Page 9 of Hometown Halftime

I brace my hands against his chest, his body solid beneath mine. My hands tingle with his big, firm pecs underneath them. Damn it, this man is built.

My eyes shoot up to the ceiling, preventing a further calamity by seeing his all too handsome face.

It’s the face that stopped me dead in my tracks when he walked into the meeting with the AD the other day. His dark blond hair was styled in a perfectly disheveled way, pushed away from his face. Then I had to deal with his brown eyes that sparkled—fucking sparkled—and a jawline that could’ve been borrowed from a Hollywood leading man in a black and white movie. And if that wasn’t enough, he had shoulders that tested the strength of the stitching of his shirt.

But this time, I look down to see he’s wearing glasses. Black, slutty, square fucking glasses.

That’s my kryptonite.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say under my breath.

Riley lets out a chuckle, one hand coming up to my arm, completely unaware of my internal meltdown.

“I know rugby is a contact sport and all, but I didn’t realize I’d have so much contact with my fellow coach.”

I close my eyes. “Oh, my God.”

I shift, pushing myself up enough to create some space, and regret it because it just gets worse. The top of my thigh is now resting on his balls, and I feel like I’m going to implode.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Oh, I am,” he says smugly. “Best first day at a job I’ve had in a while.”

That almost pulls a smile out of me, which is deeply irritating.

“Shut up,” I say, pushing off him fully and getting to my feet, brushing off my joggers in a completely useless attempt to recover some dignity.

He sits up, grabbing a jersey off the floor and shakes it out before adding it to a pile. “Need some help?”

“I’ve got it,” I snap, already crouching down to gather the rest.

He ignores my answer and drops down beside me, anyway, picking up jerseys right alongside me.

I glance over at him, watching the way he folds one, calm and focused. He doesn’t look nervous at all.

Must be nice.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, as if he just read my thoughts.

I pause, a jersey halfway to the pile. “About what?”

He looks at me, one brow lifting. “About meeting the team.”

I exhale, setting the jersey down. “A little.”

He smiles, still folding. “Don’t worry, the team is going to be great, and you’ll be awesome. They’re probably a little nervous, too, I bet.”

The confidence in his voice is annoying. And maybe a little reassuring.

I grab the last of the jerseys. “So are inspirational speeches your thing?”

He stands beside me, brushing his hands together. “Maybe? Guess I’ve been in enough locker rooms that all those half-time pep talks rubbed off.”

“Great,” I say lightly. “You’re officially in charge of speeches.”

I turn toward the door, hugging the stack of jerseys to my chest.

“Come on, Coach Weston.” I toss over my shoulder. “Try to stay on your feet this time.”