Chapter 30
Colin
I AM, WITHOUT question, a Grade A asshole.
Certified.
I know it in the pit of my stomach as I watch Sam roll out of the bed without a backward glance.
I can’t be like this. We can’t be like this.
Maybe…maybe I can make this work. If I go to Scott and the Board and just explain.
Yeah, and how would that go, exactly? “Funny story. I went to Las Vegas and wound up married. To one of our players’ sisters. Turns out that I’m probably in love with her, too. See? Hilarious.”
That thought – that I might be in love with her – hits me square in the solar plexus. Like every time I think it, the breath leaves me. I struggle to suck in air as my heart pounds beneath my ribs. Is this a panic attack? Am I dying? What is happening?
I sit up, hoping that being upright will make it better. But air refuses to come. I pound my chest, and it seems to unlock something, because I finally inhale again.
Jesus. What is wrong with me?
You love her, asshole, comes the answer.
Fuck.
Fuck.
This is the worst possible outcome.
Loving Sam is…
She walks back in, and my gaze snaps to her. I stop breathing again.
Sam doesn’t look away, fearless as always. Because why should she? I’m the one with the problem; we’ve certainly established that.
But there’s only so much bravery she’s got in store, I suppose. She blinks, turning to scan the room for her clothes. “I’m going to leave.”
“Stay.” I blurt the word without thought.
A soft laugh comes out. “You don’t want me to.”
“Sam.”
She straightens, pulling the delicate white lace up her legs as she goes.
Honestly. Her beauty is downright devastating. Standing there in panties and nothing else, her body strong and lithe, every muscle worked and used to keep herself and others healthy and safe. Disheveled hair still out of its ponytail, falling down to the tips of her nipples. I want her. I love her.
And I am the absolute worst thing that could possibly happen to her.
When I don’t speak, she scoffs and shakes her head, bending back down to pluck her sports bra off the floor.
I stay silent while she pulls the rest of her clothes on, not trusting myself to speak.
Because if I said anything, I’m pretty sure it would start with the word I and end with love you.
Three words that she doesn’t deserve to be burdened by.
Not by me. I’m the asshole who’s too scared to fight for her.
She finishes dressing, even managing to find the elastic that I pulled out of her hair and securing it back into its usual ponytail.
As she steps into her shoes, she meets my eyes one last time.
Everything in me screams to speak, to open my mouth and let the words come out and face the consequences, everything else be damned. I almost do it.
But that panic roars right back as I open my mouth, stopping my breath and pinning me in place.
And the light that’s always in her eyes? I watch it dim. I wet my lips and try to speak again. To say literally anything. She doesn’t give me the time I need, turning to leave, ponytail swishing. I let her go, like the coward I am.
The next morning I stop at my usual coffee shop on the way into work, desperately needing the extra boost.
Chris sees me and nods as I take my place in line. I’ve finally convinced him that he can’t make my order in front of a line; it’s not nice, and that is not the kind of karma I’m chasing. I’m doing enough shady shit on my own.
He slides the black drip toward me as I ready to pay. “Granite have been on a winning streak,” he says. “They look good! Best I’ve seen this early in the season.”
I pocket my phone and grab the coffee. “Thanks.”
“Seriously, Coach. You’re doing great.” He throws me a thumbs-up as I turn to leave. “Let me know if you ever have open try-outs.”
I take a moment to look at his physique. Tall and on the muscular side, but slim. “Forward?”
He grins. “Winger.”
I consider him. “Not on my team. But who knows?”
His mouth pops open. “Are you saying there’s a chance?”
I laugh. “Chris, it’s professional rugby in America. There’s always a chance. I’ll let you know when we’re holding walk-on try-outs.”
He beams. “Wow, Coach. Thanks!”
Outside, I watch as a trio of birds swoop through the air. And wouldn’t you know, none of them crap on my car. Or me.
I snort. The day’s young. Who knows what kind of mess awaits me?
At headquarters, Ryan and Elliott come to my office to talk strategy for our away game against the New England Riot later this week.
They’ve changed up their roster and we have film to review.
Two hours later, I still need more coffee, so I walk down the hall to the cafe and face the machine.
“Never see you in here, Coach.” The Scottish burr gives him away even before he comes into view.
“Lennox. Do you know how to make this thing work?” I gesture at the complicated-looking contraption in front of me.
“Sure,” he answers. “This is the eighth wonder of the world, Coach. You want a cappuccino? Latte? Iced coffee? Americano? You pick your drink, then pick the type of milk – I asked them to add oat, I couldn’t believe all they had was regular milk – then pick your syrup, step back, and let it work.”
“Nice work on the oat milk,” I say. “But I just want some black coffee this time.”
He scoffs. “No way. We’ll try something different.”
Against all my protests, he starts punching buttons, then puts a mug beneath it before hitting Start. “Just wait,” he says, a smug look on his face. “I’ll turn you into a fan before you know it.”
I sincerely doubt it, but I don’t bother arguing with him. When he hands me the drink, complete with a white froth on top and some cinnamon he insisted on shaking on top – “it’s the aesthetic, Coach!”– I hold it in front of me, staring. “I wanted a black coffee.”
“This is a macchiato. It’s better.” He folds his arms and waits, an expectant look on his face.
With a sigh, I bring the mug to my lips and take a tentative sip.
Shit.
It’s tasty.
Lennox chuckles at the look on my face. “It’s good, innit? Smooth. Like me on the pitch.”
I laugh. “Something like that. It’s…acceptable.”
He lifts his own mug now that it’s done and winks. “Cheers.”
I check my watch. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I like to go onto the pitch and think. Visualize. That sort of thing.”
