Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (49 page)

“Darcie deserves that,” Wyatt said, mostly
to himself.

“You might have missed your window,” Murf
sympathized. “Like I said, it happened in an instant with me and
Em. Out of pure instinct. With some desperation thrown in.”

Wyatt nodded. He knew all about desperation.
And
about instinct—specifically for self-preservation.
Protecting himself at all costs. So he had done the same thing to
Darcie that Murf had done to her: made her earn it. And she had
performed well, hadn’t she? So well, he now trusted her more than
any other person in the world. Almost completely, in fact.

But apparently, in love as in football,
“almost” didn’t cut it.

Or at least not with Darcie.

• • •

By the time she pulled into her driveway,
she had basically beaten the Wyatt horse to death. Yes, they were
in love. And no, they wouldn’t work as lifelong mates. It didn’t
matter how much chemistry, or electricity, or any other scientific
proof she could find.

Because emotionally? They were a mess.
Trying so hard to be the perfect couple when there were just too
many problems.
His
ego.
Her
ego. His distrust of
lawyers. Of agents.

Of women like his mother, aka every woman in
his universe.

But rather than just have a sexy, exciting
relationship, they had employed the worst cliché ever invented:
that a baby could fix everything.

And for
that,
she blamed herself.

Kicking off her shoes, she grabbed a bottle
of sparkling water from the fridge with one hand while
speed-dialing Emily with the other. Not that she wanted to talk to
her best friend, but rather, to her best friend’s children.

Emily answered right away. “Where have you
been? I’m
dying
of curiosity. Murf’s like a sphinx when it
comes to these things. So spill.”

“Did the boys go to bed yet?”

“Pardon? They’re in their jammies, all
curled up on the couch with me and Smoochie. Why?”

“Can I read them a story? From that Camelot
book I gave them for Christmas?”

“Oh, Lord, let me guess. ‘The Sword in the
Stone’? What
is
it with you and that story?” Emily sighed.
“I want to hear about Wyatt. And
you
want to read a fairy
tale. Not a good sign.”

Darcie couldn’t help but smile, remembering
Wyatt’s joke about Emily’s crackpot theories. If only he
knew . . .

But Emily hadn’t given up. “Give me five
minutes, then you can have my sons.”

“I can do it in
one
minute,” Darcie
assured her. “You were right about him. I mean, he’s a great guy.
But he’s emotionally closed off. Not across the board, but he
honestly can’t trust other people. With good reasons. I
mean . . .” She winced. “How much did Murf tell
you?”

“What part of sphinx don’t you
understand?”

“Really? Okay, let’s try this. Remember how
Wyatt’s dad went off to Afghanistan when he was just nine years
old?”

Emily was silent for a moment. Then she
said, “That’s a tough one. Duty to his country? Duty to his son?
Duty to set a heroic example
for
his son? I’d never judge
the poor guy for that, especially since he gets high marks in every
other department.”

“Fine, don’t judge Matt Bourne. But don’t
judge Wyatt either. He was nine years old.”

“Wow, what’s with you? All I said was he’s
emotionally closed off. I never judged him for it. And frankly,
since
you
like him so much, and Murf thinks he walks on
water . . .” She exhaled into the phone. “I’m
packing up the kids. If we drive all night, we can be there in
twenty hours.”

“Sheesh, I forgot what a nut you are. It’s
fine, Em. Hopeless but fine. I promise.”

Emily huffed. “You and Wyatt are fighting.
Murf told me
that
much at least. Tell me the rest.”

Darcie winced. If she told Emily the
truth—that it was a choice between true love and having
children—the Murphys would be in the Volvo within minutes, anxious
to fix things. It was the dream, after all. Their children playing
together. Growing up like cousins, or really more like
siblings.

“I love him,” she said finally. “And he
loves me. It might not last forever, but it’s been amazing. And
it’s not over.”

Emily didn’t respond right away. Then she
said loudly, “Boys? Aunt Darcie wants to read you that King Arthur
story again.”

• • •

When she awoke on the morning of Murf’s
negotiations with the Rustlers, she felt stronger, more centered
than ever.

