Winner Takes All (7 page)

“Your point?” Blake demanded. Except he knew his friend's point and it pissed him off.

Cameron's grin grew, creating a crease in his stubble-covered cheek. “My point, my friend, is that she's the first person in I don't know how long not to tuck tail and run the other direction when you exert your dominance.”

“You're making me sound like a porn star, Cam.”

Cam waved a hand in the air. “You know what I mean.” He wagged an index finger in Blake's direction. “I see the way you pretend she's not around.”

“Obviously I'm not pretending well enough,” Blake muttered.

“So you do have a thing for her,” Cameron guessed.

Blake shook his head. “Shit, not you too.”

Cam chuckled. “Brandon does it to piss you off. I do it because I'm concerned for your well-being.”

Blake coughed and said “bullshit” at the same time, which enticed a full-fledged laugh from his assistant coach.

“Both of you do it to annoy the shit out of me,” Blake accused.

“Because you need it,” Cameron said matter-of-factly.

One of Blake's brows arched. “I need you to annoy the shit out of me?”

“How else would we get you to do anything other than eat/breathe/sleep football half the time and live like a recluse the other half?”

“Maybe I like living like a recluse.” Except he didn't. He'd just sort of tumbled into that solitary life after he'd left the NFL. Now it was just him, his bum knee, and his pain pills. But Brandon and Cameron didn't know that. Oh, they knew he had knee trouble. Anyone with eyesight could see his slight limp. What they didn't know was that he still needed his OxyContin like he needed his next breath. The bottle he'd tossed in the desk drawer that morning was still there. Blake opened the drawer and glanced down as the bottle rolled forward and bumped the front panel. There were still pills in the bottle. He heard them rattling around. Probably plenty for him to toss one back now and maybe take another one before bed.

But not with Cam sitting there…also, shouldn't he stop taking the stuff?

His fingers gripped the edge of the drawer as a layer of sweat coated his hand. Cam tossed back some more M&M's as Blake slammed the drawer shut, the sound of the bottle rolling around inside like a whisper in his head.

That he'd never tell anyone. He didn't want or need anyone's pity, especially his two closest friends. Bad enough they were already pushing him to…whatever it was they thought he should be doing with Annabelle Turner.

He knew what
he
wanted to do with her, but he'd be damned if he'd tell anybody else that.

“No one likes living like a recluse,” Cameron argued. “Not even you.”

Blake leaned back in his own chair. “Please tell me more, Mr. Master of Relationships. And while you're at it, remind me how the last one ended for you.”

The playful gleam in Cameron's eye dimmed a bit. “I told you I had no idea she was married.” Cam's mouth tilted and he picked up a pen and chucked it across the desk, where it hit Blake in the shoulder. “Douche.”

The pen landed on the floor, so Blake snagged another one out of the holder and sent it sailing, hitting the bill of Cameron's hat. “Prick.”

Cameron gave the pen on the floor a glance, then clucked his tongue. “Temper.”

“Says the guy who threw the pen first,” Blake reminded him.

Cam slouched lower in his chair. “Touché. And you've still got a pretty good arm.”

“Gee thanks.”

“For an old guy,” his friend said with an evil grin. “Who obviously needs to get laid.”

“Keep on, Cam.”

But yeah, that was true. Blake did need to get laid. He needed a warm, soft woman to spend a few hours in bed with so he could exercise the tension and stress from his body.

Or he could just go for a bike ride or something.

Or get laid.

With Annabelle.

Except it'd probably be so good he'd want to come back for more and that would definitely be a bad idea. He had more demons and baggage than he knew what to do with and a casual hook-up was all he was capable of giving right now.

Besides, he'd like to think he was more professional than to have a one-night stand with a woman he worked side by side with.

Yeah, that was it.

Cameron's phone vibrated. He withdrew it from his pocket, touched his finger to the screen a few times, then slid the thing away. “I've got to go meet with special teams,” his friend announced.

“Three o'clock, game film,” Blake told him.

