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CHAPTER 3

TWENTY-THREE POINTS PER GAME

SAGE

As she killed the engine of her ancient, beat-to-shit Corolla, Sage flipped down the visor and checked herself in the warped mirror. She only had about thirty seconds before the August heat reduced her to a gooey puddle on the seat.

Her eyes darted over her face, checking the minimal makeup she’d applied that morning. Concealer covered the zit on her left temple. Mascara somehow survived the malfunctioning AC and hadn’t melted down her face. Her cheeks were doing that thing where they turned a vibrant fuchsia the second the temperature got over 85 degrees. The high ponytail she’d pulled her hair into was still resolutely in place, with only a few flyaway hairs fanning out around her head.

She glanced down, picking a piece of lint from the soft gray t-shirt she wore with a pair of tailored blue slacks. Dusky blue , Brinley had called the color when Sage had video-called her that morning for fashion advice.

Sage had no issue with her personal style — athletic gear and jeans with the exception of a few dresses she pulled out occasionally — but figured that Brinley, who dressed professionally on a daily basis, was a better judge of appropriate interview attire. Well, it wasn’t exactly an interview , since she already had the internship, but she still thought she should put effort into the initial meeting with the coaches.

It was Brinley’s idea to pair the blue slacks and blazer their mom had bought Sage for graduation with a nicer t-shirt, saying it was “more your vibe, Sage.” She appreciated the consideration.

She reached over into the passenger seat, grabbing the matching blazer and a worn canvas bag that had served as her purse for the past eight years of her life. Stepping out, she squinted against the bright sun as she walked across the parking lot and into the Humphrey Center.

She gave Eckbert the customary pat, and then wriggled her long arms into her blazer as soon as she met the freezing air inside.

Her shoes made an obnoxious clicking sound against the brick floor as she walked down the long hallway that stretched the length of the building, and she scowled down at her feet. She honestly felt silly in the nude ballet flats, but her sister had insisted that Nikes were not appropriate for a job interview.

When she reached a pair of frosted glass doors she paused, reading the neatly stenciled letters: Southeastern University Athletic Department .

Exhaling loudly through her nose, Sage pulled the door open, making a conscious effort to project confidence in her movements and expression.

The girl sitting at the front desk beamed at her. “Hi there! How can I help you today?”

“I’m here for a meeting with Coach Hughes,” Sage replied, trying to smile back.

“And you are?”

“Sage Fogerty.”

“Right!” Picking up the corded office phone beside her, she dialed in a series of tonal beeps. “Hello sir. Yes, your one o’clock is here. Miss Fogerty.” A pause. “Mmhm. I’ll send her right back.” She hung up the phone with a click, and pointed down a hallway behind her. “He’s ready for you. He’s in office 1113 down on the left.”

Again, Sage tried to smile. “Thanks,” she said, turning and walking in the direction the young woman had pointed in. She scanned the nameplates as she passed. Football, softball, soccer, swimming, tennis, volleyball…and basketball.

There it was. Room 1113. And in gold lettering:

David Hughes

Men’s Basketball

Head Coach

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and knocked three times.

“Come in,” a low voice called, muffled through the door.

Sage turned the handle, pushed the door open, and walked inside.

The first thing she noticed was that the walls were empty. Two generic, cushioned chairs sat in front of the wide, wooden desk that was covered with stacks of papers, boxes, at least one coaching board, and three different coffee mugs beside the open laptop computer.

An older man sat in a chair off to the side of the desk. He had a shaved head that looked like it concealed hair loss, white eyebrows furrowed to match a frown, and wiry arms crossed over his chest. Based on the team-branded polo, he was a member of the coaching staff.

And then, behind the desk there was —

What the actual fuck?

Standing there, looking down at her with his mouth open and eyes wide under thick brows, was the beautiful man from the bar.

There he was, in all his over-six-feet-tall glory, a green Southeastern hat pulled down over his dark hair, and…why was he also wearing a team-branded shirt? Why did it say Eagles Basketball right there on his chest?

Her eyes darted up to meet his.

It was definitely him, and based on the way he looked at her, he remembered her too.

A throat cleared. “So,” a voice spoke, breaking the silence that had filled the room ever since she stepped inside. “You must be Miss Fogerty.”

Sage blinked, tearing her eyes away from the man behind the desk and looking back at the older man, who stood there with his hand extended towards her. She didn’t miss the unimpressed glance he sent to his counterpart, who was still frozen in place.

This was a shit show.

She shook her head and forced a smile. “Hi. Sorry.” She took his hand, shaking it twice before letting go. “Please call me Sage.”

The man gave her a nod. “Coach Dixon. Assistant. Thanks for coming in.” He cleared his throat again, looking over at the desk. “Coach?” The question was forceful, and Sage tried to hide her wince.

