wanted mattered.
A set of aluminum bleachers full of teenage boys meant more than any of those things combined.
She took a deep breath and turned to Brett.
“Is it all right? Or should I have the guys leave?”
“No, it’s perfect.” She cleared her throat.
He gave her a crooked little half smile, and her heart tipped a bit. She grabbed his arm for balance, stood on her toes and brushed a kiss across his cheek. His perpetual five o’clock shadow scraped her lips, but she didn’t mind. “Thank you.” She pulled back.
His long arms came around her, locking behind her lower back, preventing her from going anywhere.
Her body stiffened and she had a horrible moment of déjà vu. Was he about to violate the tentative trust they’d just built up by groping her in public? But instead he simply leaned over, placed a gentle kiss on her temple. “You’re welcome. Knock ’em dead.” His voice was low, husky, and he let her go as if he hadn’t just thrown every preconceived notion she’d developed about him in the garbage.
Confused didn’t begin to describe how she felt. He’d had her in a position of weakness, of vulnerability—both emotionally and physically—and didn’t take advantage of either. Novel concept. God, she needed to shake the memory of Dax from her mind. It seeped in, poisoned her thought process, her reactions to normal interactions. It could have ruined the chance for friendship with a fellow coach.
She hated overly sensitive people, and now she was starting to think and act like one. Not okay.
He had already turned to walk toward the bleachers. Chris jogged over to the parking lot as Central High School’s bus pulled up. She shook hands with the coach, pointed out where the guest locker room and training room were located and let them start warming up.
“Ladies,” she called as she walked to the courts. “Huddle up!” The girls hustled over. “We’re going to let Central have the court for a bit to warm up, and then we’ll do the line up and meet our opponents.” She took a moment to look each girl in the eye. “After that, the show is yours.”
The looks on the girls’ faces were priceless. They were prepared, they were ready, and best of all…they were having fun.
It was ugly, it was brutal, and it was heart-wrenching. But they’d pulled it out and won their first match.
She heaved a huge sigh as she unlocked the door to her townhouse and flung her bag onto the couch.
Northeastern had lost to Central last year, and almost every year before that. She’d watched the other team’s coach as he saw the writing on the wall, that they were going to be beat by Northeastern for the first time in six years. Disbelief had warred with frustration on his face, and she didn’t envy the opposing team’s ride home.
Despite the win and the glorious feeling of satisfaction, her head was pounding.
Nothing said headache like the eardrum-piercing shrieks of teenage girls.
She toed off her tennis shoes and left them in a jumble on the floor of the entryway. She would get them later. A growling stomach had her heading for the kitchen. The phone rang just as she hit the fridge for a bottle of water, and she groaned. She wanted to bask in the glow of winning, and the odds of whoever was on the other line letting her bask were slim to none.
But if she didn’t answer now, she’d just have to return the call later. She popped two ibuprofen, guzzled some water and grabbed a granola bar while the phone continued to ring. She picked up right before the machine would have kicked on.
“Christina, how are you?”
All the excitement from the win evaporated in an instant.
She almost felt the frostbite from her father’s stiff, cold greeting. His voice would have held the same lack of warmth even if she had been in their good graces. Her parents, she’d finally accepted one day, were not warm people. They were rigid, unyielding and formal to a fault.
Even though it was how she had
A set of aluminum bleachers full of teenage boys meant more than any of those things combined.
She took a deep breath and turned to Brett.
“Is it all right? Or should I have the guys leave?”
“No, it’s perfect.” She cleared her throat.
He gave her a crooked little half smile, and her heart tipped a bit. She grabbed his arm for balance, stood on her toes and brushed a kiss across his cheek. His perpetual five o’clock shadow scraped her lips, but she didn’t mind. “Thank you.” She pulled back.
His long arms came around her, locking behind her lower back, preventing her from going anywhere.
Her body stiffened and she had a horrible moment of déjà vu. Was he about to violate the tentative trust they’d just built up by groping her in public? But instead he simply leaned over, placed a gentle kiss on her temple. “You’re welcome. Knock ’em dead.” His voice was low, husky, and he let her go as if he hadn’t just thrown every preconceived notion she’d developed about him in the garbage.
Confused didn’t begin to describe how she felt. He’d had her in a position of weakness, of vulnerability—both emotionally and physically—and didn’t take advantage of either. Novel concept. God, she needed to shake the memory of Dax from her mind. It seeped in, poisoned her thought process, her reactions to normal interactions. It could have ruined the chance for friendship with a fellow coach.
She hated overly sensitive people, and now she was starting to think and act like one. Not okay.
He had already turned to walk toward the bleachers. Chris jogged over to the parking lot as Central High School’s bus pulled up. She shook hands with the coach, pointed out where the guest locker room and training room were located and let them start warming up.
“Ladies,” she called as she walked to the courts. “Huddle up!” The girls hustled over. “We’re going to let Central have the court for a bit to warm up, and then we’ll do the line up and meet our opponents.” She took a moment to look each girl in the eye. “After that, the show is yours.”
The looks on the girls’ faces were priceless. They were prepared, they were ready, and best of all…they were having fun.
It was ugly, it was brutal, and it was heart-wrenching. But they’d pulled it out and won their first match.
She heaved a huge sigh as she unlocked the door to her townhouse and flung her bag onto the couch.
Northeastern had lost to Central last year, and almost every year before that. She’d watched the other team’s coach as he saw the writing on the wall, that they were going to be beat by Northeastern for the first time in six years. Disbelief had warred with frustration on his face, and she didn’t envy the opposing team’s ride home.
Despite the win and the glorious feeling of satisfaction, her head was pounding.
Nothing said headache like the eardrum-piercing shrieks of teenage girls.
She toed off her tennis shoes and left them in a jumble on the floor of the entryway. She would get them later. A growling stomach had her heading for the kitchen. The phone rang just as she hit the fridge for a bottle of water, and she groaned. She wanted to bask in the glow of winning, and the odds of whoever was on the other line letting her bask were slim to none.
But if she didn’t answer now, she’d just have to return the call later. She popped two ibuprofen, guzzled some water and grabbed a granola bar while the phone continued to ring. She picked up right before the machine would have kicked on.
“Christina, how are you?”
All the excitement from the win evaporated in an instant.
She almost felt the frostbite from her father’s stiff, cold greeting. His voice would have held the same lack of warmth even if she had been in their good graces. Her parents, she’d finally accepted one day, were not warm people. They were rigid, unyielding and formal to a fault.
Even though it was how she had
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