Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 14775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 74(@200wpm)___ 59(@250wpm)___ 49(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 14775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 74(@200wpm)___ 59(@250wpm)___ 49(@300wpm)
3
ISAAC
The second I get into my office the next day, I type Iris’ name into the student database. All I could think of after yesterday was her. She has crawled into my mind and my heart and made her home there. No matter how much I know I should regret what happened between us, from a professional standpoint if nothing else, I can’t. I regret none of it. I want her taste in my mouth again, want her lips on me, want to feel her everywhere.
Thankfully, I’ll only have to wait a few hours to see her again. I feel like a man possessed, driven not by the excitement of starting a new job but by the idea of seeing the captain of the team once more.
Iris. My sweet little brat.
The computer takes a second to load, but then it pops up with multiple results. Iris’ student registration number and her basic details that I already know—she’s six years younger than me at twenty-two and on a soccer scholarship. There are also multiple articles from local and student papers about her and the team, commending her for leading them to wins or interviewing her about her talent.
She’s an exceptional athlete. That much is glaringly obvious, not just from the articles but from the way I watched her train yesterday. There’s not a single doubt in my mind that she’ll go pro after she graduates in just a few months, and for the first time since the injury that ruined my own career, I feel genuine excitement at the idea of another living my dream, untouched by any bitter jealousy. I want what’s best for her. I want her to succeed. I want to do whatever it takes to help her, to be by her side when she does.
Iris Reed has me wrapped around her little finger, and fuck, I don’t even mind.
I tap my finger on the edge of my desk, thinking. There’ll be scouts at the big games this season, including the championship. Our qualifying game for the final is in just a few weeks. If Iris wants the best chance at going pro, I need to make sure we get to championships. I need to make sure we win.
My train of thought is interrupted by the chime of my phone. I glance down, seeing Iris’ name pop up on the screen. Immediately, I open the text. I texted her earlier to confirm the practice time of three pm to ensure she wouldn’t be late again. Her answer makes me smirk.
Iris: 3pm sharp. I’ll apologize thoroughly if I’m late again ;)
Me: Just don’t be late in the first place.
Iris: Yes, sir
Attached to her last message is a GIF of someone saluting the camera, and I can’t help the snort of laughter that leaves my mouth. It’s a wonder so much sass can fit inside her petite frame. How the hell does she get under my skin so easily? Plenty of people have tried, but nobody’s ever been able to get to me the way she does. There’s just something about her, something unique and irresistible and made for me. She is made for me.
I force myself to put the phone down and focus on work, counting down the hours until practice.
Iris surprises me by being at the field earlier than even I am, a proud grin on her beautiful face as I approach. There are a few of the others here, too, so I keep my mouth shut, giving her a quick nod of acknowledgment. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and a surge of possessiveness takes over me. I shove it down, knowing I can’t make a scene here. Later, though…
I channel my energy into drills, which the team completes obediently, and I try not to watch Iris’ ass too obviously. Then, I split them into two teams and run a game, noting each member’s strengths and weaknesses. Iris scores more goals than any other player, cementing her reputation as a talented player and coach. The team cheers with her, looks to her for encouragement, and listens to her just as much as they listen to me. She’s respected, and her sassy attitude clearly makes her more approachable and friendly to her team.
She’s incredible.
The team is cooling down and stretching out when someone shouts from the field beside ours, interrupting us.
“Oi! Reed! Looking to score again after practice?” a male voice calls out, earning laughter and cheers from his friends.
My head snaps in their direction, finding a track athlete leering at Iris. He’s tall and clearly fit, built nearly the same as I am, and that rush of possessiveness I felt earlier returns twofold.
“Who are you?” I shout across at the man, my words coming out just as threatening as I mean them to.
The guy’s eyes go wide as his head swivels to me. He smiles like he thinks he’s done nothing wrong. “Oh, hey, you must be the new coach,” he says, much too friendly for my liking. “I’m Jake, track and field athlete. Just admiring your captain.”