by K. K. Allen
Now here I am six months later, an hour into my cardio, burning way more calories than my system can afford, while once again thinking about Monica Stevens. I’m not even sure I like her anymore after the way she’s been acting.
No. That’s a lie.
I might want her more than ever now that she’s added weight to her defense. But even if I do, it doesn’t matter. She’s made herself clear, and I made a promise. From here on out, it’s all business between Monica and me.
My phone rings, forcing me to end my workout. I use the back of my shirt to wipe my face before answering.
“Coach.” I use the pause to catch my breath.
A chuckle answers on the other side. “You all right there, Zach? Don’t tell me you’ve already lost your endurance. You’ve only been out of practice for a month.”
“I’m at the gym.” I smile into the phone.
Coach Reynolds was one of the reasons I was excited to join the team in Seattle. He’s a family man, an introvert by nature, and very well-respected. Not just within the league, but within the college and high school sports communities too. The man is someone to be admired, and I’ve looked up to him since he took me under his wing my sophomore year of high school.
“Good. I won’t keep you,” he says. “Trevor called. Wanted my permission to involve some of the boys in your little fundraiser.”
“It’s a charity event, Coach. Like previous years. Nothing little about it.” I laugh at his attempt to rile me. “Did he give you the details? You should come out, at least catch the scrimmage at the end of the week.”
“He filled me in. And I approve.” The line grows silent for a second, and I wonder if Coach has more to say. It seems like he does. Finally, he lets out a breath on the other end of the line. “Zach, you can come to me with these things. Don’t keep making your agent call me.”
“Sorry, Coach,” I say sheepishly. I know he hates when I send Trevor in my place, but time has been tight lately. Delegating and letting Trevor and Meredith schedule me has given me time back to do other things. But he’s right. He’s family. Not by blood, but in all the ways that matter.
“Trevor’s been working all the logistics while I work with the creative team at BelleCurve to nail down the theme and production.”
“All right. I just wanted to tell you that I gave him my approval and offered up my time if I can be of any help. Coaching, janitorial work. Whatever you’d like.”
I let out a laugh. “Coach, you’re tempting me here. I might have to get you to show these boys how to run some two-point stance sprints.”
“Ha. Better not scare these boys away so young.” I hear a smile in his voice. “Look, the wife and kids have been asking about you. They haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on last season. Plan on coming to dinner one of these nights, okay? Actually, how about tonight?”
My thoughts turn to Monica. “Can I let you know a little later?”
“Sure thing. Just come over if you’ve got the time. You know we’ll have enough to feed you.”
I chuckle. Mrs. Reynolds does always overcook. “Yes, sir.”
I’m pulling up in front of Monica’s apartment, which is only a block from BelleCurve. We made a mutual decision to forego the trip to Orcas Island, at least for now, and instead spend some hours over the weekend brainstorming theme ideas.
When the door to her apartment building swings open and Monica pops out, I get a good look at her petite body in leggings, black leather boots, and a long-sleeved red and black checkered button up. It’s going to be hard to not stare at that all day, but the plan is to avoid eye contact and play it cool. I’m a man of my word.
I start to open my door and then shut it. It goes against everything I believe in to not open the door for her, but if I’m going to prove to myself and to her that I can be around her without a hidden agenda, then I’m winning. In other words, I’m teaching myself how to be a dick for this girl. Awesome.
“Hey,” she says breathlessly, slipping into the passenger seat.
I want to look. To see if her face is as flush as her tone hints. Did she run downstairs? Is she nervous? I bite my curiosity off at the head, refusing to give in. A true disciplined professional; that’s what I am.
“Hey,” I answer casually as I pull away from the curb. “Where to?”
“There’s a community field a few blocks away. Figured we’d start there. Could’ve walked, but street parking is lame around here.”
“No problem.” I take the next right before adjusting the volume knob to the radio. It’s presently set to my favorite country station, so I leave it and focus on the drive. Silence slices through the music as I drive, so much that I want to laugh. Two people purposely forcing themselves to act like the opposites of themselves, all to deter an inevitable attraction. Pure comedy.
“We were expecting you at BelleCurve yesterday,” she finally says.
I pop a mint in my mouth and offer one to her, keeping my eyes on the road. She shakes her head.
“I couldn’t. Had a prior engagement with Meredith set up.”
It’s the truth, although the plan was to hang with some members of the Wifey Club for a few hours and then spend the afternoon at BelleCurve. Plans changed when Meredith convinced me to join her at an early happy hour to discuss my latest endorsement deal.
She’s been extra needy lately, and I hate when she gets like that. It just means she’ll come up with another outlandish idea to reap more attention to my brand, and I’m not that excited about what she’s done for me lately. I understand that being a sex symbol of sorts comes with the territory when you play for a championship-winning team, but she’s taking it too far.
“No problem. It’s just, I’ve got a schedule to put together and I kind of need you for that. There are a lot of unknowns at this point, so I was hoping you could help me fill in some of the blanks.”
I glance at her and a pang of guilt hits my gut. “I’m sorry. I thought it was just another planning meeting, and Meredith thinks she owns me.” I laugh at my own joke, but I see the perturbed expression Monica tries to hide.
