Chapter 12 Connor
CONNOR
Some would say beauty and grace are a blessing, but it isn’t fair that I’ve been cursed with an attractive coach—Cateline, not Hammer—and have to keep my hands off.
It’s been less than half a day since I arrived at reform school, and an itch steadily grows to run, throw a ball, and spend some time with a woman. Just kisses would be fine.
Well, I am spending time with a woman, a dinner date, in fact, if it could be called that. Only, it’s clear she’s trying to convince herself she hates me.
“The body doesn’t lie,” I mutter.
“Pardon?” she asks in her smoky French accent.
My father’s famous words, “Life isn’t fair,” resound in my mind as they so often do.
“Mr. Wolfe, before we share this meal, I’m going to step out of character for a moment and give you a few instructions.”
“You’re in character, Cat?” A strange hope flares inside that she’s only pretending to despise me.
She presses her lips together, presumably at the use of the shortened version of her name. “We’re playing the roles of dining companions. You’re going to demonstrate that you know how to behave like a gentleman when in good company.”
Her accent is so alluring, I’m at risk of losing consciousness and can hardly process what she says.
“You want me to demonstrate that I’m a gentleman instead of...what?”
She lifts and lowers one shoulder. “Instead of a—” She pauses as though trying to find the right word.
I brace myself because I’ve been called many things. In my youth, they mostly came from my father or brother and amounted to insults. As an adult, they mostly come from the women I pursue and are compliments. Whether we’re roleplaying or not, I’m curious about what Cateline has to say.
“Actually, I am not sure of the word in English.”
That isn’t the answer I was expecting. Despite the accent, her command of the English language is impeccable. Most native speakers don’t speak with such fluidity and clarity.
“Perhaps it has slipped my mind.” She shifts in her chair as though uncomfortable by this perceived shortcoming.
Interesting.
“The word is a noun and is where bears and beasts live in the wintertime.”
My eyebrows lift and an amused smile plays on my lips. “A den. No, a cave,” I guess. “Wait, you’re saying you want me to behave like a gentleman instead of a caveman?”
“Yes, that’s right!” She practically bounces in her seat as though we worked together to come up with the winning answer on a game show.
“You think I’m a caveman?”
She nods and smiles. “Oui. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
Forcing myself to dismiss how she answered yes in French, which has that certain je ne sais quoi, and because I’m mildly insulted by her comment, I scrub my hand down my beard.
I’d like to storm out of here, beating my chest, but rally.
My father and brother didn’t intend to teach me the art of war, but I’ve learned it by necessity to survive Dad’s harsh rules and the way he pushed me to my physical limits.
As for my brother, he was just a bully. In the end, it made me stronger, which was the intention.
It also made me stubborn, closed off, and battle-ready at all times.
Until now, this was merely a game between my new coach and me. Now, it’s war.
Some fights, I’ll jump into, fists flying. Others, I approach more strategically. This is the case with Cateline—not that I’ll physically fight her. Rather, this is a battle of wills. And I’ll win by proving to her that I’m not a caveman. At least not all the time.
“For the next two hours, we will act as if we are a civilized couple sharing a meal,” Cateline says and outlines a few instructions.
I’m taking a long sip of water and nearly choke at the word couple.
“Make no mistake, I will be evaluating you and reporting to your superiors, Mr. Wolfe.”
Given her accent, the words are like background music, and I’m drawn into the way the candlelight dances in her eyes even as I try to remember she’s the enemy.
Shaking my head, I snap out of it, loosening the elastic around my man bun. I square up, imagining Cateline with Medusa hair and rotten teeth. That ought to get my head back in the game.
“Are you ready?” she asks, indicating that I’m to invite her to join me for a meal at a fine restaurant, even though it’s just the dining room of the reform school.
I nod, fortifying myself. I can turn the charm on when I want to, but my style is more casual and less committal, like, Do you want to grab a bite to eat? Knowing that won’t satisfy her proper sensibilities, I say, “Want to go out to eat?”
She narrows her eyes as though evaluating. “Good start, but add a little more. Perhaps, ‘I enjoy your company. Would you like to join me for dinner?’”
“It sounds too formal. Too stuffy.” I want to say, too emotional. “I don’t tell women I enjoy their company because that would make them think I want to spend more time with them. Next would come requests for dates, trips to the movies, sporting events, concerts.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Obviously.”
