Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

HANSLEY

T he dodgeball tournament might be bigger than I anticipated. I’ve had a recent surge of teams signing up from the football team. Since I couldn’t bring myself to speak to Lemon again, wanting to avoid the hate he spews every time he opens his mouth, I reached out to who appears to be his true assistant coach,—Norman Wiley.

Norman confirmed Lemon had a change of heart once members of the team asked if they could join in on the department-wide events that we’re putting on.

To say I was shocked at this news doesn’t quite express just how surprised I was at this turn of events. I’m not an overly suspicious person, but I can’t help but think that he’s up to something. The unsettled feeling is so strong that I stop into Alka’s office and run it by him. Looking for his opinion on what Lemon is up to.

“Lemon enjoys being liked by the students, especially his athletes. He doesn’t give a fuck about anyone else as long as the students like him,” Alka says. “On one hand, I can’t help but admire his dedication to them. He’s here for them. His job is his team. On the other, I don’t think anyone would mind him dropping his attitude toward everyone else.”

“Which means the only reasonable explanation is that one of his athletes asked to join,” I muse.

Alka shrugs, nodding. “That would be my guess.”

With this knowledge, I head back to my office. Moments like this are when it’s inconvenient to be off in my own land inside the hockey arena instead of with the rest of the department. Not that I mind the walk. Who knew coaching had so much desk work?!

I’m answering emails and still contemplating this when there’s a knock on my door. Warily, I turn. “Come in.”

Relief floods me when it’s a student, even if one I’m unfamiliar with. She smiles. “Hi, Coach. I’m Carly.”

“Hello,” I greet, sitting back. “I’m Hansley.”

She grins wider. “I know.” I chuckle. “Do you have a minute?”

I nod and gesture for the chair. Unlike Lemon’s office, mine looks like a typical coach’s office if I’ve ever seen one. It’s functional as opposed to… colorful and soft. I guess.

Carly takes a seat and places a piece of paper in her lap. I glance at it and immediately recognize what she has. A smile climbs my face.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this semester, a teacher sponsorship program is being launched,” she says with a smirk.

“I’m familiar.”

“Would you consider listening to my pitch?”

I nod. “Please.”

“My name is Carly Thompson and I’m an attack on our lacrosse team, the Dragons. I’m studying to be a veterinarian and hope to work on my family farm one day. I currently have a 3.47 GPA, I volunteer at the local vet clinic on weekends, and have started a new club this year that goes around to shelters and rescues to help them walk their animals.

“While my studies are covered by a sports scholarship, a couple small grants, and a loan for the remainder, I’m one of three children and I’d really love to not graduate with a mortgage sized debt hanging over my head. Some of the most expensive aspects of being an athlete are the fees and eating right. While the school food is decent, it’s not geared toward healthy so much as quick and filling. We’re often left supplementing with fresh vegetables, fruits, protein, and other things.”

I remember that all too well from college. Food was always a source of frustration. While most of us had room and board covered, the food just wasn’t what we needed as an athlete. That’s not saying it was bad. It definitely wasn’t. Especially considering I attended a college with an exceptional culinary arts program and they often ran the cafeteria.

But they weren’t focused on an athletic diet. They were focused on feeding the masses.

“I’m wondering if you’ll be interested in sponsoring me as a student athlete,” Carly continues and hands me her paper. “There’s no pressure if you decide you’d rather not. And if you choose to, please don’t feel like you have to contribute to the top tier. I’m appreciative of any support. If you decide that this isn’t for you, I understand and offer my thanks for taking the time to hear me out.”

I’m rather impressed by her sheet. She kept the format that we’d agreed on but personalized it so that it very clearly represents her and her personality. She has three tiers of supporting options with a detailed list of what that amount of money will fund for her this year. I’m not surprised to find that a majority of it is going to healthy foods that feed an athlete’s muscles and energy requirements.

