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  “The Mavericks have enough to afford you both, plus the backup it would take to prevent you from feeling the sack. I’m willing to pay you double what the television deal is worth.”

  “I don’t think this is about money.”

  Clinton Barrow leaned way back in his executive chair, no longer mincing words. “You’re clever, Tyson. I know what I promised, and it seems like I’m pulling the rug out from under you. But LaRue has several conditions on coming to the Mavericks. The main one is he wants you to be the one who throws to him.”

  “Why me?” Tyson asked, caught by surprise.

  “We haven’t gotten that far. I wanted to make sure we were all on the same page,” Barrow hedged, making it seem as if Tyson actually had a choice.

  It felt like pouring salt in an open wound. No matter how friendly or fatherly, Clinton Barrow was still going to do what he had to do to get what he wanted. The TV gig wasn’t going to wait another year, even if Tyson was the perfect fit. The guy up for retiring was not only old enough to have given Moses directions, he was a pigskin warhorse who had begun to prattle aimlessly about the glory days of football. It left everyone in the production control room uneasy that a seven-­second delay wouldn’t be enough and his next diatribe would land them all on the wrong side of some controversy. A strange irony, given Tyson’s own past was embroiled in scandal.

  “Won’t you at least meet him? See what’s making him tick?” Clint asked.

  “I get the feeling there is no way to gracefully decline without you taking it personally.”

  “It would end our relationship on a sour note. And I’d owe you a favor, a big one, the offensive coordinator kind of favor, if you can wait a year or two. You’d still be the youngest in the league.”

  Even if Clinton Barrow threw the morsel out on the spur of the moment, they both knew he would make good on it. Tyson would’ve never put it on the table, but a coaching job would keep him on the field, the best of all worlds. It was also testament to just what length Barrow would go to make this deal with LaRue happen.

  “When can you set up the meeting?” Tyson caved.

  “In about an hour, I thought it’d be nice if he joined us for lunch.”

  Tyson shook his head, wondering why he should be surprised. Clint was a man of action.

  “There is one other thing you should probably know about Marcus, if you didn’t already. He wants to come with baggage.”

  Tyson began to grit his teeth. Marcus had achieved the level of stardom that made a great deal of his whims reality.

  “You know he’s not what you would call media-­friendly,” Clint said with full-­on twang.

  “That’s one way to put it,” Tyson responded.

  “We frown on those things here in Austin. Once he puts on that uniform, he’s part of a team. To that end, we’ve told him we’re willing to meet him halfway to make everyone happy. His concession is that he have his own reporter, a handler, if you will, who will be the only person who ever gets his comments before or after games.”

  Geez, LaRue was smart, Tyson thought. Pompous, but brilliant. He waited patiently for Barrow to drop the bomb.

  “He wants that reporter to be Dani Carr.”

  Tyson shook his head. Now he saw the reason behind Clint’s advance warning. But he was also intrigued, and it made his pulse quicken. This might not be so bad after all.

  Dani Carr represented so many things. Not only was Marcus LaRue’s choice for personal correspondent the league’s current broadcast darling, but she also happened to be the most current test of his humility.

  TYSON AND CLINT WENT TO a steakhouse that was one of their favorites. Within minutes of being seated, Marcus arrived alone. No agent, no entourage, no fanfare. Without being led over by the maître d’, he seemed to appear out of nowhere and suddenly was standing beside them at the table.

  If nothing else, the young buck is prompt, Tyson thought as they shook hands and Marcus took his seat. He had a firm handshake, but not a long one, as if he disliked the contact.

  Tyson studied Marcus as they made polite small talk with Barrow. He was shorter than Tyson, maybe as much as six inches, lean and compact but with too much muscle to be considered wiry. Wisps of platinum blond hair occasionally fell into his eyes. Eyes that were bright blue, like a robin’s egg. There was a hardness to them, as unreadable as the man himself, who at twenty-­four had only recently become a full-­blown adult. He was detached, responding to questions with little more than one-­word answers even while his eyes seemed to be looking everywhere at once, already bored with the conversation. No actual smile, but a permanent half-grin, the kind that a wise guy wears as he’s getting over on you.

