Coach Love

by Liz Crowe

  The shitty poker hand mocked him as he glared at it. “Nothing.”

  “Not what I heard,” Dom said, lightly, looking down at his cards.

  Glaring at him, Kieran took in the blond ponytail, the earring, the tatt snaking around the side of his neck. “Shut your pie hole.” He didn’t want to admit anything to this crowd. Love family groupthink would not help because that would lead down a road he didn’t want to travel—one of why are you marrying that raging bitch? A refrain that had gotten way too stale.

  All his siblings stared at him, their dark eyes varying shades of the same Halloran/Love mix, different from his green ones. He shrugged and tossed a few more quarters into the middle of the table. “We playing or havin’ a therapy session?”

  Antony frowned, and opened his mouth no doubt to spew some sort of oldest brother wisdom.

  “Dinner!” their mother called from the balcony, relieving Kieran of the obligation to listen.

  “To be continued, losers,” his sister sang out as she placed her cards carefully facedown on the table. He sighed and ran a hand around the back of his neck. Well on his way to being drunk, he grabbed the mug anyway and drained it, hoping that the alcohol would keep everyone on an even keel, avoiding a classic Love-family drama outbreak.

  They passed around the buttermilk-fried chicken, green beans, new potatoes, and biscuits in silence. The usual plate scraping and chewing noises pressed in on his overwrought brain in a way that made him want to scream. When his mother touched his arm, he nearly leapt out of skin.

  “Son, you all right?” Unable to form words, he felt transported back to his life as a young boy pressed between a bossy older brother and a difficult younger one, expected to play peacemaker nonstop, the perfect athlete, the perfect son, the non-troublemaker. The one who’d made his dream of playing professional basketball come true after an amazing run to an NCAA Division one final game his senior year.

  Granted, it had taken some time laboring along in the minor leagues, and a year and a half playing overseas. But while finishing up a season in Spain, he’d managed to catch the attention of an agent who’d invited him to her office in LA, and into her bed a few times, but that was another story.

  She’d hit the streets on his behalf and after almost five years he’d finally gotten the contract, and with Miami no less. It hadn’t been a terribly great deal at first, and he’d known he’d have to earn his way into the lineup. But he’d been ecstatic, and had partied his ass off that summer, screwing his way through legions of team groupies when not in the gym or on the floor shooting and begging anyone around to take him on in a game.

  He observed his mother for a few minutes, pondering the advisability of dumping his life’s mess into her lap. She’d been through so much since he’d come home shattered, depressed, and unemployed until his high school alma mater principal had taken pity on him and hired him as a temp teacher. He had no business worrying her over something only he had the power to repair.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, keeping his gaze averted. “Sorry.” He impaled a potato with his fork, put it in his mouth, and chewed without tasting it, meeting Dom’s gaze across the table, as they sat in their old configuration by habit. His brother’s expression remained flat, as if he were studying a science experiment gone wrong shaped like his older, redheaded brother.

  Like that asshole could talk—with a kid in New York that no one knew, thanks to the baby mama getting so mad she’d run off at nine months pregnant. I am all kinds of normal compared to him.

  His mother patted his shoulder then shot her husband a worried look down the long, oak table. On cue, Kieran’s knee sang out in agony when he bent it, reminding him of his failure, living here in Lucasville, Kentucky and not in Florida in his not-quite-a-penthouse condo, with a willing chick at his door every night, working like mad for playing time.

  Within two games, he’d gotten that time only to sustain one of those grotesque, freakish injuries with no real explanation that had been shown in nauseating repeat. It had been so god-awful, one of his teammates had puked on the bench, some lady in a seat nearby had fainted, and finally the sports channel had been convinced to stop showing it, out of deference to its horrific nature.

  White-hot frustration shot down his spine. He clenched his jaw, determined to contain it, not to be more trouble to his parents, since his siblings provided enough of that for three or four families.

  Ignoring the pain, he pushed away from the table. “I need another beer. Anyone else?”

