Page 85 of Forever Offsides

“Coach, can you tell us what happened out there today? Was the heat a factor in your loss?”

“The guys played a good, hard game against a tough opponent under grueling conditions. I wish a few more plays had gone in our direction, and that falls on me.”

“So you’re taking responsibility for this loss?” the reporter persists. “Can you elaborate on that?”

Yeah, I’m falling in love with a woman who will tear my world apart, and I’m having a bitch of a time focusing on anything other than her and that.

“It’s my job to lead our team to victories, and that starts with better play-calling and better mental preparedness in the form of coaching. I’m not one who skirts blame or doesn’t take responsibility for my actions. Losses happen in this game, and we have to learn from them and do better next time.”

Tamira stands, and I inwardly groan. Here we go. “Coach, do you have any comment on Russel’s injury? He came out of the locker room at halftime with his left calf taped up.”

“It didn’t seem to impact him, and it was ruled a minor strain.”

“By Dr. Quinn Reyes, his girlfriend? Do you feel she’s capable of being an impartial part of the medical staff?”

She’s not his girlfriend. She’s fucking mine. I just have to figure out a way to make that happen without ruining everyone’s lives and careers.

“Dr. Reyes is an outstanding physician and takes her job and dedication to patient care as seriously as anyone I’ve seen.”

“But you’re not denying their relationship.”

“This is football, Tamira, not a reality TV show, and my players’ love lives aren’t what I’m here to discuss.”

She scowls, and that’ll likely come back to bite me in the ass, but I’m sick of her shit with that. I field two more questions and leave the podium. Mason is up next, and when I enter the back hallway, he’s chatting with Quinn. He spots me, squeezes her shoulder, gives me a head nod, and heads in for his turn.

I look around, but it’s quiet back here. Everyone is either still in the locker room or in that press room. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says. “Thanks for that in there. You didn’t need to do that, but I appreciate it.”

“I did need to do that.”

She shrugs. “Sorry about the loss today, Coach.”

I step into her and slide my hand around her back, needing to touch her. “We have to talk.”

“Yes,” she agrees, her green eyes on me. “Last night was great. But⁠—”

“Don’t do that,” I cut her off.

“What?”

“Don’t back out on me. Don’t say but and whatever else was going to follow it.”

This surprises her. “Isn’t that what you want me to do? What we should do?”

“No,” comes too easily from my lips. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Her brows pinch tighter. “Whenever someone says we have to talk, it never ends well.”

“We need time. Time to see what we could be. If it’s real and lasting and worth the risk. Time to figure everything else out when we conclude that it is. But I don’t want you running every time we cross the line because it’s safer and easier. I want to be with you. Even if we’re the only two people who know about it for a while.”

Her eyes are round, and her lips are parted. She wasn’t expecting this from me, and it’s part of what kept me up last night. We talk, we touch, we flirt, then we run. But as I lay there alone in bed last night, the smell of her on my skin and pillow, I don’t want football to be the only thing I have. I don’t want to be eighty and alone and loaded with regrets because I pushed the woman I could see myself loving for the rest of my life out the door.

But that doesn’t mean I’m jumping into this hastily or lightly either.

Before she can respond, her phone vibrates in her pocket between us. She steps back and pulls it out before she flips it around for me to see. My insides drop.

“You still sure that’s what you want, Coach?”