Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats)

by Jeanette Murray

  She wore shorts that showcased her long, tanned legs and a tank top that bared her impossibly sexy, toned arms. She was truly an athlete, not just a beauty who liked being admired for being skinny. He watched as Thomas fed balls at intervals he couldn’t quite pick up, but Kat seemed to know the drill, literally. She swung, most of them going over the net, a few barely clipping the top to stay on her side, and one particular doozy that flew way past the other side and smacked the tarp behind Thomas, hard.

  “She gets those more as she gets tired.”

  Michael jumped in his shoes, then turned to find an older guy wearing a loud, printed button-down shirt and khaki shorts with bright white tennis shoes. His hair, what was left of it, was doing its own sort of crazy thing, defying gravity.

  “Uh, hi.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m not a weirdo who just wanders in. I’m Michael.”

  “The manny.”

  “Yeah… not anymore.” Michael stuffed his hands in his pockets, not sure whether to be pleased Kat had clearly talked about him or annoyed she still referred to him by that insufferable title. “Now we’re just… neighbors.”

  “Hmm.” The older gentleman stood beside him, watching the practice as well.

  “What did you mean, before?”

  “Hmm?”

  Michael bit back a sigh. “You said when she gets tired, she gets ‘those’ a lot. What did that mean?”

  “Oh, right, right.” The older guy scratched at his head with one finger, eyes never leaving the court. “Lots of players, when they get tired, they start dropping balls into the net. Not this one, no.” He shook his head, sniffing. “This one overcompensates for it and starts swinging for the fences like she’s Joe freaking DiMaggio.”

  Michael chuckled at that. “You here often enough to watch?”

  “I should hope so. I’m her coach. Gary Brustover.”

  Ah, that explained it. “Nice to meet you.”

  They watched in silence for a while as Thomas continued to feed, and Kat relentlessly attacked.

  “Scared to approach that net. He keeps giving her the chance, and she won’t.”

  “She’s not scared of anything,” Michael said automatically, wincing afterward. That sounded too intimate of knowledge for a neighbor.

  “She’s scared she’ll get up there and actually win a goddamn point. Put the fucking ball away, Kelly,” Gary muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

  Michael decided to just pretend to understand what the hell the crazy old guy was talking about and nodded, watching still. After a few more minutes, they decided to take a break, and both Kat and Thomas walked to a bench nearby to grab some water.

  “Go pick up balls.”

  “What?” Michael stepped back, staring at Kat’s coach. “Beg pardon?”

  “You wanna support her?”

  He blinked.

  “Well, I didn’t figure a neighbor would drive down here to just watch her practice for a few minutes. You clearly got something for the girl. Go support her by picking up balls.”

  Michael huffed out a breath. “Have you met her? She won’t appreciate that.”

  “You’d be surprised. Let’s go, young man.”

  “I don’t think—”

  Gary gripped his forearm tightly and tugged. Michael could have broken away—he was a lineman for God’s sake—but it would hurt the older man, and there wasn’t any call for it. So he allowed himself to be tugged out through the door and into the court area.

  The first thing that hit him was the smell. He had no clue what that was—plastic? rubber?—but it was overwhelming. The second was the fuzz. Fuzz everywhere. He kicked at a yellow fuzzy clinging to his jeans and transferred three more fuzz clumps of greater size.

  “Lost cause, give it up. You walk out here, you get fuzzed. We don’t vacuum the courts until tomorrow.”

  “Ha, right, you… wait, you really vacuum the courts?”

  Gary gave him a look that implied he was an idiot for asking. Michael had no clue whether that meant Yes, you moron, of course we vacuum, or No, stupid, that’s not a real thing.

  “Uh, okay, but look, I don’t want to interrupt their practice so—”

  “I brought you some help,” Gary called, leaving him no choice but to keep walking or risk Kat and Thomas see him turning and running for the door like a little bitch.

  Kat swiveled on the bench, saw him, and jumped up. “Michael?”

  “Hey.” He didn’t know what to do—hug her? shake her hand? give her a high five?—so he just laced his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “So, uh, good playing.”

