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“Move it, Mitchell!” I bellow, scowling at the familiar form of a runner meandering toward me.

My lips fight the temptation to curve into a self-serving smirk when a familiar pair of chocolate brown eyes drift from the path ahead and lock onto my clearly impatient stance. Even without her knitted brows and lips pulled into a frustrated frown, I know she’s angry. At me.

“Let’s go!” I yell crossly, clapping my hands louder than before and ignoring the disapproving glances from the crowd milling around on the golf course turned cross country course for a day.

As assistant coach to the university’s team, I think I’m allowed to shout at my runners any way I want. Anything to make them move faster. More specifically, the stubborn thorn in my side since day one.

Juniper Mitchell.

My ego inflates, believing it found the key to push the best runner faster. But my heart falters for a fraction of a second when I notice conflict brewing in her eyes.

Even though we met only three months ago, I know what she’s thinking. To stop running right now would be a huge, “ Fuck you, Dash. You’re not the boss of me, so stop yelling.” But the super stubborn, competitive streak in her won’t allow her to sink that low. I’m pretty sure she would rather viciously claw out my eyes than throw a race. Even a charity fun run.

“Go, Juni!” screams a familiar voice next to me. “You got this, girl!”

I roll my eyes and grunt in frustration as Juni silently runs past us. Her eyes concentrating on the trail in front of her. Her naturally tan skin flush from the first mile and the unusually warm October day. Her long black hair pulled back into a ponytail bounces in rhythm with her pace.

Glancing at the timer on my phone, I grumble under my breath at the unimpressive numbers.

“You’re a moron,” the source of the high-pitched shriek scoffs, interrupting my search for other members of the team among the onslaught of runners.

“Excuse me?” My head whips to the side to stare dumbfounded at Daphne Brooks, a freshman runner sidelined for a few races for a minor injury.

The smug smile she wears widens the longer I stand in silence.

“Everyone knows you have a crush on Juni,” she answers simply, looking over my shoulder and cheering loudly. “Go, Auds! Looking good!”

“Good job, Audrey,” I blubber out, silently cursing the diminutive blonde for distracting me from my job, as the remaining three members pass us.

Without another word or glance, Daphne turns and heads toward the next checkpoint, knowing I’ll follow. She probably believes she has the upper hand, expecting me to badger her with endless questions about my alleged crush. Well, joke’s on her because I learned a lesson or two from growing up with three overdramatic and gossipy sisters.

I stopped caring about what everyone thinks they know about me a long time ago. And I don’t have time for middle-school shenanigans when I have a job to do and a residency to complete.

My mind proudly pats my mature ego when Daphne halts suddenly and I stop within a centimeter from crashing into her.

The young runner narrows her blue eyes and scowls at my inattention. “Just ask her out, Dash. She’ll say yes.”

“Really?”

God, I’m a fucking idiot.

I braced myself for the hushed whispers of “he’s so hot” or “how is he single” when I signed on as the assistant coach with a focus on the women’s team. I was all ready to ignore the conspiratorial giggles of soothing my bruised ego and healing my foot through oral ministrations and hands-on therapy.

Except my preparation was for nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, one or two members from the men’s team asked about my preferences, but not even a flirty wink from the other team.

For a millisecond, I suspected Daphne harbored a small crush, considering we saw each other outside of practice for one-on-one physical therapy sessions. Mistaking her rapid blinking for awkward flirting, I got as far as, “Look, Daphne,” when she indignantly interrupted, “I have something in my eye, you dumbass.”

Later, she informed me she’s exploring her sexuality but knows with absolute certainty she’s not into “silver foxes.” When my wounded pride pointed out the nine-year age gap between us, she thoughtfully replied, “Hmph. I figured you were well into your forties.”

She’s been an annoying little shit ever since.

“Ha!” Daphne exclaims with a self-congratulatory smirk before whirling around and continuing to the checkpoint. “I knew it! You like Juni!”

“No, I don’t!” I snap back a little more defensively than I like – or at all.

Even a blind man would notice and appreciate her natural beauty and easygoing nature. Sure, I might have hid an occasional erection whenever she pranced around in thin running shorts and a sports bra. I highly doubt I’ve been the only one based on the dozens of stolen glances from the average heterosexual male.

Have I thought about sliding my fingers under the seam of her bra or down the shorts when she returns from a run all hot and sweaty? I’m a typical 27-year-old male with a very healthy sexual appetite. While I’m open to the idea of a one-time hookup with her, my interest is strictly professional – mostly.

“The only thing I’m interested in is why she’s not the lead runner on the team,” I clarify in a more authoritative tone.

Daphne shakes her head as if the answer is obvious and I’m an idiot for even asking. “Because she doesn’t want to be.”

“Why?” I demand, frowning. “I don’t get why she’s wasting her potential to settle for second or third place when she could be winning.”

“What if she doesn’t want to win?”

My feet stop momentarily, and my mind spins confusingly. Why would a four-year all-state runner from Nebraska not want to win? And why would she choose an Illinois university known for its prestigious arts program than a full-ride scholarship to a more acclaimed college with an equally acclaimed cross country team?

Doesn’t want to win? Everyone wants to win. Well, everyone should want that. I mentally scoff at the people that like to play for fun. Because where’s the fun in losing?

“Huh? Why not?” My long strides easily catch up to the annoying freshman.

“You really are a moron,” Daphne replies with a dramatic sigh. “She just wants to run.”

“She should be winning,” I push. “Doesn’t it piss you off she’s holding back? That she’s wasting her potential?”

“Because she was some all-star runner in high school?”

“So, you know who she is and what she can do!”

