2

Miles

All The Coffee In The World

They say lightning never strikes the same place twice but I know for a fact that saying is bullshit. It does strike twice. It struck me at least a dozen times at the coffee shop.

I had no idea who she was, and I intended to find out.

"Sullender?"

Through the path of the splattered smoothie, I traced my teammate to the side of a restaurant. A kitchen worker hosed him off and I could tell Sullender was in no mood for a conversation. That was fine. But I was on a mission.

"Sullender? Who is she?"

His eyes narrowed. "Go fuck yourself, Locke."

"Awesome. Thanks." I shrugged. "I'm sure coach would love to hear all about this afternoon's coffee shop adventure."

"She's the Marrs bitch," he barked.

That's not nice.

With a shake of my head, I grabbed the back of his hair and yanked him up. Football teams are supposed to be like your second family, but I was learning that it is so damn easy to really, really hate your extended family.

"If you talk about her like that again, the two of us will count your teeth on the pavement."

He tried to jerk away from me but when that didn't work, his voice dropped to a hiss. "She's on the scouting team for Marrs."

"Thank you, Sullender. I'll see you at practice," I told him cheerfully, releasing my grip.

His final threat only echoed as far as the street allowed, and I pushed back into the coffee shop. They'd already scheduled the potential transfer players for first appearances, and my name wasn't on that list.

But here's a secret. If you have a gift, you can show up anywhere.

The KYU athletics facilities were abuzz with the start of summer training. It only took a few minutes to locate the Marrs team. I just had to follow the football players power-walking together, glancing over their shoulders, waiting for the inevitable comments.

" Locke ?" someone demanded in surprise, and I grinned, waving back the concerns.

"We need you to finish the physical before we can consider—" one of the Marrs assistants, decked out in the dark blue colors, jerked up to look at me, stunned. "Miles Locke? Uh…what are you…?"

I held up the coffees, stacked neatly together. "I bring gifts. Can I go in?"

My question was met with pure silence as the assistant glanced back at the line of other football players, waiting for the chance to talk to Coach Lawson and his crew. Everybody else had clearly filed into place. Would they tell me off for ignoring the rules?

Ha. I'd take that gamble.

"Yes, of course." The assistant nodded and grumbles met our conversation.

They could grumble all they wanted. I grinned and waved the coffees at the hallway full of my teammates before I slipped into the meeting room.

Coach Lawson himself, captain of the Marrs Romans, indisputable champion of Texas, sat at the main table. Sometimes I traveled to Austin for concerts and you couldn't visit any sports bar without seeing a framed picture of the football coach. His grizzled look matched the way he ordered everyone into place. If there was one thing I knew about Lawson - he kept his team the fuck in line.

"Locke?" He glanced up. The others were openly shocked, but a smile crossed Coach Lawson's face, like we'd been planning a joke on everybody and we finally initiated it. "Good timing, I needed another coffee."

"Who said these were for you?" I chuckled, and he grinned.

The door behind me pushed open and a brisk voice entered the room, commanding, methodical. Its own kind of music.

"We have everyone here for the three o'clocks, but we're missing Chad Skewer and—"

Lightning struck again.

Trying to comprehend exactly what was happening, she took a quick look back at a room full of surprised faces. Her rich red hair curled over her shoulder, her eyes, caramel, the kind that comes with fancy desserts. The kind of sweets you pay extra for. And her lips, full, plump, gorgeous.

I drank her in without regret.

Coach Lawson's voice boomed behind us, amused. "Bennight, you've got to know who Miles Locke is."

She stared at me for a moment, shocked, before her eyes flickered to her boss. "Um…yes, sir."

"Yeah," I grinned. "I bet we do know each other. Because I remember faces and you're the only one I'm thinking about—"

"Number eighty-eight on the Kennedy Young University roster." She pressed her lips together. "Winner of the Jerry Royce Accomplishment Award for his freshman year, top five of the Southern Football Boys annual pick. Beat the KYU rushing record with nineteen hundred fifty-one yards his sophomore year."

God. Damn.

"Consistently leads the league in receiving touchdowns and receiving yards—"

"And receptions," I offered, amused. "I can work well with others."

I expected a smile, but her eyebrow raised instead. "Your reception score could be better."

"What?" Was she serious? Completely blindsided, I paused. Her words sank in and I was still confused. "Really?"

"Your last five games were fine, but overall, they could be better."

"I had the best scores in KYU."

"And KYU is not the conference. It's KYU," she finished for me. I stared at her, but she shrugged, nonchalant. "Your receptions could be better."

Her cool, methodical way of listing off every part of me, the parts that'd been analyzed, recorded, and broken down by the KYU team, was something else coming from her. Honestly, it was pretty fucking hot. With her lips pressed together, she bypassed me with a stack of papers in her arms.

And I glanced over my shoulder for the view. The way her pencil skirt hugged all sides of her deserved to be admired.

It wasn't hard staring at her. I'd taken the time to bring gifts, and she'd looked right past them, and stomped her heel on the actual heart of the problem. I was the best at KYU, and she was right. That was KYU and KYU only.

If there was anything that I enjoyed - it was a challenge. I thrived off them. I always had. But KYU wasn't a challenge. The team was a cramped shitstorm of players that were too good for the team with coaches that couldn't understand what they were dealing with.

I was bored. I had been bored for a long time.

And my receptions had gotten sloppy.

Coach Lawson started comparing numbers from other teams, and she popped up with fifty other statistics, running through them better than I could've. I kept my eyes on her, on that redhead that showed me up in front of her boss.

Lightning struck.

And it kept striking.

"There's this problem though," I stopped the conversation. "See, we had our little run-in with my teammate, my man of the salt and Earth, and we had our fun. But I did not get your name." I waited until her heels clicked on the floor close to me and I dropped my tone, cutting our conversation off from the rest of them. "The baristas wouldn't even give it to me, and I bought your coffee order. They still said no."

Her gorgeous caramel eyes snapped to the coffees. "You…?"

"I didn't know which coffee spilled. I had to buy them all." Taking my time down the aisles, I passed out the coffees while she stood at the archway with her clipboard in hand. "And the lady's name is…?"

Deep down, I wondered if I was the only one who felt the deep, raw attraction between us. When I had stepped into the coffee shop, it had taken actual effort to tear my eyes away from her black skirt, deliciously curved along her ass.

The only reason I hadn't pinpointed the conversation with Sullender was the headphones and attempting to be a gentleman, so she didn't see me giving that body of hers the kind of look that'd get me in trouble. But I should've listened sooner, I should've stepped in sooner.

But I'd take that chance for round two.

I wanted that girl. I wanted her more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life.

And I love a challenge.

The last coffee on the tray was the white drizzle mocha.

Of course it's hers.

She took it gingerly from me when I offered it and I searched her face, hungry, looking for more, anything more. "The lady's name?"

She met my eyes again. "Cleo Bennight."

"Cleo Bennight," I tested it out, speaking her name softly to the air. It was nice. Beautiful, feminine, curled around the tongue like I wanted her to curl around me. But it wasn't quite there. Something was off. Cleo Locke sounded so much better. "Cleo Bennight…on behalf of the Kennedy Young University for angry, spiteful, little boys, I want to formally apologize for my associate's behavior."

Her lips lifted to half a smile, and damn, what a smile. "Thank you."

"Are we forgiven?"

"I suppose if everything goes well here."

Dipping down low, I gestured back to the closed hallway. "It seems to me like you need some kind of bodyguard. To keep you away from the neanderthals."

"Do I?" she murmured.

Coach Lawson and his assistants were enjoying the coffee and rounding up the paperwork, but I still had some luxurious seconds left. "I would say yes."

"I can take care of myself."

Doubtless.

"Well, how about the apology?"

Cleo brought the coffee to her lips and took a small sip, just like I wanted to take a sip from her. Pulling away from me, she gave a knowing look about our audience and then pointed towards a metaphorical clock hanging over us. "What about the apology?"

"Could I extend the apology to dinner?"

"Dinner?" she repeated, surprised.

"And we could extend it afterward." I grinned. "A very…professional kind of apology."

"Miles, do you want to take a seat?" Coach Lawson interjected. "What're we doing here?"

Cleo shook her head. "Miles Locke isn't on our list. He's just here to drop off coffee."

"I mean, lists can change," I pointed out.

Daring to hope, the assistant coaches craned their necks, waiting for the tie-breaking vote. Surprise fluttered across Cleo's face again. She thought I was leaving the coffee order and waiting for her outside? No way in hell.

Walking over to a chair, I sat, relaxed as could be, and gestured towards the seat next to me. "Ms. Bennight, you're welcome to sit with me."

It was like a switch flipped. The parting lips snapped shut and Cleo took a quick walk to the other side of the room, the side with a mountain of color-coordinated folders.

"I have my desk here, Mr. Locke. Did you fill out the preliminary forms in the lobby?"

"Uh…no."

She brought over a ballpoint pen. "I suggest you write quickly."