  She watched him for a moment, as if judging if he were telling the truth. Then she laugh-snorted. “You have no clue what good tennis looks like.”

  “You got most of them in the court. That’s good enough to me.”

  “You get most of your blocks,” she shot back. “Good enough to me.”

  “Point made.”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  Michael realized they were basically nose to nose now, and he could smell the sweat and effort on her. Her skin flushed from the hard work, and her hair was coming out of its ponytail, wisps curling by her damp temples.

  She was a fucking goddess, and he wanted nothing more than to drag her off to a private spot, lift her against the wall, and have his way with her like an animal in heat.

  Instead, he forced himself to take a step back, literally as well as figuratively. And noticed that both Thomas and Gary had suddenly become scarce. “Where’d your coach and his whipping boy go?”

  “Whipping… oh, Thomas?” She rolled her eyes and pointed toward the back courts where the lights weren’t on as they weren’t being used. “There’s a storage closet back there. Most likely finding cones to make me aim at. Then Gary gets to berate me for being an idiot when I miss them all, saying I’m doing it on purpose.”

  “Are you?”

  Kat ignored that, grabbed a wire basket with a tall handle, and began picking up balls. He grabbed another and started doing the same.

  They picked up balls in silence, occasionally dumping them into a larger basket on wheels that Michael had seen Thomas digging balls out of during the drills. After a few minutes, Kat quietly said, “Thanks for coming.”

  “Anytime. Seriously,” he added when she gave him a get real look.

  “You. Big guy.”

  Michael turned around to find Gary walking back with Thomas, carrying a cone and a racket. “It’s Michael.”

  “Whatever. Big guy, stand right here.” Gary used the racket to point to a spot on the court.

  “I have no clue how to play tennis.”

  “Did I ask you to play tennis? I asked you to stand. Uncomplicated, really.” Gary shook his head at Thomas. “One too many hits to the noggin, I think.”

  Michael shot a death look at a snickering Kat, then grudgingly walked over to stand in the spot, on the line of the front left box, a few steps over from dead center. “Here?”

  “Good work, Big Guy.” Gary turned to Kat. “You’re at the net.”

  “But—”

  “Na ah ah.” Wagging a finger, her coach cut her off before she could begin. “What happened the last time you argued with me?”

  “You threw a shoe at me,” she muttered. Michael snorted, earning him a glare.

  “At the net. Here, this is for you.”

  Michael took the racket Gary handed him, then just stood straight. “What am I doing with it?”

  “Standing!” Gary shook his head at Thomas, who was now silently laughing, the bastard. “So many head traumas. Kat, you are at the net. Your partner—”

  “Partner?” she squeaked. “I’m a singles player!”

  “Yes, and that’s worked out so well for you.”

  Kat’s face turned red, but she took her position at the net as requested.

  “Good, good. Now, your partner has served. Thomas back here is returning the serve. You are at the net, taking up as much real estate as you can. You want
all the boardwalks. Build hotels like it’s your job. It’s Monopoly time, baby, and there are no mercies shown at family game night.”

  That made Michael smile, thinking back to his own family game nights and several bloody rounds of Monopoly with his brothers and parents. Accurate description.

  “You’re cracked,” was all Kat said.

  Gary ignored that. “You are aiming at the other net person. Why?”

  Kat blinked. “Because they have—”

  “Because they have less time to react!” Gary cut her off. “Aim for the feet, but I won’t yell at you if you plant a facer. Thomas, go!”

  “Wait, I’m sorry.” Michael held up his hand, waiting to be called on.

  Thomas barked out a laugh before stopping himself. Kat bit her lip. Gary rolled his eyes, then nodded. “Big Guy.”

  Big Guy was suddenly surpassing Manny as his new least favorite nickname. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing?”

  “Not dying.”

  Kat doubled over, looking like she was having stomach troubles, but he knew she was laughing so hard it just hurt. Thomas cleared his throat as he dropped a few balls, then turned his back on the group to pick them back up. Probably to hide his laughter.

