Page 84 of The No Try Zone
“Sam.”
She straightens, pulling the delicate white lace up her legs as she goes.
Honestly. Her beauty is downright devastating. Standing there in panties and nothing else, her body strong and lithe, every muscle worked and used to keep herself and others healthy and safe. Disheveled hair still out of its ponytail, falling down to the tips of her nipples. I want her. I love her.
And I am the absolute worst thing that could possibly happen to her.
When I don’t speak, she scoffs and shakes her head, bending back down to pluck her sports bra off the floor. I stay silent while she pulls the rest of her clothes on, not trusting myself to speak. Because if I said anything, I’m pretty sure it would start with the wordIand end withlove you. Three words that she doesn’t deserve to be burdened by. Not by me. I’m the asshole who’s too scared to fight for her.
She finishes dressing, even managing to find the elastic that I pulled out of her hair and securing it back into its usual ponytail. As she steps into her shoes, she meets my eyes one last time. Everything in me screams to speak, to open my mouth and let the words come out and face the consequences, everything else be damned. I almost do it.
But that panic roars right back as I open my mouth, stopping my breath and pinning me in place.
And the light that’s always in her eyes? I watch it dim. I wet my lips and try to speak again. To say literally anything. She doesn’t give me the time I need, turning to leave, ponytail swishing. I let her go, like the coward I am.
The next morningI stop at my usual coffee shop on the way into work, desperately needing the extra boost.
Chris sees me and nods as I take my place in line. I’ve finally convinced him that he can’t make my order in front of a line; it’s not nice, and that isnotthe kind of karma I’m chasing. I’m doing enough shady shit on my own.
He slides the black drip toward me as I ready to pay. “Granite have been on a winning streak,” he says. “They look good! Best I’ve seen this early in the season.”
I pocket my phone and grab the coffee. “Thanks.”
“Seriously, Coach. You’re doing great.” He throws me a thumbs-up as I turn to leave. “Let me know if you ever have open try-outs.”
I take a moment to look at his physique. Tall and on the muscular side, but slim. “Forward?”
He grins. “Winger.”
I consider him. “Not on my team. But who knows?”
His mouth pops open. “Are you saying there’s a chance?”
I laugh. “Chris, it’s professional rugby in America. There’salwaysa chance. I’ll let you know when we’re holding walk-on try-outs.”
He beams. “Wow, Coach. Thanks!”
Outside, I watch as a trio of birds swoop through the air. And wouldn’t you know, none of them crap on my car. Or me.
I snort. The day’s young. Who knows what kind of mess awaits me? At headquarters, Ryan and Elliott come to my office to talk strategy for our away game against the New England Riot later this week. They’ve changed up their roster and we have film to review. Two hours later, I still need more coffee, so I walk down the hall to the cafe and face the machine.
“Never see you in here, Coach.” The Scottish burr gives him away even before he comes into view.
“Lennox. Do you know how to make this thing work?” I gesture at the complicated-looking contraption in front of me.
“Sure,” he answers. “This is the eighth wonder of the world, Coach. You want a cappuccino? Latte? Iced coffee? Americano? You pick your drink, then pick the type of milk – I asked them to add oat, I couldn’t believe all they had was regular milk – then pick your syrup, step back, and let it work.”
“Nice work on the oat milk,” I say. “But I just want some black coffee this time.”
He scoffs. “No way. We’ll try something different.”
Against all my protests, he starts punching buttons, then puts a mug beneath it before hitting Start. “Just wait,” he says, a smug look on his face. “I’ll turn you into a fan before you know it.”
I sincerely doubt it, but I don’t bother arguing with him. When he hands me the drink, complete with a white froth on top and some cinnamon he insisted on shaking on top –“it’s the aesthetic, Coach!”– I hold it in front of me, staring. “I wanted a black coffee.”
“This is a macchiato. It’s better.” He folds his arms and waits, an expectant look on his face.
With a sigh, I bring the mug to my lips and take a tentative sip.
