CHAPTER 9
GRAYDON
Coach Dickwad: She’s not to leave your sight. If she gets into any trouble, you’re the one who’ll pay the consequences.
I stare down at his text, wanting to reach through the phone and strangle him myself.
None of this was my idea.
Not a single second of it. And here I am, not only caught up in some insane social media ploy, but now I have to babysit as well?
Christ!
Gretchen must have let Keenan know about what was going on, because I got his text this morning, warning me about making smart decisions.
As if I need the warning.
Maybe he should worry about making smart decisions as a coach and not worry about me.
After Maple bolted last night, which thank God she did us both a favor, I sent her a quick text as to where to park, where to meet me, and what to wear.
I considered taking it easy on her, giving her a general understanding of football and my position, but then when Coach Keenan started going off about how it was insane that I needed my own social media campaign to make the Foghorns look better because I couldn’t just follow instructions, I decided to ditch my plan and give her the works.
Yup…she’s training with me today. Let’s see if she can keep up.
I lean against the stone wall, watching as a sedan pulls past security and finds a parking spot. That has to be her because it’s the only car in the parking lot that is at least ten years old.
Although, mine is about eight, so it’s not like I can say much. I just don’t care to spend my money like my teammates do.
I watch as she steps out of her car and slings a bag over her shoulder before locking up.
Under the parking lot lights, I catch a glimpse of her in a pair of leggings that cling to every inch of her legs, making them seem longer than they actually are.
Her tight-fitting tee shows off her full chest but grossly masks it with a fucking flamingo on the front—of course.
Her long, blond hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail like normal, swishing across her shoulders as she makes her way across the parking lot.
And for a second, and I mean just a second because it’s all I’ll allow, my eyes wander over her curvaceous body and the way her hips swell just past her narrow waist, sexily swaying with every step.
Then there’s the slenderness of her neck, unmarked, ready to be claimed, while the fullness of her lips nearly drives me to the point of wanting to take a few more seconds to stare longer.
But it’s a fleeting moment because as she approaches, it’s hard to miss the scowl on her brow and the disdain for me in her body language.
She might be sexy as fuck, but the feeling is mutual.
When she reaches me, I dangle a lanyard out in front of her and say, “This is for you. It’s your key card to get into the facility. You’re allowed to open the door, but you are to wait by it until I come to retrieve you.”
She takes the key card and studies it for a moment before slipping it in her bag. I push off the wall and flash my own key to the door before opening it for her.
We’re at the practice facility, a large dome field with training equipment, a weight room, and everything you could possibly need when it comes to catering to a shitty-ass football team that hasn’t even made it to one playoff game in over a decade.
I will say this, though—even though we don’t win, our facilities are top-notch.
State-of-the-art training room with every physical therapy device you can think of, which is great for me as I start pushing toward the older end of football players.
The kitchen is fucking phenomenal, and I always stop by for at least two meals and snacks.
The weight room has everything I need and more.
And the practice field is a soft turf that doesn’t leave you scratching at the end of practice.
For a losing team, we have it pretty good.
Kind of feel bad for someone like Maple, who has to work in a building that smells like bird shit and seafood.
“This way,” I say, nodding toward the field, where I plan on warming up before hitting the weight room.
She follows me closely, her eyes scanning every inch of the facility as I lead the way to an empty practice field, which is just the way I like it. No one likes to wake up as early as I do, especially when we’re not in season, so it’s the perfect time to get my work in without others bothering me.
“Wow, I expected a whole lot more people.”
“Just us,” I say as I walk over to my zoo water bottle and take a sip.
I watch her study the water bottle, the smallest of smirks on her lips.
She probably loves that I use the damn thing, and not that I want to admit it, but it’s a pretty nice water bottle.
“Don’t think much of it. It was left in my truck, and I forgot my other one.
” At least that’s what I’m telling myself… and her.
She grumbles under her breath, then sets her things down on one of the benches that line the field.
