afraid the pressure to break the touchdown record may have gotten to the Outlaw Tight End. Though I want to accept his claim the contact in this week’s disastrous collision with Brian Tuttle was incidental, the replay clearly shows Jake dropping his shoulder a moment before impact.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  No one felt worse than he about the concussion Brian suffered from the hit, but football was a full contact sport, damn it. Brian understood that and had accepted Jake’s condolences with a philosophical shrug when they spoke after the game.

  Despite her obvious knowledge of the sport, like his other self-appointed critics, the Gridiron Girl had never come up against a two-hundred-sixty-pound defender, jockeying for position while moving at top speed. Dropped his shoulder a moment before impact? Shit. Attempting to avoid a helmet-to-helmet collision was more like it. The woman didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

  The cacophony of critical voices questioning his integrity from the safety of their various publications had reached critical mass. In his mind, a picture formed of a mousy woman with buckteeth and a flat chest, exacting revenge against a male population that continuously overlooked her. Her keyboard offered an opportunity for retribution and, through her anonymous blog, she repaid the slight to her pitiful existence by slashing at her male victims’ pride.

  Not this time, sweetheart.

  His fingers flew across the keys.

  That hit had nothing to do with breaking the record. Pro players understand this league isn’t for pussies. Brutal hits are part of the game.

  His comment should’ve been one more cyber blip, lost in the billions of others popping up throughout cyberspace on a daily basis but, as his luck was running lately, she responded immediately.

  Dirty hits may be part of the game, but they’re beneath a player with the athletic abilities of Jake Malone.

  The compliment did nothing to ease the haze of his anger.

  Putting up with the asinine opinions of armchair quarterbacks is also part of the game. The hit wasn’t dirty. It was incidental.

  She saw things differently.

  I call ’em as I see ’em. Anyone who follows the game knows Jake is a master of contortion. His ability to twist his body for optimum benefit is a big part of the reason he’s in the running for the touchdown record in the first place. It’s impossible he didn’t know exactly what he was doing when he dropped his shoulder last Sunday and I, for one, consider it a shame he resorted to such a dirty tactic.

  Fury boiled in his blood.

  A woman who does her insulting from the anonymous safety of cyberspace is either a coward or so homely she’d choke a dog. I’ll wager it’s the latter in your case, lady, and, as such, you wouldn’t know incidental contact if it bit you on the ass.

  He hit enter. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, and he winced at the harshness of his reply. Despite the red haze of his fury, it wasn’t like him to be cruel, and never to a woman. He loved the female of the species, enjoyed everything about them. Their softness, the way they smelled and tasted, even the contrary way their minds worked delighted him. He’d been blessed with the ability to charm even the most contrary among them, but he’d never had a woman attack his professional ethics before.

  He flattened his lips in a guilty grimace, until her smartass comeback replaced his guilt with disbelief.

  Attacking a person’s looks when you don’t have an argument based on facts is a juvenile tactic. Does your mommy know you’re using her computer?

  He ignored her insult to his maturity, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

  My argument is based on fact. You’ve never played the game or you’d understand the physics involved in avoiding contact when tangling for position. The hit was clean and incidental.

  She kept right on taunting.

  You’re right. I’ve never played the game, but anyone—who doesn’t need glasses—can see Jake twisting his upper body as Tuttle closes in. Maybe you should have your eyes checked.

  The woman was a piece of work. A goddamned piece of work.

  My eyes are fine, and I was twisting my upper body to avoid helmet-to-helmet contact!

  He hit send then cursed and held his breath. Would she notice the first person reference?

  She rushed him in a full-out blitz.

  You’re upper body? Well, well. Ladies, it appears we have none other than the Outlaw Tight End himself visiting our little football clutch. Nice of you to stop by, Jake.

  “Shit.” He scrubbed his hand over his face as Henry approached the booth.

  The waiter delivered Jake’s drink and handed him a menu. “Will Mr. Walden be joining you today?”

