by Cindi Madsen
“If we’d carried on the same way, we were just going to have another losing season. After seeing your vision for things and how you’ve made hard decisions… I think you’re just what this team needs. Sometimes you have to tear it all down and start over.” She bumped her shoulder into his and gave him a smile. “Even if it’s made my job harder.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that. Not so sure about the entitled ego part, but you got there eventually.”
She laughed. “I was doing the tough love coaching thing. Tear you down”—she mimicked an explosion with her hands and then made a fist and pumped it once in the air—“then motivate and rebuild.”
“Totally doing it wrong, so we’re gonna have to work on it,” he said, bumping her back and grinning at her wobble. She was so tiny and pretty, and yeah, he didn’t expect this walk, yet it felt like exactly what he needed. “I do like that you always say we, not the team.”
“That’s because I’m a true fan. And as a fan who closely follows the Mustangs, I also think we have a lot of good players who are underutilized: Smitts, Crawford, and Carter to start.”
“You might be right, and I’ll take a look at them and their contracts. But what we need most besides an amazing head coach is a quarterback. A leader. Then, depending on who we choose, we figure out how best to use our number one draft pick. Or maybe that’s what our pick should go to, but that gets tricky, too.” Pressure built inside, gathering steam and spreading throughout his body. “We can’t afford to waste it.”
“Well, at least we’ve got one quarterback on our team.” She poked his arm and shot him a grin. “I’m sure we’ll find the right one for the field. Just might take some digging.”
“And begging.”
“And a lot of money,” she said.
“And a lot of money,” he echoed. That was another worry that only cranked up the stress level. That he’d make all these changes and spend millions of dollars and still lose. But he couldn’t think like that, because that was a good way to end up defeated before they even started.
Their hotel loomed ahead, and he decided to shove his worries away for a few more minutes. They’d still be there when he arrived at his room. For now he was going to enjoy walking next to a woman in the moonlight, the waves crashing to his right.
“I like your family, by the way,” she said. He wasn’t sure how that was by the way, but he happily embraced the change in subject.
“They like you, too.” His arm grazed hers again, and she sucked in a breath. Earlier tonight he’d squeezed her hand, the same way he’d done on the plane when she’d needed a hand to hold. His fingers itched to grab hold of it again, but he was sure she’d pull away. More than that, he shouldn’t touch her more than necessary because it only made him want to touch her more.
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Your mom’s getting the wrong impression of us, though.”
“We can’t control what other people think.” Right now he couldn’t seem to control what he was thinking. There was a tug between them, a push and pull like the tide that came and receded and then came back stronger and claimed a little more sand.
“Says the guy who’s been in hot water with tabloids before for what they think.” Her teeth sunk into her lip like she thought maybe she shouldn’t have said it, but it was out there now.
Earlier in his career he’d often responded without thinking, the whiplash sensation of living and breathing the game to having to answer a barrage of agitating questions getting the best of him. “It took me years of repeatedly telling myself that I couldn’t control what they thought to make peace with what they printed. Whether or not I only got the gig because of who my grandfather was, or if I was the hero or the whipping boy that week. And sure, sometimes when a reporter was in my face with a microphone, asking ridiculous questions after a game we lost, I temporarily forgot it and lost my cool.”
The PR department and his coaches had both gotten on him. Don’t lash out at the reporters. Remain gracious no matter what they say. And if he didn’t talk to the press, he’d get fined. Slipping up in the post-game interviews hadn’t been what landed him in hot water, though. It was the other part of his past he kept in a tightly locked box in the darkest corner of his mind. “Same with my personal life.”
A raw mix of anger and old hurts churned through him. His ex had constantly talked to reporters, and then they’d want to confirm with him what she’d said. It put him in a tough spot. If he didn’t corroborate what Sage had said, she’d be pissed, but he hadn’t wanted them to analyze and rip apart his relationship like they did with the way he played ball. He also thought his relationship wasn’t anyone’s business. Sage wouldn’t stop talking to them, though, and his relations with the press had turned especially ugly when the rumors about her cheating on him with a teammate had come out.
Even uglier when it turned out to be true. He’d threatened to rearrange a guy’s face and shove his mic where the sun didn’t shine, and every other reporter there had raced to print up everything they could about his horrible temper and how his knee injury had cost him more than just his career. There’d been jokes about how maybe he’d had one too many concussions, too—how maybe that was why he was too dumb to see what’d been happening right under his nose.
“I get that,” Charlotte said. “I’m sure it’s hard to have that added pressure to say the right thing after hard losses and to have your personal life splashed across the internet for entertainment, and I’m sorry I blurted that out without thinking.”
“The past is always harder to outrun than we’d like.”
“True that.”
A chuckle slipped out. He doubted she had much of a shady past, considering she always followed the rules. “I’d also like to think I’m a different person than I was then.” He was, but even that eligible bachelor article bothered him more than it should. Stupid tabloid rags. “So yeah. I’m back to my mantra of we can’t control what other people think.”
