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  “What the hell happened to you, Amber?” he said as he backed out of the room. He grabbed his keys and left the house.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered as she crumpled slowly to the floor.

  Eleven

  Franco replayed it all as he walked as calmly as possible to his car. He got in, started it up, and placed it in gear. Each movement was exaggerated, tightly controlled.

  Many people didn’t know Franco had a twenty-three-year-old daughter. It was never because Franco was ashamed of her or even ashamed that he’d let his parents do most of her childrearing.

  He was sixteen years old when she was born. His youngest sibling was three. It’d just made sense for her to grow up in his parents’ house with her aunts and uncles as brothers and sisters. He’d been the one to get up with her at night. He’d fed her breakfast before leaving for school and dinner when he’d gotten home from whatever practice was in season. When he’d begun to receive scholarship offers, he’d chosen Kensington State because he didn’t want to leave his daughter. It had worked out for him. He had been drafted to the Baltimore Ravens when she was seven. That was the first time he’d left her. Granted, they’d never lived in the same house again until two months ago, but they’d been close.

  Cy Greenburg, Franco’s sports information director, was one of a few people who knew about Amber’s existence—and mostly because he needed to know as he managed the media for Franco. When Cy had come to see him this morning, Franco had thought nothing of it. This had become a daily ritual, even more important now after Chantel had shared her concerns about Tank’s behavior off the field.

  “You need to see this, Franco,” Cy had said.

  Maybe in retrospect, Franco should have seen the anxiety lurking behind Cy’s eyes, but Cy was a nervous kind of guy. He’d have been much happier being the sports information director twenty years ago when social media didn’t exist. Cy saw it all as a plot to destroy his sanity.

  So, Franco had reached for Cy’s phone, careful to conceal the sigh of resignation that automatically kicked in when Cy had something for him to see.

  Franco’s first thought had been that the picture was completely erotic. He hadn’t even noticed the girl during his quick glance. He’d zeroed in on Tank’s face and thought, So, this is the distraction.

  He handed it back to Cy, saying, “How many does that make since Georgia?”

  Cy hesitated.

  When he didn’t immediately answer, Franco looked up from his notes. “Cy?”

  “Uh, sixteen.”

  At Cy’s answer, Franco returned to his notes.

  “Do you have any idea who keeps taking the pictures? We need to try to shut this down.”

  “Uh, Coach? Did you see the girl in the photo?”

  Franco looked up again. “No.”

  Cy reached out with his phone again. Franco looked at him quizzically. Taking the phone from Cy, Franco looked at the picture again and froze. The air got stuck in his lungs, and he couldn’t move. There she was, with the platinum-blonde hair that he couldn’t quite get used to, in the sexiest picture he’d ever seen.

  He quickly handed the phone back to Cy. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Chantel and I double-teamed Tank last night. Maybe he’ll slow down.”

  He didn’t mention that the picture had probably been taken after he’d spoken to Tank. Nor did he mention that his corneas were now seared with the image of his daughter virtually having sex with a kid who’d probably had sex with fifteen other girls in the last few weeks. He also didn’t mention that this seemed to be his daughter’s MO. He hadn’t mention any of that, but in his mind, all he could think of was, Which one of them should I save?

  As he drove through town, he was assailed by images of his daughter, sweet images to erase the photo of her that he’d stared at for far too long today. He could pinpoint the exact moment he’d lost her. It was twenty-three months ago, a couple of months before the accident. They’d been Skype junkies. They’d had conversations without the visual, but it just wasn’t as much fun. Then, suddenly, the face-to-face phone conversations had stopped. Then, her daily text messages had become weekly.

  So, the day after signing day, he’d jumped in his car and driven to Oxford.

  He’d shown up, unannounced, at her apartment, which he’d done before. But, this time, she hadn’t liked it. She’d been bitchy and short with him, telling him she had a couple of big tests that week. She’d told him that she was dating someone, but she hadn’t said who the person was. They’d had a quick dinner, and he’d gotten back on the road.

  Later, he would remember that and think that she’d held that back because the world of college athletics was small. Everyone knew everyone, and for some reason, she hadn’t wanted him to know about Rowdy. When he’d called her the next day to let her know he’d made it home safely, the bottom had dropped out. She’d berated him for coming to see her, and he’d given it back for her rudeness.

  That was it. That one conversation had sent them into an abyss.

  As the details of her life before the accident had seeped out, he knew he’d failed her. Watching her fight for her life for all those weeks was the hardest thing he’d ever done. That, and watching her brave the storm of the fallout from it.

  She’d been through hell, but seeing her with Tank made him think that she hadn’t learned a damn thing.

  He didn’t know what was worse—the image of her in the picture or his memory of what she’d screamed at him.

  “Well, let me tell you something, Coach. When Tank was fucking me up against the wall last night, you, your fucking national championship, and the goddamn Heisman were the furthest things from his mind.”

  It was on repeat in his head.

