Kickin' It (Red Card) - Rachel Van Dyken Page 0,20

to her ass as she ran off. And while I wanted to smugly say yes, part of me was already shaking my head no.

And I had no idea why except she wasn’t what I expected in any way, and it threw me off that I couldn’t manage her the way I would someone else. I sacrificed for my clients and they expected it.

That’s how it worked.

I gave them the world—but first, they had to let me into theirs.

And I had a distinct feeling that Parker would never let that happen.

Not that I ever walked away from a challenge.

She stopped midfield.

I chased after her and kicked the ball between her legs. “Alright, Cheetah, impress me with your speed.”

“Oh, that’s not why they called me Cheetah Girl,” she said softly before she ran around me, kicked the ball between my legs, and dribbled around my body like I was a toddler in training. She then kicked the ball toward the goal, hitting it directly down the middle with a perfect strike.

Still confused, I waited, and then she started doing a little dance. “Get it? Cheetah Girl? I was a sucker for Disney.”

My jaw dropped. “Wait, so they called you Cheetah Girl because of the group?”

“And the fact that I would sing their songs to get myself hyped and do a little choreographed dance after . . . I’m Disney through and through, baby.”

Yeah, right. I pointed toward the goal. “Do that again.”

She did.

I grinned. “Again.”

She groaned.

And when I asked her a tenth time she was past groaning and ready to murder me, especially when I said, “Your legs lost some strength since the last tape I reviewed . . .”

“So—”

“Lunge the field.”

“The entire field?” she roared.

“With a ball in each hand.” I pulled out my whistle and blew it in her face.

Three hours and exactly thirty-two minutes later.

“Again.” My smile was wide while she wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt. She was dripping in sweat; steam was coming off her body as she ran through the cones dribbling the ball and then stopped to do ten burpees on each side of the cones before running through them and ending with jumping jacks and mountain climbers.

“You,” she heaved as she did her jumping jacks, “are Satan!”

“Make sure to breathe with your diaphragm, expand in and out, not in shallow breaths,” I instructed, tossing my whistle in the air and catching it.

She dropped to her hands and toes for mountain climbers, glaring at me as sweat dripped off her chin. “Is this really necessary?”

“Did you just growl at me?”

“Did you just yawn!”

I grinned so hard my face hurt. “Sorry, I was bored. You weren’t going fast enough.”

That earned me a middle finger.

“You know we should really work on that angry streak.”

More middle fingers.

I let out a sigh. “Parker, coaches want someone they can mold, someone who listens to authority, and as a player you want to be someone that can sponsor something—”

“Other than dog food.” She rose to her feet, chest heaving. “Yeah, got that part this morning, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Does it help that it would be designer dog food for angry, crusty dogs who just need love?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a no. Look, you want good endorsement deals.”

“So you get paid more?” She crossed her arms and then shook out her hands and said something under her breath before peeling her shirt over her head and revealing a black sports bra top that kissed her belly button.

Causing my every thought to go south and get dirty real fast.

Coach.

Agent.

Her eyes darted away from me with uncertainty. Her body was lean, toned. I’d seen it earlier, obviously, but something about us being alone made it a thousand times more tense than when we’d been at my house where Willow could walk down the hall at any minute.

I cleared my throat. “Not so I can get paid more, so that you can get paid more and so that you get bigger and better deals. I have money. No offense, but I don’t need you for more of it.”

“So now I’m charity?” She put her hands on her hips.

“Enough talking.” I blew my whistle.

“Seriously!” she roared. “What now! We’ve been here for at least three hours.”

I checked my watch mainly to keep myself from looking at her chest as it continued to heave in my direction with sweat dripping between her breasts. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m starving.”

“Oh, thank God!” She started jogging toward me.

I pulled off my whistle and made my