2. Lina
Two
Lina
“And at eleven, you have the sendoff reception for the Men’s National Team. Photo line, brief remarks, team photo. Forty-five minutes.”
I nod at my aide, Simone, keeping my expression neutral as she runs through the morning schedule. Budget meeting, call with the Secretary of State, the soccer thing, lunch with congressional leadership. Standard day. Except it’s not. Because the soccer thing means him.
“Coach Hendricks will be there, of course,” Simone continues, tapping her tablet. “Along with the full roster. We’ve got background on all of them if you want to review…”
“That won’t be necessary.”
My voice is perfectly calm. Presidential. Giving absolutely nothing away. Inside, I’m screaming.
Levi Hendricks. In my house. In less than two hours. Oh God.
Simone glances up, and I can tell she’s clocking something. She’s been with me for years; she knows my moods better than anyone. But she doesn’t push. Just nods and moves on to the next item.
I tune her out. Because my brain is doing what it’s been doing for the past almost decade whenever I hear his name: short-circuiting completely.
I remember exactly when it started. Years ago. I was a senator, home for the weekend, exhausted from a brutal legislative session. I poured myself a drink, collapsed on the couch, and turned on the TV just to have some background noise.
The European Soccer Championship was on. I don’t even really like soccer. Well, I didn’t back then, but I was too tired to find the remote. So I watched. And then the camera cut to the sideline.
Oh. Oh my.
Levi Hendricks. Head coach for some team I’d never heard of. The commentators were talking about his career, former player, tactical genius, building a program from nothing, but I didn’t hear a word of it. I was too busy staring.
He was prowling the sidelines like a caged animal. Intense, focused, radiating energy even standing still. His silver hair, cropped short. A beard that was more salt than pepper. A jaw that could cut glass.
And his body. Good God. Even in a suit, I could tell he was built. Broad shoulders straining the fabric. Thick arms. Big hands he kept running through his hair or gesturing with when he yelled instructions.
I shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of how long it had been since anyone last touched me.
The camera zoomed in on his face, and I made an embarrassing sound. Out loud.
What the fuck, Lina?
He had blue eyes. Pale and sharp, almost gray in the stadium lights.
With crinkles at the corners that said he laughed a lot, even though he wasn’t laughing right now.
He was scowling at something on the field, his jaw tight, and I watched him bark an order at one of his players.
His voice was low, rough, barely picked up by the broadcast mics.
My thighs clenched.
You are a United States senator. You have a master’s degree from Yale. You are not getting turned on by a soccer coach on television.
But I was. I really, really was.
I watched the rest of the game. His team won. When it was over, there was a post-match interview; he’d taken off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and I nearly choked on my drink.
Forearms. This man had FOREARMS. Tan and muscular, dusted with dark hair, and I imagined them braced on either side of my head while he…
Okay. Okay. That’s enough.
I turned off the TV.
Then I picked up my phone and Googled his name.
That was almost ten years ago. Years of following his career. Reading interviews. Watching games I didn’t care about just to see him pace the sideline. Finding photos and staring at them longer than any grown woman should.
Years of stupid, pathetic, completely unrequited lust for a man I’d never met.
I’ve thought about Levi Hendricks in bed, in the shower, during boring meetings when my mind wandered. Imagined what his beard would feel like against my inner thighs. What his big hands would feel like gripping my hips. What he’d sound like groaning my name while he buried himself deep inside me.
You are the President of the United States, for God’s sake, Lina! This is ridiculous.
And yet. Here I am, forty-four years old, leader of the free world, and I’m nervous about a photo op because my celebrity crush is going to be in the room.
Girl, you’re a mess.
“Madam President? They’re ready for you.”
I check my reflection one last time. My deep blue dress is perfectly tailored. My hair pulled back in an elegant twist. My makeup is flawless.
I look good. I know I look good.
Not that it matters. He’s not going to notice you; you’re the goddamn president! It’s nothing but a handshake and a photo.
I follow Simone to the East Room, my heart beating fast.
Get it together, Lina. You’ve stared down world leaders. You’ve handled international crises. You can shake one man’s hand without losing your damn mind.
The doors open. I step inside. Then I see him.
Oh, no. Oh no, no, no.
He’s better in person. He’s so much better in person, and I was not prepared for this shit.
Levi Hendricks is standing near the back of the room with the rest of the coaching staff, and he looks like he was carved out of fucking marble and testosterone.
The photos do not do him justice. Television doesn’t do him justice.
