Winner Takes All (5 page)

“She knows,” Annabelle assured her. “She misses you just as much.” She gave her mother's shoulders a soft squeeze. “Now please go sit down and let me take care of this.”

“So bossy,” Ruth commented with a crooked tilt of her mouth.

Annabelle straightened. “I had to get it from someone.”

B
lake paused as he stepped into the locker room, twenty minutes before he was supposed to meet with Matt West for extra practice. It wasn't the dark interior that gave him pause, nor was it Cameron kicked back in Blake's office, watching game film. It was the muted conversation coming from the weight room. The deep rumbling of one of his players, mixed with soft laughter. A woman's laughter.

And not just any woman. A woman who'd barged into his life and threw his hormones into all kinds of chaos. A woman he didn't want or need hanging around and telling him how to deal with his players and run his team. But here she was anyway, when no one else was supposed to be around, sending his automatic suspicious meter haywire.

Blake set his bag down, sending Cameron a quick glance before heading toward the weight room. The voices grew louder as he neared the door. The kid, who sounded like Matt, said something to Annabelle, prompting a giggle from her.

A carefree bubble of laughter like that of someone who had no ulterior motive. No agenda lurking in the shadows, waiting to pull a fast one on him. Even if Annabelle Turner didn't really strike him as manipulative or sneaky, Blake had yet to make the final decision for himself.

He stood in the doorway of the weight room and watched as Annabelle performed some kind of neck exercise on Matt. The kid was lying on his back on a bench, with Annabelle standing at his head, cradling the kid's neck in her hands. She spoke to him in a low, comforting voice, telling him to relax.

“I'm going to give your head a gentle tug,” she told Matt. “Just take a deep breath for me, and then slowly let it out.”

Matt's eyes dropped closed and Annabelle performed the stretch, with her petite hands gripping Matt's jaw and chin.

“How's that?” she asked the kid.

“It's good,” Matt muttered.

Annabelle adjusted her stance. “Okay, I'm going to pull a little harder this time.”

Matt cleared his throat. “Just don't dislocate my head from my shoulders,” he joked. “I don't think Coach would be too happy about that.”

The corners of Annabelle's mouth curled up and Blake was hit with the new and odd sensation of lust. New because…well…he hadn't had it this bad for a woman in a long time. And odd because he'd never had such a powerful reaction to a woman quite like Annabelle Turner. Opinionated. Headstrong. Stubborn.

Kind of like him. Totally opposite from the type of woman who usually floated his boat.

Blake didn't know how to handle it, nor did he like it.

“You should give your coach some more credit,” she told Matt. “He may push you hard, but it's with the best intentions.”

Blake hung back, not sure how to take her words but damn sure they'd shifted something inside his chest.

“My dad says a lot of the stuff people said about him isn't true,” Matt commented. “He says Blake's not that kind of guy.”

Annabelle shifted her hold on Matt's head. “I suppose your dad would know, being his cousin and all, wouldn't he? Also, the media has a way of exaggerating the truth.”

Blake was just about to turn and leave, not wanting to eavesdrop on their conversation any more than he was, when Annabelle said, “Coach cares about you, you know. He hasn't exactly had a warm welcome from some of the parents, so he has a lot to prove.”

His skin prickled along the back of his neck as Annabelle finished the stretch and motioned for Matt to sit up.

“What about you?” the kid asked. “What do you think?”

Blake could practically feel Annabelle's deep sigh. “I think he'll be a good coach for the team.”

Matt laughed and swung his legs to the side of the bench and stood. “Is that all you think, Ms. Turner?”

Annabelle hooked her hand over her slim hip and tilted her head at the boy. “I think Mr. Carpenter is misunderstood by a lot of people.” Her ponytail slipped over her shoulder when she shrugged. “I think he's had a rough couple of years and maybe just wants to put his life back together. After all, doesn't everyone deserve a second chance?”

Blake turned from the doorway, not waiting to hear Matt's reply. Because the ringing in his ears would have drowned it out anyway.

How could one woman confuse him so much, yet understand him more than anyone else?

