Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats)

by Jeanette Murray

  “I don’t hate you,” he denied automatically. It was true. He didn’t particularly like the position he was in, but he didn’t dislike her. Despite her antics, he knew she was intelligent, and clearly hardworking.

  “Well, you’re not a fan,” she summarized. Standing, she tossed her closed salad container in the trash. It landed with a solid thunk. Brushing her hands off, she straightened. Her tight body arched and moved with a grace one might think almost balletic, except for the fact that her body didn’t fit the ballerina type. No waif-thin elegance for her. No, her body was tough. Muscular and lean at the same time, with bulges and dips that he wanted more than he should to trace, touch, explore.

  “You don’t like that I’m here. That you’re stuck being the manny.” She walked over to him, her running shoes silent on the carpet of the conference room. Stopping in front of him, she poked a finger at his chest. “I’m cramping your style. Annoying the hell out of you. Admit it.”

  She hadn’t showered—when would she have?—and he could still smell the musky sweat combined with her own original scent that clung to her skin. God, why was that hot? He was sick in the head.

  “Your silence is basically an agreement.” Triumph shone in her eyes. “We could probably work out a deal, you and I.”

  “A deal.” His voice was hoarse. Why the hell was his voice so hoarse?

  “Yeah. Like, you ignore me, I do what I want, I tell Sawyer I’m just too smart for you, and he lets you off manny duty.”

  “Too smart for…” He cut off when he saw her grinning. “You little shit.”

  “Don’t make it so easy to tease,” she said with an impish grin.

  “Tease. That’s what you like?”

  She shrugged.

  He gripped her elbows, dragging her body close to his. Until her breasts pressed against his chest, her stomach aligned with his, her feet coming to rest between his. “Is that what this whole act is? Teasing me?”

  “It’s not an act. This is me.” Her voice grew smaller, less confident.

  “Maybe,” he admitted, his fingers tightening slightly on her arms. Gauging. Testing. She didn’t pull away. She leaned closer to him. And her head tipped back, just enough to give him a clear shot at her mouth.

  Jesus. She was asking him to try her.

  No, not asking, he silently amended as he caught the glint of challenge in her eyes.

  Daring him.

  Michael never backed down from a dare.

  Chapter 6

  He was either trying to terrify her, or seduce her. Kat wasn’t entirely sure which, but if the former was his goal, he sucked at it.

  If the latter, well… Her nipples were attempting to bore holes through her sports bra, and there was an uncomfortable dampness in her shorts that could clearly attest to his success in the latter.

  His grip changed suddenly, losing the feeling of manacles, and morphed into something tender. His thumbs swept over the bend of her elbows, and she wished she hadn’t zipped on her hoodie after the gym. She’d give up a lot to feel those roughened fingertips over her skin.

  But…

  “Michael,” she said, damning herself for sounding breathless.

  “Yeah.”

  Not a question. But an answer to an unspoken query.

  Then he bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers in a hungry kiss.

  The instant their lips touched, she felt the fire. One that took her by surprise and blazed all the hotter for it. One she wasn’t prepared for and wasn’t sure whether she wanted to bank it or feed it and see where it grew.

  Then his hand slid from her elbow to the small of her back, pressing her in closer, and she knew.

  Feed it.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she lifted up onto her toes and pressed closer in. His mouth slanted over hers, and she opened slightly, testing. Seeing if he’d take the bait.

  Of course he would. He was a competitor, same as her. He wouldn’t back down from a challenge. His mouth slanted farther over hers, tongue invading her space, tasting her, enticing her to try him out. To open wider. She ignored, moving at her own speed.

  Then his hand cupped her cheek, thumb pressing at the junction of her jaw and making her gasp with a sensation that wasn’t quite pain, not quite pleasure. More a tingle. He took advantage, delving deeper into her wide-open mouth.

  God, he had a talented tongue.

