Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (34 page)

“Come to see me topless?”

He’s wearing this arrogant smirk like he thinks he’s just hit the nail on the head, like he thinks he’s right.

He’s only half-right, but like I’m going to tell him that.

“No.”

“After the beach yesterday, you’re hooked.”

I groan. “Oh my God, Chance. I’m here to see Coach.”

I’m determined not to talk about yesterday, determined not to even think about it when I’m with him.

I don’t want him sensing that I am. I don’t want him feeling like he’s got some kind of advantage over me.

Because damned if I’ll ever let myself be at a disadvantage.

“Why?”

“He still owes me a reference letter, since he’s the head of physical education.”

“Were you good at sports?”

“I certainly wasn’t bad,” I tell him, folding my arms.

“So that’s a no, then.”

“Could you just… not be annoying today? Are you capable of that?”

Despite my attempting not to, my eyes creep up and down his body. In his tiny fighting shorts he somehow toes the line of silliness, while still managing to look hot as hell.

There’s just something about bright colored shorts on a man… maybe it’s because it reminds me of a lifeguard.

“Like what you see?”

I grimace. “Please.”

“You can have it, if you want.”

“I…
don’t.
”

He sits down next to me, and continues unraveling the tape from his hands. I’m honestly surprised to see that he has to tape up his wrists and hands three or four times over.

“What’s with the tape?”

“Keeps the wrist aligned with the forearm. Prevents injury,” he tells me, sticking out his arm and slapping the top of it.

“Thank you, but I know what a forearm is.”

“Of course you do,” he says, smirking at me.

I open my mouth to say something, but can’t think of any words, so I just shake my head at him. Coach Daniels is still tidying up all the equipment, and I know better than to interrupt him.

The smell of Chance’s sweat drifts over to me. It’s not particularly pungent, just has a heat to it, but underlying is the hint of something musky.

I like the way he smells.

“I thought about you last night,” Chance tells me, cracking open the lid of a bottle of bright blue sports drink.

“Oh, gross.”

“Well, you left me all blue down there.”

“Even grosser,” I say. I presume he’s referring to blue balls.

“You’re different today,” he says. He offers me a sip.

“No… thanks. And how am I different?”

“You seem less wound-up.”

“I’m just trying to ignore you so I don’t ruin my day.”

“You sure that’s it?” he asks, eyebrow cocked up, a grin parting his lips.

“You weren’t
that
good,” I tell him, getting up and walking away from him.

I don’t want him to see the smile on my face. I particularly liked that barb.

I flick my head over my shoulder, catch a glimpse of Chance leaning back on the bleachers. Sweat drips down his chest and abs, makes his body shine.

God, he looks sexy.

I can see now that the serpent tattoo on his arm is actually a dragon, and it’s talon-feet extend onto his chest on the right side.

He’s also got some other kind of tattoo down his right over his ribcage and abdominals, but I can’t really make out what it is at this distance.

Now standing about five meters away from him, I feel a bit more confident, at ease.

“Coach Daniels just kicked your ass,” I tell him, giving him a nasty sneer.

That
wakes him up.

Chance jumps to his feet, swaggers toward me, licking his lips. He doesn’t look amused at all.

“He didn’t kick my ass.”

“Looked like that to me.”

“I hesitated. He’s old.”

“Hey!” Coach barks from the cage.

I return my attention to Chance. “You hesitate, you lose.”

“She’s right, Chance,” Coach says, his hoarse voice echoing in the gymnasium. “You lost, deal with it.”

I grin broadly at Chance, flash my eyes at him.

“I’ve got a fight on Monday,” he tells me after a moment. He’s got this leftover smirk. He knows how to take a hit, even one from me.

“I heard.”

“Watch me.”

“Uh,” I sound, shaking my head. “You can’t just tell me what to do.”

“It’s at eight in the evening. Get the address from Coach with your reference letter.”

Chance turns and walks off, swinging a towel over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” I ask, though hating myself for it.

Now he turns around, smirking. “To hit the showers. Want to join me?”

