by Luis, Maria
I skim the headline once more and feel my insides twist with sympathy.
From Rags to Riches: NFL Player Dominic DaSilva (Tight End for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers) Looks Back on a Youth Spent in Juvenile Detention.
Although I already read the article minutes before Willow showed up, I find myself scanning through again, searching out Dominic’s quotes that have been highlighted:
“Football is the reason I’m where I am today, no questions asked. It saved me when I had nothing and gave me a reason to live.”
“No, I don’t know what happened to the boys I was with in juvie. It’s not exactly a place for bonding. You all did wrong. You all messed up. Time to pay your penance and do better once you’re out—unless you don’t learn your lesson the first time around . . . which, clearly, I didn’t.”
“I created Junior Buccaneers because those kids need a reason to get up in the morning and feel excited about life. They need someone on their side—so, yeah, I know what that’s like. I guess I finally learned how to do better.”
“I guess I learned how to do better,” I whisper to myself, staring at the black-and-white photo the article has provided of Dominic in his Bucs jersey. The number twelve is printed across the front, half-hidden by the football he’s holding. But when I take in his black eyes, I hear only the words he told me on the Wildcats football field a week ago: I’m something of a work in progress.
In the deepest, most secret parts of my soul, I can’t help but wonder what Dominic might accomplish if his driving force wasn’t ambition or a fear of predictability . . . but love.
16
Dominic
The sun is overwhelmingly hot. The kids are sweating bullets. And I’m in a foul fucking mood.
I blow the whistle before calling for another round of breakthrough drills. Bobby sends me a glance that could wither unicorns where they stand. Timmy’s shoulders cave as he tromps back into place. And Topher . . . Shit, even Topher eyes me like I’m the devil incarnate as he lines up and drops his hands to the grass.
The days of worshipping the ground I walk on are long gone.
Even Harry, a red-headed junior, who’s a beast with the ball, didn’t sandwich himself next to me during warm-ups to chat about my time in the NFL, the way he’s done at every practice.
Your shitty attitude might as well be repellant.
Like a bad habit I can’t quit, my attention drifts over to where Levi is running some intricate footwork drills with her group. Her blond hair is tied off in a bun on the top of her head that bobbles and trembles as she demonstrates how she wants the set performed. Despite the muggy weather, she’s wearing baggy sweats that do nothing for her figure and an olive-green T-shirt that represents a team she’s coached in the past.
The Hancock Tigers.
In the two weeks that we’ve worked together, she’s never shown up in anything but Wildcats paraphernalia. Maybe we’re both shaken up over yesterday’s talk out in her courtyard.
I know that I am.
She demolished my walls and scraped out my emotions with a jagged-edged spoon. And she did it all with a gentle hand on my leg and a soft but challenging look in her gaze. Don’t run from the truth, those sapphire eyes of hers dared.
I ran.
But I didn’t run fast enough. I heard every word she spilled about Rick-fucking-Clarke loud and clear. I witnessed the moment when her eyes dulled, the bad memories of her ex-husband threatening to submerge her.
Just as my own bad memories have always come close to drowning me.
I’ve come as far as I have in life by using the shittiness of my childhood and teenage years as fuel in pushing me forward. Every holiday that I spent alone, every achievement I marked off as complete, became another reason to prove to the world—and to myself—that I didn’t need more.
I had the big house. I had the fleet of fancy cars packed away in my five-car garage. I had the pool and the money and a string of women ready to sleep with me at a moment’s notice.
And with a single glimpse into Levi’s life, all of it—the cars and the investment properties and the shallow, inconsequential sex—carves a hollow notch in my soul. The semblance of peace Levi talked about? The sensation of gleaning comfort from the predictable? I have no idea how to find that. Wouldn’t even recognize that level of calm if it stood in front of me in a fucking clown costume.
It’s frustrating. Beyond that, it’s left me feeling lacking all morning. Just as I did years ago, back when I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something so intrinsically wrong with me that I went unwanted for so long.
