Love Game

by Maggie Wells

  She wasn’t interested in playing springboard for yet another underachieving man.

  Planting her hands on Jim’s shoulders, she pulled away with what she hoped would pass for reluctance. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t. “It’s, uh…” She groped for an excuse and came up with the tried and true. “Sorry. This isn’t a very good time.” She forced a grimace of apology. “Maybe we…another time.”

  His brow furrowed and then smoothed as her implication sank in. “Oh.” He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he cast a longing glance at his car. Color rode high in his cheeks. “So…maybe next week?”

  A guilty flush warmed her skin. “Maybe,” she replied. But there was no way in hell.

  Jim ducked his head to peck the usual chaste kiss to her cheek. “Night, Coach.”

  Annoyed by the use of her title and not her name, Kate bit the inside of her cheek as she slipped her key into the lock. “Night, Davenport.”

  Safe inside her house, she kicked off the sadistic sandals and flopped onto the sofa in a huff. The straps left livid pink marks crisscrossing her feet. She rubbed at them, frustration—intellectual and physiological—roiling inside her.

  Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath in and let it go slowly. Her body hummed, but it wasn’t the result of her date with Jim. She tried to dissect the attraction that sizzled and popped every time Danny McMillan came near, but she couldn’t parse it. Everything about him got to her. The dark hair and electrifying eyes. His solid, muscular build. The swagger in his step and the arrogance in the lift of his square chin. Maybe it sprang from nothing more than the allure of forbidden fruit, but oh, the man did something to her.

  Kate licked her lips, closed her eyes, and let her head roll back. Two fingers under her skirt. That’s all she needed. The vibrator in her nightstand could take care of her problem in seconds. The pulsing jets of her showerhead could drown out the low-frequency hum in her blood, but she knew damn well that none of those options would be enough. It would take more than simulated sex to scratch the itch that had niggled from the moment Danny’s mouth touched hers. The man was fucking with her head even if he hadn’t fucked her body.

  Yet.

  The stark acknowledgment of inevitability made her eyes pop open. She sat still, hands curled around the edge of the sofa cushion, her thighs pressed together.

  Her mind raced. One by one, she rifled through possibilities and scenarios, each more impossible, and therefore more desirable, than the last.

  She could call Millie and get his number. Millie wouldn’t think twice about it. Kate used to call Stan Morton when he was head football coach. But she never wanted Stan’s hands on her the way she wanted Danny’s. She called Ty every now and again to talk shop, but frankly, she avoided it for fear of having to socialize with Mari. Still, a phone call from one coach to another wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

  She could make up some bullshit story about the boosters and coordinating summer athletic camp schedules. Millie’d give her his number, and she could call him, and…

  Two fingers. Hell, one would do it, she was so keyed up. Almost of its own volition, her right hand uncurled, releasing its death grip on the cushion in favor of pushing up under her skirt. Her panties were damp. Damn him. She brushed the tips of her fingers over the silky nylon blend.

  Friggin’ Davenport. He didn’t deserve these panties or the pretty matching bra. She scowled as she edged a finger under the elastic. The chocolate cake wasn’t that good. But oh, that was. Right there. A shuddering sigh rolled through her as she began to stroke her clit with the quick, feather-light flicks that no man would ever dream of employing.

  She’d bet anything Danny McMillan wouldn’t. He’d charge in, take control, and claim that tender swell of flesh as his due. She arched her neck, straining against the too-soft touch and picturing him looming over her like he had on the court that night. In her mind, it wasn’t her finger working the magic. It was his. Big, blunt, a little rough, but still too maddeningly gentle. She didn’t want gentle. She wanted him to drive her up, fast and sure, relentless in his pursuit of her pleasure. Hold her hands over her head. Thrust into her. Over and over…

  Kate cried out as she pushed her own finger into the tight, wet channel, gasping and groaning as she climaxed.

