Connor has the kind of charm, good looks, and entitled swagger that makes it seem like his success was handed to him—he’s on the top American football team in the league. The guy probably has a gold-plated toilet and a bathtub full of diamonds.
Meanwhile, I’ve had to fight hard for my success. Since the school is practically drowning in debt, I worry that I’ve lost my grip. That I’m failing.
A pointy little thought pokes me in the ribs, but before I make sense of it, loud voices with American accents echo from the balcony above the inner courtyard.
I don’t mean to listen, but it’s not like they have a volume button. The football players are all rowdy, raucous, and such...boys. If I were looking for a relationship, which I’m not,I’d want aman. Not someone immature like Connor or his teammates.
The voices filter louder. “We all have lady coaches?” one says.
“Figures the commish would tempt us with forbidden fruit,” another replies.
“Let me remind you of the playbook, guys. The women are off-limits—they’re our coaches,” the first guy says emphatically.
“The only coach I answer to is Hammer.” That’s definitely Connor speaking in his smooth, Appalachian accent.
Figures he’d say something like that.
I soon realize that only three of the guys are in the conversation. One of them must be out somewhere. Leaving the manor isn’t forbidden, but given what brought them here, I worry the missing member of the team is up to no good.
The first guy says, “The commish sent us here. Like it or not, he has more of a say in our careers than Hammer does. So, for the next month, these women are our coaches and nothing more.”
“Emphasis on women, but that’s all the more reason to behave,” the second one says in an even tone. I think it’s Grey, who, out of the group, seems like the voice of reason.
“Hot women.” Again, that’s Connor. He imitates a wolf howling.
I pause by a statue draped in ivy. A full-body flush works its way through me. There’s no way he’s referring to me. I’m not hideous, but I’m nothot—at least, no one has ever commented on my attractiveness. As a ballerina, I was complimented on my poise, my weight (that was my mother), and how lovely I looked in costume. In town, guys don’t pay attention to me—I haven’t dated since leaving France.
The football players’ voices float back to me.
“Not hot women, they’re our coaches,” Grey says in his low rumble of a voice.
Chase must be the other rather than Declan, who has a slight Irish accent. He adds, “Would you date Coach Hammer?
“Are you insane?” Connor asks.
“Remember what Hammer said? If one of us screws up, we’re all out. We abide by the playbook rules. No kissing, no dating, eyes up, hands off,” Grey says.
“Those are all playbook don’ts. What about some dos?” Conner asks.
“Dos, as inI do?” Chase says with a laugh.
A chorus of it bounces off the stone walls of the courtyard.
“Unless you fall in love. Then it’s okay. If she makes you an honest man, then all bets are off.” I like what Grey has to say the most so far.
“Not going to happen. Butme-ow, my coach is something. Tightly wound, a stickler for rules, so controlled?—”
“Sounds like just the woman to tame the wild in you, Wolf,” Chase says.
“As I said, not going to happen.”
The sound of pushing and shoving—likely the guys teasing each other—tears me from the spot by the statue and I hurry to the dining room.
A few minutes later, Connor enters. At least he isn’t late, but he didn’t change out of his outfit from earlier and into something suitable for dinner. Obviously, he ignored the guidebook for rules and expectations for Blancbourg students.
The echo of his voice in the courtyard filters through my mind as he moves toward the seat opposite me. I will my cheeks not to tint pink. “Good evening, Mr. Wolfe.”
“What’s up?” As he lowers in the chair, his knee bumps against mine. He doesn’t apologize.
