by Lane Hart
“Do you plan on…kicking some more balls…or are you just gonna…stand around for the next two hours?” Kohen asks when he comes to a stop beside me, out of breath.
“I better get back to work, too,” Quinton says. “See ya, Kohen,” he says before jogging over to the quarterback coach.
“See you,” Kohen calls out to his retreating back.
“Do you plan on always being a dick to me?” I ask him with my hands on my hips.
“I guess you can consider me your very own personal dick from now until February,” he tells me with a smug smile.
“In that case, I think I’ll call you Coach Dildo, because all I have to say to you is go fuck yourself,” I reply. The smile on Kohen’s face vanishes, and he blows out a breath while looking at the grass.
“Look, I’m sorry about the shit I said…if I had known what really happened…”
“That’s right, you didn’t know! You assumed the worst of me, just like you’ve been doing since the moment we met.”
“I said I’m sorry, okay? Just put yourself in my shoes for a second. This is the only job I’ve ever had. It’s the difference in being stuck in a small town and making it on my own. When it was threatened, I lashed out at you because you were the reason I was distracted.”
“What?” I ask, my anger diffusing slightly with his apology and the reminder that I’m partially responsible for almost ending his livelihood.
Kohen glances away, avoiding my eyes before he finally responds, mumbling something so quietly I can’t catch it between the wind noise and whistles being blown as practice goes on around us.
“Can you repeat that?” I ask. “I couldn’t hear you.’
He grumbles and finally locks his melted chocolate and caramel swirled eyes with mine. “I was looking you up on the Internet. That’s why I wasn’t paying attention and stepped out into the road.”
“Me?” I shriek, surprised and…flattered that I was the reason he was so distracted that he never saw my big ass Jeep barreling toward him. “Why were you looking me up?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, the sun or embarrassment causing a reddish hue to spread over his tan cheeks. “I’m sorry about what happened with that dipshit Dane. I never thought he would’ve done something so stupid, but Quinton said he saw him…”
“Yeah, he did. If not, would you still call me a liar?” I snap at him defensively.
“I was an asshole, and I spent the whole weekend feeling like shit, okay?”
“So did I,” I reply honestly. “I never meant to cause problems for the team with you or him. Believe me, I wish I could just play football without all the drama.”
“I know that. So can we agree to try and put all that shit behind us? Not only will we be working together for the next few weeks, but it looks like we’ll be living together too…”
“Yes,” I agree on a heavy exhale. “But, I mean, we don’t have to live together. I can find somewhere else to stay,” I assure him.
“Uh-uh. Coach’s orders,” he says while shaking his head. “And neither of us wants to be on his shit list.”
“Guess not,” I agree, feeling equal parts nervous about living with Kohen and excited. His houseboat is freakin’ amazing. The prospect of living there, even for a few weeks until we can figure something else out should be fun. If we don’t kill each other.
“So I guess we should get to work. Looks like you may need me punting too. The new guy, Warren, isn’t getting any better.”
We both look over and watch as our rookie punter’s practice kickoff only makes it twenty feet before going out of bounds.
God, he sucks.
“How are you on punting?” Kohen asks me.
“Well, Coach Dildo, shouldn’t you have, I dunno, maybe looked up your player’s stats?” I tease him with a small smile.
“Since I’ve had shit to worry about after getting mowed down, why don’t you give me the CliffsNotes version,” he replies with his own grin.
“Fine. Last year I had thirty-three punts in ten games, eleven-hundred and twenty-one yards, and averaging thirty-five yards per punt. Not a single one went out of bounds upfield, and twelve of them were corner coffin punts, thank you very much.”
“Damnnnn. At least your kicking is better than your driving,” he mutters, actually sounding impressed.
“Ha-ha.”
While punting may look easier than making a field goal, it’s not. Not only do you have to put a lot of ass into it, but there's also various strategies on each one. Sometimes, if you’re facing a punt returner with a history of running back kickoff touchdowns, the special team's coach will instruct you to kick the ball all the way through the back of the end zone, so that there’s no chance of a runback. If time needs to be run off the clock, there’s the ground kick that will bounce several times before a player can pick it up. Getting a punted ball to stay right around the five-yard line or less without going into the end zone could be critical for helping pin the other team’s offense to their own side of the field, giving our defense the chance to score a fumble and recovery for a touchdown or get a safety. And finally, and the most tricky, is the onside kick. Not only does the ball have to go at least ten yards forward, but it needs to have enough hang time to give our special teams’ players the opportunity to get up underneath it to try and catch it before the other team. It’s a gamble, and most teams only use it when they’re losing and desperate; because if it fails, the other team gets to have the ball at midfield, almost guaranteeing a field goal, if not a touchdown.
“What should we start with, Coach?” I ask Kohen.
“Let’s see you punt a few balls. If you look better than Warren, I’ll go talk to Coach Sigmon and see what he thinks.”
For the next two hours, Kohen pretty much tells me everything I do wrong, but he agrees that we may have a better shot with me punting than the new guy. Coach Sigmon said he would consider it after giving Warren a shot in the first preseason game. Which is fine with me. That means in the first game all I have to worry about is extra points and field goals.
