Kickin’ It

by Van Dyken, Rachel

  And between Jagger and Slade I had my hands full. Then again they were getting along a lot better since Slade was getting laid on a regular basis and had a wife who put up with him.

  Jagger on the other hand made me want to sleep with whiskey under my pillow and a Xanax clutched in my left hand just in case.

  I banged on the women’s locker-room door one more time. “Parker, you don’t even wear makeup, putting on shorts takes thirty seconds max, and that’s if you keep getting confused between your right and left leg because your dick’s in the way and you don’t have a dick—”

  Jagger elbowed me.

  “What?” I mouthed, and he shook his head. “So hurry the hell up. Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean—”

  The locker-room door jerked open, making me stumble back a bit. “Ready.”

  She was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and matching shorts.

  The shorts I understood.

  The long-sleeved shirt confused me. She was going to get hot, sweaty.

  I frowned then wiped the mental image of a hot and sweaty Parker from my consciousness.

  She just shoved past us like we were the ones taking years to get ready in the locker room.

  “Face looks puffy,” Jagger said under his breath.

  “What? Mine?” I wiped my face.

  He rolled his eyes. “You can be a dick sometimes. You get that, right?”

  “I’m a dick so you don’t have to be, and yet here we are.” I spread my arms wide. “You should pay me more.”

  “You make more than most athletes, and last week one of the Toms called you to go jet-setting to Brazil. I think you’re going to make it.” He chuckled.

  I grinned. “God, I love my job . . . you know, when your grandmother isn’t using racial slurs.”

  “She’s a real treat, my grandma. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I sighed as we walked into the stadium. “Yeah, well, I thought you were being sarcastic, since that’s you on a normal day.”

  Jagger stared after Parker. “Something doesn’t add up, and why are her cheeks puffy?”

  “Stop staring at her cheeks, man, it’s weird.” I elbowed him and heaved a bag of balls over one shoulder. “She’s a girl, they cry; just ask my sister about Jon Snow, and you’ll be consoling her for the next hour.”

  “But Jon Snow didn’t die,” Jagger pointed out quietly.

  “HE DIDN’T DIE?” Parker yelled across the field. “I HAVEN’T GOTTEN TO THE NEXT SEASON YET, YOU ASSHOLE!”

  And then she was charging toward us at full speed.

  “Think I know why she punched her coach.” Jagger dropped his bag of balls and started running in the other direction. “Good luck!”

  “Traitor!”

  He just kept running. The bastard was probably going to go do his own workout and leave me to my own devices. Typical Jagger.

  When she finally made it to me, I held up my hand for her to stop.

  And when she didn’t stop, I grabbed my fucking whistle and blew it.

  Her chest heaved as she stopped inches from my body. “You don’t just shout spoilers like that!”

  “He wasn’t shouting!”

  “I have superhuman hearing when it comes to Game of Thrones, it’s my spiritual gift.” She grinned.

  I sucked in a breath.

  I was completely thrown off by her easy smile and the way it charmed itself into my soul so effortlessly. It made me want to smile back and laugh, and ask her to do it some more, just in my general direction.

  Coach.

  Agent.

  I cleared my throat. “Jagger said your cheeks are puffy.”

  She touched her cheeks, which just brought my attention to how plump and delicate they were on an otherwise constantly pissed-off face. She was pretty when she smiled, but she didn’t do it often enough.

  And it made me wonder too much.

  It made me want to dig when I had no business digging.

  Coach.

  Agent.

  “Are you still wanting all of this?” I spread my arms wide as the stadium lights lit above us, the smell of turf filled the air, the empty stands awaited the crowds that would fill them screaming her name.

  No better high.

  No better drug.

  Her eyes lit up. “Yeah, I’m fine, just allergies. And yes, I want this, I want all of this.”

  I hesitated then lowered my voice, picked up one of the balls, and tossed it to her. “Prove it.” She licked her lower lip, which I found entirely too distracting, so I looked away. “Prove it and I’ll get you everything.”

  “That’s a mighty big promise, Matt Kingston.”

  I grinned at the way she said my name, like I was the biggest asshole on the planet. Why did I like it so much, then? Especially since I tried to be easygoing, at least with my male athletes. She had no respect for authority, though, so asshole it was.

  “Alright.” I jerked my chin toward the field. “Show me why they call you Cheetah Girl . . .”

  She jogged off, laughing. “Think you can handle me?”

  The air charged, and my eyes stupidly flicked to her ass as she ran off. And while I wanted to smugly say yes, part of me was already shaking my head no.

  And I had no idea why except she wasn’t what I expected in any way, and it threw me off that I couldn’t manage her the way I would someone else. I sacrificed for my clients and they expected it.

  That’s how it worked.

  I gave them the world—but first, they had to let me into theirs.

  And I had a distinct feeling that Parker would never let that happen.

  Not that I ever walked away from a challenge.

  She stopped midfield.

  I chased after her and kicked the ball between her legs. “Alright, Cheetah, impress me with your speed.”

