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This is business to him. Billion-dollar football business.
“Get unpacked and rest tonight because you two start at nine a.m. sharp,” he orders.
Then, he aims the flatscreen remote at Beau, then Colton, then the lavish sofa poised in front of the flatscreen with its video conference tech on top. “Every morning, you’ll sit here, log on to your call, and do your sessions with Dr. Gary.”
But Beau and Colton eye the sofa like a proctologist’s exam table, not a plush beachy place to relax with white cushions and turquoise throw pillows.
“And you two.” Coach points to me and Amber like third-string players. “Play somewhere else. By the pool. On the boat. In your rooms. I don’t give two shits. Give them privacy because if I catch wind you’re distractions, you’re out.”
Is this where Beau gets his distraction phobia? Or is it a legit football fear based on statistical evidence? Like a good dicking down that also melts your heart causes defeat?
“Yes, sir.” Either way, I salute Coach with a grin, and Beau winks at my compliance.
But Amber rolls her eyes, and if she had it, she’d smack gum, too. “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”
“Amber, jeez.” Colton rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ chill with the socials. No one lives by what you eat for breakfast.”
“I have a deal with a Total Soul Cleanse tea.” She weaves her neck. “My followers need me for inspo.”
Hell, I’m inspired. I’m buying. Because clearly, Amber has thoroughly cleansed, shitting her soul right down the porcelain bowl ages ago.
She doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t feel it.
But I do. And I respect Coach Williams because he does, too. Yes, he demands performance and perfection from his players, but he understands victory starts in the mind.
And clearly, Beau and Colton are all kinds of mind-fucked over whatever happened between them. If they start training camp with this toxic, hot tension? You can forget the Super Bowl.
It’ll be a super war.
The coach is so annoyed he doesn’t answer Amber. He focuses on what matters: his players.
“I’ll be back in the morning to start your first session,” he warns. “We’re damn lucky Dr. Gary is helping us. The man is the Freud of Football. He writes books on this, and I had to bribe Jesus to make this happen. So if he tells you two to wail like banshees or fall into a fetal position while you console your inner child, you goddamn better. Am I clear?”
“Yes, coach.”
Beau and Colton reply with respect. And I can tell it’s not just because they’re paid millions.
They want this to work. They need this to work.
If not, they lose their dream.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paint LOSER on my forehead. He’s going to win our bet.
BLAIR
After a water taxi takes Coach back to his beach hotel, I listen to him. I get busy unpacking. I can’t live out of suitcases. I need a clean room to write dirty smut.
“You feeling better?”
Beau leans in the bathroom doorway connecting our rooms.
“Yeah.” I unzip the last hard case resting on my bed of white linens and throw pillows. “Barfing my guts out really made my day. Time to take a shower and call it a night.”
“Thanks for this.” Humbly, he shoves his hands in his pockets. But he’s still shirtless, teasing me with his gazillion pack of steel abs, a dark, thin, happy trail, and soft blue puppy dog eyes. “I mean it. I really appreciate this, Blair.”
