Coach's Daughter

by Jessa Kane

  Coach’s Daughter

  Jessa Kane

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Eric

  I can name a hundred places I would rather be right now than a nightclub.

  Most of the time, I can get away with an excuse or flat out tell my teammates to fuck off, but this is different. These are new teammates, a new city, and I’m signing a contract tomorrow that will make me their point guard. I have to put in the time with them, show my face, earn the kind of trust that will translate to the basketball court. Unfortunately, a lot of that faith is earned off the hardwood.

  If my skill spoke for itself, I would be home right now instead of this dark, noisy establishment, a row of untouched drinks in front of me. I massage the bridge of my nose, attempting to get rid of the pounding in my head, the overwhelming mixture of cologne and perfume making me nauseous. These places are exactly the same, no matter what the city. Dallas, New York, Minnesota, Los Angeles.

  It’s all become a blur.

  “Bentley!” One of my new teammates falls onto the leather banquet of the VIP section beside me, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Welcome to LA, man.”

  I force a quick smile onto my face for the team’s power forward, Rashid. “Thanks. Looking forward to putting ink to paper tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is a hundred years away, my dude. We’ve got the whole night ahead.” With a hand the size of a pizza pan, he gestures to the writhing mass of bodies on the nightclub floor, one section below us. “You’re Eric “The Silent Assassin” Bentley. Take your pick of these women. Let’s get you a celebrity welcome to LA.”

  I start to say no thank you. For a lot of reasons.

  The last time I slept with a woman, my freshman year of college, the unthinkable happened. Now? I don’t let loose anymore. I don’t take my eye off the ball. Don’t drink or party or bring home strange women, no matter how badly I need relief. Whenever I get the urge to be self-destructive or forget my scruples for the night, I remember what happened that night and the impulse goes away.

  “I’ll pass this time…”

  That’s what I start to say, but then I see her.

  This cute little blonde who looks like she wants to murder someone.

  Her nose is screwed up, fists balled at her sides and she’s staring up at a man twice her size, ready to throw a punch. My stomach trades places with my heart. Who is that? Why do I have a hard time breathing when I look at her? Before I even know I’m moving, I’m standing up and demanding to be let through the red velvet rope of the VIP section to the main club floor below. Behind me, my future teammates high five, assuming I’ve spotted the female I want to take home.

  “Bentley!” one of them shouts behind me. “Just crook your finger at her. She comes to you. Not the other way around.”

  Something tells me this girl doesn’t come when a finger is crooked at her.

  Just a hunch.

  It might have something to do with the right cross she just delivered to the man’s jaw. A sound halfway between amusement and worry leaves me, swallowed up by the pumping club music. The crowd is parting around me, people taking selfies and asking for autographs, but I plow ahead, determined to reach the pissed off angel, because God forbid the man she just punched decides to retaliate. If he lays a finger on her, I’ll be in prison for murder instead of LA’s new starting point guard.

  The closer I get to her, the more everything starts to move in slow motion.

  She’s…goddamn. She’s something else.

  Not dolled up or dressed to entice. Just subtle in a black tank top tucked into tight, little shorts. Sneakers. Hair all windblown, cheeks flushed. No jewelry, except for an oversized watch on her wrist. God, I’ve never seen a fiercer expression on anyone. She can’t be taller than five foot two, yet there’s no denying she’s a warrior. What is she doing to my chest? I can’t seem to slow my heart rate or pull in enough oxygen. The music distorts around me and all I can hear is pounding in my temples.

  Everything shoots back into sharp focus, however, when the man she punched grabs her by the shoulder. She winces—and I see red. The club goes into fast motion around me and I lunge the remaining distance, pushing my way between them and dislodging his hand in the process, knocking the bastard back several paces. That’s when it hits me that I’ve just intervened in a situation I know nothing about. For all I know, this man is her boyfriend. Or husband.

  I’m surprised to find I don’t care.

  I’m taking her home either way.

  If this prick is her boyfriend, they just broke up.

  If they’re married, we’ll get those papers signed.

  I’m not going anywhere without her. And that certainty…is insane. I hear my thoughts and know they’re crazy, completely unlike me, but as soon as I saw her, it was like a shot of adrenaline and possessiveness, all at once. A Molotov cocktail of lust and guardianship. Mine. Fate has whispered in my ear for the first time in my life. I don’t get it, but that’s the end of the story.

  The man I’ve just pushed starts to charge me, until he realizes who I am and he holds up his hands, stammering over the music. “Hey man. I was just being friendly. She’s overreacting.”

  “Friendly?” repeats the blonde. “I saw you put that powder in my drink.”

  She tries to charge past me, but I catch her around the waist at the last second, holding her several inches off the ground. I bite off a groan when she tries to get free, her butt wiggling around in my lap. God help me, my dick is rock hard in an instant and an animal inside me gnashes its teeth, wanting to throw her facedown over the closest table and claim her in front of everyone. Mark her as mine. And I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking it, considering the accusation she just made. One I believe, one hundred percent.

  “Listen up a second, angel?” I manage through my closing throat. “I’m going to make sure this asshole goes to jail, all right? Trust me on that? But if you punch him again and he retaliates, I’ll be the one in an orange jumpsuit. Understand?”

