Head Coach EPB

by Lia Riley

  “Forget about it,” she said, mouth mashing into a hard line. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  Okay. He didn’t speak woman, but something was definitely off. “I wasn’t teasing you, Neve.” He spoke her name with intention, wanting her to hear him. “Wear lipstick. Or don’t. What do I care? You look good either way. But I’m allowed to notice you. Making an observation doesn’t necessarily make me an asshole.”

  She huffed a sigh. “You’re right.”

  She’s shy.

  The realization caught him by surprise. It was like peeking through a brick wall, and inside was a strange and beautiful garden.

  “Hey. Listen up. I’ve got a proposal.” He turned and met her gaze straight on, elbow propped on the console. “What if we declare a truce for the weekend?”

  Out of any of the millions of combinations of words he could have uttered, he appeared to have found the ones able to render her speechless. “Truce?” she repeated at last.

  “Just until we get back and then you can return to your regularly scheduled loathing.”

  “I don’t loathe you . . .” Her mouth slid into a half grin. “At least not all the time.”

  “Hey, I get it.” He shrugged and started the car, the six-cylinder engine purring like a jungle cat. “For what it’s worth, Rovhal means asshole in Swedish. I’m third generation. My grandparents were farmers outside Älmhult.”

  “Sorry, I’m not up to speed on Scandinavian geography.”

  “In the south, not far from Denmark. Home of the first IKEA store.”

  “For real?” That got her attention. “What a claim to fame.”

  “There’s a museum.”

  “What’s there?” She grinned. “Displays of flat packs with unfathomable names? Shrines to cheap Swedish meatballs?”

  His brow creased. “I never went. My father wasn’t one for nostalgia . . . at least not until the end of his life.”

  “Ah,” she said lightly, as if sensing they skated over conversational thin ice. “Well, at least that solves the mystery of Rovhal. I’d wondered.” She reached out a hand and when he shook it her palm was warm, her fingers soft, even as her shake was firm. “Nice to officially meet you, Rovhal. Since all is being revealed, mind cluing me in on what the 30 stands for?”

  “My lucky number.” He didn’t release her hand as he made his confession. “That’s how old I was when I had my daughter. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “What a . . . lovely thing to say.” She blinked in surprise, as if seeing him for the first time. “All right, then. To a truce.” Neve glanced to their interlocking fingers and then back up. “At least for the next two days. Telluride or bust.”

  “Thank you for coming with me,” he said quietly. “I . . . didn’t want to go alone.”

  Silence fell. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said at last, slowly withdrawing her hand. “Or the fact that unlike your alter ego suggests, you aren’t a totally awful person. Who knows, I might have just made the discovery of the century. Tor Gunnar might be a good guy.”

  “I like that level of optimism, Angel.”

  “Thanks, Coach.” But her snort didn’t appear unkind. Her gaze was cautious, but also curious.

  As if she wondered about him, as much as he wondered about her.

  He made good time getting out of the city despite the morning traffic. It didn’t take long until he had them cruising southwest on US 285. But it soon became obvious that despite their agreement to a cessation in hostilities, the drive wasn’t going to be full of warm fuzzies. Any of his initial strained questions were met with monosyllabic answers.

  Time for plan B. Operation Saved by Springsteen. He cranked up the stereo and focused on “Born to Run.” But despite the music, an unsettled quiet took root and spread. His heart beat in time to the melody. His shoulders tensed.

  He was trying his best and didn’t know how to steer them back on track. Neve had hunched in on herself, shoulders stooped. Didn’t so much as glance his direction, or even straight ahead. Her hand splayed on the passenger-side window as if she wished she was anywhere else. This was it. His worst nightmare. They drove past deep, dramatic canyons and up along the winding road lined with ghostly aspen. He could barely register the scenery. Hard to focus on anything when his heart was going as cold as the surrounding alpine tundra.

  Time to reconcile the truth. Wanting something didn’t make it happen. This was a terrible idea, the trip a bust before it even began. As much as it would have sucked to attend Maddy’s wedding solo, it was going to suck a magnitude of an order worse to bring along an unwilling guest.

