by Serena Bell
“Just take it from me,” he says. “You’ve got nothing to worry about in the looks department.”
“Well, thanks,” I say. “That’s a high compliment coming from a guy like you.”
Oops.
“A guy like me?” he asks. Not pissed, not yet. More ginger.
Better not to try to wriggle out now. Better to go with the truth. “I mean, you’re a famous athlete. And you date beautiful women.”
He’s staring at me.
“Let me get something straight,” he says. “By that sentence, ‘you date beautiful women,’ are you implying that you don’t think you’re in their league?”
“I mean, I don’t think I’m ugly. But compared to, like, Cydni Shalgren or Amy Horace or Talia Freeney—”
I stop, realizing that I’m listing the women he’s dated, which implies that I know the women he’s dated, which implies that I care which women he’s dated, which is not where I want this to be going.
But he doesn’t seem to have registered that particular fact. He’s just shaking his head, an expression on his face like I’m trying to convince him to eat something rotten.
“What do you mean, compared to women like them?”
“They’re—you know, the kind of women men want. Tall, slim, perfect hair, makeup, expensive clothes.”
“And you’re…?”
“We shouldn’t be having this conversation,” I say suddenly. Because I really, really don’t want to finish his sentence.
“No, I really think we should be having this conversation,” he says. “You’re what?”
“If you take the fact that a lot of guys are freaked out by the football thing—and then some assume I’m gay because they’ve got stupid stereotypes about female athletes—I’m not fighting off marriage proposals. That’s all I’m saying.” I shrug, like it doesn’t matter.
And the truth is, ninety percent of the time, it doesn’t matter. PFL coaches don’t have time for romance. Even the married ones barely have time for their families except during the (ever-shorter) off-season. I’ve always told myself I’m fine with putting football first.
But this is Ty Williams we’re talking about. He has no intention of letting me off the hook that easily.
“You’re saying you don’t think you’re beautiful.” He’s pissed. “Like, who was it? Cydni Shalgren or Amy Horace or Talia Freeney. That’s what you’re saying. Isn’t it?”
He glares at me, and I have to look away. I don’t answer.
“Explain something to me. Explain to me how a woman who’s so competent and powerful and stubborn and bossy can have such crappy self-esteem. Jesus Christ, Iona.”
I’ve been hit with two hundred fifty pounds of muscle before, and it didn’t knock the wind out of me like that.
Some of it is him calling me competent and powerful—his words all full of pride and even a little awe.
Some of it is him calling me stubborn and bossy—because I am—and telling me I have crappy self-esteem—because I do, about the way I look. And it feels so weirdly intimate that a man who’s known me for less than three weeks can sum me up better than people who’ve known me my whole life.
It’s like when you go to a fair and one of those instant caricature guys draws your picture and suddenly there you are, all your strengths and flaws on display for everyone to see.
But the thing that really strips away my defenses, the single word that rings out after he’s finished his speech and while we’re just sitting there staring at each other?
My name, on his lips.
Chapter 19
Ty
“Explain it to me,” I say again.
She won’t look at me.
I can’t blame her. I just called her bossy and stubborn. Shit.
But she doesn’t say anything about any of that, even though she’d be well within her rights to call me out on it.
“I didn’t have my first serious boyfriend till I was in college,” she says.
I have to adjust my brain to realize she’s answering my question. She’s explaining it to me. How she is the way she is. She isn’t angry or defensive. She isn’t playing the coach card or telling me to back the hell off.
I don’t know why she isn’t, but I’m grateful. I’m so fucking grateful to be sitting here with her in the conference room like we’re any two people on earth, talking.
Is it possible I never really talk to anyone? That I kid around and sling words and take shit, that I get coached and lectured, that I flirt and come on—but that I don’t ever actually talk to anyone?
I think it is.
And probably, before this moment, I never thought I wanted to.
“We were together almost my whole junior and senior years. He was my dream guy. We were the same height and the same weight, but he never gave the slightest sign that it bothered him. He was good looking and treated me like a princess and I fell head over heels for him. Lost my virginity to him, the whole drill.”
“And he cheated on you,” I hazard.
She laughs. “Um, nope. He was gay. He came out right before we were supposed to move in together. And he thanked me for helping him sort things out. He said being with me helped him realize he really wanted to be with men.”
I blow out the breath I’ve apparently been holding. “Fuck that. That has nothing to do with you. That’s his crap.”
She shrugs. “Okay, fine, but it didn’t help. You know? Here I am, twentyish, hearing my dad’s talk in my head, still kind of trying to believe my good fortune, that there’s this guy who loves me! So obviously my dad was wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong. Only he wasn’t, apparently.
“Then I met—let’s call him Wes.”
I already hate the guy. I hate him.
“He ran a camp I worked at one summer in college, coaching girls’ basketball and football. He was an inch taller than me and five pounds heavier but it didn’t seem to matter. He always made me feel pretty, even when I wore heels.”
Could I make you feel that way?
God, I want to make her feel that way. My heart speeds up, thinking about it.