Cam nodded and headed for the office door. “You got it.” He opened the door, stepped out, and poked his head back in. “Miss Thang's swaying her hips this way. Throw the lock on the door and I'll stand guard for you.”

The image of swaying hips and what Blake would like to do to them, especially with a big sturdy desk, had that muscle between his thighs twitching for the umpteenth time in as many days. To wipe the cocky grin off his friend's face, Blake bypassed the cup of pens and went for the paperweight. The thing went flying and only missed Cameron's smug look by an inch when it hit the door frame and crashed to the floor.

Yeah, he still had a good arm.

A
nnabelle was about to let herself into Blake's office when something hard flew up against the wall and hit it with a thud. Cameron shot her a grin and managed to close the door seconds before the object probably would have hit him in the head. She was just about to ask him what the heck that was when he poked his head back in the door, said something to Blake, then shut the door again.

Something else crashed against the door, making Annabelle jump because the thing sounded heavy and probably expensive.

“What the heck are you two doing?” she asked the assistant coach.

Cameron folded his arms across his wide chest. “It's an old ritual Blake and I have. Instead of saying good-bye, we throw stuff at each other. Makes us feel all macho and shit.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, noting the faint smile that tugged at the corners of his full mouth. Then she shook her head and pushed down on the door handle. “Men are weird,” she muttered.

When she stepped into the office, Blake was just…there. As he always was. There. A commanding presence who couldn't be ignored even if she tried.

And she'd tried.

The guy was too…well, everything to be put out of her mind.

I see the way you pretend she's not around.

Yeah, she'd heard what Cameron had said. Okay, she'd heard the entire conversation. Should she have felt guilty for eavesdropping?

Probably. Anybody would. A tiny frisson of guilt had threaded through her system as she'd stood outside his office door and listened to him and Cameron talk about the team. Her guilt was because she hadn't exactly been invited. She'd been relentlessly texting him about meetings and he'd managed to talk around her purpose. Either ignoring her altogether or answering her questions with non-answers.

Acknowledging her without giving her what she wanted.

So she'd decided to just show up, because how else was she supposed to get through to him? Wait for him to cave?

Not bloody likely.

She'd heard Cameron mention the only reason he'd accepted the position was because it was Blake. Meaning he wouldn't have come to the Bobcats for anyone else. Meaning they had a special bond. Meaning Blake wasn't the ogre he wanted her to think he was.

She cleared her throat and pushed the door closed. “Do you have a minute?”

He eyed her from beneath the bill of his baseball cap, which was pulled down low enough to cast his eyes in shadow. “If I say no, will you go away?”

I see the way you pretend she's not around.

Cam's words floated around in her mind, like a temptation, a dare to see how far she could push Blake. But at the same time, other parts of the conversation warred with her desire to break his tough exterior. She'd heard the stress in his voice when he and Cameron had discussed options for the team. Before now, Annabelle had never considered the pressure he was under. How conflicted he must feel with the school district, hiring him, pushing him to win and then the opposition from the parents who didn't understand Blake.

A strange feeling, close to sympathy for a man who'd been through hell, warmed her chest. Annabelle pushed it away, because sympathy would turn to compassion. Not that she didn't have compassion for the man, because she did. Probably a lot more than half the town. But compassion would melt the stern resolve she'd developed after her divorce. That resolve was the only thing keeping her from melting for Blake Carpenter completely.

She graced him with her sweetest smile, the one that used to wrap her daddy around her little finger. “No,” she answered.

“Then I guess it doesn't matter, does it?” he asked.

“No,” she said again.

“Then why'd you ask?”

She stepped away from the door and took a chair that was still warm, obviously from Cameron. “To be polite.”

One side of his mouth turned up and the butterflies in her belly did that dancing thing again. “How magnanimous of you.”

“What can I say? My mother raised me right,” she told him, even though that wasn't the reason. She did it to irritate him. To entice some kind of reaction from him. A laugh. Anything to crack the ironclad exterior he'd erected around himself. She supposed the almost-smile was a start. A small stepping-stone to revealing who Blake Carpenter really was.

