“I told him I’d figure something out.”
“Even so, we’re struggling to cover all the other expenses. It adds up. He understands. Maybe once I get a job…” Her words trail off. I’m not sure she even believes it enough to finish the sentence.
Waiting for my mom to get a job and then keep said job for more than a month is like wishing on a star. She sighs and the guilt I feel about Dad claws at my throat.
My mom was a teacher before my dad died. She worked at a private school teaching science. She was the mom who, despite working long hours grading papers and putting together lesson plans, still volunteered and still found time to be there for Heath and me. She never missed a high school game.
But now? Depression makes it hard for her to function. I’ve read all about it and I’m trying to be understanding, but it’s hard not to take it personal sometimes. She hasn’t made one single game since I’ve been at Valley, and I have my suspicions that she’s not made a lot of Heath’s games either. I don’t know this woman and as awful as it might be, I don’t really want to know her. I want to remember how she was before. It’s almost as if I lost both parents four years ago.
“How much does he need?”
She’s quiet for a few minutes. “Eight hundred. I have an interview today so I might be able to help in a couple of weeks.”
I run a hand over my jaw. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her she should consider maybe talking to someone, but it’s not like I’m in any condition to dole out advice on a happy, healthy life. So instead, I say, “I don’t have that much right now, but I’ll do what I can.”
Somehow. Some way.
She doesn’t respond. No thank you, just dead air. I think she’s embarrassed, but so am I. It’s not cool to be the poor kid at any age.
“Make sure Heath is at practice today. If he misses too many days, the coach will cut him.” Hockey is his dream, and he should get a chance to see it through. As much as I know my mom loves Heath and me, she can’t see beyond herself right now and Heath needs someone to set an example and be there when he screws up. Because he’s gonna keep doing stupid shit—it’s part of being eighteen.
It’s quarter ‘til when I get to Freddy dorm and hustle up to the fourth floor.
Chloe answers with wet hair and a half-eaten apple in one hand. “Hey. What are you doing here?” she asks, holding her free hand in front of her lips as she chews and talks.
“We’re having coffee before class.”
“Oh, you were serious about that.” She leaves the door open and walks over to a chair where she picks up her backpack. “Everyone’s gone so we don’t really have to do this.”
Taking her bag and putting it over my shoulder with mine, I head out to the hallway and wait for her to join me. Maybe this is all fake to her, but I like spending time with her, and I’ll take as much of it as she’ll give me. Beats sitting around thinking about all the other shit-fucked things going on. As long as I don’t think about the circumstances too hard, all I feel about hanging out with Chloe is excitement.
“Wait,” she says and goes for her bag.
“I got it.”
She shakes her head and unzips one of the pockets and retrieves her phone. “Venmo okay?”
I nod and give her my email. My phone is in my pocket, but I feel the vibration from the notification when she’s done.
“All good?” She walks past me toward the stairs.
I don’t pull out my phone to check. “Yep.”
That weight I’d been feeling is back. I brush it off so she can’t see my misgivings. She’s not paying me for my time, just for a façade, or that’s how I rationalize it. Feels like salvation and destruction all at once.
“How are things with the roommates?” I ask as we exit the dorm.
“Sydney fell asleep still talking about the party last night, and it’s been almost twenty-four hours since Bri glared at me.”
“Progress.”
She nods and takes another bite of her apple, then tosses it in a trash can outside of Freddy.
“What classes did you have this morning?”
“Applied Comm and Ethics.”
“Business Ethics with Professor Penn?”
When she confirms it, I laugh. “She’s nuts, but at least you won’t fall asleep in her class.”
“She brought a bundle of tacos to class this morning and ate every single one while lecturing. Lettuce and beef were spewing as she talked. I may never eat tacos again.”
I nod and lead us to University Hall, holding the door for her to go first. “At least it wasn’t fish tacos.”
Her eyes go wide. “Nooo?”
“Oh, yes. I had her last year.” I shudder at the memory.
There’s a short line at the café, but I sigh in relief when I spot Katrina working behind the counter. She always gives me her employee discount. Joel’s girlfriend greets me and Chloe with a big smile when it’s our turn.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” she asks me and then her eyes move over to Chloe.
“Katrina, this is Chloe. Chloe, this is my buddy Joel’s girlfriend.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Same,” Katrina says. “What can I get you guys?”
Chloe looks over the menu, which isn’t all that extensive. Coffee, muffins, and the usual breakfast pastries. “Can I get a bran muffin and a small coffee?”
“Cream or sugar?”
Chloe shakes her head and then Katrina looks to me. “I’m good. Just the muffin and coffee.”
I pull out my wallet.
“You’re not eating?” Chloe asks, confusion marring her features.
“I don’t do breakfast.” Which is true but mostly out of necessity. When Wes and Zeke were living at The White House, we took turns making breakfast before early practices, but now Joel spends more nights than not at Katrina’s and the routine has sort of faded away. Cooking isn’t really my jam. Even toast is a fire hazard.
“I got it.” Chloe moves to open her bag, presumably to grab her money.
I wave her off with the cash in my hand. “It’s on me.”
