Coach's Daughter
“You moved,” I point out, barely checking the urge to sink my fingers into her hair. Or pull her into my arms, kiss her. Jesus, I have no idea what I’d do first—only that I need to touch this girl. “I asked you to stay put.”
“I rarely do what I’m told.” She chews her lip a moment, considering me. “Listen, thank you for helping me out tonight, but the way you’re looking at me? Like you’re already picking out our china pattern? It’s not going to happen. I don’t date basketball players. It’s a personal rule and I never, ever break it.”
Chapter Two
Greta
Lord, he’s even more attractive in person.
Deep brown hair, finger brushed. Tan, muscled skin. Stubborn jawline.
Too bad I’ll never get closer than this. Fine, I let him get away with squeezing my hips a few minutes ago. Fine, I loved the hard contours of his chest against my back, how effortlessly he scooped me up off the ground. How he came to my assistance and didn’t ask for proof of my claim. He just stepped in, no questions asked, and joined my side of the battle. I already like way too many things about him and I wish I didn’t. If he was a jerk, that would make blowing him off a lot easier.
I don’t date basketball players. It’s a personal rule and I never, ever break it.
My statement lingers in the air between us, his eyebrows drawing together over shrewd baby blues. Do I know who he is? A pretty funny question, since my father has been dying to sign the Silent Assassin since he entered the league ten years ago. The point guard standing in front of me is already a legend at age twenty-nine, his court awareness unparalleled, his passing precision celebrated by sports journalists and commentators non-stop on ESPN. He’s the universal dude crush of every man in this club—and he doesn’t even seem to realize it. Or even be aware of the people snapping his image on their phones. He’s only looking at me.
“Are you here alone?”
Briefly, I glance past him, watching my friends find glory on the dance floor. “I’m here with some of my classmates. This is more their scene than mine.”
“I can relate. You’re a college student?”
I hum an affirmative response. “Too young for you?”
“I don’t have an age range for women I date, because I don’t. Date. Whatever age you are is the right one.” A muscle ticks in his cheek, his hand gripping the edge of the bar beside me, and shoot, I liked that response way too much. “What is your reason for not dating basketball players?” He leans in to ask the question, his breath stirring the hair resting on my neck. “Maybe it doesn’t apply to me.”
“It applies to all of you, I’m afraid,” I say, accepting my water from the bartender. “Professional athletes are given every little thing they want. Money, cars, women, influence. They get bored with a toy, they buy a new one. I’m not a toy and I never will be.”
Dang it, he’s actually listening to me. Patiently, quietly, like his nickname suggests he would. He’s not just waiting for his turn to speak, he’s taking what I say and processing it, that line of concentration deepening between his brows. “I don’t disagree with anything you’re saying, but—”
“But you’re not like that?” I take a long sip of the icy cold water, set it down. “A lot of women who’ve dated basketball players have heard that line before. I’m going to be smart and learn from them. I’m not going to make the same mistakes.”
For several seconds, he remains silent. Then, “What is your name?”
I hold my hand out for a shake. “Greta Welding. Nice to meet you.”
He slides our palms together, satisfaction making his eyes bluer when I gasp over the jolt of electricity. “Welding. You’re not related to…”
“Your new coach.” We’re still holding hands. I can’t seem to let go. “That’s right. I’m his daughter.”
“Unfortunately for me, huh?” he murmurs, running his thumb in a circle around the inside of my palm, his attention on me rapt. “You might be young, but you’ve been in this environment long enough to see some bad behavior from the players, is that right? Now you’ve lumped me in with everyone who came before.”
“That’s right,” I manage, with far less confidence than before.
Because he’s closer now and he smells like a fistful of mint sprigs, his eyes tracing down the neckline of my tank top with such ownership, my nipples stiffen and a wave of heat travels up the back of my neck.
“It’s not your f-fault, per-se…” Oh lord, I detect a ramble starting. “You’ve been handed everything a man could ever want. Why work for a woman when there are hundreds waiting in the wings?”