Page 25 of Kiss Me Tonight

“Coach Levi!” greets a woman with pageant-worthy brown hair. Instead of sticking out a hand in introduction, she wraps an arm around me and pulls me in for a tight hug. Surprise ricochets through me, stiffening my frame, just as she lets me go. “You probably don’t remember me.”

Should I?

As subtly as possible, I study her features. Big, blue eyes. Dimples twinkling in her cheeks. An imperfect scar bisecting her right brow, leaving me with the impression that the end of the tail has been penciled in.

That scar.

Why is that scar so familiar?

“Meredith,” she tells me when the silence clings a little too uncomfortably. “My maiden name is Bweller. I was a year behind you in school . . . you played football with my older brother?”

That scar.

“You tried keeping up with one of our pickup games,” I say, my voice low as the memory rises up from the ashes of my youth, “and ran—”

“Directly into a parked car.” Her stained red lips tug up in a wide grin. “Yup, that was me. Not the highlight of my teenage years, of course. Then again, that’s the problem with youthful infatuation, right there. I wanted Steven’s best friend to notice me in a big way.”

Ouch. I wince in sympathy. “Nate, right?” I readjust the clipboard, holding it with both hands in front of my hips. “I never realized you had a crush on Nate.”

“Oh, girl.” Her exaggerated eye roll is one for the books. “Crushing doesn’t even begin to cover it. I was a Grade-A stalker. The only thing stopping me from sneaking into his bedroom window at night was that he slept on the second floor and the universe cursed me with no lattice to climb like in the movies. It was a travesty.”

“Well, it worked out, didn’t it?” interjects one of the other women. “You married him and now we all have to watch the two of you frolic together on the beach every Sunday morning.”

Oh.Oh.

I drop my gaze to her left hand. Sure enough, there’s a dainty little diamond nestled next to a simple gold band on her ring finger.

The diamond, in particular, sparkles under the sun, as she fiddles with the ring, her thumb moving it back and forth. “Seven years later this fall.” Her chin tips in the direction of the field. “You have our son out there. Bobby. Curly hair like his dad. Blue eyes like me. Crazy good manners. He has my husband to thank for that last one.”

Out of all the players this morning, Bobby was the only one to walk up to me and introduce himself after we finished warmups. I didn’t recognize his last name from my notes—Sutter, if I’m remembering Nate’s correctly—but he impressed me with his openness and maturity.

He’s also one of the older kids in the group. Sixteen.

Which means that there’s a story there with Meredith and her teenage crush, and their son who was born years before they tied the knot.

When I return my attention to her, her smile has dimmed. Just enough for me to acknowledge the hard challenge in her eye, daring me to call her out and say something rude about Bobby.

You’re barking up the wrong tree, I almost confess. I’m the last person who will ever judge a relationship. I mean, look at me—my track record is pure shit. Rick “the prick” Clarke didn’t earn his nickname simply because it rhymes. The way I see it, all relationships come with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It’s not my or anyone else’s business to dig our noses where they don’t belong and demand the full details on a story that doesn’t include us.

Catching Meredith’s eye, I make sure to hold her gaze when I murmur, “Bobby’s lucky to have you both. And I’m incredibly lucky to see what he can bring to the team. Here’s to hoping he has more of Nate’s football skills than yours—no offense, Meredith.”

She cracks a grin at my bad joke.

Turning my head to the other moms, I wonder, briefly, if I’m in the wrong for wanting to sic them on Dominic.

Maybe.

Probably.

I don’t let it faze me. I’m here to do a job that I love, and while Dominic is proving to be a pain in the butt, his oh-so-holy presence may solve another one of my problems . . .

“Ladies, as the Wildcats’ head coach, part of my job is to kickstart fundraising opportunities. I know the season is months away, but when I took this position, I told the athletic director that there was one tradition I wasn’t willing to leave behind at my old school.”

One woman lifts a hand, her coffin-shaped nails practically clawing at the air. Her features are almost an exact replica of Timmy’s—his mom, I assume—a fact she confirms when she barks out, “Tim’s mom!” A tiny pause follows, in which she stares me down like I’m all that’s standing in her way. “We want to meet Coach DaSilva.”

Feeling not the least bit guilty about using my assistant coach as bait, I promise, “And you will.”

Okay, I feel alittleguilty.

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