This is one of those awkward things that I wish didn’t stress me out. I want to buy the girl a muffin and coffee and still be able to afford to have dinner tonight. But I’ll gladly eat Ramen for the third night in a row for her.
Katrina rings us up, and I pay. She hands Chloe the coffee and a to-go bag with the muffin and then hands me a much heavier bag. “It’s for later,” she says casually. “I know you boys never eat unless it’s hand-delivered by Joel’s mom.”
I force a chuckle and mumble my thanks, embarrassed at the handout, but thankful nonetheless, and shove the bag in my backpack.
At an unhurried pace, Chloe and I walk toward Moreno Hall. Her hair has mostly dried now and the blonde strands are wavy, framing her face and falling down her back. She’s a beautiful girl. Casual suits her, I think. Those silver strappy shoes that cost more than I can fathom were hot as fuck, but she seems so much more accessible now. The Chloe of last night is squarely out of my league. This Chloe, however, I might stand a chance with.
“What’s your schedule like this afternoon?”
She swallows a bite of her muffin before she responds, “This is my last class of the day, then practice and studying in the library. You?”
“Econ at one. Lifting at two.”
She repeats it like she’s trying to memorize my details in case she’s quizzed. “I just realized I don’t know anything about your classes or practice schedule… What do I say if someone asks me where you are?”
Her vulnerability makes my chest tighten. I highly doubt someone is going to ask her my whereabouts at any given moment, but I take her hand and squeeze reassuringly. “Tell them you’re not my keeper.” She rolls her eyes. “I have my phone on me, text if you need anything. And if all else fails, do what I do.”
“What’s that?”
“Bullshit ‘em.”
The next day before class, I wai
t outside class for Chloe. She slows when she sees me.
“Hey.”
“Hey, there.” I hold out the paper bag in my right hand.
She takes a hesitant look inside and then smiles. “Thank you.”
Inside the lecture hall, I take the chair next to Shaw and pull Chloe into the seat on the other side of me. She takes a bite out of her muffin and then places it on the desk and grabs a notepad and pen from her backpack.
“Bran, really?” I ask, without hiding my dislike.
She shrugs, smiles, and takes another bite.
Professor Sanchez starts in on the lecture about knowing your target audience, but I watch Chloe. When she’s down to the last bite, she holds it out and whispers, “If you’re gonna hate on it, at least try it.”
I don’t really want it, especially because I bet there’s a blueberry one—my favorite—in the bag Katrina forced into my backpack, again, for later, but I lean over and take the bite directly from her hand. Green eyes swirl with heat as my tongue and lips connect with her fingers.
She covers her reaction quickly, rolls her eyes, and sits back in her seat like she’s paying attention to the lecture.
I grab her pen and angle the notebook so I can write her a note.
Things I’ve learned about Chloe:
1. Likes bran muffins (yuck)
2. Likes my mouth on her fingers
Then I draw a line through on her fingers. She likes my mouth. Period. She takes the pen from me and starts her own list.
Things I’ve learned about Nathan:
1.
She looks up and frowns, pen poised to write, but she obviously can’t come up with anything. I take the pen again and fill in number one for her.
1. Likes blueberry muffins
We hand off the pen and she writes a number two and then looks to me.
Likes your mouth. Period, I scrawl after pulling a pen from the side pocket of my backpack.
She smiles. A real honest to God grin that makes her look like the laidback, fun surfer princess I like to imagine she is. I realize I don’t actually know all that much about her. And I want to.
What are we doing this weekend?
Her brows furrow before she responds, I didn’t know we were hanging out this weekend.
I think it would seem weird if we didn’t hang out.
She seems to mull that over before nodding.
Pushing my luck and not giving one single fuck, I add, We should probably hang out a few times a week so it seems legit.
That look of trepidation is back. That’s a lot and totally not necessary.
As if I care.
I disagree. It’s totally necessary. Plus, we have the class project to work on anyway.
She stares at the paper a moment, pen between her teeth, before she begins to write and write and write… a freaking novel from the looks of it. I can’t read it because her hand is in the way. My surfer princess is a leftie. When she’s done, she sits back, expels a breath, and focuses entirely too hard on Professor Sanchez.
We should come up with some terms. Duration: one month. Times we need to hang out per week: 2–we can use those to work on the project. We can split those hangouts between our places, although I’d prefer that my teammates are included as much as possible since they’re the whole reason for this. Should probably keep the hanging out to public places so people see us together and we use the most of our time. We’ve already said, no sex. PDA is okay when it feels appropriate to the situation. Anything you want to add?
Jesus. A list of dos and don’ts is a real mood killer. Seems like she needs this, though, so I roll with it. Mostly.
A month is too short. How about two? And I want at least one night a week that isn’t spent studying.
Maybe I’m crazy for wanting to extend this out longer, but I don’t exactly think it’s going to be a burden.
Two months is overkill. If they don’t like me in a month, I doubt another month is going to make a difference.
Right, I keep forgetting this is about her teammates.
Six weeks and all bets are off on PDA.
