Pass Interference. Desiree Holt

pounding in her skull, a reminder of how quickly alcohol had an adverse effect on her these days. And finally, her lips curving in a tiny smile, she recalled that hot kiss with Rafe Ortiz.

      Rafe! How many years now had she dreamed of getting him into bed for just one night of incendiary, soul-searing, no-holds-barred sex? It seemed as if that feeling had hovered at the edge of her awareness ever since he joined the team as a rookie at twenty-two. She’d crushed on him big time. Huge! She’d been just a college freshman then with a bad case of hero worship.

      Of course, her father had laid down the only rule he’d ever been inflexible on: stay away from the players. She could have defied him out of meanness, but despite her feelings for Rafe, she hated the team enough not to go head-to-head with Kurt. She wanted nothing to do with any part of the operation, not the players, not anything else. Even as the years passed and Rafe morphed into a man so masculine, so sexy, he made every woman’s mouth water and her panties get wet, she’d forced herself to ignore him. He was connected with the team and her father, a man she believed had ruined her life, so that meant Rafe was definitely off her to-do list. Her father hadn’t had to forbid her to date the players. They held about as much attraction for her as a bad case of the flu.

      All except Rafe.

      Why had she never been able to kill her desire for him, or the longing that persisted to this day? Somehow, even as she had an excess of wild flings with men whose names she couldn’t even remember, even as she nearly ruined her life with a very bad—and thankfully brief—marriage, when she closed her eyes at night it was Rafe Ortiz’s face she always saw.

      Well, damn. Just damn.

      He was off-limits. She shouldn’t have kissed him last night.

      Yeah, well, there were a lot of things she shouldn’t have done in the course of her very rocky thirty-two years. The list had grown to be endless.

      Your choice, Tyler. Can the pity party.

      She pushed herself out of bed, dragged her fingers through the wild tangle of her hair, and made her way to the bathroom. She chanced a look in the mirror over her vanity, and for the second time since she’d started the wild, crazy ride that was her life, she didn’t like what she saw. Didn’t like? Make that disgusted. Who was that cheap-looking person staring back at her? The one who ended up in that ugly situation with Dewey. She wanted to throw up. What had she done to herself on this vindictive road? The whole thing had certainly not done her any good. Her relationship with Kurt Gillette wasn’t one bit better. Maybe worse, even. Poking the bear had only made him turn away from her even more.

      What did she do with her life besides shop, spend time with her two best friends and hang out in bars? Talk about a waste case. At the rate she was going even her friends might wash their hands of her before too long. She couldn’t get rid of the memory of drunken Dewey trying to break down the door of the ladies’ room and her cowering inside, frantically trying to figure out who to call for rescue.

      God! She was a disaster and heading toward complete self-destruction.

      Scrubbing her face clean of the thick layer of makeup that still remained and brushing her teeth made her feel marginally better. Next on her list—a hot shower and shampoo. Maybe she could wash away the person she’d seen in the mirror. But first a cup of coffee.

      Grabbing her phone, she made her way downstairs and started the coffee brewing. Next to the machine were three gigantic boxes of boutique chocolates courtesy of Nate Broder, her obnoxious ex. She hated throwing them out. That would be just so wasteful. Maybe she’d give them to her cleaning lady again. The woman had an unquenchable sweet tooth.

      She was just filling her mug from her single-serve coffeemaker in the kitchen when she heard the staccato beat of drums that signaled an incoming call. Leaving her mug to finish filling, she grabbed her cell from the counter where she’d set it down, taking a moment to check the caller identification first. Nate. Crap. Didn’t this guy ever give up?

      For a while he had stopped calling. She’d figured since she’d been deleting all his calls without answering them, calls that used to come in two or three times a day, he’d gotten the message. But yet, here he was again. What the hell? Maybe it was time to state the message a little more clearly.

      “I asked you nicely not to call me anymore,” she opened with. “You took me at my word for a while. The situation hasn’t changed. Not a bit.”

      Nate’s irritating chuckle floated over the connection. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”

      Tyler gritted her teeth. “Listen to me, and please try to pay attention. I thought you’d gotten the message. We’re done, Nate. Finished. I don’t want to talk to you, text with you, have lunch with you… Nothing. We are finished. Don’t call me again. I mean it.”

      He was silent for a moment. “Tyler,” he said at last in his all too familiar drawl. “I was just checking to see—”

      “See what? Nothing about my life concerns you anymore. I thought we had that taken care of.” She resisted the urge to slam her fist on the counter. “Anyway, just so you know, I’m changing my number. Again.”

      “I don’t know why we can’t at least be friends.” His voice had that oily, egotistical sound that she hated. “Maybe have lunch together once in a while. Enough time has passed I thought we could at least be friendly acquaintances. We did enjoy each other’s company.”

      “I think only one of us had any enjoyment.” Tyler looked at the phone and frowned. “How did you get this number, anyway? I just changed it again.”

      He laughed again. “I’m an attorney with connections. I can get anything I want.”

      “Except for me. You can’t get me. We aren’t friends. We aren’t anything. Now go away and don’t call again.”

      She pressed the End button with more force than necessary. They’d each had a reason for getting into the marriage, neither of which had anything to do with love. It was the one time she’d tried to do anything to make herself respectable in her father’s eyes. A last-ditch effort for a man who made it all too obvious he despised her lifestyle. Nate had thought it would give him a seat at the right hand of her father.

      That hadn’t worked for either of them. Before three months were up, she’d known what a mistake it was and kicked him to the curb. For a while the persistent messages he left in her voice mail were rich with anger. Then began the deluge of flowers and candy and texts, a good indication that he wasn’t about to give up.

      She was still holding the phone when it chimed again. This time it was Chad Sinclair, media relations director for the Hawks. Another big effing pest.

      “What is it, Chad?” She didn’t need to ask him how he got the number. She was meticulous about leaving it with her father’s secretary every time she changed it. She didn’t need the ten tons of shit that came down when she didn’t, although she had no idea why he even cared.

      “No hello? Or, hi, Chad?” His voice was nearly as smooth as Nate’s and irritated her just as much. She really hated the occasions when she had to spend time with him.

      “I’m really busy. What do you want?”

      “Okay. Okay.” He dialed it back. “Just wanted to remind you of the event this Saturday night at the Conquistador Club.”

      She wrinkled her forehead. “This Saturday?”

      “Yes. The big fundraiser for athletic scholarships. The Hawks are big benefactors.”

      “Oh, yeah, another command appearance.” An obligation forced on her by her father—if she wanted to keep the money in her trust fund flowing.

      But he never left the choice of escort up to her, probably thinking she’d bring someone from her skanky nightlife. So Chad got the nod and made sure she got to each and every one. Maybe she’d once hoped if she continued to attend, her father would see a different side of her, see she wanted to please him and maybe even…like her.

      But