He didn't want her understanding him, but at the same time her words had been something he'd yearned to hear for a long time. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, heck yeah he wanted a second chance. Perhaps that was why he'd taken this job in the first place. To prove to the world, and himself, that he wasn't down and out. That he wasn't the dirtbag, lying cheater people thought he was. The fact that Annabelle Turner, a woman who'd narrowed her eyes at him as much as she'd mentally undressed him, saw right through his I-don't-give-a-shit attitude shocked the hell out him.

Because he either wasn't as closed off as he thought he was.

Or Ms. Turner was more in tune to him than he wanted.

“You getting tired, old man?” Brandon prodded as they pounded the pavement of the greenbelt that cut through the city park. Brandon's dog, Duke, kept pace with them on his red leash, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he slung doggy slobber everywhere. Blake had a fierce competitive streak, one of the reasons he'd been such a successful quarterback. Unfortunately a bum knee put a serious cramp in his need to outrun his cousin. Blake knew he shouldn't be pushing himself so hard, but giving less than 100 percent wasn't his style.

Thirty-four wasn't old, but, shit, some days he felt like his body was falling apart. The OxyContin he'd popped that morning, prescribed by his doctor, numbed the pain enough for him to run. But he still felt out of sorts. Out of shape. Off his game.

And the burning need to toss back another pill coursed through his veins like an attack of fire ants.

“I'm fine. Just wouldn't want you to trip and ruin your pretty face.” Blake quickened his pace and resisted the urge to rub his knee. “Heads up. Beehive Mafia at two o'clock.”

Brandon muttered a curse.

“I'm sure they'll have the pics up before you're done with your shower.” Blake couldn't help smirking. As much as he teased his cousin, though, he knew more than anyone that Brandon would give a stranger the shirt off his back and his last dollar if they needed it.

Blake often teased his cousin that he was one of the last heroic bachelors left in Blanco Valley. All one had to do was look at how he'd single-handedly raised a rowdy little boy into an ambitious teenager. Matt was Brandon's world, which for some reason had women practically tripping over themselves to get a piece of the guy. Few women had succeeded to penetrate that tough armor Brandon placed around himself and his son, though.

“Matt looked good on the field yesterday,” Blake told his cousin after they'd jogged in silence for a few minutes. He tossed Brandon a quick look, but the expression in his eyes was hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses. And the sun wasn't even out. “Better than the first practice.”

“Then you know more than I do,” Brandon answered. “The kid won't talk to me.”

“He's a teenager, Brandon,” Blake reminded him. “How open were you at that age?”

Brandon only grunted. Yeah, like father like son.

They rounded a corner and jogged over a wooden bridge, the dog's nails clicking over the wood that arched above a shallow creek. “Come to a practice and you'll see. He still has a long way to go, but he shows promise.”

“I've been busy with work. Those early morning practices are hard. It'll be easier once school starts and you switch to afternoons.”

A bead of sweat ran down Blake's temple. “He just needs to work on keeping his focus,” he told Brandon. “He lets his mind wander and that's when he runs into trouble. Plus I've noticed tightness in his neck.”

Matt loved the game of football. In fact his passion for the sport rivaled Blake's. But the kid was far from a natural talent. He was tall and bulky, which worked in his favor, but his forty-yard dash was one of the slowest on the team.

That morning he'd pulled Matt aside and talked to him about hanging back after practices so Blake could work with him on some techniques.

“He said working with Annabelle has helped,” Brandon said, cutting into Blake's thoughts.

The mention of that name almost sent Blake tripping over a boulder on the edge of the path. The same monster, the one created when his career imploded, came scratching to the surface, whispering in the back of his mind that this woman was a stranger. That he didn't really know her. That this was
his
team, and he didn't want strangers encroaching on what was his and his responsibility. He'd learned the hard way not to turn a blind eye to what was most important to him. He didn't know Annabelle Turner enough—other than that she was tenacious as hell—to allow her around his kids.

