Feeling a bit like a sideshow freak, Danny McMillan ignored the small group of people staring at him and took a second to drink in the scenery. The sky was blue, the spring sunshine bright, and the Wolcott campus looked like something Hollywood had nailed together on a back lot. The crowd gathered at the base of the steps appeared to be marginally friendlier than the lynch mob that had converged on Coach Snyder’s conference at the Bridgestone Center in Nashville. That was as optimistic as he could get about this little dog and pony show.
The last time he’d held a press conference, camera shutters clicked like machine gun fire and flashbulbs flared. This time, the assemblage came equipped with exactly one shoulder cam and a smattering of cellular devices. Hell, the smirky, white-blond cheerleader with the National Sports Network credentials dangling from her lanyard didn’t even bother pointing her phone in his direction. She was too busy thumb-typing. He stared at the razor-thin part on the top of the young reporter’s head and rattled off the usual string of gibberish.
“I can’t tell you how excited I am to be a Wolcott Warrior.”
No lie. The last four years were a testament to his mental strength and endurance. It was a good thing he had age on his side. He’d once been one of the youngest coaches to ever lead a major program. Maybe they’d forgive him for being nearly junior-high-girl giddy at the prospect of being restored to Division I collegiate athletics—even if it meant coaching a team that hadn’t won a single game in four seasons. Not even against the Division II teams the school paid to play in their preconference games.
Though they were a member of the revered and feared Mid-Continental Conference, the Wolcott Warriors were perennial cellar dwellers. But it didn’t matter. Division I was Division I. He was back, damn it.
Pale spring sunlight glinted off the camera lens. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Once again, his future was bright.
“Athletic Director Samlin and I met with the team this morning, and I can say these young men have made quite an impression on me.”
Again, the truth. The world at large didn’t need to know that the program would have more success if they channeled their playoff ambitions into the action offered by a couple of well-oiled foosball tables.
“Smart players playing smart, fundamentally strong football. It’s hard to beat a team that plays with their heads and their hearts.”
More home truths. The team had an admirably high grade point average as a whole. Surely a group of young men who excelled in Wolcott’s high-flying academic environment could be taught how to convert four downs into six points. As for the kicking game, one of these boy geniuses must have played a little soccer at some point.
“Trust me, I have every confidence the Wolcott Warriors will make their mark on collegiate athletics.”
The tiny cluster of reporters snapped to attention, and he clamped his mouth shut, wishing the words back. He hated himself for asking for their trust. Only used car salesmen asked people to trust them. Well, car salesmen and men who’d publicly fallen from grace. And only a fool thought that football meant squat around these parts. He was still scrambling for a way to rephrase when the question zinged him right between the eyes.
“Make their mark? Coach Snyder has won four national championships in the past decade. Wouldn’t you say that made a mark?”
Danny hid his cringe as he scanned the sad group of reporters. The question came from a tall, nerdy-looking guy standing at the back of the pack. At first glance, Danny had pegged him as an easy target. He looked like a former athlete. The type who didn’t quite have the talent to play beyond college. The glory-days guys used to be his specialty, but it didn’t look like this one could be wooed with a sideline pass and a date to speak to the Rotary Club.
Shit. How could he have slipped up like that? This was a basketball school. Women’s basketball, of all things. Wolcott University was home to Kate Snyder—basketball star, coaching legend, and media darling. “No. Right. Of course.” He stumbled over the acknowledgment. “I meant in football.”
Thankfully, Mike decided to put him out of his misery. His old friend, former teammate, and new boss stepped forward and held up a hand. “Coach McMillan will take just a few more questions. He’s got a hot date with some game film lined up for this afternoon.”
If he didn’t have to be the guy to answer the damn things, Danny would have found the predictability of the questions laughable. But he did have to answer them. Every single time he took a new coaching job. Danny clenched his abs and stood straighter in a Pavlovian response. And here it came…
“Coach, do you truly think you can build a winning program at a school like Wolcott without resorting to the kinds of…questionable tactics you used at Northern?”
