Winner Takes All (17 page)

“Such a humanitarian,” he muttered.

She snorted. “Hardly.” She smacked his thigh. “Now quit stalling, and let's get to work.” His pant leg was still pushed past his knee, revealing a long, strong leg. An athlete's leg, finely tuned and sculpted from years of training. A man's leg shouldn't turn her on, but Lord help her, Blake's did.

Worse than the tingling sensation in the pit of her stomach was imagining those legs on top of hers, pinning her to a soft mattress. Doing the horizontal mambo, as Stella liked to put it. Annabelle bet it would be good with Blake. He looked like a man who knew how to make use of his own body and who knew his way around a woman's. There was no greater turn-on, or emotional threat, than a man who could lick and touch his way from one end of a woman's body to the other.

Annabelle grabbed the hem of Blake's pant leg and started pulling it down, covering up all that male perfection. Despite the knee that looked like it had been put together in Frankenstein's lab. Just as she edged the material past his scars, Blake's hand covered hers, forcing her gaze up to his.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

His face was expressionless, but his eyes gave him away. They were deep and bottomless, reaching out to her and grabbing on to her heart.

“For what?” she asked with a whisper.

“For not judging.” His hand lingered on hers and his thumb traced a torturous pattern over her knuckles, dipping in and out of the grooves. “Thank you for taking the time to actually ask.”

“Because I care.”

“You shouldn't,” he warned.

She tilted her head to one side. “You're so hell-bent on making me think you're nothing but a jerk.”

His thumb continued its journey. “You've seen firsthand how true that really is.”

“That's not who you are, though. I think you've gotten so used to people thinking the worst of you that you expect it from everyone.”

“Maybe I want people to think the worst of me,” he countered.

Her brows flew up her forehead. “Why would you want anyone to think that?”

He paused before answering, watching their joined hands resting on his knee. His scarred and broken knee. Just like the man. “Because they won't be as disappointed when I let them down.”

And there went the last of her heart. The last piece intact, just barely holding on, slipped away, leaving her exposed and vulnerable to Blake Carpenter.

“Sounds like the people in your life have unattainable standards,” she reassured him, because, damn it, someone had to. Someone had to make him understand he didn't have to be superman all the time. That it was okay to be human and make mistakes and stumble when the burden became too much.

Blake's brow twitched, signaling a crack in the tough exterior he'd erected. Before she realized what he was doing, he dropped her hand, skimmed the back of his knuckles up her arm, curved over her shoulder, oh so slowly, and then wrapped around her neck. Sucking the breath right out of her lungs.

The man really did have magical hands.

With one gentle tug, he brought her closer so that she was leaning over him. To brace herself, she placed her hands on his chest, gathering the soft cotton of his T-shirt in her hands. Underneath, the curved muscles of his pecs were firm, dipping to a hard line and giving way to equally firm obliques.

He just lay there beneath her, relaxed as she'd ever seen. When she knew perfectly well he was anything but relaxed. The man probably never allowed himself to let go.

“You're dangerous, Annabelle,” he whispered against her mouth.

“Me?” she said on a short laugh. “I told you I have trust issues, but you're making me rethink all of that.”

“You must be easier than I thought,” Blake responded with a ghost of a smile.

Her hand inched higher up his chest. “You think you're so charming, don't you?” she countered instead of indulging the almost kiss they were playing with.

“But it's working on you,” he pointed out. “You want me.”

Heck yeah, she did. But she couldn't act on it. She still wasn't convinced it would be anything more than a casual hook-up for him, and she wanted more than that. She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to walk away from him, especially with her heart intact.

“Lust is easy to overcome,” she said. “It's the other stuff that gets in the way.”

His thumb applied pressure to the sensitive spot just below her ear, and her eyes almost rolled out of her head. “You know all too well about that, don't you?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“That's a shame,” he murmured against her lips. “Because I bet we could set the sheets on fire.”

The sheets? Probably an entire building.

His lips only got close enough to tease before he set her away from him. The barely-there contact left her burning and frustrated and…incomplete. Like a really good round of lovemaking ending just seconds before a climax could ripple through her system.

