Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

LEMON

F aster!” I shout. “Collin, I know you can move quicker than that. What’s with the sloppy footwork?”

“Yes, Coach,” Collin says.

“He’s coming off an injury,” Declan, a physical trainer assigned to the team today, reminds me, and I huff in frustration.

“Mind your injury,” I yell.

“Yes, Coach,” Collin calls back.

“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter, glaring at the cluster show at the far end of the field. “Don’t hurt your own teammates, Adam!” I holler.

I’m not oblivious to my coaches glancing at me. Norman specifically, since he’s the closest. Declan keeps watching me too. I hate when he watches me. It just reminds me that he chose a stupid math guy over me.

Too bad, too. He’s just… pretty. He’d look good beneath me as I ride him like the stallion he is. I bet he takes orders really well.

Not that I’ve given that much thought.

“You’re… angrier than usual,” Declan points out. “What’s up, Lem?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

It’s been pointed out to me that maybe I’m being childish about this. I have always had a very large budget and now that it’s more “reasonable,” I shouldn’t be throwing a tantrum. I should want my school to excel in as many areas as possible because it brings in more funding.

I’m spoiled. I’m acting like a snotty baby. There’s no reason to be pissed.

All things I’ve heard over the last couple weeks. Apparently, I’m not entitled to all the luxury and amenities I’m used to because I always have at least one player drafted to the NFL. I haven’t won a championship yet, and I guess that’s what my job actually is.

And here I thought it was coaching athletes to be the best at what they do. Which, arguably, I do. After all, I haven’t been told I just have to deal with it. I can always gain income from other places. I’m allowed to fundraise .

There are very few words that make me gag more. Fundraising is as tacky as wearing those big, puffy hair scrunchies around your wrist. Ew.

“I’m irritated that they took my money to pay some washed up athlete to coach,” I grumble as I brush down my short tulle skirt. It’s reminiscent of a tutu, but it doesn’t stick out like those you think of in professional ballet.

“It’s the school’s money,” Declan points out. “They’re allowed to put funds where they think they’re most needed.”

I glare at him, and he grins. “Honestly, Lem. Have you met him? He’s a cool guy.”

“I didn’t realize you’re a hockey fan,” I say, taking a step back. “I’m rather disappointed.”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “I’m not a fan of any sports.” I look at him as if he’s speaking blasphemy. He laughs again. “I’m fascinated by the science behind muscles and how you can condition and train different muscle groups. It has nothing to do with the sport that athlete plays.”

I’m not entirely sure how I’m looking at him, but he continues to chuckle. “You have insulted the football gods,” I declare. “You best get on your knees and repent, sinner.”

This time, Declan throws his head back with laughter as he turns away from me. I’m left watching him longingly. He has such a pretty neck. I haven’t imagined licking and sucking it at all. Not even once.

Stupid math jerk for winning Declan’s heart.

Stupid soccer jerk for getting in my way of seducing my man. I hate that soccer coach. I saw Declan Whitaker first, therefore, he should be mine. The one bit of solace I have is that even the amazing Alka Lennon, soccer coach extraordinaire with a sexy porn star husband and soccer guy boyfriend, didn’t get Declan in the end, either, and he’d wanted him as much as I did.

Did. I refuse to still be that person.

I spend far too long yelling at the kids. I’m partly irritated that they are, in fact, kids now. All of my players are less than half my age. It makes me feel old.

Old and alone.

When nothing that these kids are doing is encouraging, I leave them in my coaches’ hands and exit the field. One thing I’ve been told over the last couple weeks that I agree with—I need to set this anger aside and focus on my team. I won’t be bringing them to the championship if all I can think about is my anger.

I have a really great team this year, and I’m confident that they’ll go far. But they need a coach who’s going to mold them into winners, not yell at them for tackling wrong. I mean, they’ve all been playing for more than a decade—they should know how to tackle by now!

Shaking my head, I push the door open and drop on my couch. I wanted a fainting couch, but I feel like that might be too ironic right now because I feel faint. Okay, dramatic much?

It’d taken me several nights to rearrange my spending to fit within my limits. The problem is, there’s a big gap in the things I was able to buy and what I still want to buy. My team is capable. Just because we haven’t won the National Championship doesn’t mean we don’t have the talent.

Wins prove you have the talent. Not individual milestones, but wins. Enough wins to get to the championship.

That’s what my sister told me when I called to whine to her. I’d wanted her sympathy and understanding. I wanted her to be angry on my behalf.

She was. However, when I explained it all more, she was less so. I should have been reading my emails for the last year. That’s an expectation of my job and maybe I should keep this in mind in the future. If there’s a part of my job I’m not performing well in, I could be replaced.

Everyone is expendable.

I try to tell myself she’s wrong. I earn my place here every year. Last year, I had three draftees. Three! Coming from a team that didn’t make it to the championship should be more impressive, not less.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I sit up. I hate fundraising. There should be committees of people who dedicate their entire jobs to just this. For each department. That’s the key. Come to find out, there is a fundraising coordinator on staff at Rainbow Dorset, but when I approached him, he just laughed. His job is to raise funds for the school, for salaries and supplies. Not for a specific team whose budget already far exceeds most departments. Entire departments.

I don’t like that man.

Maybe as much as I hate fundraising. Not at all surprising, since that’s his entire job. Why would I like a person whose entire day is doing something I hate?

But it occurs to me I probably should have approached him differently. Walking in to tell him he needs to focus on raising funds for my team since fundraising is his job and not mine was apparently not the way to ask.

Glancing down, I decide that perhaps I should have worn something cuter. Something that showed my finer features as a way to tease and shit.

I’m still not sure that I was wrong and he’s right. His job is fundraising. Mine is coaching. Why should I have to do his job when he doesn’t have to do mine? Where is the fairness in that?

Sitting up, I decide I need to find some way to convince someone to give me the $20,000 that my budget is now short. But who has that kind of money and is willing to hand it over? They’ll want something in exchange, but what have I to give them?

Getting to my feet, I grab my bag and leave my office, locking the door behind me. So I don’t have to go by the field again, I take the long way to the staff parking lot. However, this brings me past the hockey arena.

I pause outside, eyes narrowed. Is he really that big of a deal? So what that he used to play hockey? He doesn’t anymore. That should be enough of a reason that he doesn’t get so much of my budget.

Glancing around to see who might be near and witness me walking into the arena, I stroll over to the door. It’s unlocked, which means someone’s there. They don’t leave any building unlocked if it’s after hours and they’re empty.

When I open the door, I can hear the distant sound of stick slaps and scrapes.

Looking around, I find the lobby is empty. It’s wide. There are offices or whatever these doors with dark windows open up to, and three sets of double doors, with the center set propped open.

I can’t believe I just stepped foot in here! Gross.

Settling my bag more comfortably on my shoulder, I move toward the door and peek inside. As I do, I realize that I’ve never been in an arena like this. Ever. The seats look more comfortable than those that I have in the football stadium, which immediately makes me bristle. Now I need money to upgrade them. Hockey cannot outdo us!

They don’t fold like ours do with the bottom lifting toward the back so there’s room to move. In fact, I think there’s more legroom here than I’ve ever seen. That’s annoying.

They’re padded too. I choose a seat in the top row and sit, immediately hating that they’re not uncomfortable. At least the seats are super close together. Just like mine are. That hasn’t changed.

“Nice save, Seth!”

I turn my attention to the ice and stare down. Not going to lie, I’m much too far away to see anything from here. Including their stupid little black disk. How does anyone keep track of that?! Impossible. Especially from up here!

Pulling out my tablet, I turn on the camera and zoom in on the action down on the ice. Half the team is sitting in their little dugout while the other half is doing something. Moving in circles and slapping the ice. I have to assume that they’re hitting the puck.

Ohh. I didn’t even know I knew what it was called. Go, me!

Ah! And there it is. Of course, I lose it almost immediately after I spotted it. It moves so quickly.

A loud crack makes me jump and I look up, trying to figure out what it was. But no one else seems phased at all so… that was part of the sport? Background noise?

Looking back into the screen, I finally spot whom I assume is this famous hockey player and… wow. He’s… stunning. I can’t even… Wow.

“Wow,” I murmur out loud, since it’s the only word that I can seem to form. I’ve turned dumb. My mind has completely shut down except for looking at this guy in a hoodie as he points with his stick.

Then he smiles and I swear, I nearly swallow my tongue. Men like that should not smile. It has the ability to incapacitate people.

“Too bad I hate you,” I murmur as I stare into the screen, keeping it trained on him. “Too bad you’re the enemy who stole my money for this ridiculous sport.”

However, I don’t move. I can’t. All I seem to be able to do is stare at this man with a strange mix of loathing and desire.

My sister says I instantly become infatuated with men. I argue that’s not true, but if I didn’t hate him so much, I think that with this man, it might be true. I would have fallen for him—or at the very least, lusted over him—had he not been a bitter rival. Why did he have to come here and just fuck up everything? I had a good thing going. I produce pro athletes!

Why did he have to mess up the status quo?

I watch for a while longer. When it appears that he’s wrapping up, I sneak out and quickly head to my car. I’d really love it if he just… went away. How can I make that happen so I can get my career back to the cushy job it was?