Why I’ve gone unloved, even now.
“You look like you ate something bad for lunch, Coach.”
Brien.
Goddammit.
Figures he’d show up to observe practice on the one day I’m spitting nails and feeling restless and exposed in my own skin.
I push my sunglasses to the top of my head, over my backward baseball hat. “What brings you down to the field today? Ran out of paperwork to push around on your desk?”
Brien steps up beside me, arms linked over his chest as he surveys the field. “You sure do know how to make a person feel included, DaSilva. Tell me, do you roll out the welcome mat for everyone or am I just special enough to warrant an invitation to your bad side?”
I bite out a harsh laugh. “Sorry, was I supposed to jump to attention and salute you?”
“I’m not opposed.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Bri.”
“You’re pushing those kids too hard, Dom.” Uncurling one arm, he flicks a finger toward where my players are slinking back into position after running through the drill another time. Harry, the football whisperer, pushes his helmet up and tips back his head as he repositions himself opposite the five offensive players whose only mission is to keep him from exploding through their lines. Guilt hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut when Brien tacks on, “They’re not in the pro’s. You can’t treat them like they’re the next Tom Brady.”
“New England’s obsession with him is borderline neurotic.”
“Don’t be put out that none of us have a Dominic DaSilva bobblehead in our cars. Even Levi has a Brady one on her dashboard. You see it yet?”
Levi.
Hearing her name heats my blood immediately.
I reach for my hat, then force my hand to veer to the lanyard around my neck. Tweet! I wait for the boys to look my way then shout for them to take a water break.
Their relief is palpable.
My guilt threatens to drown me like quicksand.
“I didn’t actually come out here to reprimand you.”
“No?” With my arms linked over my chest, I watch the boys pile around the watercooler. “I figured you were tired of grounding your kids at home and needed another victim. Is Cody using your condoms as slingshots again?”
Brien’s shoots me a quality-level side-eye. “That was one time and he was only four.”
“Didn’t he successfully tip over a glass of milk with nothing but his condom slingshot and a peanut to his name?”
“Once. Just once.”
“Early signs of athleticism, if you ask me. Think about what kinda prospects he’ll have one day with aim like that.”
“Who has good aim?” Levi muses as she cuts over to us, one hand raised to shield her face from the sun. “Your son, Adam?”
The smile she sends my way is no different than her normal ones: bright and cheery and not the least bit intimate. I think of what she told me in the Golden Fleece’s restroom: Don’t ever touch me like you did tonight unless you plan to do something about it.
Last night, with her faintly scarred lips parted and her breathing heavy with emotion, I came damn near close to doing something about it. Came so close to it, even, that when I paused to tell her exactly why I had stopped by, I’d been seconds away from pushing her up against her glass doors and kissing that smart mouth of hers until her breathy moans belonged to me alone.
&n
bsp; I wanted to soak up that calm she talked so much about. I wanted to devour her positivity and the hope that coated every inch of her, even when life has clearly tried to beat her down. I wanted, for once, to bare my skin and know that a woman like Aspen Levi would see more than just my nakedness when she looked my way.
Except . . . except she’s got emotional baggage from her ex-husband and clearly I’m all kinds of fucked up in the head. Hooking up with a coworker is a bad idea. Hooking up with a coworker whose son you also coach? Now that’s disaster in the making.
Maine is my calm. Maine is my reprieve. Maine isn’t hot sex with a single mom who encourages her kid to play dirty at mini-golf and moans when she eats pizza.
Levi’s hand brushes mine and, fuck me, but I hiss between my teeth at the unexpected contact.
“Don’t mind him,” Brien says to Levi with a dismissive nod in my direction, “all the grumbling he’s doing is on account of stomach problems.” He and I both know my stomach isn’t hurting and he’s only trying to bust my balls for being in a bad mood, not that he seems to give a shit when he blithely adds, “Is it wrong of me to hope it’s painful? DaSilva’s got a crap ton of bad karma to work off.”
