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The Yes Dare: Book 3 of the Pies, Books & Jesus Book Club series

By Kathleen YBarbo

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Most people thought the loss of his father was a bigger deal
than the end of his marriage. Quarterback Ryan Sutton’s
team—not the Austin Blues football team he’d played quarterback
for the last ten years but rather the suits and handlers who made
up Ryan Sutton, Inc.—sure spun it that way.
From his stone-faced expression as he stood by this father’s
grave, to the tears that fell down Ryan’s face as the honor guard
handed him the folded flag, the day his dad was laid to rest next
to Mom paled in comparison to the day after when Ryan killed
his marriage.
A lifetime ago and yet sometimes it felt like yesterday.
He shrugged off the thought knowing it would come back
soon. Oh, but Pops would have loved this car.
Ryan squared his shoulders and climbed out of the red
Ferrari 458 he’d been given by the Blues owner Mike Keaton
on the occasion of his latest milestone, an entire season played
without throwing a single interception.
Keaton had even smiled when he handed him the keys,
something that happened only slightly less frequently than the
never-before perfect season. Ryan didn’t bother to replicate that
smile when he handed the keys over to the pimple-faced valet.
“Gosh, Mr. Rocket,” the kid said as he grasped the keys
against his chest. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” He thrust the 2
Kathleen Y’Barbo
valet ticket toward Ryan. “Would you autograph this for me?
Name’s Lucas.”
“Sure, Lucas. Got a pen?”
Once the kid located a pen, Ryan signed his name, leaned in
for a photo, and then moved on to do the same with most of the
crowd that had gathered. “Hey,” one of the fans called, I need
some help with my homework.”
Ryan looked over at the middle-schooler who’d asked the
question. “What are you doing hanging out in front of a restaurant on a school night?” he asked the boy.
“My dad and I saw the Ferrari and the crowd then found
out it was you. I’m a huge Blues fan. I’m writing a report on the
Blues because I want to be a sports reporter someday, and I’ve
got a question I can’t find an answer for.”
He grinned. It seemed like yesterday that his sons were this
age. Ryan nodded to the man who stood next to the boy—presumably the father—then returned his attention to the youngster.
“Okay, kid, sure.” He leaned in to allow the dad to snap a
picture then straightened. “What’s your question?”
“Is it true that the Blues are named after bluebonnets and not
the Austin music scene?”
Ryan chuckled. “Okay, well, that’s not the question I
expected.”
And yet it was a question that had been tossed around by
fans and reporters ever since the Austin team came to be fifteen
years ago. While Mike Keaton swore he named his team after
his favorite genre of music, his wife insisted she won the right to
name the team after winning a bet with her husband.
What kind of bet had never been disclosed, nor had Mike
ever owned up to it. However, Kelli Keaton had confirmed the
story to Ryan at a team party in Mexico right after he joined the
team. Since she’d sworn him to secrecy, he couldn’t give the boy
the answer he sought.
Th e Ye s Dare
3
The last thing Mike Keaton wanted was for anyone to find
out his tough-as-nails NFL football team was named after a
flower. Even if it was the revered state flower of Texas.
“That’s a good question,” he said. “Are you filming me?”
“Yessir,” the boy said.
“Okay, kid, then here’s the answer. Keep asking hard questions and looking for the right source for the answer. I’m just part
of the team, but you call the team offices tomorrow morning and
tell them Ryan Sutton would like them to set you up with an
interview with someone who can help with your report.”
He flashed a smile at the boy then locked eyes with his dad.
“I’m serious. Encourage this kid not to give up. It’s a lesson I’ve
tried to teach my boys.”
Someone stepped in front of Ryan and the cameras flashed
again. Ryan went along with the photo op until finally a security
guy who would have been welcome on the offensive line of the
Blues parted the crowd and ushered him inside the most exclusive restaurant in Austin, Spencer Simon’s Retreat.
“Don’t I know you?” Ryan said.
“Sam Worthington, former defensive back for the Dolphins.”
