by Maggie Wells
Millie gave her a squinty-eyed glare, but Kate knew her old friend well enough to be certain she was doing mental backflips behind that mask of imperturbability. The other member of their unholy triumvirate, Professor Avery Preston, was most likely scamming leftover nachos from one of the snack bars. Athletics weren’t her thing, but Avery was a good friend. She accepted her ticket to the game with only a few grumbling words about the possibility of bleacher butt.
Kate skimmed over the crowd of reporters, looking for one familiar face, but came up empty. Tamping down a sharp pang of disappointment, she sliced through the final strands, then waved the net high over her head.
Mike took the severed net from her as he handed her down from the ladder. Kate wriggled her feet into her pumps, then started toward the hastily stretched-out red carpet at the center of the arena to accept her prize.
There’d be no denying her legacy now. Kate Snyder was the winningest coach in the history of Wolcott athletics. Period. No need to add any pesky sport or gender qualification to the accolade.
Anxious to score good positions, the reporters scurried off to the press room while the NCAA commissioner took his spot next to the table holding the trophy. Her players slipped championship T-shirts over their heads and snapped selfies. Unlike the endless hoopla surrounding the men’s tournament, this celebration was already winding down. Only a few die-hard fans would stick around for the presentation.
“You ready, Coach?” Director Samlin asked, taking his place beside her.
Kate smiled, then plucked her net from his hand. She liked Mike, but winning this tournament meant she had the balance of power firmly in her grasp. This particular battle was over, but the war wasn’t won. Yet.
“I’m more than ready, Mike,” she said as she draped the net over the corner of the trophy. “More than ready.”
* * *
“I can’t tell you how proud the entire Wolcott Warrior nation is at this moment…”
The athletic director’s words faded to background noise as Kate surveyed the crowd crammed into the too-tiny conference room. Never in all her days as a player or a coach had she seen so many media outlets assembled in one spot. Well, maybe when she played in the Olympics, but certainly not here in America.
She didn’t see Musburger or Costas in the crowd, but National Sports Network had sent their golden boy, Greg Chambers. She hadn’t seen him live and in person in years. Something was up. Something juicer than an NCAA Women’s title.
A lump of apprehension formed in her stomach. Cameras whirred and flashes blinked like strobes. She shifted on the utilitarian metal folding chair and squinted into the glare of the portable lights set up on either side of the stage. Needing something to ground her, she reached out to touch the severed net dangling off the edge of the trophy. Ironic that something that usually hung nine feet off the floor should make her feel more secure.
“…Coach Snyder’s unwavering dedication to the Warrior athletic program is an inspiration to me and everyone who has known her as a player, leader, mentor, and role model.”
Kate plastered a gracious smile back on her face and promptly zoned out as Mike launched into the usual spiel. She didn’t need to be reminded of her accomplishments. The proof of her hard work and determination sat front and center on the table.
The Wolcott University Warrior Women were the national champions, and she, Kate Snyder—Wolcott alumna, WNBA all-star, and Olympic gold medalist—was the one who’d led them there. Again.
This was her moment. The net-draped trophy was her third Division I championship as a women’s basketball head coach. A stat that placed her a half dozen wins behind the current king—Geno Auriemma, from the University of Connecticut—but next in line after her idol, the late, great Pat Summitt, in the record books.
A banner achievement. One more personal milestone. She just never imagined it would garner this much press attention. Kate drew a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves making her heart stutter-step, and tuned back into what the AD was saying.
“Kate Snyder is the personification of the title ‘Coach.’ Grace under pressure and the instincts of a born champion…”
His voice held a slightly too-enthusiastic edge. Kate shot him a curious glance. Mike was a former NFL player turned collegiate program builder. Women’s basketball probably wouldn’t have even registered on his radar if his first gig as athletic director had landed him anywhere but Wolcott. But the Warrior Women held the only bragging rights the university had reaped in decades. That meant it was time for Mr. Former Football Star to suck it up and sing the praises of women’s hoops.
“We are honored that Coach Snyder continues to call Wolcott University home…”
Ah, a shot across the bow. Her contract was up this year. He knew it, she knew it, and the handful of people in this room who actually cared about women’s basketball did too. Kate Snyder was no longer willing to be treated like the protégé she’d once been.
No more jokes about the salary differential between her and her male counterparts being her contribution to the alumni fund. If Mike thought he could bamboozle her with a charming smile and a hefty dose of sentiment, he had another think coming. She was done shooting from the outside. He’d better be prepared to pay her what she was worth or be ready to take a charge, because she was coming at him straight down the middle.
