by Erin Hayes
Rodney snorted and shook his head. “Trust me. This wasn’t my idea either.”
“It was my idea,” I said, reaching for another wing. “Because you two have some bad juju going on between you and you need to get over it.”
Andre’s mouth quirked up as he slid his gaze over to me. “Juju?”
I waved my hand noncommittally. “You know what I mean. You have some bad blood between you two. And I don’t know much about football, but I do know that if you don’t cut it out, it will be very bad for the team. And I can’t have the team lose.”
I wasn’t going to bring up that I was planning to sell the team once I turned around their record. Right now, I couldn’t even get the vocabulary right for the game.
Rodney sat back and crossed his huge arms. “We’re the losingest team in the league.”
“And I can see why,” I exclaimed, exasperated. “You two can’t even have lunch together.”
“We’re having lunch,” Rodney muttered in response. Like a scolded child.
“You’re glaring at each other across the table,” I said. “And you haven’t had any of these chicken wings.” To prove my point, I reached across and pulled a new basket over to me.
Andre watched me warily. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“So eat, then.” I pointed at him with a wing. “Because I have no self-control, and it will be all your fault.”
He snorted as he shook his head with a laugh. A gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Rodney, who frowned in response. “You two have some sort of history?”
“No,” I said at the exact same time Andre said, “Yes.” And if that weren’t bad enough, my cheeks burned in embarrassment, despite Andre expanding upon his statement with, “I saw her at the airport her first night here when I flew in from Philly. I also took her out to lunch to discuss my goals as the team captain.”
Nothing about our one-night stand. Nothing about getting drunk with him and going all Girls Gone Wild on him. Even still, I was blushing so hard, I think I popped a blood vessel.
Rodney, for his part, raised an eyebrow. “And what is your goal as team captain?” He leaned forward, resting his big bulk on his elbows. “Because you’ve never made that known, oh captain, my captain.”
Andre pressed his lips together, and I could feel the tension start boiling over again, and I wasn’t about to tear my favorite pair of jeans because of their little hissy fits.
“To play nicely together,” I said sharply. “And to win at least one game this season.”
Rodney snickered. “Not that high of a bar.”
“Apparently the play nicely together part is.”
He considered my comeback for a long moment, before reaching across the table. I froze, thinking he was going to throttle Andre. As if reading my thoughts, Rodney glanced at me, before shaking his head slightly and grabbing his own basket of wings.
“I can play nicely,” he said sweetly. He picked up a wing himself. “I’ll do that as long as others can avoid spilling beer in my lap.” He gave Andre a pointed look.
With a huff, the quarterback claimed his own plate of wings and started munching on them silently.
Okay, so this was progress. The two players went from glaring at each in silence to angrily eating their wings in silence. I could work with this. It was a start.
All my managerial training from my time in the corporate world started kicking in. So, maybe, just maybe I could do this owner thing.
Hell, after getting these two idiots to eat, I feel like I could do anything. Have them sing kumbaya. Fall backward in each other’s arms. Anything.
My gaze flitted down to the stack of notecards in my purse. Well, I could do anything other than remember my football vocabulary. An idea formed in my head, a stupid one, but maybe it could be further progress in getting these two working together.
They could help me study my football lingo. Nothing too heavy. Nothing around strategy or any sort of thing where opinions could get in the way.
Just helping me with my football IQ.
“So, I need your help,” I said, reaching into my purse. That got both Andre’s and Rodney’s attentions, and they looked over to me. I waved the flashcards about. “I know it may sound weird, but I don’t know anything about football.”
“Shocking,” Rodney said, although a smile flitted about his lips.
“Couldn’t tell one bit,” Andre added.
Okay, so they could agree on that, but nothing else. Men are so weird. I gave them a mock glare as I set the cards in the space before me. “Who better to help me learn about it than you guys?”
Andre quirked an eyebrow as he licked off the excess white sauce from his finger—and shit, that should not turn me on right now—wiped them with a napkin, and then picked up the cards. “You have flashcards?”
Rodney, who had been silent for a while, frowned and leaned in to get a better look. “That looks like Clancy’s handwriting. So neat and fancy.”
“It is,” I said. Both men looked over to me, like I just said that they were both expecting babies. “He said he was going to help me learn all this stuff,” I continued quickly. “So he made some cards for me.”
“Looks like a lot of cards,” Andre muttered.
“There’s a lot I don’t know about football.”
“And Clancy made you flashcards?” Rodney asked, his voice suspicious.
I glanced at him. “He said he’d help me. And if you guys are the gentlemen you claim to be, you’ll help me as well.” I split the deck of cards and handed half to Andre and the other half to Rodney. “Now, quiz me.”
Except, the problem with being quizzed when I knew nothing about the topic was that I didn’t get a single one correct, at least for the first ten minutes. I had read through the football book a couple times—you would have thought I’d picked up something along the way.
Nope. And I could tell that whatever attraction Andre and Rodney might have felt for me was waning with every awkward answer I gave them.
