Chapter Ten #2
Stepping closer, his scent shot straight to her core when he brought his other wrist to her face. “The oil.”
Closing her eyes against the intensity in his gaze, she inhaled deeply, body tingling from memories, and the slow, steady brush of his fingers on her hand, the presence of him so close. Her body remembered his touch and every cell was screaming at her for more.
“Good,” she mumbled, hand flexing into his until their fingers were interlaced.
“So good.” If he’d asked in that moment, she would’ve let him take her in the alleyway in broad daylight.
She craved him more than she’d ever craved anything.
Heat crept between her thighs, and she clenched them reflexively, a desperate moan on the tip of her tongue.
“I—”
“Remington Lockley?”
Spell broken.
They looked over at the same time, their hands still clasped together and mere inches between them.
The man had a British accent, not unlike Remy, and a camera hung from a strap around his neck.
He was also the photographer she saw in the community center parking lot the day before.
“Who’s asking?” Remy eyed the camera while casually letting go and putting his hands into his pockets.
He wasn’t casual at all, though, and something in the set of his feet had Marcee moving to his side, like being drawn to a wreck as it was happening.
The photographer pulled a card from his pocket and offered it. “Henry Taylor, the Daily Mail.”
In an instant, Remy’s face transformed, becoming cold and shut off.
“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Taylor.”
“I only need a few minutes of yours, Remy. A couple of pictures. Everyone in London is dying to know where you disappeared to!”
“No.”
She’d never seen him so distant. It was like witnessing an entirely different person.
“Aren’t you interested in sharing your side of the story after Lola’s recent interview? Her account was quite different to what we were led to believe all those months ago.”
Surprise and pain flashed across Remy’s face. “I have nothing to say other than you need to stay away from me.” He didn’t even look her way as he started to walk off, cutting between pedestrians like defenders on a soccer field.
It took everything in her not to follow like she did at the track the day before. Did Lola—an ex-girlfriend, she presumed—have something to do with Remy’s injury cover story? It seemed every time she peeled back one layer, she’d only find another.
What was Remy going to say before the ruddy-faced journalist interrupted?
Smoke and mirrors, indeed.
Beside her, Henry Taylor had a terrible smile on his face as his fingers twitched around his camera. “Pretty nimble for an injured player.”
It wasn’t the look of a man who planned to give up.
“This is a really bad idea,” Nicole grumbled, chewing on her fingernail.
“Then Remington Lockley should’ve thought about that before he tried to poach my best player!”
Just when the fire encompassing their relationship/hateship started to dwindle to embers, Remy went and did something to stoke it back to life.
After their last two interactions, she’d started to think maybe there was more to him than meets the eye, and that something was a person she could spend time with.
It planted a kernel of hope in a part of her she’d long since tucked away—six years ago to be exact.
Maybe that’s why the whole situation was hitting her so hard; whether he knew it or not, she gave him a piece of her trust and he broke it.
And finding out at work, from Mark Harp? Being blindsided with crucial information by someone you loathe is one of the worst feelings in the world.
Marcee flipped on her blinker, thumbs drumming across the steering wheel as she waited for the stoplight to turn green. Seething mad did not even begin to cover the rage roiling through her veins.
Nicole let out a gush of air. “How do we even know it was his idea? Or that he was involved at all? That could’ve been Cope trying to add a little somethin’ somethin’ to her bragging rights at school.
Oh, man—look at me. I suck at confrontation, Marcee.
I’m getting hives on my chest. My nails will be gone by the time we get back to work.
” She waved a hand in front of Marcee’s face, the chewed ends of her fingernails a pitiful sight.
The light turned green, and she gunned it, cutting in front of the oncoming traffic. A horn blared and she gave the little wave people do in the South whenever they make a driving error.
“Oh, he’s a part of it, all right. Cope confirmed that he was in the meeting with her dad and the principal at Alpha Ridge. I believe it—there’s no way a man like Remington Lockley doesn’t attend a meeting involving his team. He’s too much of a control freak.”