  Gary looked at them each individually, then threw his hands up. “What are you waiting for?”

  Thomas fed the first ball to Kat, who slammed it right into the net. “Gary, really, I—oh!” She had to lunge for the next one, and it sailed out of bounds. Way out. “Gary, I’m a singles— Thomas! Stop!”

  Michael shook his head. She was fighting it too much. If the coach asked you to jump, you didn’t ask how high, you just went as far as you could go until they said stop.

  “Gary, Peter always said the money was in my ground strokes.”

  “Peter is a Russian shithead,” Gary said without any emphasis. “You’re not a singles player. You’re a doubles player.”

  “I’m a what?” Kat’s racket nearly dropped to the ground. She looked so offended Michael wondered if this was some sort of tennis-specific obscenity he didn’t know about.

  You’re ugly.

  Yeah, well, your mother’s a doubles player!

  “Give it a try. If you suck, we try something else. Just hit the ball.”

  Thomas fed another, and Kat connected solidly, right back at Thomas.

  “At him.” Gary pointed. “Hit the ball at Big Guy. Make him cry. Make him weep. Make him wish he were playing football where his life is safer and he’s not at risk of death.”

  A sudden gleam shone in Kat’s eyes, one that warned of bad things to come. Michael shifted on his feet, not sure what to do or where to go. But he’d been told to stand there, so…

  Thomas fed a ball, and Kat made the move, angling her racket and shooting the ball toward him. It landed about four inches from his right foot. “Nice shot,” Michael said, smiling.

  “She’s just getting started.” Gary nodded at Thomas. “Keep ’em coming.”

  As Thomas fed, Michael had to dance out of the way more than once for several balls that came dangerously close to hitting his feet. Once or twice, he actually managed to use the racket to deflect a ball coming at his torso or—the worst one—his junk. But he kept returning to the same position, because otherwise Gary would yell at him, and Gary might just be scarier—and weirder—than any of his football coaches.

  With every ball he barely dodged, Michael had the pleasure of watching her confidence grow. When Gary asked them to switch sides, so she now worked on backhand volleys, he noticed she was already bouncing on her toes, ready to roll when Gary scooted him to the other side of the T toward the front of the net.

  “Watch yourself,” Gary said mildly at one point, and Michael looked up toward him.

  Just as a ball hit him dead in the cheek. Sharp, instant pain exploded through his head like a bullet tearing through his cranium. He dropped to one knee, groaning, to avoid actually toppling over.

  “Oh my God!” Kat dropped her racket with a clatter and launched herself over the net to rush at him. “Did I get your eye? Oh my God, oh my God, I blinded a Bobcat. I’m going to hell.”

  She knelt down beside him. Cool hands cupped his face, tilting his head up, making him see stars. “Jesus, Kat, hold on a second.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit your face!”

  “Better not have meant to.” Looking remarkably unconcerned, Gary wandered over, arms crossed. “It’s never a good idea to aim for the head. Too small a target. Too much risk of missing.”

  “That’s what you’re worried about?” Kat snarled at him. “Thomas, could you go get some ice or something?”

  “Sure thing.” The other man jogged off, leaving the three on the court.

  “I’m fine.” Michael had no clue if he was actually fine or not, but he wanted her to stop roughly handling his head in an effort to examine him. “I just need to sit down a minute.”

  Kat reluctantly let go, fingertips sliding over his skin as she relinquished her hold. And Michael realized he’d rather have her jerking his aching head around than lose the contact. He reached up and grabbed her hand, lacing fingers with hers.

  Gary coughed. “I’m gonna go check on the ice situation.”

  Kat waited until her coach was through the tarp, then ran her hands up and into his hair. “How much does it hurt?”

  He didn’t say anything or even move for a moment, but his left eye—the one not hit by the tennis ball—closed for a moment, and he bowed his head. She worried he was hurt worse than she’d thought. Wasn’t nausea a sign of a concussion?

  “Are you going to be sick?”

  “No, just don’t stop doing that.”

  “Don’t stop doing… Oh.” She continued running her fingers over his scalp, scratching lightly. He made a sound that was eerily similar to the sound he made in bed when they joined together. “So this was your plan all along, huh?”

