Free Fourth and Goal by Jami Davenport Page A

into a nearby locker. The physical pain felt good. He wanted to rant and yell until he was hoarse. Instead he held it together. He swallowed the lump in his throat and brushed his arm across his eyes. He didn't cry. Never. Not even when his mother had left him as a little boy.
    But maybe when a guy's lifelong dreams died a final death, that guy deserved a good cry. Not here, though. Somewhere private. He shoved the remainder of his stuff in the duffel bag, slammed his locker shut, left the locker room, and walked down the hall, shoulders straight, back stiff, and head held high. Never let ‘em see ya bleed.
    "Ramsey!"
    Derek froze at the sound of Coach's voice. Oh hell, he couldn't take any more of this. Why couldn't they let him tuck his tail between his legs and get the hell out of here? He stopped and waited for HughJack to catch up with him.
    "Put your stuff back."
    "Excuse me?” He couldn't have heard that correctly.
    "Myers is out for the season. I just got the call from the doc. I need another receiver. You're back on the team."
    "Oh man. I'm sorry about Myers.” He really meant it. They'd invited him back as a last resort. He'd accept the challenge and prove his worth.
    "So are we. He was the best receiver we had. Those'll be tough shoes to fill.” HughJack pinned him with his direct gaze. “This is your shot, kid. Don't fuck it up."
    "I won't, sir. I promise."
    "I need someone to step up and take his place. You have the talent. Prove to me you have drive and the heart."
    Derek nodded. He fought the urge to smile and headed back to his locker. As soon as the door shut behind him, he pumped his fist in the air and let out a rebel yell.
    The phoenix had risen from the flames.
    HughJack watched Derek stride down the hall toward the locker room. A newspaper lying on a table in the hallway caught his attention. The sports headline read: HUGHJACK AND HIS JACKS: CAN HE JACK THEM UP FOR THE SEASON? He shook his head. He swore headquarters hired him just so the press could make corny remarks about Jack and his Jacks. At least they weren't using “jacking off.” Yet.
    A triumphant roar pierced the morning air from the vicinity of the locker room. HughJack jerked his head toward the noise and allowed himself a smile.
    "What the hell was that racket?” Frank Carter barreled out of the nearby video room with Razor on his heels, ready to do battle.
    HughJack raised a hand to slow them down. He pointed at the locker room door. Frank slammed on the breaks, and Razor almost rammed into him. “That, gentlemen, was the sound of the man you're going to mold into an All-Pro wide receiver or die trying."
    The two men stared at the door as if it held the answers. Frank looked back to HughJack. “What man would that be?"
    "Ramsey's back on the team."
    "That means Myers is—"
    "Out for the season."
    "Damn. He was our best.” Razor wrung his hands together. An obsessive worrier, he had already started worrying about how to fill Myers's shoes.
    "Not any more. That job is wide open.” HughJack gestured toward the doorway. “That young man is getting a second chance. He's all yours. Good luck."
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Chapter Seven
    Dropped Passes
    After cleaning the three stalls, Rachel swept the barn aisle. Simon followed her, most likely waiting for an opportunity to steal something. She'd found one of her horse brushes half buried in the arena sand earlier that day. The day before that he'd stolen an expensive riding glove. When she'd tried to retrieve it, he played keep-away with it for fifteen minutes. The animal should be sent to reform school. Better yet, a canine prison.
    She stared down at her clothes: breeches, boots, and a polo shirt. She'd pulled her hair into a ponytail and put on makeup, all very put together. How stupid. She missed her jeans and T-shirts. But she'd promised Cass she'd play it her way for a month. Dumb deal to make considering she couldn't afford the clothes she'd charged on her now maxed-out