I watch her walk away. The sway of her hips. The curve of her perfect fucking ass in that dress. The straight, elegant line of her spine.
Then she glances back. Quick. Subtle. Anyone else would miss it.
She catches me looking.
I don’t look away.
Neither does she.
Something passes between us, a current, a spark, a promise ofsomething, and then she’s gone, absorbed back into the crowd.
Danny appears at my elbow.
“Dude. Did the president justcheckyou out?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“She did , I saw it!”
“I said, shut up.”
“Coach has a crush on the…”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll break your face .”
He mimes zipping his lips, but he’s grinning. And so am I.
Yeah. I’m completely fucked.
Two
Lina
“And at eleven, you have the sendoff reception for the Men’s National Team. Photo line, brief remarks, team photo. Forty-five minutes.”
I nod at my aide, Simone, keeping my expression neutral as she runs through the morning schedule. Budget meeting, call with the Secretary of State, the soccer thing, lunch with congressional leadership. Standard day. Except it’s not. Because the soccer thing meanshim.
“Coach Hendricks will be there, of course,” Simone continues, tapping her tablet. “Along with the full roster. We’ve got background on all of them if you want to review…”
“That won’t be necessary.”
My voice is perfectly calm. Presidential. Giving absolutely nothing away. Inside, I’m screaming.
Levi Hendricks. In my house. In less than two hours. Oh God.
Simone glances up, and I can tell she’s clocking something. She’s been with me for years; she knows my moods better thananyone. But she doesn’t push. Just nods and moves on to the next item.
I tune her out. Because my brain is doing what it’s been doing for the past almost decade whenever I hear his name: short-circuiting completely.
I remember exactly when it started. Years ago. I was a senator, home for the weekend, exhausted from a brutal legislative session. I poured myself a drink, collapsed on the couch, and turned on the TV just to have some background noise.
The European Soccer Championship was on. I don’t even really like soccer. Well, I didn’t back then, but I was too tired to find the remote. So I watched. And then the camera cut to the sideline.
Oh. Oh my.
Levi Hendricks. Head coach for some team I’d never heard of. The commentators were talking about his career, former player, tactical genius, building a program from nothing, but I didn’t hear a word of it. I was too busy staring.
He was prowling the sidelines like a caged animal. Intense, focused, radiating energy even standing still. His silver hair, cropped short. A beard that was more salt than pepper. A jaw that could cut glass.