“Linebacker,” Rodney said, holding up the card in question. “What is a linebacker?”
I stared at it with narrowed eyes. “Is that the guy who wears the prison outfit? With the black and white lines on his shirt?”
Both Rodney and Andre frowned.
I waved my hand, trying to think of ways to describe him. “He runs up and down the field. He has a whistle. I think?”
Andre burst out laughing. “You mean the referee?”
My cheeks burned. I wasn’t sure how much more humiliation I could take. Rodney just looked at me like I was crazy. “You don’t know what a linebacker is? He made these cards for you.”
“Clancy?”
“Yes. It’s his position.”
“Isn’t it the runner backs who are the fat ones?” I was so flustered after getting everything wrong, my mouth was running, and I realized that I had inadvertently insulted the runner backs. And linebackers. After meeting the team last night, I knew that none of the football players were fat. Enormous, huge, and bulky came to mind. But not fat.
Andre chuckled again, and Rodney just stared at me. “I’m a running back. And no, we’re not fat,” he said defensively, and I tried to figure out a way to convince him I hadn’t meant he was fat.
“So which ones are...the really big guys?” I asked, thinking about the big, big players I saw last night.
Andre pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head with his chuckles. Rodney still looked offended as hell.
“You’re thinking of linemen,” Andre answered mildly.
“And that’s different from linebackers?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“But linebackers and runner backers are the same?”
He and Rodney shared a look.
“Running backs,” Rodney said, emphasizing the-ING form of the word, and I remembered that I had been corrected for that yesterday, “receive handoffs from the quarterback for rushing plays, and catch passes, and block.” He indicat
ed himself. “I am a running back.” He flipped through the cards and read aloud. “‘Linebackers’—like Clancy—‘are members of the defensive team, and line up about three to five yards behind the line of scrimmage, behind the defensive linemen, and therefore back up the line’.” He shook his head. “Good lord. Did Clancy copy these straight from Wikipedia or something?”
I plucked my new cards out of his hand and shuffled through them. “So what if he did? Where is that one? The running back card?” I wanted to see if it made more sense when I read it myself.
Andre leaned forward, smirked at Rodney. “Clancy didn’t think you’d need to know it. Running backs aren’t that important.”
“Screw you, Andre,” said Rodney—but the grin on his face was more playful than irritated. That was some more progress. “Anyway, Madison isn’t going to need cards to remind her of any of my positions.”
Andre’s good-natured expression fell. And, just when I think they were getting along and having playful banter among themselves, it goes pear-shaped.
I didn’t really know how to fix it. I mean, I had worked in a male-dominated industry all my adult life, and I had never had men come on to me like this. Not any that I might’ve been interested in, anyway. I had always assumed that I preferred my men geeky and intellectual. Jocks didn’t do it for me. That’s what I’d told myself, anyway.
But oh, holy shit. Something about these enormous, muscle-bound, athletic men sent my hormones into overdrive. I could almost taste the testosterone in the air, and it sent a wave of heat straight down into my belly.
All the scene needed to make it complete was another showdown between Andre and Rodney, and I was in some sort of romantic comedy.
That might make my ovaries explode, I decided. The thought made me want to laugh—it wasn’t like I was interested in babies, but something about the sheer primal force of men competing for me affected me in ways I never would’ve guessed it might.
Coach Mack would wring me out to dry if he could hear my thoughts.
Low and behold, as if my very thoughts had summoned him, the coach himself strolled into the restaurant. He stopped just inside the door and took a long, slow look around the room, his assessing gaze taking in every detail before it settled on me, and his lip curled.
I found myself shifting uncomfortably in my chair. I don’t know why—it’s not like I did anything wrong. At least, not today.
So what was his problem?
But Coach Mack came over to our table and leaned forward, resting with his hands flat on the table. He didn’t even acknowledge Andre or Rodney as I could feel them tensing up around me.
“May I have a word with you?” he asked. “I need your help investigating a mystery.”
For a moment, my world tilted, and I froze as his words sank in. The way that he had emphasized the words “investigating a mystery” reverberated in my mind, because they sounded so damn familiar.
Oh, shit.
That was in the email I sent Ashley last night. Or...at least, in the email I thought I sent Ash.
Fuck, did I fuck that up? No, there was no way. No way. I would have realized it when I didn’t get an email back from Ashley this morning. And there was no way Coach Mack wouldn’t have responded.
Except...motherfucker, my phone had been dead all morning. I hadn’t been able to check my emails since last night.
My hands clenched into tight fists, because inside I was panicking. Convincing myself that it was just a coincidence. That Coach Mack didn’t read the email I meant for Ash.
Oh my god, I had said some horrible things about him. And—shit!—I said that I had slept with Andre and had interest from Clancy and Rodney as well. And I was having lunch with two of those guys at this very moment.
They were both picking up on my distress and glaring at their coach. “What’s up?” Andre asked.
“You can say it in front of us,” Rodney added.
At least they were working together to protect me. I would have been proud if I weren’t freaked the fuck out.
