Redhead Blitz

  REDHEAD BLITZ

  By

  Janie Mason

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved by the author. It is illegal to copy or reproduce any portion of this book without the written consent of the author.

  Copyright © 2012 by Jane Conner. All rights reserved.

  First Kindle Edition: February 2012

  Web site: www.JanieMason.com

  Cover design by Rachel Conner

  Dedication

  To my talented daughter and cover artist. I’m so proud of you. Also thanks to my author friends, Marcia James, Becky Barker and Lisa Cooke, for their invaluable input. And always, to my best friend, husband and number one fan, David. I love you more.

  Chapter One

  “I understand, Mr. Turnell, and I agree. The college recruiters will definitely be watching Butch this season.” Pulling the phone a good four inches away from his ear, Sean Fitzgerald paused at the colorful ranting of his starting quarterback’s father.

  Between the school cafeteria burrito he’d had for lunch and this phone call, Sean’s gut churned. He snagged an open roll of Tums from his desk drawer and popped a couple into his mouth. Only three months into his position as Newtown High School’s head football coach and he was already wondering if the small stipend to his teaching salary was worth an ulcer.

  “I’m wondering if you lied on your job application about coaching experience,” Beau Turnell said. “You know the Lions don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it to the state championships without my boy as quarterback!”

  Anticipating when the man would stop his tirade to breathe, Sean nestled the chalky antacids into his cheek and plowed back into the conversation.

  “Again, I understand your frustration, but I have no choice but to comply with the school district’s policy. If Butch can’t bring his grades up, he’ll remain ineligible.” Sean backed the phone away again and resumed his chewing as Turnell blasted the school system and all its administrators for their ridiculous regulations. Expecting students to complete homework assignments and not skip classes, what ogres.

  Echoing the marching band’s bass drum as the group paraded past the window toward the practice field, the pounding at his temples steadily intensified. He pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowed the remains of his antacid and muffled a burp the size of Cleveland. Not that Mr. Turnell could have heard. He was too busy taking more late hits at Sean’s coaching abilities. He propped the phone between his shoulder and ear and fished his bottle of Tylenol out of the drawer.

  “Yes, Mr. Turnell. I’m listening.” He shook two caplets from the dwindling supply and swallowed them dry. Which was a challenge since every drop of saliva in his mouth had been used to dissolve the Tums.

  “For years, football has been the only sport at Newtown High worth a shit, and now with you calling the shots that’s gone to hell.”

  Sean checked the clock. Maybe letting the man vent hadn’t been such a good idea. Just like teaching a classroom full of kids, once control was lost, it was next to impossible to regain. Time to assert himself.

  “Although it would mean getting to school earlier, I mentioned the school’s zero period tutoring opportunities to Butch. They are also available during his lunch period. Do you know if he’s planning on taking advantage of any of them?” Since dear old dad never seemed to emphasize academics, Sean was pretty sure the kid wasn’t. He probably thought his father—who was treasurer of the school’s athletic boosters—would be able to bully his son’s way back into the line-up.

  Beau Turnell avoided Sean’s question and instead resumed his argument about how Spellcheck negated the need for twelfth grade English.

  The man’s ridiculous arguments, as well as his mind-numbing volume, were sucking Sean’s flagging mental energy right out of his body. Time to put an end to this and get outside to practice.

  “As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Turnell, Butch’s teachers can and will recalculate his grades on an almost daily basis.” His next sentence died in his throat when Beau threatened to call his attorney and disconnected.

  Crap. That didn’t go well. At least the guy hadn’t slammed down the phone. Must have been on his cell. Sean swiveled his Eisenhower-era wooden chair and hung up his own receiver. He let out a long breath, hoping to relieve the tension in his chest, then looked up at the poster of a classic Corvette on the wall in his corner of the coaching office. The shiny image was almost identical to his car, which he and his dad restored before Sean left for college. Those had been some of the best times of his life. Sean closed his eyes, allowing the pain reliever a bit more time to kick in.

