Screw that.
I strode after him, ignoring the awful sour feeling in my gut.
“Mr. Anderson?” I yelled.
He halted.
I walked over to him, fists clenched. Should I call him Mr. Anderson? Brock? I had no freaking clue. “I did everything you asked without complaint. When do I show up next?”
He whipped around, his teeth clenched for reasons beyond me. “Tomorrow.”
“Seven?” Excitement and dread poured through me. I would get great experience starting early, but I knew without a doubt, this was going to be hell.
He nodded, looking at me with disdain. “Wear more appropriate clothing tomorrow, and don't be late.”
I nodded, not willing to feel guilty about my outfit. He was a mean, unhappy man. Screw him—I was here for football and a potential career.
I checked my Fitbit app on my phone as I limped to my car. I walked over seven miles that morning. I groaned into my fist as I hobbled out the main gate.
Gilly called and I immediately called her back, telling her everything. She gasped, moaned, and cursed at all the right parts. She demanded we go pick out new clothing. Of course, I gave in. I had no choice. The extra money I made waitressing was going to go toward a new wardrobe, and although the job was a dream, I wasn’t wild about my new uniform. There was no cool way to wear polos.
Gilly assured me a push-up bra and tight pants would help, but I shooed her. I chose athletic yoga pants, reasonable khaki shorts, and five school football tees, polos, and tank tops. I was set clothing wise. Emotionally? I was a few tacos and margaritas short of a fiesta.
“I can't wait to see you kick ass,” Gilly said over wine later that night. “You earned this chance, and you’ll prove him wrong. I know it.”
Fritz, our third roommate and Gilly’s brother, sipped his beer, and nodded along with his sister. They were my chosen family, and their support meant so much.
My email pinged with my new insane schedule. The internship was paid, but, due to Asshole Anderson starting me two weeks early, I had double shifts six days a week. I would work nine hours with him, and seven hours at the steakhouse. Goodbye social life. Goodbye world. It might be near impossible, but the challenge lit me up inside.
He wanted to be a dick?
Game on, Anderson.
Chapter Two
I walked in fifteen minutes early on my third day because I was that type of person. Anderson checked his watch, twice, and a thrill raced through me.
Regardless of my prompt arrival, he ignored me until the clock hit seven. “How do you feel about ice, tape, and rehab?”
“Confident and willing to do it. Blood doesn't freak me out either,” I said, proud that I hadn't let him hurt my feelings, yet. Sure, he glared at me, refused to acknowledge anything good about me, barked orders, demanded things to be done, but I was still here. And that was what I focused on.
“Can you work with the offense today? I have somewhere I need to be, and someone always needs ice or wrapped.” Brock looked up from his desk, his blue eyes darker than normal. Sue me for knowing that his eyes changed depending on his mood. I had observed three moods: annoyed, pissed off, and super dick. He bordered on annoyed and pissed off, but there was a slight new mood there, too.
“Yes.” I had done that stuff in high school for three years. Plus, this sounded like a big responsibility and another way to prove myself.
“Don't flirt with the players, and stay focused. I've heard reports you're getting too social. Knock that off. You're here to learn how to be a trainer, are you not?” His tone shifted from annoyed to super dick.
I closed my eyes, releasing the negative energy he had the unique talent to evoke.
“I am here to learn, but I thought it was important to establish rapport. Is that so bad?” My voice lost a bit of its normal gusto as I second-guessed everything I’d done.
“It's embarrassing, that's what it is,” he barked at me as his fingers came up to pinch the tip of his nose. His expression told me what I needed to know. I was an annoyance, a pain, a nuisance to him. Shame burned my insides. It started in my neck, creeping down until I was nauseated. His hooded eyes, now a sea shade of blue, narrowed. “You're a reflection of my training staff. Remember that.”
I stared at the floor, nodding.
He stood and tossed me a clipboard. It had the schedule for the morning practice and the highlighted things I needed to do. Before I could ask a question, he walked out the door.
