by Impulsive
They were both breathing heavily, lost in the heat of their embrace. Ty's hand was tugging at her shirt, trying to dislodge it from the waistband of her slacks, when loud laughter brought them abruptly back to earth. Jess gasped, lurching backward, and would have tripped had Ty not held on to her arm—though he didn't appear to be all that steady himself at the moment. He looked as dazed as she felt.
Three couples leaving the party trooped past them, issuing friendly taunts as they went.
"Administering a little mouth-to-mouth there, James?"
"What did Corey put in that jalapeño dip, anyway?"
"I don't know, but I hope you had some, honey."
"Carry on, folks. Don't mind us."
Jess wanted nothing more than to find a large hole, crawl into it, and pull it in after her! She'd never been so mortified! At least not since the "falsie" incident. Ty, blast his hide, just shrugged and chuckled along with them, as if it were no big deal to get caught necking in his friends' front yard.
From the porch, Corey flipped the light switch off and on again. Gabe called out, "Can't you wait until you get home?"
"Indeed!" Corey added, her tone as amused as her husband's. "This is a respectable neighborhood. Now go make out someplace else, before someone calls the cops. And Ty, get your big feet off my pansies, before I take a broom handle to your head!"
CHAPTER 7
Ty was at Jess's apartment at nine o'clock the next morning, apparently intent on beating her door down, from the sounds of it. Still in her jersey-nightie, Jess peered at him through the peephole. Even distorted by the minilens, he looked gorgeous! It just wasn't fair!
"Open up, Jess!" he hollered. "I know you're in there. Your car's still here."
"Go away!" she called back through the door.
"Oh, c'mon!" he wheedled. "I was counting on a couple cups of cappuccino."
"There's an espresso place two blocks south of here," she informed him. "Now, stop banging and yelling at me or I'm going to sic my dog on you."
He laughed. "You don't have a dog."
"I bought one this morning," she lied blatantly. "A big Doberman with a penchant for biting annoying quarterbacks."
"I don't hear him barking."
Jess waved her foot in front of the motion-activated rubber frog sitting on the floor just inside her front door. It gave its customary "ribbet... ribbet."
Ty let loose with another laugh. "Since when do Dobermans croak?"
"He has a cold," she ad-libbed.
"It's August, and so hot you can fry eggs on the sidewalk," he reminded her.
"It's a summer cold. Or maybe an allergy. It's pollen season."
"You're nuts, you know that?" he claimed. "Speaking of which, I brought donuts. Those gooey pecan twists you said were your favorites. Now, will you please open the door?"
Jess relented. He'd hit her weak point with the donuts.
Ty stepped inside, triggering the frog again as he entered. He stared down at it, his mouth quirked in a wry grin. "A poor excuse for a security system, if you ask me. But better than my first assumption, which was that you were in here kissing toads, trying to turn one of them into a prince, and risking warts in the process."
"Been there. Done that," she quipped. "It doesn't work. You're still a toad this morning."
He ogled the long expanse of leg beneath her sleep shirt. "Want me to check you over for warts?"
"Do you want to wear those donuts?" she countered.
"Your moods are as changeable as the wind," he complained, docilely following her into the kitchen. "You didn't seem to mind my hands on you last night. In fact, I'd swear you were enjoying yourself immensely."
"The kiss was nice," she admitted, "until we got caught looking like two sex-starved teenie-boppers."
Ty chuckled. "Yeah, that doused the flames real fast, didn't it?"
"I'm glad you found it funny. Personally, I was embarrassed to the hilt."
"Your parents never caught you smooching on the front porch with your date?" he asked.
Her sheepish expression gave her away. "Once, and that was enough. I was dating a basketball player, one of the few guys who was taller than me. The trouble was, we both wore braces. Our first, last, and only kiss was a disaster. His braces got tangled up with mine. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on your viewpoint, my dad was a dentist. He managed to extricate us, though not without quite a bit of work, during which he gave us a long sermon on the perils of 'swapping spit and germs' with another person, particularly someone of the opposite sex."
