Chapter 15 #2
early morning. Far to their left, she spotted a lone swimmer. What kind of fool swam out that far with no one around? Her
gaze shot to the beach towel and flip-flops.
He wouldn’t.
But he had.
They’d grown up on Lake Harriet, where all the kids took water safety classes. He was a good swimmer, but cramps happened
to even the best, and he knew better than to swim that far in a chilly lake with no one looking out for him.
Her anxiety got the best of her. Setting down her coffee mug, she looped Watch’s leash over a hook and maneuvered the single kayak into the water.
Watch regarded her closely. She couldn’t leave him behind, so she grabbed the canine life vest, fumbled with the snaps until she had it on him, and removed his leash.
Minutes later, she was paddling toward the middle of the lake, Watch perched happily before her in the kayak’s cockpit.
It had to be nearly a mile to the opposite shore, and so far Clint wasn’t showing any signs of turning back. When she got
to him, she might smack him over the head with the paddle to bring him to his senses.
Fortunately, she was moving with the current, so she didn’t have any difficulty paddling. She drew close enough to see the
contraction of his shoulder muscles as he cut through the water, but having good form didn’t mean he was safe.
She finally drew alongside him. As he turned his head for air, he spotted her through his swim goggles. His stroke momentarily
faltered, then regained its rhythm. Although it pained her, she concluded it was best to postpone hitting him with the paddle
until he was safely ashore.
She stayed with him as he continued, his arms slicing the water, his kick efficient. She was so intent on watching him that
she missed seeing Watch scramble up on the deck. “Watch, no!”
He jumped into the water to swim with his buddy.
“Watch!” She leaned out to grab the handle on the back of his life vest only to feel the kayak wobble. Before she could recenter
her weight, the kayak tipped, sending her into the cold water where she joined both her dog and the god of the NFL.
Clint finally stopped swimming. Watch paddled happily, loving the buoyancy of the life vest. Dancy released a blistering stream
of obscenities and joined him in a dog paddle.
Clint shoved his swim goggles onto his forehead, wet hair plastered to his head. “No words!” he exclaimed. “I have no fucking words!”
“Obviously not true,” she shouted back as one of her ugly slides slipped off her toes and sank, quickly followed by the other.
She shoved her wet hair out of her eyes. The best defense was a strong offense, something a gridiron wizard like himself should
know. “And I’m not the one who decided to swim across the lake alone. Seriously, what’s up with that?”
“Your dog’s wearing a life vest, but you’re not?” He fended off the advances of her happy waterdog, who was trying to lick
his cheek. “We talked about this the last time you took out my kayak.”
“You aren’t in any position to argue about life vests,” she retorted.
He took the Lord’s name in vain and swam to the bow of the overturned kayak, Watch following.
She continued to tread water, watching the way the water sluiced over the muscles in his arms as he lifted the bow to flip
the kayak. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the paddle drifting away. She swam after it only to feel the weight of
her waterlogged, extra-large Chicago Stars sweatshirt dragging her down. She struggled out of it and, with deep regret, let
it drift to the bottom of Lake Isabella to join her footwear.
Clint kicked hard and righted the kayak. The extra effort, combined with his already long swim, had to have tired him. The
last thing she wanted was for him to take off before he’d had a chance to rest, so she swam over to him, stalling for time.
“What are you doing out here anyway?”
He pulled his goggles back over his eyes. “What do you think? This is part of my cardio.”
“It seems excessive.” She sniffed.
“But then you’re not a football player, are you?”
“True.” Through his goggles, she could see the dark spikes of his wet eyelashes. “How often do you do this?”
He flipped to his back. “Could we postpone our little chat until we’re on dry land?”
“As long as you promise to let me know the next time you take off across the lake by yourself.”
“I’ve been swimming across the lake by myself ever since I built the house!”
“And you wonder where the term ‘dumb jock’ comes from.”
“Get back in the kayak,” he said in exasperation. “And try not to tip it this time.”
“It wasn’t my fault. Watch wanted to be with you. God only knows why.”
“You shouldn’t have come out here in the first place!”
“What if you got a cramp?”
“Will you get in the damned kayak?” He took the paddle from her and secured it under the bungee cord. “Hoist yourself from
the middle and try not to tip it over again.”
After a false start, she managed an awkward reentry. Clint grabbed her still-happy pooch by the handle on the back of his
life vest and lifted him. She leaned out to get him. The kayak wobbled. Clint tried to stabilize it with his free hand, but
he was too late, and she was once again in the water.
“I hate kayaks!” she cried, coming up for air. “Where’s a nice rowboat when you need one?”
“You’d probably tip that over, too,” he retorted.
“Get out of my way!” She wasn’t strong enough to right the kayak from the bow as he had done, so she swam to the middle and
hoisted herself on top of the slippery hull, giving him a great view of her ass and probably a camel toe along with it. She
fumbled for the handle on the far edge of the cockpit, pulled as hard as she could, and flipped the kayak upright as she went
back underwater.
