by Luis, Maria
Dominic’s lingering pause tells me I’ve surprised him. Then, “Thirty minutes, Coach. That’s a promise.”
21
Dominic
I wait for her by the hedge that separates our two courtyards.
Any moment now, I’m convinced my phone will ring and she’ll tell me she’s changed her mind. I wouldn’t blame her. My request came out of left field for the both of us. One minute I was sprawled out on my couch, scrolling through the latest sports news—Tampa Bay news, in particular—while suffering a raging case of insomnia, and then I was searching my contacts and tapping on her name.
I held my breath as I heard the ringtone and prepared myself to hear the beep of her voicemail.
Crushed misplaced hope beneath the imaginary heel of my shoe when I allowed myself to stop and think about what I was really asking of her.
Dominic DaSilva, party of one.
Aspen Levi, team of two.
The fact that she said yes . . . Jesus fuck, it’s hard to wrap my brain around it.
Probably why I’m standing here, preparing myself for the inevitable when she comes to her senses and tells me to take a hike.
My ears prick up when I catch the sound of shoes crunching over gravel.
And my chest . . . my goddamn chest expands with the sort of relieved sigh I haven’t experienced in years, since that long-ago day when I went to the Buccaneers as the third overall draft pick.
“You there, Coach?” The words emerge raspy and hopeful. I should clear my throat, maybe say something else to reestablish the back-and-forth banter that’s been the foundation of our relationship from the start, but so late at night . . . when all of London is asleep save for us . . . it seems disingenuous to pretend I don’t need this moment.
Knowing that, even though I’m alone in the world—no family, few friends—Levi chose to meet me tonight is humbling.
Instead of answering, she simply walks toward me. Immediately, I sweep my gaze over her, from head to foot. Thankful for the moon being directly overhead, I take in her loose blond curls that dance around her shoulders and the black, square-framed glasses perched on her nose. Glasses that I didn’t even know she needs.
She’s bundled up in a wrap with a sash cinched at the waist. Bare, toned legs from the thigh down. A pair of flip-flops on her feet.
Beneath one arm, she holds two perfectly folded towels.
“Sorry,” she says with a nervous laugh, “I’m such a mom.” She pats the outer towel with her free hand. “Thought we might want to dry off when we’re done.”
God, she’s beautiful.
With those nerdy glasses and the nervous way she tugs at the hem of her wrap and the moonlight turning her blond hair into strands of platinum and silver, she’s absolutely stunning.
“I’m not gonna kiss you tonight,” I blurt out, a far cry from the suave, charming version of myself that America has watched on TV every Wednesday night for weeks now.
With a finger to her glasses, she pushes the frame up the bridge of her nose. “Why not?”
I drop my gaze to my hands, which I stuff in the pockets of my swim trunks. Just say the fucking words, man. Don’t be a pussy. I clear my throat. “Because I’ve always jumped into the sack with women I find attractive. I don’t remember their names. I can’t tell you a damn thing about them. I don’t want tonight . . . I don’t want us going out in the water to be about getting off.”
If Levi’s amused by my verbal fumbling, she doesn’t show it.
She touches her fingers to my wrist, a light, tantalizing brush of skin on skin that hardens my dick even as it quickens my pulse. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Something told me she would.
The glow from the moon highlights the path as we wind our way down to the beach, with me up front to lead the way. Her hand finds my naked back, the warmth of her skin chasing away the chill of the night. Stone pebbles kick up under my tennis shoes, and I lift a thin branch about halfway down, so she can duck under without smacking her head. In silence, we fall back into place.
Only this time I reach backward and grasp her hand in mine.
I hear her stifled gasp.
“This okay?” I husk out.
“I always figured you were the sort to take crazy liberties. Glad to see you’re not proving me wrong,” she teases, squeezing my hand.
She doesn’t let go.
A grin fights its way to my face.
The downward slope of the path evens out as pebble turns to sand. I wait for the moment when Levi realizes there’s a kayak waiting, the same one I hauled to the beach earlier today in anticipation of an early morning workout before football practice tomorrow.
