Page 1 of Chasing Wild Heart

“Moveit,Mitchell!”Ibellow, scowling at the familiar form of a runner meandering toward me.

My lips fight the temptation to curve into a self-serving smirk when a familiar pair of chocolate brown eyes drift from the path ahead and lock onto my clearly impatient stance. Even without her knitted brows and lips pulled into a frustrated frown, I know she’s angry. At me.

“Let’s go!” I yell crossly, clapping my hands louder than before and ignoring the disapproving glances from the crowd milling around on the golf course turned cross country course for a day.

As assistant coach to the university’s team, I think I’m allowed to shout at my runners any way I want. Anything to make them move faster. More specifically, the stubborn thorn in my side since day one.

Juniper Mitchell.

My ego inflates, believing it found the key to push the best runner faster. But my heart falters for a fraction of a second when I notice conflict brewing in her eyes.

Even though we met only three months ago, I know what she’sthinking. To stop running right now would be a huge, “Fuck you, Dash. You’re not the boss of me, so stop yelling.”But the super stubborn, competitive streak in her won’t allow her to sink that low. I’m pretty sure she would rather viciously claw out my eyes than throw a race. Even a charity fun run.

“Go, Juni!” screams a familiar voice next to me. “You got this, girl!”

I roll my eyes and grunt in frustration as Juni silently runs past us. Her eyes concentrating on the trail in front of her. Her naturally tan skin flush from the first mile and the unusually warm October day. Her long black hair pulled back into a ponytail bounces in rhythm with her pace.

Glancing at the timer on my phone, I grumble under my breath at the unimpressive numbers.

“You’re a moron,” the source of the high-pitched shriek scoffs, interrupting my search for other members of the team among the onslaught of runners.

“Excuse me?” My head whips to the side to stare dumbfounded at Daphne Brooks, a freshman runner sidelined for a few races for a minor injury.

The smug smile she wears widens the longer I stand in silence.

“Everyone knows you have a crush on Juni,” she answers simply, looking over my shoulder and cheering loudly. “Go, Auds! Looking good!”

“Good job, Audrey,” I blubber out, silently cursing the diminutive blonde for distracting me from my job, as the remaining three members pass us.

Without another word or glance, Daphne turns and heads toward the next checkpoint, knowing I’ll follow. She probably believes she has the upper hand, expecting me to badger her with endless questions about my alleged crush. Well, joke’s on her because I learned a lesson or two from growing up with three overdramatic and gossipy sisters.

I stopped caring about what everyone thinks they know about me a long time ago. And I don’t have time for middle-school shenanigans when I have a job to do and a residency to complete.

My mind proudly pats my mature ego when Daphne halts suddenly and I stop within a centimeter from crashing into her.

The young runner narrows her blue eyes and scowls at my inattention. “Just ask her out, Dash. She’ll say yes.”

“Really?”

God, I’m a fucking idiot.

I braced myself for the hushed whispers of “he’s so hot” or “how is he single” when I signed on as the assistant coach with a focus on the women’s team. I was all ready to ignore the conspiratorial giggles of soothing my bruised ego and healing my foot through oral ministrations and hands-on therapy.

Except my preparation was for nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, one or two members from the men’s team asked about my preferences, but not even a flirty wink from the other team.

For a millisecond, I suspected Daphne harbored a small crush, considering we saw each other outside of practice for one-on-one physical therapy sessions. Mistaking her rapid blinking for awkward flirting, I got as far as, “Look, Daphne,” when she indignantly interrupted, “I have something in my eye, you dumbass.”

Later, she informed me she’s exploring her sexuality but knows with absolute certainty she’s not into “silver foxes.” When my wounded pride pointed out the nine-year age gap between us, she thoughtfully replied, “Hmph. I figured you were well into your forties.”

She’s been an annoying little shit ever since.

“Ha!” Daphne exclaims with a self-congratulatory smirk before whirling around and continuing to the checkpoint. “I knew it! You like Juni!”

“No, I don’t!” I snap back a little more defensively than I like – or at all.

Even a blind man would notice and appreciate her natural beauty and easygoing nature. Sure, I might have hid an occasional erection whenever she pranced around in thin running shorts and a sports bra. I highly doubt I’ve been the only one based on the dozens of stolen glances from the average heterosexual male.

Have I thought about sliding my fingers under the seam of her bra or down the shorts when she returns from a run all hot and sweaty? I’m a typical 27-year-old male with a very healthy sexual appetite. While I’m open to the idea of a one-time hookup with her, my interest is strictly professional – mostly.

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