I considered myself a good person, kind to everyone, loyal. Sure, I had a little temper. But I had no idea what I’d done to deserve this.
Anderson ran a well-oiled machine when it came to the program, and that had to be enough to fuel me for the rest of the internship. I scanned the list and chewed on a hang nail.
Water to the fields, bottles to the weight room, and ice for the offensive linemen. I nodded, more to myself than to anyone in particular. Water it was.
I filled all seven water coolers to finish the list. And, one by one, I carried them to the field. I dropped two off, some of the players thanking me.
“Girl, what the hell are you doing carrying those around?” An unfamiliar voice yelled at me. I set the third cooler on the bench, my heart racing from the movement. Scratch those plans to start a workout routine. Between this, waitressing, carrying bags of ice across the stadium, and walking, I did not need to go to the gym. Ever again.
“Can I help you with something?” Shit, that came out rude. Asshole Anderson’s speech about being a reflection of his staff irked me. I had been nothing but polite until now. “I'm the new intern here, so if there is anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“Yeah, I know who you are,” he said, his face emotionless. I had no idea what to do with that response, so I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Why are you carrying those jugs around?”
“Because I was told to.” I frowned. Shit—had I made a mistake? Did I grab the wrong ones? But no, I was sure I did it right. It was the same thing I had done the past two days. I doubted Anderson would mess with me, right? Not after his little speech.
“I get your job duties. I did my time long ago.” He smiled, for a split second, then went back to the gargoyle. “Why aren't you using the cart?”
“Cart? There's a cart?” My heart kicked up again, hoping, wishing, praying that I’d misheard him. If there was a cart or an easier way to do this, I was going to murder Anderson. Twice.
“We have a cart for heavy lifting. There is one for the head AT, then two for the rest of us to share.” He ran his hand over his shaved head, a frown slowly forming on his stone face. “Brock should've told you that.”
“He left that out,” I said, clenching my teeth.
“Shit.” He released a long breath. “What's on the rest of your schedule?”
“I need to finish the coolers. Then I have a short window for lunch before grabbing the afternoon assignments.” I cracked my knuckles, hoping to relieve the tension and anger building up inside of me.
“Find me after you eat, okay? I'll get you a cart. I'm Chris, by the way.”
“Sure.” I nodded briskly at him before heading back to get the other four coolers. My arms burned, my palms blistered from the long walk from the water house to the bench.
He waved goodbye as I walked toward my boss, the gallows, and prison all wrapped up in a nice package. My imagination was having a field day comparing Anderson to anything evil. The Hitler of Hydration. The Napoleon of Ice Coolers. I kept my head high, chin out, and stride strong. I was scheduled for my lunch break, and I was starving, but I needed to win the war.
“Follow me.” Anderson turned, leaving me no choice but to follow. I followed, not at all looking at his toned ass in his athletic shorts. He looked normal today. He wore an old college shirt, backwards hat, and black shorts. But, as soon as he spoke, zap. There went the attraction. We went into his office, and he pointed for me to sit in the chair. I refused and crossed my arms over my chest.
/>
“How did it go this morning?” he asked, looking rather bored.
“Fine. I finished everything on the list.” I handed him the clipboard, showing him with a little bit of pride. I’d finished early, and I was damn proud.
“The west equipment room needs cleaning. I bought more supplies. I'll show you how to mix chemicals, so it's not overpowering.” He stood up, grabbing a box behind his desk.
We walked to the west equipment room, and he showed me the mixture and how to clean the machines. We began cleaning the machines against the windows, working in complete silence.
It was about an hour into it when my stomach made the loudest, weirdest whale call.
“Did you eat lunch?”
“No. You brought me here on my lunch,” I said, keeping any emotion out of my voice. Sure, I was freaking cranky and hungry, but the need to prove myself was stronger.
“Speak up if you need to eat,” he barked, throwing his towel on the ground. “Come on, then. Let's go.”