  She twists in my arms, trying to pry my hold open. “I can fight my own battles. I don’t need you to do it for me.”

  “That’s pretty obvious. You’ve got a mean right hook.” Some of the struggle goes out of her and she cranes her neck to look up at me curiously, frown still intact, and Jesus Christ, she’s the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen in my life. Can she feel my heart slamming against her back? “But if he’s the kind of man who’ll dose a girl’s drink, I don’t trust him not to hit back. If that happens, I’ll tear down the fucking ceiling of this place with my bare hands.”

  “That doesn’t sound very ‘silent,’” she says, briefly dropping her head back against my pec. “So much for your nickname.”

  Amusement tickles my throat. “You know who I am.”

  She finds something about that amusing, green eyes twinkling. “Maybe.” A beat passes. “Get him out of here before he does it to someone else.”

  Nodding, I set her down, my hands lingering on her hips, unable to resist giving them a squeeze, listening to her quick intake of breath. For a basketball player, I’m on the shorter end of the spectrum, but I’m still six foot four, meaning she has to tip her head back to meet my eyes, her lips parted slightly, her medium-length blonde hair falling down her back.

  Fucking hell, if my cock gets any stiffer, I’m going to spend down the leg of my jeans. I’m going to have her in every position tonight. I’ll be lucky if I manage to tear myself off her long enough to sign the contract with L
A tomorrow. Might have to bring her along to limit the amount of time we spend apart. Because Christ, this little green-eyed beauty is under my skin and I’m not getting her out. I already know it. How did this happen so fast? One minute I’m aching for solitude, the next I don’t want to be without her.

  “Don’t move,” I tell her. “Wait right here for me.”

  After a small hesitation, she nods. “Fine.”

  Resenting the distance I have to put between us, I nonetheless gather the piece of garbage off the floor and drag him toward the security guard who is already approaching, walkie-talkie hovering in front of his mouth. His eyes go wide as silver dollars when he realizes who is escorting the scumbag and he nods solemnly through my explanation of what happened.

  “We’ll take care of it right away, Mr. Bentley.” He takes the struggling man from me, securing his hands behind his back with a zip tie. “The cops are already on the way.”

  “Lucky for him.” I look the perpetrator in the eye. “And extra lucky for him we’re surrounded by witnesses or you’d have to be carried out of here on a stretcher.”

  Hearing the truth in my voice, he pales.

  As soon as the guard hustles the man toward the door, I turn on a heel and stalk back through the shocked crowd, looking for my girl. I want her now. I want her standing in front of me, looking at me, smelling like crushed berries. From my vantage point, it’s not difficult to find her, though she’s not standing in the same spot I left her and it takes a few minutes, causing a cold sweat to break out at my hairline, panic to wrap around my vocal cords. Relief is a living thing when I get to the back of the club and she’s standing at the end of the neon bar, in one of the darker corners. I come up beside her in time to hear her request a glass of water from the bartender.

  “You moved,” I point out, barely checking the urge to sink my fingers into her hair. Or pull her into my arms, kiss her. Jesus, I have no idea what I’d do first—only that I need to touch this girl. “I asked you to stay put.”

  “I rarely do what I’m told.” She chews her lip a moment, considering me. “Listen, thank you for helping me out tonight, but the way you’re looking at me? Like you’re already picking out our china pattern? It’s not going to happen. I don’t date basketball players. It’s a personal rule and I never, ever break it.”

  Chapter Two

  Greta

  Lord, he’s even more attractive in person.

  Deep brown hair, finger brushed. Tan, muscled skin. Stubborn jawline.

  Too bad I’ll never get closer than this. Fine, I let him get away with squeezing my hips a few minutes ago. Fine, I loved the hard contours of his chest against my back, how effortlessly he scooped me up off the ground. How he came to my assistance and didn’t ask for proof of my claim. He just stepped in, no questions asked, and joined my side of the battle. I already like way too many things about him and I wish I didn’t. If he was a jerk, that would make blowing him off a lot easier.

  I don’t date basketball players. It’s a personal rule and I never, ever break it.

  My statement lingers in the air between us, his eyebrows drawing together over shrewd baby blues. Do I know who he is? A pretty funny question, since my father has been dying to sign the Silent Assassin since he entered the league ten years ago. The point guard standing in front of me is already a legend at age twenty-nine, his court awareness unparalleled, his passing precision celebrated by sports journalists and commentators non-stop on ESPN. He’s the universal dude crush of every man in this club—and he doesn’t even seem to realize it. Or even be aware of the people snapping his image on their phones. He’s only looking at me.

  “Are you here alone?”

  Briefly, I glance past him, watching my friends find glory on the dance floor. “I’m here with some of my classmates. This is more their scene than mine.”

  “I can relate. You’re a college student?”

  I hum an affirmative response. “Too young for you?”

  “I don’t have an age range for women I date, because I don’t. Date. Whatever age you are is the right one.” A muscle ticks in his cheek, his hand gripping the edge of the bar beside me, and shoot, I liked that response way too much. “What is your reason for not dating basketball players?” He leans in to ask the question, his breath stirring the hair resting on my neck. “Maybe it doesn’t apply to me.”

