Sweet Spot. Сьюзен Мэллери
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only other adult of her acquaintance was Hawk and she was confident he would be holding court with his players. Not that she wanted to sit with him.
It would probably be best if she just left, she told herself. Maybe she could order a pizza to go.
She was already in line at the counter, leaning on her cane, when something large and warm settled on the small of her back. She’d never felt the touch before, but she recognized it. Recognized it and melted from the inside out.
How was it possible for her body to react so strongly to one man? What combination of chemistry and cosmic humor made her want to turn around, pull Hawk close and demand that he prove all the things Barbara had said about him weren’t just cheap talk?
She carefully sidestepped his touch. Instead of taking the hint, he grabbed her hand.
Just like that. Palm against palm, fingers lacing. As if he owned her. As if they belonged together. Worse, he wasn’t even looking at her. He was talking to some father.
She wanted to pull her hand free and demand that he stop touching her. She wanted to tell him that they weren’t together, they would never be together, and ask him what the hell was he thinking. She wanted to see if that bench seat in his truck was big enough for the two of them.
The father walked away and Hawk turned to her. “You don’t have to order,” he said. “They know we’re coming. I called ahead to let them know when the game was over. Technically you can get a beer, but I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t like anyone drinking in front of the kids on game night. It’s probably dumb, but there it is.”
His eyes were dark, as if they could absorb all the light in the room. She had the weirdest feeling she could get lost in his eyes, which just went to show that she’d moved past being hungry and was well into low blood sugar delusions.
“You’re holding my hand.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “It’s all I can do in a crowd, but once we’re alone I’ll crank up the heat.”
She jerked free of him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but let me be clear. You and I are never—”
“Hey, Coach, did you order salads?” one of the cheerleaders asked. “You know some of us don’t want pizza.”
“I ordered salads,” he said, sounding tired, then he turned back to her and grabbed her hand again. “What is it about women and their damn weight? Okay, yeah, carrying around an extra thirty or forty pounds is bad. But women today are obsessed with every fat cell and teenagers are the worst.”
“She’s a cheerleader. What did you expect?”
“That she should be happy she’s healthy and athletic and get off me about salad.”
“Doesn’t your daughter worry about her weight?”
One eyebrow raised. “You’ve been talking about me.”
“Not on purpose. The mothers are all too willing to chat about you. I’m confident you totally love their interest and do whatever you can to fan the flames.”
It was as if he didn’t hear anything she’d said. “You were asking questions.”
“Did you listen at all? I didn’t ask. It wasn’t necessary. Information was offered.”
He smiled, a slow, sexy, self-confident smile that made her both want to hit him and crawl inside of him. “I’m getting to you. I can tell.”
“Someone just shoot me now,” she muttered.
One of his players came up and asked him a question about the game. As Hawk answered, Nicole tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go. Short of a tugging match, she seemed trapped and couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
She glanced around the place and saw several mothers glaring at her. When she caught their eyes, they turned away and whispered to each other.
“The fan club isn’t happy,” she murmured to Hawk. “I don’t know you well enough to be risking life and limb.”
“I’m worth it.”
“You know, if we could harness your ego, we could solve the energy crisis.”
Just then several servers walked out carrying massive pizzas. All the kids milling around dove for tables. Hawk kept hold of her hand as he moved to a large booth in the corner, one apparently reserved for him.
At his urging, she slid in. He followed. She found herself shifting closer and closer to make room for players and their girlfriends. Despite her efforts to keep at least six inches between them, they ended up touching from hip to knee. She tried to find a good place for her cane, but there wasn’t one.
“I’ll take that,” Hawk said, pulling it out from under the table and placing it along the back of the booth. “What happened to your knee?”
“I fell and tore it up.”
“Are you getting better?”
“It’s a slow process.”
“I had knee surgery,” he told her. “We should compare scars.”
A simple statement, but the way he said it, the words sounded dirty.
“Maybe another time,” she murmured as three pizzas were placed on the table. Plates were passed out and pitchers of soda poured.
“Coach, whatcha think of that last play in the first quarter?” one of the guys asked. “That block came out of nowhere.”
“You handled him,” Hawk said. “Good job with the footwork. The extra practice is paying off.”
The kid, at least six feet three inches of solid muscle, beamed.
Nicole reached for a piece of pizza as Hawk was bombarded with question after question. The players didn’t just want to talk about the game—they wanted to make sure their coach knew they’d worked hard and done well.
It was probably a very healthy dynamic, one responsible for immature teenagers blossoming into responsible, productive citizens. She should be listening attentively, or at least taking notes, but all she could think about was how she and Hawk were touching.
His skin was hot against hers, as if he had a higher body temperature than mere mortals. She was aware of the muscles bunching and releasing—amazing, rock-hard muscles. Hawk was a big guy. Drew, her cheating bastard of an almost ex-husband, had only been a few inches taller than her and not much heavier. Hawk had massive hands, which made her think about old wives’ tales and possibilities.
“Earth to self,” she muttered. “Stay focused on reality.”
Hawk looked at her. “Did you say something?”
“Not me.”
The football recap continued. In an effort to distract herself from Hawk, Nicole glanced around the restaurant. There were a few parents sitting at one of the tables. Raoul and Brittany cuddled together in a booth across the room.
The kid had set himself up with a serious challenge, she thought. Dating his coach’s daughter. She wasn’t sure if she should admire Raoul for being willing to take on the task or question his sanity. Either way, she liked him.
As the pizza disappeared, conversation slowed. The kids drifted away until she and Hawk were the only ones left at their table. She eased back, putting some distance between them.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“You’re welcome. I’m still not sure how it happened. One minute I was minding my own business, the next I was here.” She picked up her paper napkin and began folding it. Anything to avoid staring at Hawk.
She hated how aware she was of him, how she missed the heat of his body next to hers. She was only twenty-eight so she couldn’t blame her reaction on swinging hormones. Maybe it was just