  He hoped she’d been going for shock value. The father in him wanted to hunt down Tank Howard and beat the living shit out of him. The coach in him wanted to again counsel Tank about being distracted by groupies. After his confrontation with his daughter, he wasn’t sure which part of him would win out. And what kind of man did that make him?

  The thing about being emotionally stymied was that you did things you wouldn’t normally do. Franco certainly wasn’t aware of that though as he parked his car in Molly’s driveway. This was not the place to come tonight, but his need for perspective, peace, refuge, and some sound girl advice had driven him here. Even though he knew it was a bad idea, he found himself knocking.

  Molly’s stunned expression when she opened the door almost had him retreating. But he’d already put himself out there, so to speak, so he soldiered on.

  “Hey. I know it’s late,” he said, sounding lame.

  Molly regained her composure and stepped back so that he could enter her home.

  “You look like shit. What’s going on?” she asked as he walked over the threshold.

  He stood in the foyer, trying to figure out if he should move forward or cut bait.

  But then she took the decision away from him by saying, “You’re already in my house. Plus, I’ve got the game on. I’d offer you a beer, but I think a bourbon will suit you better.” She gestured toward the family room. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.”

  And, in the moment, he thought she was the most amazing woman he’d met. She knew he shouldn’t be there, but he was, and she made him feel as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “Sure,” he said as he walked to where she’d invited him and moved to sit on the couch.

  She came back into the room, handed him a tumbler, and sat on the recliner across from him. They watched the game in silence for a while. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, but he felt odd about being there. As he finished his drink, he stood up to go.

  “Uh, thanks. I needed the drink.”

  Molly looked questioningly at him. She hadn’t pushed him to say anything since he’d gotten there.

  “Okay,” she said as she stood, too. “But you don’t look like you’re okay, Coach.”

  She didn’t ever call him anything o
ther than Coach, but just now, in this moment, it was a reminder that they worked together.

  “Yeah. Thanks for letting me sit.” He paused, not knowing what else to say but wanting to say something. He moved toward the door. As he reached for the doorknob, he felt her grab his arm.

  “Franco”—she paused, keeping her hand on his forearm—“if you need to talk or…you need anything…I’m here for you.” She looked away and then rephrased, subtracting the presumption, “I can be here for you.”

  Maybe it was her use of his name or perhaps her feather-like touch on his arm or the way she’d said anything, but something suddenly felt different between them. Not the uncomfortable silence of a few minutes ago or the uncertainty when he’d first walked in, but something electric, a charged feeling. He didn’t really think much about what he was doing.

  He moved his hand up and lightly caressed her cheek. “Anything?” he asked.

  Molly moved her hand and placed it gently on top of his. She’d imagined him kissing her a number of different ways, times, and places but never in her foyer. With his sudden appearance at her house, Molly knew something big was going on. Something had chased him out into the night, and he’d sought refuge with her. Knowing that made her want him more.

  “Molly?” His questioning tone and the look in his eyes told her that this was her decision. If anything happened between them, it would be her call.

  She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that her career flashed before her eyes. Her integrity, her reputation—it could all spiral out of control. Men could get away with it. After all, college athletics was still really just a good ole boys’ network. The token Senior Woman Administrator at every school was merely the world’s way of trying to keep women in the game. So, crossing this line meant something. She didn’t want to be the girl on the back of the coach’s motorcycle.

  But Franco was single and seemed to do things the right way. She respected him, she liked him, and she was attracted to him.

  But even as she started to nod her head, she felt like she was moving in the wrong direction.

  “Why here? Why did you come here tonight?” she said instead.

  He took a deep breath and leaned against the wall of her foyer. She could see him weighing his decision in his head.

  “I lost someone very special to me today. Actually, I’ve been losing her for a while but today…” He paused, closing his eyes, gathering his thoughts. “Today, I realized it. I started driving and ended up here.” He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “I’m glad you did,” Molly said softly.

  He pushed away from the wall. “I should go.”

  He put his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her into his chest. He was tall enough that he could rest his chin on her head. She put her arms around him and hugged him back, hating the way her body wanted to betray her big-girl decision.

  “Thanks again,” he murmured before releasing her, opening the door, and heading out into the night.

  Twelve

  Amber woke suddenly, disoriented and uncomfortable, huddled in the middle of the family room floor. Her eyes were swollen, and she ached all over. Getting her bearings, she sat up, cross-legged, and looked around. As if answering her unasked question, the grandfather clock belted out eleven bongs before retreating into silence. She could tell that her father hadn’t returned.

  Pulling her phone from her pocket, she texted Keira.

  I need a place to crash.

  As she waited for a response, she gingerly stood up. Even simple things like that now took more effort than any twenty-three-year-old should need to make. Sighing, she moved toward her room and started to pack a bag. Dropping her phone on the bed, she moved toward the bathroom, grabbing her toiletries.

  When she returned, Keira had hit her back.

  Of course.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t thought Keira would turn her down, but still, she felt better knowing it was okay. Swinging her bag on her shoulder, she left the house as quickly as she could. She should have been mature and left her father a note or dropped him a text, but she wasn’t going to.

