Blake whistled and motioned for Cody to rejoin his team. He tugged on the bright red practice jersey and jogged toward the huddle.
“Maybe Cameron was being too hard on the kid,” Drew commented.
“Cameron was doing his job,” Blake shot back. He jerked his head toward the benches behind them. “Why don’t you take a step back and let me coach my team, Drew.”
Drew looked as though he wanted to argue. Knowing the guy, he probably did. Blake didn’t give a shit. Drew might be Blake’s superior, but on the football field, Blake always had the final word. The kids needed to know that just as much as Drew did.
“This isn’t high school anymore, Blake, so you don’t need to keep one-upping me,” Drew commented in a hard voice.
Blake turned to face the athletic director. “I’m not trying to one-up you, Drew. I’m trying to do the job you hired me to do.”
The guy held his hands up in surrender, but the slight tilt of his mouth contradicted the benign gesture. “I just wanted to see how the team looks.” He lowered his hands and took a few steps backward. “It might be too early to tell, Carpenter, but one season may not be enough time for you to get the job done.”
One season was more than enough time, but Blake kept the argument to himself as Drew walked away. Let the cocky asshole think he had the upper hand. Blake would prove himself on the field; then Drew would have to keep that trap of his shut. The play ended and Cameron signaled for the kids to run it again. They got halfway through when a shadow appeared beside him. A long, slender, and curvy shadow, followed by the scent of…something flowery and feminine. Blake didn’t know the distinction between the smell of a rose and a carnation, but whatever it was was damn good. Like attention-getting, hair-standing-on-the-back-of-his-neck good.
And the soft voice that followed was the perfect match to the knock-you-on-your-ass scent messing with his concentration. “Coach Carpenter?” the woman asked.
Blake kept his attention on his players. “If you have a problem with the way I talk to your kid, then I suggest you don’t come to the practices,” he told the woman.
“Uh…,” she started, clearly taken aback by his abrupt statement. “No, I’m not related to any of the players, Mr. Carpenter.”
The play finished and Blake blew his whistle. “Water break, gentlemen,” he called to his players. He waited a moment before turning to the woman who’d interrupted his practice. When he did, the hazel eyes that blinked back at him just about knocked him on his ass. And yeah, she was way too young to be the mother of a high schooler.
So what the hell was she doing here?
Besides clouding his thinking with whatever the hell she sprayed on herself.
“What can I do for you, Miss…” He waited, arching a brow above his sunglasses.
She blinked at him, then stuck her hand out. “Turner,” she answered. “Annabelle Turner.”
Her full lips curved into a small but oddly seductive smile, which was like a punch to Blake’s gut.
What the hell?
He took her hand, noting how much smaller and softer it was than his. Her petite fingers curved around his palm, but instead of shaking her hand, he just held on to it. As though he were some jackass who had never gone through a hand-shaking ritual before.
“Again, what can I do for you?” he wanted to know.
She withdrew her hand from his and rubbed it up and down the top of her thigh, which was covered in some kind of black spandex. As though she’d just come from the gym. Probably had considering how lean she was.
“I wanted to come and introduce myself before we started working together,” she answered.
His brow twitched in confusion. “Working together?” he repeated.
“With the players,” she clarified with a wave of her hand toward the field.
“I’m not following you, Ms. Turner.”
“I’m the physical therapist,” she explained. Her teeth stabbed into her full lower lip when he didn’t respond to her announcement. “Drew Spalding hired me to work with the kids,” she went on. “Do you know Drew? He’s the athletic director—”
“I know who Drew is,” he interrupted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cameron walk onto the field to speak to the players.
Annabelle smiled, creating a shallow dimple in her right cheek. “Sorry, but you were looking at me like you didn’t know what I was talking about.”
He turned to face her, noting how her long thick hair kept teasing her jawline when the wind blew. The strands were dark on top, the color of a rich Tennessee whiskey, which slowly faded to a brighter blond on the ends, curling slightly into a perfect outward flip.
“That’s because I don’t, Ms. Turner,” he explained.
Her brow crinkled at his abrupt tone. Excuse him for being an asshole, but he had a team to coach and this woman, with her provocative scent and legs for days, was pulling his thoughts off of play calling and onto lazy afternoon sex.
“Drew hired me last season to work with the players,” she explained, which still wasn’t much of an explanation. “Since the team doesn’t have an official doctor, he thought I could help them.”
“Help them with what?” Yeah, he knew what physical therapists could do for football players. As a professional, he’d been treated by some of the top PTs in the country. What he didn’t know was why she was here, with a high school football team. He’d never heard of a high school football program hiring their own therapists and doctors, unless it was a wealthy 5A school, which Blanco Valley wasn’t.
“Stretching,” she answered. “Conditioning. Treating old injuries that might hinder their abilities.”
Blake hadn’t been made aware of a physical therapist working with the team. That sort of practice was unorthodox and unnecessary in Blake’s mind. Professional football teams had all sorts of trainers and doctors to make sure the players were kept in
