5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
TEAGAN
The late summer sun beats down on my back while I finish stretching, and my teammates wait beside me for Coach to show. Word is he’s calling a team meeting, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly nervous at the prospect.
Showing up on his doorstep yesterday went about as good as expected; he gruffly accepted my apology, then told me we’d deal with it Monday on the field.
Well, it’s Monday, and I’m no less nervous to see what he has in store for me than I had been the moment I got caught.
A whistle blows on the sidelines and my attention shifts.
Coach walks toward us with an air of authority that comes with being a weathered veteran of the game. Two of his assistant coaches flank him, along with Mark Reid, the equipment manager for the team.
Behind them, I spot several of my teammates, including Chance Lockhart, rolling four massive tires onto the field, and my stomach sinks.
There are two men to a tire, and even then, they’re red-faced and sweating their asses off.
Another glance at Coach and the smug smile he wears like a badge of honor, and I know I’m fucked.
Something tells me this isn’t a part of our normal workout today.
His eyes scan the men around me, pausing a second to lock eyes with me before moving on. “It was brought to my attention on Saturday night, as I’m sure many of you are aware, that the Wildcats like to do a little freshman initiation, or hazing, if you will. And since it seems Teagan Nichols, one of our tight ends”—he sweeps an arm in my direction—“likes to move tires, I thought we’d give him an opportunity to showcase his skills.”
I groan as he turns a pointed stare at me, his closely trimmed beard twitching with his smile before he glances away again. “Now, I might be an old man, but I’m no fool. I know more than just one person is responsible for stealing and dumping the tires of those four cars, but only one was dumb enough to get caught.”
Gee, thanks.
“So, if any of you are man enough to admit your involvement, you can join your friend Teagan here, and help him out with one of these tires. Otherwise, he will be responsible for flipping all four of them to the end zone himself.”
My eyes widen, but I play it cool despite the string of curses I rattle off in my head. Those tires have to weigh four hundred pounds apiece easily, and from their position on the field, I’ll need to flip each of them one hundred yards.
Beside me, Tommy starts to step forward, but I block him with my arm, giving him a subtle shake of the head. I already took the fall for these guys, and I’m not going to fuck it up now because Coach is a masochist.
Besides, something tells me this is more than punishment. It’s a test. He wants to see how loyal I am, if I’m a team player or if I’ll squeal under pressure.
If there’s one thing you can count on from me, it’s my fucking loyalty.
Some of these guys will share the field with me for four years. Many of them will become my brothers, comrades in battle, and you don’t win by throwing each other into the gauntlet, even if it’s to fight alongside you.
Or maybe he’s testing everyone else.
Maybe he wants to see all of them step forward and take the heat as a team. But I know some of these guys and they’re scared shitless of getting the boot and having their scholarships revoked. Not that I blame them. My love of the game aside, without my scholarship, I’d have to take out a shit ton of loans to get my degree.
Several other freshmen glance my way, a question in their eyes I try my best to answer as I step forward, chin held high.
I can feel Chance Lockhart burning a hole through the side of my face but ignore him. Something tells me he’s loving every second of this, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.
“It was just me, sir,” I say before anyone else can take the heat.
It needs to be one of us or all of us; there is no in-between.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Chance smirk, and let it boil my blood. I’ll need the anger to motivate me if I’m to move these tires.
“Okay, then. Nichols,” Coach snaps, “you better get started. We don’t have all day and practice starts when you finish. The longer you take, the longer practice goes on.”
Fucking fantastic.
I make a beeline for one of the tires, mentally preparing myself to push to my limit when Tommy calls out, “You got this, Nichols!”
“Use your legs,” someone else shouts. “It’s all in the legs and hips, baby. Come on.”
I stretch my neck from side to side, then brace my hands on the first tire and begin.
The first couple of flips suck. The tire is heavy as shit, and I already feel the burn in my muscles, but the further I go, I begin to warm up and it gets a little easier.
