He finally sees me on his next lap around and slows down as he comes over to me. Lucky for me, he starts to stretch and I watch, enamored, as his muscles tug and pull at the strain.
Unfortunately for me, he picks up his long-sleeved t-shirt that had been discarded in the grass and pulls it over his head. I guess I won’t be getting up close knowledge on all his tattoos today after all.
He places his hands on his hips as he finally walks over to me with labored breaths.
“Hey, Coach,” I say. I don’t know why, but every time I say the word ‘Coach’ to him, it comes out sarcastic. “Where do you want me?”
“Hey, Bria. Start with a couple laps to warm up.” His words are missing his usual bite, as if he doesn’t have any fight left in him.
For the first time, likely surprising both of us, I do as I’m told without argument. As my sneakers smack the pavement, my mind wanders, landing on a fantasy involving my new coach and his insanely hot body.
I do an extra lap to clear my head before jogging back to Tatum and stretching out. I’m bent over, touching my toes when he comes up behind me. I feel his presence; the air gets heavier and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I don’t know where this reaction is coming from, but suddenly I can’t stop it.
“Since your first game is next weekend, I thought we could do another one-on-one scrimmage to see how you’ve improved since our first practice.”
I nod and a breathy, “Sounds good,” is all I can muster.
“Let’s get started.”
Chapter Eleven
Tatum
I’d have to be blind to not notice the way Bria was raking her eyes over me five minutes ago. I saw her eyebrow lift and her lips part. Her blue eyes were all but black as she stared at me.
I thought she hated me, and she still might, but she can’t hide her reaction to me if she tried. That’s why I put my shirt on, even though it’s sticking to my skin from the sweat coating my body.
But her reaction to me isn’t the biggest problem I’m facing. No, it’s the fact that for some reason, I have the same goddamn reaction to her.
I can’t help the way my eyes find her ass in her little pink Nike shorts. She provokes a visceral reaction from me; one I can’t control, and even more, I don’t want to control it.
When I’m around her, I want to lose all control. I want my inhibitions to disappear and to not think about any of it—how I’m her coach and several years older than her. I want to forget it all. I want to forget why I’m here in the first place and use her to erase all of my problems.
But now she’s becoming one of my problems because I can’t stop fucking thinking about her.
Then she shows up here in her shorts and flimsy white t-shirt I can see her sports bra through, and it takes everything in my power to not rip the shirt off her.
She doesn’t know the effect she has on me and I need to keep it that way, but each and every day gets harder to deal with it, with her.
And now I’m torturing myself with a one-on-one game where we’ll be in close proximity. Where we’ll be forced to touch one another, to get physical in the name of the game.
The scrimmage wasn’t my intention when I left my house for this practice. It was a spur of the moment decision because I can’t imagine not touching her, even if it’s a mere drop of my shoulder against hers to get around her.
It’s all-consuming and sickening, but I can’t fucking help myself.
I’m in big trouble.
I place the cones on the half since we’re only playing half the field. We square off on the eighteen and I take a deep breath, but it’s a shit decision. I get a whiff of her and she smells like peaches. It distracts me and she takes off around me with the ball toward her goal.
I sprint to catch up, but she’s too quick and takes a shot. Of course, with no goalies, it’s hard to miss and suddenly she’s up one-nothing.
“Lucky shot,” I tell her because I love to goad her. She never backs down from a challenge and becomes quite the spit-fire. Most of the time it pisses me off, but I also have to admit she’s hot when she’s all worked up.
“Hey, if you want to sleep during practice and give up the shots, I won’t complain.”
Fuck, she noticed.
“That was your first and last goal. Going easy on you won’t do you any good against other teams.” We face off once more and I have the ball this time.
I take off, but she’s as fast as I am. When did that happen? She’s able to keep up with me, and her defense has improved tremendously. We’re bobbing back and forth, both looking for openings; me, for a shot on goal, and her, to take the ball.
She gets impatient and lunges, giving me the opening I was looking for. I shoot and score, tying the game.
“You’ve gotten better.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
She has the ball and is pulling out all the bells and whistles to get around me, but I see each of her moves coming. She slams her body into mine in an attempt to shove me aside, but it backfires. Her cleat connects with mine and she stumbles over my foot. She goes down and the ball gets kicked aside in the process.
“Ow,” she groans and I offer her my hand. She eyes it skeptically, as if it’s some kind of trick, as if I could somehow throw her on the ground a second time.
I sigh and with an eye roll, she grips my hand. Her tiny palm is sticky against mine as our sweat clashes. I pull her up and in an instant, she’s in my space.
Our chests are almost touching and she heaves heavy breaths, bringing them closer together. She looks up at me with her big, Bambi-like eyes from under her lashes. I inhale and though her hair is matted back with sweat, somehow I still get the sweet fruity smell wafting off of her, as if it’s her natural scent.
Her hand reaches out as if she’s going to touch me, so I clear my throat, effectively breaking the moment. I step back and run a hand through my damp hair.
“Get a drink and make sure you’re not hurt.” She nods and jogs to the sideline before digging in her bag and pulling out her water bottle.
I follow suit, grabbing my own drink and guzzling a large portion of it down. During the quick break, she stretches out her quads and hamstrings and damn, if I don’t watch her do it.
I pull my shirt over my head. If she wants to distract me, I’ll do the same. Even though I feel like a fucking teenager in a sparring match in doing so, but I’ve already committed. I can’t back down now.
We get back up and play for another solid forty minutes. I still win, but she manages to score another goal and I’m highly impressed with her progress. There’s no doubt in my mind—I underestimated her before I knew her.
She collapses on the ground beside her gym bag, sprawling out on the cool turf.
“You’re going to injure yourself if you don’t stretch,” I warn like I’m her fucking dad.
“Give me a minute to catch my damn breath,” she snaps at me and I smile. Even bone-tired she still manages to have a comeback.
I sit on the ground as she cools off. I bend my right leg and cross it over my out-stretched left before twisting my back, pushing my left elbow into my knee and stretching. Damn, that feels good.
I repeat the process on the other leg and notice Bria sat up and is now staring at my arm. Her eyes trail over the ink extending from my shoulder to my wrist.