Chapter Two
One thing Marcee missed terribly about living in New York was the ability to breathe properly on a run during the summer.
She’d been in North Carolina long enough to where her body had adjusted, but her brain still recoiled at the moisture lingering in the air for no damn good reason.
Humidity. Just why? It served no one.
She was a quarter mile away from the three she wanted to squeeze in before dinner, wiping literal rivulets of sweat off her cheeks, when she rounded the corner of the humanities block.
If she remembered correctly, there was a path squeezed in between it and the library that would temporarily block the sun.
You’re getting soft in your old age, Ackerman, seeking out running routes based on proximity to shade.
Eighteen-year-old Marcee would’ve picked the most open route possible, reveling in the sun as she sweated out the pounds and calories. Of course, that Marcee was still combating an inner demon who told her a size two was two sizes too big.
She launched forward as she cleared the corner into the pathway, blessedly sheltered by a wooden pergola, determined to muzzle that inner voice by dominating the last stretch, and propelled herself right into a wall of sweaty flesh hanging off the wooden beams, bouncing backward off glutes firmer than the rock facade of Mount Rushmore.
“Shit!” The impact sent her careening back into the wall of the library, which was situated just where she remembered—unofficially known as her landing zone—the brick and concrete scraping viciously across the back of her elbows and forearms, knocking the wind out of her.
Marcee let out a gasp of pain when she dropped forward onto her knee, connecting with the gritty path, shock reverberating up her leg.
“Oy! Watch it!” There was a thud of sneakers hitting the ground at her feet. “You all right?”
She struggled to sit up, ab muscles protesting as she forewent using her arms. “That depends on who you ask.” Whew, it’d been a long time since she’d taken a hit that hard. The last time was probably on a soccer field.
The first thing Marcee noticed as she caught her breath was his lime green shoes—top of the line, made specifically for long distance.
Her gaze traveled up the muscular calves speckled with black hair, leading into tree-trunk thighs that the flimsy pair of black drawstring shorts did nothing to hide.
Her heart skipped a beat, as if her subconscious realized who it was before her brain could connect the dots.
She tried and failed not to gawk at the shirtless man in front of her, his deep brown chest slick with perspiration that followed a tantalizing trail of sparse hair down his lower abdomen and into the cut grooves peeking over his shorts.
Pictures did not do him justice. Video clips did not do him justice. Her own fantasies did not do him justice.
Remington Lockley.
“Hot damn,” she muttered, a flutter starting in her stomach that tickled like butterfly wings.
He squatted at her feet, a lazy smile curling up the corner of his mouth as he extended his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
Did I say that aloud?
His English accent rolled over her, caressing and smooth. Before she could make a fool of herself even more, she grasped his hand and let him pull her to her feet.
“Agh!” Pain reignited in her knee and she teetered to the side before Remington steadied her, hands braced on her upper arms.
“That answers my earlier question,” he said calmly, brown eyes boring into hers. “Where does it hurt?”
God, she was mortified. Her first impression with the superstar and there were tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. The only person she allowed to see her cry was her therapist.
“Right knee,” she replied, squeezing her eyes closed to get some semblance of control. You’ve had worse, Marcee. Get. It. Together.
His hands slid down her arms—avoiding her skinned elbows—as he knelt, sending a shiver down her back that was in no way related to the pain.
Holy smokes, Remington Lockley was at her feet. She glanced down, unable to resist, as he examined her knee. Did he notice her hands shaking?
“Ah, yes, ouch.” He prodded at her kneecap, eliciting a hiss from her at the contact.
“That’s a nasty cut. We’ll need to get this looked at.
” He stood, once again towering over her in all his shirtless glory, and she was stupidly pleased by the concern that made his eyebrows scrunch together.
“Probably your elbows, too. Looks like you took a bad tumble.”
“I’ve had worse,” Marcee managed, voice tight. There were multiple sources of pain, but that wasn’t what was inhibiting her usually brilliant comebacks. Alex would be losing her mind if she saw Marcee gaping at the soccer god like a goldfish.
His eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “Have you, now? I’m Remington, by the way. Remington Lockley. Most people call me Remy.”
Of course, she knew who he was, no introduction necessary. Still, something made her keep that to herself. If he was coaching Alpha, they’d face off soon enough, but just for a little while she wanted to be Marcee, soccer fan, and not Marcee, rival coach.
“Marcee,” she offered, holding out a hand as she shifted her weight onto her left leg.
His hand was strong and steady, lingering for a second more than propriety dictated.
The ever-popular image of Mr. Darcy’s hand flex played across her mind and suddenly she got it—she understood what all the fuss was about with the English major girlies in college.
He could flex that hand anywhere he wanted for all she was concerned.
“Pleasure to meet you, Marcee.” His eyes flickered down and back up. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.”
“Oh, I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be fine.” She waved him off, hobbling back a step. “It’s cool. Sorry I ran into you.” Into your well-formed ass.
“Perils of doing pull-ups in odd places,” he responded easily, motioning toward the wooden beams running between the buildings, ivy twisting up the brick and sprawling outward across the oak. “And I insist on taking you. That cut will need more than a bandage. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” She raised her eyebrows, biting back a smile. “Why should I trust you? We only just met.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m a very trustworthy guy. Just ask my mum.”
Oh, he was good. The charming, easy smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle was sexy enough to send her libido into overdrive, as if the beads of sweat trailing down his abs like rivers on a map weren’t enough.
Marcee cleared her throat, eyes straying of their own accord. “If you tell me you still live with your mother, I’m running in the opposite direction. Banged up knee and all.”