“Again, it’s a solid idea and all…” She sighed. “I just hate to disappoint people—that’s more what I meant with your mom and her getting the wrong idea. I’ve never had that family dynamic, and I like your family, so I don’t want things to get messed up because of someone like me.”
He dragged his finger lightly down her forearm, the back of her hand. “I’m guessing this has something to do with the raised-by-nuns and a gambler father.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe. I wasn’t actually raised by nuns, for the record. After my mom passed away, I just went to Catholic school and spent a lot of time after school with a few. Mostly because my dad tended to forget he had a daughter. I always had to work so hard for his attention, and when he discovered what my brain could do with facts and figures, suddenly he wanted to spend more time with me. So I milked it and studied stats and percentages like my life depended on it. And if I helped, he also won more often, which left us both less stressed.”
Lance frowned, his hand automatically curling around hers so she could hold on if she needed the support.
She faked a smile that looked completely wrong on her features. “It’s not a big deal. Thanks to that and my freakishly good memory, I landed a job I love. Anyway, I was just thinking about family dynamics and—”
“That sucks. He sucks for making you feel that way.”
She blinked at him and then slowly shook her head. “He…he’s trying. Getting help and… Wow, this got real quick.” She cleared her throat and increased her pace, pulling her hand from his grasp.
“Oh, look! There’s my room.” Her voice was too high, and her words had a flighty edge to them. “It’d be nice not to have to walk all the way to the door in the middle, but unlike your room, it doesn’t have a fancy walkway, and I’ll never be able to climb that balcony in this skirt.”
“That tiny balcony? I could chuck you right over it.”
She paused long enough to cast an eye roll at him from over her shoulder. “I’m not a football.”
“I noticed,” he said, his gaze running down her before he reined himself in. “Come on. I’ll boost you.”
She glanced around as if they were doing something illegal. Her shoes were tossed over the railing and landed with a clunk, and she reached for the rails.
He linked his fingers together to make a foothold, and she stepped into it. Halfway up, she was clearly rethinking the plan. “I’m not sure I can get over without flashing you, and this was a mistake.”
“I’ll avert my eyes. Just throw your other leg over.”
A mix of squeaks and grunts came from her, and he forced himself to keep his eyes down. But then a whimpered “help” drifted down to him, and he looked up to see her stuck, the rail under her gut. She’d started laughing and couldn’t push herself up—anyway, that seemed to be the problem.
“I’m going to have to shove your…backside.”
“That’d violate section three of the handbook. Section four as well, actually.”
“I’m pretty sure leaving you hanging on the balcony violates a couple of sections, and people are starting to give us odd looks.”
“They are?” she squeaked, and he laughed. No one was really out, although there was a couple a few balconies over that undoubtedly thought they were attempting to break into the room—talk about the worst burglars ever.
He braced his hands on her nice round booty and gave her a firm shove, doing his best to keep his hands flat and in “helping” instead of “copping a feel” range.
She swung her legs over the railing and landed on the other side. Her skirt was hiked up on her thighs, and he told himself to avert his eyes again, but they didn’t want to listen. His mouth went dry as she worked her skirt back into place. Then she peered down at him, and for some reason, it made him think of the horrible Romeo and Juliet production he was in during high school. He hadn’t wanted the role of Romeo, but he was used to memorizing plays and therefore good at memorizing lines.
They were still emblazoned in his memory.
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? A douchey line by Romeo really, and one Lance wouldn’t dare repeat, although he found he didn’t want the night to end. He definitely felt unsatisfied at it having to.
“Can we pretend this never happened, and that I did the reasonable thing and took the main door instead of saving myself another quarter mile of walking?”
“No way. I’m going to cherish the memory of the night you did something slightly inadvisable and climbed your own balcony. Maybe hang it over your head. Bring it up in meetings.”
“Jerk,” she said, but she said it lightly.
He almost made a joke about how it’d also be faster for him to come in through her balcony and walk to his room a few doors down. But that was courting trouble, and he figured if this night went on much longer, he’d land himself in a mess.
“Good night, Charlotte.”
“Good night, Lance,” she said. When he didn’t move, she added, “Um, are you going to leave?”
“I want to make sure you can get into your room first. You’ve proven you’re not the best at climbing—”
“Ah! In a dress.”
“Which you’re still wearing. So unless you plan on shedding it if you can’t get into your room and have to climb back down, let’s play it safe and make sure you’re not locked out before I leave you without help.”
She sighed extra loudly but swiveled her purse in front of her. She kept digging out different items and saying “not it, not it”, and for someone so organized when it came to forms, evidently her purse was an unorganized disaster. “Found it.”
She slid the card into the key slot, watched the light turn green, and then pushed open the balcony door. “I’m good.”
“Until tomorrow, then. Bright and early, since we’ve got that football game and need to practice your catching skills at some point.”
“Unless I don’t play.”
He backed away, his gaze still on her. “You’re playing.”
“Is that an order from my boss?”
