This is the blurb until it is revised by the editors:
What
is a sexy soccer stud supposed to do when “following family traditions” falls
180 degrees opposite his closeted ideal?
From
birth, Chris Jackson had been schooled on how to land himself a cheerleader.
After all, his father married one, and his father’s father before that. Heck,
even his older brother married their father’s definition of a stereotypical
cheerleader the summer before Chris went off to college. For two years, Chris dodged
invasive questions about relationships by blaming his lack of female
companionship on grueling practices and heavy coarse loads; but really, his
lack of interest in girls period should have given the family a clue. It wasn’t
until Chris mentioned meeting a boy that his father’s synapses short-circuited.
Alonzo
Martin was anything but a buxom blond. From his black hair, combat boots, and
trench coat, to his nail polish and guyliner, the mysterious introvert was not
so easily persuaded to go on a date. Alonzo’s insecurities kept Chris at arm’s
length, but even his painful past couldn’t compete with the charismatic jock’s
winning smile and sense of humor.
When
opposites attract, only cheerleaders and gummy bears can overcome fear and
family traditions.
I am also excited to tell you I am currently writing book #3
in the series, as well as a stand alone contemporary romance called Banker’s
Hours, and I am rewriting a book I had written years ago, had published, and
which as since been taken off the market called Sculpting Clay. I wish to
rewrite it, make it better (I hope), and bring it back in print over the
summer. I would like to keep my fans happy while waiting for JOCK 2 to come out
in the winter. My PLAN is to write and submit a book every 3-4 months and once
that roll starts, then I SHOULD start having a publication every 3-4 months.
(In theory, I haven’t proven that correct yet.) Fingers crossed, I can actually
make this a career and not a part-time hobby. People in my real life don’t
often respect the “author life” unless I am actually making money to support my
family. Ya know? Plus my husband probably needs a less stressful job, so if I
can make money, then he can switch jobs. This will be better for us!
This week, my excerpt is from No! Jocks Don’t Date Guys, but
next week, I’ll give you a glimpse into Banker’s Hours. How’s that?
Hugs and kittens ** LOL, Jason :)
Excerpt:
Chapter
1
New Coach
Soccer practice was about to start when I
noticed a guy, all dressed in black, walk around the corner of the stadium
fence and climb the steps, two at a time. I watched this lone spectator out of
the corner of my eye as I squirted water into my mouth, and then all over my
face, from my favorite water bottle with the pull-top spout. My best bud, Doug,
had given it to me for my birthday last May, and I swear it was the best gift
ever because not only did it not leak in my car, but when the top was screwed off,
the opening was wide enough to get my hand in to wash it. I took it with me
everywhere. I snapped the spout closed and tossed it in my bag. A casual glance
around, and that guy was still there—watching.
I knew he wasn’t watching me, as I
assessed his ocular trajectory from the way his head was positioned. He was
taking in the whole field. Although, the same thing could be said of me as I
surreptitiously noted his characteristics, while turning my head as if scanning
the bleachers and the near-by sand pit. I was the sly, stealthy kind if I did
say so myself. Practice makes perfect, after all. The rest of the team didn’t
need to know how easily I could get distracted from the actual reason we were
all here at 8:00 a.m. Soccer was life, but in the other three hours of the day
when soccer, food, and sleep was not on my brain, I liked observing people.
Guys in particular, because I guess I was always on the prowl for that one guy
who would grab my soul and melt my heart.
Okay, enough of that.
I mainly noticed this guy because one solitary dude, sitting at the top of the football
stadium bleachers, dressed in a black trench coat and combat boots, in August,
two weeks before classes started, wasn’t normal. I noticed details like this
all the time. Things out of the ordinary, juxtaposed against the backdrop of
college soccer, were fascinating. His presence was idiosyncratic or peculiar in
this setting and the very definition of my weakness. The oddities of life, the
strange and weird, always drew me in.
Why was he here?
Sometimes I hated the way I noticed
details, because people often wanted to go unnoticed when their individual
oddity wasn’t popular or pleasant. Scars for instance, rarely escaped my
attention no matter how hard I tried to overlook them.
