by Amy Brent
I picked it up and looked at the screen.
It was my dad on Facetime.
I slid the button to answer the call and held the phone up so he could see my face. I worked up a smile and said, “Hi, dad, how are you?”
He always held the iPhone too close to his face. All I could see was his nose and mouth. I told him to hold the phone away from his face so I could see him better.
“Is that better?” he asked, giving me a goofy grin.
“Perfect.”
“So, how’s my little girl?” He brought the phone back to his lips to speak, then pulled it away to listen, like he was talking into a walkie-talkie. I rolled my eyes.
“Your little girl is twenty-four and fine.” I could hear noise behind him, like an airport lounge. “Where are you?”
He glanced around, then brought the phone to his lips. “I’m still at the owner’s meeting in Los Angeles, but I just wanted to give you a head’s up about something. Do you know who Sam Carson is?”
I bit my tongue. Boy, did I ever.
At least in my dreams.
“As in Sam Carson, the new head coach of the Trojans?”
“Right. Have you met him yet?”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“I need you work with him,” dad said seriously. “I assume you’re aware of his past indiscretions.”
“I am vaguely aware,” I said slowly. “In fact, I was wondering why you hired him, given his past.”
“Ah, those kinds of things don’t bother me,” dad huffed. “All I care about is rebuilding this damn team. If we have another year like the last two years, well, it could be disastrous.”
“And you think Sam Carson is the right choice to help you rebuild the team?” I asked. “Honestly, dad, he wouldn’t have been my first choice.”
He chuckled and bobbed his head. “You’re a smart girl. Don’t worry. Sam Carson is just a pawn. He’ll be gone before the season starts.”
I frowned at the phone, then remembered he could see my face. I put on a blank expression. “I’m sorry. What does that mean?”
“I’ve been negotiating with Dan Bradford for months,” dad said, referring to one of the top head coaches in the business who was reportedly tired of coaching in freezing Minnesota. “He keeps jerking me around, so I threatened to hire someone else and he didn’t believe I would, so I called his bluff.”
“So you hired Sam Carson to force Dan Bradford’s hand?” I shook my head. “Daddy, that’s brilliant, but very shitty.”
“How is it shitty?” He scoffed at the screen. “Sam Carson will earn a million dollars in severance when I cancel his contract. God knows, that ten times more than he’s worth.”
“Does Sam know this?” I asked. “That you’re just using him to get Dan Bradford to sign?”
“Hell no, and he doesn’t need to,” daddy said.
“So, what do you need me to do?” I asked the question while dreading the answer. I didn’t care for Sam Carson, but I didn’t care for my dad’s tactics either. It was classic Ben Winston. He used people for his own purposes, then wrote them a fat check to justify his actions and sent them on their merry way.
“I just need you to work your PR magic to make Sam’s hiring seem like a much smarter move than it is,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’m getting a ton of crap from the other team owners for hiring him. They think I’ve lost my mind, hiring a washed-up quarterback coach to head a major AFL team.”
“But you haven’t lost your mind at all, have you, daddy?” I asked with a sigh.
“No, my dear, I have not lost my mind. Hold on…” The screen went dark for a moment. I could hear him speaking to someone else, then his mouth appeared on the screen again.
“So listen, next week I need you to come to the stadium and meet Sam Carson. Bring a photographer and a good writer. Put together a piece to send to Sports Insider or Sports Illustrated. Something they can post on their blog right away.”
“Seriously, daddy? You want me to put together a puff piece on Sam Carson to justify you hiring him?”
“Of course,” he snorted. “He’s a good-looking guy. He’ll photograph well, and even with all the other bullshit, he has an impressive record as a quarterback’s coach. I just need you to justify the hiring so I can tweak Dan Bradford into signing with the Trojans. If Dan is fine with Sam Carson staying on as a quarterback’s coach, we’ll offer him a job. If not, I’ll cut him a check and he can be on his way.”
Something down the shore caught my eye.
It was Sam, jogging toward me.
I said, “You really think Dan Bradford is going to fall for this?”
Daddy chuckled and held the phone to his ear. I knew this because all I could see on the screen was his ear and lots of little hairs. The man was a multimillionaire, but would never understand how to use a video phone.
He said, “Honey, for the amount of money I’m offering Dan Bradford, only a fool would pass this up. You just get with Sam Carson and make him look better than he is. I just need him in place until the season starts. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course, daddy,” I said, watching Sam get closer. His muscular torso glistened with sweat in the morning sun. I forced myself to look away. “I’ll get it done. Whatever you need.”
“That’s my girl,” he said with a grin. “Okay, I have to run. Let me know the minute the story is online so I can call Dan and get things moving ahead.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I love you, daddy.”
“Love you, too, little girl.”
The screen went dark.
And so did my good mood.
Allie
Sam slowed his pace when he saw me sitting on the deck high above the beach. He paused at the bottom of the stairs for a moment to catch his breath. He put his hands on his hips and walked in slow circles with his head down, giving his heart time to slow down and his lungs time to catch up.
