Page 4 of Forbidden Dunk

“Hey sweetie,” he mumbled, giving me a side hug.

“Team looks good,” I told him, sweeping my gaze over them once more and then froze. Because right there, in the middle of the court, with his hands on his hips, was the one man I couldn’t get out of my head.

Even more of a no-touching zone.

Fuck!

Chapter 3

Shawn

Oh hell, oh hell,my brain kept repeating.

There, in all of her freaking beautiful glory, stood the one woman I couldn’t get out of my mind. She lived there rent free. As did the naughty time in a club corner.

And she stood there, with her arm around the coach. Which meant she was off limits.

I had fucked the coach’s daughter.

Let me repeat that.

I. Fucked. The. Coaches. Daughter.

This was not good. That was also a fact that he didn’t know about it.

Because the coach already had it out for me as I challenged a thing or two, he had told us.

I could only imagine the things he would say or do if he knew I had fucked his daughter. Or where I fucked her at. Or of all the images I had about fucking her again.

So not good.

“Isn’t that the chick from the club,” Hugh said, slapping me on the back. I didn’t want to acknowledge him, but the little grin she tossed my way, followed by the wink, told me, and the rest of the team, that it was. “Dude, you screwed the daughter. You’re in so much trouble.”

“It was a one-time deal, man. I wasn’t her first lover so it’s not like he can be mad at me.”

“Right, keep telling yourself that.”

“Listen up,” the coach yelled. “This is Marketa, my daughter.” He squeezed her to his side and some irrational part in my head urged me to march right over and yank his arm off. Talk about stupid. I mean, this was her dad, he had the right. And it’s not like I knew her well enough to stake some kind of claim. “She’s a good woman, but hands off.”

“Dad,” she said, rolling her eyes. But she offered a wave to the guys. “I won’t bother you, just wanted to check out the team. Looking good.” With that, she kissed her dad’s cheek and then walked out. I had to fight my feet to not run after her.

“Coulter,” he called, waving me over.

“Yes, coach?”

“You got some great skills, but don’t argue with me. You won’t win a lot of the time. Ask my daughter; she tries to tell me how to coach and your thoughts mirror hers a lot.”

I tilted my head as I thought about that. I would guess having a dad who was a coach meant you probably spent more time following him and watching what he did, so it shouldn’t surprise me if she knew the sport. Just like it wouldn’t surprise me if she had played for the WNBA as well.

“Yes, sir,” I told him. He waved me back on the court and I grunted.

His style wasn’t bad. In fact, it was quite good. He took in the pros and cons of both defense and offense and was making surewe could read it just as well. He knew where the strengths were and what would work best for us and the team we were building.

But he had a few hang ups, and that’s all I was trying to help with. He was good, but he wasn’t the best. And if he wanted to be the best, then he might want to listen to a few other ideas.

Two weeks later, I swung down the street of the gym, grabbing my mom the pon dulces that she loved. It was my weekend ritual with her every Saturday morning to have a Danish and some coffee, something we’ve done since I was a kid and my dad walked out on us.

Even when I was in college, we held onto the tradition. Computers and phones were our go to thing. She was always one of the most important ladies in my life and I made sure she never forgot that. And now that I had moved back to the city she loved and had lived in for all these years, she was excited to have our tradition back. She made sure I was the one to grab the treats and only from the favorite place she had.

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