  The entire Love family plus the punk in his sister’s panties looked at him like a bunch of baby birds in a nest. Infuriated, he whirled away and stomped into the kitchen. One of his brothers’ brats chose that moment to let out a loud wail of dismay, matching his mood perfectly.

  He turned to stare out the window, wondering how to spin this to his fiancée, dangling a beer bottle from his fingers. Closing his eyes when he sensed someone behind him, he took a long drink and let the alcohol drown out the clanging sound of failure between his ears.

  Chapter Four

  Kent opened her car door and helped Cara out into the oppressive night air. The dinner had been stuffy and boring, and she’d had one-too-many gin and tonics. But she’d charmed the wives as she’d been asked to do, and he’d been positively glowing with excitement by the time they’d parted from the other two couples at the country club doors. He’d babbled on about the future of his real estate development all the way to her small apartment building while she’d stared blearily out the window, ignoring him.

  “Babycakes, you were amazin’,” he declared guiding her toward the slightly off-kilter door to the building. Taking her hand, he spun her around under his arm then held her close, planting a kiss on her that made her already-spinning head even less stable.

  She stumbled when he let go of her to open the door, then slumped against the doorjamb, acknowledging he looked great as usual, his trim, five-foot-eleven frame filling out his suit to perfection. Truth be told, Kent wore her out with his firm belief that she wanted all this social acceptance claptrap as much as he did.

  “I’m gonna go out for a bit longer,” he said, making her relieved and pissed off all at once. “Need to talk some more business and I know you hate that stuff.”

  Unable to give breath to the strange go-but-don’t-go feelings churning in her gut, she hesitated. Kent tugged her once more into his embrace. “I love you. We’re gonna be a great couple.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “You’re okay with me going out, right? You told me you were tired.”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. Just remember you need to make a deposit for the video guy and the final payment on the....”

  “I got all that, babe. One thing you never have to worry about with me is managing the money stuff. I have your spreadsheet and my deadlines and the checkbook.”

  Sighing again she contemplated him a moment. Not worrying about the money stuff after living just this side of the poorhouse with her mother provided more relief than she knew how to express, although the low-lying disappointment she always sensed when visiting his family’s house never really went away. Even his mother’s overenthusiastic, never-ending insistence that she couldn’t wait to have Cara in the family always rang somewhat false.

  His grin forced her to smile in return. “Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

  Nodding and waving, he trotted over to his car and roared out into the quiet street. She waited a few minutes before pulling her phone out of her purse—the fancy one Kent had bought for her after tossing her old, flip-model version ceremoniously into the trash.

  “Come get me. I want to go out and Kent dumped me for ‘the boys.’”

  “I’ll be right there,” her friend, Tricia, replied.

  Within thirty minutes they sat at one of the new downtown wine bars, snagging a corner that stretched outside onto the sidewalk. After they’d sipped and people watched for a few minutes, Tricia bumped her shoulder.

&n
bsp; “Hey, is that your redheaded Love?”

  Cara turned to see where her friend was pointing. “Yep.” Heat crept up her neck. “So what?”

  “So, he is looking fine,” the other woman said. “Why’d you dump that delicious ginger anyway?”

  “You know why,” Cara muttered, angry Kieran had chosen the one place in the newly face-lifted downtown that she figured he’d never visit. He hated wine. Or at least, he used to when they could only afford the cheap stuff.

  “Funny how those boys all ended up back home,” Tricia said into her glass.

  Cara recalled that her friend had experienced her own run-in with Aiden, right after he’d wandered home to Kentucky over a year ago.

  “Yeah, hilarious,” she quipped, making Tricia giggle. “Stupid Love brothers.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Tricia raised her glass. They both observed the tall man squinting into the dark interior as if looking for someone. When he caught sight of them, he waved and headed in their direction. “Uh oh, old boyfriend time. That’s my cue to go.”

