Coach's Daughter

I’m up to the challenge of winning Greta.

Without a doubt, it’s the worthiest one I’ve faced.

That’s why at this very moment, sitting across from her father in the conference room, I know what I have to do in order to make her mine. In order to maintain my sanity. I’ve never been pushed to do something so corrupt or unethical. Never in my life. Honesty and hard work are my modus operandi. But it’s been mere hours since I tasted her and I’m already steadily losing my mind. I haven’t shaved. Haven’t eaten. I’m looking a man in the eye while my cock is hard for his daughter and I don’t give a good goddamn. I need her. Now.

“Well, now, Eric. I don’t mind admitting I’ve been trying to get you in purple and gold since your rookie year.” Rick Welding turns the contract to face me, nodding at me, my agent. Also sitting in the room is the general manager of the team and several executives. “I’m thrilled we’ve finally done it with this Denver trade.”

“Me too. I’m going to do big things in LA.” I turn to look out through the glass wall that overlooks to arena, but I’m really only seeing Greta’s beautiful face. “This time next year, there will be a new banner to hang.”

Rick booms a laugh, slaps a hand down on the table. “There’s that casual confidence that makes you so unique.” He passes me a pen and reaches over to slap the shoulder of his general manager. “We’re pleased as hell to welcome the Silent Assassin into the fold, let me tell you. We—”

“Can we have a minute alone?” I say to the room in general, without taking my attention off Rick. I’m usually a good judge of character and I’ve always liked him well enough, based on our brief meetings. But if he’s the reason Greta is so jaded when it comes to athletes, he might be my new least favorite person. Unless he says yes to what I’m about to propose. “Just something between player and coach.”

Everyone looks thrown off by the request, but the executives, GM and my agent all comply, getting to their feet and leaving the room, closing the door behind them. Coach Rick stares across the table at my curiously, smile intact.

“I know what this is about,” Rick says, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re worried about clashing with some of the bigger personalities on the team—”

“It’s about your daughter.”

The older man does a double take. “My daughter? Greta?”

I nod slowly. This should feel a lot more wrong than it does. But I had her in my arms last night and my heart, my gut, my soul knows she’s supposed to be mine. I knew it before I even touched her. There isn’t a law or code between men that I wouldn’t break to make her mine in every sense of the word. “She’s now a condition of the contract.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

Gone is the jovial middle-aged man. Sitting in front of me now is an old, battle-worn bastard who knows how to cut through bullshit and get down to brass tacks. “It means, if you want me to play for LA, she’s part of the deal. She wears my ring.” My cock pulses, the weight of my balls brutal. There’s a buzzing in my skull, too, a tick behind my eye. Am I getting physically sick without her? “And I get everything that comes with her being my wife,” I finish thickly.

He sputters. “I can’t just give you my daughter.”

“You will if you want the banner.”

Rick leans back in his chair, folding his fingers together on his broad stomach, considering me closely. “If you want Greta to be your wife, you must have met her. And if you’ve met her, you know she ain’t easy to convince of anything.”

I say nothing. I just wait.

This man has been hounding me for years to consider a trade. I could ask him for real estate on the moon and he’d make it happen. I’m beginning to feel guilty for cornering Greta like this, but I shove it into a box and slap a lid on top. Like I said, I learned from age one that the only way to win is to fight. To find the means of making something happen and commit.

Tongue tucked into his cheek, Rick picks up his phone where it’s resting on the table. He taps the screen a few times and holds the device to his ear. “Greta.” Even the tinny, muffled version of her voice through the speaker turns my blood into a river of fire. “Would you mind coming in to the main conference room?”

He listens a moment and hangs up.

“She’s here,” I say, my attention already on the door, fists balling up in my pockets. “Where?”