“Wiley, I’d like for you to meet my daughter, Samantha Shaw.”
Wiley offers his hand along with an expression of confusion. “You look familiar.”
Dad barks in laughter to my right, but I don’t look at him. I’m too caught in the snares of mossy-green. Man, those babies are intense this close.
“She should. I believe you’ve ran into each other a few times on the field. Samantha is the head groundskeeper.”
Wiley keeps shaking my hand, looking a little stunned. Without breaking eye contact with me, he mumbles, “You don’t say.”
Dad laughs some more, clearly enjoying the show. “Heard you put Sam in her place about watching your practice the other day.”
Wiley seems to shake the haze of shock off as he says, “You’ll have to forgive me for that, sir. I had no idea your princess was moonlighting as a maintenance worker.”
“Black, my daughter is a lot of wonderfully exceptional things, but princess she is not.”
I notice Wiley’s gaze wanders down to our clasped hands, honing in on my dirty nails. “No, sir. I suppose you’re right about that.” He joins Cooper—I refer to him as Cooper when I’m ticked or annoyed—in a round of raucous laughter, only irritating me further.
Yanking my hand away and hiding it along with my left behind my back, I say, “If you two are done making fun of me, I’m calling it a night.” The manicurist did her best earlier, and they were pristine until I arrived at the stadium and discovered a few wayward weeds in a flowerbed. I mean, I just couldn’t have that. It’s why I was late.
Before I can even take one step back, Cooper stops me. “Now wait a minute, young lady. How about congratulating Black on the win today.”
Shrugging my unimpressed shoulder, I say, “You managed a win, albeit sloppy. Congrats.” Turning on my red-soled heels, I strut out the door with as much attitude as my tired self can muster. I keep a clipped pace although I know one of the hotshots are following me.
Reaching the parking lot, a heated hand lands on my bare shoulder and rudely spins me around. “What do you mean sloppy?”
Shrugging his hand off, I say, “If you’re worth the seven figures I agreed to pay you, you should already know the answer to that.”
You would have thought I physically struck him with the exaggerated flinch he produces. I think it’s just sinking in about who I really am.
Pulling on his left ear, he says, “Look, I owe you an apology for how I’ve disrespected you in the last two months. If I would have known—”
I throw a little more snide authority around by interrupting him. “Whether I’m the head groundskeeper in my uniform or the co-owner of the Bobcats wearing a stupid dress, you should respect me the same.”
“I know. Again, I’m sorry. But the team is my focus and I don’t need any distractions on the field during practices.”
“I can respect that. I don’t want to cause your players any distractions.”
“I’m talking about me.”
That was unexpected. I didn’t think I even showed up on his radar. “How can a ‘kid’ be distracting?”
“Sweetheart, the day we met, you felt yourself up in front of me. I’ve been distracted by you ever since.” He leans closer, causing me to automatically take a step back.
“I patted my chest in sarcasm.” I roll my eyes. I almost demonstrate the pat to make my point, but think better of it.
“I’m a man. Patting or feeling yourself up.” He pauses to shrug his shoulders. “It’s all the same. Besides, that sassing mouth of yours got under my skin just as much.” His gaze looks heated and I take that as my cue to flee, but he intercepts me. “How old are you?”
“It isn’t polite to ask a woman her age.” I know for a fact I’m older than his twenty-eight-year-old age—making him the youngest coach in pro-football history, thank you very much.
“You’re of legal age though, right?”
“Depends on what you need me to legally do.” I’m sassing, but from his dark expression, I’ve come off flirting instead. Embarrassed, I try bucking up with some attitude and say, “I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow and from today’s game, you do, too. It’s time to call it a night.”
“About that. What’s your take on it?” He’s refusing to let go of my elbow.
Releasing a long sigh, I answer, “You have your hands full with Jones. He’s like a fungus. If left untreated, he’s going to infect your entire team.”
He releases his own frustrated breath. “I know.”