Case in point: the left wing on the team,
Marshall, had a scar on his lip. I’d surmised it was from cleft-lip surgery,
same as I knew no one else would have given it a second glance. He had a
mustache to cover up the tiny scar, which had to have been done when he was a
child, yet I’d noticed it. It was in the way he smiled. Normal and bright, yet
off-center enough not to slip my keen observation.
I also had a thing for tattoos,
piercings, and Mohawks because I always wanted to know the motivation behind
them. Was the hairstyle for attention or did the person simply get pleasure
from the dramatic flare? Did a tattoo have special meaning or was it a random
decision? Things like that went through my mind all the time. I had one tattoo
on my ribs, which held particular meaning to me. It was a quote from Hamlet, but since I’d had it inked in
Latin, most people didn’t know what it said and oddly no one ever asked.
The trench coat guy was no exception to
my fascination.
In the sixty seconds I spent on the
sidelines taking a drink of water and scoping-out our unexpected spectator, the
rest of the team came stumbling in behind me.
“Dude! Why you always gotta show off and
beat the team back?” Preet asked, doubling over and grabbing his sides.
He was a fun guy with a Pakistani father
and a Turkish mother who’d been in the United States since way before Preet was
born. He had dark skin and feathery hair that I often thought about touching,
except that he was straight. I answered him with a chuckle. “Preet, the captain
always needs to lead the team, even if it means running the first three laps
the fastest.” I clapped him on the back as my buddy Doug winked at me. “Don’t
tell me you’re tired already. Practice hasn’t even started.”
Preet groaned. I suspected he’d spent way
too much of his summer in front of the television. Sucks to be him!
Doug knew about me and my ever-so-slight
crush on the handsome defensive player. He knew everything there was to know
and probably some things I didn’t even know myself. We’d been best buds since
middle school, when I dropped my chocolate milk in the cafeteria and he offered
me his. Chocolate milk had solidified our friendship and it still worked to
this day. If we ever had an argument, all Doug needed to do was buy me a little
carton of chocolate milk and I’d forgive him. So far, he’s only had to do that
twice in seven years.
“Don’t try to understand him, Preet, just
go with it,” Doug instructed.
The other players flopped on the grass
all around me, some heaving as if I’d taken them on a five-mile sprint, and
others sipping on their water bottles as they waited for the next drill. I’d
hoped the coach would have shown up by now, but he was late. I grabbed my phone
from my bag and checked for any texts.
Coach Marks had been the school’s soccer
coach for years, and our soccer coach for the past two seasons. I use the term
“our” loosely because some of the guys who’d turned up for this first practice
were obviously freshman. The coach had been at try-outs and these guys were
obviously good enough for him, but I was skeptical. But coach… where was he? I
was a junior, looking to have another awesome season playing with many of the
same guys as the year before, and also with my buddies Doug and Cullen. It was
unusual for the coach to be this late. No texts. This was disconcerting. I’d
just seen him on Saturday and he hadn’t said anything.
I glanced up from my phone in time to see
the athletic director riding his golf cart around the track and through the
gate, which encircled the football field. Normally, we didn’t play on the
stadium field, nor did we practice there on a daily basis. The soccer team had
a practice field for sprints, drills, and try-outs, as well as its own official
fields to play on, but the coach had made it a tradition to start on this field
the first day to give the players a visual of professionalism and grandeur. He
had told us in previous years, “The team needs to be just that—a team. Without
teamwork, the parents and fans that come to fill the stadium seats gather only
to witness a bunch of little boys running around kicking a ball with no
purpose. Is that why you’re here?” Coach had asked.
In unison we’d answered, “No, sir!”
“Then look around you, boys,” he’d charge
us, “and take it in. You must earn your spot with skill, sportsmanship, and teamwork.
We come together as a team out there,” he would point toward the practice field
beyond the fence and visitor side bleachers, “so we come in here. We dominate
our home field as one fluid unit.” He’d also commented about the costs involved
with building a brick stadium and if we ever wanted a more prominent place to
play, we needed to impress investors.
His words meant a lot to me. They had
settled over us as a team and we’d done fairly well last year even if our
record showed eight wins, eight losses, and a tie. Coach had been proud because
we played our hearts out. He’d gotten us to think as one and I was looking
forward to pulling the new guys into our flow. But where was the coach?
I met the athletic director as he stepped
out of the golf cart. “Hey, Mr. Mathews,” I greeted him. “Where’s Coach Marks?”
