Playing for Keeps

By Kate Donovan

When Erica McCall finally gets her big break in advertising, she knows just which spokesperson to pitch: gorgeous football superstar Johnny Spurling. She has followed his career since college and knows he’s perfect for the spot, even though it’s common knowledge his famous family doesn’t do product endorsements, ever. But Erica knows Johnny’s weak spot, and she’s confident she can use it to gain his trust and seal the deal.

Quarterback Johnny Spurling is running out of time. His father’s health is failing, and there’s one last thing he’s asked Johnny to do—settle down and produce a son, before it’s too late. Which means Johnny needs a new kind of girlfriend. No more casual hookups or high-maintenance divas. When his sister-in-law claims to have the perfect candidate, he urges her to set up a postseason blind date.

Then Johnny meets long-haired, long-legged Erica and can’t resist her outrageous proposal—or her. So he decides he’ll do the commercial and have one final, hot-as-hell fling before settling down. They set the ground rules, then proceed to break every one of them as fun turns to the kind of true romance that just doesn’t end with the final touchdown—and with luck, never ends at all.

About the Author:

Kate Donovan is a Niners fan, a wife, a mother, a lawyer, and an author. She has more than twenty books and novels to her credit, publishing in genres including fantasy, historical romance, legal thriller, romantic suspense, and young adult science fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Jan 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781940846071

Kate Donovan

Kate was born in Newark, Ohio, and lived there until age nine when her family moved to Barrington, Rhode Island. They moved again to California just in time for Kate to attend college in Berkeley, which is where she met her husband-to-be, Paul. Kate and Paul attended law school together and settled down in Sacramento to raise a family: son Paul Michl; daughter Amanda; Murphy the trusty (if tiny) watchdog; and Scooter the cat/hunter. They all live in Elk Grove now, and Kate divides her time between her day job as an attorney for the state of California and her writing. When she's not writing, she hangs out with her family in the vicinity of the TV, reads or cooks the many Mexican recipes handed down to her by her late mother-in-law. Kate loves to hear from readers. You can reach her by email at [e-mail]

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Cover

PLAYING for KEEPS

When Erica McCall finally gets her big break in advertising, she knows just which spokesperson to pitch: gorgeous football superstar Johnny Spurling. She has followed his career since college and knows he’s perfect for the spot, even though it’s common knowledge his famous family doesn’t do product endorsements, ever. But Erica knows Johnny’s weak spot, and she’s confident she can use it to gain his trust and seal the deal.

Quarterback Johnny Spurling is running out of time. His father’s health is failing, and there’s one last thing he’s asked Johnny to do—settle down and produce a son, before it’s too late. Which means Johnny needs a new kind of girlfriend. No more casual hookups or high-maintenance divas. When his sister-in-law claims to have the perfect candidate, he urges her to set up a postseason blind date.

Then Johnny meets long-haired, long-legged Erica and can’t resist her outrageous proposal—or her. So he decides he’ll do the commercial and have one final, hot-as-hell fling before settling down. They set the ground rules, then proceed to break every one of them as fun turns to the kind of true romance that just doesn’t end with the final touchdown—and with luck, never ends at all.

Title Page

Copyright

Playing for Keeps

Kate Donovan

Copyright © 2014 by Kate Donovan

Material excerpted from Play by Play and Trace Elements copyright © 2013 by Kate Donovan

Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

Beyond the Page Books

are published by

Beyond the Page Publishing

www.beyondthepagepub.com

ISBN: 978-1-940846-07-1

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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Dedication

To my husband, Paul,

and to the San Francisco Forty Niners.

Because seriously, you’re the best.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Excerpt from Play by Play

Excerpt from Trace Elements

Books by Kate Donovan

About the Author

Chapter 1

Alone in the sumptuous conference room where the Caldwell Agency staged multimillion-dollar pitches, Erica McCall reminded herself to breathe. She had even written that single word, BREATHE, in capital letters on a sheet of paper and had placed it in front of her on the table.

