LITMIR.BIZ

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more fun ways to get this hot and dirty. Redheaded ways.

      He cast the thought out of his mind and bit back a smile as Derek mirrored his movements. They’d pulled every rotten plank off the back porch of his house; Derek had helped him measure all the new planks; and Troy was in the process of repairing the structural beams underneath.

      He’d had professionals come in and replace the sagging porch roof, making sure it was done to city code. He’d have done it himself, but he didn’t want the damn thing flying off or peeling back during the next hurricane to torment South Florida.

      He and Derek were filthy, mosquito-bitten and tired, but the kid radiated happiness and a somewhat disturbing hero-worship that Troy felt he didn’t really deserve. But he loved the boy’s companionship and the fact that he inspired him to be a better person with a better attitude toward life. Derek somehow relieved his cynicism about the world and brought a smile to his face.

      “Want a beer?” He ruffled the kid’s hair.

      Derek’s eyes widened. “For real?”

      Troy quirked an eyebrow and climbed through the back door, a little more difficult without the benefit of a porch floor. He returned with two cans and tossed the one marked A&W to his nephew.

      The look on Derek’s face was priceless: half relieved and half disappointed. “I thought you meant—”

      “Last time I checked, you were eleven, not twenty-one.” Troy grinned. “You’ve got ten years before I throw a Budweiser or a Spaten your way.”

      “What’s a Spaten?”

      “A good German beer.”

      “Oh.” Derek popped the top on his root beer and said, “I don’t really know why anybody thinks real beer tastes good. I’ve tried it before when nobody was looking. It’s nasty.”

      “I’m so glad you feel that way.” Troy popped the top on his own can and drank deeply. Water would be better in this heat, but he couldn’t resist the cold, bitter foaminess pouring down his parched throat.

      “Hey, Uncle Troy?”

      “Hey, what?”

      “I was wondering if—” Derek broke off and twisted the aluminum can in his hands 360 degrees. He looked at it fixedly. “Um.”

      “Come on, just say it.”

      “Well, I’m s’posed to wait till Mom asks you, but it’s really hard. Would-you-consider-coaching-our-Pop-Warner-team-’cuz-Mister-Vargas-quit.” He said the last few words so quickly that Troy could barely understand them. “Mrs. Vargas has to have an operation and he’s gotta take care of her, so he had to.”

      Troy blinked. Oh, gee. What a promotion. I’m gonna go from coaching college ball to peewee….

      He hesitated. I’m not qualified. I know nothing about kids except how to practice making them.

      Then curvy little Peggy’s face flashed into his mind. But if that redheaded gal can coach the girls, then I can coach the boys.

      He gazed down at the freckled, upturned face of his nephew, so eager and so hopeful, and knew there wasn’t any question of what his answer would be.

      “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Vargas’s wife,” he said. “We’ll have to send her a get-well card.”

      Derek nodded, but waited with bated breath. Finally Troy took pity on him. “And yes, kiddo. I’ll coach your Pop Warner team.”

      Derek whooped and pumped his small fist in the air. “Yesssss!”

      Troy grinned and tried to remember back to his own Little League days, but couldn’t dredge up much. He sent up a silent prayer to the big quarterback in the sky. Surely there was some kind of a coach-the-kids instruction manual out there on the Internet?

      By sundown they’d laid all the new planks on the porch and secured them with screws. Troy ordered pizza for himself and Derek and then dropped the boy off with Samantha again, slipping him twenty bucks for his help.

      Troy had the perfect excuse to see Peggy Underwood again Tuesday night. He’d go to Danni and Laura’s powder-puff practice, cheer them on and also gather some clues about how to handle a large group of kids himself.

      Every muscle in his body ached after the day’s sweaty workout, and he wished like hell he were seeing Peggy tonight, for that hot stone massage. God, did that sound good!

      He frowned, though, as he headed for the shower. Peggy wouldn’t be doing the hot stone massage—some woman named Margaret would do it, even though he’d asked for Peggy and been flexible in terms of scheduling. She’d been booked all week, according to the receptionist. No, sorry, Miss Underwood didn’t have any openings early next week, either.

      Miss Underwood, he thought, had engineered things this way. And that intrigued him. Why didn’t she want him on her table again? She’d looked at his chest as if she wanted to lick it. Miss Underwood, that delectable redhead, was avoiding him. Well, not for long!

      Troy wasn’t used to women avoiding him. They usually went out of their way to find an excuse to call him or see him again. And these were women with whom he didn’t have anything in common, like football and a relationship with his nieces and admiration for Dan Marino.

      On Tuesday he drove the Lotus to the practice field, where it wasn’t hard to spot twenty-seven prepubescent girls running around in pink jerseys.

      Peggy wore a faded pink T-shirt that hung loosely over her breasts and gray athletic shorts, her hair pulled into a ponytail and then threaded through a white baseball cap. Her muscular legs were covered with ginger freckles and her small feet laced into top-of-the-line cross-trainers.

      “Hi, Peggy,” he said, the sight of her making him feel like a horny caveman. Hmm, that ponytail was the perfect instrument for dragging the woman off to his cave and having his wicked way with her. Here, ugg, ugg. Let me show you my big club….

      She whirled and stared at him, her expression unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses. Her lips parted. “Hi.” She tugged at the brim of her hat and crossed her legs one behind the other, as if self-conscious about them. “I didn’t, um, expect to see you here.”

      He smiled at her. “Oh, I just wanted to check on the twins. See you gals in action.”

      Danni spied him then, and came rushing over. “Uncle Troy!” She launched herself at him and gave him a bear hug, hitting him in the solar plexus.

      “Oooof. Hey, Danni-girl! How ya doing?” She smelled of laundry detergent and grass and sunshine. So did Laura, who almost tripped over the last tire in the agility exercise and sprinted over to hug him, too.

      His sister Samantha wasn’t there; they’d come with an after-school carpool. But several mommy heads turned, sending admiring glances his way.

      “This is our uncle,” said Laura to Peggy. “He used to play for the Jacksonville Jaguars, and he’s going to be coaching our punk little brother’s Pop Warner team.” Laura’s eyes narrowed accusingly as she said this. “How come you’re not coaching us?”

      Whew, nothing like a little sibling rivalry to make things uncomfortable. Troy said calmly, “Because you already have a great coach in Miss Underwood, and Mr. Vargas needs someone to step in for him.”

      Peggy handled things beautifully. She winked at the girls. “Really,” she mock-whispered behind her hand, “it’s because your brother and the boys need the professional help. You girls are at the top of your game.”

      Danni laughed. “Yeah, the boys are pretty lame. I can kick a longer field goal than Derek can, and he knows it.”

      Troy didn’t like the fact that she was right, since most of the girls were more developed at this age than the boys. His competitive streak reared its ugly head. I’ll be changing that, ladies. You can bet on it.

      Peggy nodded.

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