The mental war took all of three more seconds.
She was running late.
And multitasking was easier with help.
“Fine,” she said, well aware that her tone still bordered on snap. “Lay one out in each square then also grab three blockers—the long foam stick with the black handles—and six large pads and stack them near the front.”
He nodded, seemingly unperturbed by both her orders and her sharp voice. After placing the pads, he moved to the storage shelves on the left side of the studio that held all sorts of equipment they used for classes. Confident he was following instructions, she grabbed her clipboard, refreshed her brain for the day’s curriculum, and snagged the electronic tablet the kids used to check in, bringing it to the small table by the entrance that had a plug for the tablet (no running out of power on her watch), and a bottle of hand sanitizer.
The kids—not the parents, because she was trying to do her part in raising confident, capable kids—cleaned their hands, then found their name on the roster for their rank, and checked themselves in before stowing their shoes in the cubbies and lining up on the floor. Then would come a warm-up, stretching, a quick talk (very quick and age-appropriate for this group of four-year-olds) on the week’s life-related subject—the current topic being what to do if a stranger approached. After that, they would kick and punch and yell, and then wrap up the thirty minutes with her version of Simon Says.
She was just plugging in the tablet when the door swung open and Brayden came in, his equipment bag that was nearly as big as him hanging from his shoulder. “Hi, Ms. Caldwell.”
“Hi, Mr. Montgomery,” she said. “Drop your stuff and help with the equipment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She tapped the pin code to open the screen, pulled up the rosters for the classes, and was just setting it down when she heard him exclaim, “Liam?”
Spinning, she saw Brayden had stopped a few feet away from the man she’d pulled off the street and realized she’d been dumb to not identify the man as one of the new players picked up by the San Francisco Gold. In fact, she’d watched him play in the last game, bullied into accepting a ticket to watch the team from Brayden’s professional hockey player dad, Max.
As a player, Liam was smooth and strong, but struggling to adjust to a new team.
In his head. Struggling. Oncoming traffic.
Hmm.
Liam set down the last of the large pads and turned to Brayden. “Hey, man,” he said, extending his hand and executing some sort of complicated handshake. “A black belt, huh? That’s awesome.”
Brayden nodded eagerly. “Ms. Caldwell is the best. She’s really tough, and I’ve seen her kick so high she could almost touch the ceiling.”
Liam’s eyes flicked from Brayden to her to said ceiling. “Flexible as well as strong then, huh?”
Brayden nodded when Liam glanced back at him. “Yup. Ms. Caldwell says flexibility is really important.”
“Well, Ms. Caldwell is right about that.” Liam straightened.
“Ms. Caldwell is always right,” Brayden said as he made his way over to the clipboard. She wanted to reprimand him for talking but refrained. They usually chatted as they set up for class, and he was doing everything exactly as she expected. “No, we need the large blockers,” Brayden said when Liam reached onto the wrong shelf and before she could correct him. “Not the medium ones.”
The only difference was instead of chatting with her or Will—who was just walking through the door, a quiet, “Hi, Ms. Caldwell,” drifting to her ears—Brayden was talking to the gorgeous, unnerving Liam Williamson—professional hockey player, the sexy and lean pretty-boy new addition to the Gold she’d just snatched out of the path of a car. So, instead of snapping at the child she’d been teaching for close to five years now, she finished the rest of her prep while listening to them talk about the Gold’s upcoming games.
She was just reaching for the handle, readying to push open the door when she heard it.
“Are you taking classes here?” Brayden asked.
Her gaze shot over her shoulder, locked with Liam’s and saw the mischief bleed into his face.
Fucking hell.
No. He wouldn’t.
He. Wouldn’t.
She narrowed her eyes, gave him the ultimate Ms. Caldwell Death Glare.
Liam just grinned.
“No, bud,” he said. “No classes.”
Mia released a long, relieved breath then pushed open the door. Time for—
“Ms. Caldwell is giving me private lessons.”
Three
Liam
He was sitting in the corner of the studio, alternating between being impressed by the woman, a little scared, and more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.
The last was a problem because there were children around.
So, Liam had deliberately thought not about the way the white gi pants Ms. Caldwell was wearing clung to muscular thighs, swept over the delicious curves of her ass. He still didn’t know her first name, and all of the naughty schoolboy, teacher/student fantasies he’d had during his younger years were loving that fact. He, the adult male that occasionally made its presence known inside him, was less inclined to be popping a boner, especially considering the fact that her bending over was to help a kid who looked all of twelve with the positioning of his foot during a kick.
Brayden, Max’s son, had left about an hour before, after helping with two classes and taking his own. He’d barreled out the door with an equipment bag the size of an elephant dangling from his shoulder.
Now, Liam glanced at his cell. It was nearing eight, Ms. Caldwell hadn’t missed a beat, and despite making his livelihood as a professional athlete, he was a little exhausted from watching her.
Although, that could also be because he’d barely slept the night before.
Wondering about hockey, about his future, about the messages on his cell from his brothers and father. Well-meaning and encouraging texts from his brothers. Critiques about his play and suggestions to do better from his father.
All sitting unread, the little red circle numbering nine in the upper righthand corner of the messaging app on his cell taunting him with every minute that passed.
He needed to read them.
He needed to go.
But he’d been fascinated watching Ms. Caldwell work. She was . . . absolute grace. Smooth and confident in her demonstrations, strong in voice, and demanding utter respect from the kids. Yet, his favorite thing he’d been able to witness was her humor. Small little jokes the kids wouldn’t pick up, but that the grownups did, earning a chuckle from the parents, from him.
Of course, when she heard him chuckle, her eyes narrowed, and she speared him in place with a ferocious glare.
Probably one that should have made his balls shrivel up.
Instead, it made his cock twitch.
Which then made him resort to thinking about those messages on his cell in order to control himself and not wonder if she’d use that sharp tone, those sharp words in bed.
He was waffling between opening the app and checking texts or ignoring them for the remainder of his time on this planet when he heard Ms. Caldwell ask everyone to stand, and directed the students in bowing out of class. Shortly after, the kids filed out, gathering shoes as they went, parents bundling them up in jackets to protect them from the winter breeze of a forthcoming storm making its way toward the Bay Area.