Page 8 of Love Game

She briefly entertained thoughts of running home to her handheld showerhead but opted to squeeze her thighs together instead. She peeked at the picture of her facing down Danny McMillan again. It was as irresistibly painful as touching a bruise. She could still feel the sizzle, but she ignored it as she stared hard at his face. The cocky smile cut unspeakably attractive grooves into his skin, and bright-blue eyes glowed with intensity. She knew that gleam. Had felt the warmth of the same burning ambition. The man was a believer. A zealot. A champion in the making.

The hot bloom of lust in her belly hardened into a lump and dropped to the pit of her stomach. He was also a ruthless competitor with nothing to lose and everything to gain. She’d be damned if she’d let him crawl over her to get to the top. The administration might think he was worth a bunch of zeroes, but as far as she was concerned, the guy was a zero. And she would prove it.

Chapter 3

“I’m telling you, the press is eating it up,” Millie crowed.

“Eating what up?” Kate asked. She tossed the clipboard she’d been grasping like a lifeline onto her desk and planted her hands on her hips. “There’s nothing to eat. You’d get more rummaging through my kitchen cabinets, Millie.”

Her friend grinned and tossed her artfully streaked hair as she looked up. “Isn’t it great? All I have to do is release a picture of you somewhere in the general vicinity of Delectable Danny, and they gobble it up.”

The woman clapped her bejeweled hands with glee, as if the shit-eating grin wasn’t hint enough that Millie was pleased with her machinations. Zebra-striped readers perched on the tip of her nose. She wore a pair of purple skinny-legged pants and a matching flirty top that should have looked ridiculous on a woman over forty, but as always, she ended up looking chic and stylish.

Kate was fairly certain she’d look like a freezer pop in that particular outfit. “You think he’s delectable?”

“Everyone thinks he’s delectable.” Millie’s smile didn’t fade one watt as she turned her attention back to the tablet in her lap. “I’m thinking I’ll leak this one next.”

Kate’s jaw dropped as the contents of the photograph filling the screen registered. That was her black racerback tank top, her butt encased in a pair of electric-blue Lycra shorts. She could barely acknowledge the haphazard ponytail and damp strands of hair plastered to her cheek and neck.

The muscles in her arms and back bunched, and a weight bar rested on her shoulders. Other than the outdated workout wear and the tragic hair, she had to admit she looked damn good. And so did Coach Danny McMillan. She squinted at the picture, trying to remember if she’d seen him in the weight room that day. Wondering how she could have missed him. The man was all tanned muscle and sweat-dampened dark hair. And he appeared to be staring right at her, a sneer twisting his handsome features.

“What the hell?” She caught the mischievous gleam in Millie’s eyes. “When did… How…”

“One of the students posted it to his PicturSpam this morning.” Millie rose gracefully from the guest chair, every hair in place, every fingernail perfectly polished. As it should be. Women like Millie didn’t sweat—they glistened. And men certainly didn’t scowl when they looked at her.

Kate squashed the stab of envy by dropping into her own chair with a huff. “You are not going to post that.”

Millie cocked her head, smiling wistfully as she tapped the tablet’s screen. “God, I love these kids. They can snap a picture faster than I can blink, and I’ve got dry eye syndrome.”

“You can’t…” Kate sputtered. “You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, yes, I could.” Millie’s smile simmered to a smirk as she switched off the screen. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t. Why would I want to release a picture with you looking like that?”

“Hey!”

Millie brushed off her indignation. “Whose side do you think I’m on anyway?”

“It’s not a matter of sides,” Kate protested.

“Bullshit.” The smile was gone, chased off by the hard-bitten sentiment. Millie’s lips tightened into a thin scarlet line. “It’s always a matter of sides.”

“Millicent is right.”

Both women looked up. Avery Preston—Wolcott’s first and only women’s studies and feminist literature professor and the third member of their unholy alliance—stood in the doorway. With her flowing skirt and flyaway hair, Avery reminded Kate of the holy-roller mother in the film version of Stephen King’s Carrie.

Millie blinked as if their friend’s appearance was painful to behold. The two women rarely agreed on anything beyond their mutual affection for adult beverages and the undiluted sexiness of Alan Rickman’s voice. “I am?”

“Life is all about choices. Knowing which side to choose is a valuable skill,” Avery asserted. “We’re on yours.”

“I always back the winner,” Millie said with a decisive nod.

Kate barked a laugh and wagged her head at the pair of them. “I don’t see the big deal. I’ve hardly exchanged more than twenty words with the man.”

“Yeah, well, I wish you would,” Millie said as she tucked her ever-present tablet under her arm. “Wolcott is a guppy in a pool full of sharks. The school needs all the free press we can get, and if Coach Stud Muffin is what it takes to get it, then I’ll do what I have to do to keep him in the news.”

“That’s our Millie,” Avery said with an amused laugh. “Do we need to buy you a big pimp feather for your hat?”

Turning on her stiletto heel, Millie exaggerated the sway of her hips as she strolled to the door. “I bet I could rock that feather. Are we meeting at Calhoun’s?”

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