“Kate Snyder is the epitome of a warrior, and I, for one, am damn glad to have her on my team.” He turned his smooth-operator smile on her. “Coach, on behalf of the Warrior nation, I congratulate you on another fantastic season and thank you for doing us proud.”
The two of them exchanged smiles and nods. She reached out to touch the net again, and a barrage of flashes nearly blinded her. Kate hoped the cameras captured every morsel of Mike’s sincerity. Her agent was most likely recording the press conference, but Kate wanted to be sure they had a good record of the depth of his gratitude. Those things were easy to forget once contract negotiations began.
“Thank you, Director Samlin.”
Squashing the rising tide of nervousness building inside her, she scanned the crowd, looking for a friendly face to focus on while she gave her statement. She didn’t need to look any farther than the front row.
Jim Davenport from the Sentinel held his micro recorder pointed directly at her. She stifled a smirk when she noted the grim expression on his face. It seemed out of place. Jim was Wolcott’s hometown sports reporter and a die-hard basketball junkie. You’d think that would make him the friendliest face of all, but no. He frowned every bit as fiercely as he glared at the other reporters, clearly peeved by the additional media coverage. Why hadn’t he been out on the court?
A hot flash of annoyance fired in her gut. Jim ought to be happy. He was the guy with the inside track after all. He should have been the first clamoring for a quote. Pushing through her irritation, she ignored Jim’s snit and scanned the room until she landed on the familiar face of Steve Bishop from one of the Nashville news affiliates. When their gazes locked, she turned on her brightest smile and dredged up a little of the drawl she’d never quite shed.
“And thanks, y’all. My, I never imagined a turnout like this. I thought I’d just let y’all catch a couple of pictures of the new hardware and then hop on the bus.”
Her comment was met with a low rumble of chuckles. Though she’d been dealing with the press for years, it still took her some time to get her feet under her at media events. She zoomed in on Jim for a moment, allowing herself to dally in her comfort zone before making eye contact with the bigger sharks in the tank.
“I appreciate Director Samlin’s praise, and trust me, I’ll be playing that sound bite over and over on my DVR,” she added, flashing her boss a cheeky grin. “But I’m not the one who won the game, am I?”
Lifting a challenging eyebrow, she turned her attention to Greg Chambers. She hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing the N
ational Sports Network’s lead basketball commentator since she’d been in the WNBA and he’d been hanging around the sidelines hoping for a quote. Well, she had one for him now.
“Most of y’all didn’t expect much out of us this year, and I want to thank you personally for giving these twelve phenomenal young women the kick in the long baggies they needed to get the job done. Just imagine: if we’d believed our own press, we could have been watchin’ the game from home.”
The press corps gave another appreciative chuckle, and she plowed ahead, confidence growing. “Then again, if we were watching from home, we would have had snacks.” She pressed a hand to her stomach and grinned at the assemblage. “I don’t suppose anyone thought to bring us any Ro-Tel dip? Maybe one of those six-foot sub sandwiches?”
That earned her a heartier round of laughter, but it was laced with discomfort she couldn’t quite identify.
“Of course, it’s also nice to be able to wrap this one up so close to home. The Music City has been awful good to us, but I hope that the good people of Nashville won’t be offended when I say I think we all look forward to sleeping in our own beds tonight.”
She went on to praise a few individual players for outstanding performances and heaped the usual load of “I couldn’t do it without you” on her assistant coach, but still an undercurrent of impatience hummed through the room. Reporters tapped pens and repositioned equipment. Onlookers gathered along the walls shifted their weight from foot to foot. Her words came slower, but her mind raced.
Was she missing something? Forgetting to thank someone critical to the process? Was her blouse buttoned correctly? Or maybe she was committing the kind of unwitting gaffe that would turn her into an internet GIF before the evening was out?
Watching the crowd warily, she wound down with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I guess that’s all I have to say.”
She glanced at Mike and found the athletic director sitting rigid in his seat, his eyes fixed on someone at the very back of the room. She squinted, but like ninety percent of the guys in the room, the object of Mike’s attention was dressed in the off-duty jock uniform of khakis and a knit polo shirt. He wore a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, but it didn’t bear the Wolcott Warrior logo or the logo of any media outlet. No, his hat had what looked like a coiled snake appliquéd just above the bill.
A jolt of unease fired through her belly as every reporter’s hand shot up, but she kept her smile firmly in place. Director Samlin gave his head the tiniest shake, but she wasn’t about to be waved off. They’d won. This was her night, and damn it, she could alley-oop any question the jackals threw at her. Her team had played strong and clean. She had nothing to hide.
