I smirk. “I really don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
My smirk broadens into a full-blown smile. “I have my suspicions. But either way, it’s only fair, Luca. I told you the truth about why I left your hotel room. You owe me this.”
Luca takes a step forward, maintaining eye contact as he closes the gap between our bodies. “I realized if I had to watch a fuckboy like Jeremy Calhoun making moves onmymathlete while pretending to be your eager student …” He takes another step forward, and the small channel of air between us feels supercharged and crackling. “Then the limit to my ‘hell to the fucking no’ … would not exist.”
CHAPTER 10
Luca
WHENIENTERthe practice field in the predawn light, it’s a few minutes past five thirty. I’ve got my cleats dangling by their laces in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and a scowl on my face whenever I’m not yawning.
I meant it yesterday when I said I’d give Chelsea one chance to convince me of her coaching prowess, but after sleeping on it—and especially when my alarm went off a full hour earlier than necessary this morning—I’ve realized it was my stupid physical attraction to Chelsea that foolishly inspired me to say yes to this doomed audition.
“You’re late,” Chelsea snaps as I approach her at the fifty-yard line. She’s got a stopwatch around her neck, her arms folded, and her toe tapping in a classic sign of impatience. Behind her, she’s already got a cone grid and two sleds set up.
As I come to a stop in front of her, I take a languid sip of coffee. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Every minute counts. That’s true, regardless, but especially when you’re a player on the bubble.”
I sigh. “If you think berating me will motivate me, think again. I only respond to positive reinforcement and praise.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You might even say I’ve got a praise kink.”
“Luca, Jesus Christ.”
“I’m joking, Chelsea. Obviously.” I side-eye her. “Or am I?”
“Save the jokes. We’ve got important work to do here and time’s at a premium.” She jerks her chin toward my cleats. “Did you bring some tape?”
“Of course.”
“Then stop standing there like a dummy with arms and tape up. We’ll start with footwork.”
She’s merciless.
After only twenty minutes, I’m already dripping with sweat and breathing hard.
Score one, Chelsea the Mathlete.
The woman ran me through a four-phase mirror drill like her life depended on it, testing my agility, reaction time, and redirect burst, thereby laying bare some weaknesses I didn’t know I had in embarrassingly stark fashion. Not only that, she impressively ran every drill alongside me, all the while barking orders and corrections at me like she was trying to save me from swerving off a steep cliff in a go-kart.
I think it’s fair to say that, in less than half an hour, Chelsea’s spotted some things no other coach has noticed about me. Or at least, things no other coach has bothered to tell me about.
Chelsea throws me a towel and I wipe the sweat from my face and neck.
“That’s barely scratching the surface of what we need to work on,” she says. “But it’s a fair introduction.”
As I inhale deeply, trying to catch my breath, she hands me a bottle of water, and I take a long guzzle, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and mutter, “Putting me through some footwork drills doesn’t prove much. This drill could have been your specialty. Your one talent.”
“I guess we’ll find out.” She jerks her chin toward the sleds. “Sled push with edge control is next.”
It’s another basic drill. But this time, unlike last time, I’m not inclined to scoff as I walk over to where she’s indicated.
“The fundamentals are where most journeymen fail,” Chelsea says, as she trails behind me. “Especially when it comes to holding ground and disengaging.”
