All Lined Up

by Cora Carmack

  “I am sorry I didn’t answer your text. I wanted to.” She’d never let me hear the end of it if she knew how often I’d typed out a reply only to delete it a few seconds later. “I just wasn’t sure how to answer it.”

  “You didn’t seem to have any problem texting me Friday night.”

  “Friday night, I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

  She scoffs and rolls her eyes, bolting for the door even though there’s still a steady stream of people exiting.

  I grab her elbow and pull her back. Her breasts brush my chest for the barest second, and I fight the urge to suck in a breath. Her glare is ferocious, but I don’t drop her arm. I know she’ll be gone in two seconds flat if I do.

  “I’ve got a lot of shit on my plate right now, Dallas. And I’m doing a piss-poor job of handling it.” Part of me thinks I should just man up and ask her to dinner. I could take a page from her book and tell her up front that I like her, want to date her even, but can’t handle a relationship. Maybe she’ll appreciate that. Or maybe she’ll see me as a massive waste of time. The other part of me knows that’s a terrible idea. Friends is all I can afford to be right now, but if I start by throwing out the I just want to be friends bomb, she might just slap me. After all, I was the one who pulled us firmly out of the friend zone on Friday night. I sigh and continue. “This isn’t the best time to talk about this, but I do want to talk about it. Are you free tonight?”

  She hesitates and looks toward the doorway, which is now clear.

  Before I can think too much about it, I take her jaw and pull her back to look at me again. “No excuses, I promise. I just want to tell you what I’m thinking. Honestly. And then we’ll figure out where we go from there.”

  Damn. I shouldn’t have used the word we. That probably sends the wrong message, but her lips twist in that distracting way that she does when she’s thinking something through, and I don’t say anything else.

  “Tonight?” She still looks unsure, but her shoulders have relaxed a little.

  “I’ll come to your dorm. We can go for a walk.”

  “It will have to be late. I’ve got plans for dinner. I should be back on campus by nine, though.”

  My stomach twists, and I tell myself that it’s because I’m hungry, not because I’m bothered by the idea of her having dinner plans. I’m the one that’s going to drop the friend bomb. Maybe.

  “Nine thirty, then. What dorm?”

  “Schaefer.”

  I still haven’t let go of her face, and I force my hand down by my side.

  “I’ll be there.”

  I take a quick step back and nod before I turn.

  “Carson?” she calls after me.

  I swallow and then turn back. “Yeah?”

  “Think you can manage to text me when you arrive?”

  She’s smiling, but the bite in her words lets me know she’s only half teasing.

  I grin back in lieu of an answer, but as I walk away, I pull out my phone. Unlocked, it automatically comes up to her text message, since it was the last thing I looked at.

  How’s that list coming?

  Finally, I reply.

  I thought about it all weekend. And

  through most of my last class.

  I shove the thing back in my pocket and am both grateful and disappointed when she doesn’t reply. I’m sending mixed messages. I know that. But that’s because I’m a little mixed up myself.

  Maybe my run will sort me out.

  The athletic complex is on the far side of campus, and it takes me a good twenty minutes to walk there. Normally it only takes fifteen, but I stopped in at the student activity center to grab some food to go after all.

  I stop by the locker room to change. There’s one dude asleep on the couch when I come in, probably waiting on the one-o’clock workout, otherwise it’s empty. Most of the room is done in the deep red that the school affectionately calls Rusk red. On the far wall is a painting of the school mascot, a wildcat that has to be at least ten feet long. Beside it in big, bold letters it says, “Bleed Rusk Red.” The locker room is a huge step up from the one I knew in high school and the one I spent last year in at Westfield, that’s for damn sure. It’s big and newly remodeled with plenty of space and amenities. Rusk might not have much in the way of a win-loss record, but they aren’t hurting for money, not with how much tuition at this damn place costs.

  That’s another part of the plan. Between what my parents and I have saved up and financial aid, I have enough to go three semesters at Rusk. That gives me this season and the next to make myself an integral enough part of the team to warrant a scholarship if they want me to stay.

  It’s damn near impossible to play college ball, go to class, and work a job. I busted my ass while I was at Westfield, saving every damn penny I could. My parents are doing the same. We have our ranch, but our area of Texas has been in a drought so long that there is no decent grass left for the livestock, and feed prices are sky-high. We had to sell more of our animals last year than ever before just to pay for everything we needed for upkeep. And considering they were underfed, we didn’t get nearly as good a price on them as we needed. Our only other income is from the store where we sell and repair tractors and other agricultural equipment. And the drought means no one else has the money to go around buying new equipment. It’s been a lean couple of years, but still my parents have managed to put some away.

  I just hope it will be enough.

  I should call them soon, but I’m not up to talking to Dad about the plan. And with all the money issues and the fact that Granny is in worse shape than she’s ever been, I’m swamped with guilt every time we talk. I should be there helping. The only thing worse than not being there to help is the thought that I might fail and all our planning will have been for nothing.

