She rolled her eyes. “You just want fodder for your column.”
“Well, ye-ah. And a few photos. The two of you would make a very handsome couple.”
“Sorry, girlfriend. Even if I did date him, I wouldn’t dish. I don’t need my life showing up on your glossy magazine pages!”
Angelina laughed. “Your loss, sugar. You could have free publicity, and a hot, eligible bachelor.”
“But really,” Meg prompted, “What’s he like? Is he totally full of himself?”
The image of his warm, engaging smile flashed in her mind and a tingle ran across her chest, beading her nipples. “No... I didn’t get that impression. He might be a player, but he’s definitely as sweet as they all say.”
“So if he’s just a player, play.”
Ah, hell. Her panties dampened just at the idea of playing with the beautiful muscled hunk. She shook her head emphatically, partly to stop her friends from pushing, partly to tell her raging libido No. Firmly.
Not this guy. Not now. Not ever. She had a fitness chain to launch, and two children who needed her attention and love. There was not a “man wanted” sign up anywhere near her heart. Or her body, for that matter.
* * *
Rick pulled up in front of Donnie’s house and parked. He’d forgotten to send the liability waiver home with him for his mom to sign, and he wanted to talk with her, anyway. He wasn’t sure she understood the importance of the college scouts and Donnie’s rehab. If Donnie was at his best when they came, he could get a full ride to an NCAA Division 1 school.
He knocked on the door. Mrs. Fleming opened it, looking harried. A curvy, buxom woman, her hair had a striking streak of grey in the front. He had called to say he’d like to stop by, but she hadn’t returned the call and he’d taken the chance of just stopping in.
“Hi, Mrs. Fleming. Did you get my message?”
“I did and I apologize for not calling you back. It’s just been one thing after another here.”
A girl around ten or 11 peeked her head around Mrs. Fleming, her beaded braids swinging in her face. She must be Donnie’s sister.
“Come on in, it’s a mess, but—”
“Please, don’t stress on my account. I won’t take up much of your time. I just need you to sign this waiver for Donnie to work out at Phenomenal Physiques and I wanted to touch base about the college scout who will be coming to watch the playoffs.”
“Come in, come in and sit down. Yes, Donnie was telling me something about that. Texas A&M, was it? Will his knee be an issue?”
“Well that’s why I wanted to give him a little extra help to rehab it over the next couple of weeks. I’m obviously not a physical therapist, but we’re working on basic strengthening and supporting exercises to prevent it from bothering him in the future.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.” He wanted to set the poor woman at ease. That hectic, stretched-too-thin with time and money aura she gave off came too close to home. Like Donnie, a single mom had raised him. He understood how hard it had been for her to be the sole provider and caretaker.
“Mrs. Fleming, I just wanted to make sure you understand how important it will be for Donnie to be at every practice and do his best.”
“Is he not working hard enough? Talking on the phone all the time to that girl is distracting you!” She put her hands on her hips and shot Donnie an accusatory glance.
“No, no, no. It’s not that. On the contrary, Donnie has been going the extra mile every day and I’m proud of his accomplishments. That’s what I should have said first.” He flashed her his most charming smile. “I just wanted to make sure you’re part of the team, that’s all.”
“Okay, so what do you need from me?”
“Just that form signed and your blessing for Donnie to continue working intensely with me over the next couple of weeks.”
Mrs. Fleming finally relaxed. She picked up a pen and scrawled a loopy signature on the proper line. “Here you go. Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink? Or eat?”
He took the paper and stood up, smiling when she took an involuntary step back. His size had that effect on most people.
Just not on sexy blonde fitness club owners, thank goodness.
“No thank you, this is all I needed. I won’t take up any more of your time. You all have a great evening.”
She bustled behind him to show him out. “Good evening Coach Morehouse.” She lowered her voice as they got to the door. “Have I told you how much you mean to Donnie? My son lives and breathes on your words. I don’t know how to thank you—”
“It’s my pleasure.” He cut her off before she got too emotional. “I’ll see you again, soon.” He offered his hand, but she threw her arms around his chest and gave him a quick squeeze, her heavy bosom pressed against his ribs.
“I mean it. Thank you.” Her voice sounded choked.
“You’re welcome. Good night.”
He slipped out the door, flipping his keys in a circle around his finger. This was the whole reason he coached high school instead of college ball, even though he’d been offered positions all over the state. It was why he worked a job that paid a quarter of what he could’ve made elsewhere. If he’d ever felt like he was living his life’s purpose, it was in moments like these.
Strange, he’d never had the urge to share these moments with anyone before, but he found himself thinking about Brandy Love. Would she take him seriously if she knew he really cared about his kids? That he wasn’t just a wealthy playboy who liked to flirt with gorgeous blondes?
Chapter Three
The next night, Brandy stepped into her modest three-bedroom house with three bags of groceries. The traditional house was the best she could afford in Bellaire, the upscale Houston neighborhood where she’d lived with Justin before the divorce. She’d wanted to stay in that area to keep her kids in the same school.
Sam, her 13 year-old, looked up from where he was sitting at the kitchen table, doing homework. “Hey mom. You need help with groceries?”
