Page 107 of The No Try Zone
SHE STOPS. LOOKS at me with a pained expression.
It makes me hesitate. Makes the words choke in my throat. Clawing to get out.I love you. Please forgive me. I’ll tell the whole world if you’ll just take me back.
I clear my throat and swallow hard, stretching my neck and pleading with my body to fucking behave. Nothing comes.
She shakes her head and walks the rest of the way in, the door shutting with a click behind her.
“Great job, asshole,” I mutter, because of coursethosewords come out just fine, then let myself in.
I’m early to dinner, but that’s nothing new. Early is on time; on time is late. The Las Vegas Lights’ coach is also there, and he grins knowingly at me from where he stands in front of the closed banquet room doors.
“Coach Thicke,” he says, striding toward me for a handshake.
“Coach Brenson,” I answer, gripping his hand.
“Nice to finally meet you,” he continues. “Been watching what you’re doing down there.”
“Thanks. And, same,” I tell him.
“Will you be mad if I admit I’ve got my eye on some of your players?”
I raise a brow. “Yes.”
He laughs, but it’s too brash and loud.Asshole.“Just kidding with you.”
“Are you?” I cock my head and study him.
The blunt response seems to catch him off guard, and his smile slips for the briefest of moments. “Of course. Your work on the collegiate level is legendary. Without your coaching, I’m not sure pro rugby would be at the level it is.”
I know he’s blowing smoke up my ass to make up for the earlier comment, but I roll with it. No need to stir drama with a fellow coach; we have enough of a hill to climb as it is. “Legendary is a bit much, Brenson. But we need a better pipeline – we need more colleges playing and we need to engage more with the community leagues. That’s where we pick the kids up from soccer and football.”
Brenson rubs his jaw and assesses me. “Seems you’ve got it all figured out.”
I chuckle. “It sounds good, sure. Executing is a whole different story.”
Ansel and Lennox appear, both dressed in slacks and button-downs, same as me. My trusty khakis got a reprieve this evening; we may be a bunch of hooligans having dinner together, but we’re having it at the Fontainebleau.
I turn to make introductions, but Brenson is ahead of me, smiling and glad-handing the men before I can say a word. Happily, neither of them seems inclined to tolerate much more of him, and players from both teams are appearing and milling in the hallway.
The doors open, and the men stream in without waiting for instructions. I give it a bit longer, not quite ready to go in.
And…maybe I’m waiting on Sam. I realized way back at the Atlanta airport that she was the only other woman besides Neesha to come, and I don’t like the idea of her surrounded by a bunch of ruggers I don’t know.
Moments later, she rounds the corner with Neesha, and I nearly swallow my tongue. She’s in a yellow knee-length dress that seems more gauze than actual fabric, far more of her tanned skin on display than normal. Her hair cascades down her shoulders, out of its ponytail and delivering a gut-punch with memories of the way it spilled across my pillow.
Her gaze finds mine immediately, and her stride falters. It’s subtle; I’m almost certainly the only one who notices. Exactly like I’m the only one who notices a lot of things about her. Even from here, I see the way her shoulders rise with tension. The way she forces them down and back, a nervous tell that’s as familiar to me as my own face. And when she laughs at something Neesha says, I know it’s forced.
She’s more on edge than usual.
I greet the women with a warm smile. “Good to see you both.”
Neesha smiles back. “I’m just glad to have another woman with me on the road.” She waves a finger up and down. “And don’t you clean up nice, Coach. I was beginning to think you didn’t own anything other than khakis and the occasional track pant.”
I grin wryly. “Close.”
“Fewer clothes just mean fewer decisions,” Sam says, gracing me with the quickest of glances.
“If you say so.” Neesha rolls her eyes and smiles playfully.
