Someone Like You

by Jennifer Gracen

  “Pass, Scott, PASS the ball!” Or, “Dylan, come ON, dude, follow him, stay on him!” Or, “Andy, eyes open, watch where he’s going!” She had the crisp efficiency of a good coach, but the game was getting away from Edgewater. Those kids needed help. Training? Something. Jesus. Kids that young could still be taught a lot. The blonde was spirited, but must need some training herself to explain this mess.

  Lyndon’s coach, a short, stocky man, shouted at his team harshly. Yeah, they were winning, but Pierce didn’t like his tone. It was a step short of nasty, demeaning. You didn’t have to yell at kids that way. Even the blond coach whose players sucked seemed to grasp that. Being too hard on kids would take the joy out of the game for them. Who wanted to strip kids of that? Pierce sighed inwardly as he sipped some of his water and leaned his forearms on his knees.

  When the halftime whistle blew, he watched as the teams went to their huddles to have drinks and a snack. Pierce scanned the scene lazily, enjoying his solitude under a sunny sky. Some of the Edgewater kids barely stopped to have a drink before taking one of the soccer balls and kicking it amongst themselves. First three boys, then four kicked the ball, fooling around. One of them went hard and the ball sailed across the field. Reflexively, Pierce jumped up to get it as it rolled in his direction. He stopped it with his foot, and dribbled it back toward the Edgewater kids. Damn, the ball between his feet felt good.

  Reinvigorated, he dribbled it all the way back to the group of kids.

  * * *

  As the boys sucked down Capri Sun pouches and ate orange slices, Abby tried to explain to them what they needed to do to improve in the second half. They wouldn’t win; but at least if they weren’t shut out by an embarrassing number of goals, it would be easier on the kids’ self-esteem.

  But it was like herding cats. Some of the boys listened, but the rest were either more interested in their peeled orange slices or playing around with the ball behind her. Sure, eight-year-old boys had energy to spare, but she’d tried so hard to come up with strategies, good plays. This group just didn’t respond. The basics were all she’d gotten from them. Were they not capable of what she was trying to teach them? Or was she just the world’s lousiest soccer coach?

  I never should’ve signed up to do this.

  A few of the kids’ parents came over, either to say hi to their sons or to ask her questions about upcoming practices. Feeling inadequate, she held her clipboard against her chest and tried to smile as she spoke.

  Mr. Morales seemed to be more interested in something behind her than what she was saying to him. She turned to see a tall young guy approaching her team, dribbling what looked like one of their soccer balls between his feet. With nimble agility, he lobbied it back and forth, then started tapping it into the air, ankle to knee to other ankle to other knee and back again. Damn. Even she had to admit it was a cool trick. The boys all responded with awed excitement, instantly crowding around him, demanding to know how he did that.

  From behind her sunglasses, Abby did a quick once-over. The guy was about her age, with tousled dark hair, dark sunglasses, and a scruffy jaw that could have used a shave. He wore a sleeveless blue T-shirt that exposed nicely muscled arms . . . but along his upper right arm, it seemed there were more tattoos than unmarked skin. A few were on his left arm, too, but not the almost total sleeve of his right arm. Scanning the rest of his lean, taut frame, below his knee-length mesh shorts she spotted another large tattoo on his left calf, and something around his right ankle. Whoa . . . great legs. He had muscles like rocks in his calves.

  Abby scowled. Okay, the guy had a fantastic body, and his tricks with the ball were impressive, but who was he, and what was he doing there? She’d let a grown man, a stranger, approach her kids. She could only imagine the complaints some parents might make, and she wouldn’t blame them. Excusing herself to Mr. Morales, she quickly joined her players gathered around the stranger. At this range, she couldn’t help noticing he was really good-looking. Whoa. Oh boy. But still, hot or not, he was a stranger. “Excuse me,” she said sharply, in her best teacher voice. “Do you know one of these boys?”

  The hot stranger stopped, catching the ball and holding it in his hand as he looked her way. “Um . . . no.”