  “It applies to all of you, I’m afraid,” I say, accepting my water from the bartender. “Professional athletes are given every little thing they want. Money, cars, women, influence. They get bored with a toy, they buy a new one. I’m not a toy and I never will be.”

  Dang it, he’s actually listening to me. Patiently, quietly, like his nickname suggests he would. He’s not just waiting for his turn to speak, he’s taking what I say and processing it, that line of concentration deepening between his brows. “I don’t disagree with anything you’re saying, but—”

  “But you’re not like that?” I take a long sip of the icy cold water, set it down. “A lot of women who’ve dated basketball players have heard that line before. I’m going to be smart and learn from them. I’m not going to make the same mistakes.”

  For several seconds, he remains silent. Then, “What is your name?”

  I hold my hand out for a shake. “Greta Welding. Nice to meet you.”

  He slides our palms together, satisfaction making his eyes bluer when I gasp over the jolt of electricity. “Welding. You’re not related to…”

  “Your new coach.” We’re still holding hands. I can’t seem to let go. “That’s right. I’m his daughter.”

  “Unfortunately for me, huh?” he murmurs, running his thumb in a circle around the inside of my palm, his attention on me rapt. “You might be young, but you’ve been in this environment long enough to see some bad behavior from the players, is that right? Now you’ve lumped me in with everyone who came before.”

  “That’s right,” I manage, with far less confidence than before.

  Because he’s closer now and he smells like a fistful of mint sprigs, his eyes tracing down the neckline of my tank top with such ownership, my nipples stiffen and a wave of heat travels up the back of my neck.

  “It’s not your f-fault, per-se…” Oh lord, I detect a ramble starting. “You’ve been handed everything a man could ever want. Why work for a woman when there are hundreds waiting in the wings?”

  “They wouldn’t be you. And I work for everything, no matter how much I’m given.” He drops his mouth to my ear, brushing the sensitive shell with a hint of his lips. “I’d work my ass off for you. Because I’m not stupid enough to think a hundred men aren’t dying to take my place. In fact, it’s more like thousands.”

  Despite the water I’m drinking, my mouth is suddenly dry. “I, um…I mean, that’s a really good answer.”

  He looks me in the eye. “Not just an answer, Greta. The truth.”

  “Just because I haven’t heard…anything, really. About your extracurricular activities off the court…doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I ball and I go home.” Before I’m aware of his intentions, Eric wraps an arm around the small of my back, lifts me and settles me onto one of the plush, white leather chairs in front of the bar. “I want you to be there next time,” he rasps, stepping into the V of my legs, letting me feel his thickness against the inside of my thigh, his jaw flexing at the contact.

  It’s a struggle to replenish my lungs. “You want me waiting at home like a dutiful toy?”

  “No, angel. Waiting at home to get pleasured by your man.”

  “Calling yourself my man is seriously jumping the gun.”

  He gives me a slow devastating smile, a dimple popping up in his cheek and clenching everything south of my belly button. “By telling me I’m jumping the gun, you’re admitting there’s a chance.”

  “No, I’m not,” I protest, breathlessly.

  And I’m not.

  Eric was right. I’ve been raised in this world. I’ve been allowed way too
close to the drama that often surrounds players and their significant others. Way too close. Close enough to be traumatized—and determined to never let that kind of pain and betrayal happen to me. Messy, public divorces. Scandals. Bitter fights. “I don’t date basketball players, Bentley. Deal with it. And by the way, I doubt my father would appreciate your hand on my thigh like that, let alone us…going out.”

  He looks down sharply, as if only realizing now that his big hand is sliding into the leg of my shorts, his thumb brushing up and back on the inside, sensitizing me head to toe. Despite being called out on it, though, he continues to touch me, petting the skin high up inside my shorts. Why am I not pushing him away? He’s taking serious liberties and yet, the worshipful way he’s stroking me feels so good. Feels like a promise. The flesh between my thighs is responding with slow, hot clenches that make me ache to cross my legs and squeeze.

  “No matter what your last name turned out to be, I’d still be starving for you.”

  “S-starving,” I stutter, watching his mouth come closer, hypnotized by the slicking of his tongue across his full lower lip. “That sounds serious.”

  “It is serious, angel.” He feathers his mouth over mine. “You don’t date basketball players. Okay. How about kissing? Isn’t that safe enough?”

  “Normally I would say yes.”

  He chuckles, sending happy little bubbles blowing through my bloodstream. “One kiss, Greta. Then I’m going to ask you out again.” He searches my eyes in that serious, thoughtful way of his. “We’ll see if your mind has changed.”

  “It won’t,” I whisper, sounding worried.

  Worried for good reason, it turns out.

  He launches a sensual attack against me, dragging me by the sides of my shorts to the edge of the seat and licking into my mouth. It’s so swift and blatant, I gasp, allowing him to sink deeper. To plant his sex directly on top of mine and lean, lean hard, creating plumes of light behind my eyes, eliciting the desire for more.