straight face.
"Have you ever heard of a conflict of interest?"
Kara inquired.
"'What's the matter, tough stuff, afraid of the competition?"
"How can you even ask?" she wondered aloud. "I have a team I can't talk to, a rigged referee, and my opponent was probably a college all-star. That just makes it interesting." She turned away from Dane's lazy grin and motioned her team into a huddle.
The first play set the tone for the rest of the game.
Her girls treated the ball like a hot potato and finally tossed it to Kara. She yelped and started running.
Evading Dane's boys was the easy part. Clutching the ball, she looked around and saw Dane loping at an angle to intercept her. His expectant look filled her with determination. She decided she would make a touchdown or die in the attempt. At the same time, she wondered if she had retained any of the speed she had developed from her sprinting days in college.
Fairly flying over the sand, she heard the kids screeching behind her and, sooner than she'd thought possible, the thud of Dane's feet. Just as she thought she had made it, she was tackled and gently tumbled to the sand. When she stopped rolling, she was flat on her back, wrapped in Dane's arms, protected from the impact by his big body.
She looked up at him as his hands slid down and rested on her rounded bottom. Her glance rose a notch and she found herself staring at a circle of brown, grinning faces. Drawing in a deep breath, she yelled, "Foul! Referee, call a foul! We're playing touch," she muttered to Dane, "not tackle. Remember?"
"I'm touching," he said softly, tightening his grip. "Believe me, I'm touching."
"Where's the referee?" Kara called as she tried to wiggle out of Dane's embrace and immediately discovered that she was locked in place by his arms. The circle of faces parted, and she discovered Juanito with his back turned, intently watching a sea gull.
"Some help he is," she muttered.
Dane leaned down, brushing his lips against hers.
"He can't help you. No one can. This is just between us."
Kara had a sinking feeling that he wasn't talking about a football game. Ignoring the implication of his words, she prodded his shoulders. "Okay," she agreed briskly, "I'm beyond help. But, you, coach, have a problem. You've set a terrific example for these grinning little wretches. They're going to try tackling each other, and we'll have an epidemic of broken bones. Before they get any ideas, you get on your feet and talk to them. Tell them you fell on me, tell them anything, but make sure they don't try it."
Dane sighed, reluctantly shifted his weight and stood up. Reaching down, he grasped Kara's hand and effortlessly pulled her upright. He gently smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear before turning away.
Kara watched as he squatted down and signaled for attention. He was gesturing and talking earnestly as she walked over to Carmella.
"Your man, he is muy guapo," Carmella said softly.
"Handsome is as handsome does," Kara answered. "Besides, he's not mine."
Carmella arched a disbelieving eyebrow that spoke volumes.
Kara was called back to the game before the interesting conversation could be developed. Whatever Dane had said was effective, she noted, because the game proceeded without even the most adventurous attempting a tackle.
The rest of the afternoon spun itself away as everyone headed for the water. The older children were sorted out by swimming ability and supervised by the men. Juanito worked with the non-swimmers, and Dane taught the others the trick to body surfing.
Kara and Carmella watched as the little ones staggered to the water's edge, squealed as waves lapped at their ankles and either plopped down in an inch of water or danced away as fast as their chubby legs would carry them.
Mealtime was a boisterous, messy affair. Wire coat hangers were carefully straightened out; then wieners were skewered on them and roasted over the bonfire.
The bobbing pieces of meat, ranging from raw to
Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo