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“Obvi.” She put on her most charming smile and did an embellished little curtsy.
Coach rolled his eyes, nudging the potato chip bag suspiciously with a thumb almost as thick as the hot dog inside. “Cuz last time you got me sour cream and onion.”
Tatum rolled her eyes.Heaven forbid,she thought to herself, before fixing on a dutiful smile. “Yes, and I’ve heard about nothing ever since, so barbecue it is from now on. You’re welcome.”
He wasn’t quite sure what to do with her antics. He never was, but the fact that he tolerated her at all was good enough for Tatum. He slid the red-and-white-striped tray atop the stairs where he stood, Tatum following suit as she slid the two remaining trays next to Coach’s.
She glanced up at the stadium steps, the lone figure inching closer into view as he descended the steps one at a time, a shimmering, gleaming blur of arms and legs, each one sweatier and sexier than the next. “What’d he do this time?” Tatum wondered aloud.
“Late to practice. Again.” Coach gave her a knowing glance.
She made a toothy, apologetic grin, accompanied by an equally sorry shrug of her shoulders. “My fault, I suppose. Big night last night.”
Coach winced. “I don’t wanna hear about it.”
“Not likethat,” she rushed to assure him. “We were kind of celebrating, actually.”
He rolled his eyes. “What? Your two-week anniversary?”
She rolled hers back. “No, silly. That’s tomorrow night. Last night we celebrated the fact that my story finally made it through copy edits. Finally.” Tatum shrugged, recalling the dozen or more drafts of Shane’s profile she’d had to endure before Moira finally announced her first ever Rookie Roundup feature clear to print.
Coach grunted, reaching for something next to his hot dog tray. “That’d explain this then?”
He waved a fresh copy of theStatesmantoward her, hot off the presses. “Yes, it would. What’d you think, Coach?”
He scowled as usual, unfurling the paper dramatically until they could both see Shane’s picture, sweaty and aglow in the batting cage, posted front and center, and in living color to boot. She blushed to recall what happened less than an hour after she took that very picture, but somehow managed not to blurt out all the dirty little details as Coach pretended to re-read the article, all three printed pages of it. “Nice job, Kid. Now, just don’t let it go to his already big head.”
“Thanks, Coach.” She was tempted to lean up on her tippy-toes to kiss the big lug, but refrained just as Shane drifted into view, dripping sweat and panting so loudly she could hear him from four bleachers away.
“Did you tell her?” Shane gasped, gulping for air as he reached the last stadium step, ribbed tank top drenched in glorious man sweat.
“Tell her what?” Coach growled evasively, reaching for his hot dog value basket.
“How much you loved her article, duh?” Shane beamed. Coach glowered. Tatum snickered. “I was just getting to that,” Coach huffed, giving Tatum a begrudging wink as he turned to Shane. “And what are you stopping for? I said six circuits, Dixon. I’ve only counted five.”
“Bull hockey,” Shane grumbled, nodding at the paper in Coach’s hand. “I did a whole other one while you were reading earlier!”
Coach glowered and wagged a thick finger Shane’s way. “You wanna make it seven, Hot Shot?”
Shane shook his head, gave Tatum a merry wink, and then set about running up the stadium steps one last time. “See what you’ve done, Ripley?” Coach huffed, reaching for his hot dog tray.
“What’s that, Coach?” Tatum found she enjoyed the grumpy banter between both men, her stunning jock, and his grumpy coach. It almost—almost, that is—made Tatum pine for the high school athletics she’d never joined back home.
He waved the paper again before shoving it into her hands. “Created a monster with your puff piece, that’s what!”
He hoisted his hot dog and turned, glancing over his shoulder with a warning glare. “Don’t let him off the hook, either. Make sure he runs that last circuit or else.”
“Sure, Coach,” she agreed. She leaned her hip against the half-wall that bordered the playing field where she stood. “Enjoy your foot-long.”
He grumbled something in parting, and before she could glance up from theStatesman, disappeared down the same corridor she’d just exited. She grinned to herself, glanced up at Shane, dutifully struggling up the last few stadium bleachers high above, and sighed, turning her attention to the front page of the student paper instead.
Though it had been a struggle to wrangle all of Moira’s stringent edits and finagle in her pointed suggestions, all while doing penance for succumbing to temptation in the first place, ultimately Tatum appreciated the effort and realized that her editor in chief had improved the story quite a bit. The gist of Tatum’s words were there, glowing praise tinged with just the right shade of modesty, making Shane Dixon leap off the page one paragraph at a time.
The pictures didn’t hurt things, either. Full color and crystal clear thanks to her new cell phone, they, too, leapt off the page, treating the rest of Sycamore State to what Tatum already knew—Shane was a total jock babe. And thanks to (almost) two whirlwind weeks together, he was hers. All hers. Every sexy, sweaty, smutty inch of him.
“Not bad, huh?” Shane had descended the steps while she’d been daydreaming, robbing her of seeing him in his favorite grey gym shorts, face flushed and sweat stinging his gentle green eyes.
“I mean, sure. Moira says it’s theStatesman’sbest-selling issue by far, and it’s only been out a few hours.”
