Page 59 of Kiss Me Tonight

The sun is overwhelmingly hot. The kids are sweating bullets. And I’m in a foul fucking mood.

I blow the whistle before calling for another round of breakthrough drills. Bobby sends me a glance that could wither unicorns where they stand. Timmy’s shoulders cave as he tromps back into place. And Topher . . . Shit, even Topher eyes me like I’m the devil incarnate as he lines up and drops his hands to the grass.

The days of worshipping the ground I walk on are long gone.

Even Harry, a red-headed junior, who’s a beast with the ball, didn’t sandwich himself next to me during warm-ups to chat about my time in the NFL, the way he’s done at every practice.

Your shitty attitude might as well be repellant.

Like a bad habit I can’t quit, my attention drifts over to where Levi is running some intricate footwork drills with her group. Her blond hair is tied off in a bun on the top of her head that bobbles and trembles as she demonstrates how she wants the set performed. Despite the muggy weather, she’s wearing baggy sweats that do nothing for her figure and an olive-green T-shirt that represents a team she’s coached in the past.

The Hancock Tigers.

In the two weeks that we’ve worked together, she’s never shown up in anything but Wildcats paraphernalia. Maybe we’re both shaken up over yesterday’s talk out in her courtyard.

I know that I am.

She demolished my walls and scraped out my emotions with a jagged-edged spoon. And she did it all with a gentle hand on my leg and a soft but challenging look in her gaze.Don’t run from the truth,those sapphire eyes of hers dared.

I ran.

But I didn’t run fast enough. I heard every word she spilled about Rick-fucking-Clarke loud and clear. I witnessed the moment when her eyes dulled, the bad memories of her ex-husband threatening to submerge her.

Just as my own bad memories have always come close to drowning me.

I’ve come as far as I have in life by using the shittiness of my childhood and teenage years as fuel in pushing me forward. Every holiday that I spent alone, every achievement I marked off as complete, became another reason to prove to the world—and to myself—that I didn’tneedmore.

I had the big house. I had the fleet of fancy cars packed away in my five-car garage. I had the pool and the money and a string of women ready to sleep with me at a moment’s notice.

And with a single glimpse into Levi’s life, all of it—the cars and the investment properties and the shallow, inconsequential sex—carves a hollow notch in my soul. The semblance of peace Levi talked about? The sensation of gleaning comfort from the predictable? I have no idea how to find that. Wouldn’t even recognize that level of calm if it stood in front of me in a fucking clown costume.

It’s frustrating. Beyond that, it’s left me feelinglackingall morning. Just as I did years ago, back when I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something so intrinsically wrong with me that I went unwanted for so long.

Why I’ve gone unloved, even now.

“You look like you ate something bad for lunch, Coach.”

Brien.

Goddammit.

Figures he’d show up to observe practice on the one day I’m spitting nails and feeling restless and exposed in my own skin.

I push my sunglasses to the top of my head, over my backward baseball hat. “What brings you down to the field today? Ran out of paperwork to push around on your desk?”

Brien steps up beside me, arms linked over his chest as he surveys the field. “You sure do know how to make a person feel included, DaSilva. Tell me, do you roll out the welcome mat for everyone or am I just special enough to warrant an invitation to your bad side?”

I bite out a harsh laugh. “Sorry, was I supposed to jump to attention and salute you?”

“I’m not opposed.”

“You’re pushing your luck, Bri.”

“You’re pushing those kids too hard,Dom.” Uncurling one arm, he flicks a finger toward where my players are slinking back into position after running through the drill another time. Harry, the football whisperer, pushes his helmet up and tips back his head as he repositions himself opposite the five offensive players whose only mission is to keep him from exploding through their lines. Guilt hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut when Brien tacks on, “They’re not in the pro’s. You can’t treat them like they’re the next Tom Brady.”

“New England’s obsession with him is borderline neurotic.”

“Don’t be put out that none of us have a Dominic DaSilva bobblehead in our cars. Even Levi has a Brady one on her dashboard. You see it yet?”

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