I watched him from behind my coffee cup.
He came up the steps from the beach slowly, as if he were approaching a pit viper ready to strike.
He was wearing the short running shorts again.
And no shirt.
His muscled torso looked like he’d been dipped in oil. Sweat coated his chest and shoulders. I briefly wondered what his sweat would taste like on the tip of my tongue. I watched a stream of sweat sluice its way down the center line of his abs and pool at the waistband of the shorts. There was the bulge again…
Earth to Allie… STOP THAT!!
“Morning,” he said politely when he reached the top step. He tugged the earbuds from his ears and looped them around his neck. “Sleep well?”
“Very well,” I said with a smile. “You?”
“Like a rock.”
My eyes went around his handsome face and I suddenly felt a little like Judas. My dad was using Sam Carson like a pawn on a chessboard and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Heck, I had even agreed to help daddy push Sam around the board. I wasn’t trying to prevent anything from happening. I was now part of the game.
Sam would be well compensated for his time, but that didn’t make what daddy was doing right.
I could tell from the brief time I’d known him that Sam was serious about the coaching job. He wasn’t there just for a paycheck like many guys in his shoes might have been. He was there to salvage what was left of his career. And possibly his life. And to help rebuild the team after two disastrous seasons.
I couldn’t stop my dad’s plan, nor could I warn Sam.
My dad had put me squarely in the middle.
It made me feel like shit.
“There’s coffee inside,” I said, holding up my cup. I forced my eyes to stay above his neck. “And all kinds of breakfast food.”
He wiped the sweat from his face on the back of a muscled forearm and narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re okay with me staying for coffee and breakfast?”
I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Look, about last night
, you were right. It’s a big house. There’s plenty of room for both of us. I’m sorry I acted like such a bitch.”
A wary smile crossed his lips. “You mean it?”
“I do,” I said, holding up my cup. “Get yourself a cup of coffee and come enjoy the sunshine.”
He gave me a look of relief, then rubbed his hands together and went inside.
I sipped the coffee and watched a flock of gannets circling in the sky high above the ocean. Gannets were called “missile birds” because they could dive into the ocean at 60 miles per hour to catch fish.
They were circling slowly, looking for fish to swoop down and eat.
The fish had no idea they were in danger.
The innocent looking gannets were the predators.
The unsuspecting fish were easy prey.
Sam Carson was a fish.
So what did that make me?
Sam
I had no idea why Allie had changed her mind about letting me stay the weekend at her dad’s beach house, but I was glad she did because I didn’t want to leave.
The weather was perfect.
The beach was perfect.
And the four young ladies I’d met during my run were perfect; or as close to perfect as twenty-year-old nymphets could be.
One of them, a petite blond with huge tits and a Kardashian ass – Dierdre, I think was her name -- told me her dad (a huge Trojans fan) owned the house, and she and her BFFs were there for the whole weekend.
Her BFFs were even hotter than she was.
There was a tall redhead with small tits, but thick nipples that beckoned me from beneath her wet bikini top.
There was a short brunette in a thong that kept licking her lips as she looked me up and down.
And a voluptuous black girl wearing nothing but a towel, with skin the color of dark honey. I could literally taste her on the tip of my tongue.
I thought I had died and gone to Heaven.
“We’re having a party tonight,” Dierdre said. “You should come.”
“Yes, I should come,” I said with a smile. “Most definitely.”
I promised to see them later and jogged back toward the beach house. When I spotted Allie sitting up on the deck, I cursed under my breath.
Fuck it.
I couldn’t avoid her, but I wasn’t going to argue with her.
If she wanted me to go I would go.
I would pack my bag and walk back up the beach and spend the weekend neck-deep in teeny-bopper pussy.
Then Allie apologized for being a bitch and invited me to stay.
Wow.
Totally unexpected.
How could I refuse.
“Did you have a good run?” Allie asked as I sat down in the deck chair beside her with a cup of coffee in one hand and a strawberry Pop-Tart in the other.
“Is there really such a thing as a good run?” I asked with a smile. I stretched out my legs and crossed my ankles. I nodded at my knees. “At the moment, my knees and ankles are telling me what an asshole I am for making them run in the sand. As soon as the feeling returns, I’m sure the rest of my body will chime in.”
“You’re in really good shape, though,” she said.
“For my age.”
She scowled at me. “You said that last night. Is that your new tagline? For my age?”
I chuckled and took a sip of coffee. “Yeah, I need to put it on a t-shirt. You look good, for your age. You’re in great shape, for your age.”
She gave me a scolding look. “Do people tell you that? Or is that just your ego talking?”
I grinned at her. “It’s a little early in the day for psychoanalysis, Dr. Winston.”
When she smiled, her lips curled up at the edges. I liked her smile much more than her frown, which was mostly what I’d gotten from her so far.
“Have you always been obsessed with age?” she asked.
I gave her a sideways grin. “Only since I got old.”
“Forty-two is not old,” she said.
“It is in my business,” I said with a sigh.
“Forty-two is young for a coach. Pete Carroll is sixty-five. And Bill Belichick is sixty-four.”