The tall man seemed to come back into his body. “Right. Have a seat. Please.” He gestured to one of the empty chairs. “I’m Coach Hughes. Or David. Whichever you want.”

Sage sat down, dropping her bag on the floor next to the chair as the two men both returned to their seats.

David — no, Coach Hughes — looked even larger than she remembered, sitting in the chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him. She definitely didn’t let her eyes linger on his exposed forearms and the way his shirt stretched indecently across his chest.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, realizing the room was waiting for her response. “Coach Hughes should be fine,” she finally managed to croak out.

Get your shit together, Sage .

“Can I get you a water?” David was looking at her intently, and based on how his dark eyes flicked back and forth across her face, she suspected he was looking at her flushed cheeks.

She waved off the offer. “No, no thanks. I’ve got my own.” She reached down in her bag, grateful for the distraction, and pulled out her water bottle.

“Good,” he said, and it was like something loosened in his posture as he watched her unscrew the lid and take a long drink.

Willing her face to cool the fuck down, she screwed the lid back on, and returned the bottle to her bag.

“So,” Coach Dixon said. “You’re doing the five year Masters?”

Sage nodded. “Yes.” It was challenging to focus on the actual purpose of their meeting and not the presence of the man she’d fully intended to fuck. Ideally more than once. Focus, Sage. “I considered a few other programs, but ultimately decided I wanted to finish up here.”

“So what’s the endgame? Professional sports? Marketing?” Coach Dixon adjusted the silver-framed glasses that were perched on his nose.

She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the last one. Why did everyone assume that a woman in sports was ultimately angling for a sales job? It brought her right back to her mom, who had taken to sending her at least one article a day about the incredible opportunities in social media marketing for sports. According to her — and the first two articles that Sage had read in an effort to be polite — there were plenty of jobs that not only paid well, but had almost endless upward mobility. And, most importantly to her mom, there were lots of jobs in California.

But she had absolutely no interest in being the one with the phone filming content and capturing the players in candid, potentially viral moments. She didn’t want to be stuck in a press box or selling season tickets.

The terrifying truth was that she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do with her degree yet. All she knew was that she’d spent her whole life in the world of sports and she couldn’t imagine giving that up. How to make a career of it was what she was supposed to figure out this year.

“Still trying to figure that out,” she finally replied.

“You were supposed to work with women’s soccer, right?” David’s voice sent an actual shiver down her spine. That tiny hint of a drawl… fuck .

“I was, but I don’t have an extensive background with the sport, and they were able to find someone who does.” She shifted in her seat.

David leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk in front of him. “Well, our program is definitely at a different place than women’s soccer,” he began, “but I think that we’re building something different this year.”

There was a beat of silence. She looked between David and Coach Dixon, noticing that the older man looked nowhere near as confident as the new head coach.

Coach Dixon fixed his attention on her. “So, Miss Fogerty. What do you know about basketball?”

Her mouth opened before she had a chance to second guess herself. “More than I know about soccer.”

“Are you a fan?” David asked, his eyes appraising her with something new, something different.

“Something like that.”

“What kind of experience with the sport are we talking about?” Coach Dixon looked decidedly unimpressed by her so far.

“I played.” She looked down, noticing her fingers picking at the seam on the side of her slacks. She should have expected they’d ask this. Of course they would fucking ask her.

Stop it . Her fingers stilled.

Coach Dixon made a quiet huffing sound. “Were you any good?”

Sage couldn’t help but exhale a laugh at his question.

Had she been any good at the thing she’d devoted every waking moment of her life to? Had she been any good at the thing she sacrificed friendships and freedom for?

“I was decent,” she said.

“Points per game?” David asked.

Sage exhaled slowly through her nose. “Twenty three.”

His eyes widened. “Average?”

“Yep.”

His eyes dipped down, surveying her body in a way that was calculating. She had to force herself to sit still. “Post?”

“Forward.”

He nodded. Her eyes were drawn to the divot above his upper lip; it was pronounced, almost feminine, so at odds with the dark hair that grew on his face and his sheer mass.

“Rebounds?” He asked.

“Ten.”

“Shooting percentage?”

“Fifty-six percent from the field.”

His brows furrowed, lips pulled into a frown, and he leaned back in his chair, the motion shifting the energy in the small room.

Again, quiet settled over them.

It was Coach Dixon who finally spoke. Leaning forward, he looked at her with obvious confusion. “So why in Heaven’s name didn’t you play college ball?”

It felt like an invisible hand closed around her chest, squeezing and squeezing until her lungs could barely expand enough to take in the air that she needed. Her brain buzzed, a sound filling her ears like the hum of halogen lights, and she dug her fingers into her thighs.