While she gets situated, I take a peek at her ass in her leggings because, well…
I apparently have no self-control, and she has a really nice ass.
She fishes through her purse for a few seconds, then pulls her phone out.
Turning toward me just in time for me to lift my gaze without getting caught, she says, “Before we get started, we need to take a picture so I can make a post.”
“What kind of picture?” I ask.
“Well, it can be a selfie, or it can be a video of us waving, or we can stand side by side, not touching, and stare at the camera like vampires. You tell me what the almighty Graydon St. John wants to do.”
Sassy this morning.
“Glad you have my title correct.” She rolls her eyes. “Just do a quick selfie and get it over with.”
“Are you going to smile?”
“Do you want me to smile?”
“Do you know how to smile?”
“Sneering is more my forte.”
“I’ve noticed. But for social media and the image you’re trying to portray for your team, maybe you can muster up, oh, I don’t know, a smirk?”
I grumble under my breath and then say, “Fine.” I take her phone and pull up the camera. I snap a picture of us, then toss the phone back to her. Simple.
She fumbles to catch it as she says, “Wait, hold on. I wasn’t even smiling.” She pulls up the picture, and I lean over to find that it’s blurry, her mouth is open, and I’m not even looking in the right direction.
Oops.
She stares up at me, irritation laced in her expression. “Do it again, and this time, count to three before taking it so all parties are ready.”
I take the phone back from her and hold it out, attempting to get her in the frame. “You’re going to have to get closer.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Do you want this to be a weird picture or something you can use?” I ask.
“Fine, but don’t think this is me lowering my defenses. I don’t like you, and I need you to know that.”
“Feeling is mutual, Baker.”
“I don’t see why.” She moves in closer to me. “I haven’t been rude to you.”
“You made me wash dishes.”
She turns to me, disgust in her expression.
“Oh my God, the famous, rich football player had to wash some flamingo dishes. Yes, all the more reason to hate a nice lady who was attempting to welcome you into the flamingo family.” She leans in and sniffs me, causing me to take a step back.
What the hell is she doing? “Yup, just as I suspected, you smell like an entitled ass.”
My eyes narrow. “You know nothing about me.”
“I know enough,” she huffs and then steps in closer. “Now take the picture. If I stand too close to you for too long, my skin might melt off my face.”
The image that conjures up in my head makes me smirk, and it stays there long enough for me to take a picture of us both and then hand back her phone.
Skin melting off her face…if only.
“Now, was that so hard?” she asks as she pulls a tripod out of her bag and then sets it up.
“What are you doing now?”
“Gathering content. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“You’re going to record us?”
“That’s the whole point, Graydon.” She sets up her phone and then angles it toward the field.
“We’re here because we need content. We need to put on a show, demonstrating to the people that flamingos and football can mix in the best way possible.
I’m not just here to torture myself by being in your presence. ”
The insults are flying this morning. That’s fine, I’ve heard worse. Hell, I’ve said worse.
She hits record, then moves next to me, her lavender scent floating in my direction. I hate that I like the way she smells. It’s annoying, because it makes me want to lean in closer just to get another whiff.
“What are we doing?” she asks, looking far too ready.
I snap out of my thoughts and look her up and down, gauging her athletic ability. This could go two ways, and we’re about to find out which way it’s going to go.
“Warming up,” I say. “Down and back, let’s go.”
“Down and back where?” she asks as I take off.
“The field,” I call out and leave her in my dust.
“Wait, don’t you think it would be better if we did this together?”
I ignore her and run my way down the field. When I hit one end zone, I turn around and find her at the fifty, her little legs no match for my long ones, her arms pumping at her sides, a steady effort on her end that doesn’t even come close to matching mine.
When I hit the other side of the end zone, she does the same, so I go in for one more lap and end up finishing right behind her.
“You going to go down again?” I ask.
“Uh, no.” She puts her hands above her head, catching her breath.