He didn’t blink. No point in denying the recruiting violations he’d already owned. Even though his staff had only done what everyone else was doing. Because he was their leader and ultimately responsible for the entire program, he’d fallen on his sword when they got caught. At any other time, in any other place, he would have gotten a few wins vacated from his record and a slap on the wrist. His people just happened to step in it at the wrong time.
He didn’t dare give anything but the faintly puzzled smile he’d perfected in front of the mirror. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Damn straight he could and would. He’d been the NCAA’s whipping boy for too long. He had something to prove, and what better way to stick it to them all than to turn one of the worst programs in the division into one of the best?
Danny waited, but the follow-up question never materialized. For one blissful moment, he thought maybe they’d forgotten about the girl. But reporters were like elephants. They never forgot. They’d remember the rest of the scandal that had gotten him fired and essentially blackballed. It was just a matter of time. Instead, this hard-hitting journalist decided to make a name for himself by being completely ineffectual and innocuous. God bless him.
The beanpole reporter waved away the ethics questions in his rush to state the obvious. “Unlike the other Division I schools you’ve coached for, Wolcott athletics have historically focused on the basketball programs.”
Once again, no actual question followed. Rather than wait for the attack, Danny decided to grab the bull by the horns and wrestle his way out of this meet and greet as best he could.
“That’s true. This is one of the reasons I’m so excited to be here. History is the past. I think what Director Samlin is trying to do is look to the future. My goal is to generate the same kind of support for the football program that Coach Snyder and Coach Ransom have for basketball. We’re playing in the big-boy conference. I want to see Wolcott claim its rightful spot.”
The metallic clunk of a crash bar filled the silence as the reporters dutifully noted his ass-kissing. He heard one of the heavy glass doors behind him hiss a hydraulic sigh, but he paid the commotion no mind. He had only a few land mines to navigate between him and the safety of seventy hours of film analysis.
A few reporters straightened when they spotted whoever came through the door, but he didn’t dare turn his back on the wolves gathered on the steps. Good thing he didn’t, because the NSN reporter chose that moment to spring into action. She waved her arm to get his attention. “Coach! Coach!”
“Yes”—he scanned the name on the badge dangling just above her navel—“Brittany?”
The woman shot him a dismissive glare and gestured to the steps behind him. “No, I have a question for Coach Snyder.”
Danny turned to find Kate Snyder standing at the top of the steps. He’d seen enough of the basketball legend on television to know she was attractive. He’d prepared for that. But he hadn’t expected beautiful.
She wore snug pants that clung to her mile-long legs and a sweater so loose and delicate it looked like it would unravel with one tug. The spring breeze caught strands of her dark hair and tossed them like streamers. Her wide mouth stretched into a saccharine-laced smile. The sharp glint in her eyes should have put him off, but it didn’t. If anything, it made his pulse jump like a twitchy offensive lineman.
She was feminine but formidable. Bathed in sunlight and framed by the silvered glass doors, she packed the wallop of a knee to the nuts. Tall and slender, she had the kind of regal bearing and willowy grace that made a man think she might have been a fashion model rather than an athletic prodigy. But the set of her jaw and the steely determination in her eyes warned him not to buy into the lithesome ease. He recognized the trap.
Kate Snyder was a damn warrior.
The welcoming smile and silky sweater were calculated to make people underestimate her. The way she tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear was nothing but a pick set to trip him up. This woman was a competitor. A champion. A friggin’ hall of famer, and she wasn’t even in her prime yet. She played to win—at all costs.
Mike had warned him about her. Kate Snyder was one of the university’s greatest assets and most powerful people. He claimed she had the board of regents and the entire student body eating out of the palm of her hand. The media stumbled all over themselves to get a sound bite from her. Rumor had it she managed to snare a solid twenty percent of the vote for homecoming queen each year since she’d returned to her alma mater to coach. Now he could see why. The woman was as hot as Hades.
The wary expression creasing Mike’s brow told Danny that Kate was also a woman who wasn’t the least bit afraid to wield that power. Unfortunately, dire warnings weren’t enough to quell the spike of lust that embedded itself in Danny’s gut the second his eyes met hers.
He had to look away. The pack of jackals was safer than this woman. At last, his instinct for self-preservation kicked in, and he turned back to the reporters, a smile stretched taut across his face.
The perky blond preened just a little, happy to be in the spotlight no matter how small it might be. “Coach Snyder, you’ve been instrumental in building the university’s athletic and booster programs. How do you feel about the exorbitant salary Mr. Samlin attached to the contract Mr. McMillan signed?”
Danny bit his tongue to keep from scoffing at her use of the word exorbitant in reference to the comparatively moderate contract he’d signed and to stop himself from demanding the reporter address him as Coach. Her wide china-doll eyes narrowed speculatively as she glanced from Danny to the AD and up to Coach Snyder once more. A sly smile curved the junior journalist’s mouth.
Kate’s lack of reaction told him she’d expected the question. She matched the reporter’s smile and then upped the ante, adding enough warmth to ensure the small assemblage of press focused solely on her. “Why, Brittany, I hadn’t even thought.”
She drawled the words with Southern-bred deliberateness, making it clear she was all about renegotiating her salary.
“I just wanted to take a moment to welcome Coach McMillan to Wolcott and wish him the best of luck with his program.” She shifted her focus to him, and everything locked up. Heart, lungs…everything frozen by a pair of amber eyes set to stun. Cat’s eyes. This woman was predatory, not prey. “We hope to see great things from you.”
The skeptical lift of one perfectly arched eyebrow conveyed the message loud and clear: they hoped but did not expect.
Danny’s fingers curled into loose fists as she flashed a challenging smile. Air exploded from his lungs. The classic profile and long, lean body were tempting enough, but the air of confidence that radiated from her was such a turn-on, he had to resist the urge to adjust himself.
“I have great plans,” he replied.
Danny clamped his mouth shut and cleared his throat, shocked by the low, gruff rasp of his voice as much as the promise. He wanted to kiss the smugness out of her, press her up against the smoked glass doors and take her hard and fast. Show her straight off the bat the kinds of “great things” he had in store for her.
Mike was right to be worried. One look from Kate and Danny’s tongue jumped offside before his brain had even called the play. But there would be no dropping back into the pocket now that the rush was on. Instead, he stepped up to the line she’d drawn between them.
Her smile widened, crinkling her eyes and triggering the most attractive set of brackets around her mouth. “I can’t wait to hear all about them.”
His thoughts went to a fantastically filthy place. This time, he didn’t bother trying to clear the huskiness in his voice. If she wanted to play, he’d play. “I’d love to tell you all about them…Coach.”
Her eyes flared with amusement, and she touched the tip of her tongue to the center of her upper lip. With a nod heavy with mocking solemnity, she stepped down to offer him her hand. He was vaguely aware of the whir and snick of photos captured but intensely tuned in to the feel of her slender fingers wrapped around his hand. Her palm was soft. The spring breeze caught the fresh floral scent of her perfume, and silky strands of hair clung to the pale lipstick she wore. Everything about her was simple, elegant, and as blatantly arousing as a lap dance.
“I’d be happy to offer any advice you might need.” She pitched her voice loud enough for their audience to hear. “You know where to find my office, right? Straight down the hall past the four NCAA championship trophies and turn right at the Naismith awards.”
Turning her brilliant smile on the rapt reporters, she gave a jaunty wave and bounded up the steps, her long legs eating up concrete with the same gusto she’d exerted in smashing his ego. The sunlight cast a halo around her head as she paused on the top step once more.
“Oh, and if you reach the case with my old jerseys and the Olympic team photo, you’ve gone too far. But don’t worry. You’ll find your way eventually.” She winked at the reporters, nodded to the athletic director, then gave Danny McMillan a patently insincere grin. “Welcome to Wolcott, Coach.”
* * *
Kate dropped the pen she’d been clicking manically and glanced toward the window. Intruding on Coach Hotshot’s press conference wasn’t the most mature way to introduce herself, but damn it, this was her turf. She’d spent her entire adult life representing Wolcott University athletics, and she wasn’t about to be brushed aside for some smarmy has-been with a shoulder-pad fetish.