I’m about to give him an unequivocal no when Coach shouts from the other side of the gym at us, “Cut it out, Chance!”

Chance gestures with his head at the door to the changing rooms, and his amused eyes shine. It’s an invite…

Then he disappears in.

“You know what you’re doing is sexual harassment!” I call, chasing after him. “You really shouldn’t do that, you’ll get in trouble someday.”

His voice bounces out from the tiled changing room walls: “The good kind of trouble?”

“The jail-time kind of trouble!”

“Can’t hear you.”

I’m standing at the doorway to the boy’s changing room, hands on my hips, determined to get the last word in.

Coach is still on the other side of the gym, in the practice cage, picking up stuff.

Argh!

I step into the changing room, shouting: “The jail-time kind of trouble!”

But when I round the corner of a corridor, I see him totally naked from behind, his tight, bare ass facing me. His broad back tapers into a small but muscular waist. His thighs look thicker like this; it’s obvious he’s a wrestler.

He looks at me over his shoulder, the sharp line of his jaw’s profile striking.

“No girls allowed. Can’t you read?”

I’m rooted to the spot, can’t move, can’t believe that I just burst in here like this.

The smell of him reaches my nose again, and I feel a surge in my temperature, butterflies in my stomach.

He just starts to turn around when Coach’s voice booms through the doorway: “Young lady, you get out here right now!”

I jolt, shaken by the aggression in the voice, and instantly spin on my heel just as Chance turns to face me.

I only barely get a glimpse at his lower half, but it fades quickly. All I can remember is the deep lines of his Adonis belt pointing downward toward his—

“Now!” Coach yells, and I hurry out of the changing room, cheeks burning, fiddling with my hair.

“Sorry, Coach Daniels,” I say.

“Jesus H Christ!” he cries, throwing his hands up. “Teenagers these days!”

He clucks his tongue at me, gestures for me to follow him, and so I do, but not before looking over my shoulder back at the changing room door.

Chance is there, a towel wrapped around his waist, leaning on the door frame, watching me. He adjusts his towel right above his crotch, just like he did his belt at the bus stop.

I roll my eyes and look away, but not quick enough to miss his growing grin.

He makes me act out of character, and I wish I knew why.

“Now what is it you want, Ms. Shannon?”

“Um,” I stall, forgetting for a moment. “A reference letter from you.”

“Why? From what I hear you already got into some top-ten college in England?”

I straighten up. “Aren’t I entitled to a reference?”

“You are.”

“And don’t you have to highlight my good qualities?”

He sighs, evidently not liking being told what his obligations are. “Yes.”

“Then I’ll take every reference I can get.”

“Banking them, are you?”

“You never know,” I tell him. “Better to be prepared.”

“There is such a thing as over-preparing.”

“In sports, maybe.”

“In life, young lady,” he says. “Come up to my office, I’ll print it out for you.”

“Um, Coach Daniels?” I say as he’s just about to turn around.

He puts his hands on his hips, and faces me again. “Yes?”

“Would you mind if I read it first?”

“Now,
that
you are
not
entitled to,” he informs me.

Damn! It was worth a shot, though, the chance that he might be open to suggestion on changes or phrasing.

He’s about to turn again when I stop him. “Coach.”

“Yes?” he asks me impatiently.

I grind my teeth together nervously. My mood’s changed in an instant, and now my footing feels loose.

On school grounds, talking with teachers, I’ve always felt so confident, so comfortable. I’ve always known where I stood, always known the boundaries as a student, what I was and was not entitled to, what my responsibilities and duties were, not just to myself, but to my teachers.

But now I’m not comfortable because I’m not talking about my reference letters, or what kind of method of citation I should use, or whether I can organize a school charity event.

Now, I’m going to ask something I’m entirely not comfortable about,
especially
to a teacher.

I’m about to show him my hand.

I’m about to put myself at a disadvantage.

“What is it, Ms. Shannon?”

My stomach churns, my fingers tremble, and I barely get the question out.

“Could I get the address to your new gym?”