Page 16 of I Want to Know What Love Is

Enough. I slam a hand on the table, startling Paul. Focus on what’s important. Turning to my laptop screen, I unpause the game. I go back to my notebook and the business at hand and add practice foul shooting to the list of drills for the team. We’re not waiting until official practice starts. I’m holding unofficial sessions for the team on Monday and Wednesday nights from seven to eight. Yeah, I’m cutting it close with my tutoring date with Jonesy, but he’ll just have to put up with a sweaty coach—no, I don’t mean it that way.

The game ends and I rewind it to the beginning. This time I’m going to concentrate on watching Emily specifically. I’ve been assigned with developing her to the next level. She plays the same position I did in college, shooting guard.

This time when my phone buzzes, I wince. Shit. What did I start here? I pick up the phone and read yet another text from Jonesy.

Confess. Tell me who Paul really is

My mouth drops and I sputter. I actually sputter as if he was in the room with me and I was caught red-handed. A blush heats my cheeks. That never happens. I’m a badass. The last time I blushed was seventh grade. And sure, it was a guy who made me blush because he called me on my shit, same as now, but I swear I’m not the same awkward girl I was back then.

At least not most of the time. Most of the time I don’t give a fuck what guys think of me. Witness Coach Ryan. But Jonesy? He’s … unnerving. And I need to get over it. So what if he’s a hunk and confident—so was Gary, right? Jonesy is a kid and I’m not. He’s a twenty-one-year-old student athlete and I’m a twenty-seven-year-old assistant coach and adjunct professor.

Throwing my shoulders back, I straighten in my chair. Time to woman up and get over this drought-inspired mini-crush I have on the kid. I vow to find someone more appropriate to take the edge off. Calling my sister shoots to the top of tomorrow’s to-do list.

But it’s also time to confess.

I text Dylan with a photo of me and Paul. That should send the message that I’m so disinterested in him that I’m using my poor innocent dog to discourage him.

When I hit send a wave of melancholy hits me and I have no idea why.

Chapter Seven

Dylan

Paul is a dog. She shut me down with a dog photo. I toss my phone onto a nearby chair.

After riling up the party tonight, cleaning up, foregoing cake time then crashing early, I wonder what for? Is this edginess because of my dad leaving? Probably. Or because of Dean Lassiter’s threat? Positively.

Not.

As I lie in bed, my mind wanders to the highlight of my night, and the real reason for my current state. What does that say about me? That I’m a dick with a capital D just like my dad? Because in spite of my best efforts, the surprise visit from Coach Amanda Lake bothers me more than the rest of my troubles. And she’s the last person I should be dwelling on.

Somehow I convinced myself it was a good idea to text her, that it would be a vent for my frustration. The syllabus was a good excuse, right? Maybe not. I shouldn’t have brought up Paul, but something about the way she threw him in my face set off a bullshit alarm and I had an irresistible need to call her on it.

Why am I tempting fate?

I’m pretty sure it’s because I need her to shut me down once and for all, to kill the fucking crush I have on her until it’s dead. Nothing does that better than a full-boner rejection.

So what does she do? She confesses that Paul is a dog and I’m pretty sure she meant the photo as an insult. She prefers Paul the dog over me. I heave a sigh and punch my pillow, which is taking a beating tonight. The urge to contact her in some way overwhelmed me after finding out she was jilted. I was all worried about her and she wants nothing to do with me. Except knowing I was right about Paul—that he’s not a guy, therefore not competition—gives me a bigger, hotter rush than is healthy.

But I don’t need women trouble and especially not the level of trouble Coach Lake represents. I need to be very careful because Lassiter has his eyes on me, waiting for me to screw up. Why? General principle. It’s well known he’s not a fan of BMOC House and any athletes that inhabit it. He thinks our existence goes against the principles of the school, that we’re trouble waiting to happen because there has been trouble in the past, I’ve heard. Fuck. My trouble is named Amanda Lake and I hope to hell Lassiter doesn’t get wind of her visiting a BMOC House party or her flirting with me in front of Coach Ryan.

I replay the locker room scene with my dangerously inappropriate crush and envision a totally different ending. I exhaust myself resisting the urge to jack off.

Whatever else I do this semester, I need to keep my crush under control and keep it in the forbidden fantasy realm. Nothing else.

And no more flirting.

* * *

After hours of lying awake I oversleep, but I make it to the gym for Sunday morning lifting with the O-line. We’re all in rough shape, but for different reasons. Mine is lack of a good night’s sleep, but I have a feeling a couple of the guys may have broken the two-beer rule.

“Who wants Pizza at Wildbeast’s after we shower?” I’ve done three sets on the bench press and I’m ready to move to my next set. A couple guys grunt in response. I look around and decide we all need some motivation. “My treat.” The grunts get louder and Hightower grins at me as he shoves a dumbbell up and off his shoulders and onto the mat.

“What’s the occasion? This some of your Cajun voodoo mind tricks?” He’s kidding, but I snap a towel in a vicious thwap across his legs. “Son of a—” He hops away from where I sit.

“There’s a challenge involved, shithead.” I’m smiling. The guys look up. Shelby walks in. “You’re just in time to join the challenge,” I say to my running back.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Shelby says. “Whatever it is you’re going to make me do in the weight room competing against these gorillas—”