  “My ears popped.” Neve spoke for the first time in an hour as they crested Monarch Pass. The highest point of the drive.

  “Not surprised.” He cleared his throat, his voice rough with pent-up tension. “We’re at 11,312 feet.”

  His sharp answer got her attention. She turned to face him dead on. “How do you know that so precisely?”

  He forced a tight smile and pointed at the road sign. “I can read.”

  Monarch Pass: 11,312 feet. Continental divide.

  “Oh.” She put her hands on her cheeks and rubbed slow circles under both eyes. “Sorry. I’m a little out of it.”

  “Is the altitude bothering you? We’ll start dropping now all the way into Gunnison, but Telluride still sits at close to nine thousand.” He slowed, dropping into Third with a slight frown. He’d been so in his head that he hadn’t stopped to study her. Now that he did, she didn’t look all that good. She was always pale, but her coloring seemed off, almost grey.

  She made a sound that might be a grunt of “Don’t worry about it” but could also be a soft moan.

  Shit. Something was wrong.

  He pulled into the empty parking lot for a scenic mountain tram—closed for the winter—and yanked the hand brake. “What’s up? You’re not feeling okay, are you?” Once they got to Telluride, he could take her to the clinic and get her a prescription written for an oxygen concentrator. Most Colorado ski towns had rental companies as altitude sickness was so common for visitors.

  “I’m not too hot.” She mashed her lips. “It’s cold out but mind if I open the window? At least for a moment. See if that helps settle my stomach?”

  “You’re carsick?” Everything fell into place. The strained silence. Her rigid posture. “Why didn’t you say anything? I would have pulled over.” He’d been torturing her for hours without the first clue what was wrong. He’d been so fixated by his worst fears that he hadn’t considered the most reasonable solution. Relief and frustration hit him in equal measure.

  “It always happens. Since I was a kid. Breezy used to call me Nauseous Neve whenever we had to drive more than a half hour. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it to you. I dosed with some motion sickness meds before leaving. They are making me woozy but otherwise that’s about it.”

  His chest thawed. “Is that why you haven’t been talking.”

  “Yup.” Her laugh was queasy. “What’s your excuse?”

  He thought it over and decided to go with honesty. “Social awkwardness.”

  She grimaced or smiled. Hard to tell under the conditions.

  He felt like the biggest dumbshit. She had been sick on his watch and he’d had his head implanted straight up his ass. The urge to fix the situation took over. He’d do better, starting now. “I’ve got more water in the back.”

  He went to the trunk, opened a small cooler and grabbed her a bottle, plus the sandwiches that he’d made last night when insomnia made sleep impossible. He grabbed an armload of supplies and got back inside the Porsche.

  She stared at the sandwich after he handed one over.

  “What is this?” The cellophane baggie crackled between her fingers.

  “Nothing fancy. Just plain turkey and cheese.” He hesitated. “You aren’t a vegetarian, are you?”

  “No . . . I just . . .” She blinked. “You made me a sandwich?”

  “
Is that bad?” Why was she looking at him as if he’d just sprouted horns? All he’d done was take some sourdough bread, slap down turkey and Kraft, smear a little mayo.

  She glanced to the sandwich and then back up at him. “It’s . . . unexpectedly cute. Tor Gunnar made me a turkey sandwich.”

  “Cute?” He didn’t know what t she was so impressed by, but not going to lie, he liked the fact he’d scored a win. “Got to say, I’m not used to hearing those words directed at me, especially from you.”

  “Trust me, I’m not used to thinking them.” She fiddled with her seat belt, studying the panoramic mountain scenery, and sighed. “This place really is out-of-control beautiful. I need to get out more.”

  Tor was undeterred by her attempt to deflect and change the subject. “I thought you weren’t talking to me because you had second thoughts.”

  “Look.” She glanced over with an uncertain expression. “Let’s promise each other one thing, okay? In addition to a truce.”

  “I’m all ears,” he said gruffly.

