The Game of Love (2 page)

“Yes,” she whispered.

Jared—seeming more sure—nodded once. “Yup. I was too hasty. Let everyone have a chance for it.” He scribbled something on the clipboard. “All right, listen up. Change of plans. You have three days to draft a proposal about what the money would go toward. Include details of what you’d purchase or what you would spend it on, how it would help your team this season and how it would help in seasons to come. Choose wisely. Proposals are due on my desk on…” He paused to check his watch. “Friday. They’re due Friday, by four.” With a small smile, he added, “And this concludes the meeting tonight. Thanks everyone, and drive home safely.”

Chairs squeaked as people stood and filed out of their rows toward the exit. The lights dimmed as someone flipped the switch on the way out, leaving only a couple emergency lights on. A few coaches who had been sitting close by introduced themselves. Two were teachers at the high school and told her where to find their classrooms when school started. All tactfully avoided mentioning her semi-humiliating outburst.

She said her goodbyes and took one step backward, coming up hard against a wall. It breathed and moved and had hands that steadied her shoulders. When she straightened and found her balance, warm air tickled her right ear, her cheek.

“Easy now. You promised you wouldn’t swoon.”

Do not punch him in the nuts. Do not punch him in the nuts.
She turned slowly and his hands fell away, fingers brushing down her bare arms. At the moment she was glad for the darkness that hid the goose bumps that rose on her skin. Craning her neck back, she struggled to get a good look at his face up close. She was tall for a woman—five foot ten in bare feet—and she had to do some contortionist moves with her neck to catch his face. Realizing she had been quiet for too long, she took a huge step back and uttered the first thing that came to mind.

“Do you have to be so damn tall?”

In the dim light, his bright white smile was startling. Seriously, was he a toothpaste ad model in the off season?

“That’s just genetics. Can’t hold that one against me, now can ya?”

She wanted to. “Can I help you with something?”

He held out a hand. “Brett Wallace. Head football coach. Wanted to come over and say hello.”

Because manners ingrained deep into her person wouldn’t let her ignore the gesture, she put her hand in his. Slightly alarmed with how easily, yet gently, his hand almost swallowed hers, she tugged away at the first possible moment.

“Christina St. James. Girls’ tennis coach, owner of hot legs and not impressed with bad pickup lines or chest-beating displays of manliness.”

He opened his mouth, but Jared called out, “Brett,” from the stage.

Looking to Jared, he glanced back at her and said, “Could you hold on a sec?” He didn’t bother to wait for her answer before he jogged down the aisle toward the stage.

Ha. Right, like she’d wait because he all but commanded her to. No thanks. She turned on her heel and walked down the aisle, keeping hold of her bag so it didn’t bump into the chairs in the narrow rows. It took everything in her to keep a steady, even pace. Nobody respected a flouncer.

She’d nearly reached the cafeteria entrance to the parking lot when a hand circled her wrist. Acting on instinct, she whirled around, jerking her arm away. Her bag swung with her and nailed Brett’s hip.

“Oh, sorry!” He might have been a caveman, but she hadn’t meant to hurt him.

He rubbed his hip, scrunched his face up in an exaggerated wince. “What do you have in there, rocks?”

“What?” She would not get sucked in by the cute, injured male routine.

His hand dropped, and all joking was gone in an instant. “I wanted to apologize for my staff, for the parking lot and during the meeting. They were out of line and the whole thing was uncalled for.” He shrugged. “They’re young, a little thick-headed, but they’re good guys overall.”

The apology was unexpected. The justification was not. She’d heard that one before.

“Boys will be boys, overwhelming male testosterone, blah blah blah. Heard it before. Not impressed.” As Brett’s mouth dropped open in response to her sarcastic comment, she turned and pushed the doors open, then stepped out into the parking lot.

The muggy air choked her, and her skin felt clammy from the quick change in temperature. She spotted her car, glad the parking lot wasn’t deserted yet, and headed for it.