This isn’t what I had in mind hours ago, when I balanced the kayak over my head and walked it down the path, but this is so much better.
“Is that a . . .” She trails off, setting the towels down on a cluster of rocks. Releasing my hand, she steps forward. “You have a kayak?”
I nod. “Bought it when I got the house.” I kick off my shoes, aiming them for the rocks with our towels. “I figure you can go in the kayak, oar in hand to defend yourself from any sharks, and I’ll go in the water.”
“So I’ll be safe.”
She says it so matter-of-factly that my gaze leaps to her face. Though the clouds have slipped over the moon, casting her in shadow, I get the feeling she’s serving me with a hard, searching glance. “Maybe another night you’ll jump in the water with me.”
“Maybe I will.”
My cock stiffens in my swim trunks as I hear her fumbling around with her silk wrap, and I blame the clouds for stealing away the opportunity for me to get a real good look at Levi in nothing but her bathing suit.
I picture her in a one-piece. Something practical and simple.
Something she believes is fitting of someone who’s a mom to wear.
Shock smacks me upside the head when she drifts closer and I catch a quick glimpse of skin. Thin straps are knotted at the back of her neck, and the bikini—Jesus, she’s beautiful—she’s wearing is nothing but two strips of cloth that cover the necessities.
I go from half-mast to full-blown erection in a matter of seconds.
She plucks at the waistband of her bottoms. “I had to dig deep in my closet for this,” she says, her voice as soft and rhythmic as the waves lapping at the sand, “so it’s a little on the small side.”
Small is the perfect size.
Her figure is nothing but temptation. Heavy breasts and wide hips. Trim arms and legs that go on for fucking days—the high cut of her bikini bottoms only serves to make her legs look longer, leaner, and I’d give my right nut to feel them wrapped around my waist as I lower her to the sand and cover her body with mine.
“Dominic? You’re . . . you’re staring.”
There’s a note of hesitance in her voice that I instantly despise. To say nothing of the way she nervously fiddles with her bikini top strap, occasionally sneaking glances up at my face, like she’s worried I disapprove.
The only thing I disapprove of is my promise that I won’t be kissing her tonight.
I’m an idiot. A Grade-A idiot because how the hell am I supposed to keep my hands to myself when she looks like—
“Fucking perfection,” I rasp, sweeping my gaze up to her face. “You’re fucking perfection, Coach.”
In every single way.
“You think so?”
Hell yes. Every part of me thinks so. My needy cock, my starved gaze, my hopeful heart. “Get in the kayak before I make a change of plans.”
Like a temptress sent to drive me wild, her fingers graze my stomach. “And what plans might those be?”
I lower my voice, my own fingers seeking out the bikini bow at her hip. “Me putting you on all fours while I fuck you from behind.”
She laughs softly. “For the record, I appreciate you offering to do me doggy-style. Less chance of sand getting into private places that way.”
I tug on the string, loos
ening the bow in warning. One more pull and the knot will come free and I’ll be entering paradise. It’s tempting. My fingers glide under the knot, and there’s no mistaking the way her hand flies to my wrist . . . and pulls me closer.
Oh, fuck.
In the shadowed night, my gaze collides with hers as my fingers dip south. I grip the knot between my index finger and thumb, and I’m sure she can feel the way my pulse is hammering at the base of my wrist. I promised her no kissing. I vowed to make this night about more than my need to strip her naked and sink into her sweet heat.
It takes every ounce of my self-control to not skim my palm down and cup her between her legs. Instead, I jerk her closer with my hand around her bikini strap top and, when I feel her hot breath on my chest, I do the goddamn gentlemanly thing: I re-tie the knot at her hip. Tight. That shit isn’t coming undone anytime soon.
My hand slips down to squeeze the outside of her naked thigh. “Get in the kayak, Coach. We’re going on an adventure and we’re down to fifteen minutes.”