“Does that mean I get to say no when you ask me to do things?”
Her eyes narrow, and to her credit, she turns and takes off down the field, jogging all the way to the end and back. While I wait, I continue to warm up my legs by performing some dynamic stretches, focusing on the drills that my trainer has given me.
“You’re behind,” I say as she gets close again.
“Maybe you can…wait…for a second,” she says, breathless.
I shake my head. “I don’t have time to wait. I’m on a schedule. So…keep up.”
“Jerk,” she mutters as she starts copying the way I open my legs up and step to the side. “What the hell is this doing?”
“Waking up the hip flexors, getting us ready for the weight room.”
“Weight room?” Her eyes widen. “Like…lifting weights?”
“That’s what usually happens in a weight room.”
“But I’ve never lifted weights before.”
“Have you ever worked out before?” I ask. It comes off more dickish than I intended it to, but I’m genuinely curious so I know how hard I should push her.
“I’ve done some things,” she answers. “Definitely not to your extent. But I have to lift things at the zoo.”
So no lifting experience.
My plan to be her own personal hell slowly subsides because even though I want this experience to die as quickly as it was formed, I’m also not going to put someone at risk of hurting themselves. Looks like I’ll have to take it easy.
“What’s that look for?” she asks as I start shuffling side to side. She’s trying to copy me but is having a hard time keeping up.
“What look?”
“Like you were…feeling pity for me.”
“Not pity, just realizing that I can’t do what I wanted to do with you today.”
“And what did you want to do?”
I do knee-highs, and she does the same. “Put you through my workout.”
“Oh, I’m doing the workout.”
I roll my eyes. “With no experience, you’re not doing the workout. It wouldn’t be safe.”
“I’m not some incompetent peasant that you found on the streets.” She walks up to me, determination in her eyes as she flexes her bicep. “Look at that muscle.”
I stare down at her slender arm, holding back my smile.
“Go ahead, feel it. It’s steel. Cold, hard steel.” When I don’t move, she thrusts her arm closer. “Go ahead, don’t be shy.”
Christ.
With a roll of my eyes, I reach out with my forefinger and thumb and I grip her muscle, squeezing down on it.
“Ouch.” She shakes her arm free of me.
“Yup, cold, hard, bendable steel. Never felt a muscle like it before,” I say with an eye roll.
“All muscle is going to bend like that when you push down on it,” she counters.
“Really?” I ask with a quirk of my brow. “Want to test that theory?”
“Why yes, I do. I’ll show you.” She gestures to me. “Go ahead, flex.”
I pull back the sleeve of my shirt and flex my arm for her, my bicep bulging into a solid rock right in front of her face, causing her eyes to widen.
“Go ahead, show me how it bends.”
Chin held high, she says, “Don’t mind if I do.”
She steps up and tries to put her forefinger and thumb around my bicep like I did to her, but her hand isn’t big enough, and I watch as her expression contorts in disappointment.
It doesn’t stop her, though, because she wraps her hand around my bicep and attempts to push down, growing frustrated when she doesn’t get the right angle.
“If it wasn’t so big, I could wrap my hand around it.”
“Are you talking about my arm, or something else, Baker?”
Her eyes widen for a moment before narrowing. “Don’t be disgusting.”
“You’re the one who said it.”
“Clearly, I’m talking about your bendable bicep.”
“It’s not bendable.”
“Oh yeah? Watch this,” she says with a grunt before wrapping both hands around my bicep and lifting her feet off the ground, dangling from my arm. “Is it…bending?”
I do a bicep curl as she hangs off me. “Nope, just getting stronger.”
“Ugh, fine.” She releases me and straightens out her shirt. “Maybe not all muscles bend.”
“Glad we had to go through that to figure it out.” I nod toward the camera that’s still recording us. “At least you’re getting the content you wanted.”
She huffs and then turns off the video. “Are we warmed up or what?”
“We are. Time to hit the weight room.”