  The rasp of her breathing echoed in the quiet room. She blinked at the blank television screen. The magazines on the coffee table seemed to be written in a foreign language. Perhaps it was the civilized tongue of people who didn’t get themselves off on the living room sofa the minute they got home from a bad date. She blinked and pulled her hand out from under her skirt, careful not to touch anything with the glistening digits.

  With a grunt of disgusted disbelief, she sunk into the sofa. “Well, shit.”

  Draping her left arm over her eyes, she focused on regaining control. Her muscles felt heavy with the special kind of languor that only sets in when one is replete. Or exhausted. Her brain latched onto the thought. Maybe that was the key. A few hours in the gym wouldn’t hurt. She could build up the stamina she needed to keep up with middle and high school students who would cycle through her summer basketball camps. Burn off some energy in a manner that wouldn’t make her look like a fool, get her fired or, worse, risk falling in love with another man incapable of seeing past his own ambition.

  *

  Danny grabbed the safety bar and jumped onto the side rails of the treadmill. Sweat streaked down the sides of his face and dampened his hair. His brand-spanking-new Wolcott Athletic Department T-shirt clung to him, and he tugged at the neckline as the belt continued to whir. The smart thing would be to stop and walk it off. A six-mile run with no cooldown was enough to guarantee screaming knees.

  But he didn’t want to walk. He wanted to keep pounding away. Needed to work off all the excess energy bubbling inside him. At least working out was productive. He’d already spent too many mornings thinking about Kate Snyder and exercising his right hand.

  The blare of Nine Inch Nails in his ears did nothing to cool his blood. The song was almost an anthem for how he felt from the second he’d decided to kiss her. Desperate. Unstoppable. Exposed. One stupid kiss, and he wanted more. So much more. Like the song said, he wanted to crawl inside her.

  The hell of it was, he wasn’t thinking about her tits or her high, round ass when he jerked off that night or again in the wee hours of the morning. He was thinking about her eyes. Whiskey-colored and every bit as intoxicating, they were as fascinating as the ever-shifting glass in a kaleidoscope.

  The whimsical thought jolted him from his reverie. Intoxicating? Kaleidoscopes? He snorted and yanked the buds from his ears. What the hell was going on with him? He wasn’t a poet or an artist. He was a football player. He stared hard at his reflection in the mirrored wall and jammed his thumb on the button that would slow the pace.

  Get a grip.

  Ah, but he had. He’d had a good grip on her. He would have had her on her back if she hadn’t come to her senses. Damn, she felt good. Lean and muscular, but soft. Indescribably soft. Grasping the handrail, he closed his eyes until he found rhythm in the measured steps.

  The ferocity of his attraction to Kate Snyder caught him off guard. Lust didn’t begin to explain it. If it were as simple as needing the physical release, he had plenty of opportunity and had never been shy about exploiting it. Older women were a little more brazen than the younger, but that was okay with him. He preferred easy pickings to the complications the young ones toted around like handbags. Didn’t hurt that he was a decent-looking guy with a seminotorious reputation. Women loved that crap. And he was still in pretty good shape. Maybe not underwear-model material, but fit, and not so beat-up he scared the villagers.

  But he couldn’t stop obsessing over Kate’s hitchy little hiccup when she’d pushed away. Did she make the same kind of noises when she fucked? Christ, he’d give his left nut to make that throaty moan he’d tasted explode into a scream. The realization that it had been too lon
g since he’d even thought about sinking deep into a woman’s body scared him. It was easy to convince himself he had been too focused on resurrecting his career to think about a relationship, but sex? What could possibly make him never think about sex?

  Well, he was thinking about it now, and he needed to stop. Hell, just thinking about how she’d tried to humiliate him on these very treadmills ought to have been enough. But it wasn’t. Apparently, his libido had the power to override his ego these days. And if that wasn’t a dangerous set of circumstances, he didn’t know what was.

  Frustrated, he hit the button to cancel the session and planted his hands on his hips. These days, the Warrior workout room was empty in the early morning hours. Later on, a few regulars would shuffle in, but the campus was becoming more deserted every day.