But it wasn’t working.

She had been in this room once before, but only because the owner, KC Caldwell, held all job interviews here. He apparently loved dazzling prospective lackeys with the floor-to-ceiling windows, the twelve-foot Brazilian cherry conference table, the leather armchairs on casters, and the icy blue walls and floor tiles. Not to mention the sixty-inch monitors in every corner and the marble credenza that had been covered then, as now, with coffee urns, cups, and pastries. Of course, once dazzled, new hires never saw this room again for at least three years as they served their probation in the bowels of the building, confined to pastry-free cubicles. If they survived those thirty-six months, they might one day be invited out of the B-pool and onto one of three glamorous A-teams.

Yet Erica had managed to claw her way back to this room after only sixteen months. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time—to settle her sexual harassment claim by insisting on a chance to pitch a major account rather than asking for money or job security.

What the heck were you smoking? she teased herself now, only half in jest.

Arriving early to steady her nerves, she had selected a seat near the door from bitter experience. Her harasser had pinned her in a crowded room even larger than this one, hadn’t he? She had felt so safe that day, completely missing the fact that all escape routes were blocked.

She wasn’t about to make that mistake again. Especially since Frank, as an A-team executive, would be part of this pitch session.

Again, what had she been thinking when she requested this honor?

The double doors to the outside hall opened and she prayed the newcomer would be the benevolent owner, Mr. Caldwell. Or one of the other A-team leaders. But of course it was Frank Garr and his team, chatting and laughing as they entered, then stopping dead in their tracks, stunned by the sight of a B-pool nobody.

What the fuck? Frank demanded, not even pretending to be civil.

Luckily, she had practiced for this moment. So she scanned her one-word cue card, exhaled slowly, and flashed a cheerful smile. Hi, Frank.

He glared. Did you get lost on the way to the powder room?

That’s enough, a voice boomed from the doorway, and KC Caldwell stepped into view, looking like an angel despite his thin body and golf-leather face. Just take a seat, everyone. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Glancing at Erica, he added, Glad you could make it, Ms. McCall.

Me too, she murmured.

It was a silly thing to say. Not masterful or confident and certainly not creative or witty. But she didn’t care. The first of three obstacles had been cleared. Now she had to survive the pitch session itself and somehow convince the executives that her idea was indeed the one that would launch Lager Storm beer into Super Bowl Sunday orbit.

Glancing down at the table, she slipped her BREATHE note into a folder, then pulled out the other piece of moral support she had brought with her this afternoon, a glossy photo of NFL quarterback Johnny the Player Spurling.

Okay, big guy, she told him, daring to enjoy his sexy face, broad shoulders, and confident stance despite her insane predicament. I’m counting on you for a win.

• • •

As he strode down the emergency room hallway, Johnny Spurling kept his Giants cap low on his forehead and his Polarized sunglasses carefully in place. The last thing he needed was to be recognized. Not now. Not with his father’s life hanging in the balance.

He had gotten the frantic call exactly three hours earlier, and since then the only news had been no news, the doctors are still with him. His younger brother, Jason, insisted that was a good sign, translation being, at least he’s still alive. But Jason’s wife, Beth, had blubbered into the phone like the end was more than near.

It was here.

Finally he spotted them. Beth in her husband’s arms, still sobbing. Apparently she had an endless supply of tears, which was ludicrous considering the way she bossed them all around like a drill sergeant and dispensed babies like gum balls.

Johnny! She ran up to him and hugged him fiercely. Thank God you made it.

Any news?

The doctors are still in there. I think it’s a bad sign. That poor, sweet man.

Jason ambled over, a halfhearted grin on his face. I can’t believe she dragged you down here. Ten to one it’s indigestion again.

"Don’t you dare take that bet, Beth warned Johnny. Then she told her husband, You’re so disrespectful. How will you feel if he—well, if we lose him. That poor, sweet man."

