The Game of Love

The Game of Love

By Jeanette Murray

Chris St. James is ready for normal. After walking away from her pro tennis career and a toxic relationship with a star hockey player, she’s starting a new life as a teacher and tennis coach in a small town. Now all she needs is an average guy to share it with.

Brett Wallace is no average guy. Forced to retire from the NFL after an injury—and suddenly single after being dumped by his status-conscious wife—he’s returned to his hometown to coach the varsity football team. Wary of women interested only in his celebrity, Brett finds Chris’s indifference to his former career refreshing.

The last thing Chris needs is to get involved with another pro athlete, but she can’t deny the sparks that fly between them. So she agrees to a purely physical, no-strings-attached affair. But the rules of the game change when she falls for him…

85,000 words

Dear Reader,

I feel as though it was just last week I was attending 2010 conferences and telling authors and readers who were wondering what was next for Carina Press, “we’ve only been publishing books for four months, give us time” and now, here it is, a year later. Carina Press has been bringing you quality romance, mystery, science fiction, fantasy and more for over twelve months. This just boggles my mind.

But though we’re celebrating our one-year anniversary (with champagne and chocolate, of course) we’re not slowing down. Every week brings something new for us, and we continue to look for ways to grow, expand and improve. This summer, we’ll continue to bring you new genres, new authors and new niches—and we plan to publish the unexpected for years to come.

So whether you’re reading this in the middle of a summer heat wave, looking to escape from the hot summer nights and sultry afternoons, or whether you’re reading this in the dead of winter, searching for a respite from the cold, months after I’ve written it, you can be assured that our promise to take you on new adventures, bring you great stories and discover new talent remains the same.

We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

Happy reading!

~Angela James

Executive Editor, Carina Press

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Another season, another chance for victory.
Brett Wallace snuck a peek at his football stadium as he pulled into the parking lot behind Northeastern high school. It was early evening, but thanks to the long summer days the late July sun showed no signs of surrendering. The faculty-and-staff lot looked almost full, with teachers getting into their classrooms to decorate, organize and plan ahead of schedule and parents registering their children for school at the last minute.

When he stepped out of the icy cool interior of his SUV, the humid air wrapped around him like a soggy blanket. Beads of sweat ran down his chest and back, making his T-shirt stick to his torso. After locking the door to his Escalade, he pulled the cotton away from his sticky abdomen, waved it a few times to let air in. Didn’t help.

He made his way to the group of football coaches sitting at the picnic table to the side of the cafeteria entrance. It was the same table where he and his gridiron teammates used to sit before school when he was a student. The group tonight was a little older, a little wiser and a little wider.

“Hey, Wall!” Arnie, the newest addition to their staff, was twenty-three and fresh out of college. He wasn’t old enough—jaded enough—to know it was uncool to reference Brett’s time with the New York Liberties by using his old nickname. Brett “The Wall” Wallace. Arnie’s worshipful attitude was flattering more than annoying. And a constant reminder of the responsibility he carried now.

He plopped down next to his assistant coach, Steve. “What’s up, guys?”

James, the offensive coach, put down the notebook he’d been scribbling in, twirled the pen between his palms. “Shootin’ the shit before we go in.”

“Any reason you’re shootin’ the shit in the heat?” Brett dragged the notebook his way.

“Sure you can have the pad. No problem.” James made a face.

Brett gave him the finger and kept perusing the pattern of
X
’s and
O
’s.

“Janitorial staff didn’t get the memo about the meeting tonight, so they’re still cleaning the auditorium,” Steve offered. “Didn’t wanna get in their way, decided to chill out here.” He scoffed. “Chill. Right. Melt is more like it. The other coaches were smart. They all retreated to the teacher’s lounge. Where there’s air.” He cast a sideways glance at T.J., the special teams coach.

Brett grunted and held out a hand for the pen James still held without looking up. After making a few quick scratches, some arrows and dots, he pushed the notebook back across the table. “Not bad. Put it in the possibilities for this year’s playbook.”

James’s face split into a grin, and Brett caught the hint of a blush before the guy ducked his head to fold the notebook back up. Brett understood. He didn’t often add in new plays, preferring to stick with the tried-and-true offense. Adding to the playbook was something to be proud of.

Brett swiveled around so his back rested against the table’s edge, folded his hands over his still-damp stomach. A light breeze rustled through the trees, and he tried the T-shirt trick again. Didn’t help. A car door slammed and Steve mumbled something next to him.

“What’d you say, Steve?”

He heard James mutter, “Not too bad. Not too bad at all.”