“Even though I was a little gun-shy from my last relationship, I let myself fall for him. And once I did, I really fell. I thought he was everything I wanted in a guy—strong, confident, kind, someone who totally accepted me for who I was. We moved in together and went ring shopping and I was basically just waiting for the proposal. And then one night when he was supposed to be working late, I went out with a girlfriend and we ran into him. Having a romantic dinner for two with a teeny-tiny beautiful skinny girl I could break in half with one hand. And when I asked him why—”
Her voice quavers and I want to put my hands around the guy’s neck and squeeze. I hope for both of our sakes that our paths never cross, because I will probably kill him on sight.
“He said, ‘She makes me feel strong. Like I can take care of her.’ ”
It takes everything I’ve got not to fly out of my chair and pound something in the room to pieces. “You listen to me,” I say. “The only information that story gives you is that the guy was obviously a complete and total asshole and not worth one minute of your time.”
“Yeah. I know.” She shrugs. The quaver, and any other signs of vulnerability, are gone.
“So, what, and that’s it? You just give up on men completely?”
“Kind of,” she says. “I mean, it’s not like I made an official declaration or anything. I just quit—trying, you know?”
I think I must be staring at her in outright disbelief because she says, “The fact is, it’s not like dating works that well with being a coach.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. Okay, fine, Iona Thomas. You want the truth?
“You didn’t quit trying because you’re a coach. You quit trying because you got some bullshit thing in your head about how you’re not attractive to men. And that’s the biggest heap of all. You know how I fucking know?”
She shakes her head. He
r eyes are wide. I think I’m scaring her with my intensity. Good. At least I’m getting through to her.
“Because I know you’re attractive to men. Because you’re attractive to me.”
Her shocked eyes meet mine.
“You’re strong and fierce and funny and you have a terrific smile—” And then I let my gaze drop, not to escape hers, but to show her. I show her by letting my eyes take the trip over her body that they took the first time I saw her, the trip they’ve been wanting to take every time I’ve been in the same space with her.
That sweet, lickable mouth, the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips, those fucking amazing thighs—
“And a great body,” I say, although I can see from the surprise pushing her eyebrows up that I don’t need to say it. She knows what she saw on my face. And she should. Because how much I want her is a fire under my skin right now, and if she can’t see it in my eyes, she’s blind.
I stare at her, dead-on, holding her gaze with mine even though I know she wants to look away so she can keep on not believing the truth. And even though I want to the depths of my soul to bring my scrutiny back to her mouth and that tempting, oh-so-edible lower lip.
“You’re beautiful, Iona. And if there are guys who can’t handle how tough you are, that’s their problem, not yours. But I’m not that guy. My masculinity is not in question and neither is my ability to hold my own.”
And then, just in case she’s missed the point I’m making, I demonstrate. She’s got beautiful eyes, all those flecks and spears of lighter and darker colors. Some women, as you lean in for a kiss, you see their flaws, but with Iona, all I see is that the closer I get, the more beautiful she is. Pure, clear skin, crazy long eyelashes, the softest mouth I’ve ever zeroed in on. Time slows down like it does sometimes when I’m getting a read, so I get to see her eyes change—maybe panic or maybe just her body saying yes to what’s about to happen. Mine sure the fuck is.
I approach her so slow I feel her breath brush across my lips the instant before mine touch hers. So slow I smell her skin and taste her before the rush of pure sensation hits my bloodstream, a ton of adrenaline in one fast shot. Her mouth is so fucking soft, just give and give and give, as good as I knew it would be. I feel her catch fire and she’s definitely kissing me back, a little gasp escaping her, a little throaty sound that catches in my own throat, her spoon hitting the table, dropped, her hands coming up and finding my arms and digging in, hard.
Her lips part and I slide in, my tongue saying a tentative and then not at all tentative hello, Iona. And the way her tongue greets me back, I have to put myself on the world’s shortest leash because all I want to do is push her back onto the table and crawl up over her. My body still remembers the length of hers and the craving is fucking off the hook.
The sounds are gonna kill me, I swear. That slick catch of wet mouth on wet mouth, the breaths cut off by another kiss, the moans or whimpers or whatever they are that never make it into the air because I’m swallowing them up. And my hands don’t belong to me, they’re holding her head still so I can get more of her, my fingers plunged briefly in the soft wool of her curls, then impatiently sliding under her clothes—
Iona Thomas, who is tougher than some of the boys I grew up with, is wearing something tiny and lacy under her T-shirt, and all I can think about is tearing it to shreds with my teeth. Because that’s her all over, right? All business, all pro, all man in a man’s world, until you get underneath and see how she can’t be anything except woman.
And I’m the only one who knows it.
It’s the fucking sexiest thing ever.
She’s pulling away now. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You were doing it, too.” The words jump out before I can think about them because my heart is pounding and my blood is throbbing everywhere and her anger gets under my skin the same way her arousal did. But even as I’m saying them out loud, I’m thinking, She needs me to take responsibility for this. She needs this to be not her fault.