  Goddamn. My mind is a mess today.

  I change clothes quickly and head into the weight room. I catch sight of Coach Harrison, the defensive coordinator, along with two grad assistants, through the glass window to the coaches’ office. I raise a hand in greeting, and then head for a treadmill. There’s only a handful of other players in the room, as most of them come in the morning. One’s last name is Salter, but I’ve only spoken to him once, and the rest I don’t know. I’ve been working out with the team for several weeks now, but with over one hundred players on the roster, there are still plenty that I haven’t gotten to know.

  There’s a trainer supervising as we work out, but otherwise we’re on our own. The coaches are only allowed to formally train us for a set number of hours a day; anything above that we have to do on our own.

  But even if the coaches aren’t leading the extra workouts and they’re not “mandatory,” they’re not exactly optional either.

  Another part of my plan? Put in more work than anyone else.

  I turn the treadmill up to a brisk run and set about doing just that. I set my timer for half an hour and run hard, until the sweat runs off me in rivers.

  I like the quiet that comes with running. As the sweat runs off, so does everything else, and I feel lighter when I’m through. I’ve always been this way. If I’m working—whether it’s out in the fields back home or on green stadium grass or here in the weight room—that’s the only time when my head goes silent.

  That, and when I’ve got Dallas sprawled across my lap.

  I run an extra ten minutes for that thought because clearly my head didn’t go quiet enough. If my schedule allowed, I’d run several times a day just to hold on to this feeling for a little longer.

  When I’m done, I take a seat on a bench, using a towel to wipe at my face and arms.

  “Need a spot?”

  I look up. The guy standing next to me is one of the team managers, I think. He’s got blond, curly hair, and is tall, but a little too thin to be a player. I vaguely recall seeing someone with a similar build setting up before practice a few days ago. I look behind me and realize I’ve taken a seat at the bench press rather than just a normal ben
ch.

  After a moment, I shrug and say, “Sure.”

  I did lower body this morning, so I can get away with some time spent on my arms.

  “I’m Ryan Blake, one of the student managers,” he says, confirming my suspicions.

  I lift my chin in lieu of hello and reply, “Carson McClain.”

  “I know. You’re here almost as much as I am.” He slides around behind the bar, and I hold back a smile at his statement. At least one person has noticed; hopefully the right people will notice next.

  I help him load weights on the sides of the bar, and then lie back against the bench. “You like being manager?” I ask, pulling the bar off the rack and steadying my grip.

  He answers as I start in on my reps, keeping his hands poised to catch the bar should I falter.

  I won’t.

  “Sure. It’s my first year, so I haven’t gotten to travel with the team yet or anything. I imagine that will make up for all the dirty work.”

  I wrinkle my nose, blowing out a calm breath as I push the bar up. I can only imagine the kind of dirty work he does. And with the way our locker room smells sometimes, I definitely don’t envy the dude.

  “I’m hoping to do this for a year or two and then jump to student trainer. I’m a kinesiology major.”

  I’ve still got the rest of the year to declare my major, but kinesiology is definitely one I’m considering. I’m pretty sure I can’t hack the math and science classes it requires, though.

  I lift with Ryan for the next half hour, moving through a few other stations. He sticks with me even when I don’t need a spot. He’s good about knowing when to talk, when my arms are tired and the distraction helps me think past the weight. But he also knows when to shut up, when I need all my focus to finish out that very last rep. And as crazy as it sounds, in the space of thirty minutes, he becomes my closest friend at Rusk.

  Besides Dallas.

  Sitting at the weight machine, working my lats, I pull down a little too hard on the bar, and then let it go too fast, and a loud bang follows.

  Ryan raises an eyebrow at me. “Now, what did that machine ever do to you?”

  I grip the narrow bar and pull it down more smoothly this time.

  “Wrong place, wrong thought, wrong time.” I need to leave all thoughts of Dallas at the door. I’m doing a shit job of that, though.

  He nods but doesn’t ask questions, and I’m glad for it. I increase the weight so that it takes more of my concentration. I’ve hit my stride by the time a gruff voice barks, “Blake!” from the direction of the coaches’ office.

  We both turn to see Coach Cole leaning out of the doorway. I focus on staying steady, but the head coach is only looking at Ryan, not me.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Coach Cole’s looks are as intimidating as his background. He’s tall, about the same height as me, but he’s as thick around as one of the hundred-year-old oak trees in the campus commons. In twenty-two years of coaching, he holds seven state championships and nearly double that many regional championships. And he has a history of taking failing programs and turning them into powerhouses in astonishingly short time frames. Hence his appointment as the head coach here, where despite having a program with decent financial backing and solid recruiting, the team has had six losing seasons in a row.

  “We good to go?” Coach asks Ryan.

  “Yes, sir. