Page 5 of Touchdowns and Temptations

“Well.” Alex shrugs. “You're a little boy from Tennessee who knows how to throw a ball.”

I can't help but laugh and look at my brother.

“And what are you?” I ask immediately. “A little boy from Tennessee who's good at catching balls?” He grins and nods. “So... what's wrong with that?”

“Get her out of your mind,” he advises me. “She’s probably going to marry someone from a rich family or have an up-and-coming politician at her side. But not a professional athlete from Tennessee. You know what Mom always says.”

I sigh. Our mother is very worried and afraid that we will never find a good wife but will spend our lives being courted by TV starlets and models. She is very old-fashioned and would prefer that we marry a woman from the neighborhood, or at least from the same county.

“That the best girls and later wives are on a farm in Tennessee?” Alex nods. “I still want her,” I decide. “Mom will get used to the fact that we'll never marry these girls.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Alex looks at me with interest. “You only know her first name and you know her car. Well ... I know her car because it was gone when you came back. That's not much.”

Damn, it really isn't much, but I'm not giving up hope.

“Maybe she'll come back soon,” I think aloud. “Then I'll talk to her again.” Alex looks far from convinced, but he nods. “You don't like the idea?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Boston is huge, if you count the metropolitan area and the state of Massachusetts, even bigger. How do you plan on seeing her again?”

“Hope dies last,” I make a vague prediction.

“It died when she left the bar, dude,” Alex replies.

I sigh and grab my beer. I wish I had just opened my mouth.

A Few Days Later

I park my Bentley in front of Corse Sports Management headquarters and turn off the engine. I fired my agent a few weeks ago and am looking for a new one. The collaboration was no longer satisfactory, and the contracts he was negotiating were ridiculous. Certainly not at the level of an elite quarterback. Some of my colleagues are being handled by the agency owned by our former quarterback and club legend Michael Corse. I made an appointment with him to possibly do business together. Without exception, the guys are happy and say that Corse knows exactly what's important because of his own experience as a pro. He knows the details of the contracts, which clauses not to sign and which collaborations to accept and which not to. I've had that experience over the years, but it's always nice to be represented by someone who knows the players' situation. So far, everything they've offered me has sounded promising.

I have my appointment with Mrs. Corse. I know Corse has a daughter my age, but I can't remember what she looks like, I haven’t seen a photo of her in a while. The last one was taken a few years ago at Corse's official induction into the Boston Foxes Hall of Fame. Cara Catherine Corse is her name. It's almost ironic that she has the same first name as the pretty brunette from the bar a few days ago. I still can't get her out of my mind and I'm thinking about how I can see her again. Alex thinks my thoughts are ridiculous and doesn't support my plans at all. You'd think my twin was making fun of me.

The Bentley's lights flash as I lock up and head for the main entrance of Corse Sports Management. The entrance hall has a black marble floor, a seating area with black furniture, and the reception desk, where a woman my mother's age sits, is also black with silver highlights and the company logo branded into the counter.

I walk over and smile at her.

“Good morning. Noah McCarter,” I introduce myself. “I have an appointment with Ms. Corse.”

“Good morning,” she replies friendly. “Ms. Corse is expecting you. Please follow me.”

I nod as she stands and circles the reception desk. When she looks at me, she has to tilt her head back.

“Thank you,” I say, letting her lead me through the large lobby to the elevator. As you would expect, it is glassed in and offers a wonderful view of the company as you go up and down.

“Ms. Corse's office is on the third floor next to her father's.”

I nod.

To be honest, I want an experienced agent who has been in the business for years and can get me the best deals. Not a young woman who got the job through daddy's favor. As his daughter, I doubt that she had to interview for the job, or even show a résumé and references to secure the job.

“How old is Ms. Corse?” I ask, and the woman looks at me in surprise.

“Sorry?” she asks nicely, offering me a way out.

“Forget it,” I mumble. “It's not that important.”

And really, it's none of my business how old Ms. Corse is.

“No, no,” the woman continues. “I just didn't hear you right.” She smiles at me and taps the little hearing aid in her left ear. “Please repeat the question.”

---