Foolish Games(72)

Her heart was racing. If he was going to introduce her to his teammates, there was a chance he wanted their marriage to last more than just three months. Joy bubbled up inside her. She took a now-sleepy Owen from his arms and gently laid him in the stroller. Together they started back through town, headed home.

“There wouldn’t by chance be any shopping near your apartment?”

Will laughed. “I’ve never really noticed. But”—he sobered—“the place is adjacent to the harbor. Will you be all right with that?”

Julianne thought she’d be all right with any place as long as he was there. “Didn’t I just spend forty minutes sitting a hundred yards in front of the Atlantic Ocean?”

He wrapped an arm over her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “Yes, Princess, you did. I’m very proud of your progress.”

It was the second time in less than an hour that one of the men in her life had told her he was proud of her. Julianne felt ten feet tall.

She brought her arm around his waist, sliding her fingers into the back pocket of his shorts. “Of course, all it would take is one nasty storm for me to backslide,” she warned.

“Well, Princess, let’s pray there aren’t any bad storms this summer.”





Twenty-two





Will should have realized the futility of trying to pray away a summer storm. All afternoon, the National Weather Service had advised the entire coastline of a brewing tropical thunderstorm forecast to strike the area sometime after dark. As if that weren’t enough, Owen had been cranky since their return from the beach earlier, making both Will and Julianne jumpy.

Will sat in his office as Owen fussed in and out of a fitful sleep. He propped the baby on his shoulder and rubbed his back. “Come on, Cheerio. Just close your eyes for a few minutes. You’ll feel better. And so will Mommy and Daddy.”

He was begging his child to sleep. Next he’d be one of those crazy parents who strapped their kid into his car seat and drove him around the inlet. Will sat up straighter in his chair, digging in his pocket for his car keys. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? As he was striding out of the room, however, something flickered on the television, catching his attention. He increased the volume.

“. . . sources in the commissioner’s office confirmed today that the league’s investigation of Bountygate has ended in a stalemate. Implicated players and coaches continue to vehemently refute the allegations, leaving the league with its hands tied. However, a Senate committee investigating racketeering charges emanating from this scandal plans to hold its own hearings. Subpoenas are set to be served any day now. The commissioner is said to be hoping that these hearings, along with lawsuits filed by players alleged to be injured under the scheme, will shake loose some tongues, allowing the investigation to move forward to its likely conclusion: fines and/or suspensions against players and coaches.”

Will heard thunder in the distance. He wasn’t sure if it was real or the pounding of his head. He needed to call Roscoe to make sure he wasn’t in the line of fire for subpoenas or anything else. Owen whimpered in his arms.

“Okay, okay. You first, Owen.”

Will pulled open his office door to find Julianne standing there, a strange man beside her.

“Oh, hey. Your friend, Chris”—she pointed to the guy next to her—“dropped by. He wanted to say hi before he left town.”

Will had never laid eyes on Chris before. The guy had that smarmy look of a tabloid reporter all over him.

“Who the hell are you?” Will growled, handing off Owen to a startled Julianne.

“Chris Masterman of the Sporting News. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

Julianne gasped as Will maneuvered the weasel reporter through the hallway.

“You came into my house?” Will bellowed. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“Hey, your wife let me in. Congratulations on the marriage, by the way. Cute kid, too. If you could just answer a few ques—”

Will had the dumbass reporter in a choke hold and pushed him up against the wall. “You don’t come in my house, Chris. Ever. If you or any of your brethren step a foot on my yard ever again, I will tear you limb from limb.”

“Will!” Julianne cried.

Chris was fighting back now. “It’s all coming out now, Connelly. You’re better off telling your story to someone who can put the right spin on it. I can help you, man, just tell me what you know.”

Will pulled the front door open; big drops of rain were pelting the verandah. “Not on your life! Now get the hell off my property before I call the sheriff.” He tossed the reporter down the steps.