Winner Takes All (13 page)

“Glad you noticed.” He lifted his cup and took a shallow sip. “So how did you and your sister end up so different?”

“I don't really like to talk about Naomi,” she immediately said. When he only stared at her, she heaved a sigh of defeat. “To tell you the truth, I don't know. We were raised by the same parents in the same home. But we're totally different people. Don't ask me how that happened because I don't know. Naomi's always lived for herself. She does what she wants and goes where she pleases.”

“In the meantime, you go where you're needed,” he concluded for her.

Annabelle waited a moment before answering. “I guess you could say that.” She stared off into the distance and shook her head. “Don't get me wrong, I love my sister. I mean, we're only two years apart in age and we were like best friends growing up. But…” She shook her head again, as though she couldn't quite figure it out for herself. “We just grew into two completely different people. I'm not sure what happened, and that bothers me.”

Blake lifted the cup but paused before taking a sip. “What does?”

“The fact that I don't have anything in common with my own sister.” She blew out a long breath. “She cares about seeing the world and diversity and expanding her knowledge of other cultures. There isn't anything wrong with that. It's just…”

He waited for her to finish and when she didn't, he did it for her. “You resent her.”

The moment the words left his mouth, her shoulders sagged. “It's such a horrible thing to say, but it's true.” Her hazel eyes searched his. “What kind of a person resents her own sister?”

“The human kind,” he reassured her.

“Don't make me out to be a hero, because I'm not,” she warned him.

Blake took a slow sip of his coffee, allowing the drink to burn down his throat. “What you're doing sounds pretty heroic to me.”

“What, cooking my mother dinners and scrubbing her toilets?”

“Offering your time without being asked and not expecting anything in return.”

“How do you know I'm not expecting anything back?” she asked before sipping her coffee.

“Because you're not that type of person.” He paused a moment. “Are you?”

She watched him over the rim of her Minnie Mouse mug. “You seem to have me all figured out, don't you?”

Blake shook his head. “There you go answering questions with questions again. Do you ever give a straight answer?”

“When I want,” she answered with a nonchalant shrug.

Blake set the mug on the counter, more focused on the woman so intent on keeping herself a mystery. Shouldn't that be the way he wanted it? The more he got to know her, the more he liked her. And that needed to stop.

The thing was, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

He took a step toward her. Slow, deliberate steps that took him across the small kitchen. “You don't want to, is that it?” he queried. “Because you don't want me figuring you out.”

Her lips parted slightly. “You seem to be doing a pretty good job so far.”

“Am I?” he asked with a quirk of his mouth. He stopped in front of her, close enough to see the flecks of brown in her hazel eyes, and realized they weren't as green as he originally thought. Funny how one day they seemed as green as fresh-cut summer grass and the next they were more gold.

“Blake,” she whispered.

He was pretty sure he grunted, something that made him sound like a caveman instead of an intelligent person capable of speech. Because he was too busy roaming his gaze over her delicate features and realizing what a classic beauty she really was. Milky skin, petite nose, and long dark lashes. How hadn't he realized just how beautiful she really was?

From the moment he'd met her, he'd known she was intriguing. Intelligent, sassy, and independent. Until that moment, he hadn't allowed himself to see just how captivating she really was.

How could you have missed it, asshole?

Then his brain took a leave of absence when he lifted his hand and tested the softness of her lips against his thumb. The second contact was made, his fantasy came to life and he realized just how correct he'd been. He skimmed his thumb back and forth across her lower lip, barely resisting the urge to lower his head. Which was hard when she parted her lips as though in invitation to do whatever he wanted.

And he wanted.

Oh, how he wanted.

But if he indulged himself now, he wouldn't stop. Once their lips made contact, the strange attraction and pull between them would explode and the animal inside, the one desperate to own her, would come out and take over.

Despite his thoughts, he liked to think he was more of a gentleman than that.

Only, the woman was crafty and sneaky. Because one minute he was simply touching her—just an innocent caress—and the next she'd lifted her head just enough to bring her lips in contact with his.

The movement was quick and minimal but unexpected enough to throw him off guard. Blake didn't like being thrown off guard. Made him feel out of control and he liked having the upper hand in everything he did.