Nothing could have prepared me for the reality of this man in the flesh.
He’s tall, taller than I expected. Broad-shouldered, thick through the chest and arms, built like he could still play if he wanted to.
His charcoal-gray suit fits him perfectly.
It’s tailored close enough that I can see the shape of him under the fabric.
The silver hair, the beard, the jaw… Lord, he’s fucking devastating.
And his eyes. Pale blue-gray, sharp and intense, and they’re locked on me…
He’s looking at me.
Heat blooms between my thighs. My nipples tighten against my bra, and I’m suddenly very grateful for the heavy fabric of my dress.
You are the president. You are working. FOCUS, Lina!
I put on my public smile and start working the room.
The next twenty minutes are an exercise in self-control.
I greet players, ask questions, and say all the right things.
I’m good at this, decades of practice, but my body is not cooperating.
Every nerve ending is tuned to HIM. I know exactly where he’s standing at all times.
I can feel his gaze on me like a physical touch, tracking me across the room. And it’s making me wet…
Jesus Christ, Lina.
I make my way through the crowd slowly, methodically, saving the coaching staff for last. By the time I approach them, my pulse is erratic.
Just a handshake. Keep it professional. Do not stare at his forearms!
I greet the assistant coach first, Danny something, nice guy, but I barely register a word he says.
Because he’s right there. Next in line. Close enough that I can fucking smell him.
Something clean and masculine, woodsy, with a hint of warm underneath.
I want to bury my face in his neck and inhale.
FOCUS.
I turn to him. And the rest of the world falls away.
Up close, he’s fucking overwhelming. His blue eyes are fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
The lines around them, the silver in his beard, the sheer presence of him.
He’s not traditionally handsome; his features are too rough for that, too lived-in, but he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever met in my entire goddamn life. My mouth feels dry.
“Coach Hendricks.” My voice manages to come out steady, thank God. “Thank you for being here. The country is proud of what you and the team have accomplished.”
I extend my hand. He takes it. And oh, his palm is warm and slightly rough, calloused. His hand is big enough to swallow mine completely; his grip is firm, and he’s not letting go. He holds on a beat too long. Two. Three. And I don’t pull away either.
“The pleasure is all mine, Madam President.”
His voice. God, his voice. It’s low and deep, with a rasp that goes straight between my legs. I feel it everywhere: my nipples, my clit, the sudden slick heat between my legs. It takes everything I have not to squeeze my thighs together.
“I’ve followed your career,” I manage, and I’m horrified to hear that my voice isn’t as steady anymore. “The program you built in Europe. Impressive work.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Interest. Heat.
Oh shit.
“I’m a fan of yours too,” is his insane reply.
The way he says it, low, intentional, with his pale blue eyes burning into mine…
Don’t react. Do NOT react.
“My friends call me Levi,” he adds, still holding my hand. And my brain short-circuits.
He’s not asking me to call him that. He’s telling me. Familiar. Presumptuous. Completely inappropriate.
Incredibly hot.
“Well,” I somehow find my professional voice back, easing my hand from his grip. My skin is tingling where he touched me. “Good luck in the tournament, Coach Hendricks.”
I move to the next person.
The rest of the event passes in a blur. I say words. I smile. I pose for photos. I have no idea what comes out of my mouth because my entire body is still buzzing from a thirty-second interaction.
My friends call me Levi.
When it’s finally over, I make it back to the residence on autopilot. Simone trails behind me, tablet in hand, already prepping for the next thing.
“That went well,” she says. “Good energy. The team seemed excited.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“The head coach seems… intense.”
I don’t miss the little pause, the careful way she says it.
I turn to look at her. “Does he?”
Simone’s face stays perfectly neutral, but there’s a glint in her eye. “You tell me.”
Shit.
“I didn’t notice.”
“Of course not, ma’am.” She’s definitely fighting a smile. “Your three o’clock is in twenty minutes. Should I…”
“I need a moment. I’ll be out shortly.”
She nods and slips out, closing the door behind her.
I stand alone in the middle of the room, heart still pounding, and let out a long breath.
My friends call me Levi.
I press my palm to my chest. My heart is racing like I’m twenty. Like I’m a college girl with a crush, and not the goddamn President of the United States.
This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous. It was just a handshake.
But I can still feel his fingers wrapped around mine. The warmth of his palm. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
I’m a fan of yours too.
I close my eyes.
You are in so much trouble, Lina.
Yeah. I really, really am.