Fourth and Goal Read Free Page B

financial suicide, it all came down to guilt. Guilt that she was using him. Guilt that she'd ruin Tyler and him if the truth came out.
    Last night she'd feasted her eyes on Derek's exceptional body, drowned in his kind brown eyes, and sympathized with his lack of performance on the football field. Shame settled in her gut, filled her with doubt. She'd consorted with the enemy, felt for him, let his nearness cloud her emotions. Her convictions needed reaffirming.
    After feeding the horses, she drove three hours to her father's mobile home in a tract development. He'd lost his big house six months ago along with his coaching job, his selfish young wife, and his zeal for life. She pulled into Dave McCormick's driveway and cut the engine. Dandelions flourished in the front yard and crowded out the brown grass. An old car on blocks crouched next to the house. Paint peeled off the siding, and one gutter hung askew over the front porch.
    She sat in her truck and gathered her thoughts. Through the living room window, light flickered from the TV. Her once meticulous father had been reduced to a shell of man. The state of his environment reflected the state of his mind. No other sign of life greeted her as she stepped out of her truck. Weary, she rubbed grit from her eyes and sighed.
    Picking her way past garbage littering the sidewalk, Rachel slipped on some TV dinner cartons and almost fell. Regaining her tenuous balance, she ducked under the twisted metal storm gutter hanging off the eaves and stepped onto the rickety porch. She knocked on the door. No one answered. She tried the doorknob. It turned, and she let herself inside.
    Rachel's heart thumped in her chest, and she feared the worst. Shame consumed her. She should've been a better daughter, visited more often, not been so wrapped up in her own misery. Despite losing her dream job, she had youth on her side. She'd rebound. Her father might not.
    "Dad?” The gloomy interior engulfed her, smothered her. The stench of cigarette smoke floated in the air, thick and oppressive. Newspapers and magazines concealed the worn carpet. The kitchen counter overflowed with dirty dishes. A man's snoring rattled the small room, and relief flooded through her.
    Rachel navigated the obstacles and found her dad passed out in an expensive leather recliner—a remnant of his previous life. Beer and whiskey bottles were scattered around the chair like fallen timber in a clear-cut.
    Her once proud, handsome father looked like hell. His short hair stuck up in spikes, much grayer than a few months ago. His stubbled jaw hadn't seen a razor in a few days. He'd slept in his T-shirt one too many times. She wrinkled her nose. From the smell of him, a shower was long overdue.
    "Dad?” Rachel shook his shoulder. He grumbled several unintelligible words, barely able to string two syllables together. She shook him harder. Her dad squinted at her through bloodshot eyes.
    "Rae? Honey, whatcha doin’ here?” He struggled to sit upright in the recliner, which took three attempts.
    "Just checking on you.” Rachel debated between scolding him and coddling him. Neither had proved effective in the past.
    He shook his head to clear it and leaned forward, head in his hands, and groaned.
    "You need a shower. Take one while I clean up. Can you manage that?"
    Her father nodded and avoided her gaze, having the presence of mind to be embarrassed. He heaved himself to his feet and staggered into the small bathroom down the hall. She listened until she heard the sound of water running in the shower.
    As a little girl, Rachel had crawled onto his lap during Monday Night Football . With the patience of a doting father, he'd explain plays, discuss strategy, and expound on what made a good player a great player. She'd soaked it all in, hanging on his every word, until her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep during the fourth quarter. He'd carry her to bed, tuck her in, and kiss her good night. She'd snuggle under the covers,