Page 1 of Game On

ONE

“Well I’ll be doggone! Ain’t this a small world or what?”

Shane Devlin looked up from the screen of his cell phone, shaking his head slightly to readjust his thoughts. He’d been so focused on the text message he was reading, he’d tuned out everything around him. A lizard darted through the dahlia bushes bordering the bar’s patio where Shane sat. The ocean churned quietly beneath an inky night sky. Music and laughter from the nightclub drifted out amongst the strings of twinkling lights before being carried away to the sea by a quiet breeze. All in all, it was a night travel agents dream of on the Mexican Riviera.

“Kitty, get over here with the camera. I gotta get a picture with him to show the fellas at the rotary club.”

Or it would be if not for the loud, obnoxious bar patrons. Shifting uncomfortably in the plastic resin chair, Shane glanced around for an escape route as the heavyset, balding man with the booming voice lumbered toward him, a wide-eyed Kitty in tow. Both looked harmless enough: a middle-aged couple dressed in typical tourist garb, complete with sparkling white sneakers on their feet.

“Mort, I don’t think we should disturb him,” Kitty whispered as Mort rummaged through the oversize, leopard-print bag on her shoulder, presumably looking for a camera.

Ahh, so Kitty with the bouffant hair wasn’t as impressed by a down-on-his-luck NFL quarterback as hubby Mort. Perhaps it was the stay-the-hell-away-from-me vibe Shane was putting out. After all, he’d escaped to Mexico to lie low for a few days while his agent negotiated a new contract for him.

“Honey, do you know who this is?” Mort asked as he pulled a small digital camera from the depths of the bag.

Here it comes. This is where Mort tells Kitty she’s looking at the idiot who, in the final minutes of the last game of the season, threw the winning touchdown—except the guy who caught it was wearing the other team’s jersey. Shane felt his jaw clench as he shifted his six-foot-three-inch frame to a more defensive position, not an easy feat considering the small chair. Wringing her hands in front of her, Kitty shuffled her feet as Mort’s pudgy fingers struggled to turn on the camera. From the look of panic on her face, she knew exactly who Shane was—or more important, who the tabloid press made him out to be: the Devil of the NFL. Nothing aggravated him more than fans bringing up that botched game or his even more botched-up personal life.

“This here is Shane Devlin, the son of a football legend. His daddy was one of the best players in the game,” Mort said reverently. “Heck, if his old man hadn’t been injured, he’d be in the Hall of Fame for sure.”

Okay, that actually aggravated him more. Shane reached for the bottle of beer he’d been nursing all night, not sure whether he wanted to drink its warm contents or smash it over something. Being compared to his father never failed to make him angry. Or to remind him of how his plans had been derailed. Shane was a man with no team to play for next season. At thirty-one years old, he was at his athletic peak. Yet one ill-timed interception—along with several highly publicized scandals off the field—was enough for the San Diego Chargers to send him packing.

But Shane wasn’t ready to hang up his cleats. It wasn’t money he was after; he’d saved enough to live well after retirement. No, it was the records he wanted. Records set by his father—Bruce Devlin—when he’d played pro football. The same father who’d abandoned him. Shane would be damned if Bruce Devlin’s name graced any NFL record books. No, he intended to break them all himself.

Several teams out there were looking for a veteran quarterback, but Shane couldn’t afford to just stand on the sidelines. He needed a starting gig. Hoping another player would blow out a knee tripping over his dog wasn’t exactly good karma, but Shane was running out of options. And tonight, sitting in a bar in Cabo San Lucas after thirty-six holes of golf with a few sponsors, his luck may have just turned. He glanced down at the text on his cell phone again, the message on the screen his talisman:

Blaze QB out 4 season. Working on a deal now.

Shane sucked in a lungful of air to calm himself as Mort edged closer. Stuffing his cell phone in his shorts, Shane stood, squaring his broad shoulders and puffing out his chest. The move had the desired effect; Mort stilled in mid-motion.

“Um, you don’t mind if the little lady snaps a photo of us, do you?” Mort asked, apparently finally finding his manners.