Her phone rang, and she reached for it without looking. “Kate Snyder.”
“That was gold, Katie! Gold! Check the website.”
Twisting in her seat, Kate smirked as the Wolcott Athletics home page loaded on her computer screen. It hadn’t taken Millie long to get a snapshot of Kate nose-to-nose with Danny McMillan posted and released to the press. The university’s media maven was as industrious as she was insidious. Once Millie wrapped her arms around an idea, it was almost impossible to pry it from her grasp.
Kate fell back in her chair. “Does Jerry Seinfeld know you’re stealing his lines?”
“It’s Kenny Bania’s line.” The older woman’s raspy voice might have indicated a three-pack-a-day habit, but Kate knew for a fact Millie had never taken a puff. The woman ran marathons as often as others ran errands.
Heaving a sigh, Kate tucked the receiver under her chin. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Enjoyed it? NSN called. They’re sending the crew in to talk to you this week. Not Brittany, the documentary crew.” Kate’s eyebrows shot up. “They want to shine their Sports Spotlight on you ASAP, Coach.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “I bet they do.” It was hard to keep the edge of bitterness out of her voice. The network had already pitched the documentary idea, and she had signed the papers nearly two years earlier. Somehow, there was always a bigger story to be told. A man-sized story. She tapped her mouse to minimize the screen. “Tell them to bring it on.”
“Done.” She heard the click of Millie’s pen. “And, Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“Avery said to remind you that you built this athletic program. Don’t let them marginalize you. Keep giving him hell.”
Kate smiled, seeing straight through the moment of sisterly solidarity to the media circus that was sure to blossom at the center of this hiring fiasco. “Will do.”
“Good girl. You can’t buy this kind of publicity.”
Millie’s rasping cackle blared from the receiver as Katie hung up, but the second she pulled her hand back, the phone rang again.
Heaving a sigh, she answered with a simple, “Snyder.”
“Coach Snyder, it’s Davenport with the Sentinel.”
The tersely professional greeting both amused and annoyed her. “Davenport from the Sentinel” had kissed her good night at her front door a few nights ago. Choosing to let the flash of irritation go, she rocked back in her chair and tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder.
“Yes, Mr. Davenport, what can I do for you?” she asked, a smile adding some lilt to her voice.
The head of the sports department for both the local newspaper and television station, Jim Davenport also happened to be number one on her roster of potential lovers. Not that the bench was deep at the moment. When one lived and worked in a college town, men of appropriate age and unencumbered marital status weren’t exactly thick on the ground.
Jim was handsome, if a bit pedantic. She figured sooner or later, he might grow into the suave newspaperman persona he swiped from Cary Grant in His Girl Friday. He just needed to cultivate a bit of charm. They’d flirted with becoming something more than friends for years, but the timing was never quite right. First, she was married. Then, by the time she was divorced, Jim was involved with someone else. In the months since his messy breakup, they’d established a semiregular routine of drinks or dinner, but things were slow to develop from there.
The stagnation left her feeling both frustrated and oddly relieved. She liked Jim, and if things didn’t work out between them…well, alienating her closest ally in the press wouldn’t be a prudent move. Not that she worried he’d abandon the team. The guy was a basketball fan through and through. He’d continue to be a fan as long as she continued to win.
“Listen, I need you to get me an interview with McMillan.”
Her head jerked back. She gave the receiver an incredulous glare. “Excuse me?”
“I need a one-on-one with him,” he persisted.
Agitated, she turned back to her desk and jiggled her mouse to wake her computer. The website’s banner screamed “Danny McMillan to Lead New Warrior Uprising.” A hot flush of annoyance prickled its way up her neck. “And you got confused and dialed my extension instead of the press office?”
“Millie just laughed and hung up when I called. If Mike Samlin thinks he can tuck Danny Boy away until the season starts in the fall, he’s mistaken. That last-minute press conference was bullshit.”
