More Than You Know (31 page)

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SOMEONE LIKE YOU
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Available in May 2016
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As the boys sucked down Capri Sun pouches and ate orange slices, Abby tried to explain to them what they needed to do to improve in the second half. She knew they wouldn't win; but at least if they weren't shut out by an embarrassing number of goals, it wouldn't be too hard on the kids' self-esteem or morale.

But it was like herding cats. Some of the boys listened, but the rest were either more interested in the peeled slices of orange they were eating or playing around with the ball behind her. Sure, eight-year-old boys had energy to spare. But she'd tried so hard to come up with strategies, good plays . . . this group just didn't respond. The basics were all she'd gotten from them. She didn't know if they weren't capable of achieving what she was trying to teach them, or if she was just the world's lousiest soccer coach.

I never should've signed up to do this,
she thought miserably.

A few of the kids' parents came over, either to say hi to their sons or to ask her questions about upcoming practices. Feeling inadequate, she held her clipboard against her chest and tried to smile as she spoke.

Mr. Morales seemed to be more interested in something behind her than what she was saying to him. Hearing more noise from the boys, she turned around. A tall guy was approaching her team, dribbling what looked like one of their soccer balls between his feet. With nimble agility, he lobbed it back and forth, then started tapping it into the air, ankle to knee to other ankle to other knee and back again. He made it look effortless. Even she had to admit it was a cool trick. The boys all responded with excitement and awe, instantly crowding around him in a circle and demanding to know how he did that.

From behind her sunglasses, Abby did a quick once-over. The guy was about her age, with tousled dark hair, dark sunglasses, and a scruffy jaw that could have used a shave. He wore a sleeveless blue T-shirt that exposed nicely muscled arms . . . but along his right arm, there were more tattoos than unmarked skin. A few were on his left arm, too, but weren't almost a total sleeve like his right arm. Scanning the rest of his lean, taut frame, below his knee-length mesh shorts she spotted another large tattoo on his left calf, and something around his right ankle. Whoa . . .
great
legs. Muscles like rocks in his calves and what glimpses she could see of his upper legs as he maneuvered the ball.

Abby scowled. Okay, the guy had a fantastic body, and his tricks with the ball were impressive, but who was he, and what was he doing there? She'd let a grown man, a stranger, approach her kids. She could only imagine the complaints some parents might make, and she wouldn't blame them. Excusing herself to Mr. Morales, she quickly got closer to the group of her players gathered around the stranger. Now that she was a little closer, she realized he was really good looking.
Whoa.
But still, hot or not, he was a stranger. “Excuse me,” she said sharply, in her best teacher voice. “Do you know one of these boys?”

The hot stranger stopped, catching the ball and holding it in his hand as he looked her way. “Um . . . no.”

Something roiled in her chest. “Then what are you doing here?”

“I just—” he started to say.

“If you don't know any of these kids, it's highly inappropriate for you to just wander over here, don't you think?”

He froze, seeming to grasp what she meant. With a quick sweep of his free hand, he removed his sunglasses to earnestly stare at her with the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. “Wait, I'm no creep. Slow down.”

“Then what—”

“They were fooling around and kicked this ball all the way across the field,” he explained quickly. “I was just bringing it back to them.”

Abby heard the murmurs of the three dads behind her and cringed. They must've been discussing her competence, or lack thereof, to keep their children safe. “Well,” she said in a clipped tone, “thank you. You did. You can go now.”

“Does he have to go, Coach?” young Andy asked.

“Yeah, Aunt Abby,” Dylan piped up. “Didja see what he could do? He's awesome!”

“Look, boys,” she said as sternly as she could, “we don't know this man. You're not supposed to talk to strangers, right?”

The boys all looked at the ground and mumbled their assent.

Mr. Morales and Mr. Esdon, two of the kids' fathers, were suddenly standing on either side of her. She looked from one to the other and said, “I appreciate the show of support, but I'm sure he'll just leave on his own now.”

“Don't go yet!” Mr. Morales said to the man. He and the stranger looked each other up and down. “I know this sounds crazy . . . but by any chance, are you Pierce Harrison? From the Spurs? Because you sure look like him, and you definitely know how to handle that ball.”

The man's bright blue eyes narrowed, suddenly wary as he said, “And if I am?”

“Then can I have your autograph?” Mr. Morales smiled, obviously starstruck. “I mean, Premier League! You're a great player!”

“Thank you . . . but I'm not anymore,” the man said flatly. He put his sunglasses back on. “I left the league, I'm out.”

“Yeah, I know. But still. You were always great to watch.” Mr. Morales stepped right up to him and held out a hand. The stranger finally cracked a grin and shook it.

At that, all the boys started to yelp and surrounded him like a pack of puppies.

“What the hell . . . ?” Abby said under her breath.

“It's okay, Ms. McCord,” Mr. Esdon said. “The minute he took off his sunglasses, Diego recognized him. Look.” He held up his cell phone for Abby to see.

She peered at it and felt a gut punch of embarrassment. There was the hot stranger, in a soccer uniform—no, football, if he'd been in the Barclays Premier League in England, as it said in the caption. Looking back over at him, she suddenly saw he was every bit the professional star athlete, flashing a megawatt smile as the kids posed with him for pictures. The parents with their cell phones were like a swarm of paparazzi. It had become an instant mob scene.

“What the hell would a European soccer star be doing in Edgewater?” she asked.