“How do you know so much about football?” I asked.
“It’s my job,” she said, shrugging. “The point is, you’re one of the youngest head coaches in the league. So, the ‘for my age’ thing doesn’t exactly apply to your career.”
“Ah, but it does apply to my life,” I said.
“You’re only as old as you feel,” she said, holding the cup to her lips.
“I’m pretty sure that whoever came up with that one is now dead from old age.”
I wiggled my eyebrows at her and she smiled again.
I liked it when she smiled. It made my balls tingle.
We sat in silence for a moment. She sipped her coffee and watched the gannets swooping down to catch fish a mile off shore. I ate the Pop-Tart and brushed crumbs off my chest.
After a moment, she turned in the chair and said, “Can I ask you a serious question?”
I glanced sideways at her. “More psychoanalysis?”
“No, just curious,” she said seriously.
“Fine. Shoot.”
“Why did you take the job to head coach the Trojans?”
I wrinkled my nose at her. “Why did I take the job to head coach the Trojans?” It was a good question. And one without an easy answer.
I shrugged. “I needed a job and your dad made the offer.”
“You made a ton of money during your playing days,” she said, as if she had the exact figure in her pretty head. “I seriously doubt that you needed a job.”
“Needing a job is not always about needing money,” I said.
“So, it’s not about the money.”
I turned in the chair to face her. “Why are you asking me this?”
“I don’t mean to pry,” she said, holding up a hand. “I’m just trying to understand the situation.”
“The real question you should ask is, why did your dad hire an old quarterback’s coach to head his team.”
That seemed to stun her into silence for a moment. I took a sip of coffee and smacked my lips.
“It’s almost like a bad Kevin Costner movie,” I said. “Why did Ben Winston hire Sam Carson when there were so many other better-qualified candidates? I’m Kevin Costner in this scenario. Your dad would be played by Gene Hackman or Robert Duvall.”
“My dad looks more like John Goodman,” she said playfully.
“Okay, then John Goodman.”
She smiled for a moment, then her forehead wrinkled in thought. “Why do you think he hired you?”
I shrugged because I’d asked myself the same question multiple times and still hadn’t come up with a logical answer. Ben Winston blew the question off by going on and on about bringing in fresh blood and new ideas and different directions. It was the usual bullshit team owners gave athletes when they didn’t want to give them the truth.
I said, “That’s a question you’ll have to ask him.”
She said, “I never question my father’s motives when it comes to business. It just pisses him off.”
I gave her a wry smile. “But you’ll question mine?”
She gave me a smile meant to put me at ease. It didn’t. She said, “I’m not questioning your motives. It’s just that, well, since we’re going to be roomies for the weekend, and will be seeing a lot of each other in the coming months, I just feel like we should get to know each other better. And not just on a surface level.”
I took a sip of coffee and glanced at her sideways. “You’re in image consultant mode, aren’t you?”
“A little, maybe. It is my job.” Her cheeks blushed. Her pretty eyes sparkled. “Speaking of doing my job, I’d like to come down to the stadium next week to do a formal interview with you.”
“A formal interview?”
“Yes, I can bring a photographer and a writer. We’ll put together a piece to send out to Sports
Illustrated and Sports Insider. Something they can post to their blogs. And of course, we’d post it on the Trojans website and across social media.”
I shrugged. “Sure, whatever you like. I’m an open book.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” she said with a smile. “I’ll text you and we’ll set up a time.”
“Sounds good,” I said. I drained the coffee cup and set it aside. I leaned to the edge of the chair and stretched my arms high above my head. I grunted as I stretched.
“Wow, you do sound old,” she said, trying hard not to smile.
“This old body could use a swim,” I said with a long breath. “You wanna come? The water’s a little cool, but not bad.”
She glanced at my sweaty torso for a moment, then brought her eyes up to mine. “Sure. I’ll go change.”
She pushed herself out of the chair and disappeared into the house. I got up and headed down the steps to the beach. I could swim in my running shorts. They needed a good washing.
I strolled across the sand and glanced back at the house before wading into the ocean.
There was something very odd about Allie Winston, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. There seemed to be two sides to her. Nice, bitchy. Hot, cold. Fun, serious.
I wondered if there was a third side yet to be revealed.
When I spotted her coming down the stairs to the beach, her big tits bouncing in a tiny red bikini top, I wondered what I had to do to get to know Allie Winston inside and out.
Allie
The sun was going down as I stepped into the shower to wash off the film of sweat and sand that covered my body. I was a little surprised to find myself thinking that the day had turned out to be okay.
That wasn’t an entirely accurate description.
It wasn’t just an okay day.
It was actually a pretty awesome day.
My plans for a solitary weekend went out the window. I had spent the entire day with Sam Carson and I hated to admit it, but I had enjoyed myself immensely.
Who would have thought such a thing was possible?
After our morning coffee-slash-psychoanalysis session, I changed into the new red bikini I’d brought and quadruple-checked myself in the mirror before going out to meet Sam for a swim.