  Something roiled in her chest. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I just—” he started to say.

  “If you don’t know any of these kids, it’s highly inappropriate for you to just wander over here, don’t you think?”

  He froze, seeming to grasp what she meant. With a quick sweep of his free hand, he removed his sunglasses to earnestly stare at her with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “Wait, I’m no creeper. Slow down.”

  “Then what—”

  “They were fooling around and kicked this ball all the way across the field,” he explained quickly. “I was just bringing it back to them.”

  Abby heard the murmurs of the three dads behind her and cringed. They must’ve been discussing her competence, or lack thereof, to keep their children safe. “Well,” she said in a clipped tone, “thank you. You did. You can go now.”

  “Does he have to go, Coach?” young Andy asked.

  “Yeah, Aunt Abby,” Dylan piped up. “Didja see what he could do? He’s awesome!”

  “Look, boys,” she said as sternly as she could, “we don’t know this man. You’re not supposed to talk to strangers, right?”

  The boys all looked at the ground and mumbled assent.

  Noticing two of the kids’ fathers, Mr. Morales and Mr. Esdon, were suddenly standing on either side of her, she reassured them, “I appreciate the show of support, but I’m sure he’ll just leave on his own now.”

  “Wait!” Mr. Morales said to the man. “I know this sounds crazy . . . but by any chance, are you Pierce Harrison? From the Spurs? Because you sure look like him, and you definitely know how to handle that ball.”

  The man’s bright blue eyes narrowed, suddenly wary as he said, “And if I am?”

  “Then can I have your autograph?” Mr. Morales smiled, obviously starstruck. “I mean, Premier League! You’re a great player!”

  “Thank you . . . but I’m not anymore,” the man said flatly. He put his sunglasses back on. “I left the league, I’m out.”

  “Yeah, I know. But still. You were always great to watch.” Mr. Morales stepped right up to him and held out a hand. The stranger finally cracked a grin and shook it.

  At that, all the boys started to yelp and surrounded him like a pack of puppies.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Abby said under her breath.

  “It’s okay, Ms. McCord,” Mr. Esdon said. “The minute he took off his sunglasses, Diego recognized him. Look.” He held up his cell phone for Abby to see.

  She peered at it and felt a gut punch of embarrassment. There was the hot stranger, in a soccer uniform—no, football, if he’d been in the Barclays Premier League in England, as it said in the caption. Looking back over at him, she suddenly saw he was every bit the professional star athlete, flashing a megawatt smile as the kids posed with him for pictures. The parents with their cell phones were like a swarm of paparazzi. It had become an instant mob scene.

  “What the hell would a European soccer star be doing in Edgewater?” she asked.

  “Well,” Mr. Esdon said, “he played in England, but he’s originally from around here. He grew up on Long Island. Maybe he came home for a family visit or something. Excuse me, won’t you?” He quickly made his way over to the growing crowd of parents and kids. The other team had noticed the commotion, and someone must have spread the word. Pierce was at the center of a small crowd now and, except for a few random spectators, the entire field had all but cleared to see this man up close.

  Now Abby felt ridiculous. First she’d let a stranger near her boys, then she’d spoken harshly to someone who turned out to be famous, practically accusing him of trying to kidnap or harm one of her players. Great. Just great. She didn’t follow English football, how could she have known? H
uffing out a frustrated sigh, she crossed her arms, hugging the clipboard to her chest.

  Pierce Harrison, huh? She’d have to Google him when she got home. But while he was busy chatting amiably with the small crowd, signing autographs and posing for pictures, she studied him. Her initial brief assessment held: he was drop-dead gorgeous. Something about him made her insides buzz with heady warmth. But all those tattoos . . . his scruffy jaw . . . the way he glanced over at her twice with a hint of a smirk, brazen and cocky . . . he radiated danger. This was a very bad boy, she could tell. He might as well have had a neon sign on his chest: DANGER. HOT AND HE KNOWS IT.

  So not her type.

  Then again, did she even have a type anymore? Nowadays, she was practically a monk.