Feminine laughter loops around me, tightening the invisible noose circling my neck. “Are you prepared to die waiting for retribution? Something tells me Dominic here has bad karma in spades.”
Her comment hits a little too close to home. And, after last night’s heart-to-heart, it also grates on an already sore wound.
Sharply, before I even think about the words as they escape me, I ask, “Where’s your Wildcat shirt?”
Levi twists toward me, berry lips parted. “Excuse me?”
The asshole in me—the one who despises feeling vulnerable and raw—digs its heels in deeper, refusing to listen to reason and shut the hell up. “Hancock High?” I nod to the tiger mascot printed on her shirt. “What? You weren’t feeling the Wildcat school spirit? Or maybe you’re just regrettin’ your move back home?”
Her nostrils flare. “Jeez, what crawled up your ass and died today?”
“You did.”
Shit, shit, shit!
She gapes at me, and I don’t need to hear her response to know I’ve messed up. And this is why you think before opening your big, stupid mouth. It doesn’t matter that she has gotten to me today. She’s wreaked havoc on my head, on my thoughts, on my isolated, black heart. “Levi, shit. I’m sorry—”
“Screw off, Dominic.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Brien shuffles between us, his hands raised like he’s concerned we might go at each other, battering-ram-style. “Enough of that.” He points a finger at me. “Don’t be a jerk.” When he looks to Levi, his expression softens imperceptibly. “Don’t sink to his level, Coach.”
His advice feels like the worst kind of insult.
Thing is? I deserve it, one-hundred percent.
Giving me the cold shoulder—literally—Levi’s cheeks burn red as she addresses Brien. “Get him out of here, Adam. I’m not dealing with the bullshit. Not today.”
“No can do,” my old friend sing-songs, palms raised to the sky in an aw, shucks pose if I’ve ever seen one. “I’ve got a journalist sitting in my office who drove up here from Portland. Three-hour trip, guys. He’s determined.”
“From where?” Levi asks with her profile to me.
“The New England Sports Advocate.”
Not. A. Chance. In. Hell.
“No press,” I growl. NESA might as well be the Celebrity Tea Presents of the sports-journalism world. It’s a cesspool of social climbers all looking for their big break, each so-called “journalist” willing to write just about anything to catch the eye of a more established publication. That my old buddy is even considering it is . . . concerning, to say the least. “And especially not them.”
Brien stares at me like I’ve snipped the wires to his favorite gaming set. “You don’t have a choice, DaSilva. He’s here and we could use the publicity.”
Only, it’s not publicity for the team that journalist is looking to expose—it’s me. “Bri, are you seriously gonna sit there and tell me that NESA would be looking at London High if I weren’t here?”
“Okay, I’m seriously over the ego trip.” Levi fingers the hem of her shirt, not even sparing me a single glance. “Dominic can cover practice while I take care of the interview. Let the assistant do his job—how about that?”
It’s a low blow and she knows it.
In the almost two weeks that we’ve been coaching together, we’ve taken on a partnership role with the team. Sure, she has the final say. But that hasn’t stopped her from seeking me out and asking my opinion about a play or allowing me to run drills and scrimmages and everything else as I see fit.
The only place I’ve worked the assistant angle is when we met with the parents at the Golden Fleece, and even then I pulled my weight.
Feeling the sharp blade of annoyance pierce me, I mutter, “Don’t even go there, Coach.”
“What?” she baits, her finger digging into my chest like she’s turned my own blade back on me. “You worried I’ll mess up your mojo by making you look like a decent human being for the article and not like the jerk you actually are? You seriously are the only person I’ve ever met who takes pride in being a complete tool.”
