by M. E. Carter
Leaving the company after so many years was hard, but just like always, the guys were thrilled I was finally in a place where I could live out my dreams. I’ve only been gone from my job for a week, and I’ve already been texted six times, called twice, and had one person beg me to come back. His offer included a year’s supply of strawberry margaritas. My favorite. I guess the new office manager is a bit of a stick in the mud.
As good as that offer felt, I’m right where I need to be. My desire to be a teacher began the moment I stepped into Isaac’s first grade classroom as the volunteer home room parent. It was just a matter of waiting until he graduated and went off on his own to be able to follow through with my dreams. And his new scholarship is a god-send. It enabled me to only get a small student loans and live off my savings for a few years.
Yep, it took me twenty years longer than most, but I’m really lucky to be here and I know it.
Stepping off the last stair, I look down at the map, making sure I’m heading towards the science building for my nine-o’clock biology class. I can’t help but smile. I’m here. I’m finally here. Following my dreams with nothing in my way.
“Oof!”
Except the big body I just ran into. It was definitely standing in my way.
“Oh shit. Are you alright?” His deep voice and slight drawl make it take a second longer than it should to pull me out of the fluster I feel at seeing my giant satchel lying flat on the sidewalk, half of my belongings scattered on the ground.
“I’m ok,” I reassure him, bending over to put everything back in my bag. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He bends down with me to help and it suddenly hits me that he looks familiar. But of course he does. He’s one of Isaac’s coaches. Coach Jack Pride. I’ve never seen him up close before, just from a distance at home games. And even then, because this is Isaac’s first year as a scholarship receiving athlete, they were the best tickets my tight budget could afford, which wasn’t close.
I find myself surprised to notice how attractive he is. He’s built like an athlete—big and broad, with biceps peeking out of his short sleeved white polo. But he’s got a small gut because he obviously doesn’t put in the hours in the gym like the players do. He’s got short, black and gray hair, but can’t be a day over fifty, possibly even younger than that. The words “silver fox” keep running through my mind.
“I’m embarrassed to admit, I was looking at my phone when I ran into you.” He gives me a lop-sided grin and I bite my lip. He’s cute. Really cute.
We get all my stuff back in my bag and stand up, accidentally touching when he hands it over to me. I have to admit to myself, feeling the warmth of his fingers was nice.
You know it’s been a long time since you’ve been touched by a man when the graze of fingertips makes you feel slightly woozy.
“Do you know where you’re going? I’d be more than happy to help you find your way to your…, um…”
“Next class.” I smile at his feeble attempt to not make assumptions. I’m sure I stick out like a sore thumb next to all these kids.
Did I just call them kids? I’m gonna need to tone that down if I plan to make any friends around here.
“Ah. I thought you had that student vibe to you.” He smiles with very straight, very white teeth, offset by the tan he probably got from hours of practices in the sun.
“Is it that obvious that it’s my first day?” I flirt back, shocking even myself.
“Only by the overstuffed bag,” he jokes.
We stare at each other for a few second before I start screaming at myself internally. Focus, Joie. You’re here to get a degree, not troll for men.
“Well, um… thanks for helping me pick up my stuff. I’m gonna head over to the science building now.” I gesture the direction I think I’m supposed to go. “It’s that way, right?”
He seems to snap out of his own internal dialogue. “Oh! Yeah. It’s just down past the student center. The orange brick building on your left. The only orange building this school has. Can’t miss it.”
I give him a thank you and a small wave, turning to walk away. Taking a deep breath, I try to shake off the moment. As attractive as he is and as lonely as I can sometimes be, I have goals and a reason for being here. Finding a man is not one of them.
But even I have to admit, now that I’ve seen Coach Jack Pride up close and personal, football games are going to be much more fun from now on.
CHAPTER TWO
Jack
It is hot as fuck out here.
But when is it not? August in most parts of Texas reminds me of the different levels of hell in Dante’s Inferno. Some areas are hot and humid, so it feels like you’re cooking in a slow boiling soup. Some places are hot and dry, so it feels like your skin is burning off whenever you’re in the sun. In Flinton, we have a breeze. Yes, we’re in a relatively flat area, but we’re surrounded by rolling hills so the wind loves blowing through.
Unfortunately, in late summer that breeze is so hot it’s like the devil himself is breathing over your shoulder.
Did I mention it’s hot as fuck out here?
“Come on, ladies!” my boss and the man in charge of this field, Hank Stellan, taunts. “We’re playing football, not practicing for a dance recital. Get your heads out of your asses.” He bangs his clipboard for effect.
I barely even notice, my mind too busy looking for inconsistencies on the field and patterns we can tweak.
