The Game of Love (7 page)

Pausing outside the door, she heard feminine voices. The giggles, the squeals, the gossip.

She’d like to say it brought back memories, but it didn’t. The day her parents learned she had above-average talent in tennis was the day any hope of having a normal childhood flew out the window. Thanks to her parents’ constant micromanagement of her life and tennis career, she’d barely had time to breathe since the day she picked up a racket. No birthday parties, no sleepovers, no dates on Friday night. There were practices, conditioning sessions, out-of-state tournaments to attend.

Her social life had died a slow and painful death. And for what? Two lousy years in the pros where she never broke into the top twenty-five. Whoopie.

Shutting the door on her own pity party, Chris opened the door to the future, her team.

They sat sprawled around the tiered, carpeted steps of the band room. There were blondes, redheads and brunettes, and one girl who clearly dyed her hair pitch-black to match her clothes, nail polish and lipstick.

But the one thing they all had in common was the chatter. They talked over each other, around each other, their conversations weaving and molding into speech patterns only teenage girls understand.

She let the door shut behind her. The bang carried over the noise.

Hair flew, bags were dropped and tossed, chairs pushed away as the girls scrambled to form some semblance of an orderly group awaiting instruction. They all faced forward, though she was to their right, as if they were new boot camp recruits late for morning formation.

She bit back a laugh. General Patton, she was not. That was her father, the “his way or the highway” man. She’d resolved from the moment she’d taken the job that she wouldn’t put that kind of pressure on anyone she coached or taught. She hopped down the steps until she stood at the bottom looking up at the girls. There were—she took a silent headcount—sixteen in attendance. A solid number. Manageable without being overwhelming.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Christina St. James, the new head coach for this year.” She bit her cheek during the polite applause. “I’ll also be teaching math this year, so you might be in my class, as well. In the classroom, I’m Ms. St. James. But on the court, you may call me Coach, or Coach Chris, or Coach St. James.”

She dropped her bag on a nearby chair and pulled out a clipboard and pen. She handed them to the first girl on her left—a cute redhead with two French braids. The girl bounced her legs like she had too much energy to sit still for long. “Please fill out the information on the list so that I’ll have a roster. Has everyone turned in their paperwork to the office?” They all nodded. “Good.”

As the clipboard made the rounds, she dragged through her welcome speech, talking about practice times, passed around a schedule for the matches that year, and the team rules.

“There were no rules last year.” A perky blonde in a lacy camisole with a superiority complex. Great. She was one of
those.
One who wouldn’t let any leader go untested. That was fine. After experience in the trenches—also known as first-year teaching—she was prepared.

“Name, please?”

“Alexa.” She gave a smug smile.

“Well, Alexa, there are rules now. I’m strict, but I’m fair. There’s nothing on that list that I wasn’t asked to do myself when I played and I doubt there’s anything you could argue against.”

“But I like chewing gum while I play. It helps me concentrate, which helps me win.” Alexa gave her a pointed glare. “Isn’t that the point of playing?”

Her father would have said yes.

Her father was an ass.

“No.” She waited while Alexa’s brows rose in surprise. “The point of playing is to enjoy it. If you don’t enjoy it, there’s not much of a point.”
Trust me, I should know.
“And you are representing your school. It’s my personal belief that if you act respectfully and speak respectfully, people will treat you with the same respect. As ambassadors of the school, you are obliged to show your best face. And the best face is not one that’s smacking on gum.”

“Nobody cares what our best face looks like.” The black-on-black-on-black girl rolled her eyes beneath lids so heavily caked with coal-colored shadow and liner it was a wonder she could blink.

“Name?”

She mumbled something out the side of her black-slicked mouth.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“Brittany.” She enunciated each syllable with disdain.

So the goth-girl had the name of a pop teenybopper superstar. Life’s little ironies. “Brittany, why do you think nobody cares?”

For a moment, uncertainty flashed across her face. Then she looked to her left, and a brunette wearing a Northeastern track T-shirt shrugged, then nodded. Brittany squared her shoulders and took on the role of spokesperson.

“Nobody comes to our matches but our parents. Students don’t come, we don’t have fans. We’re the redheaded stepchild of fall athletics. Well, us and golf,” she added with what almost would pass as a smile.

“I understand.” Oh, boy did she ever understand. “But that’s not the point. When you decided to play for this team, you decided to be a face of Northeastern High School. And therefore, these simple rules will be followed.” She let her gaze pan over each of the sixteen girls. “When you put on that uniform, you’re important, no matter who sees you.”

