14. Chapter 14
Chapter 14
TEAGAN
Coach barks out an order and I jerk to attention. My mind has been anywhere but football for the last hour—namely a gorgeous ginger—but I better fucking focus before I get called out.
No sooner than the thought leaves my brain does my gaze flicker to the sidelines where Lane helps Mark break down equipment. She lifts her head and when our eyes meet, I swear I can see the flush in her cheeks from here.
Making Lane blush will never get old.
Grinning, I turn my focus back to Coach.
“All right, boys, no more dancing around. This isn’t fucking ballet. Let's make this one count,” Coach calls out. “Tank,” he says to Tommy, “you’re the heart of this defense. Show ‘em how it’s done!”
He moves down the line, each step slow and deliberate as his gaze skims across us. “Teagan—”
My ears perk, attention focused. “Yes, sir?”
“You’re distracted and sloppy.”
Fuck.
“Show me why the recruiters said you had hands like vise grips and the agility of a heat seeking missle. Show me you’re not just a fuck-up rookie that likes to steal tires.”
Harsh. I mash my mouth into a thin line. But I guess it’s a cheap shot I deserved. “Yes, sir.”
He addresses several others, and then I line up, positioning myself in the offensive backfield. Crouching down, I brush the grass with my fingers as I focus on the play at hand.
When Coach Turner blows his whistle, Chance barks out signals and we break. I split out, taking the left of the V-shape formation, my feet carrying me down the field where Chance lets it fly.
I turn right where the ball should be to find it spiraling right toward me. I reach out and catch it, then tuck it under my arm as I spin and dodge a defender with a mix of finesse and strength.
With my head down, I move my feet, flying over the turf as I barrel toward the end zone.
When another defender appears to my right, feet before the goal line, I know he’ll get to me before I can cross, so I launch myself into the air, soaring like a bird and crashing straight into him.
The pain from the collision is immediate, thundering through me, but it’s mitigated by my desire to score.
I plummet to the ground like a stone, over the goal line.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs, but it only takes me a moment to recover before I’m getting to my feet, the ball still clutched in my arms.
A grin spreads over Coach Turner’s face before he quickly smothers it with his usual stern expression. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
With a jolt of pride, I jog back toward the line of scrimmage, trying to catch my breath as beads of sweat roll a path down my forehead, underneath my helmet, and over the back of my neck. My gaze flickers to the sidelines, and I’m pleased to catch Lane staring. A flush of pleasure surges through me before I tamp it down, a secret smile curling the corners of my mouth as I focus on the next drill.
When practice is over, my teammates and I file off the field. Tommy runs to catch up with me, his breathing still ragged from the squat jumps Coach had us do to close practice. I barely glance over at him, too busy watching Lane pack equipment into the Gator to pay much attention. “Shit, man. I need a shower, a hot meal, and about a week’s worth of sleep.”
“You’re not kidding.” I remove my helmet and run a hand through my sweat-damp hair. “Cafeteria tonight?”
Tommy grunts. “I guess so.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I say, but my focus is already on Lane. “I just have to—”
“Nichols!” a voice calls out from behind.
I stiffen, recognizing the deep timbre and pivot on my heel.
Chance Lockhart advances toward me with a frown, and I sigh. “Lockhart.”
His lips thin, forehead furrowed as he stops in front of me. “You have a minute?”
Not for you, I want to say, but he’s our quarterback and our captain. I can hardly refuse him, so I mutter, “I can spare one or two.”
“Good.” Chance shifts on his feet and crosses his arms over his chest as Tommy leaves us to talk. “I just wanted to touch base with you.”
“What about?” I ask, even though I know exactly what this is about.
“Lane.” His eyes narrow. “Listen, I don’t know what your intentions are with her—”
“I thought we cleared this up last night,” I interrupt. “Lane and I are friends.”
He scoffs. “Lane doesn’t have guy friends.”
How the fuck would you know?
I don’t know what it is about Chance Lockhart that rubs me the wrong way, but my ass has been chapped since before the tire stealing incident. And after last night and the way he spoke to Lane, I’m fucking rubbed raw.
I stare at him, wondering what his game is when I decide it doesn’t matter and offer him a shit-eating grin. “I guess she does now.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches. “Well, I don’t know if you know this, but you could say I’ve been a part of her family for a long time. Coach Turner mentored me for years and—”
“She told me,” I say through gritted teeth.
Chance’s brows rise as if surprised she shared this particular piece of information with me.
“Then you can understand where I’m coming from when I say I just want what’s best for Coach’s daughter.”
My lips flatten into a thin line. If he has a point, he’d better damn well get to it.
“Lane has been through a lot.” His gaze flickers up and down my body, sizing me up. “As you’re aware, she has a daughter. She’s in a completely different place in her life. I don’t want to see her get hurt, especially by some freshman who’s still sowing his oats.”
“Pretty presumptuous, aren’t you?”
He shrugs, his tone unapologetic as he adds, “Just calling it like I see it.”
I step a little closer, searching his expression for any clue as to what the hell his angle is because I’m about done with the games. “Well, while we’re calling things as we see them, maybe I should point out that you’re awfully invested in her personal life for a family friend.”
Anger flickers in his green orbs. “You heard Coach. He doesn’t want any of you dickheads messing with her. Maybe he’d buy your bullshit excuse about being her friend, but I don’t. I see right through you, Nichols.” He sneers. “I see the way you look at her, and it doesn’t look particularly friendly to me.”
I lift a shoulder. “Why don’t we let Lane be the judge of that? She’s a big girl, and from what I’ve seen, she can handle herself.”
His lips curl, his tone ominous as he says, “Tread lightly, Nichols. I’m watching you. It’d be a shame to get on Coach’s bad side as a rookie.”
I scoff, amazed I can loathe this douchebag more than I already do. “Is that a threat?”
He shrugs. “Consider it a promise.” He brushes past me, bumping into my shoulder hard.
Fucking asshole.
I turn, and like a glutton for punishment, I watch him make a beeline for Coach, who’s hovering outside the tunnels talking to Lane. Both of them turn to Chance, but while Coach naturally leans toward him like a flower drawn to light, Lane takes a step back.
This observation, however, does little to ease the knot tightening in the pit of my stomach because two seconds later, Chance says something to make Coach laugh, and he’s waving her over.
I turn my attention away from them, and not for the first time since our encounter at Slice, I wonder what kind of relationship he and Lane had these last seven years. I’d also like to know why he seems to think she’s his business. He certainly has an opinion on Lane’s personal life, and something tells me she would be none too pleased about him interfering without her knowledge.
But it’s not like I can ask her.
Her fiery independence combined with the walls I’ve yet to scale mean I’m not privy to answers. Which leaves me questioning: How much of a problem is Chance Lockhart?