Yeah, despite his efforts to scare her off with his best ornery attitude, she kept showing up. Every. Single. Morning. There she'd be in her yoga pants, practically spray painted on those long slim legs, long and thick ponytail dusting the slight indentation of her backbone. Swinging back and forth whenever she moved. Irritating him. Distracting him.

Turning him on.

Okay, yeah, she turned him on. He'd be a liar if he tried to deny it, even if it was only to himself. She was as hot as a Colorado summer and as cool and collected as a boardroom executive.

Just that morning she'd texted him, way too early in the day for a human being to be awake and functioning. His phone had buzzed as he'd dozed in bed and when he'd finally gotten around to checking it, there had been three messages.

I'm assuming the reason you haven't contacted me about the meetings I mentioned is because you either lost my number or you've been kidnapped.

He'd only grunted to himself as he swung his legs out of the bed and read the second message.

If it's the former, here's my number again,
after which she repeated the same phone number she'd already given him.

Blake stood from the bed as he thought about the cell number she'd scrawled on a napkin, which was still sitting on the kitchen counter.

If it's the latter,
she went on,
then the kidnappers have my sympathies.

One side of Blake's mouth had twitched. Shit, he hadn't been about to smile, had he? The woman, who rubbed him all kinds of the wrong way, had been able to pull some emotion from him.

Blake had sent her a quick reply as he'd readied for his jog with Brandon.

How did you get this number?

Her reply had been immediate, probably because she'd had a pencil hovered over her calendar for the moment he'd give her part of his schedule.

A little birdy.

Cameron.

Blake had made a mental note to add
ass kicking of assistant coach
to his list of things to do.

A little while later, as Blake had walked out the front door to meet his cousin, his phone had buzzed again.

So next week then? Sounds good. I'm free Thursday.

Did the woman just have conversations with herself? He'd never even agreed to meet with her, and she'd gone ahead and set the damn thing up.

“So, is the lack of comment because you don't agree?” Brandon asked, pulling Blake out of his morning memories. “Or does the smokin' hot physical therapist already have you tongue-tied?” Brandon's brows shot up his forehead. “Don't tell me you don't notice what she looks like.”

Blake shook his head. “Didn't say that.” And that was all he was going to say about one Annabelle Turner.

Brandon burst out laughing. As in tossing his head back and guffawing like he did when they were kids. “Oh, I see how it is,” he said after calming down.

Blake glanced at his cousin, noting the smile still turning up the corners of his mouth. “See what?”

“How she's already under your skin,” Brandon answered.

Blake slid his cousin a narrow-eyed glance. Truth.

“Again with the no comment,” Brandon mused. “That stony silence might work on others, but you forget I've known you since we were in diapers.”

Blake didn't need reminding. “I don't even know her,” he corrected his cousin.

“Don't have to know someone to lust after them,” Brandon pointed out.

Blake kept his pace up, even though his knee was on fire now. Damn his injury and damn his need for more pain pills. “Who said anything about lust?”

“Your denial is enough, my friend.”

Blake shook his head. “She's not under my skin.”

“Matt said some of the kids on the team are calling her Tantalizing Ms. Turner.”

Blake stopped running and jabbed his hands on his hips. Brandon did the same and used the hem of his T-shirt to dry his sweat-drenched brow. A woman walked in the opposite direction, with her cell phone glued to her ear, and allowed her gaze to drop down to the strip of flesh exposed beneath the lifted shirt. His cousin shot the woman a grin, and Blake swore the woman's cheeks reddened just as she passed them.

Yeah, his cousin was a chick magnet. Always had been.

Blake waved a hand in the air. “Whatever. Say what you want, but I'm not getting involved with her.”

“Who said anything about involvement?” Brandon gave Blake's shoulder a shove. “I just want you to admit she gets your panties in a twist.”

“You mean the same way Trisha did for you?” Blake asked, mentioning Matt's mother.

Brandon let out a humorless laugh. “You always did play dirty, didn't you?”

Blake moved one of his shoulders. “Just returning the favor.”

“I guess I had that one coming,” Brandon admitted.

They walked in silence for a moment, allowing their breathing to slow down and soaking in the mid-Saturday-morning sun.