  Cara reached for the other woman’s arm. “Don’t you dare leave me here with him, Patricia.” She could barely hear anything thanks to her wild heartbeat. “I mean it. I see him every week at PT and that’s bad enough. I can’t...be social with him. Not now. Not after....”

  Tricia sighed. “Good Lord. Whatever. I swan those Loves are gonna be the death of me yet.”

  Relieved that she’d have someone to run interference if she needed it, Cara tried not to admit that she needed Tricia to keep her from getting drunk and jumping her old boyfriend’s bones for old time’s sake. Even the thought of that made her furious with her weak-willed self.

  I have a fiancé, a rich one, a hot one, and have zero business doing anything more than having casual conversation with Kieran Love.

  “Well, what a lovely couple of ladies,” he said as he sauntered over, dressed for a date. She tried not to stare at the stubble on his jaw, or the slope of his shoulders, or at that thick mop of bright-red hair that matched her own, or at anything related to him. He loomed over her, making her blink.

  Oh boy. I’m gone halfway to drunk-town already. This could get weird.

  “It would seem I’m early for my date. May I buy you both a glass?”

  “Sure thing. Why the hell not?”

  The exasperation in Tricia’s voice came through loud and clear, so Cara attempted to say something coherent but all the spit in her mouth had gone dry. He climbed onto a tall chair next to her and propped his dress-shirt-covered elbows on the bar. The urge to run her fingers through his hair made her palms itch. When their glasses arrived he raised his for a toast.

  “To what are we drinking?” Tricia asked.

  His gaze met hers and she had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something stupid. “To old friends.”

  She sipped then spluttered and coughed when the acidic red wine went down her windpipe. Kieran smacked her between the shoulder blades. When it became apparent she would live, he resumed his study of the middle distance over the bar. Without thinking of possible consequences, she touched his khaki-covered thigh.

  “You all right?” she asked, catching a whiff of the light cologne and beer that encircled him. He glanced over at her, which placed his face too near hers. But she didn’t move until he pecked her lips quickly then focused on the depths of his wine glass as if it held the very secrets to the universe. Tricia elbowed her so hard Cara yelped and rubbed her arm.

  “Old friends, huh,” Tricia said around her to the obviously brooding man. “I don’t know about you boys. I just don’t know.”

  He frowned then glanced over his shoulder when someone came in the door. When it proved to be some other couple he slumped over the bar again. Fury at his woman for dissing him tonight, and at her own lame, ancient excuses for letting go of him in the first place filled her brain.

  To her utter horror he draped his arm around her shoulders. His breath felt hot and smelled boozy. “Old friends are important,” he declared. She nodded, not looking at him. Letting go, he crouched over his wine glass. “I’m fucked,” he said, so softly she barely heard him. “I need someone to listen to me.”

  “I can listen.” Recognizing she’d slipped into flirt mode but incapable of stopping, she sipped her wine then set it down when it turned to vinegar in her mouth.

  “You always were good at that.” He gave her a half-smile and nudged her thigh with his, sending a bolt of lust down her spine and a whirl of memories crowding into her wine-muddled brain.

  The two of them had been buddies since forever it seemed. His mother had hired hers to clean house and work in the brewery after Cara’s father had run off with the family bank account. She’d gotten to know all the brothers well but had been drawn to the quiet, polite, athletic redheaded one. Their near-matching hair color made people call them the ginger duo even as they remained friends through junior high.

  He had been her first at everything, and she his. They’d fumbled around for a couple of years in high school, plus one in college before parting ways for reasons she didn’t like to think about anymore. By the time she’d dumped him, they’d had sex in more ways and in more locations than she’d thought possible. And to this day, she considered the standard he’d set for her nearly impossible to beat—until recently, of course.

  “Well, I’m gonna leave you two old friends to yourselves,” Tricia declared, her voice strained. Cara reached for her arm again.

  “No, Tricia, don’t.”

  “I’m not interested in a Love-brother sob story, sorry.” She glanced over at the one in question. “Not in the mood.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you.” Self-pity had crept into Kieran’s voice.

