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"You stupid, pigheaded, simple-minded jock! I'll tell you what's wrong with me! I'm saddled with a head coach who is not only an emotional six-year-old, but mentally deficient as well."
"Deficient!" he sputtered. "Now you listen to me—"
Her elbow hit the mirror behind her as common sense fled, and she jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. "No! You listen to me, buster, and you listen well. I was in that locker room—not because I wanted to be there—but because you've managed to get my football team so tense that they haven't been able to hold on to the football."
"Are you actually suggesting—"
"You, Mr. Jock Strap, may be a brilliant strategist, but your knowledge of human nature is just about zero."
"You don't have the slightest idea—"
"Anytime—" She jabbed him again, punctuating the syllables with her index finger. "A-ny-time, do you hear me, that I want to address my players in my locker room, I will do it. Anytime I feel they're too tense, too jumpy, too uptight to do the job I am paying them a ridiculous amount of money to do, I'll stand in front of them and strip, if I want to. I'll do whatever I judge necessary to make certain that the Chicago Stars are able to do what they are supposed to do, which, in case you have forgotten, is what I helped them do tonight. That is, to win a football game! I, Mr. Pigskin-For-Brains, am the owner of this football team; not you. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"
There was a long pause. Her cheeks were flushed, her heart pounding. She was appalled at her loss of control, and s
he braced herself for his retaliation, but instead of exploding, he almost seemed distracted.
"Uh-huh."
She gulped. "That's all you have to say?"
The plane hit a patch of turbulence, pressing his hips more firmly against hers. Her eyes flew open as she realized he was fully aroused.
Looking vaguely embarrassed, he held up both hands. "It's not intentional. I know you're trying to make a point and I heard every word you said. Honest. But you kept wiggling while you were talking, and the plane started to bounce, and—I don't know. It just happened."
Her temper rekindled. "I'm not in any mood for this."
"Neither am I. Not mentally, anyway. As for physically…"
"I don't want to hear it."
The jouncing continued, rocking their bodies together. Once again he shifted his hips, cleared his throat. "Are you—uh—seriously trying to tell me that you think you're—uh—responsible for us beating the Giants?"
The mildness of his tone, the hot friction between their bodies, took the starch out of her. "No… Not exactly… Of course not. Well, maybe a little bit… Partly. Yes, definitely partly."
"I see." He ducked his head and braced both hands on each side of the counter behind her. His hair smelled of pine and spice from his postgame shower. She could feel his thumbs against her hips. The plane continued to bounce and she fought to ignore the thrilling abrasion of her breasts rubbing against his chest.
"You're a loose cannon," he said quietly, "and I don't like surprises." His jaw brushed her hair as he spoke. "If you thought there was a problem with my coaching, you should have talked to me about it."
"You're right. Theoretically." Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a distance. "But, you can be intimidating."
Once again, she felt the soft caress of his jaw against her hair. "So can you."
"Me?" Her mouth curled in a delighted smile. "Really?"
"Really."
Her smile faded as she saw the way he was looking at her. She licked her lips. "I'm…"
"Hot?" His molasses drawl made that short word last forever.
She swallowed. "Warm."
He smiled his Southern boy's crooked smile, slow and easy, conjuring up endless humid nights. "Not warm, darlin'. Hot."
"Maybe…"
"Me, too."
