Hot Stuff

by Kim Karr

  “I do.”

  His expression softened. “You might not know this about me, but I grew up not far from where you did. When I heard you talking about what it was like for you, I knew exactly how you felt. Shit, I was you. The only difference, I didn’t go around bad mouthing Chicago.”

  “Coach—” I tried to say.

  With a fierce expression, he threw a hand up again.

  I shut the fuck up.

  In his khaki pants, he crossed one leg over the other. “If I’m going to be honest with you, I saw a bit of myself in you. The hunger. The need. The fearlessness. I thought all that bullshit you were spewing about Chicago was just that, bullshit,” he said with a sigh.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  He went on. “I thought that I could be the one to change your mind. Make you realize the best way to come full circle in your life was to prove yourself in the city that tried to bring you down. Even after mini-camp, I still had hope.”

  Hope?

  He shook his head. “But after yesterday’s little stunt, I’m not so sure.”

  I chose my words carefully. “I promise you, Coach, you didn’t make a mistake.”

  He nodded, solemnly. “Another question.”

  This time I nodded.

  “How bad do you want this?”

  This answer came straight from my heart. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my life.”

  Setting the iPad down, he uncrossed his legs and turned his body in my direction. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Really bad!” I answered loudly.

  “Bad enough to let all of your bullshit go? Put your mommy and daddy issues aside and focus on that ball?”

  Had anyone said anything like that to me in the locker room, they would have gotten a fist in their face. As it was, I could feel myself getting worked up, but somehow managed to grunt through it. “Yes, Coach.”

  He shook his head. “Say it, Carrington. Tell me what you’re willing to do. Tell me you’re going to stop all the whining and crying and boohooing, and make yourself the best Goddamn quarterback there ever was.”

  All I could do was stare at him in fury. “I put that behind me months ago.”

  His voice rose. “After that little stunt yesterday, I’m not so sure. So I want to hear it! Tell me!”

  Fuck, I wanted to punch him. Punch the desk, or the wall, or window. I didn’t make a move, though, instead I stared at him stonily.

  In an unexpected move, he jumped to his feet and took me with him by the collar of my shirt. “Tell me right now, or get the fuck out of my camp.”

  Rage smoldered through me like wildfire, and it took everything I had to bite out each word because I wasn’t going anywhere. “I will focus on the game and put my mommy and daddy bullshit behind me, Coach,” I yelled. “I will put my team first, and I will do everything I can to bring the Bears all the way.”

  His expression was still uneasy, but he was somewhat pacified because he rounded the desk and flopped back in his chair. “Now that that is settled,” he said firmly, “there’s one more thing.”

  Fucking great, here comes the stay away from my daughter or I’ll have your balls for breakfast line. I heaved in a breath, ready to be sucker punched, and I wasn’t even sure why it mattered that much. There was just something about her and I knew no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t going to be able to stay away.

  “I know you’ve been cleared for training,” he said.

  Okay, anticlimactic or what. Not at all what I was expecting, the shock must have shown on my face as I sat back down.

  He pointed his finger at me. “And I don’t want to know anything else that I absolutely don’t have to know. Do you understand me?”

  Shit, Gillian had said something; then again, of course she did, but not enough to flag me. I should thank her.

  I nodded.

  I got it.

  If my injury wasn’t severe, I shouldn’t discuss it with him because that would force his hand. Make him do something about it, like bench me. We all knew if Coach knew something that should be reported but wasn’t, and the Commissioner found out about it, the entire team would suffer.

  “One more thing. I need to talk to you about training,” he said.

  “What about it?”

  “Johnny isn’t going to make camp.”

  Frustration lined my face. Although I would never admit it out loud, I needed a coach.

  Jack pushed his chair back. “His wife was recently diagnosed with cancer and she has been given less than a year to live. That means he won’t be coming back this season. He wants to spend as much time as he can with her, and then be there when the Lord calls her home.”

  “Jesus,” I whispered, and instantly regretted it. Obviously Coach was a religious man. “I mean that sucks—” I attempted to say more, but just shut my mouth.

  He was shaking his head at me. “That means I’m taking over his role for camp. I should have his replacement in place before the regular season begins.”

  My eyes bugged out of my head. Old Johnny was a ball-buster, but he also knew when to let up and when to let us have fun. Coach Whitney, shit, all I knew was that I, no we, were in for it. “That sounds . . . great.”

  This made him laugh, loud and hearty. “Get the fuck out of here, will you, I have work to do.” That was one order I wasn’t going to argue about, not that I would be arguing about anything with Coach, any time soon.

  Hey, big tough guy or not, when your head was on the chopping block, you learned when to reel your shit in.

  And fast.

  HUDDLE

  Gillian

  SOMETHING VIBRATED IN my bed.

  Not an unusual occurrence for a woman who had been single for nearly a year, but this time it wasn’t my Rabbit. I heard the buzzing from my bathroom as I was brushing my teeth, and I raced toward it with my heart thundering.

  Typing out the text message should have been a no brainer. Composing exactly what to say to a guy who did crazy things to your body when he was around though, proved to be much more difficult than I thought it would.

