by Marie Harte
Any Given Snow Day
by Marie Harte
Any Given Snow Day
Ex-NFL star + snarky single mom = a touchdown of a holiday romance
After two Super Bowl rings, MVP status, and retiring from the NFL while still on top, Mitch “Flash” Flashman’s millions should make life at the ripe old age of thirty-five a blessing. Yet he’s restless, rudderless, and can’t tell up from down. Roped into helping his brother coach a bunch of teenagers, Mitch finds himself playing defense against the many women in town wanting his attention. Except for one particular woman who doesn’t seem to like him much. Becca Bragg is mouthy, vulnerable, and sexy, and she captivates Mitch despite himself. But Mitch has no time for a sexy single mom when he’s still trying to figure out who he really is. With the playoffs, a boy’s future, and his own heart on the line, he’ll need to figure out how to pull the ultimate victory—winning Becca’s heart and keeping it. For good.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and plot points stem from the writer’s imagination. They are fictitious and not to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Any Given Snow Day
Copyright © December 2017
No Box Books
Cover by Croco Designs
Edits by TINB Inc.: Query Queen
All Rights Are Reserved. None of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for reviews or promotion.
http://marieharte.com
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
About the Author
Other Contemporary Romance Releases
Two to Spark: Excerpt
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Tom Nelson for explaining exactly how much high school football coaches really do for their players. Any liberties taken with the characters are mine and mine alone.
And to Stef and her attention to detail. My eight-burner and “So’s” thank you.
Chapter One
Hope’s Turn, Oregon
Mid-October, Friday night
Grown women really shouldn’t giggle. Becca Bragg sipped her hot cocoa and held her thoughts to herself. Barely.
“Oh my God.” A squeal. “Did you see him? Is he here?”
“Yes, yes. He came late. There he is. Oh, wow. Turn around, turn around,” another woman whispered in prayer.
Becca tried to ignore the excitable women in front of her. But that meant focusing on her misery, sitting on the cold, aluminum bench. High school stadium seating at its finest. She grimaced, wishing she’d remembered her padded cushion.
Central Oregon weather could be iffy during late autumn, the transition to winter wicked fast. The weather forecast threatened a possible snowfall later in the week—in freakin’ October—but she had a feeling that at any time the heavens might open up to douse them with the white stuff.
Great for the high school concession stands, though. She took another sip of her piping hot drink. Too bad the cocoa hadn’t yet made its way to her frozen bottom. Next to her, Nora smirked and wriggled on the cushion she’d remembered to bring. Then her cousin added insult to injury by sighing and wriggling some more.
“I’m so comfortable, Becks. How are you feeling?”
Becca fought a grin. “Witch.”
The whistle blew, signaling an end to the third quarter. Factoring in injuries, time-outs, and guys taking way too long to hike a ball, she figured she had another seven years before the game ended. What had she been thinking to encourage Simon to try out for the team this year?
In front of her, Linda Madison grew more shrill. “Yes, he’s right there. See him with Davey? Davey! Davey! Hi, honey!” She waved like mad, calling attention to herself.
Her son ignored her, as did the man whose attention the woman really wanted, though several boys around Davey nudged him to look back at the stands.
Linda waved harder and knocked into Nora, who sat right behind her.
Linda didn’t bother to apologize, apparently in her own little world where peasants didn’t matter when the queen craved the attention of the supposedly sexiest man in town.
Bah. Becca had heard more than enough about the new guy. Heck, his brother, the actual coach, had provided just as much fodder for the lovestruck when he’d taken the job a few years ago. Simon had been in middle school then, yet she’d still heard the news.
“No worries, Linda. I’m just fine. Dandy, even.” Nora’s syrupy sweet answer didn’t faze Linda.
But Linda’s two friends gave Nora the evil eye. The Smith sisters. Talk about bitchy and vicious wrapped in a package of Botox, tummy tucks, and trust funds.
Becca sighed, wishing she could afford her own tummy tuck. No matter that Nora thought she was insane for seeing it, Becca could feel that pinch of an inch too easily. Hey, at least it’s keeping my stomach warm.
“Problem?” One of the bitchy twins asked. Sally or Sarah. Frankly, Becca had never been able to keep them straight. And didn’t care to.
Nora gave them a wide smile. “Nope. We’re just peachy.”
Most of the football parents were decent people. Becca liked the majority of them, who genuinely wanted their children happy and successful. Then of course, there were the dads wanting their sons to fulfill the pro dreams they’d had but never achieved. And the many moms trying to catch the eye of the town’s new most eligible bachelor.
Sure, he was attractive. Wealthy, fairly young. But such a monumental ass.
“I swear, I’d leave Bill for him in a heartbeat,” one of the twins said. Probably Sarah then.
“Now, now. You’re not married to Bill yet,” the other tittered. “But Flash is such a catch. Best to leave him to me or Linda.”
Flash. Becca snorted. What kind of name was that for a grown man, anyway?
