RISKY PLAY (RED CARD #1) BY RACHEL VAN DYKEN Page 0,26
slowly back away as the rest of the guys walked over, including the coach.
“That you, Mackenzie?” One time. I’d met that stupid coach one time and sent him one case of wine! And this was how I was rewarded?
“Yeah, hi!” I gave a small wave. “I was just leaving.”
“Stay.” He grinned. “And thanks again for the wine last Christmas. The wife wouldn’t shut up about it.”
I shrugged. “It’s the best.”
“Housekeeper?” Jagger repeated. “Dog walker?”
Slade rolled his eyes. “I just moved. I needed help.”
“So you hired a billionaire’s daughter?”
And just like that.
Outed.
“Thanks, Jagger,” I grumbled.
“What?” He looked genuinely confused. “Everyone knows who you are. You were on Vogue last year during Wedding—” He made a face. “Sorry, sore subject.”
“Ya think?”
“Wedding?” Slade just had to ask.
“You know what would be great right now?” I spread my arms wide. “If I just went . . . away, and you guys did your thing, with the cleats and . . . running. Balls. Do your thing with your balls.”
Jagger hid a grin behind his hand while Slade’s lips twitched.
“Stay.” Coach had me in a viselike side hug that immediately caused sweat under my arms. “I insist.”
“Well,” I said through clenched teeth. “If you insist.”
“Let’s go, men.” He clapped his hands.
Slade’s eyes narrowed at me before he shook his head. “Have you always been a compulsive liar, or is this new?”
“Oh, it’s new.” I flashed him a middle finger. “And this whole jackass routine you’ve got going on. That new too, or has it always been in your possessed, flesh-eating soul?”
“Flesh-eating.” He nodded. “Nice. And honestly, it comes and goes, depending on the company.”
“Lucky company.” I glared.
We were at a standstill.
I wanted to lunge at him, poke those perfect eyeballs with my pointer finger, and kick him in the balls.
“Slade!” Coach called.
“Better go play with your tiny balls, Slade. And before you say something childish like ‘You would know,’ remember”—I lowered my eyes—“I really would.”
His face broke out into a smile. That was all it took to transport me back to the guy I’d first met, not the one I was working for. His smile quickly faded, though. It slid into the abyss of whatever anger and sadness he was carrying around in a suitcase.
Forcing me to remember all the reasons I was trying to cheer him up.
Why fighting with him felt more helpful than good—just another one of life’s great mysteries.
Chapter Twenty-One
SLADE
Drill.
Run.
Drill.
Run.
Repeat.
I had no time to look at her because she was sitting as far away from our practice as she physically could. It pissed me off that Jagger knew her.
And it pissed me off that I’d been such a tool. And she probably had more money than I’d ever seen in my entire life.
The things I said.
Even if they were true.
Still weren’t right.
My neck felt hot and itchy as I peeled my shirt off and dribbled the ball between the cones, right left, right left, fake, strike.
Repeat.
More sweat fell from my forehead until I was almost blinded by it, and when we started to scrimmage and I was pegged against Jagger, I almost tripped over a shoelace when he blew a kiss over at Mackenzie and pulled his shirt off. I never knew it was humanly possible to take off a shirt that slow, but he accomplished it with finesse that would probably earn a triple take from the stands.
“Trying to seduce the help?” I asked in a bored tone.
He rolled his eyes. “I would give up my entire soccer career for that woman to look twice at me, so yeah, I guess I am, though I wouldn’t be such a dick. Her dad owns most of Seattle and has a winery empire that would make an Italian weep.”
“Winery empire,” I repeated as Coach blew the whistle. “Then why is she working for me?”
“Why. Indeed.” He said the words slowly as though savoring them, and then the second whistle went off and all thoughts of Mackenzie vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Two
MACKENZIE
What was that about not liking soccer? Not understanding all the running? The sport just earned a new fan. I watched the guys run back and forth as I tried to focus on their intricate footwork instead of the sweat dripping off multiple six-packs and pecs.
Slade had taken his shirt off first.
And I swore to myself that if I started staring at his body I was going to cut out all sugar for a month—including wine. It was a bet with myself, against myself, in order to protect myself.