Chapter 4

“A hundred and ten percent from now on. Nothing less. You got me?” Danny gazed at the sea of sullen faces in front of him, searching for a flicker of response. He got zero. “Champions aren’t born—they’re made. If you’re not willing to bring your all to the game and leave everything you have on the field, I don’t have room for you on my team.”

Silence. Not even the shuffling of shoes or a sniffle. Stone-cold silence. His voice echoed off the dry-erase boards that lined the walls. Shadows of last season’s busted plays hid behind the thousands of X and O marks left by basketball. The jumble had to be Kate Snyder’s brand of alphabet soup. Her season lasted to the very end. The men’s team didn’t even make the tournament.

Tearing his gaze from the boards, he stared up at the strips of fluorescent lighting. Talking to this bunch was like trying to break through the toughest defensive line. But he’d do it. Eventually, he’d find the hole and punch right through. He just had to keep pounding.

Pitching his voice lower, he gave them his best “I’m leveling with you” stare. Only a few hearty souls dared to meet his eyes. “This is Division I football. You’re here because you have the brains and the drive to be here. Now, I’ll admit that most of the guys you’re going up against can barely tie their shoelaces…”

That earned him a couple of snickers. Danny grabbed them and ran, hoping he might find a way to channel their classroom discipline onto the gridiron. The principles of hard work and determination should translate. Unfortunately, it was hard to infuse confidence into a team that hadn’t won a single conference game in four seasons.

“But they can play ball. So can you. You’re big enough, strong enough…” Crap. Tapping old Stuart Smalley routines for inspiration—a new low for him. “We’ll win because we work harder and play smarter than anyone else. I expect those of you willing to give that hundred and ten percent to spend your summer sharpening your skills. We can win. We will win. I won’t accept anything less.”

With a bob of his head to his coaching staff, Danny stepped out from behind the lectern.

At last, his players stirred. A few grumbled as they shuffled from the room. Danny’s gut wrenched when he realized that none of them would even attempt to catch his eye. Not one suck-up in a whole pack of born overachievers. He was in deep shit.

He gravitated to the door, as anxious to leave the claustrophobic meeting room as the rest but hoping he hid it a little better. Most of the coaches would be taking off on vacation as soon as the students finished final exams. He had precious little time to make inroads with this program. Some of his staff and a handful of seniors would be back in a few weeks to help run the camps for teenagers who dreamed of playing for powerhouse schools in Florida, Alabama, or Michigan. He found it hard to believe many potential all-Americans had visions of wearing Warrior green and gold, but you never knew. The school had roots that ran deep, and the camps were a good way to spot talent and build relationships early.

When he turned back to switch off the overhead lighting, he spotted Mack Nord still parked in his chair.

Mack was exactly the kind of coach Danny admired. The type he’d always wanted to impress as a player. The man was a football fundamentalist so fervent, Danny wouldn’t have been shocked to hear he had his own Sunday morning show on local access cable.

The man cut no corners in putting every player through his paces. Danny appreciated that kind of old-school grit. He also liked listening to Mack’s assessments of each player’s strengths and weaknesses. Just the thought of those terse rundowns made Danny smile. On his first day there, Mack had certainly wasted no time sharing his opinion that Danny had been a fat-headed punk who let his dick make career choices for him.

He also said he hoped Danny had learned his damn lesson.

The same assessment had chased Danny from one no-name school to the next, but this time, he wanted to disprove it once and for all. “Mack? Did you need something else?”

The man’s white hair shone silver in the harsh overhead light. He tipped his head back and jerked his chin at one of the mottled whiteboards. “I’m taking the wife to Destin for a couple of weeks as soon as we wrap up the school year.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “She says it’s the price I pay for scribbling formations on every napkin or envelope in the house.” He chuckled and gave his head a rueful shake. “Once, I used one of her makeup pencils to sketch something out on the mirror. She damn near scalped me with her Pink Lady shaver.”

Danny couldn’t help but laugh. He’d spotted Mack’s wife bringing the old coot his lunch more than once since he’d started at Wolcott. She topped out at five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed much more than 110 pounds. Just the same, he had no trouble envisioning the scalping scene.

Tucking his hands in the pockets of his khakis, Danny stepped back into the room.