  He’d been pleased to note that quite a few of his players took their new strength-training regime seriously. He hoped he’d be able to use some of that raw determination to overcome the team’s lack of any outstanding talent. Grit could get a guy a helluva long way if he was willing to work hard enough. If he could just convince a few of the leaders that they had it in them, they could pull the rest along with them.

  His steps slowed until the treadmill ground to a halt. LED numbers flashed his stats, but he paid them no mind. As far as he was concerned, the workout had been a failure. Speculating about his absent football team wasn’t proving to be a strong enough distraction. His blood still boiled with wanting Kate.

  Stepping off the treadmill, he peeled the shirt over his head and took a quick inventory. The muscles in his chest and arms were well defined but not as inflated at they’d been back in his playing days. He’d need to see the doc about getting cortisone injected in his shoulder. Running a hand over the damp hair that led to his waistband, he had to admit his abs weren’t as sculpted as they’d been when he was younger, but overall, his belly was still flat and somewhat ripped. He vowed there and then to spend the summer months reclaiming his six-pack rather than consuming them. Turning away from the mirrors, he mentally added more ab work to his routine as he started toward the weight room.

  The chink of heavy metal plates touching and a low grunt of exertion drew him up short of the entrance. He glanced down at the wringing-wet shirt in his hand and shuddered. He loathed the thought of struggling into it again, but he was vain enough to know the body he’d been admiring moments ago would look battered beside even the softest twentysomething. He was shaking out the damp cotton when the weights clanked a bit louder and an exhalation of relief marked the end of a set. A very feminine exhalation.

  Curiosity piqued, Danny poked his head around the corner. Shiny, brown hair pulled into a ruthless ponytail. Long, toned arms spread wide to grip the bar dangling over her head. Neon-rainbow trainers planted on either side of the padded bench, Kate drew the pulley down, the muscles in her back tensing and bunching beneath her tank top. The metal bar grazed the ponytail, setting it to sway as she controlled the slow, steady ascent.

  His feet moved without thought. He caught the count she murmured under her breath, measuring his steps to her reps. By the time she huffed, “Ten,” he stood directly behind her.

  His shirt fell to the floor in a heap. Kate tensed but didn’t turn. The buzz of electricity humming through the room had nothing to do with the fluorescent bulbs mounted to the drop ceiling. The whiteness of her knuckles told him she knew damn well it was him. He straddled the end of the bench, pressing his knees into her lower back as he gripped the cool metal bar on either side of the center chain and eased it from her grip.

  She raised her head and let her arms fall limp to her sides. Their gazes met and held in the mirror. The silky strands of her ponytail grazed his stomach as she tipped her head back. But instead of the chastisement or indignation he felt sure was coming, she said, “I have another set.”

  Wordlessly, he hauled the bar down so she could grasp it without rising from the bench. Long, strong fingers wrapped around the grips, and his hands came to rest on her traps. She stiffened, but only for a moment. “You like the shoes?”

  She cast him a sidelong glance. “Love them.”

  “So I have a chance?”

  Graceful muscle moved beneath silken skin. He stared transfixed as she counted off the first rep. “Chance for what?”

  “Dinner. I’d like to start over. See if we can’t spend five minutes in each other’s company without sniping.”

  “I’m told the sniping is media gold.” She huffed and pulled the bar down once more. “Didn’t Millie call you? The local station has booked time for us to do a weekly show. We’re supposed to film the first one this afternoon.”

  “She told me.” The show would be kind of a sports-themed point/counterpoint thing with Jim Davenport as their monkey in the middle. He wasn’t crazy about the idea of picking fights with Kate for public consumption, but he’d take the opportunity to spend more time with her. He trailed his fingertips over her delts. “I just want to know if there will be Telestrators. I’ve always wanted to play with the Telestrator.”

  She pulled two more reps. “You are the handsiest spotter I’ve ever had.”

  He chuckled and slid his palms over her arms, feeling each muscle tighten as his fingers wrapped around her forearms. She held for a moment, but he urged her to proceed with gentle pressure. “I can’t help myself,” he confessed as she puffed out number eight. “I want you. God, I want you.”

