Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats #6)(62)

She wore shorts that showcased her long, tanned legs and a tank top that bared her impossibly sexy, toned arms. She was truly an athlete, not just a beauty who liked being admired for being skinny. He watched as Thomas fed balls at intervals he couldn’t quite pick up, but Kat seemed to know the drill, literally. She swung, most of them going over the net, a few barely clipping the top to stay on her side, and one particular doozy that flew way past the other side and smacked the tarp behind Thomas, hard.

“She gets those more as she gets tired.”

Michael jumped in his shoes, then turned to find an older guy wearing a loud, printed button-down shirt and khaki shorts with bright white tennis shoes. His hair, what was left of it, was doing its own sort of crazy thing, defying gravity.

“Uh, hi.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m not a weirdo who just wanders in. I’m Michael.”

“The manny.”

“Yeah… not anymore.” Michael stuffed his hands in his pockets, not sure whether to be pleased Kat had clearly talked about him or annoyed she still referred to him by that insufferable title. “Now we’re just… neighbors.”

“Hmm.” The older gentleman stood beside him, watching the practice as well.

“What did you mean, before?”

“Hmm?”

Michael bit back a sigh. “You said when she gets tired, she gets ‘those’ a lot. What did that mean?”

“Oh, right, right.” The older guy scratched at his head with one finger, eyes never leaving the court. “Lots of players, when they get tired, they start dropping balls into the net. Not this one, no.” He shook his head, sniffing. “This one overcompensates for it and starts swinging for the fences like she’s Joe freaking DiMaggio.”

Michael chuckled at that. “You here often enough to watch?”

“I should hope so. I’m her coach. Gary Brustover.”

Ah, that explained it. “Nice to meet you.”

They watched in silence for a while as Thomas continued to feed, and Kat relentlessly attacked.

“Scared to approach that net. He keeps giving her the chance, and she won’t.”

“She’s not scared of anything,” Michael said automatically, wincing afterward. That sounded too intimate of knowledge for a neighbor.

“She’s scared she’ll get up there and actually win a goddamn point. Put the f*cking ball away, Kelly,” Gary muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Michael decided to just pretend to understand what the hell the crazy old guy was talking about and nodded, watching still. After a few more minutes, they decided to take a break, and both Kat and Thomas walked to a bench nearby to grab some water.

“Go pick up balls.”

“What?” Michael stepped back, staring at Kat’s coach. “Beg pardon?”

“You wanna support her?”

He blinked.

“Well, I didn’t figure a neighbor would drive down here to just watch her practice for a few minutes. You clearly got something for the girl. Go support her by picking up balls.”

Michael huffed out a breath. “Have you met her? She won’t appreciate that.”

“You’d be surprised. Let’s go, young man.”

“I don’t think—”

Gary gripped his forearm tightly and tugged. Michael could have broken away—he was a lineman for God’s sake—but it would hurt the older man, and there wasn’t any call for it. So he allowed himself to be tugged out through the door and into the court area.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. He had no clue what that was—plastic? rubber?—but it was overwhelming. The second was the fuzz. Fuzz everywhere. He kicked at a yellow fuzzy clinging to his jeans and transferred three more fuzz clumps of greater size.

“Lost cause, give it up. You walk out here, you get fuzzed. We don’t vacuum the courts until tomorrow.”

“Ha, right, you… wait, you really vacuum the courts?”

Gary gave him a look that implied he was an idiot for asking. Michael had no clue whether that meant Yes, you moron, of course we vacuum, or No, stupid, that’s not a real thing.

“Uh, okay, but look, I don’t want to interrupt their practice so—”

“I brought you some help,” Gary called, leaving him no choice but to keep walking or risk Kat and Thomas see him turning and running for the door like a little bitch.

Kat swiveled on the bench, saw him, and jumped up. “Michael?”

“Hey.” He didn’t know what to do—hug her? shake her hand? give her a high five?—so he just laced his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “So, uh, good playing.”

She watched him for a moment, as if judging if he were telling the truth. Then she laugh-snorted. “You have no clue what good tennis looks like.”

“You got most of them in the court. That’s good enough to me.”

“You get most of your blocks,” she shot back. “Good enough to me.”

“Point made.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Michael realized they were basically nose to nose now, and he could smell the sweat and effort on her. Her skin flushed from the hard work, and her hair was coming out of its ponytail, wisps curling by her damp temples.

She was a f*cking goddess, and he wanted nothing more than to drag her off to a private spot, lift her against the wall, and have his way with her like an animal in heat.