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“We’re going to get hurt, and then I’ll be pissed,” I mutter, and Rafael’s eyes flit to mine before dragging down my body quickly. His eyes shoot back up to my face. Shaking his head, he winds an arm behind me, covering my shoulder blades. His fingers dig into my skin as he hoists me an inch off the ground and drags us to the end of the field. My eyes are wide as this hulk of a man carries both of our weight with only one of his legs in full use. When we get to the end, we’re greeted by two big buckets of water being tossed over our heads.
My nostrils flare as I try to suck in enough air, working to calm my breathing as I push the soaking strands out of my eyes.
Rafael bends over, quickly working to undo our straps, my knee feeling like gelatine when we’re finally separated.
I shake out my heavy limbs, and heat creeps up my neck. My eyes find Rafael’s, but instead of settling on my face, they’re on my chest.
I look down and realise I’ve made a grave mistake.
“Bloody hell,” I groan.
At precisely the worst moment, a breeze skates across the field, chilling me to my core.
I can see a dark cloud in my periphery, a storm likely on the horizon.
My nipples pebble further, and if you couldn’t see them through my soaked white sports bra, you sure as hell can now.
My not-so-subtle teammates start a chorus of catcalls, whistling and laughing at my expense. Normally, I’d brush it off—after all, it’s just their usual nonsense, but it’s not just anyone standing in front of me this time. It’s Rafael, our new coach, the one my dad is so sure will help me land a spot on the Olympic team. And suddenly, their teasing feels a lot less funny.
I should really remember that the next time I’m thinking about his tight ass.
Rafael’s eyes narrow, glaring at each of his teammates, several of whom are outwardly staring at my tits.
He grunts, whipping his shirt off over his head and tugging it over mine. I struggle under his hands. “What”—I spit, my hair stuck in my mouth—“the hell!”
CHAPTER NINE
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2
When I finally get myshirt over Elise’s head, she’s glaring at me with such fierceness, I can practically see her ice-blue eyes lit with flames behind them.
Her shrill voice is like an ice pick to my eardrums, but I don’t give a damn.
“What, Elise? Did you want to stand here with your tits out for everyone to see?” I bark out, my tone not any nicer than hers.
She scoffs, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. “They’rejustbreasts, Rafael.”
She says that, and yet, her cheeks were flaming the moment thosebreastswere getting attention from everyone around us. Though I don’t bother pointing that out. Almost like I sure ashell won’t be pointing out the fact that they most certainly arenot“just breasts.” Elise has an incredible rack, but as a grown-ass man who’s over a decade older than her, I have to continually remind myself that she’s also my coach’s daughter.
Fucking Christ.You’d think I’d have got that through my head by now, but I can’t seem to. Not when Elise is the most annoyingly stunning human I’ve ever met in my life.
Nakoa’s booming voice cuts through the chatter on the field. “Elise, what’re we playing?” he calls over to her, a small grin on his face.
“Football,” I answer at the same time as she answers, “Rugby.”
Her eyes cut to me, narrowing slightly. “He didn’t ask you,Coach.” She uses that word like it’s a threat, and every time, it makes my dick jump to attention for her.
Again, my teammates manage to remind me how much more slowly men grow up compared to women when we’re surrounded by their whistled responses.
I roll my eyes. “You sure you want to do that, princess? Rugby’s a lot more physical than football,” I remind her.
She exhales sharply, her eyes narrowing slightly, but maintains the smug smirk she wears so often. “I’m sure,unless”—her eyes flit to mine with mischief—“you’re afraid of losing to a bunch of women?”
Thankfully, her voice isn’t loud enough for anyone besides me to hear because if it were, I’d be fearing for my life right now. Truthfully, these women scare me.
“You know what? Rugby soundsgreat.” The thought of playing football again makes me nauseous, so despite her intentions, this is to my benefit. My eyes coast over the players on the field, and with a clap of my hands, I announce the last part of the day. “We’re playing rugby.”
An eerie chill falls over the group as moods shift. The usually cocky, sometimes tone-deaf men are standing with their mouths ajar. Meanwhile, the women are grinning, their eyes darting to one another as if coming up with a hidden plan with not a single word spoken. Like I said, the women are terrifying.