Her face crumples, and she continues rambling. “No, it’s not. God, you’re covered in coffee. I’m so sorry, Wilder.”
“Coach,” I grunt, pinning her with an icy gaze. “Hawthorne. Coach Hawthorne, Maisie.”
She nods. “Sorry.Coach Hawthorne. Sorry. I’m just… Now I’m flustered, and I really am sorry. It was an accident.”
My stomach knots when I see her bright blue eyes shining, like she’s two seconds away from crying or something.
Fucking hell.
Now I feel like an asshole.
Realization suddenly rushes me when I think about the fact that I’ve never given a fuck whether I was an asshole or not.
Until now, apparently.
Until the pretty little blonde standing across from me looks like I just kicked her dog.
I blow out a sigh and push down a rough swallow. “I said it’s fine, Maisie. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got another shirt.” I tear my gaze from her and walk over to the cabinet where I shoved the box of T-shirts, jackets, and other Hellcat merchandise that management gave me when I started. The only time I was planning on wearing this shit was when I’m here, doing my job. Not like I needed the over-the-top amount of it in the first place.
I wrench it open and swipe a T-shirt out of the top of the box, then reach behind to the collar at my nape and pull the soiledshirt off before balling it up to clean off the sticky residue left on my stomach.
There’s an audible hitch of breath, and I turn, my eyes landing on Maisie’s as she stares at me, her throat working. Her eyes trace over the midnight ink carved into the muscles of my arms, my chest, and lower to my stomach, where she pauses on the line of dark hair beneath my belly button that trails beneath the waistband of my sweats.
Her tongue peeks out and slides along her bottom lip, and I know, I just fucking know, that she’s thinking about the same thing I can’t seem to forget.
Our eyes meet, the air between us charged with suffocating tension, both of us frozen in place.
Until the sound of voices from the hallway drifts through the door, and it has me jerking, snapping out of whatever trance we were in.
Christ.
I hastily throw the fresh T-shirt over my head and drag it down my body, then shut the cabinet behind me and stalk back toward my desk.
“You can give me the rundown,” I say as I take my seat, thankful that the coffee made it onto my shirt, not covering the entirety of my desk. Thankful that whatever moment just happened was broken before I did something fucking stupid.
Because apparently, I don’tthinkwhen it comes to this girl.
Leaning back, I lace my fingers over my stomach and keep my gaze fixated on Maisie as she scrambles with the papers she’s snatched up from my desk. Some are stained with spots of my spilled black coffee, but not enough that she can’t read whatever she’s scribbled on the pages.
“Okay. Sure. Uh, so I was thinking that we could have an ‘afternoon with the players’ kind of thing?” The way she says it, it’s a question and not a statement.
“Are you asking… or telling me?”
For the briefest moment, so quick I almost miss it if I weren’t paying such close attention, annoyance flits across her face, her sensual mouth pulling into a scowl before she rolls her lips together, squares her shoulders, and lifts her chin.
“I’m asking for your feedback. That’s why you’re here, is it not?” Frustration laces each syllable, and I bite back a smirk at the fire.
Instead, I lift a brow and lean forward, placing my elbows onto the edge of my desk, noticing how her gaze flicks to the tattoos on my arms before darting back to my eyes.
“I’m here because I’m required to be, Miss Delacroix. The same as you. So please, continue.”
Her eyes narrow, and a cute-as-fuck little huff tumbles past her lips. Despite her annoyance at me, she focuses back on her paper.
“The purpose of it being an afternoon with the guys is so that the kids can feel comfortable around meeting new people, to give them a soft introduction. I thought maybe that a few of the players could read a book to them? Even a sports-related one, something engaging for the kids. Although I’m not sure if they’d be interested in doing something like that,” she says, chewing her lip in thought.
“Doesn’t matter. If I tell them to do it, they’ll do it.”
Maisie nods. “Okay.” She glances back down at the notes on her paper, and I let my gaze roam over her face, her long lashes coated with black, the shimmery gloss on her lips, the thin golden chain around her neck with a pink heart-shaped ring around it, down to the pale swell of her tits that peeks out from the top of her dress.
