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He’s a wide receiver, damn fast on the field. A pleasure to watch, actually.
A real pleasure.
My lips quirk as I check out his fine ass. He’s bending down, collecting balls and muttering to himself. Damn, I love football pants. Those tights don’t hide a thing, and his ass looks firm enough to ping a penny off it.
Shit, I should really stop ogling the guy, but I let my gaze linger for just a second longer, kind of fascinated as he stands up, hurling the ball with a loud yell. It fires through the air toward me and I stay put, watching it bounce a few times and roll to a stop by my feet.
He jerks still, blinking at me before his eyebrows dip into a sharp frown.
McAvoy.
That’s his name. Something McAvoy.
I’ve heard Dad telling Mom about him before. He’s got a bad attitude and sometimes comes to practices hungover. It pisses Dad off so much, but my father is determined to help this guy.
“Although I don’t even know if I can, Zuri. He’s a wreck.” Dad slapped the counter and sighed. “But he’s such a damn good player. He’s got so much potential. I just wish I could find a way to reach him.”
“You do your best with all those players, baby. You’re a good coach.”
Dad appreciated Mom’s compliment. He pulled her close, then kissed her long enough that my nose wrinkled and I had to stop eavesdropping. My parents are way too affectionate at home. I seriously don’t need to see that.
I bend down to grab the ball, that familiar pain shooting up my thigh. It makes me flinch and I grit my teeth, trying not to let it show.
Popping back up with the football in my hand, just the way Daddy showed me, I point at Mr. Attitude and yell, “Go long!”
He gives me a skeptical frown, walking closer to me.
Idiot.
Firing the ball through the air, I enjoy his shocked surprise when he has to spin and haul ass down the field. He ends up missing my beautiful pass, and I grin in triumph as he chases the ball and struggles to gather it against him.
Turning around with a stunned headshake, he fires the ball back to me.
I watch its trajectory and move to my left, catching the ball easily.
My leg complains but I manage to hide it, giving this guy a pointed look before repeating myself. “Go long.”
He actually believes me this time and watches the ball carefully, easily catching it and hugging it to his chest as he runs back toward me.
He’s a few yards away when he throws the ball back to me, almost like he’s testing my reflexes or something.
Thankfully, the accident didn’t steal everything, and I catch the ball without any effort.
I’ve been holding a football since before I could walk. It feels so familiar in my hands. I rub my thumb over the cowhide leather before throwing it back to the man with the very fine ass.
I wonder what year he’s in. I could probably find out, but?—
“Who are you?” He gives me a curious frown.
My lips grow into a slow smile. “The name’s Nylah. And you are?”
“Carson.” He points to himself.
That’s right, Carson McAvoy. I’m never going to forget that again. I’m pretty good with names generally, and now that I’m interacting with the guy, it’ll be permanently burned into my brain.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just waiting.” I shrug, not really wanting to give away the fact that I’m the coach’s daughter. Ever since that wolf whistle, the guys on the team seem to recoil when they find out who I am.