“Dammit, Holly—”

      “No.”

      He took a deep breath and let it out again. “Please put your sweater back on,” he said more quietly. “Please?”

      There was a moment of silence, during which Alex exerted every bit of his willpower to keep his eyes on the road. He was intensely aware of the woman sitting beside him, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her soft, bare skin just inches away. She smelled like tequila and roses, a strangely erotic combination.

      “Okay,” she said finally, tugging the soft black sweater back over her head. Alex wasn’t sure if his relief or his disappointment was more intense.

      “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

      “That’s all right,” Holly said, and her voice sounded so resigned that he glanced over at her in surprise.

      “What’s wrong?”

      She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. It’s just … you flirt with every woman you see, but when I took off my top you wouldn’t even look at me. Do you think I’m repulsive or something?”

      He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you crazy? I—” He stopped himself before he could go too far. “I mean, it’s not like that with us. We don’t like each other, remember? You only took off your sweater because you’re drunk. I’d never take advantage of you like that.”

      He wasn’t sure she’d even heard him.

      “I’ve never been any good at flirting. Or dating, for that matter.” She rolled down her window and put a hand out to catch the night air. “I haven’t had sex in three years. Three years, Alex. I think I’ve forgotten how.”

      What was she doing to him? If she was going to talk about sex he was going to have a hell of a time showing the restraint he’d just talked about.

      And once she woke up tomorrow morning and remembered this conversation, she’d never talk to him again. He knew Holly—she wouldn’t forgive him for seeing her guard down like this.

      “Can I ask you a question?”

      “Sure,” he said warily, wondering what was coming now.

      “Why did you leave the NFL?”

      He glanced at her in surprise, and saw her looking at him curiously. Well, at least they weren’t talking about sex.

      He turned his eyes back to the road and tried to adjust to the change in topic.

      “Why did I leave the NFL,” he muttered. He glanced at her again. “I don’t usually talk about that, but if you’re sure you want to know—”

      “I’m sure.”

      “Okay, then.” He hesitated, remembering that time in his life. “Back when I was a pro athlete I got involved in a mentoring program with teenagers. I was working with this one boy, a really nice kid named Charles. He was a good student and a great football player. I worked with him for two years, right up until he got accepted to Michigan State. The day after he got the letter, he took twenty of his mom’s antidepressant pills with a bottle of vodka and killed himself.”

      Holly gasped. “Alex, how awful. But … what did that have to do with you leaving the NFL?”

      “After Charles died, his parents and I found out that he’d been using steroids. I didn’t have a clue. He never talked to me about it, never said a word. He must have thought I was too much of a straight arrow to ask about something like that. And he was right—I never got into that crap. One of the many reasons is that it can affect your emotional balance, make you suicidal … especially if you’re a teenager.”

      He took a breath. “I kicked myself for not seeing the signs. The acne, the mood swings, the way he bulked up so fast. But the fact is, I’d gotten used to seeing the signs. They were around me every day in the locker room. And even though I never did it myself, I turned a blind eye to it. It was just so much a part of the culture … as bad as it sounds, I started to take it for granted. After Charles died, I decided I didn’t want a job where I could take something like that for granted. I decided I wanted to work with kids instead.”

      He grinned suddenly. “Or maybe I was just tired of getting beaten into the ground every Sunday. Either way, it was time to leave and I left.”

      Holly was looking at him thoughtfully. “I’m glad you left the NFL,” she said after a moment. “I’m glad you came back here to Weston. I’m glad you’re Will’s coach.”

      He raised an eyebrow. “Well … thanks, Holly.”

      “Can I ask you another question?”

      “Sure.”

      “Why were you such a jerk in high school?”

      Now he raised both eyebrows. “Hey, who said I was a jerk?” He waited a beat, then shook his head. “Okay, even I don’t buy that one. Yeah, I was a jerk. Most teenage boys are, you know. I hope you don’t think Will is typical.”

      “No, I know he’s not typical. But you weren’t, either. I mean … I suppose most teenage boys are obnoxious, but you were …”

      “More obnoxious than most? Maybe I was. Well—I hated my family, for one thing. One of the original excuses for teenage rebellion.”

      “Why did you hate them?”

      “I never knew my real father—he took off before I was born. My mom died when I was eight and that left me with my stepfather. He and Brian never had much use for me, and I had even less for them. I wasn’t related to them by blood, and they’re the kind of people that matters to. I left home as soon as I could.”