Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Michelle
The doughnuts smell like heaven. The elevator dings when I hit the bottom floor. I inhale deeply, which makes my mouth water, and me and my five boxes of perfectly precarious pastry perfection promenade down the hall.
“There she is, the angel of the hour, the goddess of doughnuts and Fridays, the woman we all want to marry,” a thickly accented voice croons.
I peek around the boxes, and Enzo Marino is standing at the door to the room where the coaches and players watch tape, holding it open and ushering me inside.
“I have never seen a sight so beautiful such as this,” Enzo tells me, gesturing wildly with his hands.
“Marry me, not him!” another man calls out. Djimon, I think, but all of my focus is on not dropping the doughnuts.
I have a sneaking suspicion the enthusiastic proposals would dry up if I fumbled the doughnuts.
I turn the corner into the room very, very slowly, only for a towering body to stop my progress.
“Let me help you.”
I don’t have to look to know exactly who that voice belongs to. And the fact that my body has an immediate flushed reaction to it?
Well.
That could be a problem.
“I got it,” I say, because my body is so not the boss of me.
Except for when I tore my ACL for the third time and had to stop playing soccer. I guess it was the boss of me that time.
“I wasn’t asking,” Tristan insists, easily divesting me of the three top boxes of doughnuts.
I want to scowl at him, but it’s an immediate relief not to be responsible for thirty-six doughnuts. So I smile instead.
“Put the rest here, Oxford,” he tells me, putting the three boxes he stole from me on a long table. There are already paper plates and napkins out, and it looks like food services brought the coffee carafes and juice I requested, too, thank goodness.
There’s no good reason not to do exactly as he asks, so I set down my boxes in a neat row next to his. The cardboard lids take a half second to open. Instantly, the scent of sugar and butter fills the room, and more soccer players trickle in through the door.
“Amore mio, I would give you my heart for bringing these.” Marino stands just over my shoulder, his nostrils flaring as he breathes in deeply.
“She is not your amore,” Tristan tells him sharply.
Marino’s dark lashes flutter open. “It is just a nice thing to say, Gold. Do not get your socks in a twist.”
I grin back at him. I love the way he occasionally uses the wrong word. It’s just so endearing.
“It’s panties,” Tristan corrects, still glaring.
“And what got in yours, today?” I ask him sweetly. “Seems like you could use a little sugar for that attitude.”
“Are you offering me some sugar, Oxford?” he asks, and when his gaze drops to my lips, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s not talking about doughnuts.
Forcing my body to move, I brush past him. Focus, Michelle. Carefully, I fill a cup with steaming coffee, nearly to the brim. I’ll just scald my mouth with coffee.
Then I won’t be tempted to put it on his.
In the next second, soccer players crowd around the table, jockeying for doughnut position.
A tiny oomph escapes me as someone knocks into my arm, sloshing piping hot coffee over the edge of the paper cup and splattering it onto my favorite pink suede flats.
“Shoot,” I mutter, staring at the spreading brown stain.
The urge to cry hits me. Suede is nearly impossible to get stains out of.
“Back up,” Tristan barks, and when the team ignores him, his hands go to my waist. I stare up at him, too many emotions bubbling to the surface at his mere touch.
His huge hands span the entire width of my waist, his pinkies to my rib cage.
My throat goes dry.
Golden blond hair falls over his eyebrow as he tilts his head at me. “Can’t have them roughing you up.”
“I can take care of myself,” I tell him, trying to sound proper…except the words come out low and breathy.
His eyes darken, and his stormy gaze dips to my mouth.
The next thing I know, I’m being lifted past the ravening horde of soccer players, then set so gently on the ground that not even one more drop of coffee spills from my cup.
From the way my heart’s hammering in my chest, it’s hard to believe I didn’t sprint a mile instead of simply being picked up like a doll by Tristan and set outside the immediate doughnut danger zone.
From the way he’s staring at me, checking me over, you’d think I was in actual danger.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. I purse my lips to suppress a laugh.