Hank and I have worked together with this team for over a decade and we have our coaching practically down to a science. He watches the overall picture and screams obscenities for most of the practices. I stand with my arms crossed, chomping on my gum, watching the tiny details that can make the difference between a good player and a great player. After practice is over, Hank and I meet up and discuss what we each saw.
It’s a good system; led us to four national titles in the last ten years. It’s not a sweep of all the trophies, but it’s still something to be proud of.
Scratching the back of my neck, I curse myself for not wearing sunscreen again. I can already feel the sunburn coming and we’re not even halfway through this practice. This isn’t my first rodeo. I should know better. But I keep forgetting to pick up some 50+ SPF at the store. Sheila used to make sure I always had it in stock so it’s taking some time to get into a new routine.
I chuckle to myself. It’s been three years, Jack. You should be in a routine by now.
But I’m not. Call me helpless or a good-ole-boy or lazy. I’m not really any of those things. Sheila was just really, really good at taking care of me. So much so that I never had to make a grocery list or put my laundry away. She did all that. I took care of the bills. She took care of me. It was simple and perfect for us, and I guess I still have a hard time remembering I’m the only one in charge of all that now.
What can I say. I’m a middle-aged man. I settled into my ways a long time ago. This old dog likes those tricks.
“Dammit,” Hank yells next to me, banging on that damn clipboard again. I’m surprised it hasn’t broken with the amount of abuse it takes every day. “What the hell was that? You aren’t holding a greased pig. It’s shouldn’t be that hard not to fumble.”
The players get in position again and I cock my head as I watch our tight end’s stance. He seems hyped up and jittery. That’s nothing new. Lots of our players get hopped up on endorphins when they play. But his take-off on the hike is just half a second too late.
“Take off drills,” I comment to Hank.
“He’s pushing late?”
“About half a second.” Which means he’s half a second late getting across the field. Which means he’s having to reach that much farther to make the catch. Which means he’s screwed when a member of the opposing team is gunning for him.
“Alright that’s enough, ya bunch of pansies!” Hank bellows and stomps onto the field. “Let’s set up for take-off drills.”
Someone hands me a water bottle,
although I’m not sure who. I typically don’t pay much attention to anyone on the field other than the players. It’s not because I don’t appreciate them. I just get hyper-focused by my job.
As the assistant coach for the Flinton State Stallions, I’ve seen a lot of players either make it or break it on this field. My goal is to help them make it. Not just so we can win, which means job security for me, but so they can go on to successful careers. We’ve had several kids go on to have very lucrative offers in the pros. Hell, two years ago, we gave the NFL the number two draft pick in the country. So paying attention to anyone other than the guys who are actually passing the pig skin around isn’t my priority.
But I certainly appreciate whoever remembered to put some ice in this water. Squeezing a good-sized gulp in my mouth, I cringe as the icy water gets that much colder when it mixed with my minty gum. It’s almost uncomfortable, despite how refreshing it is for such a hot day. I think it was 107 degrees last time I looked. But losing the gum isn’t an option. Five years ago, when Sheila got cancer for the second time, I finally quit smoking. In its place, I chew gum. Lots of it. And I suppose it keeps my breath minty fresh, so I shouldn’t really complain.
“Fucking typical Texas heat,” I grumble to myself, making a petite, female trainer stop and look at me. “Ma’am,” I nod her direction. She just shakes her head and walks away, handing out more water.
One of the guys catches my eye and I find myself watching him run drills. He’s not the biggest player on our team, but he’s definitely bulked up since he made it as a walk on. And he hasn’t lost his grace as he’s grown. That’s a huge problem for most college players.
Let’s face it. Boys aren’t done growing until they’re practically out of college, so these guys are constantly having to relearn their bodies and how to manipulate them for maximum effectiveness. For instance, pull ups aren’t the same after suddenly growing four inches. The floor isn’t as far away, but your arms seem longer. And that’s not the only time rapid growth makes things hard. Every time you think you know how to do something, your body changes and you have to relearn it all over.
Crossing my arms and keeping my eyes on our guy, I watch as he explodes from the ground, attacking the tackle dummy with such force, it throws the training coach off balance. But I can see where he can do better.
“Weaver,” I call and wave him over. He rips his helmet off and jogs my direction.
“Sir?”
“How are those tackles feeling?” I keep my eyes off of him and on the field. No use in making anyone on the team get too comfortable. I’m their boss, not their friend. Their feelings are of no consequence unless it carries onto the field. Don’t get me wrong, I care about each one of them on a personal level. But during work hours is not the time or place.
“They’re feeling pretty good,” he replies. “I’m concentrating on really powering through my legs like you said and I think it’s working.”
I nod once. “Make sure you don’t forget you have an upper body.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Use your legs to explode, just like you’re doing. But once you get to your opponent, don’t forget to push off with your arms. Draw on your back muscles to make that same kind of explosion with your upper body and knock his ass to the ground.”