Ty tossed back his head and roared with mirth. By the time he could speak coherently, he was holding his ribs and wiping tears from his eyes. "You've got to be making all this up. The braces, the falsies, the whole bit."
"I wish!" she exclaimed, setting his cappuccino down in front of him and selecting a donut for herself. "I must have had the most embarrassing childhood on record."
"At the risk of offending you, I wish you had those times on tape. You'd win that hundred-thousand-dollar prize on 'America's Funniest Home Videos' hands down!"
He picked up his cappuccino and took an appreciative sip. "What are you planning to do today?" he inquired, changing the subject suddenly.
She slanted him a sideways glance. "Oh, I thought I'd knit an afghan or two, write a best-selling novel, and maybe dash off to Washington to have lunch with the president's wife in between. Nothing too taxing. Why?"
Ty rolled his eyes. "Hundreds of comedians out there starving, and you're trying to be funny. I just wondered if you were coming to watch us practice this afternoon."
Jess frowned. "I thought you got the day off after the game."
"So did we, but there was a message on my answering machine when I got home last night. Until further notice, we will be having practice sessions every day."
"I shouldn't wonder!" Jess snorted. "In that case, they ought to make Crumrine practice twice a day. Where did they recruit that guy from, anyway? He can't kick worth a tinker's darn."
"Damn."
"What?"
"If you're going to swear, do it right. It's a tinker's damn." Jess shrugged. "That's beside the point. Crumrine is still the worst kicker I've ever seen."
Ty's face clouded. "You know, it really burns my butt when you armchair pros spout off the way you do, especially when you don't know what you're talking about half the time. It's easy to criticize from the sidelines, but you should walk in a man's shoes before you come down too hard on him. Sure, Alan's having a bad streak, but it's not as if you could do any better."
"Want to bet?"
"Ha!"
"I'm not kidding, Ty," she assured him.
He gave her a hard look. "Okay, babe. Time to put your money where your mouth is. In other words, put up or shut up."
Jess brushed the crumbs from her hands and stood. "Fine with me. What'll it be? The wager, I mean."
He gave her the once-over, from head to toe.
"Not that, stud muffin. Think of something else."
"Kind of hard to do, with you wearing that shortie shirt and flashing those long legs at me," he told her. Then, "If you can kick better than Alan, I'll trade you cars for a week. If I win the bet, you make me seven of my favorite home-cooked meals."
She grinned. "You're on. How, when, and where do I prove my point?"
Ty glanced at his watch. "We've got a couple of hours before practice, which means we should have the field to ourselves. What do you say we go now?"
Jess nodded. "Wait here while I get changed."
"I could come help you," he offered devilishly, reverting to form. "I'd still like to get a gander at that new peach-apricot bra."
"No way."
"I don't suppose you bought panties to match?" he suggested.
She sent him a sassy wink. "As a matter of fact, I did. French cut. Chew on that while I'm gone."
"I'd love to. Just toss them out here. Better yet, I'll gnaw them off of you."
"In your dreams, big boy," she shot
back, trying to keep her voice from cracking. Just the thought of him doing that was getting her hot and bothered.
He sighed, casting a prayerful gaze toward the heavens. "Just go get dressed, will you, before I turn into a raving, drooling maniac?"
This early, the only other people at the stadium were the clean-up crew, busy clearing the debris from the stands. The field had already been swept free of spectator trash left from last night's game. Ty got a couple of footballs from the equipment room while Jess donned her cleated soccer shoes. She was squatted down, doing what amounted to half a leg split, when he returned.
"What are you doing now?"
"What's it look like? I'm stretching out. Warming up. It's been a few years since I've played soccer."
He tossed a football from hand to hand. "This is a football, not a soccer ball, in case you haven't noticed. There is a difference."
"Uh-huh." She went on with the exercises intended to limber her muscles. On her feet now, she kicked her foot high over her head, then repeated the move with the other leg.
