Focused: A hate to love sports romance(6)

Logan's attention never wavered from my face, and his expression never shifted. It was that razor-sharp focus that every good player had. Every good coach too.

"You've changed," he said quietly.

"In ten years? I hope so."

"Fair enough," Logan conceded. He leaned forward, setting his folded hands on the surface of the desk. "Here's the deal: you've got more natural talent in your pinky finger than most players on my entire defense. And if you tell anyone I said that, I'll deny it until my dying breath."

My face stayed unchanged, even as my heart sped up at his compliment.

"But I will not go easy on you because we knew each other. If anything, I'd take great pleasure in seeing you get knocked on your ass a couple of times, simply because it's within my power to make that happen," he said with a grim smile.

I sat back. This was the meeting I'd expected. The warning I'd anticipated. All because his pain in the ass little sister climbed on the lap of a stupid college boy who used to let his dick rule his life.

My thoughts must have been clear on my face because he nodded like he could read every single one.

"I wasn't allowed to knock you the hell out back then,” he said. “But I wanted to."

My chin lifted a fraction of an inch. "I know you did, sir."

"I won't now. I've matured in my old age."

If he wanted me to crack a smile and lighten the mood, I didn't give him the satisfaction. Nobody saw me flinch. "You also know I'd hit you back, coach or not."

Logan's smile was slow, but it came nonetheless, because he thought I was joking. When my face still didn't change, the smile disappeared. He shook his head.

"You are one grumpy son of a bitch, aren't you?"

"I've heard that, yes." Then I shook my head. "I'm not grumpy. I just don't take any of this lightly. Football is the most important thing in my life."

"I can respect that." He tapped the side of his thumb on the desk, looked away from me, then looked back, seeming to come to a decision about something. "She works here, by the way."

I tilted my head. "Who does?"

A warning siren started low, somewhere in the back of my brain as he said it, and it occurred to me, just before he answered that maybe this was the reason I felt apprehensive about this change. This was the reason I should've been afraid to come to Washington.

"Molly." He stared me down, daring me to have any sort of negative reaction about her. Any reaction at all.

Over the past nine years, I'd come to think about Molly with a strange sense of detachment, equal parts harbinger of destruction and the symbol of my shifting focus.

"A lot of people work here, sir. What does that have to do with me?"

His eyebrows popped up. "Not much, I suppose. I just wanted to give you a heads-up, in case—"

I held up a hand. "She a trainer?"

"No."

"A coach?" I asked unnecessarily because we both knew none of the coaches in the league were female.

"You know she's not."

"Then it doesn't involve me." I stood from the chair. "I need to get changed and head to the weight room if you're done."

He leaned back in his chair, and I hated the look of disappointment on his face. That face had aged since I last saw him but not by much. It was in the color of his hair, and the addition of a few lines around his eyes. But I'd changed too. I'd gained about seventy-five pounds of muscle since the day I stood in his driveway, humbled and embarrassed and, quite frankly, terrified.

Sometimes, I hardly recognized the man who stared back at me in the mirror. But I promised myself that day that I’d never feel that way again. One stupid slip almost ruined my life. A mistake that never would’ve been worth the consequences had the wrong person caught us.

"Anything else you need from me, sir?"

It took a second for Logan to answer, but finally, he said, "No, that's it."

I nodded and left his office far more quickly than I'd entered. As I walked back down the hallway, trying to remember which one led to the elevator that would get me to the locker room and weight room, I harnessed every ounce of mental discipline in my body to ignore what he'd told me.

The absolute last person I cared to see at work was her.

And more than likely, I wouldn't have to. Players rarely saw front office staff unless they made it a point to. I took a deep breath and refocused. The elevator was down the hall and to the right, and that was what I needed to think about.

Someone on the janitorial staff passed me with a polite smile, which I returned just enough that I wouldn't look like a raging asshole. Making the turn, I saw the gleaming metal doors. I punched the button and waited. My muscles bunched in anticipation of a good workout. If I didn't put in a couple of hours a day, minimum, I felt an uncomfortable buzzing underneath my skin. Energy that had no outlet would start seeking one, no matter what that outlet was.

For me, I chose the healthiest. The one that would make me stronger. Make me faster. Make me better.

Some players drank. Partied on yachts. Raced cars. Did drugs. Slept around.

But they weren't as good as I was. To me, all those things were pointless distractions.

The doors opened, and I strode into the empty elevator car. I hit the button for the correct floor and waited. Just as the doors slid shut, a hand popped through the opening, halting their progress.