Foolish Games
Tracy Solheim
One
Paternity.
The word reverberated inside Will Connelly’s head, pummeling his temples until they began to throb. He clenched his jaw firmly in place, at the same time willing his knuckles to release their death grip on the leather chair. It was an effort to appear unfazed despite the fact the supposed purpose of the meeting had taken a 180-degree turn. If ever there was a time for Will to put on his game face, this was it.
The U.S. senator sitting across the conference table was sadly mistaken if he thought he was a match for Will’s trademark inscrutable stare. There was a reason he was known as William the Conqueror throughout the NFL: Will Connelly tore through offenses relentlessly, all the while wearing a stoic expression that caused many an opponent to declare that the Pro Bowl linebacker had ice water running through his veins.
The men seated on either side of him, however, weren’t as practiced at remaining cool. Both shifted uneasily in their chairs.
“Come again?” Roscoe Mathis, Will’s agent, wasn’t one to sit patiently while someone railroaded his client.
The senator’s smug grin didn’t waver, his gaze fixed on Will. “I said that Mr. Connelly might want to rethink his position as the national spokesman against deadbeat dads. He’s been named the father in a rather . . . extraordinary paternity request.”
“Now just wait one minute, Senator,” said Hank Osbourne, the general manager for the Baltimore Blaze and Will’s other companion. Hank was often referred to as the Wizard of Oz around the league because of his ability to quickly turn a team into a contender; his demeanor was normally as cool as Will’s. But his tone implied his temper was on a short leash today. “You march us up to Capitol Hill, supposedly to ask questions about an alleged bounty scheme your committee is wasting taxpayer dollars investigating, and then you accuse my player with some cockamamie paternity suit? What kind of game are you playing here?”
The senator lunged forward in his seat. “Correction, Mr. Osbourne. I didn’t invite you or Mr. Mathis here for this meeting. This business involves a personal matter between him”—he shot a finger at Will—“and me.”
“Your summons was rather vague,” Roscoe said. “We assumed it involved this witch hunt into Coach Zevalos’s career.”
Will’s body tensed at the mention of Paul Zevalos, his former coach at Yale. After college, the coach took a defensive coordinator position in the NFL, bringing Will along as an undrafted rookie. Without Zevalos championing him, Will might never have seen a professional gridiron, much less become one of the league’s most elite players. And now the world expected him to turn on his former coach.
Like hell he would.
Senator Stephen Marchione sank back into his padded leather chair. Somewhere near forty years old, the well-respected politician likely didn’t have a daughter old enough to interest Will. And married women were off-limits in his book. Will relaxed slightly, confident that a mistake had been made. Extremely careful in his personal life and monogamous with the women he dated, he took precautions to prevent children. He had to. No child should be subjected to the childhood he’d endured.
A ripple of unease crawled up his spine, however, as he remembered a sensual encounter the night of his best friend’s wedding. But that had been nearly a year ago. If the woman had conceived a child, she’d have made her claim long before today. Besides, the woman was Italian or French, the designer of the bride’s wedding gown. It was unlikely she and the senator would cross paths. Reassured, he pretended aloofness by adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket as he waited for Marchione to continue.
The senator pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “You’re right. Congress shouldn’t be wasting time and money investigating professional sports. That’s for the leagues to police. But I’m in the minority, and this is politics. Connelly, you don’t want to testify against your old coach and I can impede the committee from forcing you to do so. For the time being. In return, I need you to do something for me.” He eyed the men seated beside Will. “Something I think both of us would like to keep private.”
For the first time since entering the ornate conference room, Will spoke. “They stay.” He wasn’t sure what the senator was up to, but he wanted his agent and his boss as witnesses in case something went awry.
“Suit yourself.” Marchione pulled a file folder out from the portfolio in front of him.
“Hold on.” Roscoe pointed to a white-haired gentleman in a dark suit seated behind the senator. He was the only person to accompany Marchione to the meeting. “We’d like some assurances from your staff that whatever this is about, it’ll remain private.”