"Stop that!" Ty snapped. "I can see right up those loose legs of your shorts."
"Shut up and enjoy the view. I'm busy."
"Busy displaying everything you've got to the whole world, not to mention the cleaning crew," he informed her tersely.
"I'm wearing underwear, the thick athletic brand I've always worn to play soccer, so I know nothing improper is showing."
Done with that exercise, she began jogging in place, and progressed to an intricate series of stagger-style sidesteps and kicks. Three steps and kick with the left leg, three steps and kick with the right.
Ty covered his face with his hand, in a gesture of dismay, and peered through the gaps in his fingers at her. "Pray tell, what are you doing now? You look like an overgrown fairy who's lost her pogo stick. Or a drunken ballerina, at best."
Jess stopped, planting her hands on her hips, and stared him down. "Cut the crap. You and I both know that numerous coaches are sending their football players to dance classes now. It improves their agility. So does this, and I prefer it to ballet."
He grinned. "Ah, flunked out of dance class, did you?"
"No, I quit. Right after my instructor informed my mother that she was wasting her money."
"Let me know when you're done wasting my time," he told her.
She dangled her arms at her sides, shaking them. "It's only fair that I get to limber up first, Ty. You wouldn't want to win by default, would you?"
Finally, she was ready. "I'll hold the ball for you," he said, "but try not to bash your foot into my hand. It's hard to play with broken fingers, and Coach wouldn't be real thrilled, either."
"Oh, stop being such a whiner, James. I'm not going to injure your precious digits."
"Where do you want to start?" he questioned, still wearing a skeptical expression. "Is the twenty-yard line okay?"
"Just dandy," she assured him.
He planted the ball. She rushed it in three well-measured steps. It left the toe of her shoe and sailed over the crossbar with room to spare.
"Child's play," she taunted, shooting him a wide smile.
"A fluke, more likely," he grumbled.
He set it up again, and once more she nailed it.
He eyed her cynically. "Let's try one from off center."
She simply shrugged, as if she couldn't care less. In quick succession, she effortlessly popped three from the left, and four from the right, each on a more severe angle than the next. "This wouldn't be quite so easy if not for the dome," she admitted charitably. "Then, I'd have to account for windage, too."
"Right," he grumbled. The woman hadn't been kidding. She was good. From close up, at least. "Let's try a few from farther out. Field goals aren't always made from the twenty."
They added ten yards, which would have constituted a forty- seven-yard field goal. She threaded it through the goal posts without breaking a sweat. At thirty-five, the ball still spiraled dead center between the posts, with a good twelve inches of clearance, and Jess indulged in a little victory dance. With her arms over her head, her fists punching the sky, she whirled in a circle. "Yeah! When you're good, you're good!"
Ty's expression had run the gamut from smug to sullen and now astounded. "Holy Moley! I can't believe the foot you've got! And the power behind it! You're absolutely incredible! Where did you learn to kick like that?"
"I told you. I played soccer, right here at Ohio State."
"Yes, but... what else can I say, but wow!"
"Shall we try one from the forty-yard mark?" she suggested. "If I make it, you owe me a full tank of gas on top of our original bargain."
Ty nearly swallowed his tongue when the ball cleared the bar by inches and only a little right of midpoint. She'd just made a fifty-seven-yard field goal!
The cleaning crew had long since stopped to watch, and were rooting for her. "From the fifty, lady!" one called out. "From midfield!"
Ty shook his head at her. "Can't be done," he informed her. "The longest official field goal on record is sixty-three yards, originating from the forty-six. That's held since 1970, when Tom Dempsey did it for New Orleans, in a game against the Detroit Lions. No one has equalled it since, let alone broken it."
"Aw, let me try," she pleaded. "If I miss, I miss, but it'll give my cheering section a thrill either way. Besides, records are made to be broken, even if this wouldn't be official."
She gave it her best shot, amid encouragement from her impromptu gallery. The ball had the distance, but fell just short in height. It hit the crossbar near the left-hand post, and ricocheted backward. Had it taken a forward bounce instead, it would have been a legitimate score—and Ty would have fainted dead away. As it was, he was ready to kiss the ground she trod upon.
