Chapter Fifteen #2
“Oh, we’re going to talk, but I refuse to do it inside an icebox.” He grabbed the throw blanket draped across the armchair and tossed it at her, hitting her in the face. Before she could protest, again, he was gone, returning a few seconds later with the cold medicine and a bottle of water.
“Take this. I brought some water, too. I always have to rinse the taste from my mouth after this stuff.”
A little dumbfounded at what was happening, she downed the syrup and chased it with a gulp of water. “Making yourself right at home, I see.” It was a fever dream. Had to be. Otherwise, there was no way Remy would be inside her home playing nursemaid.
There was a flash of a smile, and then he was gone, a blast of cold air sweeping through the living room after he shut the door.
She must’ve drifted off to sleep while he was gone, because she woke to him gently shaking her shoulder.
“Time to talk, sleeping beauty.”
A cheery fire crackled in the fireplace, the light woodsmoke and warmth wrapping around her like a Hallmark hug. Marcee pushed herself up and sat with her legs crossed.
Remy settled into the armchair, his delicious weight sinking into the cushions. Her eyes drifted over him, nestled into her home in his athletic pants, T-shirt, and wool socks as if he was a permanent fixture. Her stomach fluttered, but it must’ve been the cough syrup.
She’d never had a man in the house before. Not once.
“Now,” he said, interrupting her musings. “I don’t want to have sex with you, Marcee. So we’re clear.”
“Come again?”
“I mean I don’t want to just have sex with you.”
“What do you want, exactly?” she asked, hopeful and apprehensive all at the same time.
Please don’t let this be the moment I puke.
“For starters,” Remy said, leaning forward, “I want us both to pull our heads out of the sand and admit there’s something here.” He motioned between them. “I meant what I said at the auction. We are done running. If I hadn’t been sick, I would’ve been here sooner.”
Marcee swallowed heavily, the tang of cough syrup coating the back of her throat. “We can’t spend two seconds together without fighting.”
Most of the time she’d spent in the company of Remy the vexing, competitive hotshot who knew all the right buttons to push. Sitting across from her was not that Remy. This version was a serious, mature man who was clearly done playing games. He was throwing down the gauntlet.
“I know.” Unflinching, unapologetic. “We’re too competitive for our own good.
What has happened between us—what we’ve let happen—has twisted desire and attraction into something ugly, because to admit it to the other would feel like losing.
And we are both pathetically sore losers.
” He locked eyes with her. “I’ve been done with that for a while, Marcee, and I know you know it. ”
There were moments when she first started therapy where she thought she was having panic attacks in session.
Her chest would get tight, and she wanted to run out of the room, as far away from her feelings as she could get.
In time, she learned to recognize that feeling as uncomfortable fear.
It was her body’s way of getting her to shut down and avoid whatever was happening.
With Dr. Crowley, it rarely happened any more.
She could tell her literally anything and not feel ashamed.
That weight on her chest now was how Marcee knew what Remy said rang true. She didn’t want to admit it, because in doing so, a world of possibilities and unknown outcomes opened in front of her.
Hating him—pretending to hate him—was easy. It led down a straight path with no surprise curves or scary trees.
Falling for him… well, falling for Remy was a road curving out of sight, with anything or everything waiting just around the bend.
“I—” She swallowed heavily, forcing the words out, because she knew.
She knew if she didn’t say them, she’d regret it.
“I like you, Remy.” There. She said it. She said the four words she swore months ago she would never, ever say.
Grabbing the blanket, she hurled herself backward and covered up her face.
Was it a betrayal of her school, of her team?
What kind of future could two rival coaches have?
The couch cushion next to her sank down, and even through the fuzzy blanket, his clean scent, tinted with menthol cream, tickled her nose.
“Hey,” he murmured, tugging the blanket down. His face hovering over hers was strangely intimate, but she liked it. Every line and trace of stubble was revealed, naked and vulnerable. Those brown eyes, so rich, captured Marcee’s and held her prisoner as he said, “I like you too, Marcee. A lot.”
She couldn’t help it—she smiled, so big and open it was borderline embarrassing.
His words traveled right to the pit of her stomach, like a shot of liquor before dispersing through her system.
It was even better when he smiled back. It wasn’t his charming, photo-ready smile or the smirk he was so fond of when looking in her direction, but a real, honest grin she couldn’t get enough of.
She wanted to kiss him so much it hurt, but when she sat up and reached for his face, he took her hand and gently placed it in her lap, lacing their fingers together.
“I’m afraid we’ve started this all wrong, Coach.
” He lifted their hands and pressed a chaste, featherlight kiss on her knuckles.
Even that little contact sent a shiver down her spine.
“I propose we hold off on the sex. We skipped all the fun buildup and jumped right into each other’s pants.
I want to do this right. I want to learn everything about you, Marcee.
I want you to know me.” Chuckling, he added, “Not the wanker I’ve been every time we get within five feet of each other. ”
Mirroring him, she lifted their hands and kissed his knuckles, slowly and lingering.
A shudder rippled down his shoulders as his eyes closed briefly.
The movement was so small, but the power her touch had over him was intoxicating.
Someday in the future she’d get to explore it further, and it was worth the wait.
“Where do we start?” she asked shyly. Physical was easy, as natural to Marcee as anything.
Emotional connection had always been difficult, and it didn’t take a genius to know why.
When you have parents who view you as their creation rather than a living, breathing person with emotional needs, you learn to detach from that part so you aren’t constantly disappointed.
She never learned how to nurture or grow that side of who she was.
Therapy helped, but she had a long way to go.
Remy held up a finger and hopped off the couch, darting out of the living room. When he returned a minute later, he had two glasses of wine and a box of crackers.
“I don’t think your surgeon general advises having this with cough syrup,” he said teasingly, “but I won’t tell if you don’t.” She took it gratefully. “We start here. Wine, hors d’oeuvres”—he lifted the cracker pack and shook it, making her laugh—“and conversation.”
“Remington Lockley,” she said teasingly, “is this a first date?”
“I dare say it is.”
The night would go down on record as the strangest, best first date she’d ever had. Still, old anxiety loomed like a towering oak, its skeletal branches curling over her like spindled fingers.
“How are we going to do this?” she asked, staring into her wine glass. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, let alone date you.”
Remy leaned back and tugged her closer. “If you’re asking me how two coaches from opposing teams date each other without their bosses finding out and looking to the world like traitors, I have no clue. I’ve never done this before.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “You’re not instilling confidence in me, Coach.”
“It won’t be easy,” he replied. “But nothing easy was ever worth it, right?”
True. Every win, every close call in her life, had been through grit and determination and a good heaping of sweat and tears. If there was anything Marcee knew how to do, it was put in the work.
And she wanted to put in the work with Remy, because somehow, she knew it would be worth it.