Teach You to Love Me (Lindon U #4)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Matt

B reaking away from the bellowing laughter of my obnoxious teammates in the locker room, I jerk to a halt when I pass the office that’s been empty since Dorothy, our former athletic adviser, retired. My lips curl up, seeing a lush ass bent over the desk that definitely doesn’t belong to a seventy-year-old woman. I lean against the doorjamb and stare in appreciation.

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” the mysterious woman says, her voice a featherlight touch that has my heart doing some funny rom-com shit I don’t like.

She straightens to reveal a lean frame hugged by a white button-down and black pencil skirt. It’s the most dressed-up anybody gets outside of game day here at Lindon University.

When she turns, I’m greeted with a pretty face that has me standing to my full six-two height. Damn. Whoever the petite brunette is can’t be that much older than the twenty-somethings that most of us football players are.

“Is that an invitation?” I ask, my lopsided grin stretching wider.

My eyes roam from her long brown hair resting over her shoulders to the thick black glasses that somehow highlight her unamused eyes, all the way down to her slim legs exposed in the skirt that rests just below her knees.

When she peels those glasses off, it reminds me of the librarian porn I used to search back in high school. All that’s missing is a plaid skirt and a ruler. Damn shame too.

She shifts on the thin black heels that make her a few inches taller, shoulders drawing back in cautious professionalism. “With a comment like that, you must be Ricky Wallace, Matthew Clearwater, or Daniel Bridges.”

“Junior,” I reply easily about the other wide receiver on Lindon’s football team. “We call him DJ. And I’m not even going to entertain your offensive assumption that I’m Wallace. That dude is a fucking dick. He’s gotten worse since our captain tore his ACL. Pearce is thinking about having him start, but even he’s getting sick of his shit, and that says a lot.”

Coach Pearce is a great coach with a horrible moral code, so scumbags like Ricky Wallace can get away with a lot more than he should because he can throw a football and score a touchdown. It’s not right, but it’s become part of the norm for all of us on the team.

The Anne Hathaway lookalike can’t hide the twitch of amusement that nearly lifts her pink lips as she rounds the desk and takes a seat behind it. “I take it you’re Matthew, then.”

I walk in and extend my hand, noticing the pretty green-brown color of her eyes as she stares at my outreached arm. Hazel. Warm. Inviting.

“Matt. And since you have the inside scoop and the office, I’m going to assume you’re the new athletic adviser that Pearce told us not to mess with. I’m starting to see why.”

She takes my hand and shakes it once, her grip firm. No ring. No tan line. I like her even more. “Yet here you are, Mr. Clearwater.”

Chuckling at her formality, I drop my hand and cross my arms over my chest. “Maybe I’m the team’s welcoming committee, and it’s my job to greet all the newcomers. Especially the pretty ones.”

She hums and leans back in her chair. “I might have believed you if you brought me a goodie basket and delivered it without staring at my ass or flirting.”

I have no doubt the firecracker sitting in front of me is going to fit in well here. “You’re not what I thought you’d be. The last adviser we had was a crotchety old woman named Dorothy.”

I’m definitely not complaining about the change of pace, and I doubt the others will mind, considering we’re used to testosterone-filled jockstraps around here. Plus, Anne Hathaway was my first celebrity crush growing up.

Her lips curl upward softly. “I like the name Dorothy. It reminds me of my favorite movie growing up.”

“What was that?”

“ The Wizard of Oz. ”

I make a face at the film choice. My family still won’t let me live down the time I cried as a child when the flying monkeys came on the screen. To this day, I refuse to watch the movie because of it.

Choosing to hold on to my pride, I don’t share that piece of information. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

Her smile remains professional. “Rachel, but you can call me Ms. Holloway.”

Before I can make another remark, I hear a grumbled, “Let’s go, Clearwater.”

Turning to see Aiden Griffith and Caleb Anders, the team’s tight end and running back, I hold up my finger to signal another minute. “It was nice meeting you, Rach. I’ll get right on that goodie basket so you feel properly welcomed to the sausage fest. I’m almost twenty-one, so we can also get a drink sometime to really get to know each—”

Griffith grabs my arm and pulls me out of the office, shoving me lightly in front of him so I can’t keep talking to the new addition to the football staff. “Don’t even think about it,” the broody buzzkill with arms the size of my head tells me.

Caleb chuckles at the mumbled warning.

I look over my shoulder at the two of them and wink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Griff.”

His eyes narrow, but I just keep smiling.

I blame his grumpiness on the lack of sex he’s having. Since he all but started stalking the cute blue-haired girl at Bea’s Bakery in town, his mood has been off. Maybe if he’d finally get some, he’d stop shitting on the rest of us for trying to have a little fun.

A guy can only dream.

The next day, I slip into the dark office at the ass-crack of dawn with a wicker basket of food and drinks that I put together myself. Okay, and with some help from my mother. Not that anyone needs to know that. I don’t bother leaving a card because I know Rachel Holloway will know exactly who left it.

Later that day, when I’m exiting the locker room, I see her small smile as she paws through the odds and ends I put inside.

Victory swells my chest.

I’ve already started winning her over.