He shook my hand and nodded to the team
as they closed in around us. “Hello, Chris. I hate to inform you like this,
because I know how much Tom Marks means to you boys, but he won’t be coaching
you this season.”
“What?” I asked as the others groaned,
almost not believing him yet seeing his sincerity.
He nodded some more. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened?” I asked. “He’s okay,
isn’t he? He was just here for try-outs. What happened?”
“He’s fine. It’s his wife’s family. There
was a death, and as far as I understand, they left for Portland last night. He
tendered his resignation and apparently plans on moving the whole family to
Oregon. That’s all I know until he e-mails me back.”
I looked at a few of the players. Their
eyes hopped from one to another and back again. It was as if no one really knew
what to say to that. I admit; the reason was an odd one. I’d never known anyone
to up and move so spontaneously, but then I hadn’t had a family member die that
I could remember, other than my grandmother and she was old. But this was plain
weird. What would we do? Who would coach us? How would the school find someone
before our first scrimmage next Thursday?
I spoke up and voiced what the team had
to be thinking. “Um, what about a new coach? Is it going to be you?” I asked,
but I was hoping the answer wasn’t
yes.
“No, Chris. Not me.” He grinned. “I don’t
know enough about soccer to do you boys any good. Golf is my game. No, the
school board has been searching for a new coach all day; don’t worry. That’s
why I’m out here. I was going over my e-mails from yesterday before deleting
them, when I came across one the administrator sent to the new coach, which I
was copied on. That was a good thing because it seems the date was incorrect so
he was originally told to start coaching August twentieth.”
Cullen piped in, “But today is the tenth.
Our first scrimmage is on August twentieth, what do we do until then?”
“Exactly my point,” Mr. Mathews
concurred. “I jumped on the horn right away and told him about the mistake.
Ironically, he’d second-guessed the date himself because he had the soccer schedule
already programmed into his calendar. He was already in town, setting up his
office, and planned to contact me tomorrow. I simply beat him to it.”
“Office?” I asked. Somewhere the details
were getting muddled and I personally liked filling in those gaps.
“Yes, he’s the new English teacher on
staff. His office is on the third floor of the English building. Anyway, he was
already here and hoping to meet with me this afternoon. When I called, he said
he’d drop what he was doing so he could head over to meet everyone. He’s a very
exuberant, young lad.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Young lad? How
young are we talking?” I wondered because most of us were between eighteen and
twenty-two. It would be weird to take orders from a guy our age. In fact, if
the guy was my age, I think I’d push to coach the team by myself. Who was this
“young lad” anyway?
“He’s twenty three.” The murmurs started
and he held up his hands. “And before you all get up in arms over his age, let
me tell you I was a bit skeptical myself. But as it was explained to me, he
wasn’t hired to coach soccer. He was hired to take Mrs. Blakely’s position when
she retires. His background in soccer was coincidental and convenient. They
offered him the position tentatively because Coach Marks left the school in a
tight spot. If he isn’t working out within a few weeks, I’ll take over until a
permanent coach can be found. He can’t officially start coaching until Thursday
because of other obligations, so that leaves you all on your own for a couple
days, which I think you can handle. What I want from you all is patience and
cooperation. Can you do that?”
I turned and looked at my guys. I met
their eyes one by one. I could read their minds even if only by the strength in
their expressions. I knew them. My teammates, even the younger newbies, all had
one goal on their thoughts—winning. If winning came by coach “young lad’s”
hand, or by Mr. Mathews, or by my leadership through example, we’d all be
happy. So yeah, “young lad” would get his chance in the sun.
I turned back around and held out my hand
and Mr. Mathews shook it. “Yes sir,” I answered. “You’ve got our promise to do
our best. And this new coach, no matter his age, will find he has the best
group of guys if ever there was a team to coach.”
“Thank you, Chris. I kind of figured I
could count on you. Tom told me you were an outstanding leader.”
“So, when’s he getting here?”
“Um, hopefully before practice ends. I
caught him fresh out of the shower when I called.”
I turned around and slapped my hands
together. “Okay, you heard him guys. What we want to do is show this new coach
what we’re made of. When he gets here, whenever he gets here, we’re going to be
full out doing drills and working it hard. No slackers on my field. Coach Marks
might be gone, but his motto still stands. We play as a team! We learn teamwork
off the field, so that when we walk onto the turf of the Green Terror Soccer
Complex on game day, everyone watching will know we play as one.” Then I
shouted, “Are you with me?”