“Well,” Mr. Esdon said, “he played in England, but he's originally from here. He grew up on Long Island. Maybe he came home for a family visit or something. Excuse me, won't you?” He quickly made his way over to the growing crowd of parents and kids. The other team had noticed the commotion, and someone must've spread the word that a famous soccer player was there, because Pierce was at the center of a small crowd now. The entire field had all but cleared to see this man up close, except for a few random spectators who didn't seem to care and stayed in their lawn chairs.

Abby felt ridiculous. First she'd let a stranger near her boys, then she'd spoken harshly to someone who turned out to be famous, practically accusing him of trying to kidnap or harm one of her players. Great. Just great. She didn't follow English football, how the hell should she have known? Huffing out a frustrated sigh, she crossed her arms over her chest, hugging the clipboard to herself.

Pierce Harrison, huh? She'd have to google him when she got home. But while he was busy chatting amiably with the small crowd, signing autographs, and posing for pictures, she studied him. Her initial brief assessment had been right: he was drop-dead gorgeous. She wasn't blind, and she wasn't dead inside. Something about him made her insides buzz with heady warmth. But all those tattoos . . . his scruffy jaw . . . the way he glanced over at her twice with a hint of a smirk, brazen and cocky . . . he radiated danger. This was a very bad boy, she could tell.

So not her type.

Then again, did she even have a type anymore? Nowadays, she was practically a monk, by her own doing. Better off that way . . . don't get involved with men, and they can't lie to you and end up breaking your heart....

With a disgusted grunt at her thoughts, she turned away, dropping her clipboard to the ground and reaching for her water bottle instead. A few sips in, someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Coach?”

Abby whirled around. It was Pierce Harrison. He was taller than she'd realized, had to be six-one or six-two. He had the tight, leanly muscled frame of a soccer player, which appealed to her more than she wanted to admit. His wavy dark hair was tousled, but gelled just a little in the front, begging to be played with. And that face . . . God, what beautiful features. Those
eyes.
Such a brilliant marine blue, fringed with long, dark lashes. Roman nose, great cheekbones, and a strong, square jaw covered in dark stubble, which only seemed to draw her gaze to his mouth. His full, sensual lips widened in a smile that revealed what seemed to be perfect teeth.

Jesus, this guy was too gorgeous. He probably ate women like her for breakfast.

She found herself speechless.

Luckily for her, he spoke. “I wanted to apologize.” He sounded sincere.

“For what?” she managed to say.

“For making you think even for a second that I was some pervert coming over here to snatch up one of your players.” The smile turned a bit wicked. “That is what you thought, right?”

She felt herself blush furiously and cursed inside her head. “I . . . well, yeah. Wouldn't you? I mean—”

“Yeah, I would. I understand,” he said, the grin not leaving his face. “You were right to be concerned and protective. If some strange guy approached my nephews, I'd get in his face too. You did the right thing.”

“Oh.” Why did this make her feel worse, not better? God, she felt off-kilter. She took off her sunglasses so she could look him in the eye in an attempt at seeming in control. Because she certainly didn't feel in control at the moment. Something about him, his very presence, was turning her into mush. Talk about natural sex appeal. Her girly parts were doing a primal dance she had rarely experienced.
Get a grip, Abby!

“I'm also sorry I turned your soccer game into a circus.” Pierce said, gesturing toward the people behind him with a flick of his chin. They were starting to disperse now, and the referee blew his whistle to signify the second half would start in a minute.

“That's not your fault. I'm sure you get that a lot.”

“In England, yeah, sometimes. But not here.”

“Well, these are soccer players, so . . . anyway. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you,” she said. “I have to admit, I'm a little embarrassed.”

“God, don't be. I'm not famous here. At least, I didn't think I was. That one dad who recognized me? Apparently watches European football religiously.” Pierce's grin finally faltered. “I left the sport. Two months ago. I'm not playing anymore, I'm officially retired. I'm just here visiting my family, over in Kingston Point.”

Abby nodded, but thought,
Kingston Point
? If he has family there, they must be disgustingly wealthy. Her whole house could fit into any one of those tremendous Kingston Point mansions. It may have been only ten minutes away from Edgewater, but it was a totally different world. “Well, I hope you enjoy your visit.”

Looking like he wanted to explain further, he said, “I'm here—at the park, I mean—because I went for a run, then I'm meeting a friend here. His daughter plays at noon, the next game. He lives in Edgewater. Old friend from high school. Private school, not Edgewater High. So . . .” Pierce shrugged. “I don't know why I felt compelled to tell you that. I guess I just wanted to assure you I'm not some creepy guy.”

“No explanations necessary. It's a public park. But I appreciate it.” Abby wondered who the dad was and if she knew him, but before she could ask, the ref blew his whistle again. She shot a glance over at her team, who were now standing together, waiting for her directions. “I have to go, sorry. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” Pierce gazed down at her, and she felt a little jolt from the intensity of his stare. “What's your name, Coach? Didn't catch it.”

“Abby.” She held out her hand. “Abby McCord.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Abby.” His fingers wrapped around hers and the firm handshake sent a rush through her, a strange jolt of sensation. She pulled her hand back quickly, met his eyes one last time, then hurried over to her players.

As they ran onto the field to start the second half, Pierce Harrison didn't leave. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he strolled over to the far corner of the field and sat himself down on the grass. It seemed he was going to watch the rest of the game as he waited for his friend to arrive.

Abby didn't know why that both unnerved and delighted her, but it did.

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Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Gracen

 

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ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3914-3
ISBN-10: 1-4201-3914-2

ISBN: 978-1-4201-3914-3