Impulsive (10 page)

"I'm glad you found it funny. Personally, I was embarrassed
to the hilt."

"Your parents never caught you smooching on the front porch
with your date?" he asked.

Her sheepish expression gave her away. "Once, and that was
enough. I was dating a basketball player, one of the few guys who was taller
than me. The trouble was, we both wore braces. Our first, last, and only kiss
was a disaster. His braces
got tangled up with mine.
Luckily, or unluckily, depending on your viewpoint, my dad was a dentist. He
managed to extricate us, though not without quite a bit of work, during which
he gave us a long sermon on the perils of 'swapping spit and germs' with
another person, particularly someone of the opposite sex."

Ty tossed back his head and roared with mirth. By the time he
could speak coherently, he was holding his ribs and wiping tears from his eyes.
"You've got to be making all this up. The braces, the falsies, the whole
bit."

"I wish!" she exclaimed, setting his cappuccino down in
front of him and selecting a donut for herself. "I must have had the most
embarrassing childhood on record."

"At the risk of offending you, I wish you had those times on
tape. You'd win that hundred-thousand-dollar prize on 'America's Funniest Home
Videos' hands down!"

He picked up his cappuccino and took an appreciative sip.
"What are you planning to do today?" he inquired, changing the
subject suddenly.

She slanted him a sideways glance. "Oh, I thought I'd knit an
afghan or two, write a best-selling novel, and maybe dash off to Washington to
have lunch with the president's wife in between. Nothing too taxing. Why?"

Ty rolled his eyes. "Hundreds of comedians out there starving,
and you're trying to be funny. I just wondered if you were coming to watch us
practice this afternoon."

Jess frowned. "I thought you got the day off after the
game."

"So did we, but there was a message on my answering machine
when I got home last night. Until further notice, we will be having practice
sessions every day."

"I shouldn't wonder!" Jess snorted. "In that case,
they ought to make Crumrine practice twice a day. Where did they recruit that
guy from, anyway? He can't kick worth a tinker's darn."

"Damn."

"What?"

"If you're going to swear, do it right. It's a tinker's
damn." Jess shrugged. "That's beside the point. Crumrine is still the
worst kicker I've ever seen."

Ty's face clouded. "You know, it really burns my butt when
you
armchair pros spout off the way you do, especially when you don't know what
you're talking about half the time. It's easy to criticize from the sidelines,
but you should walk in a man's shoes before you come down too hard on him.
Sure, Alan's having a bad streak, but it's not as if you could do any
better."

"Want to bet?"

"Ha!"

"I'm not kidding, Ty," she assured him.

He gave her a hard look. "Okay, babe. Time to put your money
where your mouth is. In other words, put up or shut up."

Jess brushed the crumbs from her hands and stood. "Fine with
me. What'll it be? The wager, I mean."

He gave her the once-over, from head to toe.

"Not that, stud muffin. Think of something else."

"Kind of hard to do, with you wearing that shortie shirt and
flashing those long legs at me," he told her. Then, "If you can kick
better than Alan, I'll trade you cars for a week. If I win the bet, you make me
seven of my favorite home-cooked meals."

She grinned. "You're on. How, when, and where do I prove my
point?"

Ty glanced at his watch. "We've got a couple of hours before
practice, which means we should have the field to ourselves. What do you say we
go now?"

Jess nodded. "Wait here while I get changed."

"I could come help you," he offered devilishly,
reverting to form. "I'd still like to get a gander at that new
peach-apricot bra."

"No way."

"I don't suppose you bought panties to match?" he
suggested.

She sent him a sassy wink. "As a matter of fact, I did.
French cut. Chew on that while I'm gone."

"I'd love to. Just toss them out here. Better yet, I'll gnaw
them off of you."

"In your dreams, big boy," she shot back, trying to keep
her
voice from cracking. Just the thought of him doing that was getting her hot and
bothered.

This early, the only other people at the stadium were the clean-up
crew, busy clearing the debris from the stands. The field had already been
swept free of spectator trash left from last night's game. Ty got a couple of
footballs from the equipment room while Jess donned her cleated soccer shoes.
She was squatted down, doing what amounted to half a leg split, when he
returned.

"What are you doing now?"

"What's it look like? I'm stretching out. Warming up. It's
been a few years since I've played soccer."

He tossed a football from hand to hand. "This is a football,
not a soccer ball, in case you haven't noticed. There is a difference."

"Uh-huh." She went on with the exercises intended to
limber her muscles. On her feet now, she kicked her foot high over her head,
then repeated the move with the other leg.

"Stop that!" Ty snapped. "I can see right up those
loose legs of your shorts."

"Shut up and enjoy the view. I'm busy."

"Busy displaying everything you've got to the whole world,
not to mention the cleaning crew," he informed her tersely.

"I'm wearing underwear, the thick athletic brand I've always
worn to play soccer, so I know nothing improper is showing."

Done with that exercise, she began jogging in place, and
progressed to an intricate series of stagger-style sidesteps and kicks. Three
steps and kick with the left leg, three steps and kick with the right.

Ty covered his face with his hand, in a gesture of dismay, and
peered through the gaps in his fingers at her. "Pray tell, what are you
doing now? You look like an overgrown fairy who's lost her pogo stick. Or a
drunken ballerina, at best."

Jess stopped, planting her hands on her hips, and stared him down.
"Cut the crap. You and I both know that numerous coaches are sending their
football players to dance classes now. It improves their agility. So does this,
and I prefer it to ballet."