But still not enough for her.

“You might as well tell me why you're here, then,” he told her. He slouched low in his chair and rested his hands across his flat stomach. Yeah, she'd noticed that about him too. How in shape the guy was. How his Bobcats football T-shirts molded over the bulk of his shoulders and wide chest, then loosened over his narrow waist.

Was it wrong of her to want to lift the hem of the shirt? Just a little peek to see if the flesh beneath was as smooth and hard as she'd imagined.

Bad Annabelle.

She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat.

“Um…,” she started. “So I know we're only about a month away from our first game…”

His brow twitched. “And?”

Yes, Annabelle. And what?

“Well, I think the kids are looking pretty good. They respond well to you,” she added.

Blake slowly nodded. “I'm glad you approve, Ms. Turner. Is that all?”

“No,” she answered quickly, fearing he'd toss her out if she didn't get to the point. Problem was her tongue had a habit of ceasing to work around him. As did her brain, especially when he used her name like that. It rolled off his tongue like a drip of sweet honey. “Having said that,” she went on, pushing thoughts of dripping honey from her mind, “there are a few kids I'm concerned about.”

“Who specifically are you talking about?”

Blake continued to sit rigid in his chair, not moving a muscle, except the one in his jaw that kept clenching. The speech she had in her head about moving forward with the kids, and her determination to lend a hand, paused. In its place was a need to make sure Blake understood that she would never do anything shady.

“Blake,” she started, turning the words over in her head, trying to find a way to convey her message. “I hope you know I would never put these kids in jeopardy. My only concern is making sure they heal properly. Even if that takes an entire season.”

Something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone too quick for Annabelle to label it. Not only that but the shadow cast by his cap made his expression difficult to read. Whatever it was had softened his expression enough for Annabelle to know she'd cracked him. That he understood she wasn't here to work against him.

“I understand that,” he told her. “I know you would never do anything to hurt my players.”

“Because I'm not like the trainers you knew,” she went on. “I don't put my own desire for winning above my patients. I care about those kids.”

That muscle in his jaw kicked in again, contradicting the softening of his blue eyes. She'd gotten so used to seeing them hard with determination and resistance that she almost missed it. But once she realized she'd gotten through to him, Annabelle wondered how she'd ever see him the other way again.

“I appreciate that,” he finally said, as though he'd been searching for the words. Had she really managed to stump him?

“Just for the record,” he told her, “I never pegged you for that type.”

Annabelle nodded. “But you've made your distrust of me pretty clear.”

“Only because I take this job personally. Those are my players out there,” he said with a nod toward the locker room. “And I've learned the hard way not to give too much control to anyone else.”

“I understand that,” she assured him. “I'm not trying to take over. I'm trying to help.”

He waited a moment, staring back at her out of those clear blue eyes and sending a shiver down the center of her back.

He nodded. “Go on.”

“Scott Porter has a tight hamstring that he keeps pulling.”

Blake swiveled back and forth in his chair. “I'm aware of that.”

“I'm doing what I can for him, and I think the stretching is helping,” she assured him.

Blake was silent a moment, as though sensing she had more to say, which she did but she knew he wasn't going to like it. “But?” he asked.

Annabelle held her breath for a moment, then slowly expelled it. “I think it would help Scott if he didn't participate in the practices. At least in any kind of full contact.” She waited for him to snarl at her or tell her she'd lost her mind. He didn't. Instead he did something she'd yet to witness from him.

He laughed.

The heat that sat low in her belly spread throughout her body and settled in all her girly parts. Parts that hadn't been used in way too long. So long she'd almost forgotten how to use them. But more than that she'd forgotten how alive they made her feel. How aware of herself she became. Itchy. Uncomfortable.

And so unbearably hot.

The man had a deviously sexy laugh. So much sexier than she'd imagined. Not that she'd been thinking about what his laugh would sound like.

“That's not happening, Ms. Turner,” he finally said after he'd stopped chuckling.

