I recognize it because I have it too.
Fuck.
Practice wraps up a few minutes later. The girls disperse toward the bleachers, grabbing bags and water bottles, the volume rising as they shift from athletes back to silly teenagers. I hang back at the edge of the field, arms crossed over my chest, trying to look like a regular guy and not a man who just got his entire world knocked off its axis by a killer pair of legs.
The coach is talking to one of her players, a hand on her back, nodding as she listens. Then she glances up, scanning the perimeter of the field with sharp eyes, and her gaze lands on me.
She goes still for just a second, as if she’s assessing me. Her eyes narrow slightly—not totally aggressive, but alert. And protective.
Good. That's exactly what she should be. I mean, a strange man lurking at the edge of a high school soccer field? She'd be an idiot not to be wary.
She says something to the player, who nods and jogs off toward the bleachers. Then she heads straight for me, ponytail swaying with every step, and stops about five feet away with her hands on her hips.
"Hi there. Can I help you?"
Her voice is friendly enough, but there's steel underneath it. A clear subtext that sayswho are you and why are you watching my girls?
I like her immediately.
Dammit.
"I'm here for Riley Dawson," I say, keeping my voice even and as neutral as I can. And not affected by the fact that she's even more gorgeous up close, with her bright green eyes, full lips, and perky little nose.
She relaxes a fraction, but she's still sizing me up. “She doesn’t have anyone else on her pickup list."
"Her dad's a trucker. He got a week full of long days. I'm the backup."
"And you are...?"
"Family friend." I pause. "Uncle Ike, apparently."
The wariness fades in her expression, replaced by a spark of amusement. "Apparently?"
"She started calling me that when she was barely above my knee. It stuck."
Now she smiles—just a smidge, one corner of her mouth curving up in a way that makes me want to see the full thing. "That's sweet."
I grunt. I don't do sweet. But something about how she says it, with that teasing edge underneath...gets under my skin.
"I'm Sloane Chandler," she says, extending her hand. "I took over the soccer program this year."
Her hand is smaller than mine, but her grip is firm and confident. The brief press of her palm against mine sends heat shooting up my arm, surprising me.
"Ike Thurman."
"Nice to meet you, Ike Thurman." She holds my gaze for a beat too long before releasing my hand. "Are you from around here? I haven't seen you at any other practices."
"I’m the Captain of the Deepwood Mountain Fire Department," I say. "My shifts don't always line up with Riley’s soccer schedule."
Her eyebrows lift, and there's that spark again—curiosity or interest, maybe, but probably something I shouldn't be reading into. "Fire captain. That explains the..." She waves her hand in my direction.
I wait. "The what?"
"The whole..." There’s a smile threatening to break through, and I can see her fighting it. "Authority thing you've got going on."
I—I’m not sure what to do with that. Is she...is she flirting with me?
No.She's making casual conversation.
