“And no interns,” she added with a grin.
Zach stormed in then, the puppy scrambling to make the same turn and follow.
“Zach, did you wipe that dog’s feet off?” Kara demanded.
“Yeah, I did. What’s for dinner? Hey, Graham.”
“Hey, kid.” Graham held out a hand for a high five as Zach passed by. “Homework done?”
“Ye . . . no. Dang it.” Looking sullen, he headed for his room. “Forgot math.”
“Finish it before dinner,” Kara suggested, “and you can FaceTime with Matt.” His best friend from his old school.
“Got it. C’mon, Boscoe, let’s go play with numbers.”
The pup, hearing the key word “play,” yipped and raced off behind him, running into a wall before making the final turn for Zach’s room.
“That dog is going to leave dent marks in every piece of drywall we have.” Shaking her head, Kara stood and went to the fridge to start pulling out the fixings for dinner.
Graham walked up behind her—his knee had fully healed, thank God—and pulled her back against him. Nibbling on her neck, he asked, “How long do you think he’ll be preoccupied with math?”
“Since he’s more of a word nerd than he is a math geek, a while.”
“Hmm.” His hand worked lower, grazing the waistband of her yoga pants. “Maybe we should go discuss tonight’s meal plan first. Alone.”
“I could be up for a discussion of such.” She twisted around to lock her lips firmly on his, holding him down so she could fully take advantage. “Yup, let’s go ‘meal plan’ for a bit. I’m thinking about something spicy.”
He followed her to the bedroom. “Whatever you say, yoga girl.”
TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF JEANETTE MURRAY’S NEXT SANTA FE BOBCATS NOVEL
COMPLETING THE PASS
COMING SOON FROM INTERMIX!
Josh Leeman walked into the Bobcats headquarters and gave Kristen a wary smile. “Hey, I think someone is expecting me for . . . You okay?”
Kristen, the front office’s high-octane, almost unbelievably efficient administrative assistant, gave him a weak smile in return. “Sure, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
Josh couldn’t help noticing she was wringing her hands as she said it. And for the first time since he’d met her several seasons ago, she was missing that certain polish that she carried around with her. Her hair was down, rather than back in its typical smooth bun, and looked a little tangled, as if she’d forgotten to brush it before heading to work. Her sweater was baggy, and if she wore any makeup, he couldn’t tell.
“Right. That’s good.” He rocked back on his heels, taking in the front lobby. It was a rare day he ended up in the front offices. Not much call for him here. He was the guy who stuck to the shadows of the team. Forgotten, until called upon. And he’d never wanted to be called upon.
Somehow, it had happened anyway.
“So, I think Coach Jordan is expecting me.”
She nodded, nibbling on her lip and making a quick call to announce him. When she waved him on toward the double doors, she looked . . . worried.
Kristen was a known mother hen for the team. If she was worried, there was something to worry about. With this career, the options were pretty limited. He was being traded, or just straight cut. Try as he might, he struggled to think of a worse situation than being cut from the team he’d spent four years with.
He walked through the hallways, feeling insignificant beside the team photos of Bobcats past. Not to mention the few gigantic portraits of the NFL MVPs the Bobcats had held on their rosters over the decades.
As he entered the main bay of offices for the coaches and the owners, he approached the desk that sat in the middle of the open space with trepidation. There was something about Frank, the man who manned the desk, that terrified him. Maybe that was a * thing to say, that he was terrified of an old guy who might have been sixty-five, or maybe ninety-five . . . but it was also the damn truth.
“Hey, Frank.” The man didn’t look up from his typing. With hands that looked gnarled as tree roots, he was typing what had to be at least eighty words a minute, and he wasn’t stopping anytime soon. “Uh, Kristen sent me back.”
“Coach Jordan’s office,” the older man barked, nodding his head toward the left back corner office. His fingers never stopped. “Go on in.”
“Right.” Josh paused a moment, then said, “Thanks.”
Might as well have said nothing at all, for all the attention Frank paid him. Heading back, he wiped his damp palms on his jeans before knocking on the door.
The worst they can do is cut you. You try out for another team, or you go on to something else. Calm down.
“Come on in,” he heard Coach Jordan say. When he entered, he saw the quarterback coach sitting across from the head coach in a comfortable leather high-back chair.
The head coach and the quarterback coach. This . . . was unexpected.
“Kristen called and said you needed to see me?” Josh took a few steps in, pausing by the door.