Mack managed to look somewhat hurt. “What, you think I’m going to try something? It’s not like I’m a prick, like some people think I am.” He glared at me as the word “prick” echoed in my mind.
Another word from my email.
Yup, it was official.
I was fucked.
And it was time to face the music.
“It’s all right,” I said to Andre and Rodney, pasting a fake smile on. I stood up, and the chair screeched across the floor of the restaurant. “This is what team owners do.”
Actually, I still had no idea what team owners did. And after meeting with Coach Mack, I might not get the chance.
And the glee in the coach’s eyes as I followed him out said that he was going to enjoy every moment of chewing me out.
Eleven
“If there’s one good thing about all this new-fangled computer stuff, Miss Harte,” Coach Mack drawled as he threaded his thumbs through the belt loops on his pleated khaki pants, “it’s that when someone like you thinks she’s better than everyone else, she manages to mess up in spectacular fashion like you did last night.”
The asshole grinned widely. He was enjoying this.
We were back in my office at the stadium, behind a closed door, and he was sitting at my desk. Again. Coach Mack made sure to close the door behind us as we came in and he took a seat, like he had all the power in this situation. I hated it. The walk from the restaurant to the office was one of the worst in my life. He’d turned it into sheer torture, only made worse by the tense, silent ride up the elevator.
“Look,” I said through gritted teeth, but I was not going to back down. “Mr. Mackenzie—”
“That’s Coach Mack to you, Miss Harte.”
I let out a slow breath to calm myself down. “And that’s Ms. Harte to you.” I wasn’t about to let him diminish my standing as the team owner. Even if everyone else in Alabama called me “Miss Harte,” he wasn’t going to. “And if you’d allow me to explain—”
“I think you explained enough in your email to me last night.”
“That email was meant for someone else,” I insisted. Dammit, I was about to punch him, because he kept cutting me off. I’d called him a prick last night, and he was proving my point.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh, it was meant for someone else?” The mockery in the coach’s voice brought the blush back to my cheeks. “Because your manners ever since you got here, Miss Harte, suggest that this is something you do regularly.”
I blinked. “My manners?”
His grin tightened. “Now, I know that we’re in a backwoods little town in the Heart of Dixie, and it’s not a big city like they have out in California. But we do things a certain way here. And we have our own sense of propriety…”
“Propriety?”
He leaned in to me, a move that was meant to intimidate. “There’s a reason why I didn’t want to have women on the field, Miss Harte—”
“It’s Ms. Harte,” I gritted.
“—and it’s because women think it’s all right to distract everyone with short skirts and showing off her legs.” His lip curled. “A Jezebel like you only wants to whore herself out to the team.”
I straightened. A Jezebel? I barely understood what that meant, but whore I definitely knew. I had been called that once or twice in my life. And, to be honest, I didn’t have much of a leg to stand on, especially since I’d already slept with Andre. Never mind that I didn’t remember much of that damn night, but that possibly proved Coach Mack’s point even more.
And wasn’t I just having sexy thoughts about Rodney and Clancy as well?
Fuck, I wasn’t going to let him drive me down that line of thinking. I was a modern-day woman. I was empowered. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted—within reason.
But I was also the goddamn owner of the team. And this asshole of a coach was giving me an earful, and everything was so damn confusing, because I knew I fucked up.
I knew that interoffice relations were a bad idea—didn’t I just get through this with Jacob? And here I was, essentially the boss of these guys, and I was screwing it up so badly.
Every bone in my body screamed to retaliate and give Coach Mack a piece of my mind. But there was a part of me—the rational, insecure part of me—that said that I still had next to no idea what the hell I was doing as an owner. Andre, Rodney, Clancy, and the rest of the players, not to mention Elliott and Kathryn and everyone else, counted on me to turn around the team.
And I couldn’t turn it around without a coach.
He knew that, too. Because he was watching me with a knowing, predatory gaze. Because he knew that all I could do was give in.
And, sadly, I was.
“I’m really sorry about that email,” I said. “I had a few drinks—”
“Yes, you seem to do that a lot, Miss Harte,” he said mildly.
“—and I said some things I wouldn’t ordinarily say.” There, I got my apology out. More or less. Hopefully that was it and I could go and lick my wounds.
But Coach Mack wasn’t done with me yet. “The thing is,” he said slowly, as if he were pondering out loud, “I do wonder what would happen if word ever got out about your...transgressions with my team.”
“Transgressions?”
I blinked as he thrust a finger in my face. “And while it may be all right in the big cities for those transgressions, here in the South, it’s frowned upon.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “We may have a small fan base here, but they wouldn’t like to hear about how the new owner has been opening her legs to their favorite football players.” He leaned in even further and I could smell how bad his breath was. “There are children, Miss Harte, who look up to my team. What would they think when they know you have sinned?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. Because what could I say?
“I think,” Coach Mack said, stepping even closer, and to my chagrin, I cowered backward, “that if you are to have a good time getting used to the Yellowhammers, Miss Harte, you’ll be very careful with what you do from here on out. One step out of line could get you in the newspapers.”
