Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(40)

Death.

Dramatic. I was being dramatic, and Slade was no help whatsoever, from his laughter that morning when I’d called, to the emojis he’d been sending me since I went to my office.

It was going to be a long, hard day.

Hah.

Hard.

“Ready!” Parker came flying into my room in spandex shorts and a loose tank top, her hair pulled back in a braid and her skin looking—edible.

I choked on my cup of coffee. “G-great.”

“You okay?” She put her hands on her hips. “Did you not sleep well?”

“You mean before or after I buried Willow’s body out by the dead goldfish last night?” I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hands.

“Nice one.” Parker pulled out a chair and put up her Nikes on my desk. Again.

I flicked them with my pencil. “Is this gonna be a thing?”

“At least my shoes are clean. I could have my cleats on, and leave little patches of sod all over your desk, maybe even a hair from the stadium for good measure.”

I gagged. “You’re a monster.”

She smiled sweetly. “I’m what you made me, Coach.”

Coach.

Agent.

Seventh circle of hell.

I mentally waved as Satan escorted me to my spot in the fiery middle.

I was here to be her supporter, I was not here to kiss the hell out of her and lock her in my room while making sweet love to her. It would be nice. More than nice, incredible. It was wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

I was all she had. I just needed to keep telling myself that.

Parker dropped her feet and leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “Just a long day. I think I need to run it off.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Had I been drinking coffee I would have sputtered it all over my laptop and her face. She wanted to . . . exercise? Voluntarily? The woman who threatened me every day during training?

I leaned closer, felt her forehead with the back of my hand, only to get it slapped away. “You feeling okay?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be a good client!”

And there it was again.

She looked so happy, so . . . free that I had to laugh and then wince when I realized that I could either sit there and lust after her or join her. “I could use a run.”

“Remember, it’s six and a half miles to the stadium. It can be our warm-up?” Her eyes were so hopeful, so adorable.

“Yeah.” Just give me twenty minutes or a year for this to go down and I’ll be right out. Why was my body betraying me? “I’ll just go get dressed.”

“Great.” She stood like she was waiting.

“After . . . one last phone call.” I cleared my throat.

“Oh.” Hurt flashed in her expression before she stood. “Sure, I need to grab my ear pods anyways!”

She jogged out of my office while I pretended to pick up the phone. I finally calmed myself down enough to stand and make my way to my bedroom. I put on a pair of tight boxer briefs and my joggers, then grabbed a tank and my own pods.

She was already out in the living room stretching, and a smile broke out on her face when she saw me. “We racing?”

“Hah!” I wagged my finger at her. “Yeah no, we aren’t racing for over six miles, not sure my old heart could take it.”

She licked her lips. “Well, at least you have the body of an eighteen-year-old.”

“Skinny and awkward?” I elbowed her. “Thanks.”

She burst out laughing just as I jabbed my buds in and bolted out the door yelling behind me, “See you there!”

She sped past me; I caught up easily.

And even though we were both listening to music, we ran in perfect cadence, a perfect stride the entire way to the stadium. I was almost sad it was over, until she saw me grab my whistle and her face went from content to murderous.

“You brought that thing?”

“What?” I held the whistle out. “This?”

She tried to snatch it.

I backed up and ran onto the turf, holding it above my head. “What? Did the run not knock you out? Tell you what, if you can take the whistle from me, you can have it.”

I’d never seen her look so competitive, so ready to rip me apart limb by limb.

And then I winked and blew it.

Bad idea.

She charged me.

I stumbled backward and ran, putting a bag of balls between us. She jumped them and came barreling toward me.

She jumped again, and I caught her midair then twisted her around as her body wiggled against mine, her ass bumping me in the best possible way.

I almost groaned when she finally broke free. Thank God for small miracles.

“Hand it over and I won’t kick you in the junk,” she teased with a smirk.

“Kick me in the junk and I guarantee I’ll never father a child. Don’t do that to a man.” I tossed the whistle from hand to hand above her.

“I’ve got chops, old man.”

“Oh yeah, Cheetah Girl?” I burst out laughing while she jumped in front of me and tried swiping it from my hand, it was so adorable that I grabbed her around the waist, tossed her over my shoulder, and ran toward the goal line.