He undid the front fastener of her lacy bra. Her breasts were lovely, soft, natural. He took the weight of one in his palm, brushed his thumb across the nipple until it was very stiff, then caressed it with his tongue. When he drew it into his mouth, she arched her back and whimpered with pleasure.

Blindly he sought her hand and guided it down. He sighed raggedly when her fingers closed around him, then her thumb, discovering a drop of moisture in the slit, spread it around the glans in slow, mind-blowing circles that were nearly his undoing.

Reaching around her, he unfastened her skirt and pushed it past her hips and down her legs. Naked now, she modestly lay back with her thighs closed, forming a perfect, enchanting V. He leaned down and gently blew on her, then pressed a kiss into the damp curls, teasing, teasing until her thighs relaxed. He moved between them and made slow love to her with his mouth.

It was she who drew her knees back and tugged on his hair until he was lying on top of her and his sex was deep inside her again. This time it was unhurried, more emotional than passionate. He savored each sensation and made certain she did. When he felt himself getting close, he took her face between his hands and looked down into her eyes, wanting there to be no question that it was he, only he, making love to her, and for only one reason.

He lost count of the number of times they made love that afternoon, because it was one long act, one erotic exchange melding into the next. Though they weren’t free to speak, they allowed each other unlimited access.

His lips touched each feature of her beautiful face again and again. He was at liberty to stroke every inch of her skin, to kiss the backs of her knees. He slid his thumb down the groove of her spine all the way to the cleft of her hips, then lay with his cheek resting in the small of her back.

Equally curious, she examined his large hands, tracing the heavy veins on the backs of them, sucking his crooked little finger into her mouth. She seemed to like his chest hair. A lot. She nuzzled it frequently. He loved the feel of her breath ruffling through it, loved feeling her fingertips exploring his navel and her knee tucked snugly under his balls, loved feeling her mouth’s wet tug until he thought he would die of pleasure.

They were lying quietly, fondling and kissing idly, as satiated lovers do, when she looked at him sadly and pulled away. And he’d had to let her go. There was so much he wanted to say, but he was forbidden to. He wanted to tell her that, for the first time in his whole, misbegotten life, he was in love. He loved, period. He loved her.

“God help me,” he whispered now to the walls of his hospital room, “I did from the start.”

He must have slept. A slight shift of air roused him. He opened his eyes. Coach was standing just inside the door. He said, “Were you asleep?”

“Just resting my eyes.”

He hesitated, then walked to the side of the bed and looked Griff over, his gaze settling on his bandaged shoulder. “How is it?”

“I’ll live. Hurts like hell.”

“They don’t have any pain medication in this hospital?”

“I’m getting it.” He raised his hand with the IV port. “It still hurts.”

“Any permanent damage?”

“The surgeon says there shouldn’t be. If I do my physical therapy.”

“Yeah, well, I wish him luck. You always shirked on that.”

“She.”

“Huh?”

“The orthopedic surgeon is a she.”

“Oh.” Coach looked around the room, took note of the TV suspended from the ceiling, the wide window. “Nice room.”

“Can’t complain.”

“Food okay?”

“All I’ve had is beef broth and lime Jell-O.”

“You hungry?”

“Not really.”

Having run out of small talk, they were quiet for a time. Then Griff said, “Thank you for not calling the cops on me the other night.”

“I did.”

Griff looked at him with surprise.

“Despite Ellie’s yammering, I put in a call. But not to Rodarte. After being passed around to several detectives, I finally landed one who sounded like he had some sense. I told him what was what, where you were headed, and that the situation had all the makings for becoming dangerous, possibly lethal to somebody. He got in touch with the police department in Itasca and mobilized them immediately.”

“So you believed me.”

“I believed her.”

“Laura.”

“I believed every word out of her mouth. You, I still know to be a liar.”

“I was not lying! I did not-”

“Hell, I know you didn’t kill Foster Speakman or that Bandy lowlife. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then give me a hint.”

“You lied about that game against Washington.”

Griff’s heart skipped a beat or two. He hadn’t seen that coming. He stared at Coach for a moment, then averted his head and mumbled, “What are you talking about?”

“You know goddamn well what I’m talking about.” His face red with anger, Coach bent over him until Griff was forced to look him in the eye. “That pass to Whitethorn. That game-throwing pass that got you sent to prison.” Coach jabbed the edge of the hospital bed with his index finger. “I know the truth, Griff, but I want to hear you say it, and then I want to know why.”

“Say what? Why what?”

Coach fumed. “I’ve looked at the video of that play till I’m cross-eyed. From every possible angle. In slow motion and fast forward. Time after time after time. A thousand times.”

“So has everybody and his grandmother.”

“But everybody and his grandmother don’t know the game like I do. And not everybody knows you like I do. Nobody taught you and coached you like I did. Griff.” His voice had turned husky, and if Griff hadn’t known better, he would have thought he saw tears starting to form in the older man’s eyes. “You couldn’t have thrown a better, more accurate pass. You practically walked the football to the two-yard line and laid it in Whitethorn’s hands. You put it right between the numbers on his jersey.”

He straightened and turned away for a moment, and when he came back around, he said simply, “He didn’t catch it.”

Griff remained silent.

Coach said, “Whitethorn didn’t catch it, but not because you threw a bad pass. He simply dropped the damn ball.”

Griff, feeling the pressure of his own emotions, nodded. “He dropped the damn ball.”

Breath streamed out of Coach’s mouth, sounding like a plug had been pulled on an inflatable toy. It even seemed to Griff that he deflated. “So why in God’s name did you lie about throwing that game? Why did you admit to a crime you didn’t commit?”

“Because I was guilty. I was guilty as hell. I had every intention of screwing up and losing that game for my own profit. For two million dollars, I was gonna see to it that we lost. But…”

He broke off, unable to continue for several moments. When he did, his voice was gravelly. “But when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do it. I wanted to win that game. I had to.” His hand formed a fist as though trying to grasp the unattainable. “The only hope I had of saving myself was to win that game.”

He lay back and closed his eyes, placing himself there on the field. He heard the roar of the crowd, smelled the sweaty jerseys of his teammates as they huddled, felt the tension compressed into a stadium of seventy thousand screaming spectators.

“We’re down by four. A field goal won’t do. The clock is running out. No time-outs remaining. It’s the worst-case scenario, and if that isn’t enough, the Super Bowl is riding on this game. We’ve got time for one more play.

“To cash in from Vista, all I really had to do was let the clock run out, and Washington would have had it. But, coming out of that last huddle, I thought, Fuck those Vista bastards. Fuck their dollars. They may break both my legs, but I’m going to win this championship.

“It all came down to that one play, Coach. One pass. One choice that would make me better than the sludge I’d come from. What I did on that play would define my character. My life, actually.”