Chapter 2

“Listen, guys, start your warm-up without me,” Marabelle said.

After several more minutes of slobbering over Coach Frasier and posing for selfies, the boys left for the courts. Marabelle pushed the heavy classroom door closed to the celebratory high fives, taking a moment to inhale much-needed air to calm her nerves. She turned, facing the man who stood between her and a successful auction…and her future.

“Um, could we start over?”

“You’re a coach?”

Marabelle barely refrained from smacking her forehead with her open palm. She half chuckled, half smirked. “For the varsity tennis teams.”

Surprise lit Coach Frasier’s expression. “You actually play?”

“Since I was six.” Time to steer the conversation back to her cause: approval from the board and a permanent teaching position. Marabelle clasped her hands together, and in a steady voice, said, “Let’s see if we can focus here. I’ll start by apologizing for fouling this whole thing up—”

“You don’t look like a tennis player. You look like you can barely ride a tricycle.”

Marabelle stepped closer, ignoring her quivering belly, determined to say her piece and get back to the reason for this meeting. “There’s an entire world of sports beyond football out there. You should give some of them a try. Besides, what I lack in stature, I make up for in guts. Now, can we get back to the business at hand?”

Coach Frasier peered down at her, his gaze zeroing in on her mouth. Heat crept up her face under his intense scrutiny. She nervously slicked her bottom lip with her tongue and could’ve sworn he groaned.

“Okay, Ms. Fairchild, start from the beginning.”

The tension in her shoulders eased as she exhaled. She explained how she was responsible for the tournaments and securing eligible men for the auction, barely managing to omit that her independence, pride, and sense of worth all were at stake. Marabelle had thrown away a fortune…literally. She couldn’t afford to screw this up.

“So will you do it?” She squeezed her crossed fingers behind her back.

Coach Frasier relaxed his hip against her desk again. He crossed his powerful arms and tilted his head, his mesmerizing blue eyes making a slow glide from her forehead down to her tennis shoes. Marabelle nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other. If she’d been the kind of woman who fussed over her appearance, she would’ve been insulted by his blatant perusal. But she wasn’t here to win a beauty contest. She had a job to do.

His scrutiny felt like it lasted hours instead of mere seconds. Finally, his gaze landed back on her face. “No offense, Ms. Fairchild, but are you the best this school has to offer?”

“None taken. And yes, compared to the rest of the staff, I actually look pretty good.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Hard to believe, huh?”

Coach Frasier’s gorgeous head fell back as he burst out laughing, flashing straight white teeth. He had one of those warm, masculine laughs.

Marabelle liked it—a lot.

Smiling, she pushed up the sleeves to her sweatshirt. “Okay, okay, so I’m not in the big league.” Damn, her small stature always put her at a disadvantage.

“Honey, you aren’t even in the Pee Wee league,” he said between hoots. “Has the committee ever conversed with you? I’m no expert or anything, but you kinda lack the finesse for winning friends and influencing people.” Coach Frasier grinned.

Marabelle shot a grin right back, mimicking his body language by folding her arms. “I have zero tact. That particular gene skipped me. But I’m a damn good teacher, and the students love me. Crazy as this sounds, I relate much better to children—”

“Now that I believe!”

“—and if I strike this deal with the sexiest, most famous guy Raleigh has ever seen, I will improve my status here at the school in a big way.” Now there was the understatement of the century.

She bent to straighten a cup of crayons on one of the small desks when Coach Frasier entered her space. “You think I’m sexy?” he said in his smoky voice.

Marabelle straightened her shoulders. “Give me a break. Like I’m telling you something you haven’t heard since coming out of the womb. You and I both know that every single woman and half the married ones would sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ naked on the fifty-yard line at the Super Bowl just to go out with you.”

“Now that sounds promising. Would you?”

Coach Frasier moved so close, the glittery blue of his eyes showed flecks of steel gray. An involuntary shiver ran up her spine. Marabelle knew what the feeling meant and didn’t like it. At. All.

“Good God—no! You are not my type.” She flapped her hands as if to brush him away, swaying back to regain her equilibrium.

“What do you mean I’m not your type?” Coach Frasier boxed her in with the door to her back. “Are you gay?”

Of course he would think that was the only logical reason not to want him. This close, the intoxicating smell of spice and lemon filled her nose. Marabelle’s mouth watered. If he’d been a dish, she would’ve eaten him on the spot.