  “There is enough crap in the world without us shoveling more on the pile, don’t you think?” The wind blowing in through the cracked-open windows was cold. There was already a few inches of snow dusting the ground even though it had been a drier autumn.

  Her coloring improved and she managed a few bites of the sandwich. “You going to answer?” she asked, covering a hand over her mouth, half-filled with food. “Or sit and stare?”

  It was damn hard to give words to his truth, to let down his guard and speak from the heart. That he liked this feeling he got watching her eat his simple food. It was nice to feel like he was taking care of her in some small way. “You’re right. I’m just glad that you feel better. No crap.”

  “Good. And can we discuss the magical Tor-turkey-sandwich carsick cure?” Her face softened into a rueful smile. “You could infomercial this. It’s amazing how much better I feel. No offense, but I wouldn’t have thought this would work in a million years.”

  “Sometimes magic happens in unlikely places.” And from the startled glance she cast him, he knew they were talking about more than unusual home remedies.

  The Adeline was a redbrick boutique hotel nestled in the heart of Telluride’s picturesquely historic downtown. Neve took a moment to soak in the updated but undeniably Old West vibe—John Wayne meets modern-day luxury. It was a hundred-year-old brothel given a fashionable new life.

  “Let’s get our rooms. Let you rest for a bit,” Tor said as they walked into the lobby, a cozy and inviting space with pressed-tin ceilings and stuffed leather sofas.

  Since Monarch Pass he’d been gravely solicitous, ensuring the windows were cracked and making frequent stops at various scenic pullouts. He might have a hard outer shell, but she couldn’t help but wonder what softness hid behind that tough exterior. Just because he wasn’t loquacious didn’t mean he didn’t communicate. As the hours passed she’d found herself becoming more attuned to the little things, the nuanced expressions on his face when he glanced her way or when a certain song came on. His little quirks and gestures that showed he enjoyed her presence.

  Or at least didn’t actively dislike it.

  It was strange, and disorienting, drawing closer to this standoffish man, breathing in the same air, inhaling the faint cedar and pine undernotes from his aftershave, wondering if maybe she didn’t know him at all.

  He’d Mr. Darcy dissed her in the stadium parking lot, but maybe she was Elizabeth Bennet-ing him with all of her prejudice. There was so much toxic masculinity in the world that sometimes it was hard to remember that good guys existed.

  “Daddy! Daddy! You’re here!” A cry cut through the lobby chatter as a wiry girl with braces sprinted across the room and leapt into his arms. She was in that ephemeral stage between child and teen, but one glance at her ice-blue eyes and blond hair made it obvious whose child she was.

  Tor’s face transformed into an expression Neve had never seen. Complete happiness.

  “Hey, baby girl,” he said, spun his daughter around twice and then planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “You beat us. I didn’t think you were arriving until dinner.”

  She giggled, adjusting her braid. “I rode up in Aunt Amber’s minivan. She said that I can sleep with Lane and Page. Can I, please? They have connecting rooms with a door to Aunt Amber.”

  “Your cousins?” He frowned with mock severity. “You sure you won’t just be awake talking all night? Remember the last time they came over to my house?”

  She was the picture of innocence. “What? It was fine.”

  “There was that incident with the marshmallows. And the microwave. And the—”

  “Pleeeeeeease, pleeeeeeeeasee. We’ll be good this time.” Olive broke off from her begging to take stock of Neve standing beside him.

  “Oh. Hi.” Her smile broadened. “You’re Neve? He said you had bangs. I like them.”

  “Uh, yeah,” she responded, thrown off balance by the same blue eyes that haunted her dreams in a smaller, perky face. Of course, Tor must have told his daughter she was coming, but she had been so wrapped up in what this trip meant for her that she hadn’t fully thought through what it would be like for him. The fact that this crowd was made up of people from his life, and he was giving her a backstage pass into what made him tick. For all his mistrust of the press, that was a big gesture.

  The evidence was mounting that Tor had no sinister agenda. And the biggest scoop of a story might be that he liked her.

  A feeling vibrated through her chest like thunder.

  He might like her a lot.