She exhales through her nose and singsongs. “This only confirms that you’re a caveman.”
An annoying question floats into my mind. Do I enjoy Cateline’s company?
She clicks her tongue. “To you, that may sound like too much, but to a lady, you’re indicating that you’d like more than to satisfy your basic needs for food and spend time with her.”
“Exactly. Would you like it if a man said that to you?” I ask.
The question is off-script and must catch her off guard because she tilts her head as though thinking about it. Then she snaps out of it and says, “Moving on.”
“So about that dinner? I’ve never been told no.” My lips quirk.
She practically rolls her eyes.
Part of me wants to appease her and say what I ought to, but I’m Connor “the Wolf.” Rules are more like guidelines and the only lines I follow are the yards on the football field. Plus, it’s mildly amusing to see primly put-together Cateline so flustered.
As the evening continues, the server brings various courses of the meal. I alternately behave myself and act naughtily just to keep her on her toes.
Sometimes my pinkie is in. Other times, it finds its way out.
I slice each bite of my steak and take a polite bite. Then I’ll stuff my face with mashed potatoes.
I’ll sip my drink and then slurp.
My hands will rest on my lap and then I’ll plant my elbows on the table.
Cateline breaks in and out of character, correcting and instructing me. I wonder if it’s giving her whiplash, or if she realizes I’m toying with her.
When the server removes our entrée plates, I say, “A lot of people think football players are all dumb jocks. What separates those who are professional and have a long career from those who are a flash on the field and then disappear isn’t all skill and strength.”
“Let me guess, it’s endurance?” she asks after daintily wiping her mouth. Her lipstick has faded from the meal, yet I cannot stop staring at her lips.
“Yes, but it’s also intelligence. The long-term successes observe things, don’t rock the boat too hard, learn when to toe the line and when to prank their fellow players to have a little fun.”
“I see you’ve given some thought to your future,” she says, self-satisfied, given our conversation earlier.
The truth is, I haven’t. The words just came out of my mouth, a truth I didn’t realize I’d known all along.
“I’m not dumb. I’ve learned how to play the game on and off the field. I can schmooze and make small talk meaningful when I want to.” Turns out, all along, I knew what I was doing, yet telling her this out of the blue makes me feel out of control.
She taps the air. “And yet, there is a rebellious streak in you.”
“I prefer to think of it as independence.”
She nods as if she understands this intimately. “Like a cat.”
“Lone wolf.”
She snorts a laugh, as if we’re not as different as we thought.
I blink a few times and time slows slightly. Microwave off. Crock-Pot on.
In Cateline, I only see beauty. Yet inside me, exists a broken little boy that keeps me divided in two: Connor and Wolf.
Sure, etiquette is important, but for the first time in my life, what if I had something real, lasting? Something that isn’t pretense with a woman, indulgence because I’m a sports star, or a front to get the results I want.
In real life, sometimes I sit up properly and eat my meals with manners. Other times, I slouch on the couch and devour an entire pizza.
I’m a gentleman and a caveman.
Polite and a prankster.
Hard working and out to have fun.
But no one knows that about me because I only show one side. The side I know will achieve my desired outcome or the one my audience prefers—whether one woman or a stadium full of fans.
I never show the world the real Connor Wolfe. Maybe I’m not sure who that is, or—I swallow a sip of water—perhaps it’s because I’m afraid of being left alone in the wilderness.
Even though Cateline browses the dessert options, it’s as if she has an audience with my interior thoughts. I don’t believe in telepathy, but it’s all spoken in her accent. Perhaps getting into my head is a style of learning she didn’t mention.
I shift position and rest my forearms on the table, gripping my hands tightly and trying to move back into the familiar headspace of carefree Wolf.
Keeping myself so divided makes me feel suddenly, achingly tired. It’s like I’ve been running a marathon against myself for my entire life.
And waiting for me at the finish line is the most unexpected sight: she’s slender, has espresso brown hair, and an olive hue to her porcelain skin that suggests freckles will pop if she spends time in the sun.
Her dark eyes are watchful, but in them is a depth of knowing I’ve never before let myself look long enough to see.
And her lips...
It’s Cateline.