  Then again, with each sentence I tried to compose, I had trouble. I kept picturing his hard, lean muscled frame, the heat of his skin beneath my fingertips whenever I touched him, the flash in his eyes that I would catch every once in a while, and then there was that easy smile. It was the one thing I could never look away from.

  For absolutely no reason, my hands trembled as I typed, backspaced, typed again, and then once again backspaced. At that pace, it had taken me so long to get the message just right I never hit send until nearly nine thirty.

  And after I did, I had gone into full out panic mode.

  Everything I was thinking, feeling, wondering about—it was wrong. Lucas was a player for the team I was interning with. It might not have been written in my contract to maintain platonic relations with the players, but I had been around football my entire life. To pretend I didn’t know it would be stupid. And I was anything but stupid.

  What had I done?

  I wished I could delete the sent text.

  After having tossed my phone on my bed, I had rushed into the bathroom to see if the girl staring back was still me, and not some smitten version of myself I didn’t understand.

  Thank God, I only saw me.

  That’s when I grabbed my toothbrush and figured I’d go to bed, this way when he answered me, I wouldn’t be awake to respond.

  It was nine forty and curfew was at eleven fifteen. If it was Lucas responding to my text, it wasn’t like we’d have much time together, so it couldn’t really hurt, could it?

  But what was his response?

  Yes.

  No.

  Kiss off.

  When hell freezes over.

  After I’d put him in his place the first day we met in the training center, things had been easier between us, but not exactly easy. There was a constant push and pull, and the space between us was filled with an odd electrical charge.
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  I think we both liked it that way.

  Digging through the sheets, I found my phone right where I’d tossed it and closed my eyes, not ready to look at the screen.

  I was being completely ridiculous. It wasn’t like I was asking him if he wanted to go on a date. This was work.

  We’d met the past three mornings in the weight training room. His range of motion was improving. While discussing our progress with Dallas after dinner tonight, he gave me an off-the-books suggestion.

  What I was doing with Lucas wasn’t anything anyone wanted to know specifics about, Dallas included. But he did know, kind of, since I posed it as a hypothetical the day I discovered Lucas’s shoulder problem.

  He suggested I see Lucas’s arm in motion, real motion . . . like as he threw the football. That’s when I decided to ask him if he wanted to meet me.

  The text that took nearly an hour to compose read:

  Me: Lucas, this is Gillian. I was wondering if you wanted to meet at Ward Field and throw the ball around. I think it would help if I could see you in action.

  His response had me rolling my eyes. It read:

  Him: In action?

  Me: Yes, as in, in motion.

  Him: Are you asking me out?

  Even with no one in the room, I felt my cheeks blaze, but then I regained my composure and replied.

  Me: No, this isn’t a date. Stop being a dick. Do you want to meet or not?

  Him: Tell me you miss me and you want to see me, and then I’ll answer you.

  Me: Never.

  Him: Then at least stop calling me a dick.

  Me: Never.

  Me: ☺

  Me: I’m giving you five seconds to respond with a yes or no.

  Him: Or what? You’ll spank me?

  Me: Four seconds until I turn my phone off.

  Him: What are you going to wear?

  What was I going to wear?

  Me: Three seconds.

  Him: Will you wear your hair down, at least?

  It was down. I could do that. I just needed to fix it.

  Me: Two seconds, and I’m going to bed.

  Him: I could join you.

  Me: Goodnight, Lucas.

  Him: Relax. I’m trying to have some fun. I just got out of the shower. I’ll be there as soon as I get dressed.

  At that, I smiled to myself and didn’t respond. Instead, I scrambled to the small accordion closet and rummaged through it to find something to wear.

  Even though this technically was work, I didn’t want to wear work clothes. Those tended to make me look either frumpy or young, depending on which version I chose.

  Not that I should care.

  This was going to be physical. I had to be able to move around. So jeans were out. Shorts might be too much. Obviously a summer dress wouldn’t be practical, even a T-shirt one, and besides, then this really would look like a date.

  Which it absolutely was not.

  In the end, I settled on a pair of lightweight black yoga pants and a matching cropped exercise top. With a thin white T-shirt over the top and my Converse, I felt comfortable.

  I had the clothes because I taught yoga, and in fact, very soon I was going to be teaching the football players downward dog. In all honesty, I couldn’t wait. It was going to be so fun.

  Before leaving I looked in the mirror. Turning my chin to one side, then the other, I caught my profile. Yes, it was still me looking back in the reflection. I hadn’t morphed into someone I didn’t know. I wasn’t one of those girls who got all dolled up for a boy.

  Not yet, anyway.

  I still had the same strawberry blond hair as my mother and the same green eyes as my father. I still had the same narrow hips and the same skinny legs as I always had. Sure, my arms were more toned, my belly flatter, and I was much taller, but none of that seemed to matter.

  I had grown up, but when I was at camp, I still felt like that pigtailed little girl my father kept close.

  That hadn’t changed either.

  He was across the hall, and if the door was open, I’d have to tell him where I was going. I hoped it wasn’t.

  Just before I was about to leave, I couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of the way my nipples pushed through the fabric of both thin layers. Even with the sports top that acted as a bra, it was noticeable.

  I had no doubt he’d notice. His eyes would go right to my chest, regardless of how very small it was. His eyes. On me.

  I didn’t change.

  All of the doors across the hall were closed, and when I saw that, I wanted to run, but settled on walking fast and taking the stairs.

  The weather was so much nicer at night than during the day. The air was light and clear and warm. Bearable, as opposed to unbearable. Because of this, I took my time as I made my way toward the college’s football field.

  It was south of campus, and rather isolated, so I was fairly certain no one would stumble across us.

  I looked up to the clear sky with its shining stars and full moon. I was going to miss all of this. Not only the hectic days of training camp, but the quiet nights that followed as well.

  When I walked through the metal gates, he was already there. He wasn’t looking my way. What he was doing was gripping a football with his right hand, and standing tall on the perfectly manicured turf like he owned it.

  He looked like he did.

  A slow, tumbling roll of sensation centered in my belly. I considered walking away and not even letting him know I’d come because this really was a bad idea. I already knew I couldn’t do that, though.

  I couldn’t.

  The moment my feet hit the plush blades of grass, he turned toward me with a smile so wide and bright and genuine that I felt the strangest pitter-patter in my chest.

  I didn’t like it.

  I liked it.

  I was so confused.

  Lucas was wearing cleats, gray sweats, and a Notre Dame jersey. Nothing out of the ordinary. What was different though from our morning therapy sessions was he had shaven and it actually looked like he might have styled his hair.

  I wanted to lick his jaw and run my fingers through his locks.

  That would be wrong on so many levels though. Wouldn’t it? Instead of doing anything even close, I gave him the barest hint of a smile. “Hi.”

  It was then I noticed the half dozen balls on the field.

  He had gotten here quick, and right to work.

  “Watch this.” Scanning the field as if in the middle of a game, he pretended to lock on a receiver, and then he fully cocked his arm and pushed the ball away from his body in what was almost a perfect throwing motion. Almost.

  “That was great,” I called as I continued to walk toward him.

  He shook his head in disgust. “It was short.” He picked up another ball. This time he dropped his arm back like a fulcrum, and then circled around making a bit of an overhead swinging motion.

  I wasn’t certain where exactly he was aiming, but it didn’t look quite right. “I’ve seen better,” I said.

  That comment pissed him off, and he picked up the last ball at his feet. This time he managed to get a great extension behind his body and he came up and over in a nice arc. The problem was, that type of delivery was slow and not as accurate as the tight motion he should have been using.

  Then again, he couldn’t, not yet.

  It wasn’t that I was trying to be a quarterback coach, but I’d watched my father for years, and he was one of the best quarterbacks, after all.

  I gestured to the field where the last ball sat. “That one wasn’t bad.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “It wasn’t great, either.”

  There was this look of vulnerability about him I’d never seen, and I wanted to hug him.

  Do. Not. Touch.

  Changing direction, I jogged out onto the field and gathered the balls in an armful, and then hurried back to drop them at his feet. “Do that first one again, but with more power.”

  “You’r
e lucky I don’t get insulted easily,” he told me, narrowing his stare.

  “Sorry, just being honest,” I said without remorse.

  His gaze grew even more piercing.

  “Please,” I added to pacify him.

  The sucking up seemed to work because he bent that powerful body of his down and picked up another ball. I shouldn’t have been watching him the way I was. Looking at his physique like I wanted to eat him, but he was so damn beautiful. The tight coil of muscles that marked his arms, the way he moved, the power he had. It was intoxicating.

  Heat shot into my cheeks, and I took a step to the side. With some distance between us, I blinked those thoughts away and concentrated on watching the movement of his shoulder. Just like a slingshot, he pulled his arm back, released, and the ball propelled downfield.

  With my blush gone, I clapped my hands together. “That was so much better.”

  Ignoring me, he picked up another ball, and another, and another still. Using the same motion, he continued to arc the ball, but on the last one, the pullback wasn’t quite there. The swollen tissue was obviously impacting his range of motion.

  When he was done, he turned to face me. “What? No more comments from the peanut gallery?”

  I looked sideways at him. “I don’t have to say anything. Your eyes are saying it all after every throw.”

  He snorted. “Uh-huh. Right.”

  “They are,” I insisted, trying not to giggle.

  Giggle.

  How pathetic.

  “Then tell me what they’re saying.”

  The response was blurted out, meant to challenge me, and I was going to bite. “What I see is that you want to do better. That you know you can do better. That you will do better. You just have to keep trying.”

  After shooting a quick glance at the balls on the field, he looked over at me and grinned. “That sounds a lot like therapist mumbo jumbo, but it’s not a bad assessment.”

  “I’ll take that as an apology,” I laughed.

  He stared at me with uncertainty.

  “You doubted me.”

  “No, not you.”

  He didn’t say me, but I felt like it was on the tip of his tongue. “Don’t worry . . . I’ll get you there,” I said.

  “What are you? Eeyore?”