“Uniform. Ha. Moth cloth you mean?” This came from a leggy blue-eyed china doll of a girl with hair so light it was white. When she saw Chris looking at her, she ducked her head and mumbled, “Avery.”

They were already catching on. “Avery, you’re right. I got a look at the uniforms in the utility closet. And all I can say is, those things are gross.”

The girls laughed at that.

“So how about some brand-new ones?”

It was so quiet, she could hear imaginary, cartoon crickets somewhere behind the music stands. Then the room exploded with sounds. Squeals, shouts and questions filled the air.

When she got them settled down, she explained. “There was an anonymous donation, and long story short, we were gifted with enough money to get new uniforms. And about half the cash we need for a really great invitational.”

The excitement in the room was palpable. It added something extra into the air that had her blood moving, her head spinning.

“What about the other half of the cash?” the redhead she handed the clipboard to first asked.

“Fundraiser.” Blank stares. “I’ve talked to the football coach—” oh boy, had she talked, “—and he’s willing to give us a few slots at the concession stands during football games to raise the rest.” When she was met with groans, she smiled. “Girls, seriously. A few nights selling candy bars and popcorn? In exchange for a great tournament? You’ll survive.”

They finished the meeting and she sent them on their way with a reminder that their first practice would be that following Monday. But two came down to ask what the new uniforms would look like, and suddenly she was swarmed by fashionistas. Finally she gave up trying to explain and dug in her bag for the uniform catalog Jared had given her.

Laughing, she tossed the thick book onto a nearby table. “Here, you hyenas! The school-approved uniforms are marked with Post-its!” They descended on the table like a plague of locusts.

She watched the madness from a distance, chuckling at the debate over dresses versus skirts, staying with the school colors or going rogue. In the end, she’d have to approve them, then let Jared approve them too. But for now, the girls were having fun and she was having fun watching them.

That was the point.

Brett watched afternoon practice from the top of the stadium’s concrete bleachers. He could see every hole in the defense, every missed opportunity from the offense. The bird’s-eye view, best one in the house.

Only problem with the bird’s-eye view was that it gave his eyes ample opportunity to wander from the field to the tennis courts. They sat no more than a hundred yards away, giving him an unobstructed view of one Christina St. James and her merry band of misfits.

No,
misfits
wasn’t the right word. The team wasn’t hopeless by any means. They just weren’t championship material, though the potential was there. She had some real athletes in the bunch, and those who looked a little more klutzy than the average player made up for it with determination.

He thought back to last year and the sounds he could hear from the courts. The groans, moans and yelling. The yelling of a frustrated coach who had no clue how to relate to his players, who was mostly there for the paycheck and didn’t know jack about the sport.

In the past week—the first official week for fall sports—he’d heard something far different. A few groans, for sure. It was impossible to work a body hard without some of that. But he heard encouragement and cheers. Feet pounding the court’s hard surfaces as they ran conditioning drills. The girls asking questions, and Chris answering with certainty. And that laugh of hers. Deep, husky, sweet, like sandpaper coated with honey.

He couldn’t help but be impressed with her command of the team and the ease with which she took the reins. She moved with fluid grace around the courts, weaving in and out of the tight spaces between the nets. She could duck to avoid a stray ball that flew at her head and never break her conversation.

Not that he’d been watching or anything. No, he hadn’t paid one bit of atten—oh hell, he’d been staring at the courts so often he felt like a peeping Tom. His neck was sore from craning around to catch glimpses of her as he walked to his car or back to his office.

She was an enigma. And the more she pushed him away, the more he wanted to get under her skin, see what made her tick. Apparently he didn’t give her the same feeling, though. She’d give a tight nod and walked past without stopping each time she saw him.

“Coach, gotta question for you!”

Arnie’s high-pitched voice pierced his thoughts, and Brett tore his attention away from the courts and back to the field.

“Hold on, I’m coming down.” He gave one more glance toward the tennis courts before he turned and jogged down the stadium steps onto the cushy grass.

Here, he was home. Here, he was king. The smell of sweat and turf, the sounds of grunts and helmets smashing together, the aches and pains…God, he loved it.

The scrimmage teams lined up, rearranged their positions and then snapped. The QB dropped back, scanning the field before making his choice. Cocking his arm back, he let loose a bull’s-eye to the chest of his all-star receiver. But instead of the play ending in an easy gain, the receiver let the ball bounce off his chest and roll to a stop a foot in front of him.

“What the hell was that?” The kid wasn’t even watching the damn ball. Tossing his clipboard down, he crossed the field. As the grass crunched beneath his Nikes, he noticed that one by one, his team’s heads were turning. And they weren’t looking his way.