“I thought you had him straightened out, but from the looks of his head swelling on the field today…” I shake my head.
I use his grip on my arm to aid in pulling these ridiculous shoes off. Then with one firm yank, I free myself from his hold and head into the darkness.
“That’s it? You’re just going to leave?”
“Yes. I’m tired,” I call over my shoulder while making a quick getaway towards the maintenance entrance. I still have a bit of business to tend to before calling it a night. Thank goodness, he doesn’t follow me.
Chapter Five
I hear the ping echo through the early morning air before spotting Wiley on the fifty yard line. I pause to watch another ball zing through the air before it ricochets off the upright of the goal post and lands perfectly in a barrel. My focus is there so I don’t see the unexpected ball heading in my direction until the last minute. My hands automatically reach out and grab it.
“Nice catch.” His deep voice causes me to look up.
“Good thing I have attentive reflexes,” I sass.
Instinctively, I send the ball back to him, triggering an impromptu game of toss and catch. Slowly, I ease farther on the field while we keep the ball whirling back and forth.
“Give me your take on Jones.”
I’m guessing now that he knows I’m the hiring and firing part of the owner duo, Wiley gets that I know my stuff. Spiraling the ball back in his direction, I answer, “He’s too young and immature to handle his new pro-football fame. My gut tells me he’s going to be making headlines, and it won’t be for his stellar football accomplishments.”
He sends the ball back to me. “Me too. I’ve dealt with his kind all through my football days, just never from a coach’s side of it.”
“Have a ‘Coming to Jesus’ meeting with him. If that doesn’t do the trick, bench him for a high profile game.”
A smirk forms on his face. “That’s the same advice your old man gave me.”
“Smart man. Now stop pansying around and throw me some heat.”
“You’re too scrawny to handle it.” He scoffs before sending back the ball.
“I can handle it, big boy. Show me what you got!” I taunt him.
“No.”
“What? You can’t bring it?” I keep taunting him and see it’s working.
Pointing sternly at me, he warns, “You better catch it.”
“Bring it on!”
And boy does he ever. The ball makes it to me before I can blink, but I’m still able to snag it. Fiery stings start in my fingertips and viciously race up my arms, sending me to the ground in withering pain. I try to holler out, but my voice has hightailed it and left only squeaky gasps behind.
I’m rolling on the field in pain when Wiley gets to me.
“What’s the matter with you?”
There’s teasing in his voice, but I don’t reply. Can’t. No voice. Yes, it hurts that bad! I think I must have caught a mack truck running a hundred miles an hour on fire instead of a mere football!
“You need some ice, baby?” There’s no sweet endearment in that last word. Nothing but pure mockery. He yanks me up like I’m a ragdoll and starts walking me toward the tunnel. And I let him, because all I want is for the throb of my poor hands to go away. This will be my last game of catch with Wiley Black.
As though he reads my mind, he says, “You asked for it, and I barely put any heat on it. Wimp.”
The pain still has my voice captured, so
I let him get away with it for now. Picking me up and placing me on an exam table in the trainer’s room, he retrieves a bag of ice. I gladly take it when he offers the bag to me.
I’m finally able to stutter out, “That wasn’t nice.”
“You think the security cameras recorded it? It would definitely be a YouTube sensation.” He has enough nerve to chuckle.
“Yeah. We could headline it ‘Hermes hurts a poor kid’ and your fans would turn on you in a heartbeat.”
He hops on the table beside me. Well, more like sits down. His feet still can touch the floor for crying out loud. Mine are dangling.
“You do look like a kid, hiding behind those baggy clothes and big hat. I still can’t get over what’s really underneath.”
“What are you talking about?”
Wiley reaches over and pulls my shades off. I can’t defend myself, because both hands are clinging to the ice bag like it’s a lifeline.