She needed to say something. Hadn’t she gotten good at that? Over and over again, she’d answered the exact same question, ignoring the confusion on people’s faces when they asked her why such a promising athlete wasn’t continuing their career.

But it had been so long, and the words just wouldn’t come, no matter how hard she tried to force her mouth to open. In a moment of desperation, her eyes darted over to David, who watched her with earnest attention that made her feel like he could see right through her.

He obviously saw something in her eyes, because he spoke, his voice soft, possessing a gentleness that hadn’t been there before. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to,” he said, reaching up and pushing a wayward piece of hair off of his forehead before adjusting his hat. “But if playing in college was a choice that was taken away from you, then I’m sorry.” He glanced over at Coach Dixon. “We understand the pain of having that dream stolen.”

It took a monumental amount of self-control to blink away the tears that burned at the corners of her eyes. You’re a grown-ass woman about to cry in a job interview, Sage. Get your shit together. She shoved the emotion down, schooling her expression and straightening her posture, hoping that she was projecting strength.

“Nothing like that,” she finally said, offering a smile that she hoped was confident and reassuring. “I just decided to focus on my studies instead.”

The lie tasted like chalk on her tongue, but it was necessary.

David’s eyes narrowed slightly, like maybe he didn’t believe her, but, with a small shake of his head, he moved on. “Because this job is a program requirement for you, you’ll technically be reporting to your academic advisor. We,” he pointed to Coach Dixon and himself, “will be more like supervisors, in the sense that we will work together on scheduling and your job duties. You’ll officially start with the team once practices begin, but there will of course be travel scheduling, team community service to plan, and some other things that might come up in the preseason. Once things pick up, we’ll be on from October to February. Does that sound alright?”

She nodded, relieved as the knot of tension in her chest loosened a fraction. “That all sounds fine. And will I be traveling with the team?”

“Yes,” David said. “For away games you’ll be taking on some of the equipment manager duties as well, in addition to keeping travel, food, and lodging organized and taking stats.”

She gave another nod, confirming her understanding. She watched as David scratched his jaw, a layer of dark hair there that hadn’t been there when they’d first met. The beard, though still obviously new, looked really fucking good.

Stop it .

“Do you have any questions for us?” David asked, gesturing between himself and Coach Dixon.

She shifted in her seat. She did, actually, have a question, but she wasn’t entirely sure how it was going to be received. “What do you bring as a new coach that’s going to turn this team around? Last year’s record was 10 and 17, so you’ve got a lot of ground to make up.”

“Ah,” David began, once again messing with his hat. He almost looked nervous. “I’m good with players. That’s the main thing I bring. As for the basketball, I’ve got years of experience coaching for different programs under my belt, and can draw from all of that as I get to know my personnel and their particular skill sets. I’d say that my philosophy is to work within a really clear structure, where everyone knows their role.”

She nodded along as he spoke. While the words themselves were assured, she thought she could detect a bit of uncertainty in his tone as he described his plans for the team. Like maybe the ideas were locked in, but he wasn’t sure he could execute them.

“Sounds like you’ll be good for the team,” she said, pushing aside her questions for the moment.

David gave her a small smile that looked like it was a touch forced, if not reluctant. His eyes were trained down on the desk, and she watched as he picked up a pen and began spinning it in his fingers. He was a fidgeter .

It was obvious from the quiet that settled in the room that the interview was done. Sage waited, realizing she was holding her breath.

Coach Dixon was the one who stood up, seeming to break David from whatever stupor had fallen over him. “Well thanks for coming in, Sage,'' the older man said, extending a hand for her to shake.

“I appreciate you both taking the time,” she replied, completing the handshake and then turning to David.

“Right,” he said, thrusting his arm out with a bit too much gusto. He immediately winced, pulling back some and gripping her hand with just enough pressure.

She tried to ignore the tingling that ran up the inside of her arm as she looked up at him. She hoped it wasn’t obvious that she wanted to nuzzle her face into the dip between his pecs, but wasn’t sure she was doing a very convincing job.

“It was nice to meet you, Miss Fogerty,” he said in his low, melodic voice.

“Likewise, Coach Hughes.”

It was time to let go of his hand. She knew it, and there was no way that he didn’t know it. But it was like she couldn’t convince her fingers to let go, like her hand had found its home wrapped up in his warm, solid grasp. She watched as his eyes dropped to where they were connected, his brow slightly furrowed. She felt his fingers squeeze around hers once, and then he let go.

“We’ll be in touch,” Coach Dixon said, and once again Sage sensed that the older man was picking up on the invisible something that was obviously present in the room.

Sending a nod in Coach Dixon’s direction, she picked up her bag, draped it over her shoulder, and walked out, refusing to look back as the door shut behind her.