“Players are just as at risk of injury during practices as they are during games. I just think until his hamstring loosens some more, he needs to take it easy. If it suffers one more good pull, he'll be unable to play the rest of the season.” When he didn't respond, Annabelle continued. “Surely you have a backup you can use for a little while.”

“Of course we do,” he answered. “But he's not nearly good enough. Scott's one of the few good players we have and we need him on the field.”

Annabelle blinked at him. “All the more reason for him to focus on his leg. So he's ready to play when the season starts.”

Blake leaned forward in his chair and folded his burly forearms across the desk. They were covered in a soft dusting of dark hair. Funny how
soft
would be used to describe arms that looked like corded steel. “Ms. Turner,” he said. “I can take it easy on him during practices, until the leg heals, but I can't bench him altogether.”

“Well, I guess that's a start,” she muttered, grateful he was at least willing to heed her caution.

He blinked and his mouth twitched. She almost swore he was about to smile, but that wasn't possible. Because Blake Carpenter didn't smile.

“I don't like people interfering with my work, Ms. Turner,” he told her.

Gee, really?

“And I don't like people telling me what to do,” he added.

Again. Shock.

“You're used to having your way, aren't you?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

Always. “Sometimes,” she lied.

“Well, so am I,” he stated.

“No kidding? I never would have guessed that.”

This time he did smile. A slow curling of his lips that matched the curling of her toes in her cross trainers. “So who do you think will win, Ms. Turner?”

“You might if you ever stop calling me that.”

He grin grew. “Why would I want to do that?”

Because it turns me on.
“Because it's too formal. Just call me Annabelle.”

“That's not why you don't like it,” he countered in a low voice.

They stared at each other like two caged fighters waiting for the other to wave the white flag. Only Annabelle didn't give up, and she wasn't about to start now. If Blake Carpenter thought she'd admit defeat, he had another thing coming.

She lifted a shoulder in what she hoped came off as nonchalant. “Call me whatever you want, Mr. Carpenter. It doesn't really matter.”

“Oh, but it does,” he argued, then leaned even closer. So close that she could smell his shampoo mixed with his early morning sweat. “Because you don't like being defied. You need that control, don't you?”

She lifted one brow. “You're going to talk to me about control?” she countered, rather than give one hint he was right. Because she did need a certain amount of control. Because if she didn't, things tended to spin out of control. Like a cheating spouse. Like a mother with failing health and no one to share the burden, worry, and stress.

“You're right, I do like to be in control,” he admitted. “The difference between you and me is I have no problem admitting it.”

She leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Mostly to keep him from noticing her heart thumping against her ribs. Because he'd already noticed way too much about her.

“At least I'm not afraid to admit when I need help.”

He sat still for a moment, she swore, not even breathing. “You think I need help coaching this team?”

“No, that I think you can do. Probably better than anyone else could. I'm just wondering how much longer you're willing to go with that bad knee of yours.”

A muscle in his square jaw ticked. Direct hit.

“You should know enough about old injuries to know they never fully go away,” he muttered.

“True.” She nodded. “But I think we both know it's more than just an old injury. It's still a problem for you. In fact, I'm willing to even bet you still take medication for it.”

“What's your point, Ms. Turner?” he asked.

She chewed her lower lip. “My point is that I can help you with it. I see you favoring and rubbing it when you think no one else is watching.”

“In other words, you can't take your eyes off me,” he countered.

She lifted her gaze to the ceiling and prayed for patience. “Joke all you want, but I'm serious.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. It was barely lunchtime and his strong jaw already showed a five-o'clock shadow. The kind that could rub a woman's skin raw.

“It's just an old injury that aches sometimes. I have it under control.”

“Really?” she asked. When he nodded, she continued. “You know when most people come to me, it's only because their doctor has ordered physical therapy. Most of them don't think they really need it. But they're always glad they came.” She snagged a tablet of Post-it notes from his desk and a pen from the holder. Then she jotted down the address of her studio. “If you change your mind, here's where I am.” She set the information down, knowing he wouldn't take it if she offered. “I can see the pain on your face, Blake. Pills don't always cure everything.”