Finally, Coach Griffin calls us all in for the huddle to bring practice to an end. We get a quick pep talk before he dismisses us until tomorrow morning.
Pulling out his cell phone on the way to the parking lot, Kohen asks me, “What’s your number so I can text you my address?”
I recite the digits and tell him I’ll be over once I get checked out of the hotel.
Smiling, I make my way to my Jeep, coveting a cold shower right about now. I’ll have to wait to take one when I get back to my room since the practice field doesn’t have any women’s locker rooms. While I shower, I’ll have Paxton pack up my things for me. He’s been hanging out all weekend, despite my assurances that I’m fine and he should be home doing…whatever it is he’s gonna do now that we’ve graduated and he wasn’t one of the lucky ones able to go pro.
I wonder what Paxton will say when he finds out where I’ll be living for the next few weeks or months. I may normally tell my best friend everything, but I haven’t told him about kissing Kohen or how much I want him. I know what Pax would say – that it’s stupid and history repeating itself, etcetera. He’s right, but sometimes at night, before I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but think about the hot kiss Kohen and I shared, pretending it goes a little further. Even when I was angry with him, there was no disputing the fact that Kohen is sexy as fuck, and now I’ll be sharing a houseboat with him.
Chapter Seventeen
Kohen
I’m expecting Roxanne when I hear the car door shutting on the dock; but when I hear the second one, I wonder who the hell could be with her. Did she seriously bring that douchebag from this weekend?
Hobbling over to the sliding glass door, I pull it open and watch with my jaw hanging open as the asshole in an expensive looking gray suit grabs boxes out of the back of Roxanne’s SUV and follows her to my boat.
“I really love this place. Are you sure this is okay? Me staying here?�
�� Roxanne asks when she glances up and sees me waiting at the door for them.
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you had…someone coming with you,” I remark. “Is he moving in too?” The words come out snarkier than I intended. Wait, no, I’m pretty sure I meant them to be snarky.
“No, he’s not moving in. This is Paxton Price. Paxton, meet Kohen Hendricks, my victim and now roommate,” Roxanne says, making introductions.
“I would shake your hand, but mine is kind of full,” the too-cool-for-school dude says when he approaches, his dark shades hiding his eyes.
“Right,” I say. “So, there are two spare bedrooms. Pick whichever one you want.”
“Isn’t this place amazing?” Roxanne mutters to the prick.
She looks fucking amazing in her black cotton shorts and skintight blue tank top. Not that it matters what she looks like. She’s off limits, my responsibility to Coach and nothing else from now on.
“Could you pick a room already?” the douche behind her huffs, readjusting his hold on the boxes in his arms.
Roxanne laughs, but then the two disappear down the hall. I resume my seat on the white leather sofa watching a soccer game with my leg propped up on the ottoman.
“If you lay a finger on her, you’ll have two bad knees,” the dickhead says to me quietly when he walks back in the living room alone, empty handed.
“Oh, will she run me over again?” I ask once I recover from his unexpected threat.
“No, I’ll break it,” he tells me on the way out the door.
Jackass. What sort of name is Paxton anyway?
Once everything has been brought in, Roxanne walks the prick to the door. I try to ignore watching their goodbye from my seat on the sofa but can’t help myself. The two hug for several long seconds, and then Roxy kisses him quickly on the lips before he finally slips out the door.
“So, thanks for letting me stay here,” Roxy says, sitting her ass down on the arm of the sofa.
“No problem,” I remark.
“Do you need anything? Have you had dinner? I can make something.”
“No thanks, I’m good,” I tell her. “But help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen.”
“What do I owe you for rent and utilities?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say without hesitation. “It’s not like I need the money.”
“Well, I have to pay you something. I can’t just live here mooching off of you.”
“I guess you can help out with buying groceries,” I suggest since I can’t drive yet or hobble around on crutches trying to push a buggy. “And, I mean, if you want to cook and clean that’d be cool since I hate doing both.”
“Sure, I don’t mind. Back at home, I did all of the housework since my dad worked so much,” she explains.
“What about your mom?” I ask her before my brain can filter the question.
“She left when I was five, so it’s just been my dad and me since,” Roxy tells me with a shrug like having her mother up and leave, never coming back is no big deal.
“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. “That sucks. Although, our house would’ve been more peaceful without our mom.”
“You don’t get along with her?” Roxy asks as she slides down from the armrest onto the sofa cushion, tucking her legs underneath her.
“Hell no. Not with her or my dad. It’s a wonder my brother and I weren’t born with the genetic condition of our heads already lodged up our asses.”
“Ouch,” she mutters. “My dad’s like my best friend, so I couldn’t imagine us not getting along,” she admits while her fingers fidget with the charm on her bracelet, one that looks like a ladybug.
“You’re lucky then,” I tell her honestly, my eyes going back to the television.
“So…soccer?” she asks, noticing the game.
“Yeah, didn’t you play in college or high school?” I ask since that’s the path most kickers take to end up on a football field.
“God, no. Didn’t your Internet search tell you? I’m a football girl through and through. Soccer’s…boring,” she says with a wrinkled nose.