He wouldn’t dare die. He knows you’d kill him.

Johnny chuckled. Nice game against the Bucs, kid. You’re lethal these days.

Just trying to keep up with my big brother.

I hate you both, Beth muttered. "Football at a time like this? And you. She gave Johnny a critical glare. You’re breaking that man’s heart and you know it. It’s all he talks about. He wants a grandson from you. A little namesake. But you’re too busy being a player."

Johnny bit back an annoyed response. He had reminded her a thousand times that his nickname didn’t have anything to do with running around in sports cars or bars. He had earned it on the football field at Cal, when his coach explained to the media why he had chosen freshman quarterback Johnny Spurling as the man to lead his team to victory.

Because Johnny Spurling is a player, plain and simple, the coach had insisted. And that’s what this team needs.

Thanks a lot, Coach, he drawled silently. After all I did for you, you saddle me with this.

But all he said to Beth was, Pop’s lucky to have you. We all are. Want some coffee or something?

That’s sweet, she said, her eyes filling with tears again. Then she spun away and gasped, Oh! There’s Dr. Melford. I don’t think I can take it.

Take care of your wife, Johnny instructed his brother. I’ve got this. Hurrying over to the doctor, he demanded, How’s Pop?

Strong as a horse, as always. It was just indigestion. The elderly man grinned. Nice game Sunday. Any chance I can get an autograph for my grandson? He’s a Lancers fan, even though the rest of us are Rustlers all the way.

You’ve got it. Johnny exhaled sharply, relieved and a bit sheepish. He had been so alarmed by Beth’s call he had rushed into the owner’s office and demanded use of his private jet. And he hadn’t even bothered telling Coach Cosner he’d be missing practice.

Luckily, he had some cachet these days. And Aaron Spurling, super coach, had even more, so he wasn’t really worried.

You owe me ten thousand dollars, Jason announced from behind him, trying to sound casual. But Johnny wasn’t fooled. His little brother’s face had been so pale, his mood so forced. And the kid had been such a papa’s boy from the day he was born. There was no doubt he’d been scared shitless, just like the rest of them.

Beth gave them both another how-could-you stare, then headed into the examining room. The brothers trailed dutifully behind, and for the next ten minutes Johnny hung back, watching as Beth and Jason—the bedrock of the family now—made a huge fuss over the man who had apparently eaten chili dogs again.

But Beth’s words had struck home. Aaron Spurling Senior indeed wanted Johnny to give him a grandson named Aaron, in memory of the firstborn son who had died in an auto accident during high school. Aaron Spurling Junior had been a superstar from age thirteen. He had also been his father’s proudest accomplishment, not to mention middle-son Johnny’s hero.

And even though Jason had only been four when it happened, he too revered Aaron Junior’s memory and had begged his father to let him name his firstborn son after him. And then again, when Beth had produced a second boy, he had repleaded his cause.

But Pop had been clear about Johnny’s responsibilities in all this. As the oldest now, he would name his first son Aaron. And he’d better do it soon, because those chili dogs weren’t getting any smaller.

Once Jason had brought his father up to date on the latest NFL injury report and Beth had stopped sniffling and finished showing pictures of the kids on her phone, the annoyingly perfect couple left, and Johnny moved up to the bed, trying not to show how worried he had been.

Nice work, old man. You made Beth cry. Can’t you lay off the junk food for her sake?

He expected his father to laugh, and was concerned when he just seemed depressed.

You okay, Pop?

This one scared me, his father admitted. I’m glad you’re here, son. We need to talk.

Yeah, I know. I planted that back foot at a weird angle twice on Sunday. I’m working on it.

Aaron Spurling gave a weak chuckle. You looked great. And you won. So keep planting that foot, understood? He cleared his throat. All I could think about while they were hauling me here in that ambulance was that I might never meet little Aaron.

Crap . . .

