False Start (The McKay-Tucker Men Series Book 1)

  False Start

  McKay-Tucker Men, Book 1

  Marianne Rice

  First Edition Published 2015

  Second Edition Published 2017

  Copyright 2017 by Marianne Rice

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Jen, the best friend a girl could ask for. You’re a beautiful, strong, devoted mother, sister, aunt, daughter, wife, teacher, and friend. I admire you more than you know. Thank you for being my constant sounding board. The world is a better place because of you.

  Chapter 1

  “We need to talk.”

  Startled by the deep growl, Meg Fulton looked up to the towering stack of testosterone filling her office doorway and cursed the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach.

  She straightened her posture, ran her hand through her thick hair in an attempt to put all the strays back in place, and then reached for the lapels of the suit coat that wasn’t there. She felt vulnerable in her silk tank top and wished she had an extra layer to shield her from the menacing daggers targeted at her. Putting on the jacket would only make a spectacle of herself. The thin tank would have to do.

  “Sure. Have a seat.” She crossed her legs and attempted to smile. Inwardly, Meg groaned. Connor McKay. She’d noticed him on the football field coaching his athletes and had not looked forward to the expected confrontation.

  He remained in the doorway, making no move toward the empty seats across from her desk. His blond hair was short, barely longer than the scruff on his face, and as she looked up she saw his eyes—a fierce, fiery blue filled with accusation and something that ranged between confusion and lust.

  Meg stood and retrieved her suit coat off the rack, slid her arms through the expensive fabric, feeling the need to protect herself after all. In three-inch heels, she stood at almost five-eleven, but he still had half a foot on her. “What can I do for you?”

  “This plan? Not gonna happen.” He didn’t elaborate, just made his statement sound like fact.

  Pompous, arrogant jerk. He was probably used to flaunting his muscles to get his way. The Texas A&M shirt stretched over his massive chest, making him appear menacing and…hot. Horrified she even noticed, she tipped her head back and raised her eyebrow. “Why do you believe it’s not going to happen?”

  His wide stance continued to rigidly occupy the doorway. “Season’s already started. My players won’t be benched because of a policy that might start half way through their season.”

  The stereotypical football coach was obviously not used to having a woman as a boss, but Meg wouldn’t let him intimidate her. The job as principal at Newhall High School would be a challenge, but one she was ready to face.

  “Is, not might. And all I’m asking—” She cleared her throat, “telling you, is to have your players who are in danger of failing a class spend a little extra time working on their academics. It’s quite simple. If an athlete is failing a class, he or she must stay after school in the Intervention program.”

  “And spend less time on the field?” His lips drew into a tight line. “Not gonna happen. They need to be at practice or they don’t get to play.”

  “School doesn’t start for two more days, Mr. McKay. No one is currently failing. Inform your players to maintain passing grades and their role on your team does not change.” Damn but he infuriated her. Between the baby blue eyes and blond whiskers on his face, he looked like he belonged on one of those giant posters Abercrombie displayed at the mall than teaching in a rural New Hampshire high school.

  “We already have a program in place, Ms. Fulton. Students have to maintain decent grades to stay eligible. You’re making it damn near impossible for a kid to play. Cut them a break.”

  “Decent isn’t working. Allowing students to fail algebra as long as they pass gym isn’t doing them any favors. This program doesn’t average grades; instead it requires students to pass all their courses. Students have been given far too many breaks and look where it’s gotten them. Newhall High is close to losing its accreditation. The first step is quite simple. We just—”

  “You think it’s that easy?” He shook his head and rubbed his hand across his unshaven face, unintentionally—or intentionally—flexing his biceps with the simple gesture.

  “That’s why we’re all here: teachers, mentors, peer support groups. That’s our number one job—to teach. Number two, and always number two, is coaching. You must agree or you wouldn’t be a teacher.” Meg inwardly cringed. Making herself sound like a walking ad for higher education wouldn’t earn her any points. She didn’t mean to sound so stuck up, but Connor infuriated her. Or maybe it was her unwanted attraction to him that ticked her off.

  His bright eyes darkened and narrowed. She thought the conversation had finished, but he stepped into her office, testosterone invading her personal space.

  “And what do I tell my kids who have nothing going for them, no home life, no hopes of earning decent pay or a respectable job because they don’t have a lot of brain power, but can make a difference on the football field? It’s what keeps them in school and off the streets. In our neck of the woods, kids don’t come to school dressed in designer duds looking for a decent education. They come because their home life is shitty. They come to play ball. And if they can’t play ball, they drop out.”

  She didn’t like the strength of his body or the powerful way he spoke. For sixteen years she worked diligently to stand tall in every room she entered, every situation she encountered, and she was not about to lose all she had physically and mentally worked for because of another football player.

