Winner Takes All (20 page)

Maybe crawling on top of him had been a bad idea.

“You really want to know what I see when I look at you?”

“You're going to tell me regardless,” he countered.

Yeah, she would. But she wanted to give him the chance to back away. The fact that he didn't told her he cared more than he'd admitted thus far.

“I see a man who's put up with me, and even humored me at times, even though he didn't want to. I see someone who's put more effort into those kids than any other coach has, including spending his after-hours time with the ones who need it. I see someone who took in a stray dog, takes care of it and has probably already fallen in love with the thing.” She leaned closer to him, bracing her hands on the sand next to his hips. “I see a man who put the future of his teammates above his own. Giving up the game you love rather than taking some stupid cop-out deal that would have dragged everyone else down with you.” Annabelle paused, giving him a chance to deny it, to tell her how wrong she was and prove he really was the villainous person everyone said.

But he didn't. He just watched her with those cool eyes of his, giving away nothing. Except for the hard set of his mouth and the clenching muscles in his jaw. Yeah, she'd hit a nerve. She'd scratched him raw and would continue to do so until he stopped being such a pig-headed moron.

“Are you really going to keep telling me you're not a hero? Because I don't believe that for a second.”

Slowly he pushed forward, placing his hands on her hips. His grip was easy but firm, holding her tight enough so that she couldn't move. Not that she would anyway, because it felt too good. He felt too good beneath her. His thighs cradled her hips perfectly, and she had to squash the instinctive feeling to wiggle her bottom.

“You know what I think, Ms. Turner?” he asked in a rough whisper.

His lips were inches away from hers so their breath mingled together. So close that her mouth tingled, just dying for him to kiss her again.

“I already know what you think, Blake,” she whispered back. Her hands had found their way to his shoulders and her fingers dug into the steely flesh of his back. The muscles were bunched and tense and well defined.

“I think you're too meddlesome for your own good.” With one good tug, the fingers on her hips tightened and he yanked her closer. “I think you need to mind your own business.”

She was sure the bite in his words was meant to frighten her away.

“Maybe I don't want to mind my own business,” she argued against his mouth.

He removed one of his hands from her hips and slid it around her neck to cradle the back of her head. They fit nicely together there too. His palm was just big enough to curve over the back of her skull, with this thumb pressed on the pressure point just beneath her ear.

“Blake.” His name slipped out in response to the caress his thumb was giving the sensitive skin behind her ear. A tingle zipped down her spin and stole the breath from her lungs. Her eyes dropped closed before she could really help it. The response was as automatic as the uneven beating of her heart.

Then his lips made contact with hers. Just a simple and brief touch, but enough for fireworks to explode inside her midsection.

When he pulled back slightly, she said, “You're doing this just to shut me up,” she accused.

“Since when does anything shut you up, Annabelle?”

Yeah, he had a point with that one.

Sneaky bastard.

He had her right where he wanted her. In his arms, trembling and aching and burning up so much she didn't know which way was up. When he finally gave her what she was craving, by sealing his lips over hers, Annabelle was too far gone.

Too far gone to care they were in a public place. Too far gone to care that they'd slid right into that casual/fling or whatever they had. She ought to be offended and feel manipulated by him. But the thing was, he hadn't done very much to manipulate her. Just a few kisses was all it took to discard her relationship-only rule.

It's more than kisses, Annabelle.

As Blake swirled his tongue around hers, Annabelle knew she was right. The spell he had over her had been cast with more than kisses and touches. It was the man. The flesh and blood wounded warrior who'd opened himself up was what had her inching closer and closer each time they were together. Without realizing what had happened, he'd captured her heart. Stolen it right out from under her nose and held it in those capable, strong hands of his.

Annabelle scooted closer to him, so their torsos were pressed together, her breasts against his hard chest. The contrast between their bodies, his so much harder and bigger than hers, sent a chill of awareness through her.

Blake deepened the kiss, angling his head in just the right way so he could suck her gasp into his mouth and swallow it as his own.

Lord have mercy, the man knew how to kiss. Annabelle had never been so thoroughly devoured and claimed. She knew, as the two of them sat in the middle of a public beach, practically climbing all over each other, that's what he was doing. He was claiming her, regardless of whether or not this—whatever they had—went beyond what she allowed it to. Blake was too much of a gentleman to force anything on her.