“For fuck’s sake, Dash,” she curses exasperatedly. “None of us really care where she places since we’re not exactly dominating the division. We’re here because we like to run.”

Like to run, my ass. Should be here to win, I think to myself.

“Also, don’t we all have the potential to win?” Daphne asks, weaving through the crowd and stopping near the trail, where lead runners will cross shortly. “But yet I’m not hearing you yell extra hard at anyone else. Talk about having a favorite.”

“She’s not my favorite,” I mutter, pushing up the long sleeves of my navy t-shirt.

“So, why aren’t you shouting at Tabby? She’s the one who has been finishing in the top twenty this season,” she presses, glancing at her watch before swinging her gaze to the empty path. “You not paying attention to Eden part of your master strategy to help her improve her PR?”

How is this girl so intuitive when she’s not sure China is a country? I wonder sourly before a smidgen of guilt slips through. Is Eden the ginger who hums during runs? Or the one who wears the hideous neon green shoes?

Words of denial sit on the tip of my tongue when Daphne claps enthusiastically and I narrow my eyes to see a familiar form approach.

“Let’s go, Eden!” she shrieks, bouncing up and down in place. “You got this!”

“Good job, Eden!” I shout, watching bright green blurs skim over the dark green course. “Nice pace. Keep it up.”

Wait a second, my mind processes slowly. Eden. Pace. Since when did the number five or six runner keep pace with Juni? Answer: never.

Either Juni decided to “fuck it” and walk or Eden picked up her pace, risking the chance of burning out toward the end. But when the tall, lanky brunette sprints past us, her stride looks strong and her breathing sounds fine. In short, she’s not struggling.

“Where’s Juni?” I frown, desperately tamping down the dread clawing through my stomach, as I search among the long line of more runners nearing us.

Is she injured? Did I push her too far? Shit! Where the fuck is she?

“Gone,” Daphne replies far too cheerfully and not entirely helpful before yelling out Audrey’s name.

Shouts and whistles from other spectators interrupt my further interrogation. I struggle to even focus on encouraging the rest of the team when my mind demands to know what happened to Juni.

My jaw clenches tightly at the thought, because this is a job. I’m the fucking coach. Well, technically the assistant coach. The entire team is my responsibility, not some extraordinary athlete from my home state.

Damn her for distracting me.

“Where is she?” I ask, glancing over the once-continuous line break into sporadic clumps of two or three runners.

“With Tabby,” Daphne replies easily. “They’re probably finishing the race now.”

“What?” My head whips around to take in her smug expression. With my hands tightly curled into fists and resting on my hips and despite my furious glare hidden behind my sunglasses, anyone within a ten-foot radius could probably feel my anger and annoyance vibrate through my solid posture.

What kills me is the sassy, petite freshman not batting an eye or even looking the slightest bit intimidated. When her watch chirps, her gaze drops for a second before resuming our staring contest with a bright smile.

“She and Tabby just finished,” Daphne reports, lightly tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the watch screen a few times. “Landed in ninth and tenth place.”

The anger simmering inside immediately erupts into an all-consuming rage. The clench in my jaw tightens even more, holding back a barrage of words I will immediately regret.

One, where the fuck is the modicum of respect I deserve for pushing these girls? With the amount of talent and camaraderie, the team shouldn’t settle for sitting in the middle of the division. They could be in the top three if they took this seriously and stopped acting like a bunch of junior high students.

Two, the stunt Juniper just pulled proves she’s more than capable of winning. If she would stop dicking around for a second or two, she could crush the competition like she did in high school. Where the hell is her drive? Her instincts? The fire to win?

Three, with twenty-one other teams here, I expected Tabby to finish somewhere in the top twenty and Juni top thirty. While finishing ninth and tenth is amazing, pushing that hard without proper training could lead to serious injury.

I frown at the last point, instinctively shifting my balance from one foot to the other.

“How do you know this?” I ask evenly after sucking in a deep breath.

Daphne pops a shoulder, either ignoring or not noticing my barely controlled wrath. I suspect the latter. “A few of her friends are here and stayed near the chute, and one texted me.”

“Fuck me,” I mutter, incredibly tempted to ignore the disapproving looks from a few nearby parents. Except I could be easily associated with the team, considering I’m wearing a navy t-shirt with the university name printed across the chest and my last name on the back.

Daphne is basically a walking billboard in the school branded warm-up suit of navy joggers and matching hoodie.

Hoping my sunglasses hide my annoyance, I unlock my jaw to soften my tight facial expression before giving the offending spectators a slight nod. I pray they interpret the silent gesture as an apology because I’d like to avoid a reprimand three months into a new job.

“What the hell is she thinking?” I grumble more to myself.

“Have you ever asked her?”

“I’m not asking her out,” I reply flatly, exasperated at the thought of the team discussing my social life.

“Psssh,” she tsks, waving her hand around as if to bat away a pesky fly. “I know you’ll never ask her out because you’re too much of a chickenshit. No, dummy, I’m asking if you ever asked her what she’s thinking?”

“What?”

Daphne rolls her eyes before answering with an enormous sigh. “You’re coaching her based on her stats and achievements. You haven’t once talked to her or ask about her goals.”

I open my mouth to argue when she plows ahead, shaking her head for emphasis. “Talking to her is nowhere the same as telling her what she’s doing wrong and what she should be doing.”

My lips slam shut as my mind processes the distinct difference. Slivers of shame and confusion tread through me as I realize she’s right. Right about everything minus the crush.

“Like I said, moron,” Daphne harrumphs, accepting my silence as the end of the discussion, and literally bounces away.

I stand still, feeling oddly disorientated, and watch her disappear into the crowd heading toward the finish area.

What the hell just happened?