His gold-flecked hazel eyes narrow.
“My shoes have been better, but I’m fine, Tristan, seriously.”
He chucks me under the chin, tilting up my face with his huge hand. “I know you can take care of yourself.” A pause, his gaze drinking me in. “Maybe you shouldn’t have to.”
With that, his hand falls away from me and he turns on his heel, weaving among the muscled bodies of the Aces to fill his own plate with sugary confections.
I swallow hard.
More than a few players shoot me covert glances, but I’m gratified that none of them is making loud assumptions about Tristan and me.
Not that there’s anything to assume, but I know as well as anybody that teams love to gossip.
“We have a laptop set up if you want to use the screen to present.” Coach Garrett gives me a long look accompanied by a frown. “Not that I understand exactly what it is you’re presenting or how it’s supposed to help the team.”
With West Garrett, the important thing to remember is that he’s about as tough as a melted marshmallow on a s’more. Yep. Garrett is a huge softie, and he overcompensates by trying to act stern.
I know he is tough with the guys, because he does what it takes to bring out their best and makes sure whatever potential he sees in them is utilized—but he’s never been anything but a teddy bear with me and the rest of the front office staff.
The only time I saw him get truly heated was with the old owners, and they one hundred percent deserved it.
He’s all bark and no bite, and I’ve always liked him.
“I lost a bet,” I tell him, a real smile on my face now, because I see right through his tough-guy act. “Apparently I’m terrible at being ‘normal’ ”—I use air quotes—“and relaxed around people, and the guys thought Tristan should teach me.”
“Social anxiety is a bitch,” Garrett says, his brow furrowing at me thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as having problems with people.”
I blow out a breath. “I don’t know that it’s necessarily either of those things?” I pause, thinking it over. “I think I’ve just been so focused on work that I haven’t made time to do anything…for myself.”
It feels weird to say it out loud, especially to Garrett. But even though he’s not much older than I am, probably in his early forties, he gives off some serious big-brother energy.
“They run you ragged up there,” Garrett agrees, still frowning. “I’m proud of you for taking a chance on Gold and for doing something for yourself.”
“Oh,” I start, warmth traveling up my face.
“I’m not, we’re not—I mean, he was the best person to teach me, right?
He’s great with people.” I clear my throat, then take a sip of the scalding coffee, focusing on how it straight up burns my tongue instead of the massive amount of awkwardness tensing my muscles.
“I’d be careful with that,” he says, and from the way his gaze darts to Tristan, I know he’s not talking about the too-hot coffee. “He’s a good guy, but there’s a reason he seems so laid-back.”
Seems? I nearly laugh, my eyebrows rocketing up. He doesn’t seem laid-back; he is.
Before I can say that, though, Garrett’s walking away to grab his own plate of doughnuts, leaving me to wrestle with what he’s just said.
There is no seems to Tristan Gold.
He is one hundred percent who he says he is.
Isn’t he?
The doughnut debrief is a success.
A broad smile wreaths my face as I finish, and I feel no need to fake it as the team laughs at my rage room recap.
They loved the part where I reenacted beating the shit out of the copy machine, and a few of the younger guys had never seen Office Space and thought the clip I found on YouTube was hilarious.
The trainers have even joined us, grinning as they chomp down on the few doughnuts left.
“Is there a question-and-answer portion?” Logan shouts out while the new center forward, Connor, elbows him.
“What questions do you have, Logan?” I ask.
“What’s the next lesson? Now that you’ve gotten your rage out, that is.”
The group laughs again.
I have no idea, so I glance at Tristan, who I’ve avoided making eye contact with thus far. Heat climbs through my veins under the weight of his gaze. My fingers go to the gold heart dangling from my wrist, a nexus for all the nervous energy Tristan keeps causing me.
“What are you having her do next, Gold?” Connor asks him.
“It’s a surprise,” Tristan answers, sliding a glance at me.