The hand on the back of her head tightened, holding her closer to him, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, loving that he'd left his usual baseball cap off. His hair was soft and just long enough to give a gentle tug.

Their tongues danced around each other one more time before Blake pulled back. They were both breathing heavily, their nostrils flared, lips moist and heartbeats matching in rapid rhythm.

“Still think I'm a hero?” he asked.

He was trying to shock her away, but it wouldn't work. She brushed her thumb along his lower lip. “I don't care how much you try to push me away, Blake. I'm too stubborn for that.”

He laughed, which sounded more weary than full of humor, and lowered his forehead to hers. “I already know how stubborn you are.”

She grinned. “Then you should know I'm not going anywhere.”

T
he Bobcats headed into their fifth game with a 3-1 record, having beaten the Montezuma-Cortez Panthers.

There were six games left in the season, still too many to tell whether the Bobcats would realistically make the play-offs. If they could keep their current record, they'd be a shoo-in.

However, the team had been plagued with misfortunes, from Scott Porter's injured hamstring to Corey's academic probation. Practice so far had been chaotic, with news vans parked outside the field, wanting to interview the players of the winning team.

And then two of their offensive linemen had come to blows simply because they didn't like each other and decided to be immature assholes, and Cameron had to jump in and physically separate the boys. For their punishment, Blake had each of them doing extra runs. If they had the energy to hit another teammate, then they had the energy for extra sprints.

The kids had shut their mouths after that, but then Blake's cell phone started ringing, which he'd ignored twice. The third time he'd answered to one of his neighbors, bitching about Staubach escaping from the backyard and digging through her prize-winning roses. The dog was a nuisance and was bound and determined to put him on the shit list of everyone on his street.

Cameron stood next to Blake and tapped his clipboard on his thigh, watching the play unfolding on the field. His assistant coach had been in a shit mood all day after a brief conversation with Drew Spalding that morning before school. It was no secret the two men didn't like each other and the only reason Drew tolerated Cameron's presence was because Blake insisted on Cameron coaching.

What was a secret was the reason they didn't like each other. Years ago, when Cameron had still been coaching in a neighboring town, he'd had a brief but steamy fling with a woman from Blanco Valley. A woman who turned out to be Drew Spalding's wife.

As soon as Cam found out, he'd ended the affair, but the damage had already been done and Drew and his wife had eventually divorced. Needless to say, Drew blamed Cameron for the demise of his marriage and the two men had been at each other's throats ever since.

After watching one more ragged play, Blake whistled and called the team in. “Your handoffs are sloppy. You guys have gotten lazy,” he told them. The kids were hot and out of breath and tired, but Blake didn't give a shit. His job was to bring home the win. “Y'all are playing like you've already won the championship game. Let me tell you something, you're not champs yet. Championships are earned, you hear me?”

“Yes, Coach!” the kids yelled on command.

Blake signaled for them to run the play again. Before they could start, Blake snagged Tanner, his backup QB, by his pads. “Listen to me. Ninety percent of the game is in between your ears. Keep your head up and your legs moving.”

“Yes, Coach,” the kid answered. Blake moved off the field as the kids resumed their position. He whistled one more time to signal start. As soon as they heard their cue, they moved through the play, executing each move with synchronization. Tanner completed a handoff to the offensive lineman, who rushed it for twenty yards before being tackled.

The kid went down with a crunch of pads, his helmet smacking on the grass and his cleats kicking clods of dirt in the air.

Blake sensed a presence next to him and knew it was Drew before the guy spoke. His overpowering cologne was recognizable anywhere. “The press loves Cody,” Drew commented. “The kid's a natural in front of the camera.”

“He's also a natural on the field, which is where he needs to be,” Blake responded, without taking his eyes off the players. Cameron had them huddled, going over corrections. “We need our starting quarterback practicing with the team.”

“It's important to the boosters,” Drew reminded him.