  “Oh, that’s not why they called me Cheetah Girl,” she said softly before she ran around me, kicked the ball between my legs, and dribbled around my body like I was a toddler in training. She then kicked the ball toward the goal, hitting it directly down the middle with a perfect strike.

  Still confused, I waited, and then she started doing a little dance. “Get it? Cheetah Girl? I was a sucker for Disney.”

  My jaw dropped. “Wait, so they called you Cheetah Girl because of the group?”

  “And the fact that I would sing their songs to get myself hyped and do a little choreographed dance after . . . I’m Disney through and through, baby.”

  Yeah, right. I pointed toward the goal. “Do that again.”

  She did.

  I grinned. “Again.”

  She groaned.

  And when I asked her a tenth time she was past groaning and ready to murder me, especially when I said, “Your legs lost some strength since the last tape I reviewed . . .”

  “So—”

  “Lunge the field.”

  “The entire field?” she roared.

  “With a ball in each hand.” I pulled out my whistle and blew it in her face.

  Three hours and exactly thirty-two minutes later.

  “Again.” My smile was wide while she wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt. She was dripping in sweat; steam was coming off her body as she ran through the cones dribbling the ball and then stopped to do ten burpees on each side of the cones before running through them and ending with jumping jacks and mountain climbers.

  “You,” she heaved as she did her jumping jacks, “are Satan!”

  “Make sure to breathe with your diaphragm, expand in and out, not in shallow breaths,” I instructed, tossing my whistle in the air and catching it.

  She dropped to her hands and toes for mountain climbers, glaring at me as sweat dripped off her chin. “Is this really necessary?”

  “Did you just growl at me?”

  “Did you just yawn!”

  I grinned so hard my face hurt. “Sorry, I was bored. You weren’t going fast enough.”

  That earned me a middle finger.


  “You know we should really work on that angry streak.”

  More middle fingers.

  I let out a sigh. “Parker, coaches want someone they can mold, someone who listens to authority, and as a player you want to be someone that can sponsor something—”

  “Other than dog food.” She rose to her feet, chest heaving. “Yeah, got that part this morning, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Does it help that it would be designer dog food for angry, crusty dogs who just need love?”

  Silence.

  “I’ll take that as a no. Look, you want good endorsement deals.”

  “So you get paid more?” She crossed her arms and then shook out her hands and said something under her breath before peeling her shirt over her head and revealing a black sports bra top that kissed her belly button.

  Causing my every thought to go south and get dirty real fast.

  Coach.

  Agent.

  Her eyes darted away from me with uncertainty. Her body was lean, toned. I’d seen it earlier, obviously, but something about us being alone made it a thousand times more tense than when we’d been at my house where Willow could walk down the hall at any minute.

  I cleared my throat. “Not so I can get paid more, so that you can get paid more and so that you get bigger and better deals. I have money. No offense, but I don’t need you for more of it.”

  “So now I’m charity?” She put her hands on her hips.

  “Enough talking.” I blew my whistle.

  “Seriously!” she roared. “What now! We’ve been here for at least three hours.”

  I checked my watch mainly to keep myself from looking at her chest as it continued to heave in my direction with sweat dripping between her breasts. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m starving.”

  “Oh, thank God!” She started jogging toward me.

  I pulled off my whistle and made my way to the locker rooms, and she followed close behind. I waited until her hand was on the locker-room door then cleared my throat.

  She hung her head. “What? What now? What could you possibly do to me at this point that would exhaust me any more?”

  Her eyes widened a bit while I tried to think about anything but the fact that we were alone.

  And she was beautiful.

  Sweaty and beautiful.

  More beautiful than when she was dressed up in a tight short dress.

  More beautiful than any woman that sweaty had a right to be.

  Shit.

  I forced a cruel smile I wasn’t feeling. I forced myself to replace the lust with cruelty, and I hated myself for it. “You’re jogging home.”

  “That’s at least five miles!” she bellowed.

  “Six and a half, actually.” I shrugged. “I’ll grab your bag, though.”

  “No!” She held up her hands as every inch of color fell from her face, even her lips turned a grayish white. “No, um, I’ll just leave it here and pick it up later.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll just—”

  “No!” She shoved against my chest this time.

  I wasn’t a violent man, or even really aggressive, but the fact that she just shoved me like I was about to attack her pissed me off. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Me?” Was it my imagination or was she shaking? “You’re the one who wants to go into the girls’ locker room alone and grab my . . . bag.” It’s like as she said it she realized how crazy she sounded, or maybe she was just embarrassed. “Never mind, I’ll see you at home.”

  She shoved away from me and ran down the hall fast enough for me to stare after her in utter confusion.

  I gave my head a shake and pushed the locker-room door open and went in search of her bag.

  It was black.

  Shocker.

  I walked over to grab it and tripped over a cleat that I didn’t see, sending the bag sailing to the floor. A few things spilled out.

  Advil.

  A water bottle.

  And lastly, a prescription pill bottle with the label rubbed off.

  And suddenly everything made sense.

  Her anger.

  Her irritation.

  The way she was easily set off by anything or anyone.

