Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

LEMON

H e’s married to a supermodel. Blah! How cliché. He’s won like 829 awards—overachiever. And drives a motorcycle—that’s totally nineties! He’s begun his own charity that focuses on providing gear to disadvantaged youth so they can play sports. All sports. Like he’s pretending to be altruistic or some shit.

It’s possible I looked Hansley up online because I wanted to know more about my competition. I need to know what makes him tick so I can more readily get rid of him. I just need him to fail. If he fails, maybe he’ll be discouraged and quit before next year. Leaving me with just this year to struggle through.

Then next year, Dean Devaroe will apologize and promise never to mess with my budget again. I will graciously accept his apology and praise for putting up with this insult with such patience and geniality.

On paper, this guy looks like he’s a flawless character. Which means he’s only two-dimensional. Also—boring as fuck. I can’t find anything even the slightest bit scandalous when I search his name. Not even all the way on page thirty-four of the search engine.

When I go to social media, there’s just a bunch of pretty pictures of him with his stupid, pretty wife. That shouldn’t be allowed. Pretty people should not be with other pretty people. It’s not fair.

There are glimpses of his life all over social media. His college wins. A picture from when he got drafted. His marriage to this model—because that’s hard work. His trades. Hockey. Hockey. Hockey. Charity. Hockey.

He’s always smiling too. Like… what’s that about? What do you have to smile about so often?

This is the face of someone who’s never been rejected. Who’s never been disappointed or let down. He’s walked a path lined with gold his entire life.

I sit back in my chair and stare at the door. At least he’s not in this building. I don’t have to worry about running into him again.

Because he’s also gorgeous. Which I already suspected while viewing him from my video feed and the little thumbnail picture in the school app by his name. But seeing him up close? The way my stomach flipped. Just… wow. That’s all. Wow.

He’s dreamy. If I could build a guy, I think he’d look just like Hansley. Broad shoulders, which I was able to see clearly since he wasn’t wearing a hoodie this time. And his chest. Man, I bet that thing is huge. It looked huge through his shirt, but I really want to see him shirtless.

Thus, I found myself searching him online. For research purposes, of course. I found plenty of shirtless pictures and yep, perfection.

“No,” I tell myself firmly. “We will not crush on our enemy! We can only drool from afar when no one knows.”

A knock on my door makes me jump. “What?” I snap because I’m startled.

The door opens and Peyton pokes his head in. He’s one of my favorite kids. I’m sure he’s going to go far.

“Sorry, Coach,” he says. I’m thankful he’s usually unphased by my moods. “There’s a delivery here—the new pads for the dummies. Want me to put it away?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

He flashes me a smile. “I can install them if you want me to.”

“Do you have somewhere you should be, Peyton?”

Peyton shakes his head. “I finished my classes for the day an hour ago. I was in the gym before practice when I saw the truck pull in.”

“Don’t fail anything,” I warn.

His grin is huge. “Never, Coach. I’m always good.”

I swear, there’s an innuendo there based on the smirk and the way his eyes crinkle. This is his third year at Rainbow Dorset, so I’ve had plenty of opportunities to study this young man and I’m quite confident that I’m right.

He leaves when I raise a brow in his direction. I’m not sure if he’s testing the waters, or he’s just comfortable with me. I’m not even sure whether I’m flattered or annoyed.

It’s quite possible everything annoys me right now.

I called my sister last night for some money stream ideas. She’s good at that stuff. Not necessarily sympathizing with me when I think she should, but still. Sugar is an excellent source of corporate knowledge. Part of her job has been maximizing income streams, so if anyone was going to tell me how to get things moving, it would be her.

“You have a massive number of bodies at your disposal,” she pointed out, referring to my team of 112 athletes. “That presents you with a unique opportunity. You don’t have to focus only twenty or so students on a single task, you can split them between two or three. Three times the effort in a fraction of the time it would take one team an entire year to pull off.”

I like this idea, remembering it as I pull out my roster. There are the obvious things like car washes or candy sales, but they all seem rather… mundane. Besides, who cares about college car washes?

To which my sister countered, “But you have athletes. Play that up. Think about the cliché bikini car washes that cheer teams often put on.”

“You want my guys in bikinis?” I asked, already imagining proposing this to them.

Sugar laughed. “No, Lem. But men’s bathing suits—or whatever they’re comfortable in—is an option.”

This brought on the idea of all the things my players could do in a bathing suit. Sell candy. Walk dogs. Sell baked goods. And yes, wash cars.

“Okay, good,” I said. “But that’s all piddly money. What else? I need twenty thousand!”

We must have brainstormed for over an hour and came up with a competition. A tournament of sorts. I have more than a hundred athletes. Why not use that to my advantage while asking people for money?

Then I was watching television last night and ended up losing my remote, so when a movie came on about a celebrity auction for money, I’ve started toying with ideas on how to use that. When? How? Is it ethical to ask my kids to auction themselves?

An email pops up and I glance down, ignoring it. My new work-study students will begin soon. Thank gawd. I need help with these 400+ emails. They just keep coming in!

Maybe I can hire one of them to make these money things happen. That’s an idea.

Getting to my feet, I move toward my door. I catch my reflection in the mirror and grin. In my personal opinion, more men should wear spandex. It’s the male version of showing off cleavage. Hot. I mean, look at the shape of my ass! Shifting, I flex my glutes and smile appreciatively. Today, I’m not wearing a skirt to cover said ass, so it’s all out there. With my crop top tank, my glutes are full on display.

I need someone to throw these ideas around with. Someone who can expand upon them in a way that I’m not good at. I consider the student body, but come up short on ideas. I’m not exactly friends with any of them.

I could try my coaches. The least they could do is pitch in by elaborating the ideas that they didn’t bother to come up with.

Stepping into the hall, I shut the door behind me and smile at the greens and blues on the wall, painted like the gay pride flag—the male-male flag. I’m rather happy that this is the flag in my hallway. While I generally prefer pinks and yellows, this is my flag, so it makes me smile every time I see it.

That is, until my eyes hone in on the large bulletin board that’s right down the hall. From here, I can see a set of hockey sticks. Immediately, my blood boils. He doesn’t belong here! This is my hall. The nerve of him posting something about hockey in my hall!

Stomping to the board, I reach to grab the paper and freeze. It’s a flyer for a dodgeball tournament encouraging athletes to put together a team and sign up for the friendly competition.

How dare he? How fucking dare he do this to me? This was my idea! Mine. And he stole it!

Ripping it from the pin, I storm out of the building, clutching it in my hand.

“Hey, Coach,” Hillary greets as I stomp by.

She was a work-study student last year. “Hello, Hillary,” I answer as I breeze past.

“Coach!” another student calls and I glance his way. He waves, so I wave back.

Damn these kids. Don’t they know I’m not in the mood right now? Another half dozen wave to me or say hi on my way to the hockey rink. Some of them are my players, but some are students I’ve met in other capacities. I try not to be frustrated. How can they not see that I’m preoccupied?

I throw open the doors to the arena and look around. There’s a man with a book in his hand, heading my way.

“Where do I find Hansley?” I ask.

He glances at me, perplexed, before pointing to the stairs. “Down. Take a right. He’s the third door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

He smiles, nodding, as I make my way to the stairs. The stairwell is much cooler and I shiver as I go down. I’m surprised when I find the hall downstairs is also painted—this one in blue, white, and pink. The trans flag. For a minute, I smile and press my hand to it.

This one thing about Rainbow Dorset is something that never fails to make me smile. I love the message it sends. I love how this one thing, each wall with a different flag, unifies us. It makes everyone understand that no matter who you are or how you identify, we see you. You’re perfect.

Sighing, I let my hand slip away and start moving down the hall again. I’ve never been in this building except for the other day when I wanted to check out the all-important, washed-up, ex-pro hockey coach. Otherwise, I’ve never stepped foot inside.

It’s nice down here, even if a little bland. There’s nothing on the floor, just cement, but it’s polished to a shine. The walls, as said, are the trans flag and painted in a mirror image along the entire length of the hall.

The hall is wide, as many of the school’s halls are. Ahead, I see doors, so I move in that direction. The first says ‘Physical Trainer.’ The second is ‘Assistant Coach Denis Fraud.’ And the third I come to a stop in front of reads, ‘Head Coach, Hansley Bardot.’

For a minute, I don’t feel the drive to talk to him. I don’t care. Why should I care? But when I glance down and see the flyer in my hand, I immediately get pissed again. It’s not as hotly burning as it had been, but I can’t just let this slight pass!

Straightening my crop top, I knock loudly on his door.

“Yes?”