  When Heidi Callihan—who was now Mrs. Joe Rafferty—gave the poster to him, he’d mistaken her friendly gesture for a more personal interest. Of course he’d been disappointed to learn differently, but he could consider her a new friend. The school staff had also accepted him as one of their own, and the parents of students he’d met were warm and accommodating. Sean chuckled, the sound one of resignation more than humor. Okay, so Beau Turnell was one blaring exception.

  With the throbbing subsiding, Sean scooped up his duffle bag and headed toward Al Matthews’ office. Before he went out to the practice field he should let the athletic director know about Mr. Turnell’s call.

  “I so didn’t need this.” Gigi Thompson lightly ran her crimson thumb-nail over the tiny flecks of yellow paint marring the black car’s sleek finish. She’d known the parking spot would be a tight squeeze but, it had been the last available space in the lot. She glanced at her watch and felt her blood pressure escalate.

  Great, she was going to be late for her job interview. But what else could she have done? Blowing past a funeral procession would have been heartless. Damn. And she’d wanted to make a great impression today.

  Frustration threatened to boil out of her, and she silently mouthed a string of curses. She’d gotten her rude vocabulary from her father and the wisdom not to let the nastiest of those words pour out of her mouth from her step-mother. The momentary indulgence did little to help cool her bubbling temperament.

  “If this jerk hadn’t practically straddled two parking spaces, I would’ve had plenty of room.” Seeing that the paint from her bright yellow Escort wasn’t scraping off, dread sank in her empty stomach. Suddenly she regretted the decision to skip lunch. She straightened and dug in her purse for a pen, scribbling her name and phone number on the top page of her legal pad.

  “Not only am I late, but my insurance rates are going to skyrocket if they have to repaint this car.” Whoever owned an automobile like this would definitely notice the result of her door’s little love-tap. She ripped the paper from the pad and stuffed it under the car’s windshield wiper.

  Gigi couldn’t help but glance one more time at her wristwatch while power-walking toward the building’s rear entrance, not an easy task in three-inch heels. Her interview was supposed to have begun two minutes ago, and she still had to locate Al Matthews’s office once she got inside. Gigi as if she’d run into an invisible barricade.

  Could Mr. Matthews be the owner of the sports car? No way would he hire someone who’d just dinged his car. Nausea threatened and she forced two deep, slow breaths.

  She needed calm. She needed cool. Her stomach growled. She needed a Cinnabon.

  And she needed this job.

  Deliberately measuring her inhalations, Gigi concentrated. She recalled Mr. Matthews repeatedly knocking on her friend and neighbor’s door last week. Annie Marcum had pretended she wasn’t home and, after he’d left, apologized to Gigi for the disturbance. The memory of him pulling away in a green SUV filled Gigi with relief. That relief wasn’t as physically satisfying as a warm, gooey cinnamo
n roll, but she felt markedly better.

  She lifted her gaze to the heavens.

  “Thank you.” Then she hiked up the strap of her shoulder bag and reached for the door.

  Even though the coaches’ mailboxes were housed inside the athletic director’s office and the door was always open, Sean tapped his knuckles on the frame. “Got a minute?”

  Focused on his writing, Al wordlessly waved Sean in with his free hand. Sean crossed to the sturdy wooden desk and Al looked up, stern-faced. Although the school’s athletic director physically reminded Sean of his college football coach, with his thick salt-and-pepper hair and tall muscular physique, this man had shown no interest in developing the same informal manner his old coach had shared with his players and staff.

  “Maybe less than that.” He stood and straightened his necktie. “I have an applicant coming in to interview for the assistant’s position.”

  Thank God. Al had been a real bear since Annie, his long-time assistant, had suddenly resigned. Judging from the file folders, papers and event calendars strewn across his desk, the office wasn’t running like the well-oiled machine Al was used to.