  Then he was gone in an instant, pulling away so fast she nearly tumbled face-first into the door. Only his arm thrusting out against her chest, like he was the driver saving the passenger in a car accident, preserved her from knocking out her two front teeth.

  Embarrassment, party of one. Your table is now available.

  “Sorry,” Michael muttered as she stood upright. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his singing cell phone. “The phone just…”

  “Yeah.” She turned her back on him as he answered in a rough voice. Pull it together, Kelly. Pull yourself together. Who cares that he just rocked the hell out of you? Game face. You’ve got a good game face. Put it on.

  Then his big hand covered her shoulder, and she looked behind her without turning around. Michael’s face was pulled into a grim expression, and she finally tuned in to what he was saying.

  “It wasn’t a big deal, Sawyer. I’m not sure why you’re throwing a fit about it.”

  Sawyer? she mouthed.

  He nodded, then held the phone away and pressed a button to turn on the speaker phone.

  “… but does she stay low? No,” Sawyer droned on. “No, she goes and gets herself involved in showing up a freaking Bobcat. Because that’s the way to look humble and likeable.”

  “Maybe people will like a strong female sports figure. Ever thought of that?” Kat asked, her fists clenching.

  “By the way, you’re on speaker,” Michael added dryly.

  “Jesus and the disciples.” Aggravation bled through the phone line. “Fine. Now that you’re both on the line, let’s go over why Kat’s there in the first place. To learn a little humility.”

  Kat started to argue, but Sawyer just kept on bulldozing.

  “To stay out of the spotlight while we think through her future. To not make any rash decisions while I’m attempting to line up a new sponsor. And instead, she keeps finding herself in these situations where she’s stripping on a freaking bar or humiliating an NFL player.”

  “Sawyer.” Michael’s voice was calm, but it cut through the conversation like a knife. Kat’s vibrating body stilled, waiting. Knowing he was about to agree with their agent. That he was going to call her reckless. Impulsive.

  “Why should she be humble? She kicked Rodman’s ass fair and square. It’s not her fault he lost. And she was just doing a lip-sync battle. You make it sound like she got naked and rolled in Jell-O, for crying out loud.”

  Adrenaline, which had been bubbling in anticipation of a fight, fled her body so quickly she was lightheaded.

  “We agreed she would stay low-key while she was out there, while we reassessed her career options.” Sawyer’s voice managed to contain that perfect balance of culture and bite. He’d never do anything so stupid as yell at his talent… but he’d let them know in a way that nipped that they were treading into dangerous water. “And you agreed to help.”

  “I’m helping,” was all Michael said, then hung up.

  Michael watched as Kat unlocked her apartment door with uncharacteristic slowness. Everything she did seemed to have a blurred edge to it. She laughed hard, walked fast even if it was just down the hall to nowhere, and threw herself into life. But suddenly she was unlocking her own damn apartment door as if there were something on the other side that was going to bite her.

  “Problem with the key?” he asked mildly. She flinched but didn’t look back.

  “No, just… you know. I’m not great with keys. I have a hate-hate relationship with hotel key cards too,” she said with a soft laugh that sounded not at all right. Then the door popped open, and she sighed. “Thanks for
letting me work out. See you later.” She didn’t even look at him as she closed the door behind her.

  And that, Michael thought as he opened his own door easily and let it shut behind him, was that. Practice done for the day, mentoring complete, delightful call to his agent over… He was free to do what he wanted with the rest of the day.

  Surveying his apartment, he frowned. Too damn quiet. He could call one of the rooks up to play some Xbox. Or maybe talk to Josh about real estate. He’d mentioned he was going to start investing in some of that pretty soon. Josh was a solid guy and grew up in the area. They could have a chat about the good places to look for houses.

  And yet, when he sank down on his couch, none of that sounded appealing. He picked up his remote and turned the TV on, then back off immediately. False noise wasn’t what he needed.

  He needed something… someone else.