Taking a breath, I push it open and take several strides inside. Not allowing myself to look around, I search long enough to orient myself to face this man. This gorgeous, gorgeous man.

“What is this?” I demand, slamming it on the desk.

Hansley looks at it before meeting my eyes, his eyebrows knit in confusion. “Announcing our tournament,” he says. “Encouraging our student athletes to sign up.”

“This was my idea!” I hiss. “How dare you!”

He looks at me, perplexed. As if I’m going to believe that. Is it hot in here? I think the temperature just turned up, but I refuse to sweat. Sweating is not good for my makeup.

“One of my players suggested it. I didn’t ask where he came up with the idea from,” Hansley says. “I’m sorry if I?—”

“You can’t just throw random tournaments,” I insist. “That’s not how it works. You need permission, especially permission from other coaches seeing if they’re comfortable allowing their players to participate.” I need him to stop talking. I swear, I can feel his voice trickling down my spine like warm fingers.

“I sent an email last week to the entire department,” Hansley says. “Including you, Coach Frost.”

Fucking emails. Those are the worst inventions ever. Who uses those anymore?!

“I have told several members of your team who have expressed interest in participating to speak to you first because I’d yet to hear from you,” he adds.

For some reason I can’t quite grasp, this only makes me more furious. How dare my kids! The betrayal!

My heart beats wildly as I stare at him. Why does he have to be perfect?

No, Lemon! On task, dammit.

“Also, I received permission from Dean Devaroe before I announced it.”

“You can’t just put it up all over the school,” I insist. “That’s spamming. You didn’t ask permission to put it up on our bulletin board.”

“I’m part of the athletic department, Coach,” he counters, frowning. “I chose to have my office here because it makes more sense. Not because I’m a separate department. That means I’m allowed to put it up on the athletic bulletin board.”

I’m fucking fuming. I hate how smooth his voice is. Like burning alcohol as it moves down your throat and makes you shiver. I hate how beautiful his eyes are. That’s not even fair. It’s shit. In fact, I hate everything about this moment. Did he just lick his lips? Ugh!

Turning around, I come face to face with a rolling white board. The words across it are BID ON A DATE WITH AN ATHLETE and then it bullet points some things:

Sell cards—like a playing card but selling yourself. Make it cute.

Pre-arrange dates so that they’re listed.

Set rules—no one three times their age. That’s creepy.

Sign up sheet out by end of next week.

To take place at the fall festival.

I stare, my stomach twisting. How can he have gotten to this idea first too? I just thought about it! How is this man in my head?

“You can’t do that,” I practically shout, pointing at it. “That’s my idea!”

“That’s another of my players’ ideas,” Hansley says. “And before you accuse me of just running with this, yes, I have Dean Stommer’s permission to have it at the festival and yes, I’ve acquired all the approval from admin to hold the event. I also sent an email about this to all the coaches, offering to open it up to your teams as well. Any money that your players bring in is for your team to do with how you wish.”

I’m shaking. This can’t be happening. How did he come up with all the same things? I spin around to face him. He’s leaning against the front of his desk now, his hands on the edges as he watches me. Confused. Concerned. His pretty eyes watching me intently.

His shirt stretches tightly over his big chest, his thick arms. I can see his nipples through the thin material. I think I can even see his abs. His hair is effortlessly styled. There’s an earring in his left ear, a shadow of hair over his upper lip.

But his eyes. I can’t stop looking at his eyes.

And the way he’s looking at me. It’s fucking cute. It’s hot. I don’t understand it. Then his eyes drop. At first, I’m not sure where he’s looking but when I purse my lips, his quirk in a small smile.

He’s looking at my mouth…

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m in front of him and pressing my lips to his. He’s completely still. If I dared to open my eyes, I’m sure his would be wide. But I grip his chin and kiss him. For just a second.

Then I get my wits and pull back, horrified at myself.

I don’t have any time to think of something to say before his hands are on me and he pulls me to him, our mouths crashing together again. This time, I’m startled, so my mouth is open and Hansley Bardot wastes no time taking control of my mouth.

The kiss burns through me, channeling heat into every frozen place within me. And there are a lot. I sink into him and he cradles my body in big, strong arms. Holding me tightly to him. Really tight.

He tastes so good. So, so very good. He’s a good kisser.

A door closing somewhere down the hall makes me wrench myself free. We stare at each other for several heat-filled seconds before I turn and run out the door.