3. Chapter 2 #2
The meeting breaks like a bad line change. Everyone moving at once, nobody making eye contact with me.
And Darcy? Darcy's already stormed off.
"Hey—Ms. Madden—Darcy!"
I shout down the corridor, but she doesn't stop. Her heels click down the corridor at double-time, tablet hugged to her chest, the sunlight pouring through the glass wall overlooking the ice.
"Fuck, woman. Are you power-walking?" I call after her, jogging to catch up. "In heels?!"
"It's called efficiency. You should try it in the next game."
"Ha ha. Very funny."
I fall into step beside her until she stops outside her office. She digs into the pocket of her blazer for her key card, sending a wave of her perfume flooding over me.
"Anyway, Morrison. As thrilling as this has been, I now have significantly more work to do, and apparently, zero friends to help me. So if you'll excuse me—"
Darcy swipes her card, but she does it too fast and the light flashes red.
"I'm sensing you're upset," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "Is this about Josie? She looked pretty mad back there."
She doesn’t look at me, just drops her bag and tries the card again. "I wasn’t talking about Josie."
"Sure sounded like you were." I step close, the scent of her perfume lingering. "Trouble in Brunch Club paradise?"
"I don’t have time for this, Morrison. Just… drop it, okay?"
"Fine. What's the plan then?" I plant my shoulder against her doorframe. "You follow me around with a stopwatch? Pop out of the showers with a clipboard?" I raise an eyebrow. "Because if that's the plan, I need to know now. Personal grooming standards may shift."
Darcy's key card hovers an inch from the reader. "I can assure you, there will be no spying in the showers."
"That's disappointing. For both of us."
"For you, maybe."
She sighs and looks at me, like she's appraising real estate she's already condemned.
Every hair on my body stands at attention.
"You know… I'm going to prove you wrong, Spreadsheet."
"Did you just nickname me… Spreadsheet?" She scoffs a stunted laugh and swipes the lock to her office. "Anyway. You're welcome to try. Now goodbye."
The door swings open and she walks in.
I follow, because apparently I've developed a condition where my legs just do things.
Her office is aggressively clean. The desk is immaculately neat, with three monitors all sitting in perfect alignment. There's a Goldie's cup on a coaster, because of course this woman always uses a coaster, and the ocean is glittering through the far window like it's showing off just for her.
Darcy reaches her desk, sets down the tablet, and turns. “Why are you still standing in my office?”
"Oh, sorry." I glance behind me. “Is this not the unemployment lounge?”
“Out.”
“But Colin assigned you complete access to every measurable inch of me.”
“Of your professional output. Not what you do in your spare time.”
“And yet you’re staring at my body just like you did last night.” Her gaze drops to my chest for half a second, and I just can't help myself. "Ah huh! Made you look!"
She rolls her eyes, and it might just be the damn sexiest thing I've ever seen a woman do. “Congratulations. Now leave, before I assess whether blunt-force trauma would improve your impulse control.”
“Alright, alright. All jokes aside, I’m just waiting for instructions.” My grin comes out thin. “What do I do now? Twenty star jumps while holding my breath? Run laps until I’m statistically unlovable?”
Darcy sighs, and I watch her breasts rise and fall with it. I can't help it. The woman's built like a problem I want to spend all night solving.
“You'll need to give me some time to work out a plan," she says. "But for now, I can give you this.”
She crosses to the desk and reaches across it for a folder on the far side. But as she does, she bends over, and—
WHOA.
Okay. Okay, wow.
The skirt, that tiny, criminal, HR-violating skirt, rides straight up the back of her thighs, and the patterned stockings resolve into full, devastating detail of sheer black lace with a band at the top where a tiny clasp holds everything in place.
And above that? Soft-looking skin, stretching all the way up to where the hem hangs on for dear life.
I shift on the spot, trying to stop the flow of blood heading south.
Her calves flex in those heels as she rummages through some folders, or paperwork. Maybe she's scribbling on some paper.
I don't know.
Whatever she's doing, I don't care, because her hair slides forward over one shoulder and I'm going to be replaying this moment in the shower for the rest of my goddamn life.
Eventually, she finishes doing whatever she was doing and spins around, catching my eyes locked on her ass. Her gaze flicks down to my jeans, to a tent situation I will neither confirm nor deny, then back up to my face.
She ignores it. Completely.
"Here." She holds out the folder. "Take this."
She steps back after I take it, smoothing down her skirt and sliding a hand through her hair to tuck it back behind her ear. Goddamn. This woman is absolutely stunning.
Trust my luck that the most attractive woman in the world is currently trying to destroy my life.
"What is this?" I ask, flicking through whatever she just handed me.
Inside the folder is a schedule of Coach Pearson's player planner. Only now, it's a color-coded schedule of my entire career, with scribbled notes all over it.
"Six AM?" I look up, horrified. "Darcy, I can't wake up that early. Six AM is a rumor. Science hasn't even proven it exists, yet you've circled it. Why have you circled it, Darcy?"
"Because that's when you're expected for your first beach run. Then breakfast at seven-thirty. We'll be in the gym by nine." She taps the page with one perfect nail. "Red is mandatory."
"It's all red."
"Correct."
I stare at her. She stares back, chin lifted, posture immaculate, like she didn't just rearrange my entire understanding of hosiery.
She glances down at the schedule between us, and that smile sharpens.
"Seven weeks, Morrison. Let's find out what you're actually worth."