Reading to the boys had worked its magic,
especially when Emily described how Nell pointed toward the phone
the entire time, goo-gooing and gaa-gaaing her little heart
out.

Darcie
had
to have that for her very
own. She loved sharing with Emily, but needed to cuddle every night
with adorable bodies in adorable jammies. Read them stories, inhale
their scent.

Every single night.

Any woman would be lucky to have Wyatt
Bourne. That face, that chest, that huge heart and protective
spirit. But Darcie Kildare wasn’t just any woman, or at least not
any sane one. She was baby-crazy. Always had been, always would be.
It was as simple as that.

So she promised herself she and Wyatt would
have fun together. Make love, engage in playful banter, enjoy the
rush of his move to LA. It would be great. Mind-blowing. Maybe even
last for years. But somewhere along the way, they’d figure out how
to phase it from love affair to friendship. A friendship that would
last forever.

Bursting with commitment to this new plan,
she threw on some sweats, drank a Coke, then headed to her former
fitness club near the court building. She had stopped using her
membership when the judge died, but knew it ran until September, so
why not?

For further inspiration, she had loaded her
tablet computer with Wyatt’s Super Bowl game so she could watch it
on the treadmill. She needed to see him in action. To remember why
Murf, and Jake, and Aaron Spurling were so jazzed about him. Why
the Jets had wept when they lost him.

And for her own purposes, she needed to see
if Butler—the wide receiver—really lost that game for the Jets,
losing Wyatt’s Super Bowl ring in the process.

She had never lasted more than forty-five
minutes on any piece of exercise equipment, but that game kept her
riveted until the bitter end. And it
was
bitter. Because to
Darcie’s eyes, Butler really
had
lost the game for them.

You might be a wee bit prejudiced,
she teased herself as she hurried home to wash away rivulets of
sweat and transform herself into a sophisticated rookie agent. Not
that she would be required to say a word. But she represented Wyatt
Bourne, and she had just reminded herself what that really
meant.

The Surgeon.

By the time she reached Murf’s suite a few
minutes after noon, she was pumped beyond belief. The idea that the
Rustlers might cheap out now seemed like blasphemy. Not that Murf
would let them get away with it, since he had cheerfully insisted
it was
all
about money. But the idea that they might even
try
made her livid.

When she knocked on the door Murf answered
right away, wearing an ultra-sharp gray suit, a navy blue tie, and
a button-down pin-striped shirt with diamond-studded cufflinks.
Luckily she had worn her Alexi Romanov suit of onyx black silk, so
she knew she was in the ballpark.

“Sharp,” she told him teasingly. “Or should
I say,
shark?”

He grinned. “You’re late, but it was worth
it. Come on in.”

She wanted to play it cool, but instead gave
him a sheepish hug. “I made the mistake of watching the Super Bowl
again this morning, and wow. Our client’s a rock star.”

“I’ve done that before a big meeting, too.
Really gets the juices flowing, doesn’t it?”

“I’m so ready,” she agreed.

“I’m glad you said that.” Taking her arm, he
steered her to a cream-colored sofa and motioned for her to sit.
Then he sat close to her, picked up a stack of papers from the
platinum-and-glass coffee table, and said with a slightly guilty
look, “Wyatt and I had a meeting this morning.”

“Pardon?” She felt a chill of apprehension.
“Is this about Luke Stoddard again? I should have warned you. He
still feels so guilty—”

“It’s not about Stoddard.” Murf’s gaze
softened as he handed her the pages. “Take a look.”

She scanned the text and signatures, looking
for a clue. “I don’t get it. The percentage is the same,
right?”

“Check out the primary agent.”

“Hmm?” She looked again and was startled to
see herself listed in the lead, just as she had been on Bam’s
contract. “What the heck?”

“It’s what he wants,” Murf said with a
shrug.

“No, Murf.” She eyed him firmly. “He wants
you
. This is just—well, relationship stuff. I’m so
embarrassed you got caught in the middle.”

