The Soccer Player and the Single Mom (Quail Hollow)

by Kyra Jacobs

  “Morning, Felicity.”

  “Good morning, Scott. Sleep well?”

  “Well enough. You?”

  “Oh yes, slept like a rock.” She grabbed her mug and crossed to the coffeemaker for a heat up. “Until Tyler crawled into bed with me at four. After that, it was another night of knees and elbows in my back.”

  Jealousy wove its way down his spine at the idea of Tyler getting to crawl into her nice, warm bed. I wouldn’t put my knees or elbows in your back, he thought, hiding his grin behind a sip from his own mug. Though, I can’t say you’d get much more sleep with me there.

  Ugh, he really had to get his thoughts in check today. He lowered his drink and offered her an appropriate grimace. “Oh, man. Gonna need a nap later for sure.”

  “Nope, no time for that,” she said. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

  “We do? Since when?”

  “Since I found your list last night in the den.”

  So much for him earning kudos at the big reveal. “Actually, I’d hoped to go over it with you this morning.”

  “No need. I already glanced over it. Even went ahead and made a few appointments for you, to keep your agent off both our cases. You’ve got a radio interview in Fort Wayne at ten.”

  A radio interview? The audacity of that woman! He wanted to tell Felicity where she could shove these appointments she’d made without consulting with him first, but in his outrage, the words wouldn’t come. As if to goad him further, her hauntingly delicious cinnamon and vanilla scent curled around his senses as she passed by to take a seat at the table. It wasn’t until she turned to face him and lifted her mug—which he now saw had his team’s logo on it—that his voice returned to him.

  “I thought you were supposed to be my personal assistant?”

  “That’s what I’ve been hired to do, yes.”

  “Then you should be assisting me, not dictating my schedule.”

  Her right brow arched, ratcheting her appeal up another notch. If he hadn’t been on the verge of furious, that look might have been a serious turn-on.

  “I’m dictating today’s schedule, Scott, because so far this week, all you’ve proved is that if I leave you to your own devices, we won’t finish a thing your agent wants done to boost your public relations.”

  “My public relations, Felicity, are just fine the way they are.”

  “Funny, that’s not what I remember your agent saying when he hired me.”

  No one came into his family home and talked to him that way. No one. Scott leaned forward, refusing to acknowledge the physical attraction flooding his veins.

  “Let’s get something straight, shall we? I don’t need a personal assistant, and I sure as hell don’t need you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I need a job way more than you don’t need an assistant. So unless you have a spare one for me tucked into your back pocket, you’d better get over it because I’m not going anywhere. Now go get dressed—we’re leaving in half an hour.”

  “Says who?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Says the woman who has your agent eating out of her hand. You wanna keep him, you gotta listen to me.”

  He wanted to argue the point, wanted to yell and curse and stomp and roar. But what he wanted to do even more was throw her over his shoulder and haul her upstairs and onto his bed. Thankfully, his crutches wouldn’t allow it, because doing something that stupid would be a huge mistake.

  An even bigger one than blowing off his agent’s stupid PR assignment.

  With a growl, he shoved back from the table and made for the stairs. He’d give her this radio interview, but that was all; anything else had to be cleared by him first. Scott had played nice all week. Now it was time to draw a line in the sand.

  …

  As a single mother, Felicity thought she’d heard every excuse imaginable when it came to her son not wanting to do something. He was too tired, too wired, too hot, too cold, too sore, too weak, too hungry, too thirsty…the list went on and on. Yet today, as she was trying to get her co-worker from his grandmother’s house to the radio station for one brief, untelevised interview, she was surprised to hear a few new ones. It seemed Scott was just a grown-up version of her first-grader, with an unlimited supply of excuses all his own.

  Too bad whining wouldn’t get him out of anything today.

  “I need to rewrap my crutches.”

  She pulled into the lot, digging deep for patience. If he’d been throwing her attitude, she would have just called him out. Told him to zip it and man up already. But there was a wariness in him she’d not seen before. A reluctance that’d been growing with each passing mile. It was almost like Mr. Celebrity Soccer Star was…scared.

  “The ones you’ve been using all week?”

  “They’ve been getting looser the past few days, but I really noticed it when I got in. See how much give there is on this one?”

  He brought exhibit A within a few inches of her face and wiggled the padding for her to see. It moved maybe one-millionth of an inch right and left. Maybe. “Uh-huh.”

  “But they need a special kind of non-slip tape. We’ll have to hit a sporting goods store or maybe a medical supply shop.”

  She killed the engine and plastered what she hoped was a reassuring smile on her face. “Sure, no problem. In fact, I’ll bet we can find something on our way to lunch. After your interview.”

  Felicity stepped out and came around to the other side. What had him so rattled? The guy played in front of thousands of spectators every week, yet there he sat, frozen in the front seat, eyes fixed on that harmless front door. She glanced over to make sure there was no grim reaper sitting beside the entrance, then pulled his door open. “You said you’d do this.”

  “I’m underdressed. We need to go back so I can change.”

  Where’s a good old-fashioned cattle prod when you need one? “It’s a radio interview, Scott. Heck, the on-air personality is probably in flip-flops and some ratty old shirt. Now, will you come on already?”

