Someone Like You (6 page)

Chapter Five

It took his cell phone ringing for Pierce to realize he'd dozed off. Fumbling for it, he grunted a hello.

“Sleeping in the middle of the day, huh?” Troy's familiar voice taunted. “Man, you billionaires have the life, I tell ya.”

“Shut up,” Pierce growled good-naturedly. Troy was one of the few people in his life who could tease him about the money, because Pierce knew it meant nothing to him. He removed his sunglasses and scrubbed a hand over his face. “What time is it?”

“One thirty.”

Pierce yawned.

“Slacker,” Troy said. “Some of us work for a living. You suck.”

“Heh. Slept in, went for a run, came back and jumped in Tess's pool . . . that's been my day so far.” Pierce smirked as he rubbed his scruffy jaw. “Guess I shouldn't tell you I fell asleep in a deck chair by her pool, huh?”

“Up yours,” Troy chuckled.

“So what's up?” Pierce put his sunglasses back on and rose from the chair.

“Is it true what I heard? You're going to coach one of the teams in the Edgewater Soccer Club?” Troy sounded incredulous.

“Yup. This Sofia Rodriguez approached me about doing a clinic.” Pierce walked around the pool toward the glass doors. “We started talking. Next thing I know, I'm volunteering to help.” He slid the door open and walked into Tess's kitchen. The coolness of the ceramic tiled floor and central air hit him and felt fantastic. “I figure, why not? I'm not doing anything anyway. It'll keep me busy.”

“It's more than that,” Troy surmised. “You miss the game.”

Pierce went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “Yeah, of course I do. I mean, I'm not playing, and it's certainly not the Premier League. Very different. But yeah, it's football—dammit,
soccer.
Like I said, why not.”

“Mm-hmm. Question. Why aren't you helping, say, Stacey's team? Why the Jaguars?”

At the mention of Troy's daughter, Pierce blinked. “Um . . . her team doesn't need as much help. The Jaguars—have you seen them play? They're like the Bad News Bears of soccer.” He shifted the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could open the bottle.

“Yeah, they suck. I don't think they've won any games yet.”

“Nope. And they seem like good kids. So, I'll help them out.”

“How nice of you. Of course, it's got nothing to do with the fact that a young, cute blonde will be your partner, right?” Troy said, barely concealing the laugh in his tone.

Just thinking of Abby made Pierce's blood speed up in his veins. “Not a bad side benefit.”

Troy burst out laughing. “Dude! Why give up your time? If you wanna get laid, just ask her out!”

“Shut up. It's not like that,” Pierce said, but couldn't wipe the grin off his face. His old friend knew him too well. “But, while we're talking about her . . . do you know her? Abby McCord?”

“No,” Troy said. “Even though I grew up in Edgewater, I went to an all-boys Catholic school, then some fancy-ass private high school, remember?”

Pierce chuckled. “Yeah. Heard about that school. Bunch of snotty assholes.”

“The worst.” Troy let out a low laugh. “C'mon, man. Tell me the truth. Is this really about having something to do to fill up some of your time? Doing a good deed? Or is it about getting into Abby McCord's pants?”

“As attractive as Abby is, I've been on a break from women for a while,” Pierce replied, his voice sobering. “She's tempting, but that's not it. Actually following a good impulse here.” He gulped down some water.

“Ah. Okay.” Troy was one of the only ones who knew the whole story of the mess in England, and had backed Pierce unequivocally. “It's good that you're doing that. Coaching the kids, I mean.”

Bubbles came prancing in, yipping happily at Pierce and dancing around his bare feet. He crouched down to pet her as he said into the phone, “Wanna get some beers one night this week?”

“Sure. I'll get back to you on what night,” Troy said.

After the call ended, Pierce went upstairs to take a shower. When he got back to his room, he saw the light on his cell flashing for voice mail. Securing the towel around his waist, he listened to the message.

“Hey, Harrison. It's Toomey.” Pierce recognized the Cockney accent of his former teammate immediately. “Heard you went back to the States. Can't say I blame you, really, but . . . so . . . just wanted to wish you luck. Don't be a stranger. Cheers, mate.”