Well, if that didn't sound like the worst invitation ever, then I didn't know what was. I set the towel down in the bucket and followed him out the weight room. Anger poured off him in waves, causing the anxiety bubble in my stomach to grow to massive proportions. Instead of his office, he continued past the office hallway, past the field, and onto the main entrance. “Uh, Mr. Anderson, sir, I brought my lunch. It's in your office.”
“Generally, I take my interns out to eat once a week. Consider this a welcome lunch.” He still hadn't turned around or acknowledged the fact I didn't agree to it. He hopped onto a golf cart and started it. The reminder of the golf cart conversation I had with Chris stopped me. He looked at me, impatience clear as day.
“Is it true that trainers get a golf cart? Even interns?” My voice rose a little too high.
“Where did you hear that?” He raised one eyebrow, not looking the littlest bit guilty. A flash of amusement at my expense crossed his face.
I clenched my fists at my sides. “Chris. He told me to see him at lunch to get my cart. I think I'll do that instead.” I turned, annoyed by the stinging in my eyes. I didn't want to feel picked on. Hated. A nuisance. Everything Asshole Anderson made me feel, pretty much. I didn't know if he cared or bothered to follow me, but I went to his office, grabbed my lunch and phone, and went off to find Chris.
I shoved the peanut butter sandwich in my mouth before chugging my water. I needed to buy some energy drinks to make it through the night. Adrenaline alone kept me going now. I couldn't find Chris anywhere, or Logan, and I accepted defeat. I sighed and texted Gilly and Fritz that I needed whiskey ready for me after this.
What I would give to be able to call my mom and ask for advice. I wanted to prove myself but at what cost? I still was majoring in sports medicine and made enough waitressing to pay rent and for books. But, I had no parents—hadn’t for six years since my mom lost her battle with cancer. My dad left when I was seven. I had no family to ground me or to go to for advice. The weight of everything hit me, and the silence and solitude of the weight room seemed like the right place to escape for a minute.
I was so torn—miserably, uncomfortably, torn. I could walk out. Say screw it. Tell Anderson to screw himself. Or, I could keep going, pretending I didn't want to cry every time I saw him. I sent a quick email to my advisor, pleading to meet with him as soon as possible. I got an automatic reply that he was out of office until school began. Great. Perfect.
I pressed my palms into my eyes, refusing to cry over a grumpy man. Nope. I sniffed, just once. But, it was enough to cover the sounds of shoes because I about screamed when I found Anderson standing over me in the weight room.
“Jesus.” I stood, placing my hand over my heart. “You couldn't give me a heads up or something?”
He stood a foot away, heat pouring off him. His eyes were unreadable, go figure. But, his frown was different. His brows came together, a little dent forming between them. He studied me, unblinking and unnerving.
I closed my eyes, hands in the air. “Look, Anderson, I don't know what I did to piss you off or why you hate me, but I've done everything you've asked since I started. I haven't complained once.”
I spoke to his neck, not his eyes. It was easier. His neck didn't glare at me or narrow in annoyance at me being alive. So, I continued. “I worked really hard to get this internship—and I could tell you about it if you asked—but you don't care. And that's your prerogative. Which is fine, I guess. This is your program. But, I emailed my advisor to transfer teams. So, hopefully I'll be out of your hair soon.”
I dared to look up to his face. He opened and closed his mouth. Twice. But he didn't speak. He swallowed, the movement audible in the quiet of the room. And, I waited. I waited some more, but he still hadn't responded. I closed my eyes, exhaustion and adrenaline leaving me. My shoulders sagged, my sassy attitude leaving the fight.
But then, he spoke.
“I don't hate you.” His voice sounded pained, like it hurt to say it. I just shook my head, giving him a fake smile.
“I’m so glad.” I laughed, even though nothing was humorous. “Look, I'm not looking for anything here. It's not working out. It happens. Life goes on. But, I plan on finishing with you until I get approval to transfer. So, I'm going to finish the list for the afternoon.”
I took the clipboard from his hands without making eye contact and kept cleaning the room. I sanitized the east weight room then the training room. Sure, it was bitch work, but I had a point to prove. He was going to be a dick, and I was going to work harder until I could leave.