“What’s not too bad?” He turned, then someone—a female someone—caught his eye.

Now those were some legs. Denim shorts showed off miles of lickable skin, and their strides carried her across the hot black pavement in a hurry. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her shorts, and a messenger bag was slung over one bare shoulder, crossing between a pair of decent tits and making them stand out. She had on a dark tank top, and her dark brown hair was pulled back from her face, the tail swinging around her shoulders.

With the death grip she had on that bag, and her no-nonsense pace, she looked like an Amazon headed for battle. An Amazon with nice legs.

New teacher? New office staff? She didn’t look old enough to have a kid in high school…though looks—among other things—could be deceiving.

Before he could ask Steve, who always knew more than the obligatory village gossip, someone let out a wolf whistle that would make any randy construction worker proud. She froze midstep, turned on her heel and faced the picnic table. Though he could clearly see her face, it was void of all expression. Was she amused? Embarrassed? Pissed?

Beside him, Steve shifted, and someone behind him whispered, “Nice going.”

After what felt like the world’s longest showdown, she shook her head and headed inside the school, letting the door slam shut behind her.

Brett turned to face T.J., James and Arnie, all of whom were elbowing each other with satisfied grins on their faces. When they caught the disappointed look on his face, they hushed in a hurry.

Young, naïve and stupid in the ways of women.
He held his tongue for the moment, deciding to give all three a lecture on professionalism later, regardless of who’d whistled. He checked his watch. “Let’s go in. It’s almost time.” They cleared off the picnic table and headed toward the cafeteria entrance.

The air conditioning felt like heaven. Walking down the long hallway to the auditorium, he felt that familiar surge of adrenaline that came with the beginning of every season. The doors to the auditorium creaked. Spotlights lit the stage, throwing the seats into semi-darkness and making it difficult to pick out familiar faces. He led his merry posse to the third row, behind everyone else. As they settled down—why was it these chairs were always so snug?—the athletic director, Jared Meadows, walked onto the stage from the wings.

Mild applause greeted his entrance, but Brett just grinned. He cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a whoop so loud it echoed off the high ceilings, bringing the room to an eerie, hollow silence.

With Jared’s face illuminated by the spotlight, Brett couldn’t miss the raised eyebrow in response to his raucous noise. He could read that expression clearly.
Classy move, asswipe.

In kindergarten, they’d sat at the same table. After discovering they both liked the color blue and the pretty blonde in the corner, they had it out on the playground. Four irate parents, two bloody lips and countless bruises later, they both realized green was way cooler and girls were gross anyway.

They’d been best friends ever since.

Jared cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming. I know your summer hours are precious so let’s not waste time. I want to introduce the new coaches this year. If the new football coaches could come up.” He waved his arms to indicate the spot next to him.

Arnie and T.J. headed up to the stage, chests puffed out in the way only men who hadn’t yet been slapped down by life could manage. James had started the year before. They were a young coaching staff, and Brett had pretty much hand-picked them.

After those two knuckleheads were introduced, they returned to their seats, and Jared checked his clipboard. “And one more addition to our fall athletic family this year. Chris St. James. Our new girls’ tennis coach.”

More applause. He started looking for the new guy.

Chris stood up, and the backlighting showed off her extremely feminine silhouette. She walked from the first row up the steps to the stage. Brett groaned under his breath.

The Amazon.

Well, shit.

Turning around, she squinted against the darkness of the crowd. He knew she couldn’t possibly see him or his guys in this light.

“My name is Christina St. James, but everyone calls me Chris.”

Lower than the average woman’s voice, but still feminine, her voice made him think of cool sheets and hot, sweaty—

Okay. Get a grip, Wallace.

“I’m coaching the girls’ tennis team, and I’ll also be teaching algebra and geometry. It’s my second year teaching, first year coaching, though I have some experience playing the game.” She rubbed her upper arms as if she was cold, then gave Jared a sideways glance. “Is that good?”

He nodded, and she all but sprinted down the steps back to her seat, seemingly unaware of the applause.

“Pretty hot pair of legs,” Arnie stage-whispered.

“I’d tap that.” T.J. didn’t even bother lowering his voice.

Jared obviously hadn’t heard, because he started yammering on about the schedule. But everyone else had. Heads from the first two rows turned toward them. Including Christina St. James’s.

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. From only two rows away, he could make out her expression perfectly. It wasn’t embarrassment or confusion.

It was unbridled fury. And it was aimed right at him.