So I take a deep breath and man up and say, “No. No. You’re totally right. I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking, Coach.”
I wasn’t thinking, actually. I was just reacting. Reacting to how badly I wanted to show her how beautiful I think she is. And if words weren’t going to convince her, I would do it any way I had to.
But I don’t say that out loud, of course.
“I won’t do it again,” I say instead.
Because of course she’s right. This can’t be happening. It’s one hundred percent not okay. There’s no version of the universe where this is okay.
Which is exactly what she says, trying hard to be Coach Thomas. Trying to be angry and firm. To keep me from seeing that she is still a little breathless and soft-mouthed and big-eyed.
I melted Coach Thomas. I feel stupidly proud.
“This is wrong,” she says. “I’m your coach. That’s a position of power. But even if that weren’t true, you know I can’t do this. Because I’m on a big stage. Everyone is watching and waiting for me to fuck up, and this is the ultimate fuck-up. There’s no bigger fuck-up. And when I fuck up, I fuck up for all female coaches and all black coaches, not just for myself. And maybe lose you your job in the process. And for what? Scratching an itch? I mean, where do you think this could possibly go?”
All the good feelings dry up and blow away. All that fierce protectiveness I felt when she was talking about her shitty father and her craptastic self-esteem, all the sweetness and heat from the kiss, all my pride in having made her soft.
Where do you think this could possibly go?
That was one hell of a kiss. I didn’t want to stop, and I wanted to do it again as soon as she put distance between us, and my body still feels pulled toward hers. And yeah, I want her naked on this conference table, legs spread so I can see and taste and fuck her, and I want to rub myself all over her while I kiss her till neither of us can see straight, but where do I think this could possibly go?
Nowhere, right? That’s where sex goes. That’s where all relationships—friends, family, teammates, coaches, girlfriends, whatever—go in the end. Nowhere.
“Your job,” she says. “Maybe your career. My job, and almost certainly my career.”
Weighed against the feel of her mouth on mine, the needy sounds, her hands disobediently reaching.
She’s asking, Is it worth it?
“I should go,” she says, and I don’t try to stop her.
Chapter 20
Iona
The next morning I drive to McElroy early and head straight to Coach’s office.
I’ve been lying awake most of the night, my brain flipping back and forth between sensation and logic. Rehashing: Ty’s mouth, his tongue stroking mine, the power that poured off his skin with the heat of his body, the desire spiraling through me. Rehearsing: The words I’m going to say to Coach this morning. I got myself into an unfortunate situation; I didn’t use the best judgment; you should know that this happened, but it won’t happen again—
I know I have to take responsibility for being alone with Ty, because that was a bad choice. But I’m hoping Coach will see the rest, too, that I did the best I could under the circumstances—pulling away as soon as my brain retook control, explaining exactly why it could never happen, walking away.
Coach is in his office, talking to one of the receivers. Door is open a crack, low voices murmur out. It sounds serious but not dire. I make myself as comfortable as I can leaning against the wall nearby with sweaty palms and a guilty conscience, prepared to wait as long as I need to for an audience.
I’m not gonna lie. I’m scared. He could fire me on the spot.
That would suck. To have come this far, gotten this close to the dream, and then—well, depending on how he handled things, whether word got out, it could be the end of my career. But more likely, it would just mean starting over again, making the case to another team that I’m the right human fucking being for the jo
b.
So not the end of the world.
Unless—
He could let Ty go.
And I realize, in an instant, that that’s what I fear most. That the mistake I made last night, of being alone with him, of confiding in him—even though I knew I was attracted to him—could take him away from the team he loves.
Plus, with things being the way they are in the PFL right now, with all the focus on sexual assault and players toeing the line in their personal lives—
I don’t want to even think about it.
But my brain won’t let me stop. I keep thinking about Ty. His loyalty. His intensity.
The look on his face when I told him about my exes. Genuine disbelief. Real anger.
I told him everything I feared and doubted, laid bare all my vulnerabilities about the way men see me and the way I see myself, and, knowing everything, all of it, with his eyes wide open, he told me I was beautiful and kissed me.
It’s imprinted so deeply in my mind that I can feel it all over again when I remember it. Not just the sensations but the deep relief, the way my heart unfolded like something coming into bloom at the generosity of the moment.
I just can’t. I can’t repay that moment by ratting him out.
Because what he did last night, as fucked up and complicated as it makes things, was one of the most wonderful things anyone has ever done for me.
And to reward him for his actions last night by getting him in trouble—suspended, maybe even released? If there’s a God in the world, he can’t possibly think that’s justice.
I cast one last look toward Coach’s office, take a deep breath, and walk away.
Chapter 21
Ty
The scheme’s not clicking.
We’ve lined up several times in practice, and every time the running back is ripping off huge chunks of yardage, like the line is Swiss cheese and O and I are mosquito-sized nuisances.
It’s getting discouraging.
It’s been a weird week.
I didn’t sleep too well Monday night, either. Blame Coach Cross’s couch, which is probably standard size for the general population but was never meant to hold a linebacker, even before its springs gave up the ghost.