The ladies continued to gossip about the sexy coach and the pathetic women throwing themselves at him who didn’t have a prayer of getting his attention. Why, Linda had already enjoyed a cup of coffee with him as they’d discussed Davey’s chances of making the varsity team next year. And hadn’t Flash spent a lot of time ogling her blouse? Oh, he was interested, no doubt.
“Cluck, cluck,” Nora whispered a little too loudly.
Sarah and Sally whipped their heads around and glared at her.
“What?” Nora asked, all innocence.
Sure, it was easy for Nora to ignore the rich jerks. She worked from home, remotely. Becca relied on a steady stream of local business to keep her afloat. And of course, there was the fact that she leased her storefront from Linda’s ex-husband.
“Nora, behave,” she said under her breath.
Linda turned to scowl at them, then turned back around and waved at her son again, bumping into Nora on purpose.
“Whoa. Be careful Linda.” Nora’s scary voice. When she turned super polite, Becca knew to be wary.
&n
bsp; Her head started to throb, and she’d lost all feeling in her butt and thighs.
In a sing-song voice, Nora added, “I wouldn’t want to spill this scalding hot chocolate all over your pretty coat and hair. Think of the stains.” Not so under her breath she added, “And the third-degree burns.”
Linda stopped moving around so much. As did her friends. They turned to sneer at Nora, and they did it in unison, as if they’d rehearsed. Nora pretended to bobble her cup.
The witchy trio left their seats in a hurry and angled toward the low ground, closer to the football team. As crowded as the stands were, others quickly took their spots.
Nora harrumphed and in a loud voice said, “Now let’s watch some football.”
Others near them hooted with appreciation.
Becca laughed, cold, tired, and now amused. “You’re such a pain.” They clinked cups. “But here’s to a victory.”
“Let’s hope.”
They lost 20-17.
Mitch “Flash” Flashman glared at the team in the locker room. How generous of his stupid brother and the assistant coaches to leave the postgame talk to him. “You call that football?”
No one spoke.
“That was a travesty. A goddamn train wreck! We’re better than that, guys. What the fu—” he censored himself at a warning look from his older brother “—hell?”
The kids looked dejected. Good. They shouldn’t be happy about losing. You could teach a kid skills, but you couldn’t instill that drive to win. Aggression and size only counted for so much. The desire to win had to be there.
He gave them a few more truths, about dedication, desire, victory, then tapered off with, “We’ll fix these mistakes at practice on Monday. You guys are so much better than what you showed tonight.”
The offensive coach subtly stepped in and went over a few problem areas that hadn’t cost them as much as the sucky defense had. Christ. He’d seen better blocking by his mother protecting her Nutter Butters from his grabby father.
A loud snort caught his attention.
“You. What’s your problem?” he snarled, still upset over the loss.
The boy, Simon Bragg, had real talent. If only he’d let go of that attitude and listen once in a while.
Everyone grew quiet and stared at Simon. The boy was an inch shorter than Mitch, a good six-two and only a freshman. He’d be huge when he filled out. And he was fast, could catch a ball and instinctively knew how to move on the field. But that mouth was getting him nowhere fast.
“Well?” Mitch growled.
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not our fault. We should have used a different defense. 41 and 62 were beating us down the field every time.” He turned to Coach Dorset, the defensive coordinator. “You should have shifted our coverage. Their quarterback knew exactly where to throw.”
“What are you saying, Bragg?” one of the cornerbacks responsible for so many missed tackles asked.
“You’re full of crap,” said another, who just happened to have been tasked with watching 62.
The rest of the team remained silent. Like Simon, hell, like Mitch, they knew the truth.
As did Deacon, his brother, who simply stared at Dorset with a knowing look. Deacon had mentioned the same concern last night, when they’d been going over strategies. The opposing team’s star players, numbers 41 and 62, had scholarships waiting on them. Both running backs with wheels and the know-how to run the team ragged. Which they’d done with brutal efficiency. But Deacon had left the defense up to Dorset, mostly because he’d been working his ass off lately to handle his real job—managing his brewpub.
Being short a coach due to Stan’s bout of flu hadn’t helped either.
Mitch rubbed the back of his neck, thinking, while Dorset tore the kid a new one, no doubt mired in guilt for having screwed up.
Simon sat quietly, accepting the verbal beatdown, but the look he shot Mitch told him the kid knew he was right.
Damn.
Mitch cut in before Dorset lost it completely. “Hey, Dorset, can I say something else?” Yeah, the kid was out of line for criticizing his coach in front of the team, but they both knew the boy had a point. Dorset wouldn’t have been so defensive otherwise.
“Sure, Flash.” Dorset shut up. Hell, they all did. Mitch knew most of them held him in awe. Twelve years in the NFL and two Super Bowl rings had earned him respect.
Yet he, a two-time MVP, stood in the stinky locker room of a 2A high school football team in a town of maybe 30,000. How did I get here, again?