  “I’ve had three temps in the week and a half since school started and they’ve all been completely incompetent.” Al lowered his head and began consolidating piles, offering no further comment.

  Wonder what caused Annie to leave so abruptly? Assuming he’d never know the answer, Sean swallowed his curiosity and described Beau Turnell’s call.

  “You’re right,” Al confirmed. “If Butch can’t pull his grades up, our hands are tied.”

  Some of the tension in Sean’s neck muscles eased.

  “However, there is another bottom line to consider.” Al turned a ratchet between Sean’s shoulders with a blade-sharp look. “Beau Turnell is one of the most generous athletic boosters this school’s ever had. If he pulls his support, we’re gonna have to do some major scrambling to make up the financial loss.”

  Understood, loud and clear.

  “And a so-so season won’t make that an easy task.”

  Okay, so they’d lost the first game last week and Butch was going to be benched this week. It was still early in the season. In two weeks they could find themselves on top. But chances were, without his starting quarterback, those changes wouldn’t happen. Sean knew he had to do something, and fast. First thing was not to panic. Why hadn’t he stuck his Tums in his pocket?

  “Yes, sir.” His mind scrambled. Maybe he could force Butch to attend tutoring. Hell, he could spend his weeknights tutoring the kid so he knew Butch wasn’t blowing it off.

  Slow down. Think. A turnaround would require a concentrated effort. Maintain your focus on teaching, coaching and possibly tutoring, for the next three months. Sensing a long battle ahead, Sean felt his stomach tighten.

  Thankfully, the clicking of a woman’s heels in the tiled hallway saved him from having to reply to Al’s not-so-subtle threat.

  Sean turned to see a beautiful young woman, dressed in a tight fitting red suit, halt in the open doorway. One glance at her left him as speechless as if he’d been sacked by a three hundred and seventy-five pound linebacker. Her red hair was long and hung in loose, playful curls and the V-neckline of her tailored jacket hinted at lush breasts. He let his gaze slip downward. Her short skirt highlighted the most perfectly shaped legs he’d ever seen. She stood about five foot-six, but that was only with the aid of red high-heels that were equal parts sexy and deadly.

  Their gazes met for a fraction of a second before hers traveled on to Al Matthews. But even that blink of time was enough for Sean to know this woman was dangerous. With one look of those emerald green eyes she’d zapped his ability to move a muscle.

  “Mr. Matthews?” The lady in red directed her inquiry to Al, who picked up a piece of paper from the closest stack and rounded his desk.

  “Yes. Miss Thompson?” Al glanced down at what Sean assumed was her job application.

  “Yes, but please, call me Gigi.” Full, glossy lips spread into a bright smile and she extended her manicured hand in greeting.

  Frozen, lifeless as a tackling dummy, Sean could only imagine shoving Matthews out of the way, falling at her feet and pressing wet kisses to her fingertips. And then, since he’d always been a thorough kind of guy, he’d kiss his way up her arm and cover every luscious inch of that delectable body.

  Hello. Nix the tackling dummy analogy. From the way his heart was pounding and his dick was rising, it was clear his involuntary body functions were performing at top capacity. Good thing he’d changed into a jock strap and loose-fitting sweatpants for football practice otherwise, he’d be embarrassing everyone in the room.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Thompson,” Al said, obviously not willing to forgo formalities. He gestured Sean’s way. “This is Sean Fitzgerald.”

  Her gaze returned, and Sean’s body temperature spiked while every nerve ending tingled.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald is a history teacher and our new varsity football coach.”

  Some primal instinct forced Sean out of his momentary paralysis. He reached for her hand, taming the urge to trap her in his arms. Her delicate hand disappeared inside his, but her grip was firmer than he’d expected. With that confident shake, and the head to toe red, Gigi Thompson was smokin’ hot.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sean.” She quickly released his hand.

  He liked that she hadn’t called him Mr. Fitzgerald. Too bad she’d been in such a hurry to break their physical connection. He’d wanted to linger in it like a hot shower. “No, it’s my pleasure.” Good God, had his voice just cracked?