He grinned and extended his hand to shake Ryan’s. “I caught one
of your passes for an interception a couple of years ago. Ran it back
for a touchdown. Congratulations on the perfect season, man.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sam,” he said. “So you work here
now?”
“Pays the bills until I can get on scholarship,” he said. “I’m
finishing up my degree as a nurse practitioner now. Graduating
in May and about to start job hunting.”
“Congratulations.” Ryan shrugged out of his coat.
“Interesting change of career. What made you decide on
medicine?”
“Buddy of mine’s the reason, mostly,” he said as he took
Ryan’s coat. “He took me under his wing as a rookie and taught 4
Kathleen Y’Barbo
me how to survive in the pros. Then along comes a blind-sided
hit and he’s gone. I don’t mean gone for the season. I mean his
brain was just messed up. I knew I couldn’t stay in football after
seeing that, and I knew I couldn’t stay away from a field where I
might be able to help. Just that simple, I guess.”
Ryan had seen his share of guys who ended up that way.
Every day that he woke up and still could claim his full faculties,
he gave thanks to the Lord. With all the hits he’d taken, that
could easily have been him.
Sam shook his head. “Look, it’s great to shake your hand,
Rocket. I ought to get back to work. I’ll see this gets to coat check.”
“Hey, Sam,” he said to the retreating giant. “I’d like to keep
in touch. You got a card?”
He chuckled. “No, but hold on just a second,” he said as he
disappeared around the corner, only to reappear with a piece of
paper in his massive paw. “Don’t think the coat check girl will
miss one of her receipts, but just in case, I’m going to go spend
some time with her to make amends.”
Ryan looked down at the phone number scrawled beneath
Sam’s name. “She’s cute, is she?”
“Oh yeah.” Sam nodded in the direction of the hallway.
“Looks like the hostess is back. She’ll see that you get to your
table.” He said his goodbyes and then left Ryan in the hands of
his polar opposite, a pale and petite blonde in a painted-on black
dress and six-inch heels.
He tucked Sam’s makeshift card in his pocket and made a
mental note to talk to his best friend, Trey Brown, about Sam.
“Mr. Sutton,” she practically purred as she extended a gloved
hand. “Welcome to Spencer Simon’s Retreat.”
Beckoning him to follow, she led Ryan down a wood-paneled hall where paintings of the Texas countryside were hung in
massive carved frames. He paused in front of one that caught his
attention.
Th e Ye s Dare
5
A field of bluebonnets two shades darker than the Texas sky
spilled down a hill and across a pasture where a woman wearing
blue denim and a straw cowboy hat, her pale hair flying behind
her, rode straight for him. Though the hat obscured the woman’s
face, Ryan easily imagined his ex-wife’s soft lips, green eyes, and
the dusting of freckles she never did like.
Minus the rider, the scene could have been one of the many
Coco had photographed over the years. She had chosen to give
up what might have been a promising career in photojournalism
to raise their babies and follow him around the NFL. That sure
hadn’t worked out as a fair trade off, at least not for her.
A pang of fresh guilt hit him.
“Mr. Sutton?”
He startled back to reality and focused his attention on the
hostess. “This painting. Is it for sale?”
“Well, I don’t know.” She quickly hid her surprise. “I’m sure
I can get an answer to that before you leave.”
“All right but tell whoever owns this to name his price.” He
shrugged. “Or maybe he’s interested in the 458 I drove up in. I’d
be willing to make an even trade.”
“I will do that.” She gave Sam a strange look and then smiled
at Ryan. “We’ve put you in the grotto tonight. Your dinner
companion has already arrived.”
The hostess delivered him to a table situated in a rock-lined
alcove with a commanding view of downtown Austin. Superstar
sports agent Morty Mays stood to greet him with his usual bear
hug and handshake. Once they’d settled back at the table and
ordered their meals, Morty took over the conversation to outline
the latest offers for product endorsements.
Finally Ryan had enough. He held up his hand to cut off the
conversation just as Morty had begun talking about where the
autograph ought to go on the boxers and briefs in The Rocket
for Men collection.6
Kathleen Y’Barbo
“Morty, do you ever just sit back and wonder how it all got
so absurd?”
