Beauty and the Baller(88)

And Nova . . .

My heart splinters. I shut my eyes and force myself to push the images of her away.

Blowing out a breath, I make my way to the trophy case on the right side of the room.

“If all this works out, I’ll need another case,” says a raspy voice behind me.

I turn to find Damon Armitage II, the owner; Coach Bruce Hardy, the head coach of the Pythons; and my agent, Reggie.

Leaning on a gold-tipped cane with a snake on it, Damon walks behind his desk, then sits. Wearing a black tailored suit, complete with an ascot and a boutonniere, he’s in his seventies, rich as fuck, and known as an eccentric firebrand. “I’m glad you were able to fly in, Ronan. We could have chatted over the phone, but then I wanted you in the room.” He waves his arms around at his spacious office. “Nothing beats seeing a man face to face and getting the measure of him.”

“True,” I say.

“We all met in the elevator,” Reggie says with a nod. “Good to see you, Ronan!” Around forty, he’s dressed in a slick suit, his dark hair clipped around the ears.

“Same,” I say, and the four of us shake hands.

Coach Hardy grins at me. A tall man in his late fifties, he sat by my bed in the hospital for three days after the wreck. He flew my mom from Chicago to New York on the team jet the night it happened. When I woke up the first time in my room, the two of them were there, waiting.

We make small talk, catching up, then chat about his new quarterback, Lucas Pine, a fresh kid from Iowa. He’s having trouble with the transition from college to professional, missing snaps and play calls.

“How’s Coach Dixon doing?” I ask a few minutes later. “Tuck said he was flying to Houston for treatment.”

Coach Hardy sticks his hands in his khakis. “You probably passed him somewhere over Indiana. We’re going to miss him on the field. A hell of a man and coach.”

Reggie takes a seat. “It’s a tragedy.” He looks at me. “But it gives Ronan a chance to step in. I was thinking we’d start with what Dixon was making—”

“Hold on,” I say sharply as I slide into a leather chair. “I appreciate the urgency, but there hasn’t been an offer made or one accepted. This was just a discussion.”

Reggie starts, glaring at me.

Damon frowns, straightening his ascot. “Don’t be coy, Ronan. The salary will be there. We know you, your talent, your work ethic. We’ve seen what you did with that team in Texas. You’re our pick, hell, before Stanford snatches you up!” He slaps the desk and lets out a wheezy laugh.

I lean back and smile, pretending to be calm when I’m anything but. My stomach just won’t settle. “I called Hite and turned him down.”

Reggie nods, and the other two smile, clearly happy.

I clear my throat and steeple my hands. “The thing is I’ve made commitments, Damon. The high school playoffs start December first. Will this wait until afterwards?”

He picks up the pipe on his desk and lights it. “No. Sorry. We want to announce Dixon’s leaving the team, as well as his replacement, on Monday. Our staff’s covering the game Sunday, but we’ve lost two already, ones we should have won.”

“I’m aware,” I say. “I see the mistakes, the bad calls.”

He stares at me with beady eyes. “Why don’t you and Coach Hardy catch up, go meet the staff, maybe some players, then take a walk in that stadium.” He puffs on his pipe. “You’ve got memories there. Hell, I get a hard-on every time I sit in the owner’s box. Not bad for an old man, eh?” He slaps his desk and lets out another laugh, then sobers, considering me, raking over my face and posture. “All right, all right . . . I hear you; I do. You’ve spent some time in Texas and need some time to mull this over.”

“Yes.”

He nods decisively. “I’ll be in touch with Reggie about the money by the end of the day; then I’ll need your answer by tomorrow. All right, boys, I have a phone call with a senator. So . . .” He waves his hands for us to leave.

Reggie, Coach Hardy, and I walk out to the foyer. Coach heads to the restroom, and Reggie pulls me to the side, a furrow between his brows.

“Your part is to win the interview,” he says. “You’re acting like you’re having second thoughts.”

“That was barely an interview. He wanted my ass in New York so I’d feel nostalgic.”

He shakes his head. “Why are you hesitating? This job is a no-brainer. It cuts years off your plan to be in the league.”

True. Scoring an NFL position wasn’t something I expected so soon. I love my old team. I love the staff I used to work with. This is my dream job.

I stare out the window. So why does it feel wrong?



Later that day, it’s dark when the cab drops me off in front of Tuck’s building. They wanted to put me up at a hotel, but I chose to stay with him. Earlier, he left us at Damon’s office and went to his physical therapy appointment.

Wearing joggers and an old shirt, he’s waiting for me in the den, Chinese takeout already ordered, a drink poured in a glass. He hands it to me.

We walk in the kitchen, where he grabs a cheese-and-fruit plate out of the fridge and sets it on the island like it’s the Hope Diamond. He gives me a smile, batting his lashes. “How was your day, dear?”