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  She had never tried to come between Tim and MacMurray. She wasn’t the type of woman to control her boyfriend’s friendships, but Tim was no fool and he knew perfectly well that his fiance and the captain of the football team couldn’t stand each other.

  She still remembered the day she met Mac. She was nervous because she liked Tim and she had the feeling that if his best friend didn’t approve, he wouldn’t call her again. It was childish, but it probably still applied to men of all ages. It was a very tense dinner with a few awkward moments, but Susan thought it had gone rather well…until she came out of the bathroom and heard MacMurray telling Tim not to waste his time with her because she was fake and stuck up and seemed colder than an iceberg, to which he added, a woman who tries so hard to be what she is not, isn’t right in the head.

  She sighed; it was stupid that it still bothered her. She and Tim were going to get married and start a family. Mac could go to hell.

  The taxi driver continued on slightly hurried, and she instinctively touched her up-do to make sure that she didn’t have a hair out of place. From that disastrous dinner, a year ago already, she and Tim were engaged, so it was more than obvious that Tim had completely ignored his best friend’s advice. However, every time she thought about it her back would become drenched with sweat. Why the hell did MacMurray say that? Of all the things that he could have said, why did he call her fake…no one, except she, knew that that was how she sometimes felt. Of all people in the world, why did Mac have to be the one to realize it? Or perhaps it was just a coincidence, a shot in the dark?

  The stadium was coming up in the distance and the taxi driver pulled up to the entrance reserved for board members, players, and special guests.

  Although Susan was a journalist, she never covered sports, and she felt like it wasn’t fair to use the entrance reserved for the press. And to use it that day would be very bold. Besides, she was only there as Tim’s fiance.

  “We’re here,” said the taxi driver before telling her how much she owed. Susan paid, and she walked toward the door that a member of the security staff had already opened for her.

  “Good evening, Rob,” she greeted him, upon recognizing who he was. “Has Tim already come out of the locker room?”

  “Good evening, Miss Lobato. We haven’t seen Mr. Delany or captain MacMurray yet. You can come in and wait for them in one of the private guest rooms.”

  “Thanks, Rob.” She said goodbye to the security guard and gave him smile.

  She walked around the winding lower floor of the stadium and frowned when she realized that Rob had simply assumed that Tim and Mac were together. Those two really were good friends. Susan could not help but wonder what would have happened between her and Mac if she hadn’t heard what he said to Tim at that dinner.

  Would they be friends? Would they get along well?

  She would have never liked MacMurray. Actually, just looking at him made her want to strangle him, but perhaps they would have had a cordial relationship, at least for Tim’s sake. She stopped frowning and smiled again thinking of Tim, and as if she had magic powers, his fiance appeared right there in the hall where she was walking down.

  “You look gorgeous,” he said to her from behind.

  Susan let out a sigh of relief and turned around.

  “You too,” she responded, noticing how handsome he looked, freshly showered and in his suit. She sighed and moved closer to him. “I’m sorry you lost.”

  “We played well,” said Tim shrugging his shoulders. “We’ll win the next one.”

  “Sure”

  Tim placed his hands on her waist and bent down to give her a gentle kiss on the lips.

  “I don’t want to mess up your makeup,” he said, pulling away.

  “I’ve got lipstick in my purse,” hinted Susan, moving in closer to him.

  “Journalists from every sports channel in the country are at the end of the hall, including the one from your program, Miss Lobato.”

  Susan looked at him for a second. Tim’s calm demeanor was probably the first thing that attracted her to him when they met, and one of the reasons she agreed to marry him. However, barely one hour before, that same man practically ripped the head off of one of the players on the Giants because he had snatched the ball from him.

  Where was all that passion now? Was he saving it for the game?

  You’re being stupid, Susana, you shouldn’t have spent so much time reading that novel last night. You don’t want him to kiss you right now.

  And it was the truth.

  Besides the fact that she had started it, and that she was even flirting with him, Susan didn’t want him to kiss her there in the middle of that hallway where anyone could see them.

  “You’re right.” She pulled back and settled for holding Tim’s hand. He returned the gesture and together they walked out to face the microphones.

  Whenever Susan accompanied Tim she made an effort to stay in the background, although it didn’t always work because certain journalists insisted on asking her about the wedding. That night, however, it wasn’t the case as everyone was ready to take pleasure in, with more or less elegance, the loss of the Patriots. Tim responded to a few questions, and when a member of stadium security told him that his limo was waiting for them, he said goodbye and pulled Susan toward the exit.

  Just like the taxi that she had arrived in, the black vehicle was waiting for them right at the entrance, and they managed to get inside without getting ambushed by a group of fans that practically appeared out of nowhere.

  They sat in silence on the way to the restaurant. Tim squeezed her hand on several occasions and Susan smiled at him encouragingly. They made a good team, she thought. They didn’t need to speak in order to know what the other one needed.

