When I open my eyes, I check my phone and realize I slept for an hour.An hour.Shit. Without Wade’s help with my setup, I actually might be late. I spring into action and grab the emergency bag I keep here. I brush my teeth, fix my ponytail, apply deodorant, and wash my face. When I walk back into the lounging area, Lachlan’s still sitting in the same chair, doing something on his phone. He’s so fucking gorgeous that for a split second, I want to drop all pretenses and kiss him. I don’t. I won’t. Good looks do not overshadow good hearts.Ever.
Outwardly, I ignore him when I grab my cup to toss it. Inwardly, my heart is skyrocketing. I say goodbye to Marissa and jog to the pitch. It’s only a block over, so it’s not like it’s a huge feat, but I have a lot of shit to do before the kids I’m training get here. In my mind, I start going over the drills. I’ve never worked with a co-ed team, but since it’s just drills and training, they could be poodles and still catch on. Wade usually trains the boys/men, and when he’s out of town playing, Cooper does it or he has some of his friends drop by. Today, both of them were busy, so the kids are stuck with me. I’m walking out of the building with cones in one arm and dragging a bucket full of soccer balls with the other, when I get the tingling sensation that crawls up my arms and seeps into my core when Lach’s around.
“Let me help you,” he says behind me.
I think about it. If I let him help, I’m sort of letting him in, but I’ll get this done faster. Fuck it. If he’s dead set on following me around and trying to make me feel like shit at every turn, he might as well help. I let him grab the bucket, set the cones down, and go back inside for the nets. The only reason I’m emotional when he’s around is that I let my guard down completely for him, once, and it felt good. I felt something. Now, I can’t make myself not feel things around him. He makes me angry, sad, confused, and relieved. Worst of all, he brought butterflies with him and set them free in my stomach. He’s not the Lach I once knew, though. He may look the same, walk the same, and smell the same, but it’s not him. The imposter in front of me shouldn’t even make me feel this way, and I hate it. I take a very deep breath and focus on soccer. Soccer and helping people are the only things that get me going these days. With his help, the setup is done fifteen minutes before the kids are supposed to get here.
“Thank you,” I say, my eyes on the pitch.
“You’re welcome.”God, his voice. His freaking voice still slays me.
At least, he still has manners. He follows me and looks around when I walk back inside to grab my water bottle. Part of me wants to show him around the center, let him see my office, tell him all of the things I’ve done here and will continue to do, but I don’t. So far, my head is winning the battle against my heart. It’s not an easy feat. I want him to kiss me again, but I don’t. I want him to fuck me, but I don’t. I want to show him this part of my life, but I can’t. Letting him see what I do here would be letting him in more, and I don’t know how to feel about it. It’s a sad realization. Lachlan was once my best friend. Now he’s just a stranger who makes my heart skip.
“You want Gatorade?” I ask, opening the fridge.
“Sure.”
I grab the yellow one — his favorite — and my refilled water bottle, and head to the door. As I approach, he pushes the door open with his back and holds it that way for me. When I get right in front of him, I thrust the Gatorade into his chest — the closest thing I’ll ever get to a punch. I know this because the impact makes my hand hurt.
My eyes stay on the bottle, which he still hasn’t grabbed. “I don’t know if it’s still your favorite. We have other choices, if you want them.”
He wraps his hand over mine as he grabs the bottle. Fireworks go off in my head, the remnants zipping through the rest of my body. Somehow, I manage to hold back the gasp in my throat and not react outwardly.
“There’s only ever been one choice,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against my hand.
Oh. My. God. Why does he do this? I glare up at him and find that cocky-ass smirk on his face. My heart, of course, does a flip. I take my hand and walk onto the field. I’m waiting for eight people today — four girls and four guys. Right now, I’m counting seven. Movement catches the corner of my eye and I turn to find the straggler running over. I can already tell he’s trouble with his messy light brown hair, golden skin, and chiseled jaw. If his hair was a little darker and his eyes were green, I’d say he’s related to Lachlan. I bet he’s probably the hottest soccer player at his college. I glance at the girls. Two of them look like they’re freaking out. The other two are rolling their eyes.
“Hurry up, Barlow,” one of the guys shouts.
“I told you not to stay at the party last night,” another one says.
I give them a moment. I used to hate when my coaches didn’t let us talk before training. During was impossible, and after was exhausting. I look at my watch. They’re five minutes early, so I’ll give them that. The kid, Barlow, finally reaches us. He looks at me and whistles, one of those cartoon whistles that lets everyone know he likes what he sees.
I roll my eyes. “Start stretching.”
I walk back to the chair to get my clipboard with all their information — names, ages, schools, where they’ve played, for how long, etc. Lach is sitting in the chair, legs sprawled out like he’s totally comfortable, which I know is a lie. That chair sucks. He’s wearing sneakers, black joggers, and a plain light gray short-sleeved t-shirt. I’m sure he dressed this way knowing he was coming to the pitch, but I don’t think he realized how hot it could get. Normally, it’s a little cooler this time of year, but we had a weird winter and we’re having a strange spring. Today, it’s eighty-five and sunny. Not black jogger weather, in my opinion, but that’s on him. Closing the distance between us, I grab the clipboard from underneath the chair and stand next to him as I scan it. There’s no shade anywhere else, and in about thirty-five minutes, I’ll be willing to sit on his lap if it means getting out of the sun.
“I bet these fuckers trip over themselves to sign up when they hear you’ll be here,” he says.
“You’d lose that bet.” I shoot him a quick glance. “I don’t usually train co-ed.”
“Good,” he says. “That last fucker who got here is already on my nerves.”
“Why?” I raise an eyebrow. “Does he remind you of someone?”
He scowls. “Does he remindyouof someone?”
“A little, yeah.”
His scowl deepens. I keep reading. There’s no point in telling him that while we’re on the pitch, to me he’s just another kid I’m training. Lach wouldn’t care. He’d probably be bothered if a baby whistled at me. I have to admit, I’m kind of surprised to see him upset about the attention I’ve been getting from guys. With the amount of animosity he feels toward me, I wouldn’t think he’d still be jealous. I will say, Wade is the only one who has ever publicly pursued me in three years, so it’s funny that this happens when Lach happens to be here. The jealousy is the only part of the old Lach I’ve seen so far, and I like it.
I’m such a hypocrite. My father was a very jealous man, and I’d constantly tell my mother that it was a toxic trait. Now, look at me. I jog over to the group, taking the clipboard with me. There’s no way I’ll memorize any of this in the minute we have left. They’re all still stretching when I reach them.
“Before we start,” I say loudly. I’ve gotten used to being loud here. “My name is Coach Delilah; you can call me that or Lyla or Dee. I don’t mind,” I start.
“You can callmewhatever you want,” the Barlow kid says.
“Shut up. You may want to hear this,” I snap and go back to what I was saying. “I go fast. If you’re good enough, you’ll catch on quick. If you’re not good enough, this will be good for your endurance and you’ll get there. If you don’t want to work to get there, you can get the fuck off the pitch and go home, because I won’t waste my time on you.”