His agent paused and seemed to be considering the question.
Then he shook his head. “If I did that, kid, I’d be out of a job.
So, something bugging you?”
“What could be bugging me?” he said as the first course, a
preposterous plate the size of a manhole cover with a tiny slice of
cantaloupe and what appeared to be a single shrimp covered in
pale green foam with flecks of gold leaf was placed before him.
An overwhelming urge for a plate of fried shrimp right
out of the Gulf or maybe a brisket sandwich from Pecan Lodge
almost caused him to get up and walk out.
“Something wrong?” Morty asked.
“Just trying to figure this food out,” he said.
“Don’t even bother. Just enjoy.”
Just enjoy. Two words that had led to the biggest mistake of
his life.
Morty went back to talking about autographs and underwear. Tuning him out as much as possible, Ryan choked down a
bite of the shrimp, roughly half the amount of food on the plate,
and then set his fork aside.
The next course arrived just as his agent finished waxing
poetic about expanding the line to include something briefer
than briefs for those who preferred less restrictive clothing. At
least that’s what he thought Morty was talking about. He’d only
caught the occasional word or two as his mind was back in the
hall standing in front of that painting.
“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?”
Ryan looked up from the overpriced Wagyu steak that tasted
like a mouthful of sand and found his agent staring at him. “Is
it me or has the quality gone down here?” he asked as he set his
fork aside and dabbed at the corners of his mouth.
Th e Ye s Dare
7
Morty shook his head and took another bite of his quickly
disappearing meal. “You’re joking, right? This is Spencer Simon’s
Retreat, son. The best of the best. Nobody gets dinner reservations here, and those who do certainly don’t complain about the
food, which is top notch, by the way. I don’t think that’s your
problem at all.”
Ryan shrugged and tossed his napkin aside and then reached
for his glass of sweet tea. He recognized the cut crystal tumbler
as Waterford, the exact match to the glassware Coco insisted
they buy in Ireland on their second honeymoon after he signed
with the Blues.
A waiter slipped past with a bottle of champagne on ice.
Instantly the memory of the taste of a nice Brut appeared on the
back of his tongue. And he wanted it. Bad.
He focused his mind back on the painting. Saw the bluebonnets instead of the booze. Pictured Coco instead of champagne.
The wanting curled into something less desperate, less painful. In its place was a deeper wanting, a deeper pain. Both filled
the void where Coco once was.
“Something on your mind?” Morty asked.
He narrowed his attention back to the painting he would
leave with tonight. “Just thinking about a purchase I’m going
to make.”
He grinned. “Finally listening to me and investing in that
wind farm in Kansas?”
“Something closer to home,” Ryan said as he sliced off a bite
of steak and popped into his mouth.
“Not going to tell me, are you?” When Ryan shook his head,
Morty shrugged. “Fair enough. I don’t need to know. Long as
you don’t make any decisions about your career without consulting me, we’ll get along just fine.”
“Have I ever?”8
Kathleen Y’Barbo
Morty leaned back in his chair and allowed his gaze to sweep
the room before returning to Ryan. “No,” he said slowly. “You
haven’t.”
There was more to that statement than his agent was saying.
Ryan toyed with the idea of letting it go. Knowing Morty, it
wouldn’t be that easy.
“But?” Ryan finally said.
“But I’m worried, kid.”
“About what? My throwing arm. You know I’ve got a couple years left in it at least.”
“You. Your focus.” He shrugged. “Who am I kidding?
You’re phoning it in.”
“You’re joking, right? I’m coming off a perfect season.”
Ryan’s temper spiked. “I’ve got more endorsement deals than
I can handle, and I can’t park my car without security having
to extricate me from the autograph hounds. Keaton, the team
owner who hates to pay for anything if he doesn’t have to, gave
me a Ferrari.”
Morty’s laughter sent Ryan to his feet. He knocked over his
glass of tea in the process.
He bit back on what he wanted to say and stared down at his
agent instead.