But Annabelle had swooped in and stolen the advantage without warning. The second their lips met, his good intentions evaporated. His restraint fled and he pressed even closer to her, sliding his hand from her mouth to tunnel through the silky coolness of her hair.

And, yeah, he liked it when she wore it down. Gave him ample opportunity to give the strands a gentle yet firm tug, applying just enough pressure to tilt her head back. His tongue slipped past her lips in time to swallow her surprised gasp.

Who has the upper hand now?

He could get used to having the upper hand over Annabelle Turner. She struck him as the type of person who didn't give it up so easily. Kudos to him for snatching it from her with such little effort.

Her hands, those nimble little works of magic, crept over the dips and curves of his chest. He applied more pressure to her scalp with his hand, just as her finger traced the sculpted edge of his pecs. Then her tongue was tangling with his with as much, if not more, enthusiasm than his own.

Something vibrated. Blake could have sworn it was him, considering how hot and turned on he was. All she needed to do was move those curious fingers to the hem of his shirt and lift. The rest of their clothes would follow soon after.

The vibrating started again and Blake realized it was a cell phone. It couldn't have been his because he'd left his in the truck. Just as the kiss was heating up, Annabelle tore her mouth away, taking a step back so fast that she stumbled against the counter. She probably would have fallen down if the thing hadn't been there to hold her up.

She licked her lips and gripped the edge of the counter. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Blake stared at her and didn't speak, mostly because his heart was thumping too wildly. But also because her apology threw him for a loop.

“You're sorry,” he repeated.

“Yeah, I…” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “I shouldn't have done that.”

“Why not, Annabelle?” he wanted to know, because, damn, the last thing he wanted to hear from her was sorry. What did she have to be sorry about? “Because you allowed yourself to lose control? Or because you don't know how to handle whatever this thing is between us?”

She shook her head and opened her mouth. Then closed it again. Then opened it. “There's no ‘thing.' It was just a kiss.”

Blake laughed even though the situation was far from funny. “Kisses like that don't just happen, sweetheart. Not unless both people want it badly enough.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. “Don't tell me you didn't want it. Or that it wouldn't have gone further if your phone hadn't interrupted us.”

“No,” she said, as though trying to convince herself. “I wouldn't have let it go any farther.”

He arched a brow at her. “Really? You're telling me that if I had slipped my hand under your shirt, you would have stopped me?”

She pushed from the counter and edged away from him. “Stop it,” she warned him.

“Stop what?” He turned and followed her movements around the kitchen. “Stop being honest? Come on, Annabelle. We both know you would have let me do whatever I wanted.”

She spun around and faced him. “Okay, maybe I would have. But that's why it had to stop. Also, the team can't be aware of whatever this is. We're supposed to be setting an example for those kids, and how can we do that if we're making out?”

Blake narrowed his eyes, then opened his mouth.

“Come on, Blake,” she went on. “What do you think those kids would say if they found out? Don't you think it would change the way they look at both of us?”

“I think they know my personal life is my own business,” he told her.

She jabbed a hand in his chest. “Yes, but you value what they think of you. You loathe the thought of letting down another kid. Don't you?”

Blake immediately shook his head and turned from her. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, I think I do,” she urged. “Because that,” she emphasized with a gesture between the two of them, “can't happen again.”

“Because I make you feel things you're not comfortable with. And you can't stand that,” he added.

She stared at him with color staining her high cheekbones. “Okay, so what if I like to keep my emotions in check? What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing's wrong with it as long as you don't allow it to run your entire life.”

Her brows pulled low over her eyes, which had gone even greener than he'd seen them. “Isn't that the point of having control? So I can run my life?”

Blake stepped toward her, but she backed up until she nudged the fridge. “But you're not running your life. It's running you.”

“You don't know anything about me,” she whispered.

He didn't stop his pursuit of her. Just kept stalking her until he could see the fluttering pulse near her collarbone. “I know you have yourself so closed off that no one can see anything but what you want them to see. I know you like to have everything just the way you want it. Anyone can see you've been doing it for so long that you probably don't even know the woman you are underneath anymore.”