  “Don’t do anything dumb. I mean it.” Her friend’s whisper barely registered in Cara’s ears.

  A combination of dazed, loopy, and embarrassingly horny sensations overwhelmed her. Something magnificent seemed imminent, likely a result of the wine swirling around in her bloodstream on top of the too-many gin drinks from dinner. She took a long breath and flipped her hair over her shoulder.

  “So, talk. I’m all ears.”

  He blinked, put his arm across her seat again, and lunged forward, forcing her to move lest they clonk foreheads. His lips were tempting—way too close. His rough jaw felt perfect under her fingers. The bar faded, leaving her alone with him in a way she never imagined she’d be again.

  “Don’t,” she said, even as their lips met again for a slightly longer brief moment.

  Eyes clouded, frown deep, he retreated into his own space, propping his elbows on the bar.

  “Sorry. Blame the booze.” His voice was rough, which sent a thrill of memory down her spine.

  Unable to resist the temptation, she touched his shoulder. “I don’t think I will,” she said, unbelieving even as she dropped her palm onto his leg again. “Let’s go somewhere else to talk.”

  “No, Tricia’s right. You don’t deserve to be party to my bullshit.”

  “Let me decide that.” Her hand moved higher, making him flinch. She swallowed hard. “I’ve missed you. I’m drunk. Why not take advantage of me?”

  His half smile made her unbelievably sad. “You forget who I am, Miss Cara? I’m the nice guy. You’re engaged to some rich lawyer. Oh and hey, so am I. We have no business messing....”

  She covered his lips with hers, and this time he didn’t stop her.

  Chapter Five

  Kieran knew he hovered on the verge of a huge mistake. A colossal one, to be precise—one he would likely never recover from, but it felt so good to have Cara Cooper back in his arms, even in a stupid, hipster, overpriced wine bar. Her lips tasted like coming home, her hair was well-remembered spun silk between his fingers. His whirling brain calmed for the first time in weeks.

  He’d been waiting to hear from Melinda for hours, lurking around his shitty apartment drumming his fingertips, and pounding beers to calm his nerves. Finally, she’d sent a text, sayi
ng she’d gotten out of a day-long deposition and didn’t want to go out. Trying to convince her otherwise, he’d hinted he’d be at her favorite wine bar in case she changed her mind but she’d never responded. So there he sat, over half-drunk, and making out with his high school sweetheart in front of God and everybody. If he were the type, he’d blame Melinda for it.

  A noise somewhere between disgust for acting that way and a lusty moan of desire caught in this throat. He broke their contact, but kept his fingers buried in Cara’s hair. His behavior represented nothing more than hiding from his own truths. He’d avoided Melinda for days following the disastrous family dinner. After waking in the small twin bed from his boyhood with his mouth coated in slimy, hangover cotton, he’d pleaded the flu and she’d not made much of a protest at his continued absence.

  Cara’s breathing grew more ragged and she grabbed his wrist, the color of her porcelain skin high in a way he thought he’d forgotten. Swallowing hard he let go of her, trying to come to grips with how much he wanted her then—how desperately he needed someone like her, someone who understood him, his history, his life.

  Fury rushed in on the heels of that realization. He shook so badly he had to put his glass down lest he slosh onto the bar. Ignoring her as best he could, he shifted in his seat to release some of the pressure building behind his zipper.

  “Sorry,” she muttered into her glass, elbows on the bar, staring downward.

  “I lost my job. I mean it was only temporary I guess but I thought they’d keep me.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She looked so distraught it made him feel like a shit heel. He frowned down at the warm palm she’d put back on his leg.

  “Goddamn basketball ruined me.”

  “You got a degree though, right?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, trying to conjure the correct emotion for the awkward, yet somehow pleasant moment. He downed the glass of wine and raised it for a refill. She kept toying with hers and waved the hovering bottle away. “For whatever good that does. General studies with an emphasis in American history, because I love reading about wars. Jesus.” His head dipped lower.