  “Yeah, risking broken cheekbones just for some snuggles. Sounds legit.”

  “God, I didn’t really break… You’re kidding about that, right?”

  He opened the left eye, then cautiously, the right, and pulled his hand away from that cheek.

  She hissed in a breath. The skin was already bruising at the apple of his cheek, streaking toward his eye. While his eye was red, it didn’t look swollen. “Missed your eye socket, I think.”

  “You did, though it’s gonna blacken anyway. Trust me, I’ve had my fair share of knocks to the face. I know how the discoloration works.”

  That made her laugh, just a little, before cutting off a sob. “I’m so sorry. I really wasn’t aiming at your head.”

  “I know.”

  She kissed him gently, first on the lips, then the bridge of his nose, before moving to leave a butterfly-light smooch on the injured area. He didn’t pull back in pain or wince, so she assumed that was okay.

  “Your balls, however…”

  “Yeah, I noticed a few aiming straight for the family jewels. You’re lucky I was quick with the racket, or I’d be moaning a hell of a lot more than over a black eye.”

  She snorted.

  “I’ve never hit someone in the face. It happens, that you notch someone during drills, and usually it’s unintentional. But I’ve never nailed a person above the shoulders before.”

  “Coulda fooled me. You’ve got a killer volley there, Kelly.”

  She realized they’d been left alone for a lot longer than it took to get ice. “I think they forgot about us. Let’s go get some ice from the kitchen.”

  She led him behind the tarps and through the lobby, which was suspiciously empty, into the employee kitchen. The door swung closed behind him, and she started digging through the cabinets for a baggie to put the ice in. “You don’t have practice, do you?”

  “I do. But it’s mostly a walk-through. We leave tomorrow for Cali.”

  “Oh, man.” She hissed as she thought about him going to practice looking like that. “Your coaches are going to kill me.” />
  “No, they won’t. If I couldn’t play, that would be different. I’ll play.” He took the bag of ice and put it over his cheek. Kat had a moment of relief he wasn’t the kind of athlete to play down an injury and ignore medical common sense in order to play the tough guy. “It’ll be sore, but it’s not exactly a career ender.”

  She started to sit up on the counter by the sink—the only space to sit in the tiny kitchen—then thought better of it. She wanted privacy. “Come this way.”

  They walked back out into the lobby. Still no sign of Thomas or Gary, though Gary’s office door was closed. She led him down the short hallway that housed all the trainers’ offices. Thomas’s door was wide open, but the light was off and nobody was there. She came to the last door, the office of the coach who had left before she’d arrived in Santa Fe. The office was empty, and Gary had given her a key to keep some of her things in there for the time being. Wasted space otherwise, he’d suggested. So, it was now hers.

  She unlocked the door and waited for Michael to walk by her before pushing it closed. She went to the desk and propped her butt on the edge of it.

  “I still feel bad.”

  “How bad?” he asked, walking toward her, still holding the ice bag to his face.

  “Less bad now than a second ago. Don’t milk it.”

  “Bad enough to kiss it and make it feel better?”

  This playful Michael… She loved it. Loved him when he was being fun and carefree and not playing the manny card. Loved when they were equals, on the same level because of desire and need and not one in control of the other. She needed the equality.

  “Maybe.” She smiled and widened her knees, giving him room to step between them. With a gentle grip, she held his head and guided him down until she could press a featherlight kiss to the cold skin of his cheek. “There.”

  “More.” He kissed her then, letting the ice bag drop from his hands into the trash can beside the desk. She heard the wet thud and rattle as it landed in the plastic-lined basket. And then she shut it all out as he gave her his mouth, his tongue, enjoying the feel of his body pressed up against hers. His erection thick and insistent against her core, feeling the heat of it even through both their shorts.

  His lips cruised down her neck, and she arched it to give him more room. Her eyes closed, and she simply lost herself in the feel of his hands, his lips on her body. Lost herself in the moment of knowing this man who was so amazing and wonderful wanted her like this.