  “I’m expecting him.”

  Henry nodded, slipped a second menu onto the other side of the table, and left Jake alone.

  Picking up the glass, he downed a healthy swallow.

  Having gotten an eyeful of Gracie Gable, he knew how far off the mark his assumption about her looks had been, but there was no mistaking the voracity of her blog followers. He’d watched in horrified wonder as the exchange lit a firestorm of feminine outrage. The minions, previously content to let their unspoken leader clash with an unruly visitor, went wild. Dozens came out of the woodwork to flay him alive. Forty-eight hours later, the exchange had gone viral, generating enough traffic the popular web page now resided in the cyber world’s version of the stratosphere.

  And the firestorm continued to spread…with costly consequences.

  Still, as frustrating as he found being fined by the league and called on the carpet by the Marauders’ front office, having two little girls dropped in his lap made his professional troubles look like a day in the park. Jesus, six-year-old twins. What the hell was he supposed to do with them?

  “Get to know them,” V had insisted as she paced the gravel driveway of Thompson Farm after the reading of the will. “They’re your half sisters. Aren’t you the least bit curious about them?”

  “No.”

  His stubbornness only pissed her off further. She’d gone from suggesting, to cajoling, to demanding in three minutes flat before slamming into her shiny sports car with a growled warning. “Be at the farm by eight tomorrow night, or else.”

  He swallowed the remainder of his glass. Though he knew V’s soft heart was concerned over the idea of two little girls left alone in a world that could be cruel, her motives weren’t purely altruistic. As always, his career came first and, from what V had said, Carolyn Wainwright, the Marauders’ new owner, wasn’t the only one grumbling. Thanks to the furor over his blog performance several of his endorsement contracts were in jeopardy as well.

  In full damage-control mode, V considered Pete’s custody fiasco an unexpected gift. Those girls need a stable home, she’d argued, and who wouldn’t be charmed by reports of the Outlaw Tight End trading in his Manhattan babe lair for a historic farmhouse and dates with supermodels for carpooling and teacher conferences?

  “Carpooling, for Christ’s sake,” he growled low in his throat.

  “Talking to yourself, Jake? That’s not a good sign.”

  Chapter 4

  Jake frowned at Tom Walden. A deep chuckle accompanied the humor dancing in his friend and mentor’s clear blue eyes as he shrugged out of his coat. Despite nine years of retirement, he maintained the athletic form that had helped make him one of the top quarterbacks of the previous decade. Big and blond, he could pass for much younger than fifty. Only the light sprinkling of gray at his temples marked the passage of time since he’d thrown his last official touchdown pass. As the league’s players’ liaison, he rode a comfortable desk these days, but he’d look right at home trotting from the tunnel of any of the league’s stadiums.

  He tossed his coat over the back of the booth and sat. Eyeing the drink in Jake’s hand, he leaned his elbows on the table. “Are you planning to fight the fine?”
<
br />   “I should. It’s bullshit.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jake scowled. “What do you mean, maybe? That blog shit happened on my personal time and has nothing to do with the league. Costa passed down the fine because he still has a hard-on for me over Bridgette.”

  Dating the general manager’s nearly jailbait niece in his first pro season had been a mistake, but how was he to know Doug Costa would go on to become the league commissioner, or he’d still be gunning for Jake a decade later?

  “What’s his fucking problem? It’s been ten years.”

  Tom shrugged one shoulder. “Some guys have long memories when it comes to a guy screwing with a family member. Especially a young, female one.”

  “Screwing her isn’t the same as screwing with her. She came on to me, remember? You were there. Tell me she didn’t look twenty-five. I didn’t have a clue she was only eighteen, and if I’d known she was Stick-up-his-ass Costa’s niece, I never would’ve touched her.”

  Tom sprawled back. “I’ll go to bat for you if that’s what you decide.”

  “But?”

  “But, do you want my advice?”

  “Do I have a choice?