Following their line of vision, he found the distraction. The damn tennis team, running the perimeter of the football field in some half-assed formation, following their fearless leader. They weren’t looking at the field, weren’t yelling or causing a scene. Just concentrating on keeping up with Chris.

Having been a teenage boy himself, the draw was obvious. Teenage girls. Short shorts. No brainer. At thirty-four, he was past that.

Except his eyes didn’t seem to get the “I’m Too Old For This” memo. They were tracking Chris like a hawk tracks a field mouse. Watching her long, tanned legs keep perfect pace, just a little ahead of her team. Sun-bronzed arms swung in rhythm, her ponytail swishing around with every other step.

The tank top covered her midriff, but it didn’t stop his imagination from picturing it riding up her ribcage and over those perky breasts that bounced gently with each step. With that sheen of sweat from—

“Ahem.”

The sound startled him, and he snapped his mouth shut. He whirled around to see Steve, an amused glint in his eye and his mouth tilted up at one corner. It didn’t take a genius to know where his mind had drifted.

“Get them back to work,” Brett grumbled, walking back to the benches. He wiped the back of his hand over his chin, just to make sure he hadn’t drooled.

And damn if he didn’t have an erection. He was no better than the hormonal teenagers he was supposed to be mentoring. Nothing said
Don’t bother taking me seriously on the field
like a coach with a woody.

Brett shifted uncomfortably as he sat down on the bench, thanking God that Steve had the team focused on another drill. This wasn’t the first time the coaching cutie had given him an ill-timed erection.

And wasn’t that something? She practically hated his guts. And she still managed to rile him up in a big way. Physically, anyway.

No, that wasn’t true. She intrigued him. She didn’t have dollar signs in her eyes. She didn’t bow down to him, roll over and play dead, didn’t offer to be his lackey or sex slave.

Not that he’d say no to the sex slave part…

As much as her “I hate jocks” attitude annoyed him, he wanted her. They’d be seeing a lot of each other this fall. It would be in his best interest to stay on her good side. Whether he wanted to be more than civil, he hadn’t decided yet.

He glanced once more at Chris leading her team back toward the tennis courts. He wasn’t ready to rule out being more than civil. Not just yet.

Chris felt the sweet tug of anticipation on her nerves as she ended the last practice before their first match. They’d been practicing for weeks, but school had started just two days earlier. The girls came to the courts after school juiced on that first-week high, and they gave an extra ten percent every practice.

If they did end up losing, it would be in a dog fight. They weren’t a team to roll over any longer when the going got tough. The team was looking forward to the competition, to being challenged.

The girls had improved beyond her wildest hopes. Funny what a few rules, some high expectations and positive encouragement can do for an athlete. She hadn’t met their coach from last year, as he’d retired and moved out of the area. Alexa liked to joke that the team drove him to an early retirement in Boca. But from little comments the girls made here or there, she’d gathered that he hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the team. It seemed like coaching was just a way to supplement his teaching income, and that he barely understood the sport.

But under her steady hand, the team was like clay. Begging to be molded into a shape resembling serious athletes. There was always resistance when you combined passionate people and a court. But they’d worked through it, and after a few growing pains, the girls trusted her, trusted that she knew what she was talking about and that if she asked for something to be done, there was a reason behind it. A good one.

She waited for them to draw into a tight circle around her.

“Remember to bring your new uniforms, and make sure they’re clean. No heavy makeup, no excessive jewelry. I’ll ask you to remove either if I think it’s too much.”

“Like anyone will see them,” Brittany muttered through lips free of color, black or otherwise. “Nobody but our parents will come.”

Chris quickly surveyed the huddle and saw some shoulders droop for the first time in weeks.

“You don’t play for fans, you play for yourself. For the pride it brings you, and for the school. That’s it. You aren’t playing for anyone else.” It was a hard-won lesson she’d had to learn herself. “Besides,” she added with a smile, “don’t you want to look cute when you wipe the court with their butts?”

The girls cheered and bounced on the balls of their feet with nerves and excitement. Brittany let out a shrill whistle that had them laughing.

“That’s what I like to hear. Get here as fast as you can tomorrow after school, changed and ready to warm up before the other team pulls up. Now you’re dismissed!”

The girls sprinted toward the bleachers, where their bags sat, and then slowly dispersed to their own cars, or to vehicles driven by parents. Soon the parking lot was empty and she was alone with a few empty wire hoppers and several courts scattered with tennis balls. What had possessed her to let them go before putting away the gear? Resigned, she grabbed the nearest hopper and started gathering balls.