So she went straight to the biggest jackal of them all. “Yes, Greg?” she said, giving NSN their due by nodding to Chambers first.
To her surprise, he didn’t direct his question to her but spoke to the man sitting next to her.
“Director Samlin, at five forty-three this evening, a private plane owned by Richard Donner, one of Wolcott University’s biggest boosters, touched down at Nashville International. Witnesses at the airport confirmed that the plane was carrying former Northern University football coach Danny McMillan.”
Kate’s gaze immediately flew to the mystery man at the back of the crowd, but the snake charmer was gone. Everyone in the room seemed to be waiting for Mike’s reply. Turning to look at the AD, she found Mike wearing a mildly curious expression. But the man’s eyes were sharp.
He offered an apologetic but confused smile. “I’m sorry, was there a question I missed?”
“What is he doing here?” Chambers asked. “Are you thinking of hiring him to replace Coach Morton when he retires?”
“Coach Morton has not informed me of any retirement plans, so I think it would be a bit presumptuous to start looking for candidates to fill his job,” Mike answered smoothly.
“Then what is Coach McMillan doing here?”
The smile Mike turned on the reporter probably got him laid back in his playing days based on wattage alone. “Perhaps he wanted to come watch the game.”
“But you and Coach McMillan played together—”
Mike held up a hand to stop the reporter. “People, I can honestly tell you that no one employed by the Wolcott athletic department is thinking about anything but basketball tonight. This is Coach Snyder’s and her team’s night, and if you don’t have any further questions pertaining to tonight’s stellar championship victory, I’m going to thank Coach for doing us all proud once again and let her get back to the celebration she so richly deserves.”
The room exploded with shouts and calls, but Mike ignored them all as he pushed his chair back and rose. She stood too, and the moment their eyes met, she knew every word he’d just said was complete bullshit.
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Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Cat Clyne, Laura Costello, Rachel Gilmer, and the Sourcebooks team for their unflagging dedication to making the Love Games series shine. I appreciate your willingness to share your expertise and your continued enthusiasm for these characters. I’m so happy to be a part of the Sourcebooks family!
Thanks to my agent, Sara Megibow, for her encouragement, support, and exclamation points. Your passion for what you do is as infectious as your smile.
I want to give a shout-out to my Super Cool Party People, DSRA Diamonds, and the assemblage of awesome authors and rad readers I’ve collected over the years. I have the most fabulous friends, everybody says so.
I could not do what I do without my critique partner, Julie Doner. She’s my best bud, pesky little sister, and everyday inspiration. She keeps me motivated and curbs my comma abuse, all while working for peanuts. Literally. The PayDay bars are in the mail.
As the youngest of seven, I learned early what the phrase “No blood, no foul” meant. I like to think that early training toughened me up, but I admit to being a bit of a softy where my family is concerned. I mostly forgive you for the scrapes and scars.
And last but not least, thanks to Bill, the man who makes me feel like a champion every single day.
About the Author
By day, Maggie Wells is buried in spreadsheets. At night, she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. The product of a charming rogue and a shameless flirt, you only have to scratch the surface of this mild-mannered married lady to find a naughty streak a mile wide. She has a passion for college football, processed cheese foods, and happy endings. Not necessarily in that order.
Bad Bachelor
First in the Bad Bachelors series
If one more person mentions Bad Bachelors to Reed McMahon, someone’s gonna get hurt. Reed is known as an “image fixer” but his womanizing ways have caught up with him. What he needs is a PR miracle of his own.
When Reed strolls into Darcy Greer’s workplace offering to help save the struggling library, she isn’t buying it. But as she reluctantly works with Reed, she realizes there’s more to a man than his reputation. Maybe, just maybe, Bad Bachelor #1 is THE one for her.
“Sizzling, sexy, and so much fun!”
—Sarah Morgan, USA Today Bestselling Author
For more Stefanie London, visit:
sourcebooks.com
Love Game
First in a new contemporary series from author Maggie Wells
Kate Snyder is at the top of her game. So when the university hires a washed-up coach trying to escape scandal—paying him a lot more than she earns—Kate is more than annoyed.
Danny McMillan gets Kate’s frustration, but her pay grade isn’t his problem, right? When Kate and Danny finally see eye to eye, sparks turn into something even hotter…and they need to figure out if this is more than just a game.
“Will steal your heart…romance at its finest.”
—Harlequin Junkie for Going Deep
For more Maggie Wells,
visit:
sourcebooks.com
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