  Arrogant, was Tyson’s final analysis, not that arrogant football players were anything new. And why wouldn’t he be? Marcus was a hot property who kept his nose clean, which only added to his mystery. But there was something else—­it was the completely disinterested look that Marcus wore that translated into he couldn’t care less, about football or much of anything else.

  As they dined, Barrow’s conversation slowly began to segue into all the wonderful things Austin had to offer, leading up to the Mavericks in particular. He didn’t press Marcus in any way, and Tyson couldn’t help but compare the difference in the way he was trying to finesse Marcus to join the team to the way he had invited Tyson.

  After they ordered coffee, Clint rose from the table. Giving Tyson a little wink he said, “I’m going to leave you two to get better acquainted. Tyson, my car will be waiting for you to take you back. The check is settled. See you at the office.”

  The two were left alone, and from their opposite sides of the table, they engaged in a brief stare-­down, the veteran and the rookie.

  “I expected to see a coach or two here, maybe a marching band. If nothing else, an accountant,” Marcus commented drolly.

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, LaRue. What’s your angle here?”

  Marcus maintained his careless expression. “I want to win a Super Bowl. Don’t you?”

  If this punk was trying to intimidate him, he was barking up the wrong tree. Tyson had been intimidated by the best. “We all do. But this smells like a stunt. I don’t do outrageous grabs for the limelight anymore.”

  Marcus shook his head slightly and exhaled loudly. “And I never did them. You know how I feel about my right to privacy.”

  “Then why am I sitting here as the only thing contingent on you signing with the Mavericks?”

  Marcus looked like he might start to laugh but didn’t. “There are a lot of reasons I want to play here. You’re only one of them. The rest are my business.”

  “I couldn’t care less about your other reasons,” Tyson replied, “but I will get to the bottom of the one that concerns me.”

  Marcus tilted his head and stared at him before saying, “Don’t you see it, dude? You gotta know I’m reading your mind out there.”

  Tyson looked at him skeptically from across the table. For all the times he wished there was some paranormal force to explain away Marcus’s uncanny ability to intercept his passes, it sounded absurd.

  “That’s a bit far­fetched,” Tyson said. “And I don’t believe in voodoo.”

  Marcus leaned back in his chair. “This has nothing to do with voodoo, which is a real religion back where I’m from, by the way. What I’m talking about is more like telepathy. Didn’t you ever wonder how I always manage to be right where you’re throwing, even when I don’t make the steal?”

  Tyson could feel his jaw tightening. He not only wondered how Marcus did it, but he often agonized over it. But when push came to shove, there was no logical explanation for the sixth sense Marcus claimed to possess. “I’m not the only quarterback you’ve run the score up on.”

  “That’s true,” Marcus replied, neither humble nor conceited. “And there are times I do get it right with othe
rs. But with you it’s consistently the strongest.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Tyson scoffed, one step closer to pushing away from the table and going back to Barrow as the bearer of bad news.

  “You don’t have to believe it, although it would help. But can you imagine how much damage we could do with that sort of advantage?”

  “Why haven’t you shared this with anyone else?”

  “Why would I? I don’t like to waste time. Or breath.”

  Marcus sounded like he had a clear understanding of the politics of the game and his value as a commodity. He also had an advantage that he wanted to capitalize on, but he needed Tyson’s help to do it. A strange, cosmic advantage, the very thing Tyson had learned to stop questioning. There was no need to let LaRue in on the fact that Tyson was at a disadvantage and really couldn’t say no. He itched to tell Marcus that Dani Carr would have to go, to give it the appearance of a true negotiation, but he didn’t want to reveal just how much that woman managed to get under his skin. It looked like there would be plenty of time to pursue that subject. If Marcus was speaking the truth, it would be like having two quarterbacks on the field. And if he was right about it, it’d be like having an extra receiver as well. Tyson had nothing to lose and everything to gain. He would fulfill every obligation he ever felt to Barrow and if all went well, would be able to go out on top in the process.

