Sweet Gone South by Alicia Hunter Pace Page A

minute it got over forty degrees. And he was wearing a baseball cap. He’d probably worn it in Applebee’s. They’d probably come upstairs now and have sex. Maybe Mr. Touchdown would wear that ball cap during sex. Maybe she’d wear that skirt and pull it up over her tempting sweet thighs. Or maybe she’d put on one of those candy aprons. Probably Scott liked them. Maybe she’d stop in the shop to get some fudge and he’d eat it off her thigh. Or maybe they’d go more with a football theme and work in a whistle and cheerleader uniform. Maybe Scott would be the one to wear the little skirt and knee socks. There would be pom-poms involved. That was a given.
    But wait. They’d stopped right below where Luke sat. He couldn’t see them now, but he could hear them clearly.
    “Don’t lean on Luke’s car,” Lanie said. “He wouldn’t like it.”
    Thanks, Lanie. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
    “I’m not hurting it.”
    And where did you learn your extensive knowledge of what will and will not hurt a fine German engineered sports car? Coach school?
    “Do you want to come upstairs?”
    Yep. Time to get down to business.
    “Nah. I can’t stay. I’ve got game film to watch. Let’s just sit out here a minute.”
    Huh? Oh, right. Clearly game film is more exciting than a pair of first-class legs wrapped around you. Idiot.
    “Don’t sit on Luke’s car!”
    Yeah, Mr. Touchdown! Don’t sit on my car!
    “Okay! Okay! I’ll sit on your car. Move over. And give me the rest of your chicken.”
    Asshole. Don’t take her chicken. She works hard. She might need it tomorrow.
    “I might want it later.”
    That’s telling him, Lanie.
    “Not as much as I do. And you won’t eat it. You know you won’t.”
    How is it you know she won’t eat it? She eats. I’ve seen her. At least, I think I have.
    “Especially if I don’t have it.” Heavy sigh. “Here. Go ahead.”
    No, Lanie! Don’t give him your chicken.
    “Oh, man. It’s fried. I thought it was grilled. You know I don’t eat fried food. And didn’t you bring the dipping sauce?”
    Get your own damned sauce.
    “Sorry. Next time I’ll order to suit your tastes.”
    She’s being sarcastic, Mr. Touchdown. Did you catch that or are you too busy eating chicken?
    “I appreciate that.”
    I doubt that. You don’t seem the appreciative type.
    “Whatever it takes to make you happy, coach. Whatever it takes.”
    You think he can be made happy? He’s already turned down sex. Offer it to me. Wait. Don’t. I didn’t mean that, even in my head.
    “By the way, one of the Booster Club members gave me tickets to some shindig at the country club in May.”
    Good for you.
    “It’s a benefit ball for breast cancer.” Lanie laughed a little under her breath. “Don’t tell anybody this, but we call it the Breast Ball. The tickets are five hundred dollars a pair. And someone just gave them to you?”
    Better explain to him, Lanie, that this ball is not made of pigskin.
    “I’m an ex-star, baby. Good things come to me.”
    And you turn them down. She asked you upstairs, moron.
    “Emphasis on ex. Have a losing season this fall and the only ticket you’ll get is out of town.”
    Good girl.
    “I don’t plan on losing. You have no respect for my status.”
    What status? It’s not like the governor appointed you to anything.
    “Not a bit.”
    That’s telling him.
    “Well, anyway, what do you think about this ball? We could go. Since it’s free and all.”
    Oh, why not, because clearly she’s not worth spending money on!?
    There was a moment of silence, and then Lanie spoke. “Sure you don’t want to take a real date?”
    Huh?
    “You’re real enough for me at this juncture. Let me get through my first season, and I’ll shop for better.”
    Oh, boy, have you got an ass-kicking coming! I hope — I pray — you get in trouble and end up in my courtroom. I cannot wait.
    “Well — ”
    Lanie! You are not going to tell him yes. You can’t! He insulted you. Hit