  “And what happens to these kids of yours once high school is over and they realize there’s a real world out there that they’re not prepared for?”

  “Football, hell, all sports, teaches kids endurance, commitment, responsibility, and teamwork. Those, Ms. Fulton, are skills we all need in the real world.”

  She crossed her arms and smiled. “You’re absolutely right, coach. And these kids will realize how important commitment and teamwork are by the example you set for them. By how well you work with others in the mentoring program and how responsible you are as a teacher and mentor by making each of your players responsible for his education.”

  “This program of yours may seem great on paper but I’m talking about real kids. Kids you don’t know squat about. I know their families, their home life, their—”

  She needed to get the man out of her office before she said something she’d regret. Lifting a thick three-ring binder off her desk, she shoved it at his solid chest. “Here’s my data. I started this program at my previous school and helped four other districts begin similar programs. Feel free to read over my notes. We can discuss this further tomorrow.” She turned her back on him and put her laptop in her briefcase.

  She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to ensure he left. The a
ir thinned and cooled the moment he walked out. She had to smile when she heard him curse and slam the door to the main office. Round one belonged to her.

  * * * *

  There were only three stoplights in the small town of Newhall, and damn if Connor didn’t manage to catch them all. He didn’t feel sorry for taking his frustration out on his players at practice this afternoon. It was a taste of what was to come.

  After leaving Meg Fulton’s office, he had headed out to the comfort of the football field, sun and sweat, and had been bombarded by all sorts of questions from the kids and his coaches. But damn-it-to-hell if he had any answers.

  “Coach, there’s no way I can pass chemistry this fall. You’re not gonna bench me, are ya?” His star running back whined.

  He had to remain semiprofessional so he sidetracked the team with heavier warm-ups.

  “You’re not gonna be playing at all if you keep flapping your gums more than those legs. End zone to end zone. Five times. Hustle!” The team groaned and pleaded for answers to their questions. Answers Connor didn’t have. It had been easier to keep them busy and too winded for idle conversation. “Go!”

  If this was any indication of what kind of year he was going to have, he might as well tell the team to hang up their shoulder pads and call it quits. Principal Fulton was tough and confident. Too confident.

  Part of him hated her for it. Another part of him respected her. And another part…damn. He shouldn’t be thinking about his new boss this way, but it wasn’t his fault she had legs that were meant to wrap around a lover.

  It wasn’t often that someone needed to put him in his place. At least not lately. Though he was well known in these parts, he didn’t take advantage of his stature unless it was to give back to his community. Connor considered himself a good teacher and knew he was an excellent coach. He didn’t need stats, trophies, or awards to tell him that.

  He cursed as an image of Meg lying naked in his bed, dark hair splayed around her like angel wings, filled his brain.

  He steered his GMC truck into his garage and shut off the engine. Next to him sat the black binder she’d given him. All he wanted was to have a beer, sit on his couch, and catch the end of the Red Sox game.

  He could hear Rocky barking as he stepped out of his truck. The second he opened the door, Rocky bounded out to do his business. Connor went inside, stripped on his way to the bathroom, and then took a desperately needed shower.

  Images of long, lean limbs and dark, wide eyes flooded his mind and warmed his body. Cursing, he turned the shower nozzle and rinsed off with icy cold water.

  Freshly showered, Connor grabbed a beer from the fridge and then reclined in his chair, Rocky at his feet. He took a pull on his bottle of suds. The cold ale tasted good going down. Sure, he wasn’t catching the pigskin or dodging the lineman in the NFL anymore, but coaching high school kids was rewarding in its own right.

  The black binder stared up at him from the coffee table. “Ah, shit.” He reached for it and thumbed through the meticulously organized sections. Just like her office, her hair, her clothes, everything about Meg was in perfect order. Which made him want to rumple her a bit. The thought of her disheveled did weird things to his insides.

  Sitting in his recliner gave him a direct view of the wall of windows and French doors that led out to an enormous deck overlooking Moose Lake. There were no fussy decorations in his house. While it had a man’s touch, it didn’t look like a bachelor pad.

  The windows needed no coverings, the nearest neighbors were across the water and only visible with a pair of binoculars. He wasn’t a slob. Every item in his house had a designated spot. Clothes, books, weights, food.

  The black binder mirrored his kind of meticulous organization. Shit. The last thing he wanted to admit was that he had anything in common with his new commander and chief. He was neat. She had OCD.

  Thumbing through the binder, he noted the dates—ten years of data. She didn’t look old enough to be a principal. Hell, she didn’t fit the principal mode, period. They were old, balding, and grumpy. Not tall, with large, brown sexy-ass bedroom eyes, and a sassy attitude.

  The last section held her handwritten notes. They weren’t dated, but they looked like notes for a class, her senior thesis maybe? Information he was sure she did not want him to see.