They all shouted back, “Yes sir!”
I chuckled to myself. No one called me
sir normally and it was funny to hear it now, but I knew they meant it
figuratively. I wasn’t going to gloat or bask in it.
“All right,” Mr. Mathews said. “I’ll
leave you to it. He should be along anytime.”
“First things first, we’re going to do a
another mile around the track. Tomorrow, we’re going to do two miles. Wednesday
we’re going to do timed laps and anyone under the coach’s ‘try-out’ time, gets
fifty pushups and then has to run again. Got it?”
Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t
asked the new coach’s name. I turned and shouted at Mr. Mathews as he pulled
away in his little golf cart. “You didn’t tell me his name?”
Doug clapped me on the shoulder. “Maybe
it slipped his mind. Remember last year when he kept calling me Derek?
Sometimes he’s not all in there.”
“True.”
“So you’re on board with all this?” Doug
asked.
I shrugged and encouraged him into a
private huddle with my arm around his shoulders. I told him quietly, “I guess I
have to be. You know our team needs to be a team.
If I lead them into mutiny because I don’t like the terms of ‘young lad’s’
leadership, then I’m not the leader that coach told Mr. Mathews about. I’d be a
mutineer, a traitor, and in danger of being thrown overboard.”
“You’re gonna call him young lad to his
face, aren’t you?” Doug asked with a smirk.
I grinned back and chuckled. “Oh God, I
hope not. He wouldn’t get it and then I’d be that doofus who didn’t know his
name.”
“But you don’t know his name.”
I pulled back and gave him a non-threatening
glare. “Of course, you go there. Great. Now you’ve jinxed it. He’ll get here
and I’ll be all like, ‘Hey, coach Young Lad. How’s it going?’ Great. Thanks,
Doug. You’re a real pal.”
He laughed and we turned around to look
at the rest of the guys who were sitting and standing, but all wondering what
the heck we were talking about. That was my cue. I knew playtime was over.
I rubbed my hands together vigorously and
got down to business. I ordered, “Okay team. Let’s hit that track!”
They groaned, but I kind of thought it
was from their disapproval of my satisfaction over temporary leadership. I, on
the other hand, enjoyed it immensely. Maybe I was born to be a drill
instructor. I laughed all the way to the track, and around it, and while I
waited for all of my teammates to catch up. Yes, it was good to be king.
***
Two hours later, my guys were drenched in
sweat and ready to hit the showers. I told them to meet at the practice field
the rest of the week at 8:00 a.m. every morning for two hours and again at 6:00
p.m. for an hour of shooting drills and goal kicks. The guys groaned, but
everyone agreed to it. Besides, practices twice a day were only until classes
started. I wasn’t a sadist.
I grabbed my bag and looked toward the
bleachers. Trench coat dude was still there. He had sat in the same spot for
two hours in the morning sun, watching. Who was he watching? Or was it just the
solitude of sitting alone that thrilled him?
As the guys drifted away, climbing the
hill toward the athletic building or their dorm rooms respectively, and only a
few of us were left, trench coat guy stood up and started descending the steps.
Interesting. Maybe I could follow him
and find out his deal.
Or,
maybe I could get arrested for being a perverted stalker. Yeah, my ideas weren’t the best.
Before I took a step, another peculiar
guy was in my sight. This one was jogging right up to me with a bright smile on
his face, and I could not say I’d ever seen a whiter set of teeth.
He held out his hand to me and said, “Hi!
My name’s Ellis Montgomery. I’m your new coach.”
Wow. I had to admit that I probably would
have addressed him as “young lad” if I’d been on my game, and made a joke or
something to distract myself from his incredibly gorgeous blue eyes and hot
soccer-player bod under his tight red tank, but my mind was zeroed in on the
one guy, all dressed in black, who’d sat for two hours in the sun watching us
practice soccer, who’d just hit the last step and was about to exit through the
gate and ascend the steps toward the wellness center before I could catch his
attention.
I desperately needed to know who trench
coat guy was and why he was so interested in our team. Coach Blue Eyes would
just have to wait.
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