“Ooookay now.” Brien’s hand collides with my shoulder, pushing me back. “While I’d like to play babysitter and sit you both down for a time-out, unfortunately you’re going to have to pull on your adult panties and get your shit together.” Another thrust of his hand against my shoulder. “I’ve got a big-time journalist wanting to talk with you both about how your careers have landed you in small-town Maine. You will not screw this up for the team. Some of those seniors need a slice of hope, and a drop of their name in a paper with their circulation numbers could be a game changer.”
I let the silence linger only momentarily. Then, “I haven’t missed your pep talks. I thought maybe I would but . . . no. Definitely don’t.”
Brien sticks out an arm, head turned toward the field. “Go.”
“The kids—”
“I played quarterback for LSU, Levi. I think I know what I’m doing. Go.”
Like scolded children, Levi and I lurch into step and head for the school.
The silence is damning.
In the past, it’s never mattered to me who I piss off. A coach? They’ll get over it when they see the stats I bring in for the team. A teammate? Nothing a six-pack of beer can’t solve. A friend? Well, haven’t had many of those.
But with Levi . . . I’m a tangled web of fucking emotions. I want to push her down, like a preteen boy with a crush he doesn’t know how to handle—other than to make her life miserable in hope of scoring some points. I want to apologize for being a sorry sack of shit who lashes out when he feels off kilter. I want to pull her to a stop and drag her into my arms and tell her that yesterday’s conversation was the most genuine one I’ve had in years.
If ever.
And that scares the shit out of me.
“I’ll take care of the interview,” she says, her tone all kinds of huffy. “God knows you can’t be trusted with words right now.”
I yank open the double-wide doors and angle my body so she can skate past me. The scent of strawberries catches in my nose, and fuck me, but she smells delicious. Fresh and fruity. Like woman and sunshine and hopes and dreams all wrapped up with a perfectly tied bow.
“Levi, I—”
“No.” She whirls around, nearly sending me tripping over my own feet in a last ditch effort to keep from running her over. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m not okay with you being a jerk to me. Not ever, but especially not after last night.”
The words I’m sorry sit on my tongue, but each time I begin to edge them out, she tromps right over them.
“I don’t know all the details of your life and I’m not going to pretend that I do, but I can say with full clarity that however fucked up you think you are in
the head, none of that gives you any right to pull that bad attitude with me.”
She’s breathing so heavily her breasts are on the rise. Up and down, they move, holstering my attention even as I try to regain control of the situation.
“Levi—Aspen—”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.” Her hands fly at my chest, shoving me back. Or trying to. Like a rabbit attempting to move an eighteen-wheeler, I can’t be budged. “You know which people get to call me Aspen? Family. Friends. You, Coach, are neither.”
Venom.
She’s spitting venom and I’m hard as a fucking rock, and if that doesn’t prove that I’m not quite right in the head, then I honestly don’t know what does.
I step in close, fully prepared to throw her over my shoulder so we can settle this in private, when she brings her foot down on mine. Hard. Definitely not an accident. The cute blonde from the pub has claws, I see.
Something about that makes me grin.
Which sets her off completely.
“You’re my assistant,” she snaps, chin thrust forward. “Does that make you feel good? To know that with a snap of my fingers I could have you fired?”
One foot in her direction. I lower my voice, aware of the echo in the empty hallway. “Sorry to disappoint, but you’d have to do a heck of a lot more than snap your fingers.”
Her mouth pulls tight. “You don’t think I could?”
Another step. “I think you’ve got a lot working in your favor being back in your hometown but getting rid of me isn’t gonna be a win for you. You’ll lose.”
A sexy growl works its way up her throat. “I wish I could clobber you with your ego. Let you feel the brunt of the burn.”
“Think you’re doing a fine enough job on your own.” I quirk a brow, daring her to argue my point, then follow up with another step forward. “I haven’t had a tongue lashing like this one in years.”
I see the moment awareness hits her that I’ve backed her into a corner.
Lockers behind her, a wall to her left.
