Winner Takes All (2 page)

“I know who Drew is,” he interrupted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cameron walk onto the field to speak to the players.

Annabelle smiled, creating a shallow dimple in her right cheek. “Sorry, but you were looking at me like you didn't know what I was talking about.”

He turned to face her, noting how her long thick hair kept teasing her jawline when the wind blew. The strands were dark on top, the color of a rich Tennessee whiskey, which slowly faded to a brighter blond on the ends, curling slightly into a perfect outward flip.

“That's because I don't, Ms. Turner,” he explained.

Her brow crinkled at his abrupt tone. Excuse him for being an asshole, but he had a team to coach and this woman, with her provocative scent and legs for days, was pulling his thoughts off of play calling and onto lazy afternoon sex.

“Drew hired me last season to work with the players,” she explained, which still wasn't much of an explanation. “Since the team doesn't have an official doctor, he thought I could help them.”

“Help them with what?” Yeah, he knew what physical therapists could do for football players. As a professional, he'd been treated by some of the top PTs in the country. What he didn't know was why she was here, with a high school football team. He'd never heard of a high school football program hiring their own therapists and doctors, unless it was a wealthy 5A school, which Blanco Valley wasn't.

“Stretching,” she answered. “Conditioning. Treating old injuries that might hinder their abilities.”

Blake hadn't been made aware of a physical therapist working with the team. That sort of practice was unorthodox and unnecessary in Blake's mind. Professional football teams had all sorts of trainers and doctors to make sure the players were kept in the best shape possible.

But this was high school, for crying out loud. What the hell did they need a physical therapist for?

“Talent is what these kids need, Ms. Turner. Not stretching exercises.”

Her mouth opened to say something, then shut again. “Drew thinks I can—”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Last I checked, Drew Spalding wasn't this team's head coach. I am. I don't know you from Adam, so I'm not about to let you walk in here and step on my toes.” He turned from her and walked onto the field, determined to get his mind back on his players and off this woman.

But the tenacious little thing had other plans because she grabbed his forearm, digging her sharp fingernails into his flesh, giving him an impression of delicate, soft skin, which was odd given the firm grasp she had on his arm.

“Are you dismissing me, Mr. Carpenter?” she demanded.

He spared the hand on his arm a quick glance, noting how trim and neat her fingernails were. Unpainted. Practical. Then quirked a brow at her. “Beautiful and insightful. Quite a combination.”

She stared at him for a moment, drilling her greenish-brown eyes into his and touching a place deep inside that hadn't been touched in a long time. The one that had to do with arousal and reacting to a beautiful woman. Then the angelic look on her face was replaced with a firm set of her full mouth, a look she no doubt mastered.

“You can't just shrug me off, Mr. Carpenter. Even though you didn't hire me, I can be helpful to your players.” She took a step toward him. “You haven't even seen what I can do yet.”

He allowed his gaze to drift over her lithe body, touching on her flat stomach, then skimming down her toned legs. As a football player, Blake had mastered the art of intimidation, often being able to get inside his opponent's head with a simple searing look.

But he had to give this five-foot-nothing sprite some credit. She held her ground almost as well as some of the fiercest players he'd gone up against.

“I don't need to see what you can do, Ms. Turner.” He ended the conversation by turning his back on her and walking the rest of the way to the center of the football field. Whether or not she actually left, he had no idea. But he could have sworn he heard the words
impossible asshole
.

Yeah, he was that.

B
lake Carpenter was a surly son of a bitch who needed the giant stick up his rear end to be surgically extracted.

By a team of world-renowned doctors.

Annabelle had known some obstinate people in her life. Hell, she could be pretty darn stubborn when she wanted to be. But this guy practically gave new definition to the word.

She didn't back down from anyone, though, and she wasn't about to let some gorgeous ex-football player think he could bully her. If he didn't want to talk to her on the field, fine. She'd ambush him in his office. She'd only been working with the team for one season, but they'd quickly become like her little brothers. They were good kids who loved football and deserved every chance at success. Would Blake Carpenter finally be the one who helped them achieve that?

Of course Annabelle knew who he was. The guy had been one of the top quarterbacks in the game and was also a native to Blanco Valley. What she hadn't known was what a grumpy shithead he was.

All those Gatorade and Under Armour commercials he'd starred in not only showed a guy with muscles cut from marble, but also someone who was halfway likeable.

And if posing in nothing but those spandex boxer brief things—because she had no idea what the technical term for those babies was, other than penile enhancer—hadn't been enough to turn her head, his charity work had sealed the deal. She'd seen a special on
Dateline
talking about the large amount of money he'd donated to the children's wing of a Green Bay hospital. After that, she figured anyone who spent his off days with terminally ill kids, starting an afternoon program for them so they could get outside for a few hours and learn football, was someone more than just a pretty face and deliciously hot bod.