“Yep. And don’t give me some shit about how it’s not part of your job. Section six of the handbook clearly states that team-building drills are important to the work environment and morale, and all employees are required to take part in them.”
She leaned over the railing and adamantly shook her head. “That’s not what section six says.”
“It will after I make a few changes to it.”
“All the employees aren’t here, so…”
“You’re playing, Charlotte, so prepare to bring your A game.” He turned around and walked toward his room before she could argue any further. Not that he didn’t expect her to have a bullet-point presentation about it drawn up by tomorrow morning.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte had been on edge all day. For one, she’d climbed her balcony like some kind of lunatic last night, all to save a few measly minutes of being around Lance. Because she’d started to drop her walls. To drift closer to him. To reveal things she hadn’t meant to reveal.
So naturally she’d hurdled a too-tall balcony in a skirt and ended up stuck enough that he’d had to put his hands on her butt to help her over the rail. While he’d done it as respectfully as anyone could when it came to palming your ass, it’d made her way too aware of the size of his hands and the strength of his arms.
Even this morning as they’d been working, she kept getting distracted by his rounded shoulders. The dark hair on his corded forearms. Their interim office smelled like him, too, all masculine and divine, and she’d spent the morning on pins and needles, purposely putting space between them.
Now they were preparing to play football, where there’d be no space. Bonus, it’d also probably end with her falling flat on her ass or in an ungraceful nosedive.
The fact that Lance had gone from buttoned up to buttoned down wasn’t helping matters. The T-shirt and board shorts brought out his sporty side, and the Mustangs baseball hat managed to highlight his scruff even more.
He tossed the ball in the air and caught it, again and again, his movements precise yet second nature. No thought to the throw. The spin of the ball. The way it made those muscles she kept staring at stand out even more—the short-sleeved T-shirt could hardly contain his arms and pecs and omigosh stop checking out his body.
Several beachgoers were sprawled out on towels in scattered groups while others splashed and played in the waves. Families. Single people. Couples. Friends. People everywhere she looked. “So many witnesses.”
She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud until Lance glanced at her, a crooked grin on his face. “We’ve been out here for less than five minutes, and you’re already contemplating killing me?”
“That implies I ever stopped.”
He chuckled, juggled the football to his left hand, and then reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Relax. We’re gonna practice catching and throwing, and like we said last night, we’re just gonna play for fun.”
“You and your brother were making bets on who’d win. Expensive bets.” It made her skin itch to think about the dollar amounts they’d thrown out. They were silly bets between brothers, but she’d been around her dad when he’d put a lot of money on the line and lost. As solid as her internal stats calculator was, occasionally players had an off game. Or weather or officials came into play—so many variables, not to mention that bitch, Lady Luck, or fate or karma or whatever you wanted to call it…
She’d been blamed for some of those losses. Thousands of dollars here and there, but then Dad would get up again. He’d crave that next adrenaline rush and risk more. Her gut sank as she recalled being yelled at over a Super Bowl game he’d lost five figures on. Or so she’d thought, because they’d had a fight about the amount he was gambling.
Then he revealed it was six figures, and money he didn’t have. His decision making turned from bad to worse, and she didn’t want to think now about the snowball effect of that loss.
“Okay, so my
brother and I are super competitive. But it’s all in good fun, I swear.”
A band formed around her lungs, growing tighter and tighter as the memories and pressure began slowly suffocating her. “What if you lose because of me?”
“Wow, now who’s got the ego, thinking you can determine the entire outcome of the game?”
She fired a dirty look at him, which was starting to feel like her main form of communication with the guy, but after last night she couldn’t throw her usual fire into it, and his grin made it clear he was far from scared. Every moment since they’d dipped their toes into the ocean—even their bickering—was starting to feel less tension filled and more…more.
He stepped a little closer, plenty of taunting creeping into the curve of his mouth. “Haven’t you heard the no ‘I’ in team speech?”
She yanked the ball out of his hands and took a provoking step of her own. “Haven’t you heard the one about the HR rep who spiked a football in her boss’s face for being so frustrating?” She even cocked her arm as if she were going to follow through on her threat.
“With all these witnesses?” Another smug grin spread across his stupidly perfect face. “Think of the due diligence.”
Well, what do you know? He is pretty good at the jokes.
“Also, your form’s all wrong.” He maneuvered behind her and nudged her elbow down a few inches. “Think ninety degrees. If all your weight’s on the front foot to start, you’ve already lost your momentum, so”—he gripped her hips and swiveled the right one back—“you want about seventy percent on the back leg, thirty on the front.”
She set up, doing her best to ignore the way her blood rushed to his hand on her hip and focus on his instructions. “Take a second to aim, and when you throw, flip the weight distribution, going an extra ten or so percent on the forward leg.”
Lance guided her arm forward in a practice throw, his chest bumping her shoulder as his breath warmed her temple. “Make sure to follow through.”
A pleasant shiver tiptoed down her spine, and she forgot how to breathe.