“Don’t let her complaining fool you. The woman never misses a game. She stores decades of stats in that pretty little head of hers and puts up with a guy who spends all year obsessing over a four-month season.” Mack gave a one-shouldered shrug, then sighed. “I guess she deserves a couple of weeks at the beach.”

“And a medal.”

“Oh, she has plenty of those. Every one of them set with diamonds.” He rose with an audible groan and turned to face Danny head-on. “They’re beat down. Calling them a bunch of losers isn’t going to make them any better.”

Mack’s blunt words stopped Danny in his tracks. “I didn’t call them losers.”

Mack still wore that smirk, but the sharp edge of his tone cut through Danny’s protest. “Not in so many words.”

“Not in any words,” Danny snapped, pissed off to find himself playing defense once again.

How the hell did this keep happening? He wasn’t a lineman, for Christ’s sake. He was the quarterback. The coach. This guy’s boss. He’d be damned if he’d spend one more minute apologizing for his past. Tucking his wounded pride under his arm, he charged right into the fray.

“I believe it’s reasonable to expect players who compete at this level—”

“Level,” Mack sneered. “Son, you need to stop worrying about who’s above you and below you and start worrying about what you have right up in your face.”

Danny stared at the older man for a moment, mentally rifling through a half dozen snide remarks about the above and below part, then tossing them aside in favor of driving straight up the middle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mack shuffled over to the nearest whiteboard and picked up the eraser. Danny bit his tongue to keep from protesting the obliteration of what might have been the most brilliant basketball play ever. Not that he would know. Hell, he didn’t even know if Kate Snyder had been the one to draw it.

“You forget you’re not dealing with those meat-headed numbskulls you had at Northern.”

The gravelly admonition jolted Danny from his fugue. “What?” He blinked twice as the implication sank its hooks. “Are you trying to tell me these kids are too smart to play good football?”

Mack took one last swipe at the play, then tossed the eraser onto the table as he turned to face him. “No, I’m telling you that they aren’t talented enough to play anywhere else.”

The bald statement set Danny back on his heels for a second, but like any good quarterback, he recovered quickly. “Well, then I guess we’ll need to work on our recruiting.”

“You can recruit until you’re blue in the face, but you know as well as I do that no ballplayer worth his salt wants to play on a losing team.”

“Is this some kind of super-loser circle jerk?” Danny regretted the snappish retort the instant it popped out, but like a fumbled ball, there was nothing he could do but fall on it. “There has to be a way to break the cycle.”

Mack nodded once. It was an achingly slow tip of his head but a nod nonetheless. “There is, but I can tell you it has nothing to do with playing on any of your levels. I had a nun who used to yell at us to keep our eyes on our own papers. That’s what you need to do, son. Look at what’s in front of you. Make the best choices you can. Stop worrying about what everyone else has. It’s time for you to play smart.”

The sneer was back, and the damn thing made Danny feel about two inches tall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he planted his feet wide and lifted an eyebrow. “Are you going to share your thoughts, Yoda, or am I supposed to use the Force?”

Mack looked confused for a moment, then his face lit with a smile. “Star Trek.”

“Wars. Star Wars.”

“Whatever.” Mack continued to smile, but it softened a little as he gave an easy shrug. “The love of the game. You forget, these guys are playing because they love it. There’s not one of them with a snowball’s chance in hell at playing pro ball. They play because they’ve always played. Talent or no talent, a player is a player as long as he suits up.”

Danny’s arms fell to his sides as the truth of Mack’s wisdom burrowed in and started to take root. Still, he had to find some way to get through to his players. “But at this level—”

Mack cut Danny off with a pitying look, turned his back, and headed for the door.

“Football is football, no matter what level,” Mack said, practically spitting out the last word. “Whether it’s peewee or the NFC, you still have to find a way to get the ball over the line. That’s why they call it a goal.”

Danny felt like he’d just taken a hit at the knees. One delivered by a crusty old man in blindingly white sneakers.

“Your job is to show them how to do that. If they can’t run it straight up the middle or airmail it in, you need to think smarter. Play smarter. Find a way for a bunch of brainiacs who simply love football to play the game to win.”

Humbled. Hobbled. Helpless. Danny wanted to grab Mack and beg him to hand over the key, tell him how a guy who’d never played on a team that was less than a contender for a title was supposed to connect with kids who had nothing but participation trophies.

“They love it just as much as you do, hotshot. Start with that, and see what you can do.” Then the mouthy old man ambled from the room as if he hadn’t just told off his boss.