I move up to the list above where she started to list things she knows about me and add a third.
3. Likes PDA.
To emphasize my point, I drop the pen and lace our fingers together. Her hand fits perfectly in mine, and we both sit back and listen to Professor Sanchez for the rest of the class. When he finishes, I realize I have no idea what we discussed in class, but I had a damn good time while he yapped for an hour.
“What time you wanna hang?”
“Oh.” She busies herself with her backpack as she searches for words… probably to blow me off.
“We can do whatever you want,” I offer.
She straightens. “Whatever I want?”
12
Nathan
Chloe told me to meet her at Ray Fieldhouse at eight. It’s Friday night, so the place is quiet as a morgue. She’s waiting for me just inside the side entrance for athletes. Leaning on the wall with her phone in hand, she’s slow to raise her head from the screen, which gives me a couple seconds to take her in.
Tight black shorts that are… well, they can hardly be called shorts they’re so short—and I’m in no way complaining about that—and a white off-the-shoulder t-shirt that comes just to the top of her not-shorts.
“Hey.” She pushes off the wall. Her eyes do a slow perusal of me and she smirks. “Ready?”
“Depends. Gotta say, I’m intrigued. I’ve never had a chick tell me to meet her at the gym on a Friday night.”
We head down the hall toward the weight rooms. She stops outside of the basketball team’s private gym. After last year’s national championship win, they did some renovations on an unused indoor tennis court area to give us our own workout room. The other teams share so it’s a definite perk.
“I see. I’m just the key to the good weight room. We’re working out, for real?”
She nods and flashes an innocent smile. “Well, we could go to the other workout room if you want to slum it with me.”
A rough chuckle fills my chest, and I press my thumb to the keypad entry.
“Fancy,” she mocks when it beeps us in.
No one else is here, as I expected, but I doubt they’d balk at Chloe being here anyway.
“Wow,” she says as she walks into the center of the room.
“Don’t walk over Ray,” I tell her as her feet get dangerously close to stepping on our beloved mascot in the center of the floor. “It’s four years of bad luck.”
She smirks. “Superstitious much?”
“Just not willing to risk it. We’ve got one in the locker room, too. You step on him and it’s seven seasons of shit.”
The way we’re looking in practice right now, I’m not convinced someone hasn’t been stomping on him every chance they get.
“So, now what?”
She turns to face me, hands on hips. “It’s leg day.”
I quirk a brow, but she’s all business as she steps onto the treadmill and presses go. She takes the speed to a light jog. I watch as she warms up. She invited me along so I’m guessing she isn’t opposed to that. And damn, it’d be hard to look away.
She looks over her shoulder. “You gonna work out with me or just stare at my ass the whole time?”
I take the treadmill beside her. “Both. I’m good at multi-tasking.”
After five minutes of jogging, she takes off doing walking lunges across the room. I step in behind her, keeping my promise and working out while I continue to check her out.
She seems to have a whole routine because she goes right into each one with barely a second to let me catch my breath: bear crawl, side shuffle, high skips, wall sits.
I’m in good shape. When I can’t sleep, I exercise to pass the hours, so my endurance is awesome, but Chloe is making me sweat to keep up with her.
Thirty minutes have passed before she finally looks to me, face red with exertion and eyes ablaze with excit
ement, and says, “Ready to work out?”
Dafuq we been doing? That’s what I think, but instead, I just wave my hand in front of me for her to lead the way.
Chloe heads to the squat rack. She places the barbell on her upper back and steps back and does a quick warm up set. When she racks it, I snap out of it and move to help her add weight. “Don’t you guys do this as a team?”
She nods as she follows the weight with a clip to hold it in place and then moves right back under the bar to go again. I stand behind her as a spot, just in case, as she busts out a set of ten.
“Bonus workouts, I dig it.” She’s in the zone, and my words take a minute to register.
“I need to be stronger and quicker on my feet. I’m not as tall as some of my competition so I need to make up for it any way I can. No weaknesses I can control.”
“Alright.” Her words poke at some insecurity inside me. I had to bust my ass to get where I am so I understand the basic logic behind her desire to outwork the competition. “Let’s put some real weight on there then.”
Her green eyes flash with competition.
I add what I think is a challenging but doable weight to both sides.
“I’ve never squatted that much before.”
“No weaknesses you can control.” I throw her words back at her, which does the trick. She lets out a breath and gets in position. Determination radiates off her, but I stay close to grab the bar if she needs to bail.
She doesn’t need me, though.
“Atta girl.” I help re-rack the bar after her third rep, and she turns and throws her arms around me.
“I did it!”
Sweat mixed with ocean and sunshine fills my nostrils, and I contemplate kissing her for all of two seconds before she seems to read my thoughts and steps back.
“What’s next?”
For the next forty minutes, we workout side by side. We take turns picking the exercises. I push her to add more weight, and she pushes me to move quicker between sets. Her competitive spirit and my desire to flat out not be shown up by a girl makes me work harder. She has this effect on me, I’m finding—she makes me want to be better at a lot of things.
The Fake: A College Sports Romance (Smart Jocks #4) Page 8