  At the entrance to the restaurant they had to fight off another mob of journalists, mainly from the tabloids, and the flashes from the cameras threatened to leave them blind. If it had been any other night perhaps they would have stopped and responded to such important questions like where Susan was getting her dress, or if they were going to offer vegetarian dishes, but they went into L’Escalier without stopping. They both let out a sigh of relief when the door closed behind them, and a familiar face immediately came to greet them. It was Mike Nichols, the coach of the Patriots

  “Tinman, I thought I was going to have to come looking for you,” he said to Tim, calling him by the nickname he had been given in his first official game. “But now that I see the beauty accompanying you, I’m not surprised that you’re late. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Susan. When are you going come to your senses and go for me?”

  Susan smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Never. Besides, I don’t think that Margaret would like that very much. And you couldn’t live without her anyway.”

  Mike laughed to himself and gave her a kiss on the cheek as well.

  Susan thought to herself that she had barely noticed a difference between Tim and Mike kisses.

  “You’re right, I don’t know what I would do without her,” smiled Mike.

  “Without who?”

  “Without you, Maggie,” responded the coach, after being interrupted by his wife who came to greet the newly arrived.

  “Ah, I already know that. Sorry you didn’t win, Tim. You guys played really well.”

  “Unfortunately, the Giants did too,” responded Tim, bending down to greet her with a kiss.

  “Well, what don't we enjoy the dinner and forget about the game for a while?” suggested the coach’s wife.

  “Sounds like a wonderful idea, Margaret, although I doubt you’ll be able to get them to stop talking about the game,” added Susan.

  “Where is Mac?” asked Mike, looking around.

  “He’ll be here any minute. He’s taking a shower.”

  “Mr. Stubborn didn’t want to get his eyebrow stitched up,” muttered Mike, remembering one of the arguments he’d had with the team captain during the game. “I’m sure he’l
l use it as an excuse not to show up.”

  “He’ll come, you’ll see,” assured him Tim.

  “What did I tell you?” Susan smiled at Margaret, still looking at the two men.

  “You’re right, they’re a lost cause.” The woman linked arms with the journalist. “Come with me to get a glass of champagne and tell me when they plan on giving you your own program. The other day I saw you on T.V., and for the first time I understood what it meant to raise the debt ceiling.”

  Chapter 2

  Second rule of American football:

  A quarterback can only do three things:

  Run with the ball.

  Directly place the ball in the hands of a running back.

  Make a pass.

  Mac was the last one to leave the stadium, aside from security. The cut on his eyebrow had stopped bleeding, although he would certainly have another scar to add to the collection. And the horrible headache he had from temple to temple didn’t let him think, not to mention the two ribs that were crushing his chest because of getting rammed by one of the linebackers from the Giants.

  He had more than enough reasons not to go to that damn dinner, and no desire whatsoever, but he got dressed anyway. He put on a black suit, a shirt with cuff links, a tie, and dress shoes. The whole works.

  It was much more uncomfortable than the gear he would wear during games, or at least it seemed that way to him.

  Before leaving the locker room, he turned to the mirror one last time and pretended that he didn’t realize just how bruised, tired, and old he was. He sighed and ran his fingers through his black hair, and clenched his jaw just like he did before starting a game. Avoiding the inevitable wouldn’t do any good.

  He threw his bag over his right shoulder and went directly to the garage reserved for players, and when he got in his car it would be a lie if he said he wasn’t tempted to go home, but he drove towards L’Escalier.

  The traffic lights were not on his side. They were all green. Boston had no sympathy and the streets were wide open for him. With each second that passed, that damn dinner seemed more tortuous to him. He made the last turn and realized that there was no turning back. A squadron of journalists spotted him in the distance and the flashes began to go off. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he drove the last stretch.

  As soon as he stopped the black Jaguar, an employee from the restaurant opened the door for him and took his keys to park it, leaving Mac at the main entrance to L’Escalier, which was full of microphones and cell phones.

  “Mac, Mac!” shouted a reporter. “Are you thinking about retiring?”

  Bastard.

  “Is it true that you broke up with Kassandra?” asked another, referring to the Russian model that he had been seen with lately.

  “Have you resigned from the Patriots? It’s rumored that they aren’t going to renew your contract and that they’ve even found your replacement.”

  Damn it, he had also heard those rumors, but he thought he was the only one.

  Mac didn’t answer any of the questions. He learned his lesson years ago.

  When he was just starting out he was very friendly with the press, until a tabloid twisted what he said and he ended up punching some journalist. He had to pay a fine, buy a new camera, and do community service, and it was all because a stupid journalist decided to make up a headline at his expense.

  Now Mac only responded to questions during official press conferences, or if he had the misfortune of being invited to a television program. And he only talked about work, football, and the Patriots.

  He walked into the restaurant and, ignoring the people who tried to greet him, went directly to the bar and ordered a whiskey. The waiter served him immediately. Mac brought the glass up to his face and in an effort to make himself feel better, breathed deeply soaking up the smell of wood. That was probably the only thing he had in common with his father, a weakness for good whiskey. Although they got along very well, Mac and his father were as different as they come. Mr. MacMurray was still surprised that his oldest son had chosen to dedicate his life to football.