“You don’t care about any of those things, and you know it,”
Morty said. “Stop covering up for what’s really wrong. As I said
before, my best guess is you’re thinking about her again.”
Her. As in Coco.
The imagine of a pretty girl sitting beside him on a Ferris
wheel at the county fair slid across his thoughts. The news that
this pretty girl was carrying his child—two sons, as it turned
out—hit him as hard as it had back then.
And yet he’d walked away from all of it.
Gradually he became aware that Morty was still watching
him. A pair of dark-suited waiters materialized. One replaced his
Th e Ye s Dare
9
tea glass while the other mopped up the mess. They provided a
welcome distraction but not enough to calm him down.
Ryan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Meanwhile,
his agent just sat there, likely waiting for him to come to his
senses.
That’s usually how it went with the two of them.
Morty had been his agent more than fifteen years. In that
time he’d been a straight-out-of-college rookie drafted by the
best football team in the nation with a second contract to play
pro baseball as well. He’d stayed with Ryan when the Blues
made him give up baseball, and even stuck around to pull him
out of the personal abyss that followed the divorce from Coco.
“You about done? Your steak’s getting cold.”
Ryan ignored him to reach into his pocket for his keys. Only
then did he remember he’d left the car and the keys with the
valet.
“You’re the best there is, Morty, but I think you and I need
to call it a night.” He yanked out his wallet and tossed two hundred-dollar bills onto the table and then turned to walk away.
“We can talk about any other offers you’ve got going another
time. Better yet, send me an email.”
“We could, but if you leave now your boys’ chance to benefit
directly from this is over.”
Ryan froze in his tracks and then turned around to face the
man who’d become like a second father to him. “I’m listening.”
“Sit down, kid.” Morty nodded to the empty chair. “Look,
I’ve been saving the best for last. Sit.”
Ryan returned to his chair. “Go on.”
“Heard of the Austin Rattlers?”
“The new baseball team that’s moving into Austin. Who
hasn’t?”
“Yeah, well, they need a big name draw to get fans in the
seats. Keaton’s willing to let you play long as you’re back in a 10
Kathleen Y’Barbo
Blues uniform before the season begins in August. Just designated hitter stuff, but both organizations are ready to sign off
on a coffee table book and possible documentary of your return
to playing two sports. They’d want to use the angle of your
twins following in your footsteps in baseball, and they are willing to put the boys on the crew if they’re interested. What do
you think?”
He hadn’t seen that coming. “I think the boys would love
it,” Ryan said as he sorted through his emotions on the idea.
That was an understatement. Twins Chase and Cody were
college standouts and record-setters, just as he had been. Unlike
him, however, the two younger Suttons, both on full baseball
scholarships, weren’t interested in parlaying their throwing arms
into a higher paying career in the NFL.
Given the fact quarterbacks got tossed around like rag dolls
far too often, Ryan was beyond thrilled they did not plan to follow his example. Even better that they were thinking about their
years post-baseball and majoring in film and communications, a
career that could add longevity to their time in baseball.
“Who’s the producer?”
When he dropped the name of the guy, Ryan let out a low
whistle. Brent Blake was famous for big money blockbusters, not
small-time documentaries. He was also well known as a huge
fan of the Austin Blues.
Ryan sat back in his chair. “Let me get this straight. You want
me to let Brent Blake’s crew follow me around and chronicle me
looking like a fool trying to hit a baseball after all these years?”
As he asked the question, Ryan allowed himself to consider
the possibility.
“But you won’t,” Morty said. “And remember he’s going to
be highlighting the fact your boys are coming up behind you in
baseball, so there’s that. But there’s a catch. Spring training’s long
Th e Ye s Dare
11
over and the season’s starting. You’ll need to be in Austin day
after tomorrow to show them The Rocket’s still got it.”
“That’s fast.”
“That’s baseball.” He paused to regard Ryan with a neutral
look. “So, kid, are you in?”
The fact that Morty still called him kid even though he was
pushing forty made Ryan Smile. “You know I am."

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