  “The only way a secret weapon works is to keep it a secret,” Marcus added with his half-­grin becoming close to a full one. “We both know you excel at those.”

  “Keeping secrets is exhausting, Marcus,” Tyson said, trying to keep from sounding like he was doling out unwanted advice.

  “So is having to placate a bunch of greedy assholes.”

  The man had a point, even if Tyson didn’t completely agree. He had always viewed Barrow as a mentor if not his savior. But even now all Barrow thought about was a championship, and he was more than willing to let Tyson take another year of pounding for a shot at it.

  “It can never work if we’re suspicious of each other,” Tyson said.

  Marcus actually smiled, but it looked unnatural, like it pained him to do so. “If you’re willing to trust me, I might begin to trust you. Starting with what we’ve just discussed and what you do with that information.”

  Tyson smiled back. “You get one year.”

  Marcus crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. He sounded almost insulted. “That’s all we’re going to need.”

  CHAPTER 7

  DANI CARR STOOD in front of her closet and carefully considered her shoes. Did she want to make a fashion statement or show that she was ready for action? The heels would give her height, and she loved the way they made her legs look, but if she had to move quickly, there was a real chance that she could trip and make a spectacle of herself. She had done that once already and didn’t want to repeat the experience, even if the payoff that first time had been huge. Then she took into account the height of who she’d be standing next to. It wouldn’t make much of a difference. She prudently chose a pair of flats.

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

  The chant could be heard starting from in all likelihood the top of the stairs and then coming down the hall from the second story of the house Dani had grown up in. Not a distress call, but more of a demand. It stopped periodically, then would start up again until she could see the little cherub behind the ruckus.

  “Mommy!” Brendon Carrino stormed into the room like the four-­year-­old powerhouse he was, barreling up to Dani and grabbing her tight around the legs, nearly knocking her over.

  “You found me!” she exclaimed proudly, regaining her balance. She shuffled over to the bed, with him still hanging on, and sat down on it to give him a proper hug.

  “This time you stay,” he stated with conviction. His arms tightened around her neck.

  She buried her nose into his golden mop of hair. It still had remnants of that baby smell, but it had begun to get darker. It was getting closer to her natural color, before she started spending quality time every four to six weeks in salon chairs with double processing highlight foils. Another sacrifice in the long list of modifications she endured in the pursuit of her ambition.

  His blue eyes were also starting to tone down and become more indigo. That was courtesy of his father.

  “Don’t you have fun with Papa and Danza?”

  Papa was the name they called her father. Danza was the shortened version of the name her father affectionately called her mother. Originally Abbondanza, it represented everything her father loved about his wife, abundance. From her fondness for children and opera that she was terrible at singing to her pear shape that her father still couldn’t resist pinching whenever she passed him. Most importantly her nickname was derived from her insistence that from sunup to sundown, there had to be a pot of something always cooking on the stove. Demetri Carrino moved his bride out of South Philly after the birth of their oldest, Dominic. Now, over thirty-­five years later, there probably wasn’t anyone in Ardmore, Pennsylvania, who could tell you that her real name was Doreen.

  “Danza!” Brendon yelled joyfully and ran off to find her, already on to the next thing. It spared her from having to comfort him, something she wasn’t sure she was up to right now. And it was confirmation that her son was in good hands, not that she didn’t know it already. There were ­people whom children were naturally drawn to. And then there were ­people who were genuinely fond of children. Then there was Danza. The woman clearly had a gift. She was a veritable Pied Piper, specializing in small children, with a penchant for infants in particular. From the time Dani was little, Danza ran a day care out of their home. Dani couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t come home from school to find at least one, if not several, children of varying ages free-­ranging around the first floor of the Carrino house, where they were efficiently corralled from wandering upstairs and into the bedrooms. Danza could often be found on the floor, surrounded by either playing or sleeping babies, all while still keeping the pots on the stove simmering. But it was also another painful reminder that Dani was not the center of Brendon’s world. She shook it off with the thought that she wasn’t alone. Throughout the years, lots of working mommies and daddies had been thrown over by kiddies who were over-­the-­moon excited to see Danza. What parent doesn’t feel slighted by their toddler eagerly outstretching their little arms wanting to be held by someone else? Separation anxiety was not a term in Danza’s vocabulary.