  Tom grinned at his disgruntled tone. “Pay the fine. V’s right. With everything else you’ve got going on right now, you don’t need the hassle of a legal battle with the league.”

  Jake lifted his glass, remembered it was empty, and shot a scowl at Henry behind the bar. “Since you’ve obviously spoken to V, I won’t waste my time filling you in on the details of the old man’s will.”

  “If she wasn’t pulling my leg. What she told me sounded farfetched.”

  Jake held up his glass, grunting when Henry nodded from the bar. “Even with her imagination, I doubt V could come up with twin half sisters and a three month lockdown in the middle of the sticks to determine custody.”

  “Damn. She was telling the truth?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Henry approached the table, delivering a second scotch to Jake. “What can I get you, Mr. Walden?”

  Tom arched a brow at Jake’s glass. “Why don’t you bring me one of those?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tom waited until the waiter walked away. “Congratulations, big brother. When are you moving to the farm?”

  “Who says I am? What business does a rabid dog like Pete Thompson have fathering kids at sixty anyway? Fathering kids at all?”

  Jake shredded the corner of the cocktail napkin beneath his glass. Money and prestige were all the fucker cared about. Raised sipping from the Thompson sterling silver spoon, Pete spent his life rubbing elbows with politicians and business magnates, looking down his nose at anyone not holding a million dollar portfolio. Unless, of course, that someone wore a skirt.

  The heir to the Thompson Empire divided his time between chasing after million dollar business deals and sniffing for his next lay. In both circumstances, once the transaction was completed, he moved on, unconcerned over any lingering consequences. Family connections protected men like Pete from both financial failures and pregnant waitresses from the wrong side of the tracks. He certainly hadn’t been concerned about Elaine Malone or her illegitimate son…not until her son’s name was tossed around in connection with the pro draft.

  He sighed. “I don’t owe Pete Thompson a damn thing.”

  Henry delivered Tom’s drink then hesitated, glancing at the untouched menus. He beat a hasty retreat when Jake snatched up his fresh drink and tossed back a healthy swallow.

  Tom picked up his glass. “No, you don’t, but the press is going to eat this up. Face it, buddy, your free pass has expired.” He grinned as he toasted Jake across the table before sipping.

  “I’m glad you find this amusing.”

  Tom rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Just facing reality. You’ve had a good run, thumbing your nose at society’s rules. The press let you get away with your no-holds-barred lifestyle because of your photogenic looks and ability to charm.”

  Jake bared his teeth in a sneering smile. “They let me get away with my lifestyle because of my talent on the field.”

  Tom grinned. “That, too, but if you think they hounded you over the blogosphere mess, wait until they find out about six-year-old orphaned sisters. And they will find out. If you don’t show up at the farm, they’ll crucify you.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “I think your feelings for Pete are clouding your judgment, but there are two innocent little girls who need you to do the right thing.”

  “What’s the right thing? Show up at the farm or not, either way I’m screwed. I know what it’s like to be abandoned by your blood. I can’t walk away now that I know about them. I’d never be able to look myself in the eye again, but taking custody?” He shook his head in vehement denial. “No fucking way. I don’t know shit about kids.”

  “My sons would disagree.”

  He snorted dismissively. “They’re teenage boys, not six-year-old girls.”

  “They weren’t born teenagers, and it’s not like you’ll be dealing with diapers and two a.m. feedings.”

  Horror bloomed in Jake’s gut. He gulped at the contents of his glass.

  Tom chuckled. “You’re not getting any younger, buddy. It’s time to grow up.”

  He curled his lip in a jeer. “Gee, Dad. All I want is to borrow the car.”

  As they had countless times since they met during Jake’s rookie season, and Tom’s last, Tom’s lips tilted in a knowing smile. Claiming Jake had more talent than sense, the all-pro quarterback had appointed himself Jake’s guide through the rough and tumble world of pro sports. With few exceptions, his council had proven right on the money. Unfortunately, his advice often leaked over to the personal side of things. For the most part, he’d met with failure there, and yet that hadn’t stopped the happily married man from trying.