At ten minutes before four, I went to grab my bag from his office and found him at his desk, his baby blues swirling. Whatever.
“Are you in a hurry to leave?” His voice was rough, deep like the first time I heard it, but hesitant. He stood and leaned against the door frame with his muscular arms crossed.
I eyed my watch. I had an hour to get back, change, and make it to the restaurant. “Uh, sort of. I have a thing.” Why couldn’t I say work?
“A thing?” he asked, one teeny side of his full lips curling up. Woah. His face transformed into something dangerously good-looking. “What sort of thing?”
“An obligation,” I answered, mirroring his crossed armed stance. His arm muscles bulged, the veins popping out. But I made a Herculean effort to not notice.
“Well, can I take up ten, maybe fifteen, minutes before you leave?” His momentary smile disappeared. His eyes, framed by long dark lashes, searched mine. It was the first sign that he didn't want to kill me.
“I guess. I do have to leave at ten after though.” He nodded, closing the door and moving to sit at his desk. I hesitated, not sure if I should sit at the chair or run out. He must've seen my face because he smiled at me.
“Please, have a seat.”
I was surprised I didn't faint. He’d smiled, first off. He was a damn beautiful specimen. But then he’d used the word, please. I sat, looking at everything but him in the office. He cleared his throat, putting both of his hands on the top of the desk.
I met his gaze and waited.
“I think I owe you an explanation—”
My sassy side emerged without warning. “And an apology. Multiple apologies, actually.”
Oh my god.
I said that.
To him.
I closed my eyes, rubbing my temples as regret flowed through me. All color left my face and pooled onto the floor. I held it together for three days. That was it. I hated my lack of control. “Please tell me I didn't say that out loud.”
“You did,” he said, something like a laugh coming out at the end of it. I opened one eye, peaking at him, and damn near gasped. He was laughing. The asshole, Adonis, Anderson was laughing at me. His entire body chuckled, his face lighting up. What. The. Hell.
He was a different person with the laugh. I stared at him, open mouthed, wide eyed.
His brows came together. “What's wrong?”
“You laughed. You didn't b
ark at me,” I word vomited.
He ran a hand over his jaw, concern and guilt crossing his face. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit.” I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. “Look, I shouldn't have said any of that, but I've gotten five hours a sleep the past three nights. You gave me no warning that we would start early, so I still had two weeks left at my other job. When I'm tired, I get word vomit. Terrible, ugly, often embarrassing word vomit.” I stood up, fifty shades of red. “I should go. Hopefully, I'll hear back from my advisor soon.”
“No.” He stood and shook his head at me. “You won't transfer. You'll stay here.”
I sat back down, trying to gage my next move. His chair squeaked with his weight, and he sighed.
“This is awkward. Did my advisor call you? Did you complain about me, so I can't go to another team?” I asked.
“No. No one called. You don't need to transfer. You're doing great work here, and everyone I've talked to has said great things.” He tapped his fingers on the desk, waiting for me to meet his eyes. I took my time, not sure why my heart was beating fast or why I was secretly glad he was saying this. When I met his gaze, his eyes were softer? Kinder? I had no idea. “As far as this being awkward, I do need to apologize.”
I waited, picking at imaginary fuzz on my new shirt.
“Grace.”
Holy balls.
The way he said my name was different. Tender. No. He was still an asshole.
I glanced up at him through my lashes, and he furrowed his eyebrows as he fidgeted with a pen on the top of his desk. I tilted my head, letting him know I was listening, and waited.
“I can be a dick,” he said, his tone tight and raspy.
I nodded, a little too aggressively. He bit back a grin and continued. “I have some anger issues; none that have anything to do with you. That's not an excuse, but it is what it is.”
“That was your apology?” I stood, feeling ballsy and angry. That was not an apology at all. Oh, sorry I'm an asshole. K, thanks, bye. Nope. Unacceptable. “That's bullshit.”
Internship with the Devil (Shut Up and Kiss Me Book 1) Page 2
