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your ass when you stop talking out of it.”
    A smile hitches on my face. “If you’re listening, you shouldn’t have to stare.”
    “Did you come here just to annoy me?”
    “Nope. I came here to tell you that I can see your panties.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    I point at the line curving down her ass, and she looks, running her finger along the elastic band.
    “Next time, you should probably wear a thong.”
    I think I’m addicted to the bright patches of red on her cheeks.
    “I don’t have a thong.” Then she blushes with the realization of giving out too much information.
    My face cracks into an evil grin. “I’m surprised.”
    She glares at me.
    “None of your boyfriends ever bought you sexy underwear? Hell, you’ve never bought yourself sexy underwear?”
    “My choice of underwear is none of your damn business.”
    “It is my business when you have them on display.”
    “Yes. Thank you so much for pointing out that you can see my underwear. You are a lifesaver. Really.”
    “What are friends for, right Doc?”
    She opens her mouth angrily right before Coach screams across the field. “Sherwood! Get your ass back out here!”
    I give Chloe a wink and a smile before running back to the field. It’s been a long time since I haven’t been able to just snap my fingers and have a woman give in. Chloe’s a challenge.
    Far be it from me to back away from a challenge. Especially when it’s something I want. And I want Chloe. So I’m going to have her.
    I push the thoughts aside and focus on the next round of sprints. While I’m running, my mind goes quiet, everything centered on the movements of my legs, my arms. Out to the fifty-yard line and back, and then out again. One more time. Another. My breath’s coming hard and fast, my body straining.
    Then it’s time to stop and walk again. I start picturing the members of the team we’ll be playing this afternoon. I know them all far better than I’d like to, mostly from them plastering me all over the field during games. They’re good. Very good. They’re also one of our biggest rivals—we’ve had to get through them for the past three years to get to the playoffs. Coach has been pounding plays into our heads all week, telling us what to look out for, how to get in their heads.
    I pull up near the sidelines and touch my toes a few times to stretch my hamstrings. When I straighten the fourth time, there’s a woman standing in front of me. She’s exactly my type—smallish, blonde, with breasts bulging halfway out of the V-neck of her T-shirt, which bears a team logo. This is the kind of woman I’ve taken back to motel rooms, back to my house, to the nearest hotel, whenever I’ve had half a chance. Perks of the profession.
    “Hey,” I say, surprised. “Where did you come from?”
    She smiles, and I know right away what she’s after. It’s a sultry smile, and her gaze strokes down my sweaty chest. Weirdly, nothing in me responds, though. Maybe I’m a little too tired.
    “I was with the group watching practice,” she says quietly. “They told us to go back to the bus.”
    “And you didn’t go back to the bus?”
    “I didn’t go back to the bus.” She gives a quick, surreptitious look over her shoulder, and then takes a step closer. “When will you be done here?”
    I start to respond automatically, then cut my answer short. “Look, I need to finish getting ready for the game.”
    She’s obviously taken aback. I can’t blame her—I’m a little surprised, myself. This is totally out of character for me. I don’t abstain before games—fucking gives me more energy, not less. But even with this woman standing with her tits practically in my face, I can’t summon sufficient interest. I just want to get back to practice.
    “You know, I’ve got some girlfriends who said you were up for anything.”
    “I’m sure you do. Not today, though. Sorry. I need to focus, and I can’t risk wrenching this damn hip