Chapter One
“Hi, I'm supposed to meet Mr. Anderson in about ten minutes. Could you point me in the right direction?” I held my arms against my stomach, hoping it looked natural and not like my nerves were shot to hell. This internship was a dream come true.
“You're going to want to head down this hallway; turn right once you pass the locker room.” The security guard’s smile stretched across his weathered face. His nametag read Barry.
I liked Barry instantly. I waved, thanking him as I headed to meet my temporary boss.
I checked my watch—I still had time. I probably looked like a damn lunatic, walking and smiling at everything. Despite being awful at playing sports, I loved them. I was clumsy and got way too winded when I walked upstairs, but watching football and baseball for hours? I'd do that for days. And now, I was going to be able to work with athletes. Learning from athletic trainers at the college level. Hell. Yes.
I turned right after the locker room. The offices had names on them, and I looked until I found Brock Anderson. I reviewed what I learned about him before I knocked. He played college football but only three years in the NFL before suffering a career ending injury. He was fairly young—just twenty-eight, an alumnus of the school, and was known to whip athletes into amazing shape. He got his masters in Athletic Training. I was going to learn so damn much.
Plastering on a smile that I had been told was too big for my face, I knocked on the door. I waited, hearing voices from within the office, and froze when the door opened.
No. This couldn't be.
It was The Asshole.
From the bar a week ago.
No.
It felt like gravity had given up on me at that moment. Like my consciousness had separated from my body.
He stared at me, those scary blue eyes seeing through me. Maybe he worked here. No way this was Mr. Anderson. The pictures showed a clean shaven, handsome guy who maybe didn’t smile. This guy had shaggy hair, a dark beard, no smile at all. My gaze darted to his polo, which stretched tight across his chest. And what a chest it was.
Focus, Grace.
Shit.
Anderson was embroidered underneath the school’s logo.
Shit. Damn. Balls.
He was my new supervisor.
My fist clenched.
“Uh, hi. I'm Grace Turner.” I held out my sweaty hand, hoping the trembling wasn't too obvious. I needed to get off to a good start. My career goals were important. More important than this guy being a dick. So, I waited. And waited. And waited.
His lips turned downward. So much so that it had to hurt his face. My hand still hung between us, awkward and a mixture of embarrassment to the tenth degree. He moved one of his hands to scratch his jaw, bringing my attention to his incredible jawline.
I dropped my hand. I couldn't handle the flip-flopping going on in my stomach, and when I got uncomfortable, word vomit ensued. Hence, why I decided to attempt being friendly. “Are you Brock Anderson? I'm the one who received the internship for the season. I'm Grace. I’m so excited for this opportunity.”
I’d introduced myself. Again. And, he still hadn't said a word. Someone moved into view from his office and gave me a small wave. I returned the gesture to the older gentleman, and that was when Asshole Anderson spoke.
“Excuse me.” He motioned with his large wrist for me to leave the office.
I stepped back, shocked, and gasped when he shut the door in my face. What. The. Hell. I pinched my nose, taking deep breaths. I counted to three a couple of times and calmed myself down, but then loud, angry voices carried through the door. It was him, his voice brasher and deeper than anyone else's. So, I did what anyone would do. I listened.
“I refuse to train immature people. Look, Victor—” Someone interrupted him, Victor, my guess. I couldn't decipher what Victor said, but Brock Asshole Anderson didn't like it. Not one bit.
“She was the best option? I doubt it. Come on. Assign her to someone else. I don't have time for an attention-hungry, little girl. I want someone serious who works their ass off. Not her.” His voice carried through the door, stabbing me like a bunch of knives.
Attention-hungry.
Little girl.
Not serious.
Not her.
Hell. No. My fists clenched at my sides, my heart raced way past the point of comfort, and I contemplated a million ways to kill him. But, that wouldn't help my goals, and I was that tenacious, annoying person who, when told they couldn’t do something, determined to prove others wrong.
He’d judged me. Entirely incorrectly, but a judgment all the same. Maybe he remembered me from the bar. Sure, I tried flirting after a dare from my best friend, and he made it clear he wasn't interested. Quite clear. If he remembered me from that night, it didn’t bode well for me. It wasn’t like I threw myself at him. I just offered to buy him a drink, and after a quick look up and down, he laughed and said absolutely not. Shame and regret clogged my throat.
Without waiting to hear what else was said, I took life by the balls. I had learned from a young age that I had to fight for what I wanted in life. Happiness? That was a choice I had to work at every day. I sensed my mom cheering for me from above when I pounded on the door, hard.
The voices stopped, someone letting out a curse. Then, the door opened. Brad grimaced at my expression. I had been told I had a fire in my eyes when I got pissed. I had more than fire right now. It was a raging inferno. “As much as I enjoyed your polite, pleasant conversation, I earned the internship.”
Brock Asshole Anderson stared me down.
If he wanted to see me squirm, that was too damn bad. I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows in challenge.
Victor, clearly not the alpha in this situation, gave me a quick nod and strolled out. “We'll talk later, Brock.”
That left me and him. He blinked at me, assessing me, sighing so deeply it took a minute for it to leave his lungs. He had to have massive lungs, right? He was massive. Or perhaps he was just a massive asshole.
“Don't wear that here.” He scolded my carefully planned outfit—a professional black dress—and my skin tingled with embarrassment. “Wear team gear.”
He continued, “Be here every day at seven. You'll have a quick lunch, and the time changes every day. You'll leave at four.” He moved from the doorway to sit at his desk, shuffling through papers.
I cringed. My classes began at four Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I was not going to give him any excuse. I hoped my professors accepted me being tardy, or I would be screwed.
“Okay.”
“Once games start, you're expected at every home and away game. I'll have my secretary print you a schedule. If you're late once, you're done.” He looked up, eyes smoldering. “Absolutely none of the flirting shit or dating any of the players. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” I croaked, still shocked at his crassness. His words erased any doubt over whether he remembered that night. But I wouldn’t acknowledge it. I remained at the door frame, awkward, uncomfortable, angry, and sweaty. I chewed on my bottom lip, unsure what to do. His jaw clenched, his gaze briefly going to my mouth. It was so quick, I almost missed it.
He cleared his throat, darting his gaze to the chair in front of him. “Sit.”
I obeyed like a desperate, foolishly hopeful girl. I needed, wanted, dreamed of this chance. He would not ruin it. It was only four months. I could put up with the Asshole for four months. “We'll do a tour of the stadium today after we set some ground rules.”