That’s crazy, Pop. The doctor says you’ll outlive us all.

That’s all you have to say? You run around with half-naked women in fancy cars at all hours of the day and night, using who knows what drugs? And that was fine with me, you know. Because I wanted you to have your fun. But you have responsibilities too.

Johnny tried to laugh it off. I date nice girls. I drive an SUV. And the strongest drug I use is aspirin. And I don’t eat chili dogs, which means I live cleaner than you. Dropping the tone, he added more sincerely, I’m on it, Pop. Really. Every time I see Jayce’s kids, it reminds me how much I want some of my own. Not just little Aaron, but a whole house full.

His father nodded approvingly. Beth has a girl for you, you know.

The schoolteacher? Johnny grimaced. Yeah, she’s mentioned her about a million times.

I’ve seen pictures. She’s an angel. Quieter than you’re used to obviously, but she’d make a good wife.

Fine. Get her in here and we’ll let the hospital chaplain hitch us up, he said, teasing. But when his father looked depressed again, he added, Tell Beth to set it up. But not until after the playoffs. Right?

Not until after the Super Bowl, his father corrected him, suddenly cheerful. There’s no stopping you, son. You’ll get there, and then you’ll win your first ring. And someday you’ll be like your old man. With two of ’em.

Maybe even three, Johnny agreed, relaxing again. I’ll tell you what. If me and my guys make it to the Super Bowl, I’ll take the schoolteacher dancing the very next night. And if we win, I’ll marry her within a month.

Just take her out to dinner, his father said with a laugh. Or better yet, the four of you can go out. I’ll tell Beth to arrange it for the weekend after the game.

Maybe you should come too, Pop. To make sure I don’t say anything stupid.

"You will say something stupid, but it won’t matter. Because you’ll have that ring and it’ll dazzle her. The coach’s eyes narrowed. Just don’t drag it out. Get married first and work out the details later. That’s how your mother and I did it."

Sounds like a plan, he murmured, unimpressed by this glimpse into his parents’ courtship. When the door opened, he turned toward it gratefully. Hey, Dub! Where’s Sophie?

His father’s assistant, Jake Dub Dublin, shook his hand. Once she heard her favorite coach was out of danger, she stopped at the nursery to ogle the babies.

Aaron Spurling flashed a wide smile. No wonder she’s my favorite. When are you going to make an honest woman of her?

Trust me, I’m trying. Dub cleared his throat. How’re you feeling, Coach? All kidding aside.

I’m good. You shouldn’t have rushed back. I gave you three days off during bye week for a reason. So you could seal the deal.

I’m on it, Dub promised. Then he pulled up a chair. What did I miss? I read the reports and it sounds like we’re in good shape. But I didn’t like the way Stoddard babied that elbow during Tuesday’s practice. You noticed it, right?

I’m concerned too, Coach Spurling agreed, launching into the backup plan if their promising but slightly green quarterback couldn’t play on Sunday.

Johnny cleared his throat, reminding them that someone from the enemy camp was in the room. I’ll go find the bride-to-be and convince her we should have a double wedding.

You’re engaged? Dub demanded. Why haven’t I heard about this? Oh, wait. He chuckled. Beth’s schoolteacher friend? You finally met her?

We’re all taking her out to dinner in February. And unless she has two heads, it’s official. Grinning at his father, he asked him, "How’s that for a game plan?"

• • •

The pitch session was going strong, and while Erica felt self-conscious, she was in awe of the process. The A-teams sizzled with ideas and healthy competition, and even though she hated Frank Garr, she had to admit he had assembled an amazing team. Then there was Steve Adler and his two assistants, both male, both brilliant. And finally, Julio Jardin, the only team leader with a woman on his staff. Rumor had it that once Julio retired, Sherry Johannsen would take his place, becoming the first female vice president the agency had ever had.