“Too bad you don't do casual,” he told her, calm and cool as ever, as though she hadn't been seconds away from climbing all over his body.

B
lake stood by his back door, clutching his coffee and eyeing the shaggy golden dog, the same one from Brandon's photo, in his backyard. Shredded screen door, torn up garden hose, and so many holes dug, his yard looked like Swiss cheese. The dog, with its long furry tail swishing back and forth fast enough to create a gale force wind, was panting, tongue hanging out, and then jumped all over the damn shredded screen door when he'd seen Blake enter the kitchen.

“Son of a bitch did it,” he muttered to himself as he stared at the animal.

Blake set the coffee on the kitchen counter and took out his phone, snapped pictures of the door and the garden hose. Then he sent it to Brandon with the message,
Watch your back
.

The dog seemed to grin, as though sensing he was the subject of the messages.

“What're you so happy about?” he asked the dog through the screen door. Which would need to be replaced. The dog barked, a high-pitched
yip
that echoed throughout the yard. The same dog that he'd told Brandon to absolutely not, under any circumstances, leave at his house. The thing had dirt on his nose and mud smeared halfway up his legs.

“You're proud of yourself, aren't you?”

The dog barked again and spun in a circle.

Blake's front door opened, then shut. He turned and spotted Cameron ambling down the front hall with long strides.

“Holy hell,” his friend stated. “Are you running combat drills back here?”

Blake stepped aside so Cam could see the gift Brandon had left him.

Cam eyed the shredded screen door, then lowered his gaze to the dog, who was still standing and panting like a maniac. Then Cameron tossed his head back and laughed.

“Something funny?” Blake wanted to know.

“Ah, the dog,” Cameron said after his laughter died down. “Brandon tried to pawn him off on me, but I told him no.”

“
I
told him no,” Blake shot back. “How the hell did you dodge this bullet?”

Cameron fixed his gaze on the mutt. “I told Brandon if he dumped this dog on me, I'd let everyone know he has a pair of Mighty Mouse underwear.” He grinned at Blake, then tapped his index finger against his temple. “Dirty tactics, my friend. Can't be afraid to use them.”

Blake shook his head. “Shit. What the hell do I know about owning a dog?”

Cameron slid the screen door open. “They just need some attention and exercise.” The second Cam was on the deck, the dog was all over him. Jumping and smearing mud down Cam's jeans. Cam shoved a knee in the dog's chest. “Down,” he ordered the animal. The dog sat and swished his tail back and forth on the muddy deck. Cameron got down on one knee and stroked behind the dog's ears. “What're you going to name him?”

“Nothing,” Blake answered immediately. “I'm not keeping him.”

Cam glanced at Blake over his shoulder. Both the dog's eyes dropped closed as Cam continued to massage his ears. “Yeah, you're keeping him.”

Blake narrowed his eyes at his friend. “I beg your pardon?”

“You're really going to look this dog in the eyes and get rid of him? Even you're not that heartless.”

“How do you know that?”

Cameron stood and held a hand out in front of the dog's face, but that didn't stop the animal from standing as well. Surprisingly, the animal didn't jump. Just looked up at Cam like he was a hero. “Because you know what it's like to be given up on.” Cam snapped his fingers and pointed to the deck. “Sit,” he ordered, and the dog lowered his hind legs. “Just show him who's the alpha and he'll do anything you say.”

“Seriously,” Blake told his friend. “You need to take this dog. I don't have time to take care of an animal.”

Cameron snorted. “And I do?”

“Yeah, but you know more about dogs than me.” He nodded toward the animal, who was still sitting and waiting for his next command. “See how he listens to you?”

“Only because I used a commanding voice,” Cam told him. “He listens well, so you can train this dog to do pretty much anything.”

Maybe Blake could train him to shit all over Brandon's backyard.

Cam accompanied him to the store to get dog food, chew toys, and a collar. Even if he didn't plan on keeping the dog, which he definitely wasn't, he still needed to get some basics. Might as well give the animal a name or he'd be tempted to call the dog “Son of a Bitch.”