Cameron ended his pep talk and resumed his stance by Blake's side. Blake felt Cam's tension as he set his clipboard down on the nearby bench and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Interesting play you have there, Cameron,” Drew commented as he watched the action on the field. “Moving Riley Houghton to tight end?” Blake knew that Drew questioning Cam was more to get Cam's blood boiling than anything else. “That's not what I would have done, Let's just hope you know what you're doing.”

“Oh, I know what I'm doing, Spalding,” Cameron fired back. He nodded toward the athletic director, with his hands still tucked under his arms. “Just ask your ex-wife.”

“You son of a bitch,” Drew growled, and then lunged at Cameron and would have made bodily contact if Blake hadn't been in between the two men. Not that Cam couldn't hold his own.

Blake didn't need the distraction, especially in front of the players. He gave Drew a hard shove and pushed him away from Cameron.

Blake had never known anyone who could go from flashing a cool grin to throwing punches faster than Cameron Shaw.

Blake clutched a fistful of Drew's shirt in his hands and got in the guy's face. “You really want to be the headline of tomorrow's papers?” Blake asked through gritted teeth, knowing the media sitting on the sidelines wouldn't hesitate to put out a come-to-blows story between the assistant coach and the athletic director.

Drew jerked his head toward Cameron. “Just keep that prick away from me.”

Blake glanced over his shoulder at Cameron, who offered Drew a one-sided tilt of his mouth smirk, and then flashed his middle finger in a go-eff-yourself gesture.

Drew wrenched himself away from Blake.

“Pussy,” Cameron said to Drew as Drew took long-legged strides across the grass, crossing the forty-yard line and then the thirty.

Blake twisted his whistle back around, which had been thrown over his shoulder in his attempt at restraining Drew. “You never know when to shut up, do you?”

“The guy's a dick,” Cameron responded.

“Look, I know Drew's a douche, but no guy wants to be reminded that his wife was going around banging another guy.” He jabbed an index finger at his friend. “Especially by the other guy.”

Cameron didn't say anything, and Blake left him to his glowering. As though he didn't have enough on his plate without an athletic director and assistant coach/best friend who wanted to kill each other.

“Hold that stretch for thirty seconds,” Annabelle told Scott Porter as he moved from one stretch to the next. His hamstring was in bad shape, which didn't bode well for that night's game. She'd taken the kid to the weight room while the team was on the field practicing. Blake had him sitting out anyway and she wanted to use the opportunity to try and loosen the muscle.

Despite her good intentions, she knew Scott wouldn't be able to play tonight. Not if his hamstring was going to heal properly. Annabelle hoped Blake would err on the side of caution and keep the kid out. She also knew he and the other coaches had to fill the gap Corey had left when he'd been put on academic probation.

Scott winced as he lowered his leg.

“It hurts,” he told her.

She nodded and smiled. “I know. The pain is going to get worse before it gets better, but what we're doing here is trying to loosen the muscle.”

Scott's brows pulled tighter over his brown eyes. “Coach is going to bench me tonight, isn't he?”

She lowered his leg. “I don't know, Scott. Your coach doesn't include me in his game plans.”

Scott let out a long breath as he relaxed his leg on the mat. “But aren't you two, like…you know…”

Annabelle tilted her head to one side, waiting for Scott to finish his question. “Aren't we what?” Although she had a pretty good idea of what he thought. Every time she and Blake were around each other, the air crackled.

A deep red filled the kid's cheeks and his gaze skittered to something over her shoulder. “Some of the guys think you guys are, like, a thing or something.”

A thing or something.
Whatever the hell that meant.

“Do me a favor and tell the other guys it's none of their business,” she told Scott. “But if they must know, Coach and I are just friends.” Friends who kissed like maniacs every time they were around each other.

Yeah, friends did stuff like that.

They fantasized about each other and tried to climb all over each other's bodies. Maybe they should just do the “sex and stuff” and get it over with. They both knew that's where they were headed and they'd continue to dance around it until then.

Annabelle patted Scott on the leg and got to her feet. “We're done here for now,” she instructed him. “You know, you're welcome to come to my studio anytime you want. Just have your mom call and schedule an appointment.”

Scott pushed himself off the mat and stood. He was tall, probably several inches taller than her, and good-looking. Blond hair, brown eyes, dimples. No wonder he had about three rally girls fighting over him. The kid would be any girl's dream.

