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A few hands shoot toward the pitchers, and I suddenly feel like I need to check their IDs. But I’m not their mother, and for the next few hours I don’t really want to be their coach either. It’s been stifling, hiding out in my apartment just to try to keep out of trouble and away from paparazzi. I just want to have some fun for a change. I take a peek at my little star, and I’m disappointed to see she’s not drinking. Her age is all the more reason to keep my distance, as if the list isn’t long enough already. Not least of all the fact I’ve made her hate me.
There are a few old-fashioned arcade games in the restaurant. Some of the players take turns getting up to play, and there’s a bit of musical chairs as they all shift seats. I try not to notice that they’re avoiding sitting next to me, determined to keep up the winning mood, at least for myself. By the time the pizza arrives, the only empty chair is beside me, and Maya is the odd girl out. She slides in and smiles at me stiffly. I take a swig of my beer, wishing it were something stronger. It’s better this way, to be honest. I need my wits about me.
Our hands bump as we both reach for the last slice of pepperoni, and she quickly concedes.
“No, take it,” I say, putting it on her plate when she refuses. She ducks her head to hide a smile and nods in thanks.
“That was a tough game,” she admits.
“Could have fooled me,” I say honestly. “All of you did great, but you practically won the game yourself, Maya.”
Her eyes widen, and a blush rises to her pale cheeks. Why did I call her by her first name? Saying it feels so intimate, and it makes me want to lean closer to her. There’s a drop of sauce clinging to her lip that my finger itches to rub away, and when she licks it herself consciously, my cock twitches under the table. She’s dangerous, my star player.
“Thanks,” she says breathily, smiling up at me like I’ve given her far more than just a tossed off compliment.
“Just keep it up,” I say roughly.
Her smile fades. That’s more like it. Why do I feel so empty, though, when she turns away to talk to her teammate? The next look she gives me is a scowl when I reach past her to grab one of the water carafes. I’ve already had a glass of beer, but I can’t have more. Not with her around. I don’t want to do something stupid. I’m disappointed, but only a little, that her angry looks are just as hot as her smiles. I’m going to lose it. The celebratory atmosphere and deeper sense of camaraderie are weakening my resolve to stay on the straight and narrow, but I can’t screw up if I want to get back on a team where I belong. So, water, not alcohol, lest I wish to do something truly stupid.
We party until the restaurant closes and when I stand up, my ass hurts from sitting so long at the table. I didn’t realize it’d been so long.
Once the team herds themselves out to the parking lot, the team huddles around me, arguing about who’s driving the more intoxicated of the team members home. I’m glad they enjoyed themselves, even if I was distracted the whole time by Maya’s deliberate avoidance of me.
I click my key fob, trying to remember where I parked, but I don’t hear my car respond. That’s strange.
“What’s wrong, coach?” someone asks.
“I can’t seem to find my car,” I say dumbly, still clicking my fob. Where the hell did I park?
“Did you park in front of the fire hydrant?” another asks.
“I bet he did.” They’re all giggling at me now. “Alright, someone needs to drive Coach Browers home too.”
The others grumble as they pair off with their teammates in ways that make sense. Finally, the last of the team play rock, paper, scissors to see who has to drive me home. I’d be offended, but I’m more pissed about my stupid parking mistake than anything else at the moment. The emotions disappear once Maya wins. Or loses, going by the look of horror on her face. Looks like we’re going to be alone together after an evening spent avoiding each other. Brilliant. I scowl to show her I’m not happy about it either.
Chapter 4
Maya
Ugh, how did this happen? I have to be alone with Coach Browers in my tiny car, close enough that our shoulders will probably touch. Why did he have to be so friendly and normal during our celebration dinner, constantly making me notice how hot he is? His laughter is as sexy as his accent, and every time he reached for a slice of pizza or that damn beer pitcher, all I could do was gawk at his strong hands, wondering what they’d feel like moving up under my jersey.
Seems like winning makes me horny. At least it does when I have a hot coach who kept slyly glancing at me over the last three hours as if he found me as attractive as I found him. He even gave me a compliment. Despite following it up with his trademark grumpiness, I’m still glowing from the words.
If only I’d gotten drunk like my teammates had, then I wouldn’t be in this predicament. But, unlike some of the other players on the team who wanted to carpool with the nondrinkers, I stuck to the honor system. I didn’t want to drink just to have to leave my car here. Now I’m stuck taking him home because he had to be an idiot with his stupid car.
I look at him leaning against a streetlamp post, arms crossed over his muscular chest, a slight smirk on his face. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s been trying to be civil all evening, I’d just leave him here to fend for himself. He doesn’t look bothered at all that his car got towed, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“My car’s over there,” I say. “Let’s go.”
He gives me a long look that makes my skin feel like it’s on fire before pushing off the post to follow me. I surreptitiously lift my jersey to fan my heated skin when I think he’s not looking.
“Ah, right, you’re taking me home, not going home with me,” he says softly. “Pity, that.”
His accent is not helping with the lust building beneath my skin. I can barely drag my eyes away from his searing gaze. “You’re the one that parked like a dumb ass, not me.”
That seems to shame him into silence, at least for a little bit. The less he speaks, the better my chances are of cooling off. If he keeps talking like that, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep myself at arm’s length. Shit, if he keeps looking at me like this and flirting so openly, I’ll be the one to do something idiotic instead.
He follows me to my car and directs me to his apartment with little trouble. When I pull into a parking spot, he fumbles for the door dramatically. Narrowing my eyes at him, I ask if he needs help. “Car door too easy to use compared to your fancy sports car?
