Page 34 of Lucky Shot

“Thank you for being the volunteer to help me demonstrate this next drill,” he says, taking a few steps closer to me, something I have steadfastly avoided the entire time he’s been here today.

“I didn’t volunteer. Far from it.”

He leans forward, his lips by my ear, the warmth of his breath feathering over my skin, and the subtle scent of his cologne in my nose.

And there it is. The little zing under my skin I felt when I looked up from my desk to see him standing in the doorway of my office this morning.

“I’m teaching defense. It’ll look much better with you playing man-on-man coverage than me against some ten-year-old minors. Perception always matters and as a public figure, it’s been drilled in my head to never put myself in a situation where pictures can be taken and intentions can be misconstrued. So that means it’ll be you. Assuming you know how to handle a football.”

“Are you actually questioning if I can play?” I ask as he steps back. Fury may be racing through my veins, but I almost sag in relief at the respite from his proximity.

And I hate myself for it.

Just as I hate that his accent affects me. The little nuances to it and the way he emphasizes certain words. Or how my pulse quickens when he looks my way. Or the fact that I want him to take notice of me even though I keep telling myself I don’t.

I don’t like men like him. Ones who are all show in front of an audience and complete asses once the limelight is stripped away. Men who only do things when it’s to their benefit.

And yet days ago you once hoped for his attention.

“You staring at me isn’t going to get this drill taught,” Hardy says, interrupting my thoughts and my sudden notice of how perfectly sculpted his thighs are beneath the white soccer shorts he has on. Yes, the shorts are long, but they still showcase how incredibly fit he is. “The audience is rapt and waiting.”

Defending means closeness.

Proximity.

Means my ass pushing back against him while we bump against each other and struggling a bit.

A lot like sex with clothes on.

Fucking hell.

And while he has a very valid point about not wanting to put himself in an innocent yet easily misconstrued compromising position with a minor, I sure as shit don’t want to be in one with him either.

“I have other things to do,” I say, the words feeling like they’re being ripped from my throat.

“You can’t be afraid of little ol’ me,” he murmurs. Completely innocent words and yet they feel like a seductive sheen as they slide over my skin.

“I’m sure one of the other coaches would be more than willing to—”

“Guys,” he says to the crowd of kids standing on the side of the pitch and staring at the two of us, curious about our conversation. “Don’t you want to see Coach Whitney participate in some of these drills? Don’t you think she should help me out here?”

Hands still stretched way in the air begin to waver, the flutter of fingers stilling, as the idea of me going head-to-head with Hardy hits them.

“No. Really.” I sputter the words and forget his reasoning in a moment of panic. “Let one of the kids—”

“Coach. Coach. Coach.” The chant begins among the ranks as the kids most likely realize how exciting it would be for their coach to get schooled by one of the best in the world.

Each chant adds another weight to my shoulders and another chip in my resolve.

“Okay. Fine.” I hold my hands up and walk toward him on the pitch as the kids grow antsy with anticipation. “What’s the drill?”

“How to defend a ball in the corner to kill the clock,” he says, our eyes meeting and my skin prickling.

“Seriously?” I ask in reflex, to which he chuckles.

“Seriously.”

Defend a ball in the corner. That means me standing there with him pressed up against me—body to body, my back to his front. My job is to try and keep the ball confined while he tries to get it away. A lot of rubbing against each other, of tussling, of being in each other’s space.