Free The Game of Love by Jeanette Murray

met Christina St. James, she’d been one contradiction after another. She walked and looked like an Amazon, with those legs that went on for days and her shield always up, ready for battle. But at times, he could see vulnerability in those eyes of hers. Her tongue was sharp as hell and she didn’t hesitate to use it to cut him down to the size she thought he should be. Other times, her wit was so funny and dead-on that he had to bite his cheeks to hold back laughter.
    She’d taken the initiative to come over and apologize. That took cajones, for anyone. He couldn’t fault her for her convictions, either. She had them in spades, and they sprouted from good intentions.
    But did that mean he had to be attracted to the woman? Dammit.
    When he’d opened the door, he all but felt her eyes rake over him as she took in his post-shower get-up. He’d had to fight—hard—to keep his erection from showing through the flimsy mesh shorts. One sight of the beginnings of a boner and she’d have called him a sexist caveman and left.
    But he couldn’t seem to help it. Even though he knew what a dictator she was, his body revved up for action, begged for release. He was dying to know if she felt the same desperate, primal and completely unwanted attraction.
    Probably not.
    Christina St. James struck him as a woman who would be completely content to live her life in a nunnery. As long as the convent came equipped with a tennis court. And maybe some cardboard cutouts of men for target practice.
    And still, he thought of her on a court, in those tight short tennis skirts, chasing after balls. Lunging for the kill, her skirt flapping in the wind to show what she wore underneath. Which, since this was his fantasy, was nothing. Chasing a ball, skidding on the surface of the court until she came to a stop under him…
    Time to cool off.
    He got up, walked over to the sink, flipped the water on and let it run until it was icy cold. Then with a deep breath, he shoved his head under the glacial stream, staying there until he was sure his brain was numb and all thoughts of Christina St. James—naked or otherwise—were frozen.
     
     
    “You guys are joking.”
    Jared’s mouth hung open so wide Brett’s QB could have used it for target practice.
    “Dude, come on. Is it that unbelievable?” He barely bit back the smile.
    Jared shook his head slowly, as if waiting for the pieces of a puzzle to shift and settle in his mind. “Yeah, unbelievable is the word I’d use. You guys left my office five days ago looking like two junkyard dogs about to rumble over a bone.”
    “Well, we junkyard dogs made a decision to split the bone in half.”
    Brett chuckled and took a good look at Chris. Her arms were crossed under her breasts, one long leg crossed over the other. Her sneaker-clad foot swung in a rhythm that signaled her impatience. “Are you in a rush?” He didn’t even try to hide his amusement.
    “Can we just sign the papers and move the funds? Not to be rude, but I have a meeting to start with my girls in—” she checked her stopwatch, “—seventeen minutes in the band room. And I still need to talk to Jared about uniforms.”
    “Of course,” Jared said. The shuffle of papers moving filled the small, airless office that was the athletic director’s domain.
    He wondered what it’d be like to work in a place like this, day after day. Come here early in the a.m., spend all day making phone calls, shuffling paperwork, kissing asses for donations.
    It had to be done, and Jared seemed to love it, love being a part of the athletic department. He’d always been interested in sports, but his interest was always more intellectual than physical. More of a watcher than a doer. Mixing bureaucracy and athletics was a picture-perfect profession for his best friend.
    He, on the other hand, would shrivel and die living like that.
    Sure, he had an office, just down the hall, where all of his paperwork was. Where he reviewed game tape if he