I’m already breathing heavily by the time I get the first one across and head for the second.
By the third, it’s no longer easy.
By the fourth, every muscle in my body is screaming like a fucking banshee.
About halfway down the field, my legs cramp. My forehead is slick with sweat as the sun beats down on me. My biceps burn, and I’m not sure I can make it.
I pause, leaning against the tire as I take a deep breath and reach deep within, calling on all my mental fortitude, reaching for anything and everything I’ve got to get me across the finish line. My anger at Lockhart. Knox’s betrayal. A set of brilliant blue eyes and striking auburn hair.
Lane, the chick from the park, hasn’t called or texted me back, despite sending her several texts of my own, and as fucking pathetic as it is, I imagine her waiting for me in the end zone. My own personal prize.
All I have to do is get there, and she’s mine.
I grunt as I squat, using my legs to do the heavy lifting as I flip the tire over again and again and again while I growl, gasp, and curse. On final squat, I flip it once more across the goal line and collapse against it.
The acrid scent of rubber burns my nose as I catch my breath.
Applause erupts around me, followed by a hand clapping me on the back. “Damn, bro. Didn’t know if you had it in you.”
Tommy.
I lift my head, leaving behind a puddle of sweat on the black rubber.
He reaches out and clasps my hand in his, pulling me upright. “Come on, man.”
I straighten and begin to walk.
My limbs feel like fucking Jell-O.
I place my hands on my hips while I try to slow the galloping in my chest, perfectly in tune with my teammates’ applause.
Once I’m back on the sidelines, I bend, bracing my hands on my thighs for a moment while several of my teammates slap me on the back.
“Nichols is a beast!” Greene hoots.
In front of me Coach stares, offering me a curt nod before his eyes shift, flickering over each of us with the weight of authority while we wait for instruction.
“All right, listen up, boys.” Coach’s sharp tone cuts through the ambient noise, and the voices around me die. “Now that we’ve taken care of that nonsense, I’ve got an announcement to make and I need your full attention.”
A ripple of curiosity spreads across the line. I exchange a glance with Tommy and wonder why the hell I’m so nervous.
“Starting this week, my daughter will be joining us as a student manager for the team,” he announces.
The fist in my stomach disappears.
Thank fuck this isn’t about me.
Around me, the boys exchange a look, and I can see the curiosity glittering in their eyes as Coach continues, “She’ll be handling hydration, helping to bring equipment to and from practices and games, as well as cleaning uniforms and gear. But I want you to treat her with the same respect you'd show anyone on this team,” Coach emphasizes. “She’s here to learn and contribute. She’s a hard worker and should be treated as a colleague, not as the coach’s daughter. Is that clear?”
Chance Lockhart steps forward, his gaze narrowed on Coach Turner. Unlike the rest of us, he doesn’t seem surprised at the news Coach has a daughter, which I suppose is to be expected. Chance and Coach have a history. But if the crease in his brow and the tight set of his mouth are any indication, the news Turner’s daughter will be joining us agitates him.
He opens his mouth before he snaps it closed again, as if deciding against whatever it is he wanted to say.
Everyone around me nods in agreement. Beside me, Tommy nudges me in the ribs, grinning as he mouths, Think she’s hot?
I snort, mumbling out of the corner of my mouth. “If she looks anything like Turner, not a chance in hell.”
Tommy chuckles.
“There is one caveat,” Coach continues, his gaze firm. “My daughter is off-limits, gentlemen. No dating, no flirting, no nonsense. I won’t have you harassing her or giving her a hard time or placing bets on her back, or any of that other bullshit that goes on when a coach’s daughter is dangled in front of a bunch of horn-ball athletes.”
Tommy snorts, the sound so loud Coach glares at him. “And I also won’t have you distracted. Your focus needs to remain solely on the field. We’re a team, and that means staying focused on the game, not my daughter’s personal life.” He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to sink in.