  Begrudgingly, and slower than she’d ever seen him move, he shifted to swing his injured leg out of the car. His good leg followed. He cast another glance at the building and opened his mouth.

  “Whatever it is, don’t bother. You’re going in there and doing this interview or I’m calling J.B.”

  Surprise lit his features, then resentment, which quickly faded to a frustrated sigh of defeat. “You don’t have to start in with the threats again.”

  Apparently, I do. And why are you making me out to be the bad guy? Felicity shook her head. It was like trying to get Tyler to eat his vegetables.

  They made their way inside, her walking at a moderate pace, him lagging ridiculously behind. The lobby had been decorated in low budget radio style: tile floors, wood-paneled walls, and orange, fabric-covered chairs circa 1973. Black and white autographed photos of a myriad of musicians and musical acts decorated one wall, the station’s call letters and logo taking up most of another. A slender young receptionist wearing a pencil skirt, low cut blouse, and enough makeup on her porcelain face to supply an entire season of American Idol, sat behind the lone desk. She glanced up from the cell phone in her hands, gaze shifting from Felicity to Scott, and produced a blindingly white smile.

  “Good morning, welcome to WMFW. Can I help you?”

  Silence answered her, followed by more silence. Felicity glanced from Miss Too Much Rouge to Scott, who now had sweat beading at his hairline and his gaze locked on the exit.

  “Yes. This is Scott Gillie,” she offered. “He’s here for an interview with Mr. Baker.”

  “Oooh, the soccer star.” She looked him over so thoroughly Felicity was tempted to ask if she needed to step out for a cigarette. “I’ll, uh, just let Charlie know you folks are here.”

  The receptionist offered another blinding smile as she oozed from her chair and teetered off in unnecessarily high heels through a glass door leading into the depths of the studio, swinging her hips like some cartoon milk cow. Sure,
they probably didn’t get too many people in here as striking as Scott, but man. There’s flirting, and there was…whatever that was.

  Felicity rolled her eyes and shifted her focus from the glass door Miss Rouge had disappeared behind to her partner, who appeared a bit peaked. “You all right?”

  “Sure. Super.” He shifted his weight onto his other crutch. No, not shifted—he was inching closer to the door!

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Another inch closer. Then two. “Think about what?”

  “Scott, look at me.” His gaze darted from the giant logo, to her, then back again. She raised her hand and pointed to her face. “Really look at me. Right here.”

  He did as he was told, the wariness she’d seen in the car multiplied tenfold. If she didn’t get him to calm down, he might well have a panic attack. As crazy as he’d made her this week, she found herself not wanting him to suffer any more than necessary. Being injured and mandated to stay off the field seemed punishment enough.

  “How does it feel when you score a winning goal?”

  His focus sharpened on her, brows furrowing. “What?”

  “What does it feel like to score a winning goal?”

  The smallest of grins tugged at his lips. “There’s no greater rush.”

  She nodded, and his gaze shifted past her as if picturing a memory.

  “You see it all in slow-mo—the trajectory of the ball, where the goalie’s standing—and all you can do is hold your breath and hope he doesn’t get a hand or a foot on it. But it slips past him, and you hear the ball strike the net just before sound erupts all around, the crowd becoming this giant, living, roaring creature. Then your teammates are there, slamming into you in celebration, and you’re relieved to know the team will live to see another game.” He shook his head. “Nothing can top it.”

  His tone was one of reverence, not boastfulness, and for the first time since they’d met, Felicity got a glimpse of the man behind the curtain of indifference. It was abundantly clear he loved what he did. If he could replicate that same passion on the air today, how many kids might be inspired to give sports a try? Or adults, to pursue the things they loved?

  Maybe this was the real reason J.B. was pushing him to get out there and talk to people. Not just to grow his fan base, but to grow people’s passions, to get them involved. Scott had a gift, one he apparently wasn’t accustomed to sharing with others. Now it was up to her to see that people heard his message.

  “Scott?” The receptionist had returned and was holding the glass door open, her smile just as blinding as before. “Charlie said to come on back.”

  He gave a nod then studied Felicity for a moment. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “Now, go get ’em, tiger.”

  With a wink, he started forward. Not a sly wink—more like one shared between friends. Close friends.

  “So, are you his girlfriend or something?”

  Felicity turned toward the receptionist. “His personal assistant.”

  “Oh.” She waggled her brows. “Is he single?”

  Was he? His relationship status wasn’t exactly something that’d come up thus far. Then again, wouldn’t a significant other have entered into conversations with Edna a few times by now? And would he have kissed her if he weren’t single?

  “No idea.”

  “Think you could give him my number?”

  A flash of jealousy wove through her at the thought. Where on earth had that come from? Felicity wasn’t usually the jealous type.

  Oh no. She could not be developing feelings for Scott. No matter how good-looking or passionate or whatever he was, he wasn’t available, not in the way she needed a man to be. Scott’s home was in another state, and his job probably kept him on the road a large part of the year. What she needed was someone local, someone stable. Someone who wasn’t heading out of town in a matter of weeks…

  “Not a chance,” she said, dropping into the seat farthest from the reception desk. Her job was to be Scott’s personal assistant. To help him around Edna’s place, to drive him to appointments, and yes, to run his crazy, trumped-up errands. Not to set him up with hotties they met along the way, or to keep fantasizing about that kiss they’d shared their first night together.