She chose to refocus on his face instead of his edible, broad chest, and almost whimpered at the unfairness of it all. Swallowing her frustrated sigh, she said, “Why is it that every time a woman says she’s not interested in a man, she’s automatically assumed to be a lesbian?”

“Because she usually is.” Amusement lifted the corner of his mouth.

“Hardly. Because your inflated ego cannot fathom that a woman might not be interested in you.”

Coach Frasier moved back, allowing Marabelle to draw air into her deprived lungs, but her breath clogged her throat as he pulled keys from his pocket.

He can’t leave now. He jiggled the keys in his hand. “Ms. Fairchild, as stimulating as this conversation has been, you haven’t said anything compelling to convince me to sell my friends and myself for the cause. I’m afraid I need to be going, unless there’s something important you have to tell me about Brandon.”

Marabelle’s hard-earned independence flashed before her eyes. If she didn’t get his cooperation, her mother’s prediction of failing would come true.

Unthinkable.

* * *

“No, wait,” Marabelle said.

Nick peered down at the small hand gripping his forearm. Marabelle released him as if embarrassed. Man, he’d been working too hard if that innocent touch caused heat to shoot from his arm straight to his groin.

Marabelle reached for a folder on top of her desk. “I know I’m not the best salesperson for the job, but if you would take this packet and read it over, I think you’ll change your mind.” Hope shimmered in her huge brown eyes, and Nick felt like crap for crushing it.

What the hell. He gave a quick nod and took the glossy marketing packet, slapping it several times against his thigh.

Then Marabelle smiled. Really smiled. It lit her entire face, and Nick felt dizzy. A megawatt smile capable of making him forget about her abrupt personality, hideous outfit, and the fact that she was probably gay.

Spellbound, he said against his better judgment, “Okay, Tinker Bell. I’ll read your packet.” Her smile turned high-beam like the sun breaking over the horizon. “I’m not making any promises,” he quickly amended, still unable to avert his gaze.

“Got it. So, when can we meet to discuss the prospects?”

Nick hesitated and then glanced at the keys he’d palmed. “Uh…I’ll call you.” The oldest line in history, and it failed miserably. Marabelle’s megawatt smile faded like a lightbulb growing dim. He needed to get the hell out of here before he made promises he didn’t want to keep.

Nick extended his hand. “Tinker Bell, it’s been interesting, to say the least.”

“Coach Frasier, I’m afraid I can’t let you go.”

“What?” Nick’s hand hung in midair.

Suddenly, he watched in shock as Marabelle threw her back against the classroom door, spread-eagle, barring his exit. “You’re going to have to agree to another meeting before I allow you to leave.”

Nick’s jaw dropped. Allow me to leave? “Or what? You threatening me?”

Marabelle’s chin shot up a notch as she remained plastered to the door. “Y-yes. You gotta go through me if you want out this door. Or…we could be civilized about this, and you can agree to another meeting.”

Nick rubbed his hand over his face. “Did you forget to take your meds? Because I outweigh you by at least a hundred and ten pounds, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

Marabelle audibly gulped. “Yeah, but I’m tenacious, not to mention desperate.”

“Tinker Bell, I’m warning you. Move away from the door.”

Her stubborn chin quivered, but she ignored his threat. “Promise to meet me next week.”

Professional football players had more fear than this crazy fairy, or maybe they just had more sense, because Marabelle Fairchild shook in her little Nike shoes, but she was sticking.

At some point, Nick had made up his mind to meet with her again, because she’d been the most interesting weirdo he’d ever encountered and she made him laugh. And lately, there’d been a shortage of laughter in his life. But no way could he let her think she could take him.

Nick cursed low. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Dumping his keys back in his pocket and tossing the gala folder on top of a small desk, he wrapped his hands around her waist, lifting her away from the door. Marabelle flung her arms around his neck and coiled her legs around his hips, clinging to him as if he were a life raft in a turbulent sea.

“What the—?” Nick’s jolt matched the utter shock written on Marabelle’s face.

“Promise me, and I’ll let go!” she blurted.

Nick froze. This was no girl he held in his arms. Womanly curves teased his hands through her hideously bulky clothes. She was luscious and soft in all the right places. The urge to peel away the layers to see what lay beneath flexed his fingers. Flashes of hot-pink panties covering a heart-shaped ass replayed in his head.