Her nostrils flared and the color brightening her cheeks deepened. “You think you know everything,” she told him.

He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. The usually cool skin was warm. Heated from her passion and temper. “I know more than you think I do,” he whispered.

Then he dropped his hand and left her standing there.

What he didn't say, or allow her to see, was that he was just as shaken as she was.

The depth of passion behind their kiss had been enough to scorch the clothes right off their bodies. Oddly enough, that wasn't what rattled him.

The mystery he usually saw behind her green eyes had melted away. For one brief moment, he saw the woman underneath her cool exterior. She'd been hurt deeply and had probably spent a lot of time and energy burying it. The scars on her soul had reached out to him with trembling fingers and latched on.

And he feared they wouldn't ever let go.

T
he burning was back.

Actually, if Blake were to be honest, the burning never went away.

But it was especially bad this morning because he'd skipped his Oxy the night before. As he'd climbed into bed, he'd eyed the bottle sitting on the nightstand. Just waiting for him to pick it up and toss back a few. Instead, he'd gone to bed and hadn't slept for shit because his knee had been killing him.

Now, as the first gray light of daybreak slatted through the wooden blinds, Blake eyed the bottle again. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and scratched his bare chest.

Pills can't fix everything.

Hadn't Annabelle said that to him the first day they met? Anyone who said that had never suffered from a dependency before. Because, when the medication coursed through his system, it sure as hell felt like they could fix anything. The pain. The headaches. The burning sensation that coursed through his veins and itchy skin.

Simply tossing back one of those little pills could make all that go away.

At the same time, Blake had enough experience with drugs surging through his system to know he wasn't doing himself any favors.

So shouldn't he wean himself off them or something?

Was it healthy to quit cold turkey?

He stood from the bed, knowing he had about thirty minutes to get to the field. A shower would help with his jitters. But only temporarily. It was always temporary.

His back teeth ground together as he grabbed the little orange bottle.

You take them because you're weak.

One of the things he'd sworn to himself after his retirement was no more weakness. He'd been weak all through his surgeries, through his recovery and his dependency on his trainers and doctors.

And another thing, Blake thought as he replaced the bottle on the nightstand, how could he preach to people about being a role model for his players when his own life was still upside down? What kind of role model doped himself up on painkillers?

Didn't his players deserve the best from him?

Blake shook his head as he strolled into the bathroom and stripped his boxers.

Yeah, those kids deserved, and needed, someone who had all their wits about him. So he left the pills on the nightstand and readied for practice, telling himself the shaking and burning would go away.

Not sure if he believed his own lies.

“We're going to get our asses handed to us,” Blake muttered an hour and a half later as the offensive line tried, and failed, for the third time, to execute the play Cameron had called.

The assistant coach blew his whistle “For God's sake, Richardson!”

Brandon, who'd swung by on the way to a jobsite, clapped Blake on the shoulder. “Ever the optimist. That's what I love most about you,” he said, and just barely dodged an elbow to the ribs. The guy popped the piece of gum in his mouth and clapped when his son Matt intercepted the ball and ran it for twenty yards.

Blake ignored his cousin and blew his game whistle. The kids stopped play and turned their attention toward their coach. “Water break, then huddle,” he called to them.

While they did as they were told, Brandon said, “I don't hang up on people.”

Blake jammed his hands on his hips and pushed the brim of his baseball cap up his forehead. “Your point?”

“I'm trying to remove the bug that crawled up your ass and died,” Brandon told him.

“Don't bother,” Blake responded, then left his cousin standing there. He strode down the sidelines, past the practicing cheerleading squad, to address the group of kids who essentially held his future in their hands. They were good kids who loved the game and always gave 100 percent. Blake wished that alone was enough to win games, but it wasn't. He needed rushing power, accurate kicking, and effective defense. As it stood, the defensive line couldn't keep a kitten from slipping past and getting to the QB.

Cameron and the other coaches had pulled a few kids aside to review the play and talk about fine-tuning. Their first game was little more than a week away, which meant the pressure was mounting. When he'd arrived at the field earlier, there had been a couple of news vans and reporters from papers wanting to interview the new coach. He'd indulged, as was expected of him, and gave the customary speech about optimism and all that. Whether or not they believed his practiced speech was anybody's guess.