Pierce tossed the phone onto the mattress and stretched out on the bed. Interesting. Most of his former teammates had all but ostracized him once the scandal broke and things got sticky. He didn't think any of them would even notice he'd left London, much less care. Though, to be fair, Rick Toomey had been one of the only ones who'd believed his side of the story, not the Huntsmans'.

The thought of them made his stomach churn, even now. James Huntsman was a seriously malicious prick. He and his equally scheming wife could rot in hell. All he could do was hope they'd both get what they truly deserved someday, somehow.

Breathing deeply, Pierce stared at the ornate ceiling fan, watching the slow, quiet circles of the blades for a few minutes. He knew he had to let it all go, and he knew damn well he hadn't yet. How could he? His career was over. He hadn't gotten to decide when to retire; Huntsman's blackmail had decided it for him. The anger still burned over the injustice of it all....

With a surly grunt, he pushed up off the bed and went to the dresser. He slammed the drawers shut, irritation flowing through him now.

Toomey had believed him. Most of his teammates—some of whom he'd considered real friends—hadn't. That still stung too. That betrayal . . . he didn't know if he'd ever get past it completely. He understood why they didn't publicly take his side, but they hadn't even
believed
his side. That had cut deep.

He needed something positive to counteract that, to start digging himself out of the black hole the scandal had tossed him into. Sofia's idea may have seemed ridiculous at another time, but right now, coaching kids' soccer was a good distraction. Something to make him feel good again . . . both about the sport, and about himself.

* * *

It was a clear evening, and still pretty warm for the end of September. The park was close enough to the Sound that seagulls circled and squawked overhead as Pierce walked from the parking lot to the field. Slipping his cell phone and keys into the deep pockets of his long athletic shorts, he carried a water bottle in one hand and tucked the soccer ball under his other arm. The grass was soft beneath his sneakers, and the sounds of kids playing carried on the air. Seven o'clock and the sun was just starting to set, turning the clouds into pinkish streaks across the deepening blue of the sky.

It felt good to be there.

Pierce had been spending a lot of time alone, holed up in Tess's cottage or taking long runs along the Sound. Other than the one night he'd gone out with Dane, he'd basically gone underground. He wasn't hiding; he just wanted solitude as he licked his wounds. Tess understood, which made him feel like at least he wasn't losing it altogether. She showered him with affection, shared meals and time with him . . . he'd definitely started to feel a little better since he'd gotten to her house. She was the best sister in the world.

But he needed to get out more. He knew that. He'd been sulking a lot, but also thinking about the future. What would his next steps be? How would he make a life for himself after football? At least he had plenty of time to figure it out. He had plenty of his own money earned in his decade on the playing field. So, in the meantime, he'd hang out at Tess's safe house, catch up on TV, go to the gym, go to the beach, and coach some soccer.

Scanning the field as he passed the first goalie net, he saw parents dotting the sidelines and two clusters of kids. The team on the closer end of the field had a male coach, so that wasn't the Jaguars. He squinted behind his sunglasses, searching . . . there she was. Abby's back was to him, one hand gesturing as she spoke to the boys, the other clutching that damn clipboard. Her straight, blond hair was pulled back into a small ponytail, and her sweet little ass and lovely legs looked delectable in her blue shorts.

“There he is!” one of the little boys screamed. The whole group of them, about a dozen, ran toward him. They swarmed around him like excited puppies, reminding him of the way Bubbles yipped whenever someone walked through the door.

“Coach Abby says you're gonna be our new coach!” one yelped.

“Is that true?” another one asked.

“You're really gonna be our coach?” “Are you gonna stay the whole season?” “Can you do that trick with the ball again, the one you did the other day?”

All the boys were talking at once, so ecstatic they were practically bouncing. He chuckled and said, “Whoa, wait! One at a time, I can't make out anything you guys are saying.” He glanced over at Abby, who stood a few feet away, holding her clipboard to her chest with lips pursed as she assessed him. And yes, she was definitely assessing him. He shot her a grin. “Hey, Coach.”

