Chapter Four #2
Nicole elbowed her in the side, nodding subtly to her team listening in at an adjoining table. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to eviscerate him until he was a smoking heap of ash that got swept up by the janitors at the end of the night.
His teeth were blindingly white, albeit a little crooked, as he grinned. “By all means, please do continue. I love the fire in your eyes, Pemberton.”
“It’s Ackerman,” she growled, civility leaking out of her pores with every passing second. Beneath her shirt, her sports bra felt like a corset, tightening around her chest uncomfortably. She wasn’t sure that anyone had ever gotten under her skin quite like him.
“I’ll try to remember that when discussing my winning streak in post-game interviews,” he replied. “Give you a little shout-out, yeah?”
Marcee didn’t know which of her players snorted from the other table, but it was the precise moment she vowed Remington Lockley would regret the day they crossed paths.
“The only interviews you’ll be doing are for a new job,” she retorted.
Maybe it was because she’d called him on his bullshit hot take that morning, or maybe it was because she didn’t tell him up front who she was when they met, but whatever the reason, he was determined to get his digs in and make her look the fool in front of everyone.
He pushed away from the table, chair legs scraping obnoxiously across the floor. “Maybe yours, Pemberton. Don’t worry, though. I’ll make sure they still have a place for you on the team. How are your laundering skills?”
“If you think Pemberton would touch you with a ten-foot pole after working for Alpha, you’re delusional.”
Remington’s smile was that of a man who never heard no. The world was his playpen.
“We’ll see about that,” he said with a wink. “Red, see you on the pitch.”
“You’re out of your league, Remington,” Marcee said hurriedly.
He was not getting the last word. “This is high school. You don’t know a thing about leading teenage girls to victory, no matter what you think.
You’ll be so frustrated by the second week you’ll be shipped off on the first plane back to dreary old England. ”
She’d hit a nerve. Even if it was just the slightest falter of a smile so practiced a pageant queen would cry, the evidence was there.
“Think so, Darcee?”
She rolled her eyes. How juvenile.
“Yeah, I do.”
Remy stepped closer and leaned forward, thighs pressed against the table as it creaked beneath his weight.
Don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, her mind chanted. Do NOT smell him.
“I hate disappointing new friends, but you’re wrong,” he said, hands splayed as they braced on the table. There were two scars on his right knuckles, faded and smooth.
“Then it’s a good thing we aren’t friends,” Marcee answered, barely more than a whisper. Her mouth and throat were achingly dry. “In fact, let’s call it what we really are: enemies.”
His gaze trailed over her, and she was rooted to her chair, unable to move or look away. It was as if he was tracing over her curves from point to point, feeling out her armor for any weak spots. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips.
When a hacking cough split the silence, it was like a gunshot shattering a strange, Matrix-like moment.
“Smooth with mine enemy.” He smirked before pushing away, as if she had been weighed and found wanting. “See you out there.”
Every head in the cafeteria turned to watch as he left, stars in the eyes of more than one girl. Marcee was fairly certain if she looked in a mirror, the only thing reflected in her green irises would be bloody daggers.
“I think he just quoted Shakespeare,” Nicole said dazedly. Her cheeks were still stained pink. “What a dick.”
“Totally,” Marcee muttered. Never mind that his swagger was intoxicating. The man had probably held more panties than Victoria’s Secret. For a fleeting moment, she couldn’t tell if she wanted him beneath her or her cleats.
You’ll always be two steps behind.
Definitely beneath her cleats.
Marcee liked Colby.
Nicole liked Colby.
The girls… well, they might respect Colby by the end of the week.
“Conditioning,” the deceivingly chipper defensive trainer declared. “It’s about time your girls get familiar with hard work.”
“That’s what I said!” Nicole chimed in, giving her a smug smile.
Marcee respected brutal honesty. It was part of the pact she made with Nicole when she got hired.
Nicole wouldn’t kiss her ass with flowery words and Marcee would consider her opinions and expertise as much as her own.
Part of her wanted to be irritated with Colby on behalf of her girls, but that wouldn’t get them anywhere.
“Okay,” she drawled, giving Colby her attention while trying to keep an eye on the girls running a timed mile around the field. “So, you think they’re out of shape?”
Colby pushed a strand of brown bangs off her eye. “In short, yeah. Maybe it’s from sitting around this summer, or maybe they haven’t been pushed before this.”
The latter was possible. The previous coach was past his prime and more inclined to nap during practice than actually run it. She told Colby as much.
“Good,” Colby said. “This is a perfect opportunity for you to build something with the team. If you put in the effort he never did, they’ll respect you more.
Conditioning is subtle, right? It’s hard work, but it also means you can pull a starter off the field and have an entire bench to pick from without having a weak link. ”
“Energizer bunnies,” Marcee said. Any team worth their salt had them.
Colby nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! Defense is ninety percent grit and tenacity—that doggedness that says, ‘I’m not giving up.’”
“And the other ten percent?” Nicole asked, pen poised over her notepad. Marcee grinned.
“Intuition.”
“Knowing what your opponent is going to do before they do,” Nicole added.
“Correct.” Colby blew her whistle. “Looks like about half of your team made the six and a half minutes, Coach. They all need to beat that time, every practice.”
Marcee almost made their excuses; it had been a long day, they were tired and full. Excuses didn’t make winners, though.
“We’ve got about thirty minutes left for the day,” Colby added, looking at the teal sports watch on her wrist. “How about they do some three-on-three drills with you and Nicole in the offensive rotation until we’re out of time?”
“Lead the way.”
It felt good connecting with the girls and cutting up when Nicole burned one of their defensive players to score.
“Gretchen!” Marcee called the girl over before she left the field and someone else stepped in. The tall blonde looked nervous when she stopped in front of her. “That was good work—you just hesitated. Why? You knew what she was doing. I could see it on your face.”
Gretchen bit her lip. “I know she’s fast. I didn’t think I could get the ball off her foot in time.”
Marcee nodded. “You’re fast, too. And you have about five inches more leg than she does. Don’t second-guess yourself, okay? You can do it.” When she held out her hand for a fist bump and her player grinned, she felt on top of the world. She could do this. She could lead these girls to victory.
No matter the situation, Marcee had always been able to smile on the pitch.
It was everywhere else where the losses caught up with her.
She didn’t want to turn the sport into something the girls couldn’t enjoy, even if she sure as hell needed every win she could get this season.
Her whole future (and Nicole’s) rested on the shoulders of fifteen teenage girls.
She could give the coaching performance of the year, and it wouldn’t matter, because ultimately, it came down to how bad the players wanted it—players who were teenagers with raging hormones and overactive social lives to distract them.
Irony was a bitch.