His mother had called as he'd been trying to wrestle the damn animal into his collar. The dog had kept trying to bite Blake's hand and had given him a good scrape when he'd finally fastened the damn thing around his thick neck. He'd managed to catch his mom on the third ring, and she mentioned some story she'd heard about Roger Staubach.

And so the dog was called Staubach. Because Blake had been frustrated and annoyed and couldn't make the effort to call the dog anything else.

Blake had learned a long time ago not to count his chickens before they hatched. So when the Bobcats won their second game against the Alamosa Maroons, Blake took the win in stride. They were off to a good start, but still a long way to making the play-offs.

But when Cameron strolled into his office two hours before their third game, Blake was grateful for his tempered optimism.

“Corey Brighton has been put on academic probation,” Cameron announced. “He can't play tonight.”

Blake tossed his pen down on his desk and shoved his baseball cap up his forehead. “Shit,” he said to himself.

“The kid's in the weight room with Annabelle, but he doesn't know yet. I just found out a minute ago. We'll have to call in the backup.”

Blake shook his head. “Jason's not good enough.” Not that Corey was one of their more stellar players, but the second-string kid was worse. Blake leaned forward in his chair, feeling a headache starting in the back of his neck and slowly easing upward. “What if we switched some of the other players around?” he asked Cam. “Moved Riley Houghton from special teams to Corey's spot and then pulled Gavin Winstead to cover Riley?”

Cameron rubbed a hand along his rough jaw, then slowly nodded. “Could work.”

“You go find Riley and Gavin,” Blake told his assistant coach. “I'll talk to Corey.”

The two men stood, and Cameron gazed at Blake from across the desk. “So I heard the tantalizing Ms. Turner is working her magic on you,” Cameron commented. Damn his friend and his stupid grin.

For a second Blake wanted to ask which magic Cameron was talking about. The medical kind or the kind that happened in the bedroom. Even though they technically hadn't made it that far yet, he was pretty sure they would.

Given the chemistry that exploded between them every time they were together, Blake knew in between some sheets was where they were headed.

“She's just helping me with my knee,” Blake corrected his friend.

Cameron narrowed his eyes. “The woman's a walking centerfold, and that's all you're doing with her?” The guy shook his head and chuckled. “I think you've had one too many hits on the head, my friend.”

Yeah, wasn't that the truth. And it wasn't like their lack of a physical relationship wasn't for lack of trying on Blake's part. He'd made it clear to Annabelle, on more than one occasion, that he was willing to do anything she was up for. Well, everything except a commitment. The fact that she still held herself back contradicted her assurance that she could do casual.

Funny how she had no problem lip-locking with him, but anything beyond that was too much for her. One way or the other, he'd get the woman to change her mind. He had enough experience with women to know he could drive her out of her mind without even touching her. Before the football season ended, he'd have her begging for it.

Hell, she was already begging for it; she just didn't want to admit it.

“Maybe I'm just taking my time,” Blake countered.

Cameron's laugh grew. “When have you ever taken your time?”

Truth.

“Is it because she's not into you? Has the great Blake Carpenter finally met a woman who doesn't chase after him like a groupie?”

That, too, but he wasn't about to let his friend know he was right.

This time Cameron tossed his head back and laughed, the snarky son of a bitch. “I love it,” he said, chuckling. “Annabelle won't rip her clothes off for you, and you can't stand that.”

Blake came around his desk and barely resisted the urge to land a right hook across his friend's scruffy jaw. “Why don't you do the world a favor and go screw yourself?”

Cam's laughter faded to a wide grin, and he rubbed a hand over the middle of his chest, easing the ache from his laughter. “As much as I love myself, I'd rather have a woman for that.”

Yeah, wouldn't they all?

Blake left his friend and made for the weight room to talk to Corey. After years playing football, Blake knew how it felt to be told you couldn't play. For someone who woke up every morning, looking forward to that moment when their cleats would sink into the soft turf of the field, it could be devastating. Having to stand on the sidelines, watching your teammates go for the win and not being able to do your part.