KC Caldwell had offered a vague explanation for Erica’s presence, saying it was a trial policy where B-poolers could get some additional exposure rather than just laboring in the cubicles, anonymously providing raw talent and long hours in hopes of one day getting credit for their sketches, copywriting, and assorted brilliant ideas. She had seen doubt in the eyes of certain attendees, including Sherry, but had sensed encouraging vibes from Steve Adler and the rest of his staff.

As Caldwell listened attentively, the three teams had made their pitches, each hoping its idea would be the one presented to the client, Lager Storm beer. Lager Storm’s owner had originally asked for a print and Internet campaign, then had shocked them by changing course and demanding a Super Bowl commercial that would win awards and move his beer from a niche item to a household name.

Given the context, Erica had expected the pitches to involve busty girls and best buds in a bar setting. It made sense, and in fact, her own idea used those conventions as well, hopefully in a fresh way.

Unlike Frank’s, which went the predictable route. With time and resources, he had armed himself with a mock-up commercial where a barmaid with huge breasts and a low-cut top was complaining to the bartender on Super Bowl Sunday that the male patrons were so focused on the game she couldn’t get their attention. Not even with the twins front and center.

Try a pair of these, the bartender had advised, handing her two frosty bottles of Lager Storm. She returned to a cheering table and immediately got the attention she wanted, with a voice-over confirming her success: If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Lager Storm beer.

It was marginally effective, but to Erica’s relief KC hadn’t seemed too impressed. Next came Julio’s presentation. He too had prepared a video, this time of a handsome cowboy on a gorgeous white horse in the middle of a desolate, sun-drenched plain. The gorgeous hunk wiped his brow, then pulled out his canteen, but it was empty. A voice with a distinctive, gravelly quality suspiciously like Sam Elliott’s offered sympathy: When you work hard, you can’t afford to be thirsty. Lucky for you—the voice paused and the camera panned into the distance, where a dust cyclone was forming—a storm is brewing. The dust cloud turned into a well-endowed cowgirl with long blonde hair and a skimpy costume, and of course she carried a tray of Lager Storm beers toward the mesmerized cowboy. Tagline? A storm is brewing and its name is Lager Storm.

Visually arresting. And the voice was the perfect combination of Old West and sex. KC seemed impressed, as did Steve Adler, who nodded approvingly.

Now it was Adler’s turn, and he took a completely different route. Using a winter theme, he went traditional with a horse-drawn sleigh battling a gorgeous blizzard. Jingling bells, a warmly dressed, photogenic couple in love, and in the distance, an inn with smoke billowing from a chimney and a bright neon sign that proclaimed proudly LAGER STORM Served Here. And across the bottom of the eye-catching scene: Enjoy the Storm.

Erica loved it, and KC seemed charmed. If it were being aired during a Christmas Day game, it would have been perfect.

But in February? To a rowdy crowd? She knew it wouldn’t be appreciated. And so if she had to vote at this point, she’d probably go for the cowboy.

But it wasn’t time to vote yet, as KC quietly pointed out, saying, Erica’s up next.

She cleared her throat, but Julio beat her to it, saying respectfully, I have a quick question about this new policy. No offense to you, Erica, because you’re among our best and brightest. But how are we making these selections? And isn’t it somewhat ambitious for a B-pooler to start with a Super Bowl ad?

Yeah, I’m curious too, Frank drawled. Why Erica? And why now?

KC glared at him. If I were you, I’d let it go.

Why should I? The rest of us worked hard to get to this point. Now you just hand it to her on a silver platter? I think we deserve an explanation.

Stunned, Erica forced herself to look at her boss, who told her bluntly, It’s up to you, Erica. Do I come clean? Or do I just tell them to sit back and be quiet? Because the last time I checked, I’m still in charge here.

She knew exactly what he was asking her. Their settlement agreement had a gag clause. Neither party was supposed to talk about the incident or the remedy, and while it was mostly to protect the Caldwell Agency, it protected Erica too. If she succeeded with this pitch, she didn’t want anyone saying she didn’t deserve it on merit, and she imagined the rumors would skew in that direction.