Giggling, Levi sashays backward. “You’re bossy, Dominic,” she tells me, one hand to the side of her black frames as she peers over at me. “I like it—a lot. Okay. Enough lollygagging. Let’s do this.”
I tuck my cell phone into one of my tennis shoes, then follow behind her. “Lollygagging?”
“Don’t judge me. You used dillydallying the other day,” she says, defending herself as she drops one foot, then the other, into the kayak. “Are you going to push me in?”
“That was the plan.”
My hands find the curved edge of the kayak as I bend at the waist. And, because I’m not all that much of a true gentleman, I take advantage of the fact that Levi is facing away from me to readjust my hard-on. Enjoy it now, I want to tell it, you’re about to die a quick death. At this time of night, the water is gonna be lukewarm at best. I’ll be lucky if my nuts don’t shrivel up on me.
“You know,” Levi muses, “you’re really good at this assistant thing.”
“You thinkin’ about giving me a raise?”
“Wish I could.” She throws a glance over her shoulder at me. “But you’ll have to settle for what I can give you.”
It’s a euphemism if I’ve ever heard one.
More like a promise.
A promise I wouldn’t mind her keeping. I’m dying to know how she’ll feel in my arms without clothes in the way. How her berry lips will taste after I’ve gone down on her and brought her in for a kiss. If she’s as passionate in bed as she is on the field.
If our stint in the classroom is any indication, I have a feeling that passion isn’t a problem for her. At least, it’s not a problem for her when she’s with me. I don’t think I’ll ever rid myself of the memory of her sweet ass rolling and moving while she straddled me on that desk.
Shoving aside all thoughts of the two of us together, I wait for her to get comfortable. When she’s ready and waiting with her hands wrapped around the oars, I slowly push, allowing the kayak to glide into the water. My toes are the first to make contact and I experience a split second of regret. It’s colder than I expected.
Suck it up, big guy.
The dark water sucks the kayak forward with the retreat of the current. Waves crash against my knees. The clouds part and the moonlight illuminates the surface of the water, revealing the swell of Levi’s hips and the nip at her waist. Blonde curls tangle their way down her back, disheveled from sleep and the gentle wind coming in from the east.
I wish I could take a picture of her in this exact moment.
Her toned arms work to power the oars, relieving me to walk along behind her as the water rises to my waist and then up to my rib cage.
A chill settles in my chest as I kick off the sand, the burst of sudden momentum propelling the kayak deeper into the bay.
Levi’s chest folds forward, then straightens again. “We should stop here,” she says, sounding nervous. Her head swivels to the right and then the left as though she’s trying to gather her bearings.
“A little farther.” Where the ocean floor isn’t directly within reach and I’m forced to sink or swim. “Don’t let go of the oars.”
Because this swim is meant to satisfy us both—me diving off into the unknown while she finds harbor in the familiar.
Another few yards and then I tell her to stop rowing. I kick my feet behind me, swimming until I’m alongside the kayak’s profile instead of its rear. With one hand holding onto the edge so we don’t separate, I tread water. Then I dunk my head backward, welcoming the water as it splashes over my face and wets my hair.
“What’s your earliest memory of football?” Levi asks when I come back up for air.
Slicking my hair back and out of my face, I think on that, searching through the memories. Feel the blow to my gut when it surfaces because I don’t . . . I don’t want to share that piece of myself with Levi. I’m not proud of the way I lived my early years. I had a chip on my shoulder the size of the White Mountains and I made sure everyone around me knew it.
I ran with the wrong crowd.
Stole from good people who didn’t deserve my bad behavior.
My earliest experience with football was just after I got out of my first round in juvie. I was an eleven-year-old punk with a tracking monitor locked around my ankle. I felt its weight with every step. Knew what would happen if I stepped outside of the marked perimeter of foster home number three.