  Changed into fresh clothes, he knocked on Kat’s door. Nothing. He felt confident this time she hadn’t slipped by him and gone out, so why wasn’t she answering? Not willing to take no, he texted her.

  Answer your door.

  No answer.

  He growled in frustration. They needed to talk, damn it, and she was avoiding him. “Kat,” he called and pounded the door.

  His phone pinged.

  Shower. Go away.

  It was logical, given he’d had a chance to shower after practice and she hadn’t. But still…

  Don’t believe you. Open up.

  Go. Away.

  She aggravated him. Made him want to do something stupid, like stand out in the hallway banging on her door until she answered, whether it took thirty seconds or thirty minutes.

  He’d never made an ass out of himself like this before. What the hell was his problem?

  She was. She was everything that was upside down in his life right now.

  Prove it, he texted back because he’d run out of ideas.

  Twenty seconds later, he got a photo text.

  It was Kat. Hair soaking wet and slicked back, skin from the shoulders up glistening with that freshly-scrubbed shower look, a scowl on her face and her middle finger firmly flipping him the bird.

  Okay, so that was proof.

  And now he had a boner.

  He’d dropped IQ points since she’d moved next door.

  I need to talk to you. Come over to my place when you’re done.

  Bite me.

  He grinned, then headed back to his place to get something started for dinner.

  “Just thinks he can summon me like a genie in a lamp,” Kat growled as she located a bra and shoved her arms through it. “Thinks this little experiment of Sawyer’s gives him the right to be my boss. Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  She kicked at the towel on the floor, but it was a less-than-satisfying experience as it only went about two feet and landed with a soft plod on the carpeted floor.

  “This is why people own their own houses. Because they can have a punching bag in the garage or basement.” With a sigh of frustration, she pulled a comb through her hair quickly. After a short debate, she just claw-clipped it up. Screw him. If he thought he could demand her presence like a king to a peasant, he’d just get what he got. The drowned rat look should discourage him from trying it again.

  After throwing on the first tank top she could find, along with some long shorts—or rather, long on other people, normal length on her legs—and two-dollar flip-flops, she stuffed her key in her back pocket and huffed over to his apartment.

  She banged on the door and counted to five impatiently. “Figures,” she called when he didn’t appear. “You spend all your time trying to push my door down and then you’re not even ready when I come over to your—oh.”

  Kat took a quick step back as the door opened. Michael stood there, looking half-annoyed, half-amused. He pulled it off remarkably well.

  “You rang?” he asked dryly.

  “No, you did, about ten minutes ago,” she reminded him. When he just stood there, staring at her, she shrugged. “You get me out of the shower, you get what you get. I don’t really care if I don’t meet your visual standards.”

  “Who said you didn’t?” he asked calmly, then let her in.

  The moment she walked through the door, she smelled something delicious. “What… okay, what’s that?”

  “White chicken chili. I usually like to let it cook longer, Crock-Pot style, but I was in the mood for some and didn’t have any in my freezer.”

  “He cooks,” she murmured, following him to the small kitchen that mirrored her own. Only his had something hers didn’t… food.

  “He dumps cans and chicken breasts into a pot and turns the heat on,” Michael corrected as if that weren’t more than about 50 percent of the population. Walking to the stove, he stirred the pot of the aforementioned soup, then set the long-handled spoon down in a spoon rest. “This could use another half hour. Let’s talk. Then I’ll feed you dinner.”

  “Oh, by all means, let’s talk.” She was fighting to hold on to her annoyance by the minute. The man had badgered her out of the shower… to feed her dinner. This was a first. She walked with Michael to his mirror-image living room and sat on an armchair that was suspiciously identical to hers… minus the pattern. He settled in on the sofa, and she waited expectantly. For him to tell her he was done. That Sawyer called, and the experiment was over. That she was a horrible kisser.

  No, wait… not that.

  “I have to apologize.”

  No, not that either.

