I swear my uterus contracts just from the sound of his deep, gravelly voice. I clear my throat, trying to ignore my thoughts of him saying that while next to me in bed, his warm chest against my back as he kisses my shoulder.
“I’m a professional,” I blurt.
Oh god. My internal reminder just flew out of my mouth.
He arches a brow, looking amused.
I force myself to recover. “Sorry, I have a thing where I’m always composing emails in my head. Good morning, Coach Turner.”
“Noel.” He stands and picks up the stainless travel mug from his desk. “Ready to go?”
I just nod, not trusting myself to speak. He’s looking very coachlike today, wearing a dark-gray quarter zip with the team logo on a small pocket, black track pants, tennis shoes, and a black baseball cap with the team logo. When he gets over to the doorway and holds a hand out, inviting me to go first, I pick up a faint hint of his cologne.
Damn. It’s Creed Aventus. I recently did reviews of popular men’s colognes for women to buy their partners as a gift, and the smoky, earthy cologne with subtle notes of pineapple was myfavorite by far. It smells like a rich man flying you to a secluded beach for a bonfire and mind-blowing sex.
I walk toward the locker room door, which he holds open for me.
“Feeling better?” he asks when we step into the tunnel. “To your left. We’re going to the staff lot.”
“I’m good. Sorry about that.”
“No need to be.”
Eager to change the subject, I glance over and up at him. He’s clean-shaven. I picture him post-shower, a white towel wrapped around his waist as he shaves in front of his bathroom mirror.
“So I was wondering if I could interview you sometime on camera. It would be really easy. I want to do a thing called Tuesdays with Turner. I’d ask you about games, the players, that kind of thing.”
“Sure.”
That was a lot easier than I thought it would be, so I press my luck. “I understand if it’s not possible, but I’d like to accompany the team on any road trips I can.”
He furrows his brow. “You sure about that? They’re usually a grind. Not enough sleep, a different time zone every day, and when we lose, we’re a bunch of moody bastards. Pardon my language.”
I smile, remembering the number of times I said fuck to him yesterday. “I think we’re past that, Coach.”
“Call me Noel.”
“I can fly commercial so I’m not in the way. And I’ll book my own travel.”
“We’ve got room for you on the plane. Ask Jane to add you to any trips you want to come on; she sets up the travel.”
“Thanks.”
He opens the door to the staff lot and we walk out, the light fall breeze marking the change from hot weather to mild. His caris a dark maroon Range Rover, and he opens the passenger-side door for me.
“Here,” he says as I take my camera bag off my shoulder.
He moves to put my bag in the back seat and walks around to the driver’s side. I take a deep breath, preparing to pretend I’m unfazed by him.
Who am I kidding? I’m fazed. When I glance at one of his big hands wrapped around the steering wheel, I’m imagining what that hand would look like wrapped around my ponytail.
I focus on my phone, scrolling through comments on my recent posts.
“The keyboard warriors are salty today,” I say softly. “This guy says Carter let himself go in the offseason and now he looks like his pig’s twin brother.”
Noel’s lips quirk with a smile. “Tell him I’ve got a stick he can use if he wants to come show Carter how it’s done.”
I grin. “I actually love brands that push back on social media. They’re very popular.”