But Frank’s expression was so triumphant, she just shrugged. I’m fine either way, sir.

Fine. He turned toward Julio. I described it as a trial policy, but in fact it’s an accommodation. Because Erica has graciously agreed not to sue me into next week. One of our male employees subjected her to offensive treatment—

"Offensive in her mind, no one else’s, Frank interrupted angrily. She would have been kicked out of court in a second and ordered to seek immediate counseling for that persecution complex of hers."

Erica felt her cheeks burning and knew she should say something—anything—to defend herself. But she agreed with Frank on the issue of success in court. In fact, she hadn’t even threatened to sue because of that. All she had requested was that the incident be recorded in Frank’s personnel file for the protection of future victims. It was Caldwell who had taken up the cause, reluctantly at first, but to his credit, always with complete respect.

This discussion is over, the boss announced now. And it doesn’t leave this room, understood? Part of the settlement was to keep these details confidential. And I’m a man of my word.

It’s fine, Julio murmured.

Yes, let’s move on, Steve Adler agreed. I don’t care how we got here, I just want to hear Erica’s idea. He gave her a reassuring smile. You’re a football fan, right? So this is right up your alley.

Yes, thank you. She glanced at KC, who nodded. Then she stole a look at Frank, who was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck and a proud smile on his face like he had accomplished what he wanted by unnerving her. Sabotaging her.

She already had so many disadvantages. No staff to help her prepare. No access to, or time for, elaborate video presentations.

But she had Johnny Spurling, the guy who could make or break any team.

Smiling with grim confidence, she activated her only video prop—the photo of the NFL quarterback, now flashing across the sixty-inch monitors. As Mr. Adler said, I’m a football fan. Better still, I understand football fans. And I know who their number-one hero is. Quarterback Johnny Spurling of the Portland Lancers. His team is crushing it lately, and every oddsmaker in the business considers them a prime contender for the Super Bowl. If you have Johnny in your Super Bowl commercial, you win. It’s as simple as that.

Frank jumped half out of his seat. Except it can’t be done. The Spurlings don’t do promo except for the league and for charity. It’s Aaron Spurling’s mantra. No beer, no cars, no nuthin’. Not ever. And his sons live by it too.

Until now, Erica agreed. That’s what makes this particular idea so special. Johnny will do it. And his father will be fine with it.

Adler chuckled. I’m intrigued. Let’s hear it.

She exhaled slowly, then began. "Johnny Spurling has a nickname. The Player. And since he’s gorgeous and cocky, everyone thinks it’s about his womanizing. But they’re wrong. I was a freshman at Cal when he was playing there, and it was all about his skills on the field. My guess is, it bothers him that it went from player to player. And think about it, she added reverently. Why won’t the Spurlings do product endorsement? They want to control their image. To reflect well on their family and the game. And so . . . She gestured toward the closest monitor, trying not to get too distracted by Johnny’s hunky body. We use that."

For once, silence dominated the room, so she continued. Picture a scene like the one in Frank’s ad. A lively sports bar. But not on Super Bowl Sunday. Just a place where guys congregate. To bullshit and pick up women. And where women gather to talk and—hopefully—meet a nice guy. She gave Caldwell a confident smile. The patrons will be good-looking, but I want a slightly different vibe. Not Hollywood glitz. We’re looking for healthy, outdoorsy sexiness. The kind of beauty—and physiques—that come from fitness and vitality. And I’ve got a color scheme and tone in mind. It’s lively, but echoes nature again, not diamonds. Here’s a rough idea. She passed around a stack of designs she had created and waited until they all had copies. When Steve Adler and Julio nodded, she knew she was on the right track, and her confidence burgeoned.