  “Apologize for… what?” She blinked. When he raised a brow, she held up her hands. “Sorry, I don’t mean that in the sarcastic way… which is odd for me. You’re surprising me.”

  “Because real men don’t apologize?”

  “They do if they want to be respected,” she shot back, and he grinned, surprising her once more.

  “Well, I apologized. Take that for what it’s worth.”

  She bit her lip and nodded, then shook. “I’m sorry, what were you apologizing for again?”

  That quick grin flashed once more. “You’re something else, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I’m apologizing for treating you like a kid when you got here.”

  She waited for more.

  “Okay,” he said into the silence, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “When Sawyer called, he asked me to do him a favor. I do a lot of favors. I collect them, you might say.”

  “Favor collector. Sounds like one of those weird subtitles they would put under your name if you went on a seedy talk show.” She bit back a smile to think about it. “Michael Lambert, favor collector.”

  “Now you’re mocking. It’s okay,” he added when she started to laugh. “I’ve earned it. I do this mentoring thing a lot with the guys. I like it. Love it,” he inserted, as if correcting himself. “Love it. I love catching the guys before they make mistakes you hear about on the news. And it’s good for me too.”

  Holy shit, this guy… He was either the most genuine, good guy she’d ever met in their crazy world of professional sports, or he was in the wrong profession and should be working a stage somewhere. “That’s… nice. That sounded weak.” She covered her face with her hands and groaned. “I meant it though. It’s nice. Good that you do that. It can’t be easy.”

  “Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not. But I see it as self-serving, to a degree. What helps the team, helps me.” He shrugged. “Not the point. When Sawyer told me he was sending me this brat of a tennis player, I expected some nineteen-year-old kid.”

  She settled back. “Didn’t want to Google me?”

  “Nope. I like meeting people where they’re at. So we’ll just say I had the wrong idea. Not that Sawyer helped. He gave me a few basics, and that was all. Then you showed up, surrounded by my teammates.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Do it on purpose. I gathered. Eventually.” He stood with a sigh and held out a hand. “Let’s pick out a side to g
o with the chili. I do better apologizing when I’ve got something in my hands.”

  “You were doing all right,” she protested but took his hand when he held it out. There was no shock, no lightning bolt that struck. No zap of energy that made her rethink all her life’s choices and look at Michael Lambert with new and appreciative eyes, like there was in the movies.

  But when his large hand wrapped around hers, she felt safe and secure, stupid as it sounded even in her own mind. Like… he wasn’t going to let go and feed her to the wolves. That he’d taken her in hand—literally and figuratively—and he took his favor seriously.

  The thought of him looking at her as a favor turned her stomach sour.

  Does she like the chili?

  That thought… is why people come to you for mentoring advice, not love life advice, Lambert.

  Does. She like. The chili.

  Michael snorted as he broke the roll he’d tossed into the oven ten minutes before they ladled up some soup. Kat has insisted on vegetables—something about maintaining her girlish figure, which he knew was a joke—and had put together small salads with oil and vinegar dressing. But so far, that’s all she’d eaten.

  “Something wrong?”

  He glanced up from the bread he’d torn in two. “What?”

  “You made a sound.” Kat nodded at the roll in his hands. “Problem with the roll?”

  “No, I… okay.” He set it down on the plate beside his salad. “It’s your turn.”

  Kat watched him for a moment, then picked up her roll, broke it in two and put it back on her plate. “Now what?”

  He glared, and she snickered. So he nudged her under the table with his toe. She kicked back. He tugged on the plain placemat beneath her food. She pushed at his until it nearly spilled into his lap. He managed to juggle the bowl of chili right on the edge.

  Kat chuckled.

  When was the last time he’d had a woman push his buttons so fully that he wanted to push hers right back?

  “Tell me why…”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you’re such a brat?”

  She threw half her roll at him, which he ducked. She played tennis, not softball. It wasn’t a challenge.