Page 32 of Game On

“Evan Andrews. Defensive back. It’s a real honor to meet you,” he said. Shane didn’t take his hand. Someone needed to tell Pretty Boy it wasn’t considered an honor to meet Shane Devlin.

“E!” The mouthy one was obviously the leader of the trio. “He don’t care who you are. He don’t care about nobody but himself. Let’s go fellas. This is a waste of time.” He sneered at Shane, the diamonds in his ears glittering as he turned on his heel and stalked off. Pretty Boy puffed out his chest to say something, but decided against it before following.

Tiny stared at Shane a moment longer, his baby face and small black eyes a well of sadness, before he tore his gaze away, shuffling off after his teammates. Shane’s gut seized up slightly and, once again, he cursed the fact the opinions of others had begun to matter to him. Jeez, he needed to get something to eat. He turned to find Roscoe standing beside him, a plate of food in his hand, disappointment etched on his face.

“Here,” he said shoving the plate at him. “Eat this. Your black soul needs food.”

Shane scowled at him, taking the plate. “Then can we go?”

Roscoe put one hand on his hip, running the other through his hair before releasing a deep breath in an exasperated whoosh.

“They’re not going to read the will until tomorrow. Apparently it’s the reverend’s doing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But Bruce’s attorney said you need to be present. It looks like neither of us is getting home tonight.”

Shane stared down at the plate of food, his appetite forgotten.

“In that case, let’s get out of here.”

It took nearly fifteen minutes to make it through the crowd of mourners. Sensing his departure, the guests were quick to stop him and pass along a few words of condolence. Everyone from former NFL players to blue-haired ladies from the university’s alumni society paused to tell him how sorry they were for his loss. Roscoe earned his paycheck by smiling and nudging him along before Shane could tell them he’d actually lost his father thirty years ago. They’d almost cleared the front door before being stopped by Lou Douglas, the president of the NFL Players Association. Lou was holding court in the foyer, one arm loosely draped over Brody’s kid’s shoulder.

“Ah, Shane,” Lou said, his booming voice echoing off the chandelier hanging in the alcove above his head. “I was just telling Troy here what a great ball player his old man was. He set a quite an example for young people today.”

Come again? Shane could hear the blood roaring up the back of his neck to his brain.

“And I want both you boys to know that I am going to do everything I can to make sure your daddy gets a fair shot at making it into the Football Hall of Fame,” Lou said proudly.

For a wiry, one-hundred-seventy-pound, five-foot-ten lawyer, Roscoe sure could move like a defensive back when the pressure was on. Shane wasn’t sure how he managed it, but somehow Roscoe got them not only out the door, but to the car without Shane punching Lou right on his fat kisser. Not only that, but he’d called out a polite good-bye, ruffling the kid’s hair as he hauled Shane’s butt out.

“I really ought to pay you more,” Shane said as he took another swallow from his bottle of beer. They had just polished off a plate of nachos and two sirloin burgers at the Old College Inn.

“That’s what my wife says every day, dude.” Roscoe leaned back against the vinyl booth. Even in the dimly lit bar, Shane could see the frustration in his friend’s face. “Seriously, man, you’ve to get a grip on that temper of yours. I can’t even imagine the public relations nightmare it could have been if you’d punched out the league’s player rep at your own father’s funeral. You keep this up, and I’m going to have to put that PR firm on retainer again.”

Shane plopped his elbows on the table, resting his face in his hands. A prolonged sigh escaped as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, I know. I can’t afford to screw up this chance.”

“It could be your last,” Roscoe said pouring salt in the wound.

Shane threw his head back against the high booth back and closed his eyes.

“It’s just the hypocrisy of it all. It sticks in my craw,” he said through a clenched jaw. “The world thinks Bruce Devlin is a saint. When he all ever was, was a bastard.”

“That’s always going to depend on where a person’s sitting,” Roscoe said. Shane’s eyes flew open as he braced two hands on the table. Roscoe held a hand up to stop him.

“Hold on, Shane,” he said. “I’ve been on the bad end of this argument way too many times to go at it again tonight. Yeah, your father treated you and your mother poorly. That fact is irrefutable. But you can’t change the past. Bruce is dead. Stop letting him dictate your life.”

Shane hated that Roscoe always made the same argument. He hated it even more that he was always right. Snatching up his beer bottle, he chugged the remainder of it down. Bruce’s death hadn’t dulled Shane’s hatred for his father one iota. It was a hatred he’d nurtured on his own for more than twenty years. He couldn’t remember exactly when it had started. As a child, he’d been proud to have the Great Bruce Devlin as a dad. He was a professional athlete—a Super Bowl Champ. He’d wonder why his father didn’t come home at night, but his mother always had an excuse. Your father needs to concentrate on his game, she’d say. He’ll come home after the season.

But he never did.

Adoration and expectation led only to disappointment, which bred cynicism, eventually leaving him with a hatred that saturated Shane’s bones. The emotion was embedded so deeply in his heart, it had become a part of him. It was the one thing that kept him going. It was also the one thing that kept him from fully living. Everyone had forgiven Bruce Devlin. Everyone except Shane.

“Like my father always says, ‘you don’t get to pick your family, so choose your friends wisely.’” Roscoe looked at his watch. “Speaking of which, I need to get back to the hotel so I can call home.” He signaled for the waitress to bring their check. “How’s Beckett doing with Darling Carly?”

Shane peeled the label off the beer bottle, not wanting to think about Carly. He hadn’t slept the past two nights. And his restlessness had nothing to do with his father’s death, either. It had been two days since he’d had his hands on her, yet he could still feel her; he could still taste her. Fate seemed to be stymieing him every time he touched her. Or maybe it was his conscience. He knew any kind of involvement with the coach’s sister could lead to the end of his career. His brain just couldn’t get the message to the other parts of his body.

They’d agreed to a one-night stand. One night of sex to get it out of their systems. Jeez, Carly had practically proposed the deal herself. He knew she’d honor the deal. Carly wasn’t interested in a relationship with another jock—or the headlines that would surely go with it. Shane needed to focus all his energy on making the team. The sooner he got Carly to bed, or the sofa or the backseat of his SUV, the sooner she’d be out of his system. And they needed to ditch the cell phones first.

Shane refocused his attention to find Roscoe staring at him.

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