He grinned. "Ah, flunked out of dance class, did you?"

"No, I quit. Right after my instructor informed my mother
that she was wasting her money."

"Let me know when you're done wasting
my time
,"
he
told her.

She dangled her arms at her sides, shaking them. "It's only
fair that I get to limber up first, Ty. You wouldn't want to win by default,
would you?"

Finally, she was ready. "I'll hold the ball for you," he
said, "but try not to bash your foot into my hand. It's hard to play with
broken fingers, and Coach wouldn't be real thrilled, either."

"Oh, stop being such a whiner, James. I'm not going to
injure
your precious digits."

"Where do you want to start?" he questioned, still
wearing a skeptical expression. "Is the twenty-yard line okay?"

"Just dandy," she assured him.

He planted the ball. She rushed it in three well-measured steps.
It left the toe of her shoe and sailed over the crossbar with room to spare.

"Child's play," she taunted, shooting him a wide smile.

"A fluke, more likely," he grumbled.

He set it up again, and once more she nailed it.

He eyed her cynically. "Let's try one from off center."

She simply shrugged, as if she couldn't care less. In quick
succession, she effortlessly popped three from the left, and four from the
right, each on a more severe angle than the next. "This wouldn't be quite
so easy if not for the dome," she admitted charitably. "Then, I'd
have to account for windage, too."

"Right," he grumbled. The woman hadn't been kidding. She
was good. From close up, at least. "Let's try a few from farther out.
Field goals aren't always made from the twenty."

They added ten yards, which would have constituted a forty-
seven-yard
field goal. She threaded it through the goal posts without breaking a sweat. At
thirty-five, the ball still spiraled dead center between the posts, with a good
twelve inches of clearance, and Jess indulged in a little victory dance. With
her arms over her head, her fists punching the sky, she whirled in a circle.
"Yeah! When you're good, you're good!"

Ty's expression had run the gamut from smug to sullen and now
astounded. "Holy Moley! I can't believe the foot you've got! And the power
behind it! You're absolutely incredible! Where did you learn to kick like
that?"

"I
told you. I played soccer, right here at Ohio State."

"Yes, but... what else can I say, but wow!"

"Shall we try one from the forty-yard mark?" she
suggested. "If I make it, you owe me a full tank of gas on top of our
original bargain."

Ty nearly swallowed his tongue when the ball cleared the bar by
inches and only a little right of midpoint. She'd just made a fifty-seven-yard
field goal!

The cleaning crew had long since stopped to watch, and were
rooting for her. "From the fifty, lady!" one called out. "From
midfield!"

Ty shook his head at her. "Can't be done," he informed
her. "The longest official field goal on record is sixty-three yards,
originating from the forty-six. That's held since 1970, when Tom Dempsey did it
for New Orleans, in a game against the Detroit Lions. No one has equalled it
since, let alone broken it."

"Aw, let me try," she pleaded. "If I miss, I miss,
but it'll give my cheering section a thrill either way. Besides, records are
made to be broken, even if this wouldn't be official."

She gave it her best shot, amid encouragement from her impromptu
gallery. The ball had the distance, but fell just short in height. It hit the
crossbar near the left-hand post, and ricocheted backward. Had it taken a
forward bounce instead, it would have been a legitimate score—and Ty would have
fainted dead away. As it was, he was ready to kiss the ground she trod upon.

He gathered her into his arms and twirled her around, her
toes
barely skimming the ground. "Woman, you are truly something! I've never
seen the likes of you!"

Jess giggled. "Then you admit I'm better than Alan?"

"Ten, twenty, a hundred times over!" he conceded
readily. "The coach would kill to have a kicker like you. You know
that?"

He put her down, but didn't release her. "If the coach would
approve it, would you consent to practicing with Alan? Teach him how to kick
like that?"

"Like a personal trainer?" she queried.

Ty nodded. "Yes."

Jess's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure that would work, Ty. In
the first place, the coach probably won't agree. In the second, Alan would most
likely resent anything I, as a female, would attempt to teach him. Third, I'm
not certain I can teach someone else how to kick the way I do. At the risk of
sounding egotistical, a lot of it is simply natural talent, and some of it is
just dumb-luck instinct."

"Whatever it is, babe, it's pure gold."

She didn't have a chance to refute his claim as his lips covered
hers in a kiss that was instantly hot and urgent.

Like Ty, the head coach had been scornful at first, but after
witnessing Jess's amazing skill, he was properly impressed. However, the
special teams coach was quite defensive about having his position usurped, if
only in this one area, by a novice, and a woman at that! Had it been up to him
alone, he would have nixed the idea. Danvers outranked him, though, and once
he'd convinced the manager and the three co-owners, the deal was done. They had
even agreed to pay Jess for her efforts, with a bonus if Alan improved
significantly.

The biggest fly in the ointment, and the thing that bothered Jess
most, was that of the three co-owners, Tom had been the
only
one to vote against her. That really hurt. When she cornered him in his office
at the bank the next morning, she asked him why. He told her he simply didn't
want her neglecting her primary job as a reporter.

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Jessie. Don't
jeopardize the career you've worked so hard at."

She promptly assured him that her new assignment as Alan's trainer
would not interfere with her article. "Besides, Tommy, this 'coaching' bit
is only temporary, and it might even get me in better with the other players,
especially if it pans out. At this point, they're all thoroughly ticked at Alan."