“Oh, yeah,” Tommy murmurs under his breath. “She’s totally fucking hot.”
I jab him in the ribs and he lets out an oof as Coach glances our way.
Does he not fucking listen?
“I’ve worked hard to build a program that demands discipline and dedication.” Coach glares at us, his voice unwavering. “And I won’t tolerate any drama that might derail us. If anyone here thinks they can test these boundaries, they’re in for a rude awakening. And if I hear even so much as a rumble about you bothering her or breaking any of these rules, trust me when I say, you will regret it.”
Shit. He means business.
Mission accomplished.
I’d rather cut my dick off than so much as look twice at the chick.
My gaze shifts behind him, and I wonder why the need for such a strong warning. Then again, I’ve been around athletes my whole life. We’re a group of cocky motherfuckers, horny cocky motherfuckers, and I can see some of them viewing her as the ultimate conquest. Forbidden fruit just makes you want to take a bite all that much more.
“Are there any questions?” Coach asks. His gaze jumps to each and every one of us, and at our silence, he nods. “Good. I know some of you might be thinking this is a bit harsh,” he admits, his expression softening just a fraction. “But I’m not just doing this for the team. I’m doing it for her, too. She’s here for her own reasons and I won’t let anything get in the way of that. Understood?”
“Yes Coach,” everyone answers.
“Good.” He cracks a smile for the first time since he stepped foot on the field, then shifts, revealing a slender figure waiting behind him.
My jaw unhinges.
I eat my words from moments ago as I blink at the woman hovering in the background with eyes I know firsthand are a brilliant cerulean blue because they’ve haunted my dreams in the two nights since we met.
I stare ahead at her, trying to convince myself she’s a figment of my imagination. A mirage. Purely a product of my subconscious desires.
I’ve wanted to see her again ever since we parted in the park, and here she is. Stamped, sealed, and delivered right to me on a fucking die-if-you-touch-her silver platter.
My heart leaps into my throat while the sound of my pulse fills my ears so loud, I can barely register the words as Coach motions toward her with obvious pride and says, “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Lane Turner.”
#
Lane is Coach Turner’s daughter.
Maybe if I say it to myself enough, it will sink in. Or somehow become untrue. The latter would be great.
She stands before the huddle of my teammates and gives a little wave while Coach stares each of us down, a warning in his eyes to punctuate the verbal one he just gave us.
I squint into the sun, sweat sliding down my forehead.
I feel like someone’s playing a cruel joke on me. No way the girl I met over the weekend, the one I want so fucking badly, the one I can’t stop thinking about, is the one girl I can’t have.
My daughter is off-limits, gentlemen. No dating, no flirting, no nonsense. I won’t have you harassing her or giving her a hard time. And I also won’t have you distracted.
Fuck. He might as well have strung caution tape around her and nailed a stop sign to her forehead while he was at it.
Seriously, what the hell?
I stare at her, my gaze unwavering as I try to come to terms with this new piece of information.
If she was embarrassed by his impromptu speech, she gives no indication of it. If anything, she looks resigned as she stares into the sea of men around me with zero emotion.
I swallow as my gaze shifts, taking in her long legs and toned arms. She’s wearing a pair of tight biker shorts and a tank top that showcases a small sliver of her midriff. She looks so fucking good, I want to eat her up while simultaneously shielding her from the probing eyes around me.
When my hungry gaze finishes its perusal and I return to her face, our eyes lock, and based on her cool stare, I’d guess she’s not too happy to see me.
Did I imagine the chemistry between us?
When she glances away from me, I smother the disappointment churning in my guts.
Fuck me.
If Coach doesn’t want any of the guys hitting on her, then maybe he should consider getting her one of those floral muumuus like my granny wears because what she has on is not sending the message that she’s off-limits. If anything, it makes me contemplate throwing caution to the wind and completely ignoring everything Coach has just said.