Neighborhood kids played football in the street, just out of reach, while I watched from the kitchen window. They laughed and they shot the shit, and I don’t really know how long I stood there, like a ghost seeking a connection with the living, except that eventually the elderly Mrs. Ramirez used her broom to swat at my feet, warning me that if I made one wrong move I’d find myself homeless.
Again.
“I’ve had football at the forefront of my life since I was a kid,” Levi says, saving me from my own silence, the way she always tends to do. I appreciate her intuitiveness more than she’ll ever know. “I used to think Dad was disappointed in the fact that I wasn’t the baby boy the doctors promised him and my mom.”
Feeling grateful for the reprieve she’s given me, I swim a little to the left so I can better see her face. “Is your mom still alive? You never mention her.”
Levi smiles wide. “Alive and kicking. She’s always busy. The life of a social butterfly, I guess. She belongs to about a gazillion different clubs around here and if it weren’t for Topher, I’m pretty sure I’d never see her.”
“She sounds like a character.”
“She’s Mom.” Her shoulders lift in a nonchalant shrug. “I can’t complain. At least she loves me more than she loves Willow.”
At the mention of her younger sister, I tip my head to the side in curiosity. “Your mom actually tells you that?”
“Tells me what?”
“That she loves you more than she loves your sister?”
Feminine laughter mingles with the rippling waves sweeping against the hull of the kayak. “Oh my God, no. I’m totally kidding. Even if she does have a favorite—and I think Willow and I both annoy her equally—she doesn’t pick sides. She never has.”
I’m suddenly beyond thankful that we’re taking this swim in the middle of the night instead of the middle of the day. This way she can’t see that my cheeks are burning red with embarrassment. Family interrelationships are pretty much out of my realm of expertise.
“Right.” I splash the water with a flat palm. “Sorry. Stupid question.”
The kayak tilts toward me as she leans her weight in my direction. “You know when you have a million things you want to say,” she says gently, “but none of them sound right, even in your head?”
All the goddamn time.
“Talking isn’t my strong suit.” I reach up to grasp one of the oars. The kayak shimmies, twisting toward the left in a semicircle. “As you’ve probably figured out by now.”
“You faked it well all those years on Sports 24/7.
”
My brows shoot up in surprise. “Don’t tell me you watched every episode.”
Levi pretends to fight for possession of the oar I’m holding, sending the kayak rocking back and forth. Laughter seeps out of me, chasing away the cold bite of the water when she drops her head back with a heavy sigh.
“One episode,” she admits, as if it pains her. “Only one.”
“Yeah?” I inch my hand up the oar, until my fingers graze hers and she’s gasping at my icy touch. It might be early June, but the bay is still cold as shit. Ignoring the wrinkled sensation of my fingertips against the silk of her skin, I push for more information. “Which episode?”
“You’re going to tip me over.” Her thumb hooks around mine, a subtle warning for me to cut it out. “And it was about a year ago, maybe a little before that. You hosted a top-ten countdown of college players who showed potential to make it to the NFL but didn’t for whatever reason.”
I vaguely remember the one she’s talking about. During my four-year stint with Sports 24/7, I rarely had the opportunity to throw my own ideas into the mix. Screenwriters held the upper hand and, as I learned early on, I was nothing but a well-paid face for the show. The episode Levi’s referring to is a segment someone in the production room thought would be a major hit with our audience.
It wasn’t.
“I waited for you to say my name.”
At her ragged confession, my legs momentarily stop moving and my weight dips down, the salty water rushing up my nose. I power kick and spring back up like a released buoy. But the near drowning doesn’t stop me from asking—no, demanding: “What did you say?”
“I sat there on my couch, you know. Topher was at practice and Rick, for once, was actually picking him up.” Her shoulders shake and I’m not sure if she’s feeling chilly or if the memories are too much to handle. “Anyway,” she says, bending her knees to her chest and wrapping one free arm around her legs, “I knew it was unlikely I’d be mentioned. My insecurities rose up and I remember . . . I remember thinking to myself, God, Aspen, the only reason you were noteworthy to begin with was because you’re a woman playing a man’s sport.”