She should’ve known better, too. She’d let herself get soft after their last interactions, seeing hints of the man beneath the superstar, playboy skin.
Or at least, who she thought was the man beneath.
If there was anything she’d learned during years of recovery, it was that people always showed their true selves in the face of adversity or when they thought they wouldn’t get caught.
Damn it! Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve ought to be tattooed on her ribs.
After parking behind a row of perfectly trimmed square hedges next to the soccer field, she shut off the car and made to get out. Nicole grabbed her arm as she pushed open the door.
“Last chance to change your mind.”
“You can stay in the car if you’re worried. Hell, this may be my one and only season coaching at Pemberton. I might as well give the douchebag who’s responsible a parting gift: my foot up his ass.”
Nicole opened her door, grumbling, “We are not losing our jobs. End of story.”
One could certainly hope.
The shrill cry of a whistle pierced the air once, then again, every few seconds. The familiar sound of drills being run tugged at her like a memory.
Nicole caught up, casting furtive glances around the area from beneath the hood of a windbreaker.
“I really don’t think you need that.”
“Said every unprepared criminal, ever.”
“We are not committing a crime, Giles.”
Her eyes were huge as they slipped through the gate circling the field and wove behind the bleachers. “Um, excuse me, but trespassing? Future assault?”
“Move your feet! Slow defense is bad defense!”
Every muscle in Marcee’s body tensed and she swore the minuscule hairs lining her ear stood at attention, like a sixth sense tingling.
There he was. That cocksure accent triggered her ire anew, exploding behind her eyes like stars.
“Oh, come on, that’s rubbish! All right, take a lap! Everyone take a lap. If one of you fails, you all fail!”
Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest it was as if there were a dozen tiny construction workers inside banging furiously on her walls.
With the blood rushing to her head, she couldn’t hear a word Nicole said as she followed.
Marcee knew some states had rules in place about recruiting high school athletes, but she wasn’t sure about North Carolina.
Either way, it was a shitty thing to do.
She would never even consider it. What did it say about how Remy perceived his team if he felt the need to look elsewhere for players?
Those girls probably thought they’d won the lottery having a professional coach, but in reality, he didn’t care about them at all.
And if he cared even a smidgen for me, he wouldn’t have done it, either, she thought. It was no wonder he hadn’t texted her since the festival downtown. She’d thought it was embarrassment or unease over their run-in with the paparazzi.
Marcee rounded the corner of the bleachers as the team jogged past. A few spared her a glance, but most kept their eyes trained forward, breathing measured and controlled.
They were doing better than her.
Remy hadn’t seen her yet. His face was tilted down, consulting a clipboard, while his assistant coach followed the girls’ progress, whistle pressed between his lips.
God, he was so full of himself, wasn’t he? Standing on the field as if he owned it—red athletic shorts clinging to muscular thighs positioned far enough apart it was obvious he was taking nobody’s shit. Well, she had news for him!
Marcee was halfway to him when he looked up, tucking a pen behind his ear.
A flicker of surprise danced across his face, tilting the corner of his lips upward.
She devoured those features, searching for something, anything even remotely resembling shame or guilt—the guilt he should’ve felt over his attempted theft.
Was he planning it from the moment he saw Cope on the field at training camp?
She was ready to explode with righteous indignation by the time she was ten feet away from his goddamned beautiful face.
“Marcee Ackerman!” There was an undercurrent of amusement beneath his greeting. He could take that amusement and shove it.
When she stopped before him, his brown eyes devoured her, lingering on her hair that was down in a messy side part, brushing the top of her shoulders.
“Remington Lockley. Or should I say, Benedict Arnold?”
He crossed his arms, clipboard tucked snugly between the crook of his elbow and his chest. “You do know Benedict Arnold was American?”
She held up a finger. “More importantly, a traitor.”
“How am I a traitor, hmm?”
Marcee closed the distance between them and poked him in the chest. Ugh, it was firm.
