God help me.
“Coach? Bus leaves in ten.”
The knock snaps me out of my spiral. Thank fuck.
“Be right there.”
One more look in the mirror. I’m fine. I look fine.
She’s not going to notice you, dumbass. She meets hundreds of people a day. You’re just another handshake.
That should calm me down. It doesn’t.
* * *
The bus is chaos. Two dozen players hyped out of their fucking minds, taking selfies, practicing what they’ll say to the president. Most of them are young, playing in their first major tournament. They have an excuse to be excited. I don’t.
I sit at the front of the bus, with my arms crossed, watching D.C. roll by and trying to think about anything excepther.
Danny, my assistant coach, drops into the seat next to me. He’s ten years younger than me, smart, and annoying as fuck.
“Big day, boss. Meeting the president.” He grins. “You excited?”
I grumble, “It’s a photo op.”
“Come on, man. It’s thepresident. First woman ever. Historic figure.” He lowers his voice. “Plus, she’sfine. Don’t tell my wife I said that.”
I almost break his fucking jaw. I do not take well to hearing other men talk about her like that. Which is fuckinginsane. I don’t even know this woman. Never met her. Have zero claim on her.
But here we fucking are.
“Focus on the tournament,” I reply, and my tone ends the conversation.
Danny holds up his hands and moves to another seat.
I go back to the window.
It’s just a handshake. You’ll be fine.
* * *
The White House is a lot.
We’re escorted through security, down hallways that look exactly like on TV, past paintings of old presidents and furniture that’s probably worth more than my first contract. The youngest players have finally gone quiet, looking around wide-eyed.
A staff member explains the schedule. Photo line, brief remarks, team picture. Forty-five minutes. But I’m not listening because the door opens, andshewalks in.
Fuck.
She’s better in person. So much fucking better. Television doesn’t prepare you. Eight years of watching her through screens, I thought I knew what she looked like. I didn’t know shit. Lina Kane in the flesh is a goddamn vision.
She moves through the room like a goddamn empress, flanked by her aides and Secret Service detail. Every head turns her way, including mine. Shit, I couldn’t look away if I tried.
She’s wearing a deep blue dress that hugs every curve like it was sewn onto her body. And whatcurves…My eyes travel down her magnificent body before I can stop them. The swell of her chest, full, round, the fabric draping over her tits in a way that makes my hands ache for a touch. Her waist is nipped in, flaring out to soft hips that were made for my grip. I can see the shape of her thick thighs when she walks. And her ass… fuck. Her skin is even more beautiful in person. Deep brown, rich and warm, smooth, soft-looking. I want to run my tongue along her collarbone, find out if she tastes as good as she looks.
Okay, you need to calm the fuck down, Hendricks. You’re in the fucking White House.
But my body isn’t listening. Heat spreads in my chest, blood rushes south, and I have to shift my stance to accommodate whatever the fuck is happening in my pants.