  Olive wrapped her arm around Tor’s waist and leaned into him, assessing her with an appraising look Neve knew all too well. “Daddy told me all about you.”

  “Did he, now?” Neve was used to hearing Tor Gunnar called Coach, of course, and less savory things—mostly insults muttered under her own breath—but to hear his daughter speak of him with such bright affection gave her pause.

  When he glanced down at his daughter, there was nothing reserved in his face. He looked like any amused father who was slightly skeptical about what his precocious child might say next.

  “I will be good.” Olive shot her father a quick mischievous look. “He made me promise to go easy on you.”

  “Is that a fact?” Neve placed a hand on one hip. She had limited experience dealing with children and didn’t want to make a misstep.

  “I ask a lot of questions.”

  “Me too, as long as it’s a day ending in y,” Neve answered. At least they had something in common. “I look forward to your interrogations.”

  “Sounds good.” Olive laughed, turning back to Tor and batting her lashes. “But, Daddy, seriously, can I share a hotel room with my cousins? I’ve never done it and I am bigger and I will be good. Please, please please? I’m dying to. Dying, I say.”

  “Let’s go have a word with your aunt. I’ll be right back.” He gave Neve a curt nod. “If you’ll excuse us a moment.”

  “By all means.” Neve gaped as Tor walked over to a gorgeous blonde who was drinking a glass of wine by the roaring fire. While it was fascinating to glean insight into Tor’s life, she was also going to smack into his past. A past that was striding into the lobby in a pair of impossibly elegant heeled winter boots and with a delicate heart-shaped face framed by lustrous blond hair that would make Rapunzel weep.

  Neve remembered her face from the article she’d written on his divorce, one of her first at the Age.

  Maddy gave Tor a stiff embrace, air-kissing both of his cheeks. Neve chewed the inside of her lower lip. He’d been married to an air-kisser?

  The beautiful woman spoke with animation, twin lines of concern creasing her high, smooth forehead, and as if on some unspoken cue, they both spun and stared in her direction. Neve tried not to grimace. She was so busted, she couldn’t even pretend to be inspecting the large Thanksgiving-themed cornucopia on the mantel.

  It was obvious she’d been taking in every word.r />
  “Neve?” Impossibly marvelous Maddy took off like an elegant rocket, speeding in her direction. “Hello,” she said in a breathy, sleepy voice, as if she’d just woken up from a delicious nap. “Wonderful to meet you. I’m Maddy, Tor’s . . . well . . . the bride. Look, there has been just a teensy, tiny mix-up. The hotel is overbooked and when I saw Tor had reserved the extra room, I assumed it was a mistake. My Great Aunt Agnes has settled into what was evidently supposed to be your room and she’s ninety-one and. . .” She threw up her hands in a frazzled gesture. “For Pete’s sakes. You know what they say about assuming . . .”

  “No! N-no, it’s fine. You must have a million and one things to think about. Don’t give me a second thought,” Neve stammered. “Let’s leave Aunt Agnes right where she is.”

  Brave words as her stomach lurched.

  She and Tor Gunnar were going to be sharing a hotel room alone for an entire weekend. And she had a suitcase packed with very new and very, very tiny French lingerie.

  Chapter Ten

  “Nice bed, emphasis on the singular,” Neve deadpanned, dropping her suitcase onto the hardwood floor with a dull thud. The impact echoed the crash of his heart against his rib cage.

  The room was a blend of rustic and modern. The stuffed chair by the window looked like an inviting place to curl up with a book, while the framed photographs of wildflowers gave the room a touch of feminine whimsy. But there was no denying the space was dominated by the pine-framed king-sized bed.

  Perfect for sprawling like a starfish and taking a long winter’s nap.

  Or trying to medal in the Sexual World Championships.

  His mouth filled with invisible sand, going drier than the Sahara. It was impossible to look anywhere else. Was Neve really going to crawl up onto that giant mattress, her body next to his? He blazed so hot it was a wonder he didn’t turn to flame. He set his own bag by the dresser, half expecting to see smoke rippling off the back of his hand.

  The light-canceling drapes were long and dark, and he flung them open, needing head space.