I study him with new appreciation. “By yourself?” When he nods in the affirmative, I ask, “What exactly are you visualizing?”
“Depends. But it always involves beating the shit out of the other team.” His mouth curves into the self-assured smirk I’m all too familiar with. Then he looks around furtively before leaning in. “So what’s going on with you and Sam?”
If it’s possible for someone to experience the world coming to a complete standstill, that’s what happens. Except there’s a weird tilt to things. As if the question itself tips me onto my back and leaves me flailing, a turtle with no way to right itself.
“Coach? You okay? Shite. Let’s sit.”
I feel a hand on my elbow as Lennox guides me to the bench that runs alongside a bay of windows overlooking the pitch. He takes my coffee as I sit, plunking the half-empty mug on the table before sitting next to me.
“Did something happen?”
I stare down at the pitch. It’s a beautiful view from up here; I can’t believe that I’ve never seen it from this angle.
“Coach?” Lennox prompts.
I blow out a breath. “I’m an asshole.”
He grunts. “I mean, I might call you that on the pitch sometimes, but no hard feelings,” he jokes. Then he grows serious. “Lay it on me, Coach. You talked to yer sister?”
I shake my head. “I probably should.”
“Aye.”
The words won’t come. It’s not as bad as with Sam last night – that was damn near a panic attack – but it’s not much better.
Lennox waits, patient, sipping his coffee as though he has all the time in the world.
He’s close to my age, maybe five years younger, his body just as battered and bruised as mine was when I played in undergrad.
I never had the pressure of playing pro, and sometimes I wonder if that’s one of my problems. Then I think that it’s a stupid thing to wonder about, because pressure is pressure.
The players are under pressure to perform.
I’m under pressure to create the strategy.
To talk to the media. To build the team.
To win the championship, as Scott likes to frequently remind me.
But Lennox isn’t my friend. He can’t be my friend…can he? In what world do I allow myself to be friends with my players?
Probably the same world where you fall for a woman who turns out to be the sister of one of your players and the team’s physical therapist, asshole.
So I take a breath and look up. Lennox watches me without judgment, his entire body language telling me I’m safe. I don’t know when I got so good at reading my players, but it’s absolutely a skill.
“You ready?” he asks, an understanding smile on his face.
“I fucked up,” I say. “I think I love her, and I fucked up.”
He dips his chin once, then rubs his auburn beard. “Wanna tell me about it?”
“Yeah.”
He gestures at the coffee in my hand. “Need something stronger?”
I huff out a laugh. “Why? You have something?”
He looks affronted. “I’m a Scotsman. Of course I have something.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’d have to get it from my locker, though.”
I wave him off. “It’s okay. Too much alcohol is to blame, anyway.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Vegas?”
I nod in confirmation. “We…nothing happened in Vegas. Other than, you know, the whole getting married part. But I didn’t let anything else happen.”
Lennox is quiet, letting me continue.
“So I woke up, utterly lost my shit about what had happened, and fled. Like a coward.” I’ve told him this already, but I’m compelled to share it again.
“Aye.” The one word is a full sentence.
“I looked. Researched. Just knew I could find a way to reverse the entire thing. Then the team picnic at my place, and up walks Sam, ready to rip me a new one. Rightfully so.”
“And you decided to keep it quiet while you kept trying to get a divorce.”
“Right. Except I’d heard nothing from the county clerk’s office and thought…I thought that maybe they’d just lost the paperwork. Maybe it was all a joke. Maybe we weren’t married. But you can’t just assume something like that.”
“She’s here on a visa, yeah?” he asks.
“Yes. I mean. I guess. I don’t know.” The heat of shame flames my face.
“Ye never asked?”
“We’ve established that I’m an asshole, Lennox,” I say dryly.
His eyes flare, but he doesn’t answer.
“Anyway. Nothing should have happened. But it’s like neither of us can keep away from the other.
When she’s anywhere close, it’s like my body can feel it.
As though my entire being calibrates to her.
If she’s nearby, I want to be next to her.
Touching her. Talking to her. Getting her attention on me. ”
I stop and take a sip of the coffee. The bit of sweetness from the cinnamon and foam helps with the bitter taste of regret, but not by much.
“But?” Lennox prods.
“But,” I sigh. “But she works for the team. My contract says no fraternization.”
He scoffs. “Contracts can’t stop feelings.”
I narrow my eyes at his tone. It sounds like there’s more to his words than he’s letting on. “Scott and the Board have made it incredibly clear that I only have this year to get the team to the championship. And to win it when we get there.”
“Aye. You’re the head coach. It’s yer job.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m saying that’s every head coach’s job.”
“Does every head coach have that in their contract?” I counter. “Because I do. Win the season or lose my job.”
A lone auburn brow raises. “How does Sam factor into that? None of that is on her.”
“Because she’s a distraction!” I hiss.
He smirks. “Aye. But a beautiful woman is the best kind of distraction, yeah?”
I lower my head in defeat. “Yeah.”
He claps my shoulder once, then stands. “Seems to me you tell her how you feel and take yer chances.”
I stare up at him. “You’re shit at this,” I accuse, gesturing between the two of us.
He laughs and takes the empty mug from my hands. “Never said I wasn’t.”
“Yes you did!” I protest. “That night in my office.”
“Oh, then? Yeah, I was lying.” He winks as he says it.
“I should fire you.”
He barks out a laugh and raises both mugs in salute. “You would never.”
He’s right. A few minutes later, he takes his leave and I’m alone once more. I stand and pull the quarter from my pants pocket, turning it over as I think.
Heads, I tell her how I feel now. Tails, I wait until we’re in the playoffs.
I flip.
Tails.