“That dress last night revealed it, and I’m glad these eyes of yours have been kept away from me until now. They’re bewitching. I’ve never seen a blue so clear.” Shaking his head, his mossy-green eyes study my blue ones with substantial intensity. “I can’t believe you’ve not let me know who you really are in these last past months.”
I’m getting flustered, so I go on the defense. “Look buddy, if you did your homework on the people signing your paycheck, you’d know who I am. I’m listed as Samantha Shaw, head groundskeeper and co-owner of the Texas Bobcats. It makes me question my judgement in vying so adamantly on your behalf to get this job.”
A softness reaches his eyes. “You wanted me?”
I think Wiley is trying his hand at flirting, but I’m not buying into it. “As head coach for my team, yes. And just so you know, your parents recognized me immediately by just my name.”
“You’ve met my parents?” His brows furrow.
Handing him the bag, now that my hands are nicely numb, I say, “Yep. We watched the game together yesterday.”
Tossing the bag across the room and landing it perfectly in the sink with a satisfying thump, he mutters, “Unbelievable.”
I’m not ready to go just yet, so I scan the trainer’s room, inventorying for nothing better to do—steel ice baths, eleven more exam tables, three supply cabinets, four flat-screen TV’s…
“Shaw. You married?”
I glance at him and decide that’s not wise, because something is obviously heating between us. Looking back over to one of the dormant TV screens, I say, “No. Shaw is my mom’s maiden name. I don’t want the notoriety that comes with Cooper. I’m grateful for what that name has achieved, but I want to make my own name for myself.”
“That’s impressive.”
“No more impressive than you, Wiley Black.”
He shrugs off my compliment, but he should take it proudly. His story still amazes me. On top of his game, Wiley was taken out with no chance of ever returning. Before he could get out of the hospital, his fiancée had the ring returned. The guy could have withered and went away. Instead, he hit rehab full throttle, spending all of his free time on the sidelines as an honorary coach the following season for his former team. He did whatever asked—forming plays, mentoring the replacement quarterback, you name it. And he did all this without receiving a dime for it.
That passion was all it took for me to become completely sold out on this guy. Life called a reverse on Wiley. He responded to the play the best he could and took off down the new route with guns-a-blazing.
The wall clock alarms me to being late for my meeting. “Ah shoot!” Jumping off the table, I run out the door. “I’m late. Catcha later,” I holler over my shoulder without slowing down.
I’m relieved to find Zane patiently sitting by my office door. “Sorry about the holdup. Come on in,” I say, pushing the door open.
“No worries,” he says as he follows me in.
After we’re both seated, I get right to it. “About the logo you painted—”
“Yeah. It was epic. How’d you like the 3D effect?” His eyes light up in excitement.
“It was awesome. No doubt about it. But it’s not the logo I gave you to paint.”
Zane looks a bit confused as to why that would matter. “So you didn’t like it?”
“I loved it, but not sticking to the specifications the investors commissioned cost us a fine of ten thousand dollars.”
His cute face goes slack. “Dude.”
“Totally,” I say, letting my inner hippie join him. “So I have no choice but to suspend you for a week without pay. You also have to sign this agreement, acknowledging that you understand this is to never happen again or you’ll be fired immediately.” I hand over the paper with a pen.
“Sam, I’m sorry.” He signs the paper and hands it back over. Thankfully, he’s not noticed my bright red palms. I’d hate to have to explain that.
“I know.” I hand him a business card. “This was dropped off by the logo designer. I don’t want to lose you, but I believe they will be offering you a better job.”
“Wow… That’s cool… But Sam, can’t I just stay here?” Zane is only nineteen with the entire world before him. I don’t want to hold him back any more than I want to push him out in the midst of it before he’s ready.
“Of course you can stay here, Zane. I selfishly want to keep you always, but the talent you have would be cheated if you didn’t see what they are offering at least.”
“Okay.”
We both stand and I walk him out, before getting the day underway. It’s already been a doozy.