He laughed, the deep, rough texture contagious and amplified between the buildings. She smiled back, their eyes meeting.
“Come on, Marcee. The infirmary is this way.” He pulled down a shirt from where it was draped across a beam, tugging it on as she limped beside him. She didn’t know if it was the injury, the heat, or walking next to Remy—maybe all three—but she did feel a little lightheaded.
They passed the end of the pathway, the late afternoon sun returning in full force. She blinked away spots, feeling as if she was emerging from an alternate reality, except he was still next to her, keeping pace with her slow walk.
“So,” she began, “what brings you to campus? Don’t tell me you need summer school.”
A girl on a bike whizzed by and he stepped out of the way, half behind Marcee with his hand moving to her lower back. Another spine-tingling touch.
It made her wonder if she would ever get used to the contact.
As if you’d ever get a chance to find out, her brain fired back.
“Thankfully, no. I wasn’t much for school when I had to attend, let alone uni.” They kept walking, but he stayed close, their shoulders brushing. “I’m coaching a high school soccer team. UNC is hosting a summer camp this week.”
Despite her limp, they made pretty good time. Marcee knew exactly where the clinic was located, having memorized the location before leaving—soccer equals injuries—but she never thought she would be visiting for herself. Just goes to show, you can’t plan for everything.
“Impressive,” she replied. “Handling high schoolers is no easy task.”
“It’s not too bad,” Remy said with a shrug, then added, “I used to play professional soccer, so I know a thing or two. Now, handling those divas is a lot harder.”
They reached the clinic and, as he tugged on the front door and she passed inside, she tried to hide the smirk on her face.
So casual, that mention of his career—as if he wasn’t one of the top players in the Premier League.
And what was with him saying he used to play?
She was dying to find out why he wasn’t at his own training camp.
“So, what you’re saying is that you’re a reformed diva?” she teased, waiting just inside the lobby for him.
“Never a diva,” he replied, then winked. “Reformed? Depends who you ask.”
Oh, she’d seen the headlines: playboy, over-competitive, in a club every other night. The British tabloids couldn’t get enough of Remington Lockley. She’d been so busy prepping for camp and the job, she hadn’t caught up on League gossip for some time. Surely his absence was headline news.
The nurse behind the window cleared her throat, a well-timed reminder that Marcee ran the risk of making a fool of herself the longer she spent with Remy.
Tearing herself away was hard, though. The spell of anonymity would be gone the next day, and instead of moonstruck Marcee and the superstar that knocked her off her feet, they’d be the opposing coaches of two schools with an epic, bitter rivalry.
“I’m going to check in,” Marcee told him, hooking a finger over her shoulder at the window.
“Of course.”
While she leaned on the front desk and waited for paperwork, half of her hoped he’d just leave and half of her hoped he wouldn’t.
“Lockley! Pull a muscle on your run?”
Two coaches she recognized from the parking lot that morning pushed through the clinic doors, so she flipped around, giving them her back. The nurse slid the paperwork toward her with a pen, so while she filled it out, Marcee listened to the conversation unfolding behind her.
“Of course not. I’m just helping out a new friend.”
One of the coaches chuckled. “Of course you are. Must be nice.”
“Speaking of, you see Pemberton Prep’s new hires? I can’t imagine why Wilkes brought them on,” the other coach chimed in.
Marcee pressed so hard with her pen into the paper that it ripped. It took everything in her not to turn around and tell them off. She’d bet her entire salary that no one said that shit about Mark when he’d got hired.
“I haven’t, actually,” Remy replied, chuckling. “But it’s a poor move. Girls this age don’t respond to female authority figures on the pitch. They need that male energy to keep them in line and push them.”
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Did he really just say that?
He didn’t stop there. “I heard all about their head coach earlier this summer. No prior experience, a hothead on the field in college—shouldn’t be hard to rattle her on the sidelines. I’ll wager Pemberton will be advertising for a new coach by next year. Maybe one of you gents can step in.”
Marcee’s heart beat double time, her neck and face so hot she felt like she was lying in a tanning bed.
Shakily, she gave the clipboard to the nurse and asked quietly if she could go directly back, leaning heavily into her knee pain.
She couldn’t stand in that lobby another moment, or she might actually assault the man.
How could someone be so charming and caring one minute, then a total prick the next? Maybe she should’ve added whiplash to her list of symptoms.
She slipped through the door and could barely concentrate as the doctor fussed over her knee in the exam room, cleaning it and using stitch glue to close it up.
Marcee, you’re a fool. A pretty face and tight abs and you’ve forgotten everything.
Reality hit her harder than those fantastic glutes did outside.
That was the man who could coach her out of a job.
And since Nicole’s job was contractually tied to hers, there was so much more on the line than her pride, or whatever fantasies she’d harbored before hearing his chauvinistic opinions.
That’s what it meant to be an adult—doing what needed to be done to succeed and thrive.
She learned that lesson long ago, watching her parents who did the complete opposite.
By the time she was done—sporting bandages across her elbows and knees—all the fire in Marcee had burned out, glazed over in a layer of ice so thick not even the spark between her and Remy when they first met could melt it.
She ducked out the back door, deriving a smidgen of glee when she imagined how long he’d sit in the lobby, waiting on his new “friend.” Maybe his cronies could keep him company.
Marcee wouldn’t let anyone, least of all some man who didn’t know a damn thing about her, talk shit about her, her coaches, or her school. That boyish smile and twinkling eyes may cause everyone else to overlook his personality deficiencies, but she wasn’t everyone else.
And it was time for Remington Lockley to find that out.