“Shut up,” he said under his breath, wishing he could yank Tweedledee and Tweedle-Dumbass out for a good ole fashioned behind-the-woodshed chat. But it would only disrupt the meeting further. So when they continued chuckling, he gave each of them a not-so-gentle tap on the back of the head.

That worked, in more ways than one. Each slumped down low in his chair, chastised into silence, and Christina turned back around with a whip of her head.

Brett went back to concentrating on Jared’s speech. Schedules and more meetings and New York State Public High School Athletic Association regulations buzzed in his ear, but he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the Amazon’s long, brown ponytail.

She never glanced back again, she never fidgeted, never moved a muscle. Either she was asleep or her self-control was remarkable. He wondered which it was. It wouldn’t have been the first time Jared had sent someone to SleepyLand thanks to his fascination with high school athletic regulations.

Beside him, Steve shifted, snapping him from his thoughts about the tennis coach. He caught a few key words about the school athletic vans.

“And lastly,” Jared said, adjusting his glasses and taking a quick glance at the clipboard, “I have something a bit unusual to announce.” His wide grin said the “something unusual” was good. Very good.

“Through an anonymous donor, the school has been gifted a sizable amount of money for the fall sports teams, to be passed out according to my discretion as the athletic director.”

Brett leaned forward, forearms on his knees, held his breath. Waiting, hoping.

Jared took a deep breath, then went on. “After some thought, I’ve decided that the football team will be receiving a new scoreboard.”

“What?”

The shriek echoed in the silent-as-death auditorium.

Well, doesn’t this just beat the “I came to school naked without my homework” nightmare?

Chris resisted the urge to shrink down in her chair until she melted into a puddle on the floor. Instead, she straightened her spine and mentally dared anyone to gawk at her.

They did.

Jared stuck a finger under his buttoned-up collar, loosened it as he cleared his throat. “Um, Chris? Did you, that is, is there something…” He gestured with a sweep of one arm to finish his sentence.

Too late to turn back now. “I was just wondering why the football team automatically got the money.” There, definitely not the voice of a crazy lady.

“Ah.” Jared looked relieved that she hadn’t jumped up on the stage and taken a swing at him. “Well, last year Brett put in the request for a new scoreboard, and we didn’t have the funds. So this year, with the unexpected donations, it’s possible.” He gave her a reassuring smile, and she knew he assumed she would drop it.

Fat chance.

“Brett?”

He pointed directly behind her. “Brett Wallace, our head football coach.”

Twisting in her chair, she glanced back again, knowing exactly where to look. The leader of the sexist Neanderthals held up a hand and waved. Then he leaned back, his hands laced over his stomach, surrounded by his macho peers. King Arthur and his knights sitting at the Chauvinist Table.

Whipping back around, her ponytail slapped the person sitting next to her in the face. “Sorry.” She stood up. “So, the scoreboard they have now doesn’t work? It’s broken?”

“No.” Jared shook his head. “It works.”

Anger bubbled just under the surface, but she pushed it down. Not the time, not the place. “So then why?”

Jared opened his mouth to speak, but it wasn’t his voice she heard. A rich baritone spoke from behind her, so strong and deep that it seemed to fill the nearly empty auditorium.

“The old one looks like shit.”

Well. Apparently eloquence didn’t come standard with that sexy voice. Not bothering to turn around—because really, he didn’t deserve eye contact with that attitude—she called back, “And having a kick-ass scoreboard helps your team win? Who knew that the manly football team needed pretty props to play better.” Bitchy? Yeah, a little. But she didn’t feel bad about it.

“The manly state runners-up football team, you mean.” The infuriating man was lounging in his chair like he was poolside at some resort. Not a care in the world.

Of course. Because being a winner meant getting what you wanted, when you wanted it. Biting back the fury that threatened to wash away any common sense she had left, she crossed her arms over her chest and called out, “Pardon me if my
pretty hot legs
don’t just buckle into a swoon for you. But while you are all worried about a speck of rust on your perfectly fine scoreboard, my girls are going to be playing in tennis skirts that are falling apart at the seams, if the uniforms I saw in the storage locker are any indication.”

A thick, black silence was her answer. Nobody spoke, no coaches made eye contact with her. She turned to the stage and saw Jared reading his clipboard like it had the answer to the meaning of life on it. And she felt defeat.

Finally, the arrogant ape’s rumbling voice echoed through the space. “Jared, can we move on?”

Jared rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Actually, Chris might have a point.” He glanced at his clipboard once more. She wondered if he actually had anything written down, or if he just liked having a prop. “I’m thinking maybe I was too hasty giving the money to the football team.”

“What the hell, Jared?” Caveman called out.