The loss was sort of like having an arm severed.

Nobody knew what that felt like more than Blake. The only difference for him was having it taken away for the rest of his life. One or two games he could handle. Anything more than that was like taking away his reason for living.

He found Corey with Annabelle.

She'd traded in her usual yoga pants for blue jeans. Worn, faded blue jeans with holes in the knee and a tear in the upper thigh. The worn thread exposed just enough for him to get a glimpse of pale skin. Creamy. Maybe a shade lighter than her legs because that part of her body didn't see the sun as much.

The thought had the muscle between his legs twitching.

He approached the two and ran his gaze over her thick brown hair, which was free from its high ponytail. The locks were shiny, reflecting the overhead fluorescent lighting of the room. The strands framed her face and accentuated her high cheekbones, and his hands itched to dive into the thickness.

When she averted her attention from Corey, she saw him, holding his gaze while she worked with the kid through some stretches.

“Hi.”

Her soft voice got under his skin and crawled along his nerve endings like fire ants.

“Hey,” he said in return.

Something flashed across her eyes, which were exceptionally green today. Blake got the feeling it had something to do with the almost-kiss he'd teased her with at her studio. Other than being a sadistic bastard, Blake had no clue why he'd done that. Because he wanted to show her what she was missing out on by holding herself back.

The sucky thing was, he was missing out too.

“Coach?” Corey asked. “Is everything all right?”

Blake shifted his attention to Annabelle. “Could you give us a minute?”

She nodded her understanding, even though he knew she'd hurtle a hundred questions at him later. “Sure.”

Blake hooked his hands on his hips as she left. “Six-week progress reports came out today,” he told the kid, not wasting time with beating around the bush.

A deep red colored Corey's cheeks, as though he knew what was coming. Most players did. “Your GPA's slipped,” Blake said. “You've been put on academic probation.”

Corey swung his legs over the bench and stood. “Coach, you've gotta let me play tonight. We're two and oh,” he said as though Blake had forgotten. “You can't bench me now.”

Damn if Blake didn't understand the desperation in Corey's voice.

“I have to. District rules,” Blake said. “You don't maintain that GPA, you don't get to play.”

Corey ran both his hands over his buzzed hair, no doubt trying to find a way around the rule. They both knew there wasn't one.

Blake laid a hand on the kid's shoulder, trying to find some way to reassure him. He knew there wasn't one, but he had to try. “Just focus on getting your grades up and we'll bring home the win. As soon as you get your GPA back up, I'll reinstate you.”

Corey nodded and his shoulders slumped. “This sucks, Coach,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“I mean, there has to be something you can do, right? Can't you, like, overrule them?”

“Sorry, son. This is out of my hands.”

Corey stood still for a moment, then lashed out and kicked the weight machine. Blake understood the kid's anger. When Blake had retired early from the NFL, he'd gone home and trashed his weight room, breaking mirrors, along with his treadmill, and tossed a fifty-pound weight through one of the windows. Then he'd taken his Porsche, torn out of the driveway, and ended up at a bar, where he'd picked up some woman whose name he couldn't even remember. The next morning she'd been gone from his bed by the time he'd woken up. Just as well because he'd been too drunk to remember the encounter anyway.

“I understand your anger, son,” Blake told the kid. “But taking it out on school equipment won't do you any good.” He placed a hand on the kid's tense shoulder. The muscles were practically vibrating. “Finish your stretches with Ms. Turner before the team meeting.”

Corey nodded but didn't say anything.

Blake left him standing in the weight room feeling like he'd kicked a puppy. Every coach understood feeling responsible for their players, and Blake was no different. The team had become an extension of himself, and before he'd known it, winning had become more than proving to everyone that he could do it. That he wasn't down for the count.

These were good kids who loved the game and craved the taste of victory. Each time Blake looked in their eyes, he felt their pull over him, their pleading to do for them what other coaches couldn't. The district had discounted the Bobcats. Their losing streak was so long, they'd become a running joke.