  “Whoa whoa whoa JAILBREAK!” Dante’s voice boomed as he threw himself against a wall in the hall in dramatic fashion as Brendon tore by him. Dante was the Carrinos’ third child and maintained he would have been the last had he been born a girl. He still occasionally teased Dani about how she should be grateful, because if it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t exist. They all knew there wasn’t any truth to it. Danza would’ve happily given birth to a dozen children, but it wasn’t in the cards. And no child within Danza’s reach could ever claim to feel neglected. The three Carrino boys were all fiercely protective of their little sister, a mandate handed down by Papa when he was still called Daddy.

  “How’s it going, Daniella?” Dante said when he appeared in the doorway to her room, drawing out the pronunciation of her name, fully aware that it annoyed her.

  Dani shrugged, and went back to packing her suitcase.

  “He’s going to be fine,” Dante said, trying to be reassuring.

  “I know.” She sighed. After all the inner debate, Dani grabbed a pair of heels anyway and threw them into her suitcase. Better safe than sorry. She wished all her decisions were so easy.

  “For someone who’s breaking all the rules, you sure don’t seem too happy.” He leaned against the doorway.

  “I’m about to become the indentured servant of a temperamental jock who doesn’t like to communicate. It wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

  “Yeah
, but look on the bright side, you’re nearing a hundred million hits on YouTube,” he said with a mixture of pride and envy. “Not bad for a girl who was doing the sidelines for a fourth-­level broadcasting team two years ago.”

  Dani briefly closed her eyes and then bit her tongue. She wanted to be known for her intelligence and her skill, not for being a viral sensation. She tried to look at the whole scenario as another opportunity, mainly because she had no other choice. Sometimes you just have to make the best of what you have.

  Dani’s unexpected notoriety had just celebrated its first birthday and in some ways it was like having a prayer answered. In others, it was like being sent to purgatory. Today she could feel the flames beginning to lick at her feet.

  “Dante, could you go check on Brendon and make sure he’s not coloring on Papa while he naps?” she asked, desperate for a minute alone.

  “Sure, sis.” Her brother nodded and left, but not before forcefully grabbing her head in both his hands and slamming a sloppy kiss into her forehead. “And don’t worry. We all got your back.”

  After Dante left, Dani sat down on her bed and shook her head.

  Thanks to her three brothers, Dani genuinely liked male company. She had learned to think like the boys, or at least be able to guess what they were thinking. Her mother had wanted a princess and what she got was a tomboy. Frilly dresses and barrettes felt more like costumes than clothing. Much to her mother’s chagrin, in her young years she refused to be told she couldn’t climb as high, run as fast, or throw as far. Her protective older brothers indulged her. But then she began to blossom, her brothers’ friends began to notice, and everything changed. They stopped allowing her to follow. She would catch the tail ends of arguments between her brothers and their friends that included the words hands off. She became acutely aware of those same friends as their gazes all began to drift downward to her chest when they talked to her. The day she got her first period at thirteen, she cried with the injustice of it. It could no longer be denied that she was viewed as different, and she resented it. To distance herself from the D theme her parents had created for her brothers Dominic, Damian, and Dante, she insisted on being called Ella. She endured countless lectures on what boys were really looking for, which led to advice on how and where to kick those boys when they stepped over the line. Of course, the few girlfriends she had held very different opinions, and there were times she was certain those girls were only friendly to get to the dark and handsome Carrino boys. She listened to them pine with adolescent longing and watched them make fools of themselves to get her brothers’ attention, often heartbroken as the reward for their efforts. By the time she was fifteen, she had determined that hormones and boys in general were not worth the trouble. She had too much firsthand knowledge about the species to be blindsided by romantic notions. And her parents instilled in her that she should never settle for a man who was only interested in her body. If he loved her for her mind, he would always love her. Beauty fades, they told her.