She’s honest about needing new workout clothes, new cleats, a new stick. There are also things that she’s promising to give me in return—a poster of her so that I can proudly display that I’m supporting her this year. A Thompson lacrosse jersey, number 71. And a few other things so I can make others aware that sponsoring student athletes is important and commendable.

She will also frequently wear representation of me and my department, which means hockey. As a thank you and in support.

I nod, pulling out my phone and scanning the QR code. I purchase the highest tier.

Carly’s grinning at me. “Thank you, Coach. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. I’m impressed that you asked me.”

Her smile is beaming as she offers me a few stickers. They say “I support a student athlete” with a set of crossed lacrosse sticks. She’s written her name on it too, with little stars and hearts.

“I’m hoping to start a movement. Why wouldn’t we seek support from our coaches? A friend already hit up ours, so I thought I’d go for gold and ask someone else.”

“I’m happy to participate. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.” Honestly, I’m surprised by how good I feel knowing that I can do this for someone.

“Can I put one of these on your door, Coach?” she asks, holding up a sticker.

I nod. One of Alka’s athletes suggested our students propose putting one of their stickers on the teacher’s doors, so they’re not asked over and over again once they’ve agreed. There’s an alternate sticker that just says “I support our athletes” which is code for our students to know they don’t want to or are not in a position to do so financially.

Carly leaves after promising me she’ll return throughout the school year with various things that I can proudly display. I grin as she goes and decide that this is probably the best thing I’ve done this year. It feels good to help others.

Peeling the backing off a sticker, I secure it to my shirt and get up. I have a meeting with Quin about the festival and where we’re going to set up the tent for the auctions. There are over a hundred student athletes signed up at this point, which completely blows me away. I’m really happy to see that the football team got involved and wonder how Lemon actually feels about it.

On my way back from Quin’s office, I cut around the football field. I don’t know their schedule, but I’m not entirely surprised to find them practicing. Giving the field a wide berth so I don’t draw attention to myself, I watch them. There are half a dozen smaller groups practicing around the field, doing various drills I can’t identify.

Running into pads on wheels that don’t move. Running over things on the ground, their feet dancing like the ground is hot.

I pause, leaning against the end of the bleachers as I watch. How many coaches are there? I see at least eight. Then again, they have a hundred players, so I guess that checks.

Lemon is always the easiest one to spot in any room. His fashion can be defined as bright. Today he’s in bright white leggings and a black skirt that reminds me of the kind a cheerleader would wear. He’s wearing sneakers, a wide-brimmed sun hat and a sequin crop top. Hell, I can even tell that his nails are painted from where I’m standing.

I’ve never met anyone like him. Attitude aside, he’s remarkable. Someone so unapologetically himself every single day. He wears what he wants to with his shoulders back and his head held high.

Everything about him has been intriguing since we met. When I see him, it’s hard to look away. He just has this presence about him. I swear, he was royalty in a past life. His head is made for a crown.

It’s irritating how much space and time he takes up in my head every day. Part of it is trying to puzzle out his clear hatred of me. The other is replaying that stupid kiss that shouldn’t have happened. Why did it have to be so… consuming?

When he turns to the right, I can see him in profile. He’s wearing sunglasses and is holding the ball. Clearly, he’s giving instructions as his lips move and he makes the motion of throwing. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but I have the urge to listen.

I’ve only ever seen this man angry. What does he sound like when he’s not? When he’s talking to his players? When he’s coaching them? He throws the ball and while I know nothing about football, it spirals through the air in a clean arc. I’m impressed even knowing very little. That was a good throw, right?

My eyes fall back to him and he’s smiling. My stomach flips. Lemon has a beautiful smile that transforms his face.

I watch for a while longer, trying to keep my attention on the entire experience as opposed to just Lemon. We’re not friends. He’d not be happy to see me. But maybe if I show his team some support, he’d find that I’m not here to be his competition? I still don’t understand where his hate stems from.