Nick’s entire body stiffened…including his cock. Marabelle’s eyes flared even wider.

“Marabelle.” He tried disengaging her arms without hurting her, but she squeezed tighter.

“Please,” she begged.

“Monday afternoon. My office. Same time,” Nick gritted through his locked jaw. Anything to get her out of his arms before he did something really stupid.

Her stranglehold loosened, and slowly, she slid her legs down his rigid thighs.

The betrayal of his body pissed him off. He pushed away temptation a little more roughly than he intended. “Agreed?” The tic in his right jaw flared to life.

Unaware of his tenuous control, Marabelle nodded. “Thank you so much, Coach Frasier. Sorry about my strong-arm tactics, but I had to make you see reason. I swear you won’t be sorry.” Nick watched as her face morphed into an innocent cherub, making him instantly leery.

“I already am,” he snapped. “Is it safe for me to leave now, or are you hiding a hand grenade in your desk drawer?”

“No. But I almost forgot.” Marabelle lunged toward her desk and scooped up a manila folder sitting on top. “This is the progress report on your nephew. We can discuss it on Monday when we meet. Monday afternoon. Your office. Same time, right?” she confirmed, shoving the gala file inside.

With the folder in his hand, he reached for the door. “Until Monday, Ms. Fairchild.” Then he touched the bill of his cap in a mock salute and walked out.

* * *

“What the hell just happened?” Nick mumbled to himself as he slid into his silver Porsche 911 Carrera. Dumbfounded, he sat in the parking lot at Trinity Academy, drumming his fingers on the leather steering wheel, staring out his windshield at the playing fields. That had to be the most bizarre encounter he’d ever had with a woman.

And being a famous quarterback and now a coach in the NFL, Nick had known a lot of women.

He could have his pick at any time, any day. But he had chosen not to go through women like a PEZ dispenser. These days, he chalked it up to being older and mellower. Retirement and coaching did that to a man. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten hard in five seconds flat, especially over a woman who didn’t appeal to him on so many levels. Nick shoved the key in the ignition and stopped. He generally preferred his women on the glossy side, but for some reason, Marabelle had gotten under his skin. A smart-ass—albeit cute—who tried to appear tough.

He tossed his ball cap onto the seat next to him and tunneled his fingers through his hair. The women who floated in and out of Nick Frasier’s world always dressed to impress and were very single-minded with their agendas. They either wanted to land a professional athlete…or they wanted to destroy him.

Nick leaned back against the headrest and groaned. Anyone who really knew him knew he hadn’t arranged to meet Jenna Williams while vacationing in St. Barts. Nick didn’t do married women. Especially a woman married to his good friend and offensive coordinator.

It didn’t matter that it had all been a ploy for attention, or that Jenna admitted her role in the debacle. The photos were damning, and the damage had been done. He’d stopped counting how many Internet media rags had run the pictures with fictitious headlines. Nick’s business Twitter account had to be shut down. His team of assistants had jumped on damage control, trying to put an end to the speculation. But the photos had done their job. And now…Nick’s future and job hung in the balance.

He squeezed his eyes shut. What a royal screw-up.

Marty Hackman, the tough-as-nails owner of the Cherokees, had read him the riot act, and it hadn’t been pleasant. One more slip, and his ass was grass. Nick had worked too hard and come too far to let any conniving, gold-digging, attention-grabbing wannabe ruin his life.

Which brought him back to Marabelle Fairchild. He wasn’t gonna be used for someone else’s gain. Good cause or not. The fallout was not worth the risk.

As if his thoughts conjured her up, Nick caught sight of Marabelle crossing the back campus, heading straight for the tennis courts, pushing a wire basket of practice balls with several rackets tossed on top. She had traded the ugly schoolgirl skirt for an equally ugly pair of gray sweatpants to match the ugly sweatshirt she still wore.

When she reached the courts, some of the boys ambled over to speak with her. Nick could see the boys teasing Marabelle, making her laugh. All but two of them towered over her by at least a foot.

Then Marabelle surprised him by banging tennis balls at all the boys who weren’t already practicing. They scattered like flies as she started the drills. Nick observed for the next fifteen minutes, impressed at how she reined them in. Tinker Bell got one thing right: she may be small, but she sure had guts.