  With a disgusted grunt at her thoughts, she turned away, dropping her clipboard to the ground and reaching for her water bottle instead. A few sips in, someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Coach?”

  Abby whirled around. Pierce Harrison. He was taller than she’d realized, had to be six-one or six-two. He had the tight, leanly muscled frame of a soccer player, which appealed to her more than she wanted to admit. His wavy, dark hair was tousled, but gelled just a little in the front, begging to be played with. And that face . . . God, what beautiful features. Those eyes. Such a brilliant marine blue, fringed with long, dark lashes. Roman nose, great cheekbones, and a strong, square jaw covered in dark stubble, which only seemed to draw her gaze to his mouth. His full, sensual lips widened in a smile that revealed perfect teeth.

  Jesus, this guy was too gorgeous. He probably ate women like her for breakfast.

  She found herself speechless.

  Luckily for her, he spoke. “I wanted to apologize”—he sounded sincere—“for making you think even for a second that I was some pervert coming over here to snatch up one of your players.” The smile turned a bit wicked. “That is what you thought, right?”

  She felt herself blush furiously and cursed inside her head. “I . . . well, yeah. Wouldn’t you? I mean—”

  “Yeah, I would. I understand,” he said, the grin not leaving his face. “You were right to be concerned and protective. If some strange guy approached my nephews, I’d get in his face too. You did the right thing.”

  “Oh.” Why did this make her feel worse, not better? God, she felt off-kilter. She took off her sunglasses so she could look him in the eye, an effort to seem in control. His very presence was turning her into mush. Talk about natural sex appeal. Her girly parts were doing a primal dance she had rarely experienced. Get a grip, Abby!

  “I’m also sorry I turned your soccer game into a circus,” Pierce said, gesturing with his chin toward the people behind him who were now starting to disperse as the referee blew his whistle to signify the second half would start in a minute.

  “That’s not your fault. I’m sure you get that a lot.”

  “In England, yeah, sometimes. But not here.”

  “Well, these are soccer players, so . . . anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” she said. “I have to admit, I’m a little embarrassed.”

  “God, don’t be. I’m not famous here. At least, I didn’t think I was. That one dad who recognized me? Apparently he watches European football religiously.” Pierce’s grin finally faltered. “I left the sport. Two months ago. I’m not playing anymore. I’m officially retired, just here visiting my family over in Kingston Point.”

  Abby nodded, but thought, Kingston Point? If he has family there, they must be disgustingly wealthy. Her whole house could fit into any one of those tremendous Kingston Point mansions, three or four times over. It may have been only ten minutes away from Edgewater, but it was a totally different world. “Well, I hope you enjoy your visit.”

  “I’m here—at the park, I mean—because I went for a run, then I’m meeting a friend here. His daughter plays at noon, the next game. He lives in Edgewater. Old friend from high school. So . . .” Pierce shrugged. “I don’t know why I felt compelled to tell you that. I guess I just wanted to assure you I’m not some creepy guy.”

  “No explanations necessary. It’s a public park. But I appreciate it.” Abby wondered who the dad was and if she knew him, but before she could ask, the ref blew his whistle again. She shot a glance over at her team, who were now standing together, waiting for her directions. “I have to go, sorry. Nice to meet you.”

  Pierce gazed down at her, and she felt a little jolt from the intensity of his stare. “What’s your name, Coach? Didn’t catch it.”

  “Abby.” She held out her hand. “Abby McCord.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Abby.” His fingers wrapped around hers and the firm handshake sent a rush through her, a strange jolt of sensation. She pulled her hand back quickly, met his eyes one last time, then hurried over to her players.

  As the teams ran onto the field to start the second half, Abby noticed that Pierce Harrison didn’t leave. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he strolled over to the far corner of the field and sat himself down on the grass. It seemed he was going to watch the rest of the game as he waited for his friend to arrive.

  Abby didn’t know why that both unnerved and delighted her, but it did.

  * * *

  Pierce tried not to be obvious, but stole glances at Abby McCord more than a few times. She was adorable. Straitlaced. Very girl-next-door. Which had never been his type.