“Boring?” I reply indignantly.
“Yep. And it’s a wimpy sport,” she teases with a grin. “Now, rugby? That is a badass sport.”
“Whatever. We can’t be friends if you disrespect my sport,” I tell her.
Roxanne laughs, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever heard such a sweet sound, not just out of her mouth but in all my twenty-seven years on Earth. It’s one that I already crave to hear again, wanting the happy sound to originate because of something I say or do, even if it costs me my dignity or respect.
But then I remember that Roxanne just said goodbye to her boyfriend, so it’s stupid of me to want her laughs to belong solely to me.
And that thought is depressing as fuck.
Chapter Eighteen
Roxy
The gentle rocking of the boat actually calms my nerves enough for me to relax and drift off to sleep Monday and Tuesday night, despite being in a strange place.
When I wake up Wednesday morning, it’s way too early. The sun’s not even up yet, but trying to go back to sleep is a lost cause. Now, the pesky worries feel like they’re being battered into my brain by a persistent woodpecker.
Today’s the last practice before the team travels to New Orleans for our first preseason game. My first game as a professional football player. The first time a woman has ever put on a jersey and stepped foot in a stadium.
David Bowie’s “Under Pressure” is currently playing on repeat in my mind as if it’s my new theme song. I don’t want to let anyone down, my dad, the team, the young girls looking up to me as a role model. The worst thing I could do is say, “Sure, girls, you can do anything you want if you work hard enough” and then go and make a fool of myself, proving that I’m not cut out for professional football.
There’s this nagging doubt I can’t shrug off that maybe all the naysayers I’ve dealt with over the years are right – women can’t physically compete on the professional level in this male-dominated sport. These are not just average men either, but humongous giants that seem to get bigger every year. Unlike college where, at six feet tall, I was pretty much head level with all the guys, I feel like a shrimp out on the field with my Wildcats teammates.
Now that I’m antsy, I’ve kicked off all the sheets and am unable to fall back to sleep. Since I can’t sit still, watching television is obviously out. I may as well do some work around Kohen’s boathouse, doing what I always do when I have nervous energy to burn --- clean. Not that his place is dirty and needs it. He’s not messy like most guys, keeping the place nice and tidy. Although for the last two days, we haven’t spent much time here. Instead, we’ve spent most of our time with the team, practicing and even eating dinner as a group before coming home to crash from the heat and exhaustion.
I climb out of bed and pad barefoot down the hall. In the kitchen I rummage around in the cabinets under the sink, looking for cleaning products. Since Kohen’s still asleep, I decide to start with dusting from the front of the boat and making my way to the back because it’s a quiet activity. There’s a lot of dark wooden surfaces, tables, an entertainment center, and bookcases that I go to work dusting with paper towels and furniture cleaner. The darkening of my white towels is not a testament to Kohen’s cleanliness. It’s just what happens if you don’t swipe a rag over everything about once a week. Dust will no doubt collect, and this morning I’m a dust eliminator.
Once all the furniture smells fresh like lemons, I head back to the kitchen to wash up the few dishes in the sink. Noticing that Kohen has a dishwasher, I rinse the dirty plates, cups, and silverware, then load it up. Dad and I have never had anything but the sink for dishes, but I get the gist of how it works and fill up the opening with detergent. Shutting the front of the washer, I turn the dial until the machine kicks on and goes to work.
Now that I’ve worked up a sweat, I decide to head back to my room and get a shower bef
ore practice, thankful that I have my own private bathroom. Even though the facilities are compact, the space is still bigger than either of the bathrooms at the two houses my dad and I have lived in, and it’s so much newer and nicer. This place is dripping with elegance and…money. There’s no doubt that Kohen has made quite a bit during his time as a starting kicker, yet I’m not the least bit upset that I’m paid way less. I have to work my way up and prove myself during clutch times to make the big dollars. Let’s hope that I can actually do that.
Once my hair is dried, I pull it back into a ponytail and get dressed in a blue team tee and yellow shorts. I’m about to step out of my room to search for something to make for breakfast when I hear Kohen shout, “What the fuck?”
I rush out to see what he’s yelling about and find him standing in the kitchen in nothing but a pair of black shorts. The tan, sculpted muscles of his smooth chest and abs are sheer perfection. I’m startled by the speed at which a small heater turns on inside of me, the sudden warmth so intense that my stomach actually cramps with arousal. It only takes a second for the scene around Kohen to douse the flames of desire. He’s standing in a sea of bubbles that reach his shins, nearing the brace on his left leg; and he’s clearly not happy about the foam party in his kitchen floor based on the cocoa-colored glare I meet when my eyes are finally able to lift to his.
“What the hell did you do, Roxanne?” he shouts at me, his fists gripping his crutches tightly.
“I…um, well, I clean when I get stressed out, so I did some dusting and started the dishwasher.”
“Why does it look like a bubble bath in my kitchen?”
“I dunno. Must be something wrong with the washer,” I tell him. He reaches over and turns the machine off and then picks up the mostly empty bottle of orange dish detergent from the sink. “Did you put this shit in there?”