He gathered her into his arms and twirled her around, her toes barely skimming the ground. "Woman, you are truly something! I've never seen the likes of you!"
Jess giggled. "Then you admit I'm better than Alan?"
"Ten, twenty, a hundred times over!" he conceded readily. "The coach would kill to have a kicker like you. You know that?"
He put her down, but didn't release her. "If the coach would approve it, would you consent to practicing with Alan? Teach him how to kick like that?"
"Like a personal trainer?" she queried.
Ty nodded. "Yes."
Jess's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure that would work, Ty. In the first place, the coach probably won't agree. In the second, Alan would most likely resent anything I, as a female, would attempt to teach him. Third, I'm not certain I can teach someone else how to kick the way I do. At the risk of sounding egotistical, a lot of it is simply natural talent, and some of it is just dumb-luck instinct."
"Whatever it is, babe, it's pure gold."
She didn't have a chance to refute his claim as his lips covered hers in a kiss that was instantly hot and urgent.
When the two of them finally came up for air, both breathing erratically, Jess was all but limp with desire. "Whew!" she declared fervently. "If I'd known making field goals was such a turn-on, I'd have started kicking them sooner."
Like Ty, the head coach had been scornful at first, but after witnessing Jess's amazing skill, he was properly impressed. However, the special teams coach was quite defensive about having his position usurped, if only in this one area, by a novice, and a woman at that! Had it been up to him alone, he would have nixed the idea. Danvers outranked him, though, and once he'd convinced the manager and the three co-owners, the deal was done. They had even agreed to pay Jess for her efforts, with a bonus if Alan improved significantly.
The biggest fly in the ointment, and the thing that bothered Jess most, was that of the three co-owners, Tom had been the only one to vote against her. That really hurt. When she cornered him in his office at the bank the next morning, she asked him why. He told her he simply didn't want her neglecting her primary job as a reporter.
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Jessie. Don't je
opardize the career you've worked so hard at."
She promptly assured him that her new assignment as Alan's trainer would not interfere with her article. "Besides, Tommy, this 'coaching' bit is only temporary, and it might even get me in better with the other players, especially if it pans out. At this point, they're all thoroughly ticked at Alan."
"That, or they'll come to resent you for interfering in what they consider their male domain," Tom warned. "Crumrine, at least, is not going to like it one bit. Come to think of it, neither is your mother. Have you told her about it yet?"
Jess wrinkled her nose at the thought of the phone conversation she'd had with her mother the previous evening. "Yes. I figured I'd better do it before you did, or before the news leaked out by some other means. She had a hissy fit at first. Her baby daughter, working around all those sweaty, spit-and-curse men! As if I were still sixteen and she had to protect my virtue, for heaven's sake!"
"She worries about you, Jessie. So do I."
Jess grinned at him. "That's why I told her good old Tommy was right there to watch out for me and see that I didn't come to any harm. Then I reminded her that being surrounded by all these men might be a blessing in disguise, if she's still holding out hopes of me getting married and providing her with grandchildren one day. It does better my odds, considering I'm such an odd duck, after all, and can't afford to be too picky."
Tom shook his head in mock dismay. "Jessie, Jessie. What are we going to do with you, girl? Oh, well, I hope you sent your mother greetings from me. Are you going to be seeing her soon? If she's coming to Columbus in the near future, I'd love to take you both out to lunch."
"I wouldn't count on it. She's awfully busy right now, getting Halloween and holiday molds set up for the fall circuit of craft shows."
"Still tinkering with those ceramics, is she?" Tom commented. "What about that husband of hers? Can't he support her properly, so she doesn't have to mess with it?"
"Now, Tommy. You know she loves John dearly, and he earns darned good money. Mom just likes puttering around with her ceramics. She's even bought a pottery wheel, and is turning out bowls and vases of her own design now. It's very creative and satisfying for her."