  “Am I interrupting?” She looked from him back to Al.

  “Not at all.” Al turned to face Sean. “I think we’d said all we needed to say.”

  Sean’s mouth went dry. How was that for cryptic? Would his teaching position be on the line if the team didn’t produce a winning season?

  “If you’ll excuse us, Miss Thompson and I need to begin the interview.” It was obvious Al expected a swift exit.

  Frustrated by the admonition and dismissal, Sean did his best to give Gigi Thompson a sincere smile before heading toward the door. It wasn’t until he’d made it halfway down the hall that reality hit him like a nose-tackle in the gut.

  What if she got the assistant’s job? How could he possibly stay focused on his work with that walking, talking wet dream distracting him every day? No way could he concentrate on all that was involved in proving himself worthy of this job with a perpetual hard-on.

  As he pushed open the outer door and headed toward the stadium, he cursed his luck. Sean hitched the strap of his bag across his chest and sprinted toward the field.

  Why couldn’t she have been fifty and happily married with half a dozen kids?

  “Please let her blow the interview,” he said, half meaning it.

  Chapter Two

  Gigi felt like a champagne bottle ready to launch its cork. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to hop up on the chair and squeal with delight when Al Matthews offered her the job.

  She hustled outside and headed toward her car as fast as her heels and slim skirt would allow. Butterflies skittered around her stomach, crowding out the hunger she’d felt earlier. School had dismissed and the parking lot had thinned, so as she approached, Gigi caught sight of the vintage sports car. Her hurried stride faltered as she recalled her parking mishap of an hour ago. If only there’d been enough time to drive around and snag a spot on the street.

  The piece of paper with her number was still under the wiper where she’d left it, rustling in the warm afternoon breeze. Gigi glanced at the car’s passenger door as she approached. Was the blemish visible from a distance?

  No, she couldn’t see it until she’d stepped between the cars. If her Escort had been a darker color, the mark would be close to invisible. Unfortunately, tiny flecks of its distinctive yellow paint stood out against the car’s glossy black.

  Her high spirits, however, kept the mi
shap from dragging her back down into the doldrums.

  “What’s done is done,” she said to convince herself. All she could do was make amends with the owner when he or she called. Not wanting to add to the damage, she circled to the passenger side of her car and got in. After a quick glance to make sure no one was close by, she hiked her skirt up past her hips so she could maneuver over the console and into the driver’s seat.

  Even before starting her car, she dug inside her purse for her phone. She had to call Heidi and share her good news. Gigi’s hands shook with excitement as she hit the speed dial. She wound down the old crank window for ventilation as the phone began to ring.

  “Rafferty’s.”

  “I got it!”

  “Oh, Gigi, that’s so great! When do you start?”

  “Tomorrow. Mr. Matthews seemed desperate for me to start A-S-A-P. It’s such a relief. Since yesterday was my last day at the insurance agency, I needed to find a job quickly. I was a bit worried.”

  “I could tell. Are you going to share the news with Pete the next time he calls to beg you to come back?”

  Gigi rolled her eyes. “I wish he’d stop calling. It’s not like he needed me anyway. That office was a ghost town.” Her ex-boss could only drink so much of her coffee, and if the phone didn’t ring, there was absolutely nothing for her to do. “You should see the mess on Mr. Matthews’s desk. This man really needs me.”

  Gigi thought of her neighbor, Annie, and her sudden departure from her job here. The woman was the most organized person Gigi had ever met and she’d have a heart attack if she saw the mess on Al’s desk. Gigi might not have as much experience as Annie Marcum, but she hoped she could make up for any technical shortfalls with copious amounts of determination.

  “So, what’s he like?” Heidi’s question took her thoughts to Al Matthews.

  “He seems to be very by-the-book. He insisted on calling me Miss Thompson and didn’t hit on me or give me any perverted looks.”