After a while, I push myself from the bleachers and head to the arena where I’d been going before I was distracted. By football.

The thought makes me chuckle as I push open the doors. Everything but the ice rink is on the basement floor, including the gym where my team conditions. Which is where they’re at today. Just as I open the stairwell door, I hear my name and my heart lurches.

“Bardot!”

I pause just inside the door. I didn’t hear that, did I?

The door opening a minute later has me stepping backwards as I come face to face with Lemon. He’s pulled his sunglasses off so I’m staring into his pretty face, shadowed by the big rim of his sun hat.

Once again, he’s mad about something.

Warily, I ask, “What’s up, Lemon?” Up close, he looks even better in the clothes he’s wearing. They wrap and shape his body perfectly. My fingers itch to touch the material of his leggings.

“Why were you spying on my practice?” he demands.

I sigh. “I was just watching and marveling at the fact that you manage so many players.”

“Are you trying to steal my plays now too?”

I blink at him. “Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth? We are two different sports. Two very different arenas. How the hell would I adapt your plays to hockey?”

“You steal things. I see you,” he insists.

Rubbing my face, I sigh. “You’re truly exhausting, Lemon. I won’t admire your team again. Sorry for the insult.”

Childish of me to say, but that’s exactly what’s going on right now.

“Good,” he snaps. “I don’t want you anywhere near my team. They’re working hard and don’t need you distracting them.”

I’m not even going to waste my time asking how I would possibly do that. He may be oddly attractive—and by oddly, I just mean it’s odd for me to find him attractive—but man, he makes it hard to like him.

“Sure,” I say and brush past him to head down the stairs. Hopefully this encounter will dissuade my mind from fixating on the kiss we shared.

Lemon stops me, gripping my sleeve tightly and spinning me around on the stairs. He’s slightly taller than me right now since I’m down two steps. I’m not entirely sure how to describe his eyes. They’re brown, but they’re… magnificent. There’s something unique about them, though I can’t put my finger on what.

“Does Jefferson know that you’re corrupting his players now?” he accuses, and my eyes drop to his mouth.

I frown. Jefferson is the girls’ lacrosse coach. Part of me doesn’t even want to engage. Answering his outrageous accusations is ridiculous. I have to wonder what his mind’s like. How does he even think of this stuff?

“Don’t you dare go near my kids, Bardot,” he sneers.

Again, I don’t bother answering him. “Are you through?”

He doesn’t let me go. We stand there for several beats, his beautiful eyes staring into mine. Is it just me or is the temperature rising in the stairwell all of the sudden? My gaze flits down to his lips again when his tongue pokes out to wet them. My heartbeat echoes in my ears. A constant whoosh whirring inside my head.

I’m not sure who moves first but in the next minute, our mouths are molded together. His hands move into my hair, gripping it tightly on each side of my head as he kisses me hard.

For the first few seconds, I think I need to stop this. The thought is quickly drowned out as he steps closer, and my arms rise to his waist. Gripping his lean frame. His shirt is short so my fingers touch skin right away.

He’s smooth. Soft with a lean frame. I pull him to me as we lick into each other’s mouths, bringing his body against mine.

Lemon groans. One of his hands moves to the back of my head, the other moving down my chest, my stomach, his fingertips dipping beneath the elastic of my sports pants.

Then he’s suddenly off me, leaving me startled and staring. Lemon steps back so quickly that he nearly stumbles over his fallen hat. I grip his arm, keeping him upright. As soon as he regains his balance, he yanks free of me.

He’s breathless, staring at me with wide eyes. I can see the heat in them. I can feel the remnants of his body heat where it seeped into my skin.

As with last time he kissed me, Lemon takes off. He bends to grab his hat, giving me an unfiltered look at his ass in those spandex leggings, and then shoves through the door.

Meanwhile, I’m left with my head spinning, my body jittery, and my cock interested.

What the fuck is going on here?