Mr. Fiancé(98)

"Well, I mean, what got you into training? It's not something a lot of girls go into."

Carrie nods and sits forward, obliterating my view of her curves, but the image is still burning in my mind. "I was an athlete for a long time myself. In high school, I played soccer and softball. Unfortunately, I got injured in a collision at home that tore my shoulder up. I'm not upset about it, though. I wasn't good enough for a D-1 school anyway. I would have been D-2 at best, but in doing rehab, I really got into it. It gave me a way to channel my athletic nature, and so when it came time, I just naturally came here."

I laugh softly, and Carrie gives me a look.

"What?" she asks.

“Nothing. Not everyone can be as amazing on the field as I am.”

Carrie lifts an eyebrow and gives me a look. Okay, I admit it, I'm an asshole, and I was just making a joke. Carrie doesn't take it that way, though, and she gets up, her eyes flaring in anger. "I think you can watch your own timer. When it goes off, get in the whirlpool. I'll see you Friday."

Carrie storms off, and as she does, I'm given the treat of one last view of her tight bubble butt. I bet that same ass gave her plenty of power to drive in balls when she played softball too.

So I pissed her off? Ah well, that's half the fun. Get them so pissed off at me they want to scream, and then make them scream for a whole other reason. Let ‘em think they’re punishing me. Maybe that's just what Carrie needs.

I'm sitting in the whirlpool ten minutes later when Coach Taylor comes in, shutting the door behind him and coming over. "You little punk," he says, and I see that he's in weight room mode, not his normal, relaxed mood. “Ever thought how you’d feel if that injury caused you to never play again?”

"The fuck you worried about, Coach? She said she'd see me on Friday, and I followed your protocol. It wasn’t that serious—and it was true.”

Coach looks at me, then turns around, grabbing the bucket behind him. One of the things the training room always has on hand is buckets of ice water, meant for icing down injuries, and for what the trainers call 'contrast training,' where you soak the injured area in hot water and then immediately dunk it in ice cold water, only to repeat the process back and forth until your balls are about ready to retreat into your body forever.

It’s one of these buckets that Coach lifts up and dumps on me. While the whirlpool absorbs a lot of the cold, my head is fully exposed, and I'm sputtering, chilled, and gasping in a second. "What the fuck?"

"Carrie Mittel is one of the smartest, hardest working, best interns I've had in this program in years. She came here in a sad state from that injury of hers, chunking up forty pounds because of all the changes, and has spent the past year and some change busting her ass. She's a better athlete, a better person than you are, regardless of whether you go to the League or not. So treat her with some respect, Duncan. Don't piss me off."

"I could have your job for this!" I yell, starting to get out of the tub, but Coach Taylor pushes me back down with a firm hand, and I don't have the grip or leverage to resist and go splashing back in.

"And I could have you kicked out of school on a Title IX complaint for sexual harassment," Coach says quietly. "By the way, she didn't say anything to me. I overheard it through the intercom that is installed in here. I left it on because I wanted to make sure you behaved. You obviously didn't. Now get your shit, get dried off, and get the fuck out. Friday, you do your workout, and no shenanigans. We clear?"

"Yeah," I grumble, wiping water out of my eyes. "We're clear."

Clear that before this is all over, I’m going to break Carrie Mittel. That's for damn sure.



"Hey, Duncan, thanks for coming to the party."

I'm at the Psi Kappa Tau sorority house for what they’re calling their "summer bash" for the girls who decided to stay for this summer session. That means that the house only has about a dozen girls instead of the normal twenty-six or thirty, but who cares?

"Tiffany, when you said that you ladies were throwing an event, I couldn't stay away," I reply. Tiffany Hill is going to be the president of the sorority starting next semester, and she's pretty hot, in that Barbie doll, Stepford sort of way. Perfectly styled red hair, blue eyes, slightly pointy chin, but high, most likely enhanced, cheekbones over a toned, slender body that probably never saw a workout like what I'd been through this afternoon. "How are the girls?"

"Oh, you are certainly popular around here,” Tiffany says with a gleam in her eye. "However, I was thinking that I might want to keep you all to myself tonight. That is, if you're up for it?"