He met Deacon’s gaze and tried to pull back his agitation. They had four more games and a chance to go to the playoffs, if they could get it together. Time to act like a mentor and not a pissy loser. “Look, guys. Everybody makes mistakes. Now we learn from them. Pointing fingers doesn’t help.” He didn’t look at Simon. He didn’t need to. The kid was ignoring everyone, focused on his feet. “Next game is where we make a difference. We’re going up against Mountain Top, and we need to be ready. We can’t afford another loss if we want to make the playoffs.”
The boys nodded, on board with winning once more.
“Your coaches will figure out how to fix this mess so it doesn’t happen again. I’m just the hired help.” Who wasn’t getting paid a dime, and they all knew it. “I offer suggestions, but Coaches Deacon, Dorset, Stan, and Paglitelli are the ones who make the final decisions. You will respect them.” He focused on Simon this time, met the kid’s gaze, then glanced over the group. “Because if you try talking shit to your coach in the pros, your ass is gone. Nobody has time for a prima donna…unless you’re that good. And none of you is a J.J. Watt, Aaron Rogers, or—”
“Flash Flashman,” Deacon cut in. “Am I right?”
The kids grinned.
Mitch flipped him off. Everyone laughed.
Deacon continued, “You worked hard, guys. Go enjoy the dance. After you clean up.”
Dorset made a face. “Yeah, you guys stink.”
“Thanks a lot, Coach,” one kid yelled.
Others followed suit with some good-natured insults, and the mood changed from defeated to anticipatory. For the dance or the next game, Mitch didn’t know.
He watched them leave, turned to go as well, and ran into Paglitelli, who wore an earnest look on his homely face.
“Sorry. I just wanted to thank you again. You’re helping the kids more than you know.”
Mitch didn’t feel comfortable with the constant praise and overwhelming attention. He’d never been into football for the glory, but for the game. Fame hadn’t gone to his head. Well, not as badly as Deacon seemed to think.
“What else would I do with my time? Ask my brother. I’m boring unless I’m holding a football or talking about football.”
“That’s the truth.” Deacon steered the coaches toward the office and arranged tomorrow’s meeting, where they’d go over the game’s film and strategies for Sunday’s meeting with the team, at his place. The crew seemed to be a tight bunch of guys with or without football, and since everyone loved Deacon, Mitch knew he’d end up joining them.
Him? He was cold, hungry, and had a headache growing at the thought of the many people outside who would want to talk to him. He knew it came with the territory, but man, he’d love to just be average Mitch Flashman again. A simple guy who wanted nothing more than a cold beer and a plate of warm nachos to end the week.
Davey Madison popped his head around the lockers. “Hey, Coach? My mom wants to talk to you.”
Mitch contained a groan. “I’ll be out in a few minutes. I’ll meet her by the concession stand, okay?”
Davey nodded and left.
Mitch rubbed his face, suddenly bone-tired.
“She just wants in your pants.”
He spun to see Simon smirking at him.
“Mrs. Madison. She’s got a thing for you, like half the other moms out there.” Simon shoved his hands in his pockets, a tall kid swimming in a man’s coat a few sizes too large for his build. His light-b
rown hair needed a cut but seemed to fit the typical teenage style of too long and too shaggy. “Apparently you’re rich and handsome. I think I heard one of them call you sexy too.”
Mitch tried to play it off, though he felt his cheeks heating. Damn. Nothing like being a celebrity who hated the limelight and blushed too easily. Oh yeah, I’m macho and manly, alright. “Yep, that’s me. Sexy and handsome.”
“And rich, don’t forget that.” Simon grinned. The kid seemed to be enjoying Mitch’s discomfort.
Nothing like being wanted for your money. “Not your mom, though?”
Simon chuckled, his hazel eyes sparkling. “Nah, my mom thinks you’re an ass. ‘Night, Coach.” He left with a spring in his step.
Behind him, Deacon guffawed. “I do like that kid.”
“You would.” He walked slowly out of the locker room with his brother. “So what did you think?”
“About your crappy speech, the game, or the fact that we’re about to be mobbed by women who want in your pants?”
“Sometimes I really hate you. You know that?”
“Yep, little brother. I do.” Deacon put him in a headlock and dragged him out the door. “But hey, I did my time. You’re the new celebrity on the block. Roll with it.”
Mitch got free. “So was I too harsh on the kids? It’s only my third game helping out.”
“And I’m glad you are. Stan’s flu couldn’t have come at a worse time. The pub has me running ragged, what with that distributor problem and Roy out of town.” He groaned. “What a sucky time for his wife to go into labor.”
Mitch shook his head. “Such compassion for your best friend.”
Deacon laughed. “Right? I’m kidding. I wish Jess would have had the baby here though. Nope. Had to be down in Houston with her folks. She’s robbing me of my business partner!”
“What was she thinking?”
Roy had what they both wanted—a great job, a loving wife, and now a new baby. Deacon, like Mitch, had played pro ball. He’d had seven amazing years as a starring quarterback before he’d blown out his right shoulder to the point he couldn’t throw with the speed and accuracy he’d once had. A brutal divorce had stolen even more happiness, until Deacon had nearly quit everything—football, family, breathing…