"So that’s the setting. We see John Spurling at the bar with two buddies. He’s clearly the dominant male in the room, radiant with health and power and sex appeal. A hot blonde walks in, and one of his friends points her out, saying, ‘There she is again. Man . . .’

"And the second friend says, ‘Yeah, one of us should make a move now. I hear her dad just died. She’s gotta be looking for a warm body. Why not ours?’

"Johnny gives him a steely look, says ‘Have some respect,’ then motions to the bartender and says, ‘Another round of Lager Storms for us, and give this note to the blonde in the black dress.’ Then he scribbles something on a cocktail napkin and hands it to the bartender, who hands it to a waitress, who delivers it to the blonde. She reads it, then looks up at Johnny and gives him a wistful smile.

"And the disrespectful buddy asks, ‘What did you write?’

"Johnny says, ‘Just that I’m sorry about her dad. And if she needs someone to talk to, I’m available.’

"And the buddy says, ‘You’re a genius. She’s yours for the taking now.’

"At that moment, the bartender brings three Lager Storms, and Johnny hands one to the bad buddy and tells him, ‘Have some respect. And drink this somewhere else. I’m done with you.’

"And the other buddy—the quiet one—says, ‘Yeah, what a douche.’

Then the bad one slinks away, the shot fades as time passes, and we see Johnny at a table with the blonde, drinking his Lager Storm and listening as she tearfully talks to him. And there’s something—well, sweet in the whole exchange. And then the voice-over says . . .

She paused, loving the way the whole room seemed at the edge of their seats.

Then she announced the tagline:

Drink Lager Storm. And don’t be a douche.

The room was silent for a long, long moment before Steve Adler said reverently, I love it.

Except you can’t say ‘douche’ on network television, Frank assured them. And like I said, Spurlings don’t do promo.

She glanced hopefully at Caldwell, knowing his was the only opinion that mattered.

He smiled weakly. It’s good, Erica. But Frank’s right. We can’t use that kind of language. Even if the network allowed it, the NFL wouldn’t. And then there’s Helmut Hunt, the client. He calls himself a churchgoing man and I think he means it.

If he’s a churchgoing man, he respects women. That’s the whole point. She leaned forward eagerly. Don’t you see? We’re saying it’s fine for guys to go to bars to pick up women. And for women to go seeking men. And for everyone to seek beer. But there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed. A line Johnny Spurling would never, ever cross. It’s all about decency. So the network, and the NFL, and churchgoing men will make an exception. And so will Aaron Spurling. Plus—she flashed a knowing smile—"Johnny Spurling hates being called the Player. I see it in his eyes during interviews. He wants to shed that image, probably because he wants to get married and have children—daughters—someday."

Julio interceded. "What if we use the same idea—which is excellent, Erica—and just substitute the word ‘jerk.’ Drink Lager Storm and don’t be a jerk. It works almost as well, and we eliminate the controversy."

She gave him a grateful smile. "I like it, but it doesn’t really hit the essence of the

Reviews for Playing for Keeps

[mclement-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Received a copy of the book from Netgalley for an honest review.Unfortunately I did not care for this book. I was excited about it because I love a hot athlete. My problem with the book came not long after it started. I did not like how Erika and Johnny hit it off so quick. Erika just gave in the ffirst time Johnny said, "lets have some fun." Seemed unrealistic to me. I prefer a book with some suspense into the relationship. I felt they were together right from the beginning. I also felt like there was character and story development left out. As I was reading I came across Johnny saying "I love you." Where did that come from? I never felt they had any relationship built up. I hate to be negative because I know how hard the author worked. This was just not for me.

[Joannah · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

loved this! This is a light and fun read, features great writing, witty comebacks, and great football scenes. Loved the couple, the supporting cast and friendships!

[Karen Weitzel · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Ack the writing just lacked and the constant use of douche was awful.

[Willswife · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Sweet.

[Melissa Cortes · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Somewhat boring.

[VicPar32 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

romantic. loved the slogan of the beerr.