  Then again, after tomorrow’s appointment, she wouldn’t have to worry about it. Once Scott discovered what she had planned for him, he’d probably avoid her for a few days. A good thing, as the chemistry brewing between them was getting harder to ignore.

  So, she’d let him be mad and keep her conscience clear. Besides, his agent—and several hundred kids—was going to love her, for sure. And since J.B. was the one signing her checks, that’s all she really needed.

  At least, that’s what she’d been telling herself every time she passed the place in the hall where they’d shared that first kiss…and where her body kept hoping to be surprised with more.

  Chapter Nine

  “All you can eat pancakes? I could kiss you right now.”

  Scott enjoyed watching Felicity’s face turn three shades of red as she started after the waitress leading them to their table. He followed on his confounded crutches, feeling a million times better now that the radio interview was done and he hadn’t died mid-broadcast. Well enough to goad his PA, since he’d been stressed out because of her and her agenda sabotaging.

  Maybe well enough to do a little flirting with her, too. A shame they had another appointment to go to, or he’d lay that flirting on thicker. The more time they spent together, the more he definitely wanted to push this unspoken platonic-only relationship they had going.

  They were both adults, able to make their own decisions and give their consent. Plus, there’d be no strings attached. He was leaving, and she had a life here. If things got more intimate between them, but they understood it was nothing more than a harmless fling, what could possibly go wrong?

  He eased into his seat and shifted to subtly rearrange the furniture. Clearly, his body was already on board with the idea. Now all he had to do was figure out how to convince Felicity a fling was in her best interest.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked, reaching for a menu.

  “Oh yeah. Used to come here all the time after summer conditioning in high school, then on my trips back to see my grandparents when I was in college. Good food at a great price, and the wait staff was always super friendly.”

  “Nice that not all good things have to change. Tyler and I come here on payday weekends and always sit in this one waitress’s section. She’s got his order memorized.” She laughed softly at the thought, her no-nonsense exterior fading to reveal the hidden softness he was growing so fond of. A softness that lured him in even more than her cinnamon and vanilla scent.

  “Just his?”

  She nodded, her gaze still fixed on the menu. “My order depends on my mood.”

  And what mood would that be today, he wondered. One open to, say, an afternoon makeout session?

  Their waitress stopped by with two glasses of ice water and promised to be right back. Scott downed most of his, trying to cool the desire building with Felicity so close.

  “So, did you and Barbie become instant besties while I was on the air?”

  Her eyes narrowed over the top of her menu. “No.”

  Uh-oh. It seemed he’d hit a sore spot. Unfortunately for her, nothing helped him tamp down the flames of desire more than some good, old-fashioned teasing.

  “Oh? Do you two have history or something? Maybe some messy catfight back in the day?”

  Felicity snorted. “Never seen her before in my life. And can we please talk about something else? We’ve managed to get a few appointments made, but so far we have nothing on the docket for next week.”

  He frowned at the idea, even if the radio deal hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d imagined. In fact, Charlie Baker had made it a lot of fun, mixing up jokes and random glory-day questions with stats from the current MLS standings.
Heck, if all the appointments Felicity lined up went this smoothly, he might survive J.B.’s dumb plan.

  The waitress returned with a smile and coffee, chatting them up as she took their orders. She was an older lady, her graying hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Great smile, though, and the same pleasant demeanor he was used to seeing here. Unlike Barbie, this woman didn’t seem to have Felicity’s hackles up. Was his PA getting a little protective of him?

  He watched the waitress go, then glanced back to Felicity. Nope, no claws out. Interesting.

  She tucked her menu back in with the condiments. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you caught me cheating off your test in math class.”

  Oh, yeah, defensive equaled guilty of something. Maybe convincing her to join him in a hot little fling wouldn’t be as difficult as he’d thought. But not here, not now. Willing or not, he knew convincing her would take some additional lip therapy.

  “Nah, just relieved to have that interview over with. Thanks again for helping me keep my cool in the lobby.”

  The corners of her lips tugged upward, displacing her wary look. Felicity had a beautiful smile. Contagious, too, made all the more alluring by that accompanying dimple in her right cheek.

  Maybe she would have smiled more the past few days if you hadn’t spent so much time being a grade A jerk, whispered his conscience. Guilt rattled him. He’d been so focused on trying to get rid of her that he hadn’t given much thought to what she might be going through. Losing her job, her rental, moving in with complete strangers—her life had been turned upside down, and there he’d been, sulking over the idea of being paired with a personal assistant.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “And that’s what I’m here for, by the way—to help, not to be some schedule overlord.”

  There was that adorable dimple again. Great mom, contagious smile, good heart—her late husband had probably been over the moon having a woman like that to come home to. A zing of jealousy pricked at him, but he ignored it. Now wasn’t his time to settle down. That came later, after a few more winning seasons and at least one national team selection.