Hot, Bothered & Bitchy #2
I take a slow sip of the drink that just arrived, letting the burn chase down the ache in my chest. “Yeah. What else can we do? He’s made this noble, infuriating commitment to Marlow.
And I’m not about to betray my job—or her.
I have ethics. Standards. I’m not going to set fire to everything just because my body and my heart are on different pages. ”
Tatum watches me for a beat, like she’s weighing her words. “I don’t know, girl...maybe you’re overthinking it. Maybe talk to Marlow. See if there’s room for this to not be impossible. You never know what life’s lining up for you two down the line.”
“I hope she’s talking about me and you.”
I freeze, heart stuttering, and turn to find Coach Jones standing there, grinning like he’s been waiting for his cue.
“Oh! Darren!” I say, startled. “I didn’t hear you come up.” Sneaky bastard.
And part of me wants to ask—how much did you hear?
He gestures toward the drink in my hand. “I was about to ask if I could buy you a drink but, looks like you’ve already gotten started.”
I take another sip. Nervous as all hell. “Yeah. I…”
“I forced her to have a celebratory drink with me. I just landed a big celebrity guest for our Fall Masquerade Ball!”
Coach Jones smiles. “Well, congratulations indeed. You really have been doing some great work. This party included. All the buzz around town was in no small part to you, I imagine?”
“Guilty as charged!” Tatum says with a wink and I pass her a silent thank you for the save. “Well, I am going to go and survey the buffet," she says and I laugh, knowing that she’s talking about the men and not the food.
“Ok girl. We’ll catch up later?”
“For sure.” She leans in and gives me the bougie girl kiss, one on each cheek, before sauntering off.
Coach Jones turns to me. “You look cute, Ms. Jackson,” he says and I blush.
“Thank you,” I say.
Coach Jones is unfairly sexy—tall, dark, and carved like an athlete who never quite left the game. His skin is a rich espresso tone that somehow manages to glow, and his smile? Blinding. Teeth so white you’d swear they’ve never met red wine or coffee a day in their life.
Born and raised in South Africa, he became a household name on the international soccer circuit, known for his explosive speed and tactical brilliance. Twenty years later, he’s traded his cleats for a clipboard and now stands as the head coach for the Strikers.
And while he’s managed to rack up some respectable and impressive wins, the truth is he’s still finding his footing.
Maybe it’s because he looks like he could still suit up and take the field—young enough to be mistaken for a player, confident enough to prank like one.
Coach Jones isn’t just charming. He’s disarming, too.
And that makes him all the more interesting to me..
But he also might be exactly what I need right now—a distraction with a six-figure jawline and enough swagger to make me forget the minefield I’m tiptoeing through.
He’s safe in the way a man who flirts for sport can be. Low stakes. No history. And best of all, not my best friend’s father.
I take in his costume. “I’m digging your look, too. Run DMC fan, huh?”
Coach Jones grins, tugging playfully at the chunky gold chain around his neck.
He’s wearing a classic black Adidas track suit with the white stripes, crisp white sneakers, and a tilted bucket hat that makes the whole ensemble pop.
It’s a perfect homage to the iconic rap group, and it suits him well.
“I honestly didn’t have a costume,” he admits, glancing down like he’s just noticed it himself. “The guys said I couldn’t show up without one, so Luca raided his closet and made this happen.”
I laugh, the tension between us slipping a little. “Well, Luca did good. You look like a real American rap star.”
He chuckles along with me, and the sound is warm, easy. “Thanks for agreeing to hang with me tonight,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes, considering your, uh, proximity to my players. And the fact we work together.”
I lift my glass and take a slow sip. “As long as we take things slow. No assumptions, no expectations about what this is or where it’s going, it’s fine. I’m fine to hang.”
He nods. “Making your boundaries known up front—I respect that.”
Rockwell’s Somebody’s Watching Me starts blasting from the speakers, and before I can process the shift, he leans forward with a grin. “Care to dance, Coach Saunders?”
I place my drink down on a high boy table and slip my hand into his. “Sure, Coach Jones.”
As we hit the dance floor, the team erupts into cheers and whistles, egging us on like overgrown kids. He spins me once and I laugh—full-bodied and unfiltered.
“So,” he calls over the music, “what other rules does Coach Saunders have about dating her?”
I shoot him a warning look. “What makes you think I have rules?”
“Because you definitely have rules. Am I wrong?”
Not sure how he managed to clock me as someone with dating rules, but I’ll give him credit for being so observant. Most people don’t notice that about me, not right away.