  Disappointment hit me so hard I had to sit. I shoved everything back into her bag as quickly as I could, then grabbed my cell from my pocket and dialed one of my contracted doctors on staff.

  She answered immediately.

  “Yeah, it’s Matt,” I sighed. “I’m going to need you to come in tomorrow morning, first thing. I need a full physical and drug test. Yeah, new client. I think she might be doping.”

  Chapter Ten

  PARKER

  I woke up feeling like a million pounds of trash had been stuffed into a semi and frozen with water and then rolled over my body several times before pinning me down.

  Maybe that was a little exaggerated, but I was sore everywhere. My mouth even hurt, though I think that had to do more with clenching my teeth than anything. I’d thought the run home would make the panic go away, and then I realized that I’d left everything in my bag, and I do mean everything. Even when I didn’t take any of the pills, I kept them with me at all times, just in case.

  I’d been trying to wean myself off them for the last two months, but the nightmares still came.

  It was the only thing that kept the monsters away when it got real bad.

  Thankfully, when I got back to my room my bag was sitting on my bed as if it had been there the whole time.

  Everything locked up tight.

  I’d breathed a sigh of relief and promptly taken a shower, ready to face the next day of training with all the enthusiasm of getting a root canal.

  Don’t get me wrong, I loved soccer.

  But the training part? Where my muscles hurt so bad I was afraid I was going to have a problem sitting on the toilet? Not my favorite part.

  I winced as I sat up in bed and then slowly pulled my feet over the side, trying not to inhale too deeply, since it hurt to breathe. I walked like a grandma to the shower and searched for some Tiger Balm to rub on my body. I barely got one cupboard open before I heard his voice.

  “Looking for something?”

  “Your whistle,” I said with a hiss. “So I can flush it down the toilet.”

  “I sleep with it under my pillow, and I have a spare.”

  “Now that’s a dream come true.”

  “What?” I could feel him behind me.

  I turned. “Strangling you with the whistle cord while you sleep.”

  His lips twitched. “Doubt you’re strong enough, but you’re welcome to try.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” I tried not to slump, didn’t want to show any weakness as his eyes raked over me. “Did you need something? Other than some morning banter to go with your coffee?”

  “Sore?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I bet I do.” He looked behind me like he was searching for something and then faced me again. “You’ve got your physical first thing this morning and then we train some more. Your tryout for the Reign is set for next weekend.”

  “Two weeks!” I yelled. “Actually we have less than two weeks!”

  “I’ll get you there,” he said softly. “Just remember you have to do your part too.”

  “My spleen did its part yesterday,” I grumbled. “Trust me.”

  “Can I?” He seemed surprised that he’d said it as he narrowed his eyebrows and brushed a hand through his thick beautiful hair. “Can I trust you?”

  I gulped. “Can I trust you?”

  “That doesn’t work with me. You can’t answer a question with a question. Can I trust you? Taking you on could ruin my reputation, you know.”

  “Or it could make you a genius for signing the highest-paid female soccer player in the world?” I offered lamely.

  His eyes drilled holes into me. “Don’t make an ass out of yourself, out of us, alright?”

  Us? What
was this us business? I was about to say something when a knock sounded at the door.

  My tongue suddenly felt thick as I remembered my last physical . . . Focus. I could do this. I could do this.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but we’ll be doing a drug test as well,” Matt said flippantly as he left the bathroom.

  Hands shaking, I felt tears well in my eyes.

  The universe was against me.

  Or maybe it was just powerful men with too much of everything going for them who were out to get me.

  Or consume me.

  Control me.

  Own me.

  I clenched my hands into fists and followed him out into the living room expecting the worst, when I saw a really pretty older lady with cheerful eyes and silver streaks through her black hair. “You must be Parker!” She walked up to me like she knew me, pulled me in for a hug, and then grabbed my hand and started walking me away from Matt.

  Was this normal?

  He was looking at his phone.

  Hello, stranger danger!

  I mean I could take her but . . .

  “My name’s April.” She grinned. “This will be fast and easy. It always is. I’ve been working with Matt for the last few years, love his clients, and you look delightful.” Was this the part where she pinched my cheek and offered me a Ricola?

  Before I knew it, the elderly woman in the black pantsuit with the pretty gold earrings was shoving me into the bathroom with a little cup. “We do this for every client.”

  I bet they did.

  It wasn’t unusual.

  It still made me sweat.

  For reasons I couldn’t talk about.

  With shaking hands I took the cup, closed the door, and leaned against it as I let another tear fall before I walked over to the toilet and laughed at my predicament. That guy was a total ass, wasn’t he? I could barely even hover over the bowl and now I had to try to pee in a cup without my legs giving out on me?

  Hilarious.

  It took me at least ten seconds to get into position, and when everything was over, my legs were burning so much it felt like someone had lit them on fire and then done it again just to be sure they had enough to roast a marshmallow.

  I winced, screwed the top on the cup, and then left it on the counter and made my way back out to the living room, where Willow was eating breakfast and Matt seemed to be stewing on the phone again.