“I’m hoping to start a movement. Why wouldn’t we seek support from our coaches? A friend already hit up ours, so I thought I’d go for gold and ask someone else.”
“I’m happy to participate. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.” Honestly, I’m surprised by how good I feel knowing that I can do this for someone.
“Can I put one of these on your door, Coach?” she asks, holding up a sticker.
I nod. One of Alka’s athletes suggested our students propose putting one of their stickers on the teacher’s doors, so they’re not asked over and over again once they’ve agreed. There’s an alternate sticker that just says “I support our athletes” which is code for our students to know they don’t want to or are not in a position to do so financially.
Carly leaves after promising me she’ll return throughout the school year with various things that I can proudly display. I grin as she goes and decide that this is probably the best thing I’ve done this year. It feels good to help others.
Peeling the backing off a sticker, I secure it to my shirt and get up. I have a meeting with Quin about the festival andwhere we’re going to set up the tent for the auctions. There are over a hundred student athletes signed up at this point, which completely blows me away. I’m really happy to see that the football team got involved and wonder how Lemon actually feels about it.
On my wayback from Quin’s office, I cut around the football field. I don’t know their schedule, but I’m not entirely surprised to find them practicing. Giving the field a wide berth so I don’t draw attention to myself, I watch them. There are half a dozen smaller groups practicing around the field, doing various drills I can’t identify.
Running into pads on wheels that don’t move. Running over things on the ground, their feet dancing like the ground is hot.
I pause, leaning against the end of the bleachers as I watch. How many coaches are there? I see at least eight. Then again, they have a hundred players, so I guess that checks.
Lemon is always the easiest one to spot in any room. His fashion can be defined as bright. Today he’s in bright white leggings and a black skirt that reminds me of the kind a cheerleader would wear. He’s wearing sneakers, a wide-brimmed sun hat and a sequin crop top. Hell, I can even tell that his nails are painted from where I’m standing.
I’ve never met anyone like him. Attitude aside, he’s remarkable. Someone so unapologetically himself every single day. He wears what he wants to with his shoulders back and his head held high.
Everything about him has been intriguing since we met. When I see him, it’s hard to look away. He just has this presenceabout him. I swear, he was royalty in a past life. His head is made for a crown.
It’s irritating how much space and time he takes up in my head every day. Part of it is trying to puzzle out his clear hatred of me. The other is replaying that stupid kiss thatshouldn’thave happened. Why did it have to be so… consuming?
When he turns to the right, I can see him in profile. He’s wearing sunglasses and is holding the ball. Clearly, he’s giving instructions as his lips move and he makes the motion of throwing. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but I have the urge to listen.
I’ve only ever seen this man angry. What does he sound like when he’s not? When he’s talking to his players? When he’s coaching them? He throws the ball and while I know nothing about football, it spirals through the air in a clean arc. I’m impressed even knowing very little. That was a good throw, right?
My eyes fall back to him and he’s smiling. My stomach flips. Lemon has a beautiful smile that transforms his face.
I watch for a while longer, trying to keep my attention on the entire experience as opposed to just Lemon. We’re not friends. He’d not be happy to see me. But maybe if I show his team some support, he’d find that I’m not here to be his competition? I still don’t understand where his hate stems from.
After a while, I push myself from the bleachers and head to the arena where I’d been going before I was distracted. By football.
The thought makes me chuckle as I push open the doors. Everything but the ice rink is on the basement floor, including the gym where my team conditions. Which is where they’re at today. Just as I open the stairwell door, I hear my name and my heart lurches.
“Bardot!”
I pause just inside the door. I didn’t hear that, did I?
The door opening a minute later has me stepping backwards as I come face to face with Lemon. He’s pulled his sunglasses off so I’m staring into his pretty face, shadowed by the big rim of his sun hat.
Once again, he’s mad about something.
Warily, I ask, “What’s up, Lemon?” Up close, he looks even better in the clothes he’s wearing. They wrap and shape his body perfectly. My fingers itch to touch the material of his leggings.
“Why were you spying on my practice?” he demands.
I sigh. “I was just watching and marveling at the fact that you manage so many players.”
“Are you trying to steal my plays now too?”
I blink at him. “Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth? We are two different sports. Two very different arenas. How the hell would I adapt your plays to hockey?”
“You steal things. I see you,” he insists.
Rubbing my face, I sigh. “You’re truly exhausting, Lemon. I won’t admire your team again. Sorry for the insult.”