“I think you can handle it, Darce.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said, laughing
sheepishly. “I know
exactly
what this is about. He’s trying
to prove something to me. But it’s not necessary. Or at least not
possible.” Her heart ached for Wyatt—poised on the edge of
greatness, but pulled down by messy emotion. “He said something
hurtful the other night, now he’s trying to make up for it. But
this
makes things worse. I mean, can you imagine?” She
rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you humored him this way.”

“It’s what the client wants. But honestly? I
only agreed because I think you can handle it.”

She stared in confusion. Was he humoring
Wyatt? Or
her?

But it didn’t matter. The Rustlers would
arrive in less than half an hour. Time to settle this nonsense.

“I didn’t sign this document,” she said,
pretending to yawn. “So it’s not valid.”

“I signed for you. As your boss, I can do
that.”

Concerned for the first time, she pulled out
her phone and called Wyatt. When he didn’t pick up she left a
frantic message: “Wyatt?
Please
don’t do this. It’s not
necessary. We’re
fine,
I promise. So please call me back
right away.”

Then she glared at Murf. “He’s throwing away
his whole career. His whole future.”

“He’s a grown man. And this is what he
wants.”

“He wants to win me back. So
fine
.
Tell him I wept with joy at the thought he trusted me this much.
That’s
what this is about, you know. And I appreciate it,
but—”

“You can keep arguing. Or I can prep you.
Your choice.”

“Murf, please?” She grasped his hands. “He’s
upset. But we have a fiduciary duty to protect his interests—”

“Then do it.” His flippant mood softened.
“Like I said, if I thought you couldn’t handle it, I’d have said
no. But he wants this. And there’s a certain magic from our point
of view. Spurling and company want to face off against Patrick
Murphy. They’re prepared for that. Let’s rock their world a
little.”

Her throat tightened. In fact, it closed up
completely, but Murf was already pouring her a glass of water from
a pitcher on the coffee table. Then he said cheerfully, “You’re
familiar with Aaron Spurling’s style. And their lawyer is fairly
generic. But Bud Pollard? He’s old school all the way. Grouchy,
cheap, and on the surface, uninspired. But don’t let him fool you.
He knows his stuff. Football, personnel and numbers. He’s the big
decision maker here, so he’s the one you need to impress.”

“Bud who?” she wailed.

He grinned. “Bud Pollard. The general
manager. Take a deep breath, rookie. Then put your game face on,
because this is on
you
now.”

• • •

For the first hour, the Rustler delegation
tried to talk to Murf, but he smoothly re-directed them with
reminders that Darcie was Wyatt Bourne’s agent now. “I’m just here
in case she needs some quick research. Or a latte.”

Aaron Spurling—such a sweetie—was
practically sweating bullets, while the lawyer seemed frustrated
that such a young, inexperienced woman had the lead, as though it
would prolong the negotiations while they tried to teach her the
difference between free agency and franchise tags.

As if.

And Bud Pollard? He was exactly as
advertised, a total grouch. The very sound of her voice apparently
grated on him, although to be fair, he didn’t seem to like Murf’s
voice either. He just wanted to make a deal. Hopefully one that
didn’t cost the Rustlers a dime.

Again and again, she expected Murf to jump
in, but as the afternoon wore on, she hit her stride, realizing
that as crazy as it seemed, she actually
did
know this deal
inside and out. Like a trained seal, she could juggle all the
parts.

And like a trained
lawyer,
she knew
which parts mattered. Hadn’t she gone over them a thousand times?
Sifted them through her brain, analyzed them to death, considered
every possible alternative?

Bud Pollard never saw her coming.

Still, they hit a few snags, although not so
much about the money, which surprised her. But the idea of letting
Engels go seemed to horrify them. And the draft picks? It was as
though she were literally stealing food from the mouths of Bud’s
sainted grandchildren.

Finally, they seemed so close to a deal, the
lawyer focused a bored stare on the digital readout of his cell
phone, counting the minutes until this agony ended. Darcie wanted
to clue him in to the truth: sports law rocked.

Why else would she be flying so high?

Then in an instant, it all came crashing
down when Bud Pollard leaned forward and said in his folksy,
cantankerous way, “So let’s talk turkey.”

Startled, since she thought that was what
they were already doing, she bluffed cheerfully, “Absolutely.”