I look down at my suede flats instead of making eye contact with him again. The question was totally innocent, and yet my body? My body is insisting that what he has me do next might not be appropriate for a doughnut debrief. Like, he could debrief my doughnut in private.
I take a deep breath, then choke on thin air, and cough, trying to play it cool.
From the look Tristan’s giving me, half smirk, half concerned, I get the feeling I’m doing a piss-poor job of being anything but extremely obvious.
The guys start tossing out suggestions left and right, but someone next to me clears their throat.
Maddie. I blink, surprised to see her there, and she claps her hands like an elementary school teacher. About a third of the guys repeat the pattern, the room silencing, and I stare at her in complete shock.
How the hell did she know that would work?
Tristan’s lips curl in amusement, and my fingers twitch on the heart charm as I quell the urge to reach out to him.
“I know that Michelle lost your bet, but I’m here to ask if you all can still pitch in with our public relations push.” She steeples her fingers, giving them a steely look that also takes me by surprise. This girl’s going places.
“We’re calling it Operation: Assist in my office, and we need all the help we can get.”
Coach Garrett takes a sip from his coffee cup, one eyebrow raised.
It takes all of my willpower not to look at Tristan again—a difficult task, seeing as how his huge frame seems to be situated in my immediate line of sight.
“What do we have to do?” Logan asks, grinning wide at Maddie.
She blushes slightly, and I glance between them with my eyebrows raised.
“Your entire job is to make us look as good as possible for the duration of the season.” If she’s flustered by the come-hither stare Logan’s laying on thick, she’s not showing it. “And not just on the field.” She jerks her chin up, making eye contact with the coach. “We know you’ll do that.”
The guys make noises of agreement, and I cross my arms over my chest, more than happy to let her take the lead.
Anything to keep from thinking about what Tristan would, ahem, have me do next.
“I have sent sign-up forms to your emails for different initiatives, and I have a physical sign-up here, as well.”
“What kind of initiatives?” Garrett asks. “We have an intense schedule.”
She narrows her eyes at him, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.
Marino clucks his tongue, making a surprised face.
“Ha i coglioni,” he says, and Vincenzo, his fellow Italian, snorts and nods in agreement.
“What I—we—have planned runs the gamut from community service projects like helping with Habitat for Humanity and local animal shelters, to food drives and youth sports organizations.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder.
“I’ve already worked with each group to ensure that they won’t conflict with any games or training schedules.
One of the PR team will be on-site with you, taking pictures for our social media campaign.
The whole point is to keep the focus on all the ways our team is amazing and away from the damage the jackasses who used to the run this place are trying to do. ”
Maddie clears her throat again, and I glance down at her hands to see them trembling.
She’s putting on a good show, but she’s not as confident as she seems to be. My esteem for her goes up even more, because it’s a lot harder to be brave when you’re nervous.
“I’ve approved this initiative,” I tell them loudly, “and I expect everyone’s utmost cooperation. We’re not going to let those…jackasses who used to run this place ruin the Aces’ reputation, are we?”
“One team, one goal!” Tristan booms out in a deep baritone.
That gets the guys fired up, or maybe it was just the combo of sugar and caffeine, because they nearly launch out of their metal folding chairs as they yell their agreement.
I laugh softly, reenergized.
Reenergized, and a bit sad, because god, I missed this.
I miss being a part of a team and getting fired up over working on something together. I miss the feeling of helping my teammates, of being connected.
Where did that feeling go? Surely I must have felt that way about my work upstairs at some point.
Maybe I miss my old teammates, too…Maybe I should reach out to the women who, all those years ago, helped make me who I am today.
My gaze meets Tristan’s again, and he’s beaming at me, one arm draped lazily across the now-empty chair next to him.
I wish I was sitting in it.
“I’ll text you about our next lesson date,” he mouths at me.
“Not a date,” I mouth back as Garrett and his coaching staff start barking out orders to the now-hyped players, swarming around Maddie to sign up for her service initiatives, Logan at the forefront.
Tristan just winks, though, and my knees feel as weak as the jelly leaking from the last doughnut in the box.