Look at him.

He's a sculpted piece of art – one that I'd love to get my hands on.

That is, if he wasn't an asshole.

"Desiree!" Coach Blake's voice tears through the soft vibration of conversation throughout the gym. I know what's coming. Some form of obnoxious reprimand, simply because I don't find his lecture very interesting – then again – my eyes fleet around the room – I don't think anyone finds it interesting.

Once my gaze rests on him, his darkening green eyes narrow. He's pissed off, and he's just found his target. Me.

Unlike these other girls, I can see past his chiseled body, handsomely framed face, full lips, and mesmerizing eyes framed by thick black lashes. He's the wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Would you like to share something with the class?"

He crosses his arms over his chest, and the muscles in his forearm bulge and flex with every movement. Fit is an understatement. I can't suppress the smirk twitching on the corner of my lips. I love seeing him pissed off – it almost makes me feel powerful when I'm the source of his annoyance. I admit, when he's angry his whole demeanor changes, and he takes on this aggressive alpha form which just makes me cream my panties.

I decide to play the innocent, kiss ass. I bat my lashes, clasp my hands together, and tilt my head friskily.

"No, Sir. We were just discussing your intriguing lecture." Sarcasm leaks from my words. His jaw clenches, and I almost shake with wanton. His eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, before they snap open, and rest vengefully on me. He spreads his arms wide, and I contemplate how he'll embarrass me this class.

"Is that so?"

"Of course, Coach." I nod, my role of good student whose attention is undivided doesn't seem to take hold of him long. He clucks his tongue, and waves me down from the bleachers I'm sitting on.

"Maybe you'd like to demonstrate a proper serve?"

My so-called unwavering grin, falters. I try to remain nonchalant, and shrug but he's not having it. The last thing I want to do is demonstrate a game I don't know how to play, but I'll play along.

"Get down here. Now."

Miranda – my badminton partner and the girl I've known since middle school – shoots me an apologetic smile, but it's not enough to save me from this foreshadowed embarrassment. With a heavy sigh, I pull myself up out of my seat, barreling through the crowd of horny teenagers, and down the bleacher steps. Miranda howls loudly behind me, and I whip my head around to roll my eyes at her, before I finally reach the last step and place my foot on the gym floor.

Before I have time to focus, Coach Blake shoves a racket into my arms. I fumble with it quickly, watching as he grins at me.

"Glad you find this fucking amusing..." I huff under my breath. A few chuckles pierce the air, before Coach Blake's clears his throat loudly.

"Take the stance and serve." He knows I haven't been paying attention. In fact, he's fucking counting on it, and I'm praying I'm able to give a half decent serve, just to rub it into his nose, but I know luck isn't always on my side.

He offers me the birdie.

I glance between him and that weird yellow birdie, and gain the courage to grab it from his hands. I try to recall the instructions he was just going over, but his voice is a blurry memory in the background of a deep conversation I had with Miranda about her ex-boyfriend.


I raise the birdie in my hand, and before I manage to raise the racket, he's yelling.


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