“Yes, sir.”
Always so polite. His mama raised him right.
“And Weaver.” I turn and look him dead in the eye. “If Coach Matthews isn’t flat on his ass after knocking into that dummy, you’re doing it wrong.”
The kid spouts a lop-sided grin. I can see motivation in his eyes. As a coaching staff, we don’t put up with shit. Our players will show us the respect we deserve. There are no exceptions.
However, putting one of us down because we’re tackling too hard doesn’t count. That’s just good football.
“Yes, sir,” he says one last time and runs back to his position when I wave him off in dismissal.
Hank sidles up next to me, instinctively knowing something’s about to go down on the field. He just doesn’t know it’s Matthews yet.
“Still think he was a good addition to the starting line up?”
I nod once. Weaver started as a walk on two years ago. He wasn’t as big as the other guys and wasn’t as talented. But he worked his ass off, really bulked up as he grew, and always has a good attitude. He plays football for the love of it, not as a way to make money and get girls. At least, that’s not the vibe he gives off. So when the university randomly opened up a little more scholarship money, we gave it to him. It took a little bit of convincing, but I still think he was the right choice.
“Yep. He’s about to flatten Matthews.”
We both watch as Weaver gets into position again. Just a few short seconds later, he explodes off the field, his thick legs using all their strength to launch him across the short distance. As he connects with the tackle dummy, it’s obvious his entire lower body is doing the bulk of the work. But then, just a micro-second into the exercise, his upper body gets in on it. The force of it throws Matthews, who is standing behind the tackle dummy, trying to hold it stable, completely off balance and he barely has time to register the fact that he’s going down before he ends up flat on his back.
Hank and I snicker.
“That right there is why I stand behind the decision to make him a scholarship recipient,” I point out, still chuckling. Matthews looks over at us and flips us the bird, making us laugh a little harder.
Watching one of our own get mowed down is fun sometimes, but play time is over. We’ve got a job to do.
Hank begins yelling and banging into that damn clipboard again. And I get back into my cross armed, gum chewing, stance, eyes flicking around the field looking for other small problems that can be tweaked.
This is college football. Here in Texas, this is life. And I’m damn proud to be a part of it.
Andee Michelle: Your notes always, always make me smile. Thank you for encouraging me with every message you send.
Andrea Johnston: I couldn’t function without our daily chats and motivation. We got this.
Mom: Thank you, again, for not suing me when the kids in my stories read your books. Living with you would be awkward if you did. BTW, reader, Green, Green, Go Away is an early reader chapter book and is available on “The Zon.”
Allison: Callie still isn’t you.
Erin Noelle: I can’t imagine working with anyone else as my editor. You don’t just edit, you help me grow. And I love that. As long as you’re willing, just take all my money.
Murphy Rae: This might be one of my favorite covers ever. #nailedit
Kristin: You are a sexy beast and I couldn’t live without our daily talks. (You didn’t think I’d leave this, did you? Why would I take out the truth? ;) )
Julie Titus: OMG I’m a dumb ass. I don’t know why you still work with this hot mess, but it is so, so appreciated.
Katie, Marisol, and Laurie: I see you. And I see the massive amount of work you do for me. And I appreciate it more than you will ever, ever know. If I ever sell half a million books, I’ll hire you full time. lol
Carter’s Cheerleaders and Nerd Herd: For my daily doses of laughter and love. For the support and encouragement you give. For no drama. Thank you.
Every Elena out there: There are Greg’s out there. Don’t overlook him because he has a pot belly or a balding head or a crazy ex. We deserve a Greg. But the Greg’s deserve us, too. He doesn’t have to be a book boyfriend to be the perfect man for you. Don’t miss him.
My family: My #1 supporters and people who put up with my crap the most. This is for you.
God: I’m trying. Just give me strength.
Mother, reader, storyteller—ME Carter never set out to write books. But when a friend practically forced a copy of Twilight into her hands, the love of the written word she had lost as a child was rekindled. With a story always rolling around in her head, it should come as no surprise that she finally started putting them on paper. She
lives in Texas with her four children, Mary, Elizabeth, Carter and Bug, who sadly was born long after her pen name was created, and will probably need extensive therapy because of it.
You can follow her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/authorMECarter,
on Twitter at https://twitter.com/AuthorMECarter,
Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/authormecarter/?hl=en
or email her at [email protected]
Other Titles by M.E. Carter
Hart Series
Change of Hart
Hart to Heart
Texas Mutiny Series
Juked
Groupie
Goalie
Megged
#MyNewLife Series
Getting a Grip
Balance Check
With author Sara Ney
FriendTrip
WeddedBliss: A FriendTrip Novella
Kissmas Eve