Fourth and Goal by Jami Davenport

afternoon's game. A bottle of wine dangled from his fingertips, and a lopsided grin enhanced his already gorgeous face. His dark eyes danced with a mixture of enthusiasm and pure joy for living. It'd been years since she'd seen that expression on his face.
    "Welcome back.” Her double meaning wasn't lost on him. She momentarily forgot her wounded toe and immersed herself in those dancing eyes.
    "Are you okay?” He pulled his gaze from her face and stared at her bare feet, in stark contrast to the business attire.
    She stopped hopping on one foot. “Me? Of course.” Her toe throbbed harder than the bass at a rock concert while her heart beat its own welcome song.
    "I've never known you to stand around like an ostrich, unless—” Derek's eyes narrowed at her.
    "Don't go there."
    He grinned. “Wouldn't dream of it."
    "Are you going out?” He took in her clothes, her makeup, her hair.
    "No, not at all. I always dress like this."
    "Oh yeah, I forgot. The new Rachel."
    "New and improved.” She smiled with what she hoped was cool confidence.
    "I guess that's a matter of opinion.” His wry frown confirmed he bought her act.
    She pursed her lips to keep from gloating. “So what brings you here? I thought you'd be out celebrating with the guys.” And maybe the girls . She willed her expression to remain neutral. One part of her ached to throw her arms around him and congratulate him—just like she used to do in college. The other wanted to slam the door in his face.
    "I'm hoping to celebrate with a dear friend. If she'll let me in the door.” He held out the bottle and tried to look contrite. He failed. One corner of his mouth twitched in a barely suppressed grin. “I think I made the team.” He bounced on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy. The average man would be flat on his back nursing his wounds, but that wouldn't be his style.
    "How do you know? Final cuts aren't until tomorrow."
    Part of her rejoiced because he'd chosen to celebrate with her. Another smarter part rang a warning bell loud and clear. Most likely her feigned disinterest intrigued a temporarily lonely man. If she took his surprise visit too seriously, she'd be screwed and her heart would be hung on his trophy wall with all his other awards and conquests. She'd unhung herself years ago; she wasn't about to go back there now. Succumbing to his charm wasn't part of the deal. Getting close to him was.
    "I just know. Will you celebrate with me?” His dark eyes pleaded with her and drew her in.
    "Okay.” She hesitated, thrilled yet not thrilled by the invitation in his voice and his eyes. He ignored her discomfort and walked inside.
    "Did you watch the game?” His eager voice rang with hope.
    "Of course. Great catch. I swear they replayed that catch and the one you made in the Rose Bowl a hundred times during the postgame show and the nightly news."
    "Oh great, I'm an overnight celebrity.” He winked. “Were you there?"
    "I went with my brother. We split season tickets. Have for a few years."
    He snorted. “He's one of the faithful dozen?” He referred to what the Seattle media called the remaining handful of die-hard season-ticket holders still hoping for a miracle season.
    She nodded. “My family gets their sports any way they can."
    "I looked for you but didn't see you.” He followed her into the kitchen.
    She didn't want to hear stuff like that. With a heavy sigh, she took the bottle, careful not to touch his hand. For a moment, she stared at the label. He'd remembered her favorite brand.
    "You're limping."
    "Just stubbed my toe."
    "Do I need to wrap you in Kevlar or what?"
    "Nothing, you don't need to wrap me in anything.” Especially not his arms, even though they bulged with corded muscles and were dusted with dark hair.
    He let it go. Rachel kept her back to him as she opened the bottle and poured two glasses. She turned and handed one to him.
    Derek held it out, and they clicked glasses. “To a good season.” He studied her over