Danny watched him go, a mixture of awe and ire swirling in his gut. One thing was certain: he needed to talk to Millie Jensen about getting Mack his own Sunday morning show. He’d kick ass at it.

Casting one last glance at the hieroglyphics left on the whiteboard, Danny chuckled to himself as he pulled the door to the meeting room closed behind him. The corridor off the main hall was dim and deserted. A couple of aging display cases featured the few moments of glory the men’s basketball team had known. Another paid homage to a mishmash of baseball, softball, and golf.

Rounding the corner, Danny trailed his fingers over the ancient plywood sign mounted to the wall. It was a relic from the old basketball arena and now served as a touchstone for all Wolcott athletes. Every student and staffer ever to wear the green and gold touched the peeling paint and plywood every time they passed. Being an athlete and as superstitious as any, Danny did the same.

Then he came to a complete stop in the center of the hallway. Sleek, frameless trophy cases stretched from the main entrance to the athletic department administrative offices and beyond. Discreet recessed lighting made the most of each shining silver tray and gleaming gold cup. Hunks of cut crystal shot rainbows on the walls.

He’d been scrupulously avoiding the proof of Kate Snyder’s legacy since his first and only press conference. The urge to follow that multicolored trail proved to be too much to resist. Danny checked over his shoulder before tucking his hands in his pockets and giving in to temptation.

Jerseys from her playing days vied with more than a dozen framed team photos. As a player, she wore her game face for every photo. There were a few of those stern shots from her early coaching days too. It took a minute for him to spot her standing slightly behind her former coach and mentor, Buzzy Bryant. But as her career progressed, Kate seemed to learn how to smile. A photograph of her surrounded by her team after she’d helped them secure their first championship as a coach captured a wide smile of undiluted joy.

Mack’s words came at him like a five-man rush. Love of the game. That’s what he saw when he looked at Kate Snyder. She’d never lost her love of the game, and that was what made her a champion.

“I have a key. Let me know if you want to pet something.”

Danny jumped and whirled. Busted. By the woman herself. Gritting his teeth, he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as if that would make it look like he was just casually walking past. “What? I was just…”

His train of thought jumped the tracks when she tilted her head, those amazing amber eyes fixed on him with what appeared to be bottomless patience. She wore a thin, clingy sweater that was exactly the same shade of pale pink as her lips. The ends of her hair slipped over her shoulder and brushed her cheek. She tucked the hair behind her ear in a move he was beginning to memorize. The glossy, brown strands looked silky and soft. Danny damn near shoved his fists through the seams of his pockets to keep from reaching for her.

Those pink lips twitched at the corners, but she didn’t quite smile. “Personally, I think some of the less prestigious awards give better trophies. My personal favorite is the crystal phallus I scored when I was named collegiate coach of the year by Sports Nation magazine.” Her brow furrowed. “Women’s division, of course.” Pursing her lips, she tipped her head to the other side and widened her eyes. “I wonder if the guys get dildos to take home too.”

Her feigned innocence, the husky timbre of her voice, and the crudeness of her observation startled a laugh from him. “I wouldn’t know.”

Kate chuckled, shaking her head ruefully. “I can’t believe I just said that. You’re a bad influence on me.”

Danny shrugged and pulled his hands from his pockets. “I seem to be bringing out the best in people today.”

She laughed again, but this time, her smile looked almost sincere. “Having a hard time with your troops?”

Giving in to impulse, he gestured in the direction of their offices. Not that his was anywhere near hers. She had a corner office with a quad view. His was little more than a janitor’s closet at the very end of the hall, but he wasn’t about to complain about office space.

He cast a sidelong glance as she fell into step beside him. “Let’s just say I’m having a little trouble finding the handle.”

She nodded as they approached her door. “Well, give yourself a chance to take a breath. You have a couple of months, and you have Mack.” Her keys jingled as she turned the lock. “If anyone has a bead on what’s going on around here, it’s him.”

Danny ran a tired hand over his face. His teeth and jaw ached from clenching. He pressed two fingers to the joint and rubbed at the tension, reminding himself that this was part of his penance. He should be used to receiving unsolicited advice and lectures from people who hardly knew him. They were the price he paid for fucking up in a spectacularly public way. But that didn’t mean he had to like them. “Oh yeah, Mack has opinions.”