  The perfect husband and father, Tom believed family grounded a man, especially one who lived in the supercharged world of a pro athlete. For years, he’d been encouraging Jake to find a good woman and settle down. No doubt he’d see this situation with the twins as a step in the right direction, but damn it, this mess held no resemblance to Tom and Sharon Walden’s storybook existence. Having six-year-old strangers dropped into his lap wasn’t the same as deciding to raise babies with the perfect woman. Besides, the wild child son of a bastard father and a drunken mother could never fit in the perfect family mold.

  Tom sighed. “You’re in the middle of a career-making season, but you’re thirty-three. Football won’t last forever.”

  “I still have a few more years.”

  “Maybe, if you remain healthy. Then what?”

  “Then whatever I want. I’ve made enough money to live comfortably for several lifetimes and I’ve invested well.”

  “Alone?” Tom sat forward. “Or will you still be chasing after the playboy bachelor life like your father, running from woman to woman when other men your age are collecting social security?”

  “Apparently, my father cast off the lifestyle and got himself a family.”

  Married.

  Jake swallowed the remainder of the scotch. After a lifetime spent casting aside acceptable-for-screwing-but-not-for-marriage swimsuit models and waitresses, had the confirmed bachelor had a change of heart regarding the institution? He snorted. More likely, the fucker had sniffed around the wrong type of woman and gotten caught.

  He knew nothing about Pete’s deceased wife, but one look at her sister told the story. Thanks to V, Jake knew more about women’s designer fashions than any man should. The price tag for Gracie Gable’s chic boots would’ve covered half a year’s rent on the forty-year-old trailer he called home as a kid.

  He’d bet his right nut the Gable girls came from money. Pete wouldn’t have shared his name with a woman who didn’t. An unwanted pregnancy with a woman from a background he couldn’t simply blow off must have stuck in the old man’s
craw. Which might explain Jake’s inclusion in Pete’s convoluted custody ruse. What better way to pay back a scheming debutant for trapping him into marriage than to deny her family what Pete would consider the ultimate prize?

  The fortune he’d left behind with the twins.

  Jake didn’t buy for a minute his inclusion in the will had anything to do with regrets. If so, a simple, these are your half sisters, they’re all yours would’ve sufficed. Make up for past sins, my ass.

  He couldn’t prevent the bitterness seeping into his tone. “A family he’s left me to raise.”

  Tom swilled his drink, his gaze contemplative. “The only good thing he’s ever done for you, as far as I can see.”

  “How do you figure? I’m not cut out to be a father.”

  “I think you’re wrong there, but what about this aunt V mentioned? Gracie is it? From what V tells me, she’s willing to take custody, leaving you to play the role of big brother. Sounds like a workable solution.”

  “That’s because you haven’t met her.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “First, there’s who she is. Did V mention she runs a blog? A popular football blog for women?”

  Tom’s blond brows shot to his hairline. “She’s the Gridiron Girl?”

  “Right the first time.”

  His friend choked on a laugh. “Well, damn.”

  “You think that’s funny?”

  “Hilarious. Holy shit, when the press gets hold of this…” Tom sobered, but humor still twinkled in his eyes. “I can see how who she is might be something of a problem, but you said first. What else is wrong with her?”

  Jake’s lips pulled tight on a frown and he shifted uncomfortably. “There’s nothing wrong with her, precisely, it’s just that…shit. The woman could be the poster child for trust fund bimbos.”

  He winced at his derogatory description as a vision of the sexy blonde formed in his head. In truth, while the trust fund part was dead on, bimbo might be a stretch. She certainly hadn’t dressed the part of the typical bimbo, but her sophisticated wardrobe disguised neither the sultry interest in her gem bright eyes during her payback once-over, nor her hoochie-baby body above miles of killer legs.