Her heart swelled. There was nothing sweeter than a chivalrous son, in her opinion. Sam had been running to open doors for her since he was four years old and since her divorce, he’d taken on all the “manly” duties that Justin used to do around the house, like mowing the lawn, taking out the garbage, or carrying in the groceries. “Thank you, hon. You’re a star.”
She set her groceries down on the counter and started unloading them while Sam went out for the rest of them.
“Hi mom.” Claire, her 11 year-old appeared from her room. She’d only started leaving the kids at home unsupervised this year and so far they’d proven themselves responsible. They were only home alone for about an hour by the time they got home from their after school activities. Justin had had a fit, but since he couldn’t commit to having them on weekdays, he had no room to complain.
“Are you wearing makeup?” she demanded.
Claire blushed. She’d clearly been playing “salon” because her straight blonde hair had been pulled into a one-sided French braid.
“I was just practicing. How does it look?”
It actually looked amazing, but she was so not ready for her tween to grow up. “It looks nice, sweetie, but don’t wear that out of the house, okay?”
“I won’t,” she said a tad too defensively.
Brandy wondered what she was “practicing” for. Middle school, she supposed. Why did that idea tie her stomach up in knots? Oh yeah, because middle school had been the worst years of her life and she wished to hell she could spare her kids all that weird social stuff that goes on in that age group.
Claire rooted through the grocery bags. “What’s for dinner?”
“There’s a roasted chicken in there. Unwrap it and put it on a plate for me, will you? And I’ll make some broccoli to go with it.”
She set a pan with a shallow amount of water on the burner to simmer while she finished unloading the groceries. She thre
w on a box of instant rice and 15 minutes later, they were sitting around the table, eating. She used to spend a lot of time cooking, but these days, it was pre-packaged or easy fare all the way.
“When are we decorating the tree, Mom?” Claire asked. Oh yeah. Right. Another thing on her to-do list. “As soon as I pull it out of the shed and set it up. This week, okay?”
“Can you buy eggnog?”
She smiled at her daughter, who loved all the holiday traditions. Trimming the tree together while dancing to Christmas songs and drinking eggnog had been their tradition from the time the kids were just toddlers. “Of course.”
“So, mom,” Sam said, shoveling rice in his mouth like a starved man, “how many kids will be at the football clinic?” His pale blonde hair was too long in front and fell over his right eye. She resisted the urge to stroke it back out of his face. He wasn’t a little boy anymore.
“I’m not sure, why? Are you nervous?”
He shrugged. “Kinda. Will they all be my age?”
“Yes, it’s only for eighth-graders.”
“And they’re picking for next year’s teams based on how we do, right?”
“Yes. But they’re also teaching skills. It’s not just a try-out, so don’t worry. Just go out there and play like it’s any practice.”
“Yeah, right,” he muttered. After a few moments, he said, “Dad doesn’t think I’m going to get in.”
She set down her fork and stared at him, dinner suddenly sinking to the bottom of her stomach like a stone. “Excuse me?”
Sam lifted his shoulders again. “Yeah. He said he wanted me to be prepared. That I probably won’t get in. He said I’d have a better chance if I were black. Is that true?”
She rolled her eyes. Leave it to Justin to plant these insidious seeds of doubt in their son’s mind. “No, I don’t believe that. I think you’ll be judged based on how well you perform, not on the color of your skin. And you are a great player. You have a good throwing arm and you run fast. You may not be big yet, but that just means you’re lighter and can get around the bigger guys.”
Sam snorted. “I’m not sure that’s how it works, mom.”
Claire was listening with wide eyes. “Dad just doesn’t want him to go to Houston High,” Claire said.
From the mouths of babes.
At least she didn’t have to say it. Her kids were smart enough to understand the dynamics without her having to bad-mouth their dad in front of them.
“Yeah, ever since I tested into the prep academy, that’s all he talks about.” Sam sounded bitter. “I wish I’d failed the test.”
“Sam.” She used her most admonishing tone. “Your father is just proud of you, that’s all. But just because you tested into the school, doesn’t mean you have to go there. If football is more important to you, we can make this happen.”
“What about Dad?”
“Why don’t you just concentrate on doing your best at the clinic? One step at a time, okay?” She forced a perky smile, even though her own stomach twisted with anxiety. It could be a major fight with Justin, who happened to be a lawyer and was quick to threaten to take her to court for whatever he wanted. Hopefully things wouldn’t come to that. But she still was going to give him a piece of her mind after the kids went to sleep.
The kids helped her clean up from dinner and watched some television before bedtime. Part of her missed the nights of reading Harry Potter books to them before lights out, like when they were younger, but their new independence gave her more freedom, too. With Phenomenal Physiques, she needed all the time she could get.
She went into crazy organizational mode, folding laundry and taking care of all the odds and ends around the house. After the kids went to bed, she called Justin. When he picked up, she heard the din of voices in the background, as if he was at a bar.
“What’s up?”
“Sounds like it’s a bad time?”
“Kinda. What’s up?”
“Sam says you told him he didn’t have much of a chance of getting on the Houston High football team.”
“Well, he doesn’t,” Justin snapped.
“How can you say that? Justin, you’ve seen him play. He’s really good.”
“Listen, I just don’t want him to throw his education away on a physical sport. One injury and it could all be over—then where would he be? He’s better off channeling that energy into intellectual pursuits.”
“Justin, do you realize that Sam had to test to get into the Advanced Placement track at Houston High as well? Their AP program is just as elite as a prep school, only without all the snootiness that goes with it. So he wouldn’t be throwing away his education. Not at all.” She took a long, deep breath, wanting to phrase her thoughts in a way that wouldn’t completely piss Justin off. “I understand you don’t believe physical pursuits are important. I guess I wonder if you’re taking your resentment of my career choices out on our son?”
“It’s not always about you, princess.” Justin used the sneering tone of his that always set her teeth on edge.
“I realize that. I’m just making sure.”
“Get over yourself. Did you ever consider you’re the one who should stop trying to live out her unfulfilled dreams through her son? Just because you didn’t start working out until your midlife crisis doesn’t mean you have to push your kids into every sport available.”
Okay, yeah. This was going nowhere. As usual. And if she didn’t end it immediately, she’d be seething.
“Well, just be sure you get him there on Sunday, and try not to destroy all his confidence on the way.”
Justin hung up without responding, which was probably best. The conversation wasn’t going to improve.
She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. Justin was toxic. Sam needed a positive influence in his life.
Someone like Rick Morehouse. Because despite all his flirty player thing, everyone said he had a heart of gold.
She wanted him for Sam, just as a coach, of course. She wasn’t thinking about dating him. Or about jumping his hot body. Nope, not at all.
* * *
Rick let himself into his condo and pulled off his jacket. His buddies thought it was funny he lived in a condo instead of a Houston mansion, considering he’d been paid $36 million by the Houston Texans before the nerve damage in his shoulder put him permanently out of professional ball. It had been the surgery for his severed rotator cuff that had actually ended his career. Somehow, nerves had been clipped and he couldn’t even close his fist for a year afterward. His agent, mother and friends had wanted him to sue the doctor and hospital where the surgery had been done, but he’d taken it as a sign that it was time to move on. He’d never regretted that decision.
Anyway, he’d purchased that big mansion for his mother to live in, and she was happily retired now, living the life of leisure she never had when raising him. He preferred a condo, anyway. It was simple, like him.
Bachelor pad was what his mom called it, and she might be right. He wasn’t ready for the house and the lawn and a wife and kids. He had plenty of young girls willing to go out with him on a less-than-serious basis. Or at least, when they pressured him to get serious, he found a new one.
He supposed he just hadn’t met the right woman. Now that he’d met Brandy Love, he wondered if he hadn’t been searching the wrong pool. Sure, the young women he dated were beautiful, but they lacked maturity, grace. They lacked the experience and spark that comes from living their life purpose. He recognized that spark in Brandy. She loved Phenomenal Physiques and she obviously worked very hard to make it successful. He loved that about her.
His physical attraction to her had been off the charts. He’d never wanted to turn Neanderthal and claim a woman as his own, fight any man who got between them and carry her off to ravish her. He closed his eyes remembering those bee-stung lips, the delicate curve of her throat, her muscular ass.
He shook his head as if it might clear the thoughts of Brandy and plopped down at his k
itchen table where he dropped a manila folder stuffed with papers. A post-it note on the top said, Call me. ~Phil.
He picked up his cell phone and speed dialed Phil, the junior varsity football coach. They’d be working closely together on the three-week Sunday clinic for incoming freshmen. He’d started the clinic a few years ago because it gave them a chance to observe the boys over a longer period of time than just a single tryout, plus it gave the kids a leg up on skills so they started the new year ready to work hard and win.
“Hey man, what’s up?” he said when Phil answered the phone. “I have the registration forms in front of me.”
“So the deadline was yesterday and we received 108. We only have room for 80. What do you want to do?”
He blew out his breath. He didn’t want to cut kids sight unseen. The whole point of the clinic was to have a chance to interact with the boys on a personal level before making any decisions for the next year. “What would it take to accommodate all of them? One more coach? I wonder if we can get a parent volunteer?”
“That’s an idea,” Phil said. “How about Jake Farrow? His son’s a freshman—Lucas Farrow? On the JV team? He’s always around at practices—you’d recognize the guy if you saw him.”
“Sounds good, will you contact him?”
“Sure thing. How’d it go with Donnie? Will he be ready for playoffs?”
“I’m not putting him in this week, but for sure by playoffs. I don’t want to push him back in too soon and risk permanent damage of that knee. He’ll need a doctor’s sign-off, anyway.”
“What does that mean for your game Friday night?” Phil sounded sympathetic. Donnie was the Tigers’ star linebacker and running back and having him on the bench left a big hole on the team.
“Well... this will give the younger players a chance to step up.”
Phil laughed. It was standard coach-speak to put an upbeat spin on a crappy situation. “Right. If anyone can bring them up, it will be you.”
“Thanks, man. You going to poker night Friday at Dave’s?” Dave was the assistant varsity coach, and he hosted a weekly poker night at his place.
Scoring With Santa: Book One in the Second Chance Series Page 3