She bolted up from the hay bale and paced in a circle in front of the barn door, vibrating with frustration and rage.

“That sniveling little scumbag of a worm-eaten dipstick! Useless sack of cretinous goat manure!”

After a few more circles and creative name-calling, she felt the cold, dark hand of panic close around her throat. She couldn’t afford to be out of a job. The cheese was what kept the farm financially viable. If she couldn’t make the payments on the cheese-making equipment, Dennis would have to sell the herd and the land. Maybe he could keep the house and continue to work for the new owner.

Miranda shook her head. There was no job security in that, nor was there enough income to send Theo to college, even with Patty contributing her garden sales. No, Dennis would have to move. Her parents would be devastated; the farm had been owned by the Tate family for five generations.

She sank back down on the hay bale and dropped her head into her hands. Two days ago, she’d been a well-respected concierge at one of the most exclusive luxury buildings in a city that specialized in them, not to mention dating a gorgeous, elite athlete. Now she sat alone in a muddy paddock in manure-smeared boots a size too large for her with no job and dim prospects of finding another one.

Sometimes life truly sucked.

Chapter 24

“Jesus H. Christ! Get rid of the ball!” Luke smacked his fist against the Gatorade dispenser as Brandon Pitch got sacked for the third time.

The rookie climbed to his feet and shook his head as though dazed, but went straight into the huddle.

“At least he gets right back in the saddle,” Luke muttered to himself.

“Archer!” The head coach beckoned him over. Junius slipped off his headphones and lifted his clipboard to cover his mouth. “Pitch is falling apart. At halftime, I want you to grab him and settle him down before he gets hurt so bad he can’t stay on the field.”

Luke nodded.

“Rookies.” Junius stalked off to consult with one of his assistants.

Luke had worked with the young quarterback on the field and off for the last two days. They had reviewed film, discussed strategy, rated opposing players, and done everything else Luke could think of to prepare Pitch to play with confidence. He’d driven the kid hard, because it kept his mind off Miranda. Mostly.

Pitch had major athletic talent, and he had field vision. He’d played college ball in the pressure cooker of Alabama, so he had experience. But the NFL was a whole different level of tough, and the kid was folding like a cheap suit.

He watched the rookie take up his position behind the center. What could he say that would give Pitch the balls he needed to win this game?

An idea struck him, and he strolled over to Dyson “Dice” Fredericks, another former Alabama player. “Hey, Dice, you know anything about Pitch’s family?”

“Like what kind of anything?” the defensive tackle asked.

“Like has he got brothers and sisters, and where does he fall in the lineup?”

“Seriously, man? What you want to know that for?”

“Psychology,” Luke said.

Dice slanted Luke a look. “You mean, so he gets his act together and wins this game?”

Luke nodded.

“Nah, I don’t know that stuff, but Devell would. He and Pitch hang out sometimes.”

Luke waited a minute before he moved to stand beside the veteran Derrick Devell. He made it look casual, because Luke never knew when the television cameras would focus on him and the announcers would start speculating on what was happening on the sideline. Luke asked Devell the same question.

“He’s got three brothers and a sister. He’s the baby, apple of his mama’s eye,” Devell said. “Not spoiled, though. Good kid. Doesn’t expect to be given anything.” The man turned away from the field to look Luke in the eye. “You going to get his mind right?”

“Do my best.”

When the whistle blew for halftime, the Empire were down by seventeen points. Luke gave Pitch credit: the quarterback walked off the field with his head held high and confidence in his stride. You’d never guess he was bombing.

However, as soon as the team filed into the locker room, where cameras were forbidden, the kid’s shoulders curled inward, and he sagged onto the bench. Luke walked over, tapped him on the back, and nodded toward an unoccupied office.

Resignation was written in every line of Brandon Pitch’s body as he walked ahead of Luke. As soon as Luke closed the office door, the younger man turned. “You’d be playing better injured than I am in top condition.”

“Not what I was going to say.” Luke leaned his hip against the metal desk. “Is any of your family here?”

“What? Yeah, my parents and my brothers and sister are all watching me screw up.” He smacked the wall with his hand.

Luke wanted to tell him to treat the tools of his trade with more respect, but he needed the kid to focus. “You’re the youngest, so you’ve got something to prove. I want you to forget about everyone else in the stadium—your teammates, your opponents, the fans, the coach, me—and picture your family and what they will take away from this game. You want to give your mom a win to bring home and brag to all her friends about. You want to make your dad’s friends buy him a drink in celebration of his son’s first victory in the NFL. You want your brothers to sit up and say, ‘Damn, Brandon is really something.’”

Because that’s what he’d wanted from his family.