Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(17)

I banged on the women’s locker-room door one more time. “Parker, you don’t even wear makeup, putting on shorts takes thirty seconds max, and that’s if you keep getting confused between your right and left leg because your dick’s in the way and you don’t have a dick—”

Jagger elbowed me.

“What?” I mouthed, and he shook his head. “So hurry the hell up. Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean—”

The locker-room door jerked open, making me stumble back a bit. “Ready.”

She was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and matching shorts.

The shorts I understood.

The long-sleeved shirt confused me. She was going to get hot, sweaty.

I frowned then wiped the mental image of a hot and sweaty Parker from my consciousness.

She just shoved past us like we were the ones taking years to get ready in the locker room.

“Face looks puffy,” Jagger said under his breath.

“What? Mine?” I wiped my face.

He rolled his eyes. “You can be a dick sometimes. You get that, right?”

“I’m a dick so you don’t have to be, and yet here we are.” I spread my arms wide. “You should pay me more.”

“You make more than most athletes, and last week one of the Toms called you to go jet-setting to Brazil. I think you’re going to make it.” He chuckled.

I grinned. “God, I love my job . . . you know, when your grandmother isn’t using racial slurs.”

“She’s a real treat, my grandma. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I sighed as we walked into the stadium. “Yeah, well, I thought you were being sarcastic, since that’s you on a normal day.”

Jagger stared after Parker. “Something doesn’t add up, and why are her cheeks puffy?”

“Stop staring at her cheeks, man, it’s weird.” I elbowed him and heaved a bag of balls over one shoulder. “She’s a girl, they cry; just ask my sister about Jon Snow, and you’ll be consoling her for the next hour.”

“But Jon Snow didn’t die,” Jagger pointed out quietly.

“HE DIDN’T DIE?” Parker yelled across the field. “I HAVEN’T GOTTEN TO THE NEXT SEASON YET, YOU ASSHOLE!”

And then she was charging toward us at full speed.

“Think I know why she punched her coach.” Jagger dropped his bag of balls and started running in the other direction. “Good luck!”

“Traitor!”

He just kept running. The bastard was probably going to go do his own workout and leave me to my own devices. Typical Jagger.

When she finally made it to me, I held up my hand for her to stop.

And when she didn’t stop, I grabbed my fucking whistle and blew it.

Her chest heaved as she stopped inches from my body. “You don’t just shout spoilers like that!”

“He wasn’t shouting!”

“I have superhuman hearing when it comes to Game of Thrones, it’s my spiritual gift.” She grinned.

I sucked in a breath.

I was completely thrown off by her easy smile and the way it charmed itself into my soul so effortlessly. It made me want to smile back and laugh, and ask her to do it some more, just in my general direction.

Coach.

Agent.

I cleared my throat. “Jagger said your cheeks are puffy.”

She touched her cheeks, which just brought my attention to how plump and delicate they were on an otherwise constantly pissed-off face. She was pretty when she smiled, but she didn’t do it often enough.

And it made me wonder too much.

It made me want to dig when I had no business digging.

Coach.

Agent.

“Are you still wanting all of this?” I spread my arms wide as the stadium lights lit above us, the smell of turf filled the air, the empty stands awaited the crowds that would fill them screaming her name.

No better high.

No better drug.

Her eyes lit up. “Yeah, I’m fine, just allergies. And yes, I want this, I want all of this.”

I hesitated then lowered my voice, picked up one of the balls, and tossed it to her. “Prove it.” She licked her lower lip, which I found entirely too distracting, so I looked away. “Prove it and I’ll get you everything.”

“That’s a mighty big promise, Matt Kingston.”

I grinned at the way she said my name, like I was the biggest asshole on the planet. Why did I like it so much, then? Especially since I tried to be easygoing, at least with my male athletes. She had no respect for authority, though, so asshole it was.

“Alright.” I jerked my chin toward the field. “Show me why they call you Cheetah Girl . . .”

She jogged off, laughing. “Think you can handle me?”

The air charged, and my eyes stupidly flicked to her ass as she ran off. And while I wanted to smugly say yes, part of me was already shaking my head no.

And I had no idea why except she wasn’t what I expected in any way, and it threw me off that I couldn’t manage her the way I would someone else. I sacrificed for my clients and they expected it.

That’s how it worked.

I gave them the world—but first, they had to let me into theirs.

And I had a distinct feeling that Parker would never let that happen.