  Let the motherfucker worry, she thought.

  Keira’s wasn’t far away, so it didn’t take Amber long to get there. Jumping out of the car, she climbed the steps to the third-story apartment. She tried really hard not to feel sorry for herself as every other step seemed to take a toll on her body.

  As she opened the door to Keira’s apartment, she stopped short. Sitting at Keira’s kitchen table, playing what appeared to be a competitive game of spades, were Tilly, Iman, and Tank.

  Luck of the fucking damned!

  A startled, “Hey!” came out of her mouth.

  Keira looked up, the smile on her face dying as she took in Amber’s appearance.

  “I didn’t realize you had company.”

  Keira immediately got up from the table and came to her, her eyes wide with confusion and concern. “You okay?” she asked.

  Looking only at Keira, she said as low as she could, “I’m out.”

  Turning, she walked right back out the door she’d just entered. She ran down the steps as fast as her stupid bum leg would allow. She heard Keira calling her back, but she couldn’t face those guys right now—especially not Tank.

  She made it to the second landing when a hand flew out, grabbed her around the upper arm, and pulled her back against the wall. As her body rebounded softly, she leaned her head back and looked directly into Tank’s amazing eyes.

  “You really are the last person I wanted to see tonight,” she said in greeting.

  Tank smirked as he took her in. “Ah, Sunshine’s back. I was just thinking that I hadn’t had my dose of smart-ass, bitchy women yet today.”

  “You just get that from me? What about all of the girls you’ve screwed since the Georgia game? None of them give you shit? They just lie down for you and fawn all over you when you’re done?”

  Tank reared back. “Wow! Extra Sunshine today.” He studied her, taking in the swollen eyes, her super-pale coloring, her wild hair. His hand moved up to the back of her neck, and he rubbed his thumb along her jaw. “What happened?” he said.

  He watched her eye him warily.

  “Nothing happened,” she answered, not a hint of shit in her tone.

  He loved it when she just spoke without the bite of her attitude nipping at him.

  He started at the top of her head and slowly perused her body, making sure that she observed him inspect every part of her, his thumb still caressing her. “You look like something happened, Sunshine,” he said huskily, paying for his very thorough perusal.

  He felt her pulse pick up, her breath quicken. She was like dynamite for his libido.

  She stepped away from him so that his hand had to drop back to his side. “I’m good. I just need a place to crash.”

  “Okay,” he said, letting her keep her secrets. “Come back upstairs. I swear, we’ll leave you alone.” He could see the resignation in her eyes.

  He grabbed the bag off her shoulder and followed her upstairs. When they entered the apartment, Keira pointed to a door. Tank followed Amber to the door, pulled it open, and dumped her bag. After gently pushing her inside, he closed the door behind her and returned to the card game.

  “She all right, man?” Tilly asked when Tank sat back down.

  “I didn’t get anything out of her.” He looked at Keira. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “No. But until she’s ready to talk about it, we won’t get to know,” she answered. “Amber only gives out small bits and pieces of herself now.” Keira looked up, directly at Tank.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Since,” she answered cryptically.

  “Since?” he asked.

  But Keira, recognizing that perhaps she had said too much, shook her head and returned her attention to the game.

  His concentration broken, and the game—which, ten minutes ago, had been an enjoyable way to pass
the time—had lost its luster. He played, but his head was no longer in it. He couldn’t stop thinking about Amber all day, which confused him. A lot about her confused him. She seemed all wrapped up in anger and resistance, shit and vinegar. She was rarely nice, but something about her pulled at him.

  “This fool,” Tilly said, pulling Tank from his thoughts. “The end of September and broke like a bum.”

  Tank smiled. “I told him those tats and shoes were going to bring him down.”

  Tilly laughed again. “How many you got now, bro?”

  Iman smiled big. “Shoes or tats?”

  They all laughed.

  “Fool!” Tilly repeated.

  “At least I’m not named after women’s clothing,” Iman said.

  “But your name is Harriman. It sounds like a seventy-year-old white guy’s name.”

  “Your name is Chantilly Lace. How can you even hold your head up?” Iman shot back.

  “Every day, I thank God for my genetics. Imagine if I’d been a scrawny-ass boy like you?” he said.

  “Well then, you’d have been able to outrun ’em, bro.”

  Tank sat back and listened. After a bit, he decided he’d go check on Amber. He nodded briefly to Keira as he stood up. He saw her nod back. Taking that as consent, he strode to the bedroom door, and after knocking lightly, he stepped inside.

  It was dark, but Amber lay with her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. She briefly glanced at him and then returned her eyes to the white space above her head.

  Tank took that as an invitation to stay since she hadn’t spewed any venom in his direction. Moving forward, he sat on the side of the bed with one knee up so that he faced her. She turned toward him but remained silent.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

  She merely gazed at him for a minute, studying him. He couldn’t tell what she was hoping to discover with her intense stare.