Hell yes, I do! Shane almost shouted. He bit it back, though, not wanting to listen to another lecture from his agent about playing nice with the folks who filled the stadiums, thereby funding his paycheck.

Shane grabbed the beer bottle, discreetly tucking it behind his hip. “Why not?”

It was all the invitation Mort needed. With a face-splitting grin, he handed the camera to a still leery Kitty and sidled up next to Shane, stretching up on his beefy legs so as to almost reach Shane’s shoulder. The camera flashed twice, and while Shane’s eyes recovered from the assault, Mort pulled up a chair to the table and sank down into it. Kitty dropped her oversized bag into another chair and dragged it toward Shane’s table.

“Thanks, buddy. Let me buy you another beer and you can catch me up on what your old man’s been up to lately.” Mort flagged down a waiter.

No way was Shane sitting with Mort and Kitty to “catch up” on anything, much less his dear old dad, whom he hadn’t spoken to more than a half dozen times in the last twenty years. Shane scanned the patio for possible options to exit gracefully. He really wanted to head back to his room to wait for his agent’s call. With any luck, he’d be signing with a new team tomorrow.

Peals of pleasant laughter drew his attention to a table next to the bar where two women sat sharing a pitcher of margaritas. He’d run into them frequently throughout the weekend since they occupied one of the VIP bungalows near his. According to the resort’s golf pro, the dark, vivacious one was a famous wedding gown designer. She’d brought along a dozen or so Victoria Secret model–wannabes to shoot a photo spread of her gowns at a nearby ancient Spanish church. Shane had steered clear of her, figuring any woman who touched wedding gowns—much less designed them—clearly had fantasies of wedding bells in her future. His game was football, not serious relationships.

Avoiding her completely had become impossible because Shane was fascinated with observing the antics of the designer’s assistant. She’d spent the weekend shuffling between the church and the resort’s business office, all the while with a cell phone that, when it wasn’t glued to her ear, chimed the theme to The Wizard of Oz. The taller of the two, she was also much fairer, her skin glowing a soft pink after several days in the sun. Her hair blew in long, chestnut waves, shimmering softly under the moonlight. But it was her eyes—the exact color of the blue Pacific waters caressing the sand along the Mexican resort—he found most interesting.

Too bad they weren’t as warm as the ocean they reflected. Every time he tried to start up a conversation with her, he was treated to a cold brush-off. Twice he’d offered to buy her a drink, only to get a polite—but chilly—refusal. The situation was a novel one for him. He was a professional athlete, for crying out loud. Wherever he went, women fell all over him. But not this woman. He wasn’t used to having to work to get a woman to pay attention to him, and he was surprised at how much the effort seemed to turn him on.

The magazine photographer joined the two women at their table, chatting in rapid-fire Italian with the designer. Laughing, he pulled her up and off to the center of the patio where couples danced under the stars. Shane took advantage of the opportunity for a speedy escape.

“Thanks, but my friends are waiting for me at another table.” Shane clapped Mort on the shoulder, forcing him to stay in his seat. Nodding to Kitty, he tried to look casual as he dodged between the dancers and other patrons, finally sliding into the chair the designer had vacated.

Cool blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes fixed on him as he set his beer down on the table. Dressed in a sleeveless floral blouse that wrapped around her waist and a short denim skirt that accentuated long, lean, sun-kissed legs, she shifted back in her chair. Any surprise she might have felt by his abrupt arrival was quickly covered with an abundance of poise. Casually she flung her hair over a shoulder, slowly crossing her bare legs. If the move was meant to be provocative, it worked.

“Don’t panic. I’m not staying,” he said leaning back in the chair, crossing his own long legs at the ankles so as to present a relaxed image in case Mort and Kitty were watching. “I’m just avoiding that couple at the table back there.”

Before he could stop her, she whipped her head around to look back across the dance floor at Mort and Kitty. Mort gave him a thumbs-up sign just as she turned back to Shane. Ah, hell. He took a long pull on his beer to buy some more time. It was nasty and warm, but he was heading for his room, so no point in ordering another one. The silence stretched.

“Shane Devlin,” he said finally.

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