Under any other circumstances, I might not heed his warning, I might pursue her anyway, but I’m on thin ice as it is after the hazing stunt over the weekend. The monstrous ache already blooming in my muscles is proof of that. I can’t even imagine what he’d say if he found out I already had her number in my phone and several unanswered texts.
Hell, he’d probably have my balls in a vise grip and accuse me of harassment.
“Lane doesn’t officially start until Wednesday,” Coach continues, “In the meantime, Nichols will be staying after practice to help Mark with cleaning the gear.”
I peel my eyes away from her and nod.
Fucking awesome.
“Now that we have that settled, let’s get on with practice, shall we? We’ve wasted enough time for one day.” Coach motions for the assistants to take the field and start us on drills while I try not to dwell on the girl talking to the equipment manager on the sidelines.
Practice lasts forever. Or at least that’s what it feels like after the tire flips and two hours of busting my ass on drills.
By the time we finish, my muscles are wasted and I’m dog tired. Knowing I’m not finished only sours my mood.
“Nichols!” Mark, the equipment manager, calls out and when I glance his way, I find him still talking to Lane. “Take a minute to hydrate, then you’re with me.”
I nod. “Yes, sir,” I grumble.
Frozen in place, I watch in a trance, unable to tear my eyes away from her as she hands him a packet of papers, then turns to leave.
I act on instinct, taking a step toward her. “Hey, Lane, wait up!” I call out.
Yep, that’s right. After Coach’s speech, I follow her off the field.
I’m either a glutton for punishment or just fucking stupid.
She didn’t answer your texts, asshole. Clearly, she’s uninterested.
Stupid it is.
“Lane, wait!” I call out one more time, praying Coach is otherwise occupied so I don’t have to deal with his scrutiny and risk pissing him off any more than I already have.
He didn’t say we couldn’t talk to her, just that we can’t pursue her.
Finally hearing me, Lane spins around, her face a mask of indifference. “What do you want, Teagan?”
Ouch. Not sure what I was expecting, but her greeting is even more frigid than I anticipated.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” I say as I come to a stop in front of her, matching her straightforward approach with one of my own.
“Is that a question or a statement?” She arches a brow while she waits, and I smile.
“Caught me. I guess what I meant to ask is, why didn’t you text me back?”
She says nothing for a moment, shifting on her feet and glancing at the turf. “Listen, Teagan, you seem like a really nice guy—”
“Aw, shit.” I groan. “You’re giving me the brush-off?”
Her throat bobs as she meets my gaze, then glances away again, and it clicks where I’ve seen that exact shade of blue before—the blue hydrangeas my mother used to grow in the garden.
“Why didn’t you text me back, Lane?” I ask again.
“My father is your coach.”
A wave of relief crashes into me.
It’s not personal. But it’s also for reasons I can do nothing about.
“So, that’s it? Don’t shit where you eat?” I wince at my choice of words.
Seriously, Teagan. You’re trying to win a hot chick over and you’re talking about shit?
What the actual fuck?
“For lack of better words? Yeah.” She shrugs and her lips twitch.
I rip my gaze from her mouth. “But you didn’t know I played football until today, so why—”
“Your apology yesterday at my father’s house was well-timed.”
“Oh shit. You saw me?” I scrub a hand over my face when she nods.
“Listen, I’d better go.” She starts to turn but I stop her with a hand on her arm.
Her gaze shifts from the point of contact to something behind us, and she stiffens.
Following her gaze, I find Coach talking to Chance on the sidelines, one hand on his shoulder, and I realize how this will look if he sees me.
Fuck. What the hell am I doing?
“He’s just . . . overprotective,” Lane explains, without being asked. “But if I were you, I’d lose my number.”
This time, when she retreats I let her, watching her as she goes.
She’s right. I should lose her number. Nothing good will come of pursuing her.
But I don’t want to listen.
“What if I don’t want to?” I call out, startling her.
She pauses, motionless as she glances over her shoulder. “Then you’ll be wasting your time.”