Page 23 of Kiss Me Tonight

My smile doesn’t budge.

Clipboard clenched between my hands, tight, like I’m imagining it to be someone’s neck—one guess as to whose—I lift my chin and search for the man in question on the field.There. About ten yards away, doing squat jumps with the kids. He’s easily double their size and when his legs straighten to propel himself upward, it’s almost comical how much more height he gains.

Also, unless I’m mistaken, I think he’s free-balling it . . .

Up, he jumps. Down, he lands.

I should look away, turn my attention back on Timmy. Dominic DaSilva is a high-rolling jerk-bag. His humor is pointed and aggressive, his baritone voice is laden with mischief—like he’s withholding a secret I’ll never know—and that’s not even taking into account the fact that he has no business being on this field. He doesn’t care about these kids, about this town. I know it. He knows it. Adamshouldknow it.

When he swings his arms up and over his head, his T-shirt rides high on his flat stomach, exposing that tightVagain.

Heat zings up my spine, quickening my pulse, and I bite down on my bottom lip.

Unfair. It is so ridiculously unfair that a man like him can have such an obnoxious, rub-me-wrong attitude and yet be the hottest guy to grace this field. Hell, to grace all of Maine.

The thought alone ignites my temper all over again.

Though it doesn’t stop my gaze from betraying me. Against my will, I zero in on his shorts as I hear him bellow—“One! Two! Bobby, make sure your feet are comin’ all the way off the grass! Four! Five more, guys! Remember to breathe or you’ll pass the hell out!”—as all his disciples work in overdrive to please him.

Topher’s in with that group too.

I don’t know whether to applaud Dominic for earning the boys’ respect the old school way—getting in the trenches alongside them—or hate him more because now I’ll be expected to do the same.

I’ve always been a hands-on coach.

I run drills. I point out mistakes and start from the ground up to rework a player’s bad habits. I’ve never been the sort of person who holes up in my office and lets my staff run things for me. Not once in the almost ten years that I’ve coached middle and high schoolers.

But watching Dominic during the last two hours of our first summer camp practice has made me feel . . . hot and bothered.No.Not that. Inadequate is a better way to phrase it, and even that doesn’t quite capture the riot of emotions racing through my head.

Uncool.

Yeah, that’s the word I’m looking for. Up against the muscular magnificence of Dominic, I feel like the loser coach.

None of these kids care that I was the first female kicker to join the collegiate level of football. None care that, had I not ended up pregnant with Rick’s baby, I would have been the first woman drafted to the NFL too.

To them, I’m a Levi. They know my name, if not my face. They know that Levi’s have always done well by the team.

In their eyes, there’s nothing particularly exciting about me.

Certainly no mothers have ever rushed to practice to take pictures with me.

Then again, I don’t have washboard abs, a sexy,I-know-you-want-to-do-mesmirk, and an athletic bubble butt that should be illegal everywhere but on aGot Milk?advertisement.

Dominic has all that in spades.

And Timmy’s mom wants a piece of it.

Exactly how many minutes of every practice am I going to spend fending off mothers who are looking for a little Dominic DaSilva side-action?

I face the energetic freshman, noting the way he keeps darting looks behind me toward the parking lot. Keeping my voice light, I ask, “Is your mom married, Timmy?”

“No.” He grips his helmet a little tighter. As brave as he is on the field, he’s still a kid. An innocent kid with big ol’ dreams. “Just me and Mom. Dad left when I was five.”

Oh, no.

Instantly, my heart aches for him.

The mom in me wants to pull him in for a big, comforting hug. But a male coach wouldn’t do that. A male coach would chuck him on the shoulder, praise him for staying true to his momma and having her back when things got tough, before directing the conversation back to the game.

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