  She froze, her shoulders and elbows locked and her arms quivering with the effort of holding the weights. “More than a TV show with a Telestrator?”

  “I’ve had a TV show, you know. Nothing glamorous or exciting about standing in front of a green screen. The Telestrator is tempting, but it pales…” He stared, transfixed by the rosy flush coloring her fair complexion. “I can’t think about anything but wanting you.”

  The plates hit with a jarring clang. She didn’t turn to look at him, but tremors of exertion—or was it excitement?—shivered under sleek, pink-gold skin. “Do you always get what you want?”

  He chuckled again. “I think you know I don’t.” She lowered her arms, but he couldn’t stop touching her. “They’ve all warned me.”

  “Warned you about what?”

  “You. To stay away from you. But I can’t.”

  She closed her eyes. Dark lashes fanned flushed cheeks, and her muscles relaxed. “This is a bad idea on so many levels.”

  Her words were tantamount to a confession. She’d been thinking about it too. About him. Them. That kiss.

  “Horrible idea,” he agreed, bending to press a slow, firm kiss to her damp nape. “I don’t cater to prima donnas.”

  He spoke low and soft, smiling as he kissed a lazy path along her hairline.

  Kate shivered and tilted her head, granting him better access. “I’ve never been a fan of the comeback kid.”

  “You’re so smug here in your little kingdom.”

  “Queendom,” she corrected, sliding him a sly smile as he trailed kisses along the smooth muscles he’d traced. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “I doubt you’ll let me.”

  Scooting forward, she twisted her torso to look him in the eye. “I don’t have a Telestrator handy, but I have a coach’s clipboard.” She cocked her head, sending her ponytail swinging. “If I let you borrow it, can you draw up a play where this could work? I don’t see how either of us can come out the winner here.”

  She held his eyes just long enough for him to see the golden light burning bright in hers. Then she dropped her gaze to his crotch and the obvious hard-on outlined by the clingy nylon of his shorts.

  “Time to hit the showers, Coach. Best make it a cold one.”

  “I have.” His confession came out in a hoarse rasp. “Every damn day since I met you. Doesn’t help.”

  She shifted to rise from the bench. Lean quads bunched and stretched. The black compression shorts she wore clung to the flexing muscle but stubbornly refused to inch higher. Her body brushed his. I
t was the barest contact, but it set him off.

  “We can’t do this, Dan.”

  A slap across the face would have been less effective in snapping him back. “Danny,” he corrected automatically. Dan was his deadbeat father’s name, and he’d never answer to it.

  “Daniel?”

  The only people who ever called him Daniel were LeAnn and his mother. He refused to think about his messy affair with LeAnn, and the feelings he had toward Kate were a far cry from maternal. “It’s Danny.”

  One dark brow rose. “Are you five?”

  He scowled, refusing to be baited. “Are you trying to pick a fight so you can ignore what’s going on between us?”

  “Nothing is going on between us.”

  “But something should be.” Unable to stop himself, he tucked a stray wisp of her hair behind her ear. “And you know it as well as I do.”

  Something that looked like regret flickered across her face, but by the time she met his eyes again, it was gone. “I know we’re in a public place.” Her brows inched toward her hairline. “Our work place.”

  “No one is here.”

  “We both are,” she argued. She darted a glance at the locker room doors. “Someone else could be.”

  Frustrated, he gave in and made the move she so obviously wanted him to make—he stepped back. “Fine.”

  She took the opening, swinging her leg over the bench and darting around him as if he were a player she’d instructed to set a pick. He turned to follow her progress as she made her way toward the door emblazoned with “Warrior Women.”

  He let her get within arm’s reach of escape, then hit her with a zinger. “I’ve always hated the last two minutes of a basketball game.”

  She froze, her arm stretched for the locker room door, her palm wide and fingers splayed. She shot a puzzled look over her shoulder. “What? Why?”