Blake hated the press, as much as it could draw attention to the team and their efforts. He wasn't here to please reporters and help the six o'clock news fill air time. His focus was the team and getting them game ready.

He blew his whistle again and the kids replaced their lids and gathered around for tackling drills. They formed a circle, big enough for Blake to stand in the middle and two players to tackle each other.

The kids started the drill, beginning with chants. Most of it was just noise and nonsense, at least to anyone else watching. But to the kids, the rhythmic grunting and hollering, synchronized with bouncing on the balls of their feet, was just as important as the drill itself. Blake couldn't explain it, but the thumping of the kids matched the thumping of their hearts and got their blood pounding.

He tooted his whistle again. “Thirty-six and seventeen,” he called. The two players came forward, bouncing from foot to foot, readying themselves for the crunching of pads and brute force that would send one of them to the ground. When Blake blew his whistle again, the kids went at each other, slamming themselves against each other, each one using all his strength to knock the other down.

Number seventeen, Connor Phillips, went sprawling on his backside and the other players hooted and hollered. Blake stayed in his spot and stared at the boy. “On your feet, son,” he told the kid. When he didn't get up right away, Blake hunched down and got in the Connor's face. “Our first game is one week away and these guys are going to come after you with all they've got. Are you really going to lie there like a pussy?” The kid immediately stood and took his place back in the circle.

They went through the drill, each kid getting their turn to tackle another. Blake blew his whistle and motioned for the team to huddle. The kids came closer, removed their lids, and pressed them together in a gathering above their heads.

After one more good grunt, the kids dispersed and retook their places on the field, waiting for another play call. Cameron came forward, blew his own whistle, and called the play.

The offensive line readied, and when the center hiked the ball to QB Cody Richardson, the play unfolded. What should have been a beauty of a throw turned into a debacle that was not only intercepted but also left Cody completely unprotected. Blake's optimism turned to annoyance.

“For God's sake, Richardson,” Cameron bellowed, repeating his earlier frustration with the quarterback, who seemed to be off his game today.

Blake blew his whistle and walked farther onto the field. “Cody,” he called to the kid. Cody whipped his lid off his head and jogged toward Blake. “You've gotta get that pass off faster than that, son.”

Cody nodded vigorously, beads of sweat trickling down his face. “Sorry, Coach.”

Blake shook his head. “I don't want to hear sorry. I want you to hit them on the break, you hear me?” When Cody nodded, Blake went on. “When they run deep, you throw deep. Understand?”

“Yes, Coach!” Cody replaced his lid and trotted back to his position.

Cameron blew his whistle “Again!”

The players resumed their positions, with the offense lining up and the center snapping ball to Cody. The QB cradled the ball and sent the thing flying. The only reason the receiver managed to catch the ball was because of a last-minute ten-yard sprint. But the ball landed in his hands and he was tackled shortly afterward. Technically the play was completed, but not very well.

Blake knew the kids knew this, but they celebrated anyway, hooting and clapping each other on the back.

Cameron stepped forward and blew his whistle. “I don't see what you're celebrating about!” he told the players, which got their attention. “Because y'all looked like a bunch of Girls Scouts out there! You're not watching your wide receiver, and your QB is down on the ground.” Cameron looked at each player. “Learn your offense,” he told them. “I want you to know your offense so well that your children will know your offense.”

Blake stood next to Cameron and addressed the kids. “We're playing our first game against the number two team in the district. They're a team that knows how to win, and they'll be out for blood, you feel me?” When the kids shouted their “yes, Coach,” Blake went on. “No one wants to spend their hard-earned money to watch a team who can't complete a play. Now, your moms and dads and girlfriends are going to be watching.” He glanced at each of his players. “Do any of you remember the last time this team brought home a win?” When the kids shook their heads, Blake answered them. “That's because it was before any of you were born. Do you see that sign up there?” He pointed toward the Champion's Valley sign on Haystack Mountain. “Did you know the mayor wanted it removed? Well, we're not going to let him because we're going to show them a championship team. Now get your heads out of your asses and quit acting like a bunch of babies!”