“Do you think it'll get better?” he asked her. “I mean, I'm not done for the season, am I?”

Why did he have to ask her things like that? She knew he just needed to be reassured, but geez, she didn't have all the answers. She didn't want to crush his spirits, nor did she want to give him false hope. Everyone's bodies healed differently. Scott very well could be ready to play next week. Or he could continue to struggle for the rest of the season.

“I think if you keep doing these stretching exercises and taking it easy, you'll do okay,” she answered.

Scott nodded. “Thanks, Ms. Turner.” He walked around her, then turned back. “Oh, and I think you're good for Coach.”

“How do you figure that?”

He lifted a shoulder. “He smiles more around you. He's always, like, watching you when you're not looking. The guy's hot for you.”

As Scott left the weight room, heat rushed through her system. She knew Blake had some kind of physical attraction to her. Why else would they always end up plastered all over each other? But hearing someone else say it, instead of her own obsessive thoughts, was a totally different story.

Not only that, but Annabelle also realized the arcs of tension and desire between them weren't going to go away. Whether they kept things casual and moved to the next level, things were about to explode between them. The question was when?

How much longer could it keep growing before the desire imploded?

Annabelle followed Scott out of the locker room and made her way to the field.

The afternoon sun was bright and the field was a chaotic scene of cheerleaders, players, coaches, and even media. Parents and students mingled around the bleachers, watching the team practice for the game tonight. Rally girls draped themselves over the chain-link fence, their hair pulled back in orange and black ribbons, keeping their eyes glued to the players.

She let herself through the gate of the fence and wished she hadn't left her sunglasses in the car. At first she didn't see Blake. She spotted Cameron with the other assistant coaches, gathered around each other and talking.

The players were in a circle in the middle of the field, doing that strange tackling exercise. They were bouncing on their feet, hollering, chanting, and grunting. There, in the middle of the circle, was Blake, yelling at the kids, calling them pussies and telling them to get their sorry asses off the ground when they were tackled.

Annabelle remained by the fence until the kids dispersed, gathering around the watercoolers, some drinking and some dumping the liquid over their heads. She knew practice wasn't over yet, but she used the opportunity to approach Blake.

A second before she could tap him on the shoulder, he turned and glanced at her. Which was a shame because she would really have loved the excuse to touch him. Maybe linger a moment longer than necessary just to feel that one hard ball of a muscle over his shoulder blades. The man had muscle definition in places she'd never seen definition before.

Almost as though he had muscles other men didn't have.

By now she should have been used to not being able to read his features during practices. His baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, which were covered by wraparound sunglasses, kept his secrets hidden from her. She'd gotten good at reading his eyes. They revealed him and she'd grown too dependent on that.

The stony, silent Blake she dealt with during practices was harder to get a hold on.

The wind blew across her face, catching a strand of hair in her eyelashes. Blake hooked his index finger over the lock, dragging it out of her eye and tucking it behind her ear. The gesture was excruciatingly slow, giving him time to linger over her cheek, then swirling his finger over the outer shell of her ear.

Lord, but he knew how to touch. She'd never met a man more skilled and who could snatch the breath right out of her lungs.

“Careful,” she said in a voice that was more of a whisper. “Some of your players already think we've hooked up.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

Her cheeks flamed. “Scott Porter.”

Blake switched his attention to the players. “Nosy little shits.”

“Speaking of Scott,” Annabelle switched subjects. Thinking about “hooking up” with Blake was one thing. Talking about it to the man himself was out of the question. “I don't think you should play him tonight.” The words came out in a rush, and the funny thing was, she didn't feel any better after she said them.

“I'm sure you don't, but he's playing,” he told her.

“I really think that's a mistake,” she urged him.

“Your feelings on the matter are noted, but I'm not benching him, Annabelle.”

Why did the man have to be so damn stubborn?

“Blake,” she said with a hand on his forearm. What an odd combination to have soft hair covering such controlled strength. “He's in a lot of pain.”

His mouth was set in a hard line, contradicting how yielding it had been under hers last week at the lake. Funny how the man could go from commanding soldier on the football field to an easygoing, quick-witted temptation off the field.