“Well done,” he said as she resurfaced.
Ignoring him, she managed to get herself reseated. The kayak had taken on water but was staying afloat. He handed Watch over,
and this time she managed to get him back in the kayak without ending up in the lake.
Clint wasn’t done with her. He once again pushed his goggles to his forehead. “Next time, if you see me on the lake . . .
If you see me, you don’t . . . Next time . . .” His voice trailed off. She stared at him. The goggles had left red marks around
his eyes—eyes that were staring unapologetically at her chest. She looked down.
Her thin, white, too-tight T-shirt was as transparent as wet tissue paper, and every square inch of it clung to her cold,
bare breasts. She refused to cross her arms over herself like some Victorian virgin when he didn’t have the grace to look
away. “Stop acting like you’ve never seen boobs before.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any quite that fine.” He flipped to his back. “Maybe never.”
“Thanks.”
He gave her the sexiest, most bone-melting grin she’d ever had the misfortune to see. “You’re very welcome.”
Other than trying to keep Watch from joining his buddy in the water, the trip back was uneventful. She stood at the end of
the dock watching Clint approach, his kick still strong. Her stupid dog naturally had to jump back in the water to greet him.
She wanted to hit both of them over the head with a paddle.
Clint climbed the ladder and emerged, giving her a view of his navy men’s Speedo—not the creepy kind, but the ones with a square leg and a waistband that settled three or four inches below the navel where the line of wet, dark hair disappeared into the danger zone.
Water sluiced over his skin, trailing here and there, sliding down impressive hills and into enticing vales, gliding over a mouthwatering six-pack. She swallowed hard. “Nice swim?”
“Terrific.” He removed his goggles and reached over to retrieve Watch from the lake.
She pulled herself back together. “I do not understand this fascination he has with you.”
“I’m used to it.”
“You’re not even breathing hard. Your heart must be bigger than your head. I’ve heard about that. It’s called ‘athlete’s heart.’
It happens when you guys work out so much that your heart steals your brain cells.”
“That’s not even close to what ‘athlete’s heart’ means.”
“My interpretation.”
But all the stupid banter in the world refused to dispel the electricity zinging between them. His eyes were once again on
her breasts. Hers were all over him. Their gazes met.
“Dancy . . .” Her name emerged from him on a single breath.
“I know,” she murmured. “But . . .”
“This is . . .”
“I’m not . . .” Her teeth began to chatter.
“You’re cold.”
“Hot.”
“Not as hot as me.”
She stomped her foot. “I hate this! I’ve had no libido for months. Then I spend a few days with you and . . . Shit!”
“You think you’ve had no libido. I’ve—” He snatched up the beach towel and tossed it at her. “Cover up.”
She stared at him. “You’ve what? What did you start to say?”
“I didn’t start to say anything,” he retorted.
“Yes, you did. About libido.”
“You’re the one who said ‘libido.’”
“You said—”
He shoved his feet into his leather flip-flops. “I have work to do.”
And he was off, his wet navy swim trucks enticingly clinging to his All-Pro butt.
Clint was stuck on the phone the rest of the morning. First he had a meeting with his management to discuss a couple of investments,
then a videoconference with his trainer, who wanted to make some adjustments in his training regime. Through it all, Clint
couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened with Dancy. Going any further was an invitation to catastrophe.
Yes, it was comforting to know he hadn’t lost his manhood after all, but frustrating that Dancy was the one who’d brought
him out of his . . . whatever you called it. Stupor. Lethargy. With Dancy, nothing could ever be casual. She was still dealing
with her miscarriage and, at the same time, trying to revive a dead career. There was also that vodka bottle outside the caboose.
Look at what had happened since she’d arrived. Her ex-husband, his pregnant fiancée, and a dog had shown up on his doorstep.
He couldn’t even swim without interference. How was he supposed to get his head straight with all this going on around him?
It was less than two weeks until training camp, where the press would be all over him and the rookies would look at him as if he were some kind of god.
His teammates, the coaches, the fans, they deserved his best. The best of his career.
Single-minded and focused. That’s what he had to be.
But how was he supposed to play at the top of his game with Dancy causing chaos in his brain?
If she were only a guy.
He let himself entertain the idea of a male version of Dancy. They’d be friends, for sure. Maybe best friends. Nothing shocked
her. She made him laugh. Made him think. Called him on his bullshit. He could pretty much tell Dancy anything. Maybe he could
even tell her how it had all gotten to be too much. How hard it was for him to keep his head up, answer the same questions
every day, be a role model. How tough it had gotten to not let either the adoration or the hatred affect him. Maybe he could
tell her he no longer knew if he was anything more than another overpaid jock who couldn’t meet his own expectations.
If only she were a guy.