After Hours. Karen Kendall

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      But she’d stuck it out. She’d won everyone’s respect, however grudging. She could kick a decent field goal, run like the wind and would tackle anything that moved. The problem was, admittedly, that her body weight didn’t stack up to a six-foot, two-hundred-pound male’s.

      Still, by the end of her senior year, she’d been practically the team mascot, carried on their shoulders when they won the district championship with her field goal.

      Peggy would always proudly carry that moment in her heart, no matter what had happened later when she’d fought her way onto her college team. Nobody could take the district win away from her, not even her father’s absence from the stands at the crucial moment.

      Impulse struck again. “Marly, you’re going to kill me, but I promise you a deep-tissue massage if you’ll change the image on the screen.”

      “You’re right, I am going to kill you.” Marly straightened and glared at Peg.

      “Please can you paint over the man butt and put a kick-ass woman there, instead? She’s triumphant. She just kicked a field goal that won a big game.”

      “Why do I have a feeling that this kick-ass woman should have long red hair?” Resigned, Marly was already whiting out the other picture. “Get me a hair dryer, will you? It’ll speed us up. I’m not staying here all night.”

      “Even if I make whiskey sours?”

      “Okay, I’m staying all night. But you have to give me dinner, too.”

      “Deal. You know I wouldn’t ask you to do this if you weren’t so fast and so good.”

      “Yes, you would.” Marly aimed the hairdryer at the wet paint, since trying to white out the wet image had just made a nasty smear on the wall. “So, um, Peg? How’s that impulse-control thing going? I can see you’re making huge strides.”

      5

      TROY WIPED THE SWEAT from his temple with the sleeve of his T-shirt and reflected that there were more fun ways to get this hot and dirty. Redheaded ways.

      He cast the thought out of his mind and bit back a smile as Derek mirrored his movements. They’d pulled every rotten plank off the back porch of his house; Derek had helped him measure all the new planks; and Troy was in the process of repairing the structural beams underneath.

      He’d had professionals come in and replace the sagging porch roof, making sure it was done to city code. He’d have done it himself, but he didn’t want the damn thing flying off or peeling back during the next hurricane to torment South Florida.

      He and Derek were filthy, mosquito-bitten and tired, but the kid radiated happiness and a somewhat disturbing hero-worship that Troy felt he didn’t really deserve. But he loved the boy’s companionship and the fact that he inspired him to be a better person with a better attitude toward life. Derek somehow relieved his cynicism about the world and brought a smile to his face.

      “Want a beer?” He ruffled the kid’s hair.

      Derek’s eyes widened. “For real?”

      Troy quirked an eyebrow and climbed through the back door, a little more difficult without the benefit of a porch floor. He returned with two cans and tossed the one marked A&W to his nephew.

      The look on Derek’s face was priceless: half relieved and half disappointed. “I thought you meant—”

      “Last time I checked, you were eleven, not twenty-one.” Troy grinned. “You’ve got ten years before I throw a Budweiser or a Spaten your way.”

      “What’s a Spaten?”

      “A good German beer.”

      “Oh.” Derek popped the top on his root beer and said, “I don’t really know why anybody thinks real beer tastes good. I’ve tried it before when nobody was looking. It’s nasty.”

      “I’m so glad you feel that way.” Troy popped the top on his own can and drank deeply. Water would be better in this heat, but he couldn’t resist the cold, bitter foaminess pouring down his parched throat.

      “Hey, Uncle Troy?”

      “Hey, what?”

      “I was wondering if—” Derek broke off and twisted the aluminum can in his hands 360 degrees. He looked at it fixedly. “Um.”

      “Come on, just say it.”

      “Well, I’m s’posed to wait till Mom asks you, but it’s really hard. Would-you-consider-coaching-our-Pop-Warner-team-’cuz-Mister-Vargas-quit.” He said the last few words so quickly that Troy could barely understand them. “Mrs. Vargas has to have an operation and he’s gotta take care of her, so he had to.”

      Troy blinked. Oh, gee. What a promotion. I’m gonna go from coaching college ball to peewee….

      He hesitated. I’m not qualified. I know nothing about kids except how to practice making them.

      Then curvy little Peggy’s face flashed into his mind. But if that redheaded gal can coach the girls, then I can coach the boys.

      He gazed down at the freckled, upturned face of his nephew, so eager and so hopeful, and knew there wasn’t any question of what his answer would be.

      “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Vargas’s wife,” he said. “We’ll have to send her a get-well card.”

      Derek nodded, but waited with bated breath. Finally Troy took pity on him. “And yes, kiddo. I’ll coach your Pop Warner team.”

      Derek whooped and pumped his small fist in the air. “Yesssss!”

      Troy grinned and tried to remember back to his own Little League days, but couldn’t dredge up much. He sent up a silent prayer to the big quarterback in the sky. Surely there was some kind of a coach-the-kids instruction manual out there on the Internet?

      By sundown they’d laid all the new planks on the porch and secured them with screws. Troy ordered pizza for himself and Derek and then dropped the boy off with Samantha again, slipping him twenty bucks for his help.

      Troy had the perfect excuse to see Peggy Underwood again Tuesday night. He’d go to Danni and Laura’s powder-puff practice, cheer them on and also gather some clues about how to handle a large group of kids himself.

      Every muscle in his body ached after the day’s sweaty workout, and he wished like hell he were seeing Peggy tonight, for that hot stone massage. God, did that sound good!

      He frowned, though, as he headed for the shower. Peggy wouldn’t be doing the hot stone massage—some woman named Margaret would do it, even though he’d asked for Peggy and been flexible in terms of scheduling. She’d been booked all week, according to the receptionist. No, sorry, Miss Underwood didn’t have any openings early next week, either.

      Miss Underwood, he thought, had engineered things this way. And that intrigued him. Why didn’t she want him on her table again? She’d looked at his chest as if she wanted to lick it. Miss Underwood, that delectable redhead, was avoiding him. Well, not for long!

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