Unfortunately, a certain someone wasn’t taking the not-so-subtle “go away” hint, because he was still behind her as she walked to her Prius, trying to stay in the well-lit areas of the lot.

Maybe he’s not following you. Maybe his car’s nearby.

Uh uh. ’Cause the car three spaces down from mine is a station wagon. The odds of a man like Brett Wallace driving a station wagon are about as likely as the president flying cross country in a crop duster.

When she reached her car door and heard him stop behind her she whirled around. “What? Seriously, what do you want?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just wanted to give you a warning, that’s all.”

When he didn’t continue she crossed her arms over her chest, tapped her foot.

Finally, he continued. “Football is king around here. It was two decades ago when I went here, it still is now. It still will be when we’re dead in the ground. That’s the way the world works.”

Oh. My. God.
He followed her all the way out to the car to expand on his awesomeness at being head coach of the world’s greatest sport? The man needed a hobby outside of football. She’d suggest he take up reading, but he’d probably have to learn first.

“What’s your point, Your Highness?”

The tilt of his eyebrow said he caught the sarcasm, but was ignoring it. “I know you were getting your hopes up about that cash, but this is my warning. Don’t. I’ll turn in the same proposal for the scoreboard I turned in months ago, you’ll turn in whatever you want, and in the end, it will just go back to us again.” He shrugged, as if he hadn’t just tried to crush her newfound hope in gender equality. “I’m sure most of the other coaches weren’t expecting the money either. But you’re new, so I thought you should know.”

He honestly thought he was doing her a favor? The man was dumber than dust. “Right. Well, thank you for that lovely PSA. You can return to your cave now.” She grabbed for the door handle, but a palm covered hers before she could open it.

It was like an electric shock, dry heat crawling up her arm and momentarily frying her neurons. His chest was right behind her back, and the heat rolled off him in waves, only adding to the meltdown. She yanked her hand away. “Get your own car, this one’s mine.”

With his hand still on the handle, he opened the door partway for her, gave an
after you
gesture toward the inside of her car. When she continued to look at him, he shrugged again. “Manners. Old habits die hard.” Then his face broke out into that toothpaste ad smile again. “Momma done raised me right, ma’am.” He’d adopted a fake—but surprisingly accurate—good-ole-boy Southern accent.

She stepped away from him and slid in to stand between the door and the frame of the car, using the door as a barrier between his overtly masculine, too-hard body and hers. “Thank you.” Damn manners. She didn’t want to thank the hulk, she wanted to kick him in the gonads.

His smile stayed for a moment, then fell away. “Just remember what I said. It’s a good thing you’re doing, being so dedicated to the team, wanting the best for them. Great, really. It’s just…I don’t want you to be upset when the money doesn’t come through.”

That. Is. It.
Smiling sweetly, she said, “Your advice is very much appreciated. Now, let me give you some in return.” While his smile started to light back up, she channeled the rage and frustration she’d felt since the first wolf whistle in the parking lot and shoved the door. Hard.

He stumbled back a few feet, only to trip over the concrete bumper in the parking spot next to hers. A few moments of slow-motion arm waving and he fell straight on his butt. She heard muffled laughter, a few masculine chuckles and a “You all right, Wall?” as she slipped into her car and closed the door.

Starting the engine, she rolled down the window, leaned out to see him still sitting, rubbing one butt cheek. “Thanks for the advice,” she called as she reversed out of the space.

She waited for the curse, the scream, the derogatory names. Instead, all she heard was a rumble, not unlike thunder. She glanced back. He was laughing. Not a small chuckle, either. A deep, chest-rumbling, bend-over-at-the-waist-because-you-can’t-breathe laugh.

Well. Tearing her eyes away, she put the car into Drive and left the parking lot. She’d been certain that jocks no longer had the power to surprise her. But with one good-natured laugh, Brett Wallace had managed to knock her just a little off balance.

Brett walked toward the fridge to grab a beer. He wasn’t a big drinker, mostly only on poker night or while watching the games on Sunday afternoon. But tonight called for the frothy goodness.