“Yes, Coach!” The players moved into huddle once again and repeated the ritual of removing their lids and chanting. Blake left the kids to it and approached the other coaches. Out of the corner of his eye, Blake saw Brandon, who'd moved to the other side of the chain-link fence separating the stands from the field, lift a hand in farewell. Blake waved good-bye to his cousin.

An odd sense of satisfaction at the team's improvement, mixed with frustration at Cody's performance, made him irritable. If the QB was off, the whole team was off, and at this point, they were out of time. With the first game less than a week away, they needed to be more in sync than this.

The team filed into the locker room, each of the players going to their spots and taking a seat on the benches. Cameron took a moment to say a few words to the team, reviewing the plays they made with rudimentary drawings on a chalkboard. Blake stood to the side, eyeing the players and noticing the deadpan look on Cody's face, thinking something was off with the kid.

Blake shifted his weight off his bad knee, admitting he should have taken his Oxy after all. As good and noble as his own pep talk had been, pep talks didn't ease pain. Since he knew himself, he'd grabbed the bottle at the last minute and tossed them in his car.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. There in the doorway leading to the weight room was Annabelle, waiting for a free moment with the players. She didn't see him and he used the opportunity to watch her. A week had passed since the incident in her kitchen. Also known as the kiss that had haunted his dreams every night since then. Yeah, he'd seen her since then, in passing before and after practices, but they'd barely spoken.

The strange thing was, he missed her. He missed her in his business. Barging into his office and offering her opinion on the players. Her recent lack of interference should have pleased him. After all, wasn't that what he wanted? For her to slink into the background so she wouldn't distract him?

Only he didn't want that.

Today her hair was pulled back in its usual high ponytail, accentuating her sharp cheekbones. Funny, but he found he liked it better loose. The strands were thick and soft, which he knew firsthand since he'd had his fingers tangled in them. The appearance of her hair sort of reminded him of how she really was. Not the sharp Annabelle she'd first been with him but the Annabelle who'd fused her lips to his the other day. The Annabelle who constantly talked about how much she loved the kids and wanted to protect them. That was the real Annabelle, Blake realized.

As though sensing his thoughts, she turned her head and glanced at him. Her eyes, which were particularly green today, contradicted the serious set of her full mouth. Her long lashes swept down with a slow blink and then she smiled at him. Not the full smile he was used to seeing from her when she worked with the kids. Just a slight tilt. Hesitant, perhaps even testing.

Yeah, she was testing him.

Testing to see if he'd blow her off. If he was still pissed about the kiss.

Hell yeah he was pissed. But at himself for not having more self-control. And then for acting like an ass.

He offered a tight nod. Because if the other coaches caught him grinning at the smokin' hot physical therapist, he'd never hear the end of it.

Cameron finished his speech to the players, and everyone dispersed. Annabelle diverted her attention to Scott Porter, the kid with the hamstring problems. Her half-smile quickly blossomed into a full one when she laid a hand on Scott's shoulder. She said something to the kid, which prompted a smile from him.

Damn it, Blake wanted her to smile like that at him. The fact that he was jealous of a freakin' high school student was an official new low for him. Wasn't it enough that they'd kissed, and now he wanted more from her?

Annabelle and Scott disappeared into the weight room and Blake pushed away from the wall. He headed toward his office but made a detour to Cody's locker, where the kid was removing his game pads.

“Cody,” he said to the QB. “A word in my office.”

Cody set his pads down and followed Blake across the locker room. Blake opened the door and gestured for the kid to enter first. Cody took a chair, and Blake sat in his own, leaning back and pushing the brim of his hat up his forehead.

“Do you have any idea why I called you in here?” Blake asked as he folded his hands across his stomach.

Cody shook his head. “No, Coach.”

Blake watched the kid for a moment, noting his utter stillness, which was an unusual change to the cocky attitude they'd all grown used to. Something about Cody reminded Blake of himself. Living and breathing football. Only caring about being on the field but at the same time not wanting to listen to anyone. Blake had been just as cocky, just as cocksure of himself. Thinking nothing could bring him down. Except a torn ACL.