Damon:No problem. How about the new ice cream place that just opened on 7th?
How about dinner?
And before you try to say no, remember this would be your third time turning me down, and baseball rules apply.
Damon:There is zero chance I say no to dinner with you. When and where?
I type in the details, smiling to myself the whole time.
Was asking him out a little forward? Hell yeah. But I can’t afford to let Lurking Leon set the pace when we’ve already been dancing around each other for months. Flirting and texting are all well and good, but I’m a grown woman with grown-woman needs, a king-size bed, and a box full of toys. It’s go time. Hopefully, I’ll forget this shit with Andre in the process.
Damon
Great. I look forward to dinner.
Damon:I’m already counting thehours.
I snort.Oh boy.
Damon
LOL. You’re sounding like you’re half in love with me already.
Damon:No way! I’m very dark and cool and mysterious.
LOL! Whatever, lover boy.
See you soon.
I lock my phone and put it in my purse just as Niko pulls to a stop in front of my building. Thanks to Damon, I feel exponentially better than when I first got in the car. He’s just what I need. Someone tall, dark and handsome—and maybe a little smitten with me—to get my groove back and get over Andre’s ass for good.
Chapter ten
Damon
Coach Paulson blows his whistle for probably the fiftieth time today, bringing practice to a grinding halt and stabbing pain to my eardrums. I admire his enthusiasm, but I may need to invest in some earplugs if I want to keep my hearing intact.
Coach steps off the sideline and gets right in the kid’s face.
“Carter!” he bellows. “Where is your head today? Do you actuallylikerunning line drills?”
Half the team groans at just the mention of more running. The other half is too winded from the cone dribbling they just finished to say anything.
“Why are you on my case today, Coach?” Carter argues, glaring daggers at Paulson while wiping sweat from his brow.
“Because you’re half-assing it, kid,” Coach answers, his frustration evident.
Paulson blows his whistle again, two quick chirps to signal dismissal, and I have to stifle my own groan of relief. Coach is right; Carter’s been phoning it in all practice. But if twenty laps around the gym, followed by thirty minutes of passing drills, followed by thirtymoreminutes of shooting drills and then ten minutes of cone dribbling didn’t drive the point home, it might be best to call it for everyone’s safety. They aren’t machines.
I cross the gym, collecting balls along the way, and arrange them on the rack next to the rest of the equipment. Carter’s still on the benches grabbing a water, visibly fuming.
The little shit has made my life hell for the past few weeks—talking back when I call plays, undermining any feedback I give to the team with snarky remarks that always get a laugh from the players. I get that he’s just a kid, but…he’s surprisingly creative with his hurtful remarks. It’s like he goes home, studies my stats, finds any weak points, and then needles me with those weak points until I seriously consider switching careers. If basketball doesn’t work out, he could teach the CIA a thing or two about psychological warfare.
He’s just a kid, I remind myself for the hundredth time. Well, a kidandan asshole. But, asshole or not, something is clearly going on with him today. It’s my job to try to get to the bottom of it before things get any worse.
I grab my own water and sweat towel before making my way to sit next to him. He lets out a burdened sigh.
“What the hell do you want?” he spits in my direction.