She flipped over the hopper and started picking up balls. The one thing about the tedious, monotonous work of picking up was it gave her a chance to unwind from her day. Her mind thumbed through snapshots of the day like a photo album, cataloging, organizing and reviewing, making mental notes in the imaginary margins. If Brett thought her taking notes at the meeting was pathetic, what would he think if he could see the way her mind processed information?

And why did her mind jump to Brett so quickly? She hadn’t even seen him that day. There was no reason for him to be on her mind. It wasn’t like he had anything to do with her life. They’d divided up the donation fairly, they made their decision known to Jared, it was over. Done. The end.

She stabbed at a ball harder than she should have, and instead of slipping between the wires, it bounced off into a far corner.

Done. Right.
She could lie to others, but she couldn’t lie to herself. She brushed wisps of hair off her forehead and, with very deliberate movements, picked up the next ball with the hopper.

She hated to admit it, but she’d thought of him more than once, and in the dumbest moments. She’d close her eyes at night, and she’d see him staring at her in that hungry way, like he had the night she’d been at his house. Or she would be doing something normal, like making notes about drills, and his voice would buzz in her ear, asking her if she was really taking notes.

Get. Over. It.
She’d been down this road before, the
pro athlete
road. Both as a pro and as the arm candy. It led to Nowhere Good-ville.

Remembering she needed to talk to Katie about snacks for the girls for tomorrow, she reached into her pocket and turned her phone from silent to on. The instant vibration told her there was a voice mail.

Switching hands, so her left hand cradled the phone to her ear while the right continued gathering neon yellow fuzzies, she pressed the code for her mailbox and listened.

“Chrissy, baby, it’s me.”

Dax.
The unexpected—but oh, so familiar—voice had her spine snapping straight. Her fingers went numb, the hopper handles falling from her listless grip. Balls she’d just spent time and effort picking up scattered in front of her, but she didn’t care. It felt as if someone had injected frigid water into her veins.

“It’s been a while. Look, call me back so we can talk, all right? I miss—”

She snapped the phone shut before she could hear any more lies. Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it was trying to jump out of her chest. A ball of panic welled up in her throat, choking any noise she might have wanted to make. Before she could think, she started walking across the court toward the school. One foot in front of the other. Nice and easy.

No, not fast enough. The flood of nausea was rising too quickly. She took off at a full sprint, nearly spraining an ankle when she stepped on a stray tennis ball. But the slight limp didn’t slow her down. Bursting through the back doors of the school, she headed for the girls’ locker room.

Thanking God everyone was gone, she fell through the door of the nearest stall and lost her lunch.

“Ladies, you’ve done everything I’ve asked of you, everything I’ve pushed you to do. And you rose to meet every challenge I tossed your way. I’m so proud of you.”

Her words, meant to inspire, seemed to embarrass them instead. Feet shuffled, nails were examined, eyes averted.

“Plus, you look pretty freaking cute.” She was relieved when they smiled. “Now go warm up, prepare, do whatever you need to so you’re ready.” They scattered, some heading to the bleachers and others back onto the court for more warm-up.

She watched them for a moment and smiled. They really did look good. With a little coaxing and cajoling, they had managed to agree on red and white separates. Crisp skirts accompanied by nice tank tops made them look less like a group of rag-tag matchstick girls and more like a team to be taken seriously. More importantly, they took themselves seriously. The transformation was unbelievable. They stood tall, they smiled, they looked confident.

They just needed some trust, some encouragement and some expectations.

But no pressure.

She was feeling pressure enough for all sixteen teammates. Her smile was pasted on. Her voice carried the same firm authoritative tone as she delivered her pre-match pep talk. But inside, her body had turned to Jell-O.

Looking over her team, she saw the nerves through their thin veneer of confidence. Some shook out their limbs like they had the willies. Others shifted their weight from one foot to the next, never still for a second.

Nerves. Jitters. Stage fright. Adrenaline with no place to go…yet.

But she could also see the determination, the fight ready to come out. They may not win, but they weren’t going to be doormats either. And that was what mattered.

Looking up, she waved a quick hello to Katie. She was one of only a dozen people in the bleachers. A few parents, two students who’d stayed after school to watch. That was it.

She remembered Brittany’s comment about nobody caring, and prayed that the girls didn’t take the empty stands as confirmation of that.

Seeing that nobody needed her right then, she turned and walked away as inconspicuously as possible. Reaching the corner of the school building, she quickly stepped around so that she was shielded from the courts and bleachers. Leaning over, she vomited in the dirt.