  He took a sip and felt it burn as it went down his throat. Mac didn’t drink much, that’s why when he did, he chose his drinks very meticulously, and the waiter at L’Escalier no doubt was up for the task.

  He took a breath and sighed.

  Perhaps he could just sit there, say hi to Mike and the directors of the Patriots, and disappear. He closed his eyes and rested the glass against his forehead to see if it would make his headache go away.

  “Good evening, Mac.”

  Shit. Of all the people he didn’t want to see that night, the owner of that voice was number one on the list.

  Susan Lobato.

  He usually liked to argue with Tim’s fiance. He thought it was fun and exciting, but not that night.

  Not tonight.

  He ignored her and drank a little more whiskey. His eyes were closed, but he could feel Susana’s presence to his right, just a few inches away.

  “It’s polite to answer a person when they’re talking to you.”

  As the tone of Susan’s voice penetrated his skin, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and his stomach started to burn. If Tim’s fiance didn’t leave immediately, they were both going to be very sorry, because he would turn around and tell her exactly how he felt about her. That night he wasn’t messing around. But if you lose your temper with her, you will lose your best friend. He counted to ten in his head. He shouldn’t have gone to that damn dinner.

  You’re the captain of the team, and this may have been your last game.

  He sighed giving in and he set his drink on the bar ready to turn around and tell Miss Steel Pants that he was tired and hurting and that the only thing he wanted to do was to go home and rest. He opened his eyes and was distracted by a beautiful blonde who suddenly appeared to his left. He turned toward the blonde, avoiding Susan.

  Why did she look so familiar?

  Did he know her?

  “Hi, Mac.” The blonde ran her finger down his tie. “I thought you were going to call me.”

  Shit, yes, now he remembered. That blonde’s name was Tiffany or Jennifer or something like that, and Quin, another player on the team, had introduced them at a dinner a few months ago. She was just as beautiful as she was boring, and in an effort to get rid of her, Mac had told her he would call her in a few days. It was stupid of him.

  Apparently he had been acting like that a lot lately.

  “Hi,” he said to the blonde, trying to sound as disgusted as possible. He didn’t have the patience to deal with her.

  “Wow, I guess we’re not all invisible.” Susan’s sarcasm made Mac grab his drink and squeeze it, imagining it was her neck.

  “It doesn’t matter. I forgive you —said the blonde, ignoring Susan’s presence and puckering her lips at Mac— if you make it up to me tonight.”

  I would sooner have my skin peeled off, thought Mac.

  “I’m afraid, princess, it’s not going to happen tonight,” he said, trying to sound seductive. The comment from Steel Pants made him feel like flirting. “How about if I treat you to dinner tomorrow?”

  The blonde gave a smile of victory, and Susan laughed to herself.

  Mac squeezed the glass that was almost empty even more tightly.

  “Perfect. I can’t wait.” She ran her finger down Mac’s tie again and walked away with a perfectly calculated, provocative strut.

  “I’ll call you, and I’ll pick you up,” said Mac, trying to ignore Susan’s presence even though he could feel her staring at him from behind. Why wouldn’t she go away?

  “I’ll be waiting for you,” smiled Kelly , was that her name?

  It did not matter, Mac said goodbye winking an eye at her.

  The blonde left and Mac thought that he needed to find an excuse to stand her up the next day. He would rather have dinner with all of Giants and let them rub in the fact that they won the Super Bowl, before going out
to dinner with Miss Silicone.

  “Princess,” muttered Susan, just before taking a sip of champagne. “You don’t know her name,” she affirmed.

  That’s it.

  That was the last straw.

  They had lost the Super Bowl to the Giants, his entire body hurt, they had practically shouted to his face that he was too old to keep playing, and he had realized that a knockout blonde didn’t even turn him on in the least bit. Hearing sarcastic comments from a stuck up snob like Steel Pants was the last thing he was willing take. He gulped down the whiskey and turned around.

  He was frozen stiff.

  Susan Steel Pants had her entire back exposed and was wearing a beautiful, long pearl necklace that dangled on her skin. Apparently, while he finished his drink, she had turned around and the only thing Mac saw now was Susan’s never-ending back exposed, with rose colored pearls that caressed her freckles and radiated heat. She wore her hair up like she usually did, but a lock of hair had fallen out of place, caressing her shoulders. She had a freckle just next to her sixth vertebra, and the cut of her dress was so low that you see the beginning of her derriere.

  Mac swallowed and clenched his teeth. He couldn’t breathe. What the hell was happening to him? That was Susan, the most dreadful woman on the face of the earth, and his best friend’s fiance. What was she doing dressed like that? He turned toward the bar again, at least that way he didn’t have to look at her, and he realized that he was turned on. Oh, no, it wasn’t because of her. That was a late reaction from the blonde, or from the whiskey, or from anything else.

  “Pour me another whiskey,” he said to the waiter. And then he saw the young man walking toward Susan with a woman’s jacket in his hands.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Lobato —he muttered nervously, handing her the jacket— I don’t know what happened. I’ve never spilled a drink before. I’m really sorry about that, the stain has almost completely disappeared, but I insist that you send me the dry cleaning bill.”