Another one of Kate’s fire-starter laughs drew him out of his pity party. He looked up just as she switched on the office light.

“I guess he’s been on his soapbox already?” she asked.

She shot him a look so heavy with sympathy, it should have pissed him off. But it didn’t. If anything, it stirred him up on a bunch of different levels. Sure, there was a physical attraction, but Danny felt the tug of something more. She was giving him a glimpse of the woman behind the game face and big talk. The superstar who knew exactly how it felt to be condescended to on a daily basis but still held her ground with grace and dignity.

Swallowing a cold lump of pride, he craned his neck to peer into her office, uncertain if sympathy was enough to get him across the threshold. He didn’t chance it. No point in giving her cause to wipe that sweet little smile off her face.

“I know I should listen to him. Logically, I know that.”

“But it’s hard to take advice from a guy who’s never even been near the top of the heap,” she concluded.

Stunned by her quick and highly inaccurate analysis, he took that dangerous step over the threshold. “That’s not it at all—” He jerked to a stop just inside the spacious office and looked up in shock. “Whoa.”

One wall of her office was dedicated to mounted wire racks holding dozens of pairs of shoes. Everything from the newest in the Jordan line to those pointy-toed white sneakers cheerleaders used to wear. Sneakers in every color and style. Some were leftovers from another era, and others looked like they’d never been worn.

“You were saying?” she prompted tersely.

“Do you wear all these?”

“When the mood suits me.”

He tore his gaze from the wall of shoes, but she kept her eyes averted as she rifled through the papers in her inbox. “The mood?” Nodding to the feminine canvas sneakers, he asked, “What mood are those?”

She jerked a sheaf of papers from the stack and stuffed them into her oversized shoulder bag. “Those are for when I’m feeling a little ‘no one invited you in here.’”

Pleased to have put her on defense for once, he stroked the acid-green laces on a pair of gunmetal-gray running shoes. “I bet these are your ‘I feel pretty’ shoes.”

She stepped out from behind her desk and nodded to the door. “Right now, I’m wearing my ‘the lead anchor from the biggest sports network in the country is waiting for me’ shoes.”

Danny glanced down and for the first time noticed that she was wearing sandals. They were flat and black, but they had those super-long laces that wound around her ankle a half dozen times. Like a gladiator. She’d tied the ends in a neat bow front and center. Her toenails were polished fire-engine red, and she wore black capris that clung to every single inch of never-ending legs.

He wanted to unlace those sandals with his teeth, peel that pretty sweater over her head, and drag those snug pants down her legs. Visions of Audrey Hepburn and Mary Tyler Moore danced in his head. Obscene visions in which he did unspeakable things to Dick Van Dyke’s TV wife. The blood rushed from his head, and his dick grew hard. He might have seen a few other kinds of stars too, but Kate grabbed his arm and propelled him toward the door.

“You’re wrong,” he croaked.

She pushed him into the hall and whirled to pull the door closed behind her. “Wrong about what?”

A creak in her voice gave him courage. Then again, it might have been his hard-on talking. Either way, for the first time since he’d stepped foot on campus, he felt emboldened.

“I’m not having a hard time listening to Mack because he doesn’t have a winning record. It’s because he’s right, and I have no idea how to change my game plan.”

“Oh.”

She looked up at him, her face a picture of confused annoyance, and he smiled. It was a slow, cocky smile. The kind he hadn’t been able to muster for quite some time. But pointed at the very fair Kate Snyder, it seemed as natural as breathing. A pretty pink blush rose in her cheeks when she realized she still had a grip on his arm. She let go as if she’d been singed, but it was too late. He’d seen stars in her eyes too.

“And you’re wrong about the shoes,” he added.

“Shoes?”

The husky timbre of her voice told him she wasn’t as unaffected as she’d like to be. That knowledge gave him strength. Treating her to the same kind of slow, deliberate once-over she’d given him, he let his gaze travel all the way down to her feet again. Then he leaned in, not quite touching her. “Be careful with those shoes, Coach. I don’t think you know exactly what they’re saying.”

With that, he turned and walked away. But he felt her eyes on his back as he sauntered toward the no-man’s-land that housed his cracker box of an office. At last, he’d found a place comfortable enough to unpack his collection of ball caps. He just wished he’d thought to ask her where she’d scored those display racks.