Who would have known that Blake Carpenter, one of the most feared quarterbacks in the NFL, would have no problem getting eye level with a four-year-old so he could show the kid how to cradle a football? At the end of the segment, Blake had leaned down and kissed the boy on top of his head, which had been covered with bandages from a recent surgery to remove a brain tumor.

Unfortunately, all that had eventually been overshadowed by his steroid scandal, which had taken the media and country by storm. Instead of being remembered as an amazing athlete and as a hero to terminally ill children, he'd been hailed as a liar and a cheater. Annabelle had tried not to fall in line with the rest of the country by slinging mud at the guy. How could he be that innocent after testing positive for performance-enhancing drugs and then abruptly retiring?

So which one was the real Blake? The man who got choked up over a kid with brain cancer? Or the man who was willing to shoot God knew what into his body in the name of winning.

She glanced at her watch and noted how much time she had before her first appointment at her studio. Her physical therapy practice was located in the heart of town and offered services for those recovering from an injury or some kind of surgical procedure. She loved what she did, but more than that, she loved being able to help people get their lives, and health, back on track.

She'd be damned if she'd allow their head coach to push her away from helping these kids.

And then they were there. The team filed down the hallway, the sounds of their conversations and cleats clunking on the cement floor invading the once peaceful locker room.

She stood back while the kids made their way to their lockers to change out of their gear. Cameron followed, along with two other coaches. Blake was the last one off the field, and she took the opportunity to catch his attention.

His Bobcats baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, which were still shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses. The hard line of his mouth, set on a clean-shaven square jaw, and his straight nose were the only things visible on his face.

Annabelle strode up next to him, determined not to let the don't-speak-to-me vibe radiating from his imposing six-foot-whatever frame deter her.

“Still here, Ms. Turner?” he said without slowing his long-legged stride, which threatened to leave her in the dust.

“Five minutes is all I'm asking,” she pushed. When Blake kept walking and didn't respond, she pressed on. “I just want to offer my thoughts on some of the players.”

“Do you have coaching experience, Ms. Turner?” he asked as they rounded a corner that led to his office.

Did he have to walk so damn fast? She practically had to trot to keep up with the guy.

“Do you have to call me that?” she asked instead of answering his question, which was ridiculous anyway. “I would prefer you use my first name.”

He came to a sudden stop and she almost plowed into him.

“I'll use your first name when the alternative stops making you blush,” he answered in a low voice. Then he turned around and kept walking, leaving her gaping at shoulders so wide she was surprised he could find T-shirts that fit him.

Had he really just said that to her?

And did she really blush whenever he addressed her so formally?

You know you do.

Something about the way he said
Mizzzz
Turner, so gentlemanly. And yet, the guy was anything but a gentleman, which made the way he said her name sound more sinful than it should have been.

The heat flaming her cheeks was unmistakable. She knew perfectly well what it was. What she hadn't counted on was Blake being able to notice it so easily. Hopefully it had more to do with his ability to be detail oriented and less with her being so damn readable.

Hopefully.

Yeah, that was it.

She blinked and realized he'd ditched her. Yet again. She took off after him, into his office, but Blake was already there, removing his sunglasses and settling in the chair behind his desk.

She pushed through the door without bothering to knock or waiting for an invitation. He wouldn't give her one anyway.

“I'm beginning to think you don't understand English, Ms. Turner,” he said as she closed the door behind her.

“I—” she started, then snapped her mouth shut, knowing chastising him for using her last name again wouldn't do any good.

His office was big but cluttered with shelves, photos, books, and a television. Her gaze roamed for a moment before settling on the big man leaning back in his office chair as though he didn't have a care in the world. His hat still covered his hair, which, she knew from TV and magazines, was dirty blond. The kind that had probably been white when he'd been a kid but had darkened naturally over time. The fact that his hair wasn't visible beneath the hat, except for the back of his neck, meant he kept it trimmed neatly. She bet he had the type of hair that a woman could run her fingers through.

Odd that she would think such a thing. As though she wanted to test it out for herself.

But she didn't.

Blake folded his hands across his flat stomach and stared at her out of eyes so blue, it was like looking at a cloudless summer sky.