  A yellow piece of paper fell from the binder and landed on the floor. Connor bent over to pick it up.

  “Well, holy hell, sugar. What do we have here?”

  Chapter 2

  The mirror in the small teacher’s bathroom didn’t lie; she was no Snow White. The bags under her eyes after the second day of teacher workshops, not even the official start of school, told Meg she was surely doomed.

  Only one person could be blamed for her flawed appearance. She regretted letting her emotions get the best of her and thrusting her binder of research at the hulking Connor McKay. Her life’s work. Why didn’t she tell him she’d fill him in at their scheduled meeting?

  Because the man twisted her insides and confused her usually focused mind. Meg Fulton didn’t ogle men. Especially tall, muscled men. They so weren’t her type. Not that she had a type.

  After Connor left she realized her fatal mistake of giving him The Binder. The one with her notes, her research, her career. Original documents that couldn’t be replaced. If the arrogant bastard messed with The Binder, there would be hell to pay. But McKay didn’t seem the type to read through five inches of data. He probably spent his nights drinking beer in a sleazy bar and picking up bimbos.

  Smoothing her pink, sleeveless blouse and giving her bun a reassuring pat, she picked up her briefcase, opened the bathroom door, and walked with distinct poise to the conference room. Waiting inside the cramped, sterile room and gathered around the long rectangle table sat the fall coaches. Eight men and two women. Even after all these years, she still had trouble being in the same room with athletes. Cursing her insecurities, she concentrated on her yoga breathing and willed her hands to stop shaking.

  “Good morning everyone. I believe I have your names straight, but please correct me if I’m wrong.” She sat in the vacant chair at the head of the table, smiled, and made eye contact with nine of the ten people around her.

  “I have an outlined report of three other schools who implemented the same plan and the data that shows the significant change in grades and attitude among student athletes.” She passed around the reports and waited patiently while nine coaches thumbed through the document.

  Mr. Testosterone leaned back in his chair and kept one hand wrapped around his Texas A&M coffee mug and the other tucked under his armpit. He remained too calm reclining in the hard-backed seats and too sure of himself this morning. His eyes held a small gleam. Something was up, but Meg would not let him get under her skin.

  “Ms. Fulton, can you tell me about this school’s socio-economic status?” Claire Marsh, the field hockey coach, referred to page three in the handout.

  “Sure. Example A comes from South Port High. The community is similar to yours except they are a coastal community. Many families rely on the fishing industry while your community relies heavily on farming and small businesses.” Now in her comfort zone, speaking about numbers and data, she felt more relaxed.

  For the next thirty minutes the coaches fired off questions, and Meg confidently responded to each one, reassuring the staff with specific examples and data. Pointing out improving SAT scores, lower behavior problems and improved morale among schools who instituted higher academic expectations on its athletes. Not one peep came from Connor. He sat at the opposite end of the room, waiting to pull the rug out from under her. She could feel it. Right when the meeting wrapped up and everyone started packing up, he spoke.

  “I have one question for you, Ms. Fulton,” he said, drawling her name.

  Lifting her chin to him, she said, “Yes?”

  “Has it always been your…mission…to save athletes from academic failure?”

  “No, not always.”
Crap. How the heck he had time to go through over three hundred pages of data in one night was beyond her.

  “Hmm, interesting.”

  All of a sudden the room became exceptionally quiet. She knew what he was doing. He wanted her to know he found her old notes and papers and anxiously waited for her to jump to her own defenses. She wouldn’t stoop to his level or play into his game.

  “If that’s all, you’re probably looking forward to some time in your classrooms.” Meg stood and dismissed the coaches. They all filtered out of the room, but Connor’s relaxed pose didn’t budge. His tanned, muscular legs were casually crossed and he balanced an empty coffee mug on his right thigh. “Mr. McKay, is there something you need to ask? If not, I have a dozen loose ends to clear up before the end of the day.” She didn’t wait for a response but brushed past him.

  “Would one of them be continuing your vendetta against athletes? Trying to sabotage our entire athletic program?”

  She stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes. Crap. She took a deep breath to compose herself and turned to face the enemy. “I am not trying to sabotage the program. I want our students to leave NHS with a strong academic background.”

  Slowly, rising from the chair, he handed her The Binder. “Athletes give a bad name to schools. Athletic programs should be disbanded from all schools. Hippocratic Oath and Athletes. Random Drug Testing in Public Schools.” He glared at her, his golden eyebrows raised in question. “Which thesis paper got you into grad school?”

  “Those are old papers and are not relevant to what is going on here.” She yanked The Binder from his grip.

  “So. You hold no animosity toward student athletes or coaches?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. Good to know. I could use some advice, though.”

  “Really?” she replied sarcastically.