“Hello.” Her mouth curved downward into a slight frown, her voice stern as she said, “You're late, Mr. Harrison.”

“Pierce, please.” He took off his sunglasses to better look at her. She didn't seem happy to see him. He guessed her assessment had him coming up short. The look in her dark blue eyes was . . . wary. He wondered how much she'd read up on him since she found out they'd be coaching together. “Am I late? I thought practice started at seven.”

“It does. But you were supposed to be here at six thirty so I could go over some things with you first.”

“Oh.” His brows furrowed as he thought. “Really? I didn't know.”

“I e-mailed you yesterday. Maybe Sofia gave me the wrong e-mail address?”

He winced. “No, it's probably right. It's my fault—I don't check e-mail every day. Sorry. Uh . . . you should always text me to reach me. I'll give you my number at the end of practice.”

She walked to him and held out the clipboard, pulling the pen free from the clip. “Here, you can write it down now.”

Standing before him, he realized she was actually a bit above average height for a woman—she had to be at least five-foot-six, maybe five-seven. But at six-foot-two, he still towered over her. He was the tallest of his brothers, and had been one of the tallest players in the league. His long legs had helped him in the sport, that was for sure. He dropped the ball and water bottle to the ground and held her gaze for a moment. They were dark blue with a hint of gray, like the ocean during a storm. She looked back at him from beneath long lashes, waiting.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he said plainly.

Blushing, she blinked and looked away to the kids, seemingly embarrassed that they might have heard his open compliment. With a grin, he looked down at the clipboard. She had the team roster there, with an attendance record marked off by hand. With a red pen, even. He swallowed a chuckle. There were other papers beneath, and curiosity pinched at him. He wanted to see what else Miss Organization had going on there. But he quickly scrawled his cell number at the top of the roster and handed the clipboard back to her. “Text me or call me anytime.”

She nodded and their fingers brushed as he returned the pen. The faint blush still on her cheeks deepened, and her tongue darted out to lick her lips, an innocent gesture that made his libido spark to life. His blood started to pulse as he realized he affected her. Her looks and words may have been sharp with him, but her body language told another story. He held her gaze for another long beat, then turned his eyes down to the kids. “Okay! So. All of you, just call me Pierce, okay? And just so you understand, Coach Abby and I are
both
your coaches. I'm not taking away her job. If anything, I'm going to be following her lead. What she says goes. All right?”

The boys all said yes or nodded.

“Let's get started, then.” He looked to Abby, who was still staring at him. His eyebrow lifted, and the blush on her pale skin deepened again. Ha! Busted. And damn, so adorable. He felt the side of his mouth quirk up, he couldn't help it. “What do you usually do first?” he asked.

“Um . . . a few light stretches,” she said, blinking. She cleared her throat, and in a flash she was back to her cool, crisp, efficient self. “Let's go, guys. Sit down, do the leg stretches.”

They all did what she said, lowering to the grass. As the dozen boys leaned over their short stick legs, talking to one another as they stretched their muscles, Pierce moved to Abby's side. “I'm sorry,” he said softly, so the kids couldn't hear. “The e-mail thing. I didn't mean to be late. Not a great first impression, huh.”

She shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “I just thought maybe you'd changed your mind about coming.”

“What? No. Abby, I want to do this. It's going to be fun.” He slanted a wry look. “Sorry, but you're stuck with me for the season.”

She looked up then. “I don't consider myself ‘stuck with' you. That's not . . . very nice. I'm not, like, pissy that you're here.”

“
Pissy?
” The grin burst across his face. “Oh, good.” He could barely contain the laugh threatening to escape.

“What's so funny?” she demanded.

“I don't know. The way you hissed out that word. You just . . .” Now he did chuckle. Her eyes narrowed a bit, and he swallowed the rest of his laughter and cleared his throat. “Why don't I just follow your lead tonight?” he suggested. “You run the practice how you usually do; I'll watch, and jump in here and there. Especially with teaching them some basic footwork and strategies. Gotta get their passing game down before anything else, that's top priority. All right with you?”