Last-minute or not, Jim had come running when the athletic director called. Touching her toe to the floor, Kate pivoted just enough to shift her focus to the dark hunter-green jersey framed and mounted on her wall. If she counted back to the day she signed her letter of intent, she’d spent almost a quarter of her life as a Wolcott Warrior. She could lay claim to one championship and a handful of prestigious awards as a player, as well as three titles and even more accolades as a coach. And now, this man wanted her to play social secretary for a man whose salary made hers look like tip money.
“I’m sorry your inability to seduce a woman with a rerun addiction is impeding your ability to find an angle on the biggest story in the history of Wolcott athletics,” she drawled, each word dripping sarcasm as thick as Spanish moss. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to help. The folks from NSN will be here soon to start filming me for the Warrior Woman documentary they’re so hot to do—”
“I didn’t say he was the biggest story—”
She had to give him credit. Jimbo recognized a blunder when he made one. Too bad he was better at giving offense than launching it. There was no way she would let him off the hook without making him squirm first. “Why don’t you give Cheryl Miller a call and see if she can use her pull to set up a playdate with Reggie for you?”
Without giving Jim a chance to sputter, she took a cue from the university’s media officer and hung up on him. Whirling away from the computer, she propped her feet on the windowsill and narrowed her eyes against the vivid green of the spring leaves as she sank into a sulk. The quad was crawling with students happy to bask in the sunshine, but all she could do was wish away the months until the season started in November.
At least the multiyear, multimillion-dollar man got to hold spring scrimmages with his team. All she had left on her agenda were her usual appearances at commencement ceremonies, basketball camps, and a month or so on the lecture circuit. The sad fact was, a couple weeks of delivering motivational speeches to middle managers earned her more than a championship season.
Eyes fixed on an old team photo, she counted to fifty in her head as she drew air in through her mouth and expelled it from her nose. Her one-time coach Buzzy Bryant had taught her that trick. In the years since, she’d discovered it worked just as well when one wasn’t standing at the free-throw line. She closed her eyes, absorbing the stab of pain that always accompanied thoughts of her late mentor.
But she’d done Old Buzzy proud. He’d visited her the day the surgeons informed her there’d be no repairing her knee and coaxed her into coming home to Wolcott. In a little over a decade, she’d experienced unprecedented success. Only a handful of coaches could claim a better win-loss record. She was nationally recognized for her excellence as a player and a coach, a living legend, a champion who didn’t allow such pesky details as limited resources or the gender bias inherent in collegiate athletics to hold her back.
And she wouldn’t let it now.
She scowled at the play of sunlight on newly unfurled leaves. It was the quintessential early April day, and all that spring green and golden sunshine depressed the hell out of her. She and all the other nonbaseball fanatics called the time between postseason tournaments and the first tip-off in the fall the dead zone. For people like her, the kind who lived for basketball, there was no such thing as the off-season, no matter what the schedules said. Life without basketball wasn’t any kind of life. The truth was, she barely felt alive outside of the season.
Until Danny McMillan’s hand closed around hers.
Something had happened when he’d touched her. Something she didn’t want to examine too closely. She dropped her feet to the floor and crossed her legs, squirming in her seat until she sat up straight and tall. She might have assigned the tingling in her nether region to the molded seat cushion on her ergonomically correct desk chair, but she wasn’t a woman who lied to herself. At least, not often. Visions of black hair and icy-blue eyes danced in her head.
She briefly entertained thoughts of running home to her handheld showerhead but opted to squeeze her thighs together instead. She peeked at the picture of her facing down Danny McMillan again. It was as irresistibly painful as touching a bruise. She could still feel the sizzle, but she ignored it as she stared hard at his face. The cocky smile cut unspeakably attractive grooves into his skin, and bright-blue eyes glowed with intensity. She knew that gleam. Had felt the warmth of the same burning ambition. The man was a believer. A zealot. A champion in the making.
The hot bloom of lust in her belly hardened into a lump and dropped to the pit of her stomach. He was also a ruthless competitor with nothing to lose and everything to gain. She’d be damned if she’d let him crawl over her to get to the top. The administration might think he was worth a bunch of zeroes, but as far as she was concerned, the guy was a zero. And she would prove it.