Chapter Three #2
God, what a day. She woke up expecting the biggest problem she would have was not suffering heat stroke on their crappy bus, and then the gravy hit the walls. Subtle digs by Graham. The overbearing presence of Mark. Pissing off Nicole. There was so much pent-up frustration she could explode.
Her hand trailed across the wall, the drops of liquid conjuring images of a bare, masculine chest, glistening as they stood beneath the unforgiving sun. It would’ve been so easy to just reach out and run her fingers across the expanse of dark skin, lightly scraping her nails.
A low, frustrated groan escaped as she imagined toying with the waistband of his shorts. What sounds would he make? They’d be deep and a little raspy, like his laugh.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the water stream momentarily massaging between her legs.
Trust me.
I’m a very trustworthy guy.
Ha! Like hell. Just thinking of the one-eighty he executed so expertly got her blood boiling all over again.
The problem was that stupid accent which struck some primal urge in her, making her wish she could roll around in it like catnip.
She grabbed the soap and twisted away from the water, scrubbing at her arms with gusto.
“No sir, superstar. You’re not creeping into my fantasies again. Ever.” Her voice echoed off the walls, barely muted by the spray of water. “The closest you’ll come to this ass is kissing it on the field after my team crushes you.”
“Uh, Coach?”
Marcee slid backward, narrowly catching herself before she busted her ass on the shower floor next to the cracked pieces of soap. “Can’t you read? I’m not done in here!”
Christ, who was it? The last thing she needed was her girls thinking she talked to herself, although clearly, she did.
Furious, she yanked the handle down on the shower before snatching her robe and towel.
She was met with quiet as she threw open the door to the hallway, as indignant as one can be in a robe.
Marcee stood there for a minute with her hands on her hips, legs still dripping, and waited.
No one came out, so with a huff, she marched back to her room, the towel wrapped around her head swaying back and forth precariously.
She didn’t even get a chance to condition her hair.
As she was shutting her door, a voice echoed down the hallway.
“Sorry, Coach.”
Teenagers.
Despite her bravado the night before, Marcee was even more twisted up than before as they rounded the corner of the fieldhouse, fifty yards out from the practice field.
The other team scheduled to share their training time was already at midfield, stretching, while the coach and two trainers observed.
She’d done a bit of reconnaissance the night before as she lay in the uncomfortable twin-sized bed, cell phone hovering over her face.
Oh, Remington Lockley was making headlines, that was for sure.
The official statement was an injury that needed months to rest and strengthen.
The unofficial word ranged from trade speculation to drugs to an illegitimate child and paternity case.
He’d looked pretty fit to her the day before, so she wasn’t inclined to believe the injury story.
“I thought we were on time,” she ground out, lengthening her stride. Irritation crept across her skin, making everything tight and uncomfortable. Being late was a terrible first impression with the trainers and she didn’t want to give the superstar any ammunition.
“We are,” Nicole answered, looking at her watch. “In fact, we’re ten minutes early.”
They closed the distance and she locked eyes on the coach, stomach flip-flopping so intensely she might as well have been flying down the highest peak of a roller coaster, hands waving in the air.
The myriad of pep talks she’d given herself since going to bed the night before dissolved and, to her horror, she realized she was nervous.
Stark white cleats. White socks. Red shorts. White shirt.
Marcee catalogued each article of clothing as they got closer. What kind of pompous ass wore so much white on a soccer field? That was just asking to get dirty.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Nicole whispered at her shoulder, leaning so close she bumped into Marcee. “Holy forkballs, Batman. He’s even bigger in person. And hotter. Wow, so yeah, I get your dilemma.”
“There is no dilemma!” Marcee insisted.
They weren’t the only ones whispering.
“Oh. My. God. Is that—”
“It is! It’s Remington Lockley. Holy shit.”
“No way! What would he be doing in North Carolina?” Her goalie, Harper, sounded incredulous.
“Y’all are being so embarrassing. He can probably hear you.” Leave it to Cope to be the hall monitor of cool.
“Well,” Nicole interjected, bringing Marcee back to attention, “get over there and work your magic. Take no prisoners.” Nicole nodded toward Remington and the trainers. “I’ll get the girls in line for stretches.”
As she peeled off and took the girls further downfield, Marcee reminded herself who she was: Marcee Ackerman, badass baller, tough-as-nails coach, and shit-taker of none. She did not get intimidated by men. Men were intimidated by her.
“Good morning!” She poured as much authority and confidence into her voice as she could muster, coming to a halt in front of the threesome. Remy’s mouth dropped open in a comical display of shock and she relished every damn second of it. “I’m Marcee Ackerman, head coach for Pemberton Prep.”
That’s right, buster. I’m the competition. I’m the big dog, ready to knock your pansy English ass off the porch.
She made eye contact, staring him down and daring him to say a word. To his credit, he regained his composure quickly, face closing off like a seasoned poker player.
It didn’t matter. She got a leg up on Lockley and he knew it.
“Lovely to meet you, Coach.” The female trainer held out a hand, shaking Marcee’s firmly as her long, brown mermaid braid swung against her back. “I’m Colby Harrelson, offensive trainer for this camp.”
The name triggered a memory from her junior year of college.
“Wait, did you play at UNC two years ago?” Marcee studied her, taking in the wide brown eyes and freckled complexion. She was all long limbs and sharp angles, except for her round face.
“Sure did. I remember you! We had that one game your junior year.” Colby looked her over. “You were one of the best offensive players I’ve ever seen.”
Aw, shucks. There she was trying to play it cool in front of their celebrity guest and Colby was making her blush like a prepubescent boy fondling his first boob.
“Pemberton Prep, is it?” Remy’s stare hadn’t left her face, but his stance widened ever so slightly. The way his thigh muscles flexed was annoyingly distracting. “I can’t believe we haven’t met before, Coach, considering our schools’ history. Remington Lockley, head coach for Alpha Ridge.”
So. He was going to play the game, at least in front of other people.
“Not surprising at all, Coach. I’m new to Pemberton. And I hear you’re pretty green as well.” Marcee’s heart rate picked up, the spark of confrontation in the air between them making her feel like she was in a pre-game locker room.
He chuckled, eyes roving over her as if seeing her for the first time. “I know my way around the pitch, Pemberton. Three Premier League titles say the same.”
She smirked. “How many years ago was that? Already aged out, huh?” What an arrogant ass. Pivoting, she turned to the other trainer and held out her hand. “Sorry about that. Marcee Ackerman.”
“Not a problem. Everyone is excited to chat with our resident celebrity.” The laid-back blonde gave Remy a playful wink, creases forming at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.
“I’m Neal Spence, your defensive trainer for the week.
” Neal was at least two inches shorter than her, but there wasn’t an ounce of weakness in his handshake or confident stance.
Soccer was one sport where larger didn’t always equal better.
“Pleasure to meet you.” He was cute in a boyish kind of way, and she was relieved he hadn’t been one of the jerks talking crap about women at the clinic, especially with a female trainer standing next to him.
Still, it was hard for her to concentrate on anything but the hulking brute across from her.
Remington Lockley commanded the space around him, whether he meant to or not. She’d be willing to bet he did.
“I hope your girls are ready for one of the most intense weeks of their lives!” In that moment, with her flowing braid and wild smile, Colby reminded Marcee of a young colt, all free spirit and restless energy.
She bounced from foot to foot, shaking out her arms. Out of the corner of her eye, Marcee saw Nicole stop in her tracks and fixate on the trainer.
Seemed like she wasn’t the only one a little awestruck.
“Bring it on. Whatever you’ve got for us, we can take it.” She fist-bumped the peppy trainer, toning down her answering grin. This was what she was there for—connection, inspiration.
“We’ll see about that,” Remy fired back, arms crossed over his firm pecs as he stepped back into her line of sight. “Alpha Ridge doesn’t put out second place.”
Somebody didn’t like being ignored. The way he was looking at her made her stand taller, as if she wasn’t just a pretty blonde, but actual competition.
Second place. Marcee detested second place. Runner-up had a prominent place in her past and she was dead set on never seeing it again.
“You do this year, superstar. I hope you didn’t sell your penthouse apartment in London.
You’re going to need someplace to run back to with your tail tucked between your legs.
” She flashed her teeth, mouth spread wide as his eyes narrowed at her challenge.
A thrill of adrenaline and excitement jolted through her muscles, firing every nerve.
She was waking up again, and it was beautiful.
Neal cleared his throat, eyes swiveling between the two of them. “Okay, well, how about we get started? Coach Ackerman, your team will work with me in the mornings and Colby in the afternoon. Let’s round up the girls and get this training kicked off.”
Remy’s shoulder brushed against hers as she walked off.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low, “did you get a good laugh out of ditching me at the clinic?”
“Oh yeah, I laughed for hours.” She flicked her ponytail, hitting him in the face. “Hours and hours.”
“Is this some sort of mind game? Trying to get the upper hand?”
“Ha!” She scoffed, stopping long enough to look him in the eye. “Because that’s the only way a woman could win, right? Our teams don’t respect us, so we’ve got to find other ways to come out on top.” She blinked up at him innocently. “Sorry, was that a hothead response?”
Marcee nearly laughed out loud when his mouth dropped open, again. Ackerman, two. Lockley, zero. And damn it if she didn’t feel like a complete rock star as she walked to the sidelines, head high and shoulders thrown back. Did she put a little extra swing in her walk? Definitely.
“Eavesdropping is beneath you!” he called out.
After Neal waved Nicole and the team over, Marcee snuck a glance down the field, where Remy was listening patiently to Colby as she swept her hands through the air.
She was dying to witness his moves on the field, and she was more than ready to show him hers.
She was living for the moment they ground his team into the pitch and his perfectly sculpted delusion shattered, breaking his cocky little heart into a million pieces.
As if he could hear her thoughts, he looked back.
One finger pointed at her before he rubbed his fists into his eyes, wiping away imaginary tears.
It was her turn for her mouth to drop open—that little shit.
There was no way he was getting the last word, mimed or not.
She held up her own hand, clenched in a fist, then cranked an invisible wheel until her middle finger popped free.
“Ready, Coach?”
Crap!
She whirled around, hands clasping behind her back like a child who’d been caught sneaking candy. Her heart was racing like it, too. “Yes, absolutely. Let’s do this.”
If someone had told her last week she’d be exchanging obscene hand gestures with the Remington Lockley on a soccer field, she’d suggest they get a mental evaluation.
Never in her wildest dreams did she ever think she’d meet him, let alone talk to him long enough to realize his asshole, playboy image was closer to reality than a superfan like her would hope.
They always say never meet your heroes. Whoever “they” were, they weren’t wrong. She once wanted to be like Alpha Ridge’s new coach, or hell, be with him, if she was being honest. Now, she wanted to teach him a lesson his British ancestors learned long ago: Americans never go down without a fight.