  But there was something about her. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that she was extremely pretty. Maybe it was more complex, like he loved that she’d never heard of him. Either way, his interest was piqued. As he watched her team get their little butts kicked in the second half, he watched her, too. Man, she was wound up tight, he could tell just from the way she held herself. And as he watched her shout and cheer and try to spur her team into action, he had visions of what she’d be like in bed, all fired up and vocal like that....

  What the hell? Christ, he hadn’t been laid in two months, and his hormones were getting the best of him. But . . . Abby McCord was sweet to look at. He gazed openly.

  “Excuse me . . . Mister Harrison?” came a woman’s voice from behind him.

  He quickly turned his head to see an attractive thirtysomething Latina woman standing there. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she began. “My name’s Sofia Rodriguez, and I’m on the board of the Edgewater Soccer Club. I got to shake your hand before, but not to talk to you. I . . . wanted to ask you something.” She twisted her small hands.

  “Sit down,” he said, patting the grass next to him. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well,” she said as she lowered herself to sit beside him. “I was thinking maybe . . . I was wondering, are you going to be in town for a while?”

  “Um . . . my plans are kind of open-ended right now,” he hedged. “Why?”

  “Well, if you were available, and would even consider it, I’d love to have you do a guest clinic for the club.” She said the words quickly. “I saw how the kids responded to you, and then I Googled you on my phone . . .”

  “Then you must know who I am,” he said quietly, “and that I’m not playing anymore. And why a lot of gossip sites think I stopped playing.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care about gossip, and neither will the kids. But a clinic from a professional player? They’d love that. It’d be great for them.”

  He cocked his head and asked, “If you don’t care about gossip, that’s great. But the kids’ parents might.”

  “It’d be a soccer clinic, for Pete’s sake,” Sofia said. “You, the kids, an hour on the field. The parents can all watch if they want. It’s got nothing to do with”—she searched for tactful words—“whatever happened across the pond. It’s all hearsay, anyway.”

  Surprised, he chuckled at that. Ah, the people in Edgewater were refreshingly normal. And straightforward, in that unique New York way. He heard Abby shout another desperate command at the team and glanced her way. Then he turned to look back at Sofia and said
, “These kids sure could use a morale booster . . . some guidance, too. Definitely stronger training.” His mind reeled. Was he really considering this? “I mean . . . yeah, I’ve got some time on my hands, I’m just visiting family here on Long Island. . . .” He slid another quick side-glance at Abby as she squawked something and waved her hands frantically over her head. Adorable. “Let’s talk, Sofia. What’d you have in mind?”

  Chapter Four

  As soon as Abby got out of the shower, still wrapped in a big fluffy towel, she locked the door to her room and fired up her laptop, ready to do a Google search on one Pierce Harrison.

  All the way home, her nephew had rambled on excitedly. “I can’t believe a real-life soccer star showed up! He was so awesome. Did you see what he could do with that ball? I wanna learn how to do that. Do you think he’ll come to another game?” Her parents, who’d been watching their grandson from lawn chairs on the sidelines, had chuckled at Dylan’s enthusiasm.

  But Abby . . . something in Abby had been set off, leaving tingles and butterflies in its wake. Simply put: Pierce was hot. When he’d touched her, just to shake her hand, something had gone through her and hadn’t left. Now, as she pulled on a purple T-shirt and a pair of comfy black shorts, she realized what that something was: pure lust. The guy was sex on a stick.

  Her damp hair fell into her eyes as she sat on her bed. Reaching for an elastic on her nightstand, she typed his name into the search engine before pulling her hair back into its usual tiny ponytail. Her eyes widened as she saw the results.

  Many pictures came up on the screen. God, he was easy on the eyes. She looked through the photos of Pierce . . . over a few years’ time, in three different professional soccer uniforms, in various athletic poses. Running after the ball, standing on the pitch, coated in sweat, and often smiling a megawatt smile. Dressed to kill, out on the town, next to dazzlingly beautiful women.