The same, and now familiar, heat slid low in her belly and spread all over, to every limb, until she felt like coming out of her skin. The uncomfortable sensation was as foreign as it was exciting but also left her feeling unnerved and confused. The out-of-sorts feeling had been the same with her ex-husband. Nathan had used his good looks, though Annabelle doubted Blake had the same vanity, to make women discombobulated, which she'd fallen for. Only this time, she tamped the feeling down, refusing to spiral down the same tunnel of lust she'd fallen down before.

To mask the jittery nerves, Annabelle lifted her chin and jabbed her hands onto her hips. “I'm not leaving until I have my say.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Clearly.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it, expecting more head-butting. His quick agreement, or maybe
surrendering
was a better word, left her momentarily speechless. “I've been working with these kids for a year, Mr. Carpenter,” she told him. She tilted her head to one side and studied him as he leaned farther back in his chair. “Or would you rather I call you Blake?”

One of his thick shoulders moved in a half shrug. “You can call me whatever you'd like. I don't really care.”

How about I call you asshole?
“Fine. The point I'm trying to make is that I don't want to intrude on your coaching. But these kids need proper training—thorough stretches before and after practice.”

“I'm giving them proper training, Ms. Turner.” Blake stared at her for a moment; then his office door opened. Pat Walters, a senior, and one of the kids Annabelle had worked with last season, poked his sweaty head in. “Coach, do you have a minute?”

“In a sec,” Blake answered.

Pat shut the door, and Annabelle was left alone with Mr. I-Don't-Need-Anybody's-Help.

“Him, for example.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating where Pat had just been. “Pat has a history of pulling his groin muscle. It's going to continue to give him a problem unless it receives proper treatment. I started working with him at the end of last season and he's made a lot of improvement.” She held up an index finger when Blake opened his mouth to argue. “In fact, I was helping him so much that his dad started bringing him to my studio on Saturday mornings.”

“Is that right?” Blake asked.

“Yes,” she reiterated. “And last season, your forward, Connor Phillips, asked me if I could help him with some stretches too.”

“If these kids want to take physical therapy on their own time, that's their business,” Blake stated.

Annabelle pulled in a deep breath, utilizing the relaxation techniques she'd learned in yoga years ago. The guy sitting across the wide desk from her was rapidly threatening the calm atmosphere she'd worked so hard to create for herself. Ever since her divorce, Annabelle had sworn she'd never allow a man to create a ripple in the life she'd established. Her ex-husband had obliterated the reality she'd lived in and had shattered her confidence. After she'd put the pieces of her life back together, she'd been careful not to allow another man to make her feel less than she really was.

She studied Blake for a moment, allowing her gaze to touch on the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. “Why are you so against me being here?”

He swiveled the chair back and forth. “If you want to work with the players on your own time, that's your business. But once these kids are on the field, they're my business. They need to be focusing on plays and honing their skills. The stretching I have them doing is more than enough.”

“I'm not saying it's not. But I can work one on one with them and focus on their individual needs.” The guy either had a major superiority complex, or he didn't trust anyone else being on the scene with him, especially someone who wasn't affiliated with football. Given what he'd been through with his team and retirement shrouded with questions, Annabelle wouldn't be surprised if he was once bitten, twice shy. The more she thought about it, the more trust issues would make sense. He'd been through a nightmare, had probably been abandoned by people close to him, and now he was hesitant to let anyone else get too close. How could she get him to see that he could trust her?

His brow twitched. “You're a tenacious little thing, aren't you?”

“When it's something I'm passionate about, yeah. Look”—she leaned forward in the chair—“give me a month to prove it to you. I'll stay out of your way and not give my opinion on any of the players unless you ask for it.” She threw that last part in just to make him feel better. But they both knew darn good and well that he'd never ask her opinion on anything. “I would like to have weekly meetings also, if you have the time.”

Blake shook his head. “I don't—”

“Here's my number,” Annabelle interrupted, knowing if she gave him the chance, he'd shoot her request down. Inhaling a deep breath, Annabelle channeled the confidence she'd worked hard to regain after her divorce.

Don't show your insecurities.

She passed her cell number across the desk, which, of course, he didn't accept.

What a surprise.

“Call me,” she told him, and stood from the chair without waiting for a response. That stare of his was unsettling and made her skin feel itchy and uncomfortable. She smoothed her hands down her shirt because if she didn't occupy them, she might do something stupid. Like fiddle with her hair. Or check her pulse. And, damn it, she would not be the same second-guessing woman she'd been after her divorce. She'd worked too hard to reclaim her independence and confidence and she would not allow another man to shake that. Again.

Annabelle lifted her chin. “The next practice, I promise you won't even know I'm there,” she stated as she rounded her chair and opened the office door.

“Don't make promises you can't keep, Ms. Turner.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, just in time to catch the devious tilt of his mouth.