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CHAPTER TWO-KOA

“Let’s go, lads! Get the fucking lead out!” Coach Dane roars across the field, voice sharp as a whip crack, and I almost smile.

Almost.

Because there’s something satisfying, hell, almost surreal , about hearing him bark orders at me.

The same man whose face was plastered on my wall when I was a kid, all sweat, scowl, and grit.

Now he’s pacing the sideline, yelling like he’s still thirty and bulletproof, and I’m out here trying not to let the past and present tangle in my head.

“Why’re you grinning at Great Dane like that?” Tank pipes up, practically breathing down my neck like the nosy git he is.

And just like that, the moment’s gone.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, glaring at him.

Tank’s a veritable genius. He has the stats, IQ, and smug face to prove it.

But socially? He’s dumb as a post.

“Hey fellas!” he yells suddenly, grinning like a goddamn game show host. “Look who’s coming to get some film of us. Look sharp, lads!”

And the air shifts. Like I can feel her before I see her.

And then there she is.

Finley bloody Adamo.

South Carolina might be a pretty enough pit stop, but I could be standing in a mud field in the arse-end of nowhere and she’d still be the only thing I noticed.

She’s striding across the grass like she owns it, sunlight turning that riot of red hair into fire.

She’s got a camera slung over one shoulder and that classic Jersey girl don’t-mess-with-me expression on her face.

Like she’s walking into war, not busting up our training session with her curvy as fuck body and her tripod.

Seriously, what in blazes is she wearing?

Tights— painted on, basically —that stop mid-calf and hug every curve like a second skin.

A tank top that clings to her gloriously ripe tits like it was sewn on by the devil himself.

No bra. Or if she is wearing one, it’s flimsy and does nothing to hide her pert nipples.

Of course not.

Because she is chaos.

Because she wants me to suffer.

It’s a million degrees, and she’s dressed like that, and now half the lads are gawking like they’ve never seen a woman before.

I want to snarl.

I want to throw a cone at their heads.

I want to walk over there and tell her to cover the hell up.

But more than that?

More than the anger and the heat and the annoyance?

I want to taste her.

Top to bottom.

Press her to the ground right here in the middle of this perfectly manicured field and find out if that mouth of hers is as smart with kisses as it is with comebacks.

I haven’t felt this out of control in years. Maybe ever.

She’s not even trying.

That’s what makes it worse.

Because every time she’s around, I feel like I’m unraveling. Like I’m seconds from doing something stupid.

Like kissing her, or yelling at her, or dragging her off into the nearest closet and finally giving in to whatever this madness is between us.

And that’s exactly why I don’t see the ball flying through the air until it’s too late.

Thwack.

Clean hit. Right off the side of my skull.

“Fuck!” I bellow, stumbling a step.

Laughter erupts from the team, Coach yelling something about keeping my head in the game, and Tank is cackling like a hyena.

And Finley?

She’s laughing too.

Trying to hide it behind her camera, but I see the way her emerald eyes sparkle.

And God help me, even with my head ringing, all I want to do is kiss that smirk off her face.