*****
The week drags on with no excuse for it and I’m peculiarly antsy and don’t know why. Everything has been trucking along as it should. There’s no game to prep for this week, so the pressure is off, but the tension doesn’t pay it any attention.
And at the moment, I’m not a happy camper at all. I’ve found myself in a place I declared I never would be caught. The men’s bathroom. Luckily—if there’s such a thing in this situation—this bathroom is only used by staff. And everyone has headed out for the day, so the embarrassment is kept just between me and these stalls. Donning rubber gloves up to my elbows, I go in for the attack. Knocking out the sinks first, followed by the urinals, I leave the stalls for last. Wielding the toilet cleanser and brush, I arm myself with a deep breath and proceed. Two sparkling toilets and a nose stinging from bleach fumes later, I ease into the last stall to wrap this up.
I’m in the midst of muttering all kinds of nasty things, when I hear the door bang open and then shut. Oh no… I was almost home free.
Bustling out of the stall, waving my handy-dandy-dripping toilet brush, I shout, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
None other than Wiley Black is standing before me in the process of unzipping his pants. He quickly sends the zipper back in its upright position, thank goodness!
“You trying to cause me to pee my pants?” he asks, stunned.
I lower my wet weapon. “No. Sorry.”
“What are you doing?”
Shrugging my shoulders, I say, “I’m on bathroom duty.”
A questioning smirk eases over his face. “How’d you manage that?”
“My after-hours janitor called in sick.”
“Don’t you have other staff?”
“They were all busy. Me and Colton flipped a coin. I lost.” I shrug again. Colton said he would gladly take care of the bathrooms, if I agreed to go on a date with him. And that’s a big fat no. He’s a cutie with curly, light-brown hair and warm eyes to match, but he’s too wild for my likings. In his mid-thirties, Colton could be running his own stadium, but he’s too busy trying to be an eternal kid to muster enough gumption to do it.
Releasing a chuckle, Wiley says, “You’re the only billionaire I know who would be caught scrubbing toilets.”
Before I can stop myself, both gloved hands hit my hips. “My dad is the billionaire, and it doesn’t matter if I’m the boss. I shouldn’t ask any of my employees to do someth
ing I’m not willing to do myself.” I offer a glare full of challenge.
Taking another step closer to me, making me have to crane my head back even more, he regards me for a while. Have I mentioned he’s too tall?
“Samantha Shaw, you are one unique woman,” he says in a raspy whisper.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I squint at him.
The heat of his body caresses me he’s so close now. “Definitely good.”
Wiley’s words cast a spell over me and all I can do is helplessly stare up at him. He finds an escaped wisp of my hair and tucks it back behind my ear. A lifetime passes in mere seconds before he clears his throat. “Sam.”
Swallowing hard, I mutter, “Yeah?”
“I’ve really got to pee.”
Snapping out of it as though I’ve been doused with ice water, reality of us standing in the midst of a men’s bathroom comes back into sharp focus. I say nothing else and bolt for the door with cheeks blazing from embarrassment.
What a day! After putting the cleaning supplies away, I check my watch. Five in the afternoon. Yep. I say it’s time for a long shower and bed.
Chapter Six
A football season is much more involved than the sixteen games on the schedule. Press conferences, photo ops, interviews, and a menagerie of other high-profile events are all important factors. Tonight’s event is being hosted by my parents out on the ranch and is for Wiley’s charity foundation. It raises awareness about alcohol abuse in teens, and I’m proud to be a financial supporter of it.
My mom had a surprise attack of stylists pounce on me as soon as I arrived home an hour ago, so now I’m perfectly presentable and am driving the short drive to the main house. A girlie giggle escapes me as I think back over the last few weeks. The day after the crazy bathroom meeting, I received a text from an unknown number. The conversation went as follows:
Unknown – Meet me for lunch.
Me – Who’s this?
Love's Sporting Chance: Volume 1: 6 Romantic sporting novellas Page 12