He grabbed a bottle, popped the top and downed half the drink in two gulps by the time the cap landed in the trash can. Taking his half-finished beer to the living room, he sank into the well-worn cushions of the ratty blue recliner that matched nothing else in the living room. It had personality…and color.

The designer he’d hired to furnish and decorate the house he’d built two years ago had a thing for neutrals. White, cream, beige, light brown—they dominated his space. Slick fabrics, simple patterns, nothing eye-catching. Even the artwork she’d chosen to hang over the fireplace was a study in understatement.

When the designer had described her style as “minimalist” he thought she meant she wouldn’t fill his space with a lot of useless crap and random potted ferns. Apparently, she meant she’d suck the life out of the place.

He rubbed a palm over the rough corduroy fabric, soothed by the familiar texture. After another swig of beer, he set the bottle down on the end table, careful to use a coaster. His cleaning lady would have a fit if she saw a ring on the table.

Closing his eyes, he settled back into the chair and let his mind drift back to the play James had drawn out. He saw the
X
’s and
O
’s shift in his head, move and collide with each other. They morphed into players. His old NFL team, the Liberties. Instead of watching from above, he was in the action, back in his old position. He ran past faceless opponents like they were rookies, spinning around another running toward him. He was completely alone on the five-yard line.

He glanced back and saw his old QB, Manny, rocket the football his way. Taking a few stutter-steps, he let the ball fly past him, dove out to make the catch.

But instead of the rough turf of the end zone, he landed on the soft, downy comforter that stretched over his own California King bed. Instead of pigskin, his hands were full of soft femininity. Christina St. James lay in his arms, naked. And even more amazing, blissfully silent. Her long limbs stretched under him. Where had his uniform gone?

One bare leg wrapped around his thigh, pulling him closer. Her lips curved into a smile, like she had a secret and wasn’t sure if she was going to share. Fingers gripped the back of his skull and she tugged until her lips brushed the shell of his ear. She drew in a breath and whispered, “Brett, wake up you lazy piece of shit.”

His head snapped back. Christina’s face, but the voice belonged to his oldest brother.

Her lips moved again, but the ventriloquist act continued as Scott’s voice came in loud and clear. “Move it or lose it, lil’ bro.”

The recliner tipped forward, pitching him from both the warm cushions and his dream world as he landed in a heap on the floor.

One booted foot nudged his shoulder, and he glanced up into his amused brother’s face.

“Nice landing. I give it a seven.”

“Rough. Who are you, the Russian judge?” Brett got up, rubbing his knee as he stood. He wasn’t twenty-three anymore, that was for damn sure. “Beer?” He walked into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he used the door to block Scott’s view as he adjusted the front of his pants. Damn if he didn’t have a hard-on thanks to that out-of-nowhere dream.

“Water,” Scott called to him. Through the doorway to the kitchen, he had a straight shot of his brother as Scott sat down on the cream couch. Brett grabbed a bottle and flung it at him. His brother—damn him—caught it with one hand. Scott’s sport of choice had been baseball, and the old man still had it.

Returning to his recliner, he settled back. “I know I didn’t miss the doorbell. Practicing your breaking and entering skills?”

His brother took a slug of water, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Can’t B and E with a key, bro.”

“I want my spare key back.” He downed the rest of his beer. “So what are you doing here?”

“Mom wanted to make sure you were coming to brunch this Sunday, and I’m the messenger.” When Brett just stared at him, he shrugged a shoulder. “I needed to get out of the house for a bit. Summer break wears on a man.”

For all Scott’s bitching and moaning about the boys being home from school every day, Brett knew his brother cherished the moments he got to spend with his sons. He was a family man to the core.

All three of his older brothers had kids. Nine nephews in all, not a girl in sight. His next oldest brother, Jeremiah, was nine years older than him, then Chance was eleven years older, and Scott by twelve. All three had been family men years before he even started thinking of marriage.

“Why would Mom assume I’m not coming?”

“You skipped last week.” Scott gestured with the end of his water bottle. “And one week last month, too.”