What’s that about?
I turn back to the road.
She sighs. “Planning involves scheduling. Without you I can’t prepare the schedule. It’s fine. Just call and let me know next time.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my smile. She’s cute when she’s upset. Maybe she’s even jealous, but I won’t get my hopes up. “Will do, Coach.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then what do I call you now that Cakes is out of the question?”
There’s another awkward silence before she responds. “I didn’t know that was out of the question, but I suppose you could call me Monica? It’s kind of my name.”
Her tone carries zero flirtation, but at least the Monica I know is still there somewhere.
Instead of explaining to her why Cakes is no longer allowed in my vocabulary, I just nod in agreement. “Monica it is.”
Maybe today was a bad idea. I want us to work well together, but if it’s going to be this much of a challenge, maybe I should have her speak directly to Trevor.
“Zach,” she starts.
See, I already know her so well. I know she’s about to question why I’m not undressing her with my eyes per usual.
“Yes, Monica?” I turn and give her the most dazzling smile I can manage.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Okay, smartass. I know what you’re doing. Can’t we just go back to being ourselves? You’re acting so … weird.”
I shake my head. “No. If we both act like ourselves, we’ll like each other, and that’s not allowed, remember?” Parking the car, I glance at her again. “Your rules, not mine.”
Without missing a beat, I reach into the backseat, feeling Monica’s eyes bore into me. And then it’s like a magnetic reaction. I have to look at her again.
Her eyes are lighter in hue now with t
he sun casting light on her face. A translucent honey instead of rich caramel. Fucking beautiful. Peach skin that pinks easily. And her hair, long waves that brush against the top of her breasts. Yeah, I definitely shouldn’t look at her. Ever.
“What are you doing?” She’s peering into the backseat now, trying to get a glimpse of what I’m grabbing.
With a curl of the side of my mouth, I bring up the football and wave it in the air. “We’re going to a field. Might as well bring this.”
“Are we playing tackle or did you bring flags too?”
The question is unexpected, and it makes me laugh. “Neither, smartass.” I wink, then reach for my door handle so I can’t look back at her again. Every time she speaks I want to plant my lips on hers and swallow her words, stroking each syllable with my tongue. That’s the effect she has on me when she makes me laugh. She doesn’t even have to try.
“Just catch and throw, Ca—Monica.” Shaking my head, I hop out of the Jeep and shut the door before I can say anything else.
Avoiding her door, I walk straight toward the field, using long strides to get me there as fast as possible. She’s practically running to catch up. I can hear her coming, but I don’t expect her to punch the ball from my grip as she passes. My mind is on other things, like the fact that I hate the way I’m forcing myself to act. I didn’t think I needed to guard a football in Monica’s presence, but once again, she surprises me.
The pigskin flies into the air and we both reach for it at the same time, but she’s already ahead of me, grabbing it and tucking it under her arm.
“What the…?”
She takes off running and laughing. I give her a few seconds before going after her, mostly because I need to calm my instant arousal. After that, it’s game on.
It only takes me four quick strides to wrap my arms around her waist. She shrieks when I reach over her and steal the ball back. Holding it over my head, I turn and walk backwards to the field. She stalks me with a smile, and just like that, our axis has stabilized. This is where we need to be.
“Can you throw a football? Or do I need to show you how this works?”
Her eyes narrow a little at my challenge, and then she smiles. “I guess you’ll find out.”
Surprising me once more, my eyes widen a little before my walk turns into a jog to gain some distance. “All right, then. I need to see this.”
We’re only twenty yards apart when I throw the ball right to her. I know my strength, and I give her none of it. She’s able to catch it easily, but before I can appreciate the technique of the catch like I want to, she’s throwing it back to me.
It lands against my chest with a powerful thud. “Geez, Monica. That’s an incredible arm.”
She smiles and waves for me to move further back. So I do, and then I throw it again. She catches it and immediately rears back to throw a bullet my way. What in the world? “Where’d you learn to throw?”
“My dad,” she says easily. We continue to move away from each other with each pass. Now I’m just curious how far away she can target with that arm. I’ve never seen anything like it. powderpuff leagues would kill to have her on a team. She gets to about forty yards when I notice her start to lose aim slightly. Still, that’s damn good.
“Throw it for real,” she says. Even from forty yards away I can see that her skin is glowing with exhilaration. She looks radiant standing there, ready to take another ball to the chest, with wisps of hair coming loose from her ponytail and cheeks now blooming pink from adrenaline.
I don’t dare deny her, but I have to laugh because she obviously doesn’t know what she’s asking. “I don’t think you want me to break your ribs, doll face.”
Hands move to her hips and she cocks it out a little. “I can handle it. Just do it.”
My hand moves to my temple to rub the tender spot while I think about what to do. If I were to throw it as hard as I could, it would knock her over—or worse, knock her out completely. Without pads on, that little body of hers would snap in half. But I could still give her some heat.
Winding back slightly, I wing it to her, cringing when I realize how fast it leaves my hands. Faster than anticipated. She squares herself up, jumps slightly, and it plows into her, throwing her back and onto the grass. The ball jolts from her hands the moment she lands, so she reaches up and snatches it, holding it tightly to her chest.
“Shit!” I run the forty yards and drop to my knees to find her laughing hysterically.
“Ow,” she says through her laughter. The ball is still tightly in her hands. “First down,” she jokes.
“Sorry to tell you, but you fell before you had possession.”
“No!” She makes a face and turns to the side, letting the ball fall from her hands. “It was mine.”
Now I’m laughing. “You took that one well. I’m sorry, Monica, I didn’t mean to throw it that hard.”
She rolls onto her back again and locks eyes with mine. “I’ll forgive you under one condition.”
I’ll do whatever you say. “What’s that?”
“Don’t call me Monica ever again.”
A wide grin slowly spreads across my face.
“You got it, Cakes.
Zach’s tossing the ball up in the air and catching it while I snap a few pictures of the field. He’s been silent for a while now, seemingly deep in thought. We’re supposed to be brainstorming the camp’s theme, and I’m feeling pressure from every angle. Marketing couldn’t get the job done to Zach’s satisfaction, so now the task belongs to us. I’m clueless as to what he’s looking for, but surely I’ve captured enough of the field.
Slipping my phone in my shirt pocket, I peer at Zach out of the corner of my eye. We’re walking the track now with no intended purpose, but I’m reminded of walks I would take with my elementary school crushes. When a boy I liked would hold my hand or subtly brush into my shoulder. The innocence of those moments was simple, yet magnified. But that was back when fairytales felt real.
My life changed drastically between then and high school. It didn’t take much to lose my innocence after I learned that fairytales were nothing but false hope based on lies. I guess you could say I was lost and looking for any means of affection. I gave it up to a guy I thought could never hurt me—the anti-football player. Math clubbing, chess playing, jazz loving, zit popping, high-water wearing, Victor Rubio.
He was supposed to be safe. The way he looked at me with those puppy dog eyes and followed me around school like I was God’s greatest gift, I genuinely had hope. The jocks were the ones rumored to be creeps with a rising tally on conquests, but when the “safe” boy I lost my virginity to blabbed the news all over school, he became the hottest thing on campus—a legend to the males, a god to the females. Because Victor Rubio got with the daughter of an NFL superstar. Talk about regrets. The worst of it? Turns out I wasn’t even his first.
“Don’t you have something better to do than walk around an old high school field on a Saturday? I thought you famous types are always busy with some media engagement or cocktail party,” I tease.
Zach presses his lips together and shrugs. “Not me. I like to lay low in the off season. You know, Netflix and chill, workout, and do the occasional charity event. Besides, I couldn’t think of anything better than hanging out with you.”
He holds up his hands in defense, gripping the ball in one hand while realizing he just slipped. “Not hitting on you,” he reassures me. “You’re just fun to hang out with, that’s all.”
The moment I opened the Jeep door this morning, I knew what I was walking into. Zach made himself clear the other day that he would maintain complete professionalism, and then he just walked out the door leaving me reeling with confusion. He claims he’s not into me anymore, yet when I’m with him, I feel like he’s fighting this pull between us just as much as I am. And his words earlier … he’s right. If we act like ourselves, we would wind up where we were six months ago, tangled in each other’s
arms and losing ourselves to the chemistry that binds us.
So here he is, doing exactly as I asked, and I hate it. As much as I want to push him away, I want to cling to him at the same time.
With a flick of his wrist, he tosses me the football. “Time to fess up, Cakes. For someone who doesn’t think too highly of football, you sure know a lot about it. What else did your dad teach you?”
“Everything.” I force a smile in Zach’s direction, desperately wanting to explain to him why I resist his charms—or at least why I’m attempting to resist them. I’m failing miserably.
We stop walking and he brushes a strand of loose hair from my cheek. “You’ve got a story to tell.” He thinks he’s so smart. “People say I’m a good listener, and I’m great at keeping secrets. I also give really good advice, but only when it’s requested.”
The stupid grin that lights up his face next carries too much sincerity it makes me fold like well-kneaded dough. How does he do that? My secrets are mine, and I’ve carried them alone for so long. No one has ever pried into my background. Not even Chloe.
I’m the master of distractions, but Zach throws me off at every pivot. He plays life like it’s a football game. Every time he’s denied a first down, he’s back at it fighting his way toward his goal.
A deep breath and slight laugh does little to soothe my nerves, but being here like this with Zach, walking beside him, his sweet words ringing in my head—maybe I’ll let him gain a few more yards.
He follows me to the bleachers and sits beside me while I slide my finger around the threads of the ball, slowly, just like I would do when I was little. My palms were so small it was a miracle I could get a good grip on the thing, but I got used to the way the leather felt beneath my fingertips. Smooth and rough in a single stroke. Solid and airy in one toss. “Don’t hold it so tight,” my dad would say. “There you go. See that gap between your hand and the ball?” He moved my arms, so the ball tipped up, my arm above my head. “Look up, M. See the sky?”
