Page 1 of I Want to Know What Love Is

Chapter One

Dylan

They say trouble comes in threes. If that's true I'm on my way to a hell of a day because I've already taken two shots of fucking trouble to the gut and it's only two pm. Turning the thing off, I toss my damn phone, harbinger of bad news, into my duffel and heave the bag over my shoulder as I head for practice.

The twin trouble spots in my day—no, in my upcoming year—dog me as I make the short walk to campus.

First, I find out dad is leaving. I don't mean for one of his endless business trips. He's leaving for real and for good this time, according to mom's phone call at lunch. I didn't bother finishing my burger after I talked her down from the ledge—metaphorically speaking. At least I hope it was a metaphorical ledge. I'll have to call her back later to make sure she's secure and inside her windows.

Second trouble? Another fun phone call. This one from Dean Lassiter a few minutes ago. Drops of rain dot the sidewalk before I feel them. Thunder booms, chasing the lightening across the sky in a late August storm. Football practice should be a blast. I pick up my pace.

Dean Lassiter informed me that if I don't get my grades up this semester and get at least a B+ in Finance, I'll lose my scholarship. I have two years of eligibility left and there's no way I can afford the fucking steep tuition at St. Paul U. Especially not now with Dad taking off.

Pushing the field house door open, my bag catches on the latch and I hear a tear. "Fuck." My jock strap loaded with a hard cup clatters to the floor. Could be worse. Could have been my phone that fell and that sucker is expensive.

I bend down to retrieve the cup and an elegant pair of heels topped by shapely ankles and calves slide into my field of vision as I raise my eyes. I blow out a whistle. Automatic reflex.

When I stand and take in the full height and breadth of the vision, I'm surprised at the gray suit and white blouse and especially the frown on the gorgeous face. I'm more than fucking pleased with the rest of what I see. My smirk is automatic too.

"You finished here, QB1?" Ms. Hot and Tidy says without easing up on her frown. "I hear they've recruited a kid from Australia who's going to blow you out of the water." Now she smiles. And I forget to breathe.

Nothing about her makes sense. Especially not my reaction to her. She knows who I am and is clearly unimpressed. That alone should discourage me, but I’m a sick bastard and she just went from hot to hot and interesting. Her lush chestnut hair swings in a casual pony tail, but I’d bet my left nut she’s not a student here. She’s older. Her serious gold-specked eyes pin me. And sweet Jesus, that mouth—full lips with a sensual quiver and damn playful dimples—stuns me. Like a sucker punch to the gut.

Trouble number three. Because this is the season I need to focus on only one thing—football.

"Who are you?" I finally find my tongue, but I want to bite it off as soon as I speak. Out of my fucking jumbled reaction to her, I sound first and foremost defensive. Not cool. Getting back on track, I dredge up my sarcastic charm. "Let me guess. You're a new scout for the football team." My smirk doubles up while I watch her, trying to make sense of her.

"I'm the new Assistant women's basketball coach. Close enough. I know what's what in the athletic department." Her words and the tilt of her chin at a slight upwards angle challenge me. In her heels her height almost rivals mine and I’m being courted by agents and scouts for that stat alone.

"That right?" I don't know what else to say besides what are you doing tonight and that doesn't seem right given her position on the other side of the impenetrable divide between students and faculty. And my fucking vow to avoid girl-drama until the end of the season.

She nods and rolls her eyes like I'm an insect beneath her bother. "Well it's been scintillating chatting with you, but I have things to do. And you don't want to be late. That new kid—"

"Doesn't stand a chance for the next two seasons," I say, matching her arrogant smile.

She laughs. "Let's check in on that in another month, QB—"

"Dylan Jones. You can call me Dylan. I'll see you next month."

"It's a date, Jonesy. Same time, same place. Minus the cup."

She walks past me, leaving a wake of her intoxicating scent like forbidden fruit. Ms. Hot and Confusing struts down the hall to the athletic staff offices and I stare for a minute, watching each graceful step, the way her begging to-be-touched pony tail sways in the opposite direction of her hips, the way the gray skirt strains across her ass. Hormone-driven heat rushes though me. No matter how inappropriate it may be. My dick doesn't care if she's so far off limits she may as well exist on the other side of the moon.

I can't afford any more trouble, I calm my dick down by forcing the image of coach's face front and center in my mind. I need to be early to practice, to set an example for the team as the captain. I can't afford to piss away the time. So, I turn away and head in the opposite direction of the hot enigma who already feels like a mirage, like my mind is playing evil tricks to round out my trouble trifecta.

Because there couldn't be a more troublesome possibility to kill my season than a woman who makes Adam's Eve look like a lamb than ... fuck. She never told me her name.

Stopping, I fish my phone from the duffel to look her up on the SPU website. I have one minute to get inside the locker room, so I walk as I scroll. In spite of my stern pushback on my dick's interest, knowing who the hell she is packs more urgency than being early for practice. Which is a hell of a clue at how fucking big trouble number three could be.

Her name is Amanda Lake. And I think I better start taking swimming lessons soon or I just might drown.

Defeat hits my dick, releasing me from the hormonal spell of Amanda fucking Lake the second I walk through the locker room door to find a guy I don’t recognize moving into the locker next to mine. Number fourteen to my number twelve. A new QB. Fuck. The guy from Australia. Hottie Coach Lake wasn’t shitting me. Fuck.

Since when does trouble come in fours?

Better question, since when do I give a fuck about competition? Striding to my locker I pull open the door and sit on the bench.

"You're new," I state the obvious, then put out a hand. No way am I letting Long Legs Lake get under my skin with her insinuations that this guy has a chance at my spot. Besides, I'm a friendly guy, and this is my team, so I have a responsibility to make sure new team mates feel welcome. A strong team bonds beats the hell out of our opponents when we’re down and need to make a comeback, when we’re tied and need to pull out a win in overtime. Or when a player goes down and the next man needs to step up.