Brett’s head fell back, and he closed his eyes as he groaned in resignation. “A man misses a couple of brunches with the family and suddenly he’s a flight risk.” He cracked one eye to stare at Scott. “Did she mention anyone else joining the fam?”

Scott rolled his eyes behind his wire rims. “No. No brunch crashers. And you know she’s never actually shown up with a date for you. She just threatens it.”

“Hell of a threat.” What a night. First some Amazon feminist got on his case for budget issues that weren’t his fault. Now his family was on his ass for skipping Sunday brunch, like he was a fourth grader skipping school. He was a grown man, damn it. And if he didn’t want to hear his mother ask him—for the seven hundredth time—why he wasn’t even contemplating dating after his disaster of a divorce, he shouldn’t have to.

“I know that look, lil’ bro. Don’t even think about pulling a mutiny. You’ll lose every time and you know it. It’s Mom’s ship. We just swab the decks.”

He had a point. A good one. It was tempting to rock the boat, but the hell he’d catch later wasn’t worth it. He might be thirty-four, independent and living in his own home, but his mother was still the matriarch of the family. When she said, “Jump,” the kids and grandkids grabbed pogo sticks.

“Still. Does she have to carry on like I’m single-handedly committing the eighth deadly sin—Bachelorhood? God, can a man not rest and recuperate after the divorce from hell without his mother turning all yenta on his ass?”

His brother arched an inquiring brow. “Yenta?”

“Yenta. You know, matchmaker?” At his brother’s blank gaze, he sighed. “From
Fiddler on the Roof?
” Still nothing. Singing to the tune, he went on. “You know, ‘Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match’?”

Scott stared at him in silence for ten seconds before holding up one finger. “One, that was scary. Don’t ever quote a musical if you ever want to get laid again. And two—” he lifted a second finger, “—your divorce was two years ago, and it was hardly the divorce from hell. Thank God you listened to me and made The Leech sign those prenup papers, despite your ever-present bitching.” He made a smug face. “I know a bad egg when I see one, and she was rotten to the yolk.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He’d heard it all before. None of his family had liked Lilith, or “The Leech” as they all referred to her. While he was married, the name stayed quiet. But the minute the ink dried on the divorce papers, they used it openly. “The problem is, I didn’t see it. At least not at first. I don’t understand how I was so blind…”

The smug smile melted away. Scott had been like a father to him ever since their dad had passed away while Brett was a teenager. “I know. But you’re older now, and hopefully wiser. They’re not all out to drain your liquid assets. Don’t write off dating, or the female species, completely. Just…keep your eyes open and pay attention.”

Easy for him to say. He’d been married to the love of his life—and one of the greatest women Brett had ever known, after his mother—for almost two decades. All three of his brothers had been lucky in love. Only he had the big D on his record.

No pressure.

He lifted the bottle of beer only to realize he’d killed it off earlier. With a small sigh, he set it back down on the coaster. “I’m just cautious. And haven’t really felt the urge to date since Lilith. Can I be blamed for that?”

“Nah. I know you got burned once. And it’s hard to tell when a woman’s after you for your money or your pro card or what. But still, just don’t write it off completely.” He took another sip of water. “Speaking of women…who was the star?”

“The what?”

His brother gave him a knowing smile. “The star of the X-rated wet dream I interrupted. Who was she?”

He scowled at his hands. “No clue what you’re talking about.”

Scott threw his head back and laughed. “You expect me to believe you got that tent in your shorts from dreaming about football?”

“You’d be surprised.” Shit. He could feel a flush rising in the back of his neck.

“Uh huh. Seems to me, that’d be the first time you even thought twice about a woman since that bloodsucker left you. Just something to think about.” With that, he stood up and gave Brett an almost-fatherly pat on the shoulder on his way to the front door.

As he started to walk out, he turned back. “Besides, with your ugly mug, you can’t afford to chase off the willing ones.” His deep chuckle sounded through the thick wooden door as he shut it just in time to avoid being tagged by a flying beige pillow.