“How about the fact you used training camp as an opportunity to scout players, and now you’ve gone and tried to poach my striker?
” Saying the words aloud spurred her on.
“Maybe a better name for you would be James Bond, womanizing spy, gathering intel and doing what it takes to complete his mission!”
Carefully, he grasped her finger and pulled it away from his chest, where she’d left it digging into his right pec. Only, he didn’t let go.
“That so? And where did you hear that?” His hand flexed around her finger until their fingers were almost laced together, and her breath caught in her throat.
They were eye to eye, and she’d be damned if she was the first one to blink.
“Directly from the source, of course. Teenage girls can’t keep a secret to save their lives, especially if it means they get to brag to their friends about how everybody wants them.
” She remembered being that full of herself once upon a time.
Soccer was her whole life—everything and the only thing she had going for her.
She couldn’t boast about her clothes or vacations, but she could dribble a ball better than anyone she knew.
She didn’t mention Mark taunting her with the information. No need to give him that ammo.
His poker face was superb, she’d give him that. “I didn’t initiate the meeting. My boss already knew about your striker—seen her play before. He set the whole thing up and I was there as an incentive.”
“Who the hell calls themselves an incentive?” Marcee retorted, rolling her eyes. “Your ego is the size of this field.”
“It’s true,” he said simply. “Whether you like me and my size or not, my name and experience carry weight. You can’t honestly say you would’ve hated being recruited by a professional footballer in high school.”
Oh, she would’ve been tickled pink. And by Remington Lockley before she knew him? She yanked her hand away from him with the realization he’d been holding it for an inappropriately long time.
They were close enough she could see his steady breathing, the amused glint in his eyes as he watched her. Meanwhile, her hands were shaking and clenched into fists.
“We’re not taking her, if it makes you feel better,” he offered, voice softening as if he had handed her a gift.
Oh, thank you, King Lockley. How magnanimous!
“Of course you aren’t!” she retorted. “I thought… I thought we were moving past these games.” Her voice trembled at the end, and she hated herself a little for showing weakness.
His team had finished their lap and were watching their argument as they swigged water from their hydro-flasks.
He winced. “I’m not playing games, Marcee. I want—” His voice cut off, eyes sliding to her assistant coach and back.
Her heart thumped painfully as she waited. “You want what?” Everything faded around her. Fireworks could’ve gone off next to her and she wouldn’t have noticed. They were the only two people in the world.
She saw the very moment his mask slipped back in place and disappointment crashed down on her.
“Since I wasn’t consulted about setting up the meeting, I made sure my boss was aware of her less desirable traits,” he continued, crossing one bulging bicep over the other.
“Could I work the immaturity and selfishness out of her? Probably. I’ve got a solid striker right here, though. Your girl isn’t worth the headache.”
Did he really say that?
Breathe, Marcee, just breathe.
Cope could be immature and spoiled, but what girl her age wasn’t?
She was absolutely worth the effort. She’d be great one day and it wouldn’t be because of coaches like Remy who dismissed her because she was tough to work with.
It would be because of coaches like her who knew what it felt like to have people give up on them when the going got tough, or when it felt like too much of a hassle.
She had Eli in high school and Cope would have her.
Nicole’s nervousness was rolling off her in waves as she scanned the field, eyes darting between the team and them.
If she didn’t get her assistant coach out of there soon, she was likely to hyperventilate.
One cell phone was all it would take for their spat to be posted online, like the time before.
“I can’t imagine why that journalist wants anything to do with you.
He should just snap a picture and leave it at that, because your face is the only good thing about you.
I, for one, can’t wait to see the look on it when my team crushes you this season.
” Marcee turned away, grabbing Nicole’s arm so they could leave.
His voice cut across the hot afternoon air as they walked away. “Never going to happen, Coach.”
“There’s a lot of things that are never going to happen, Coach, but that’s not one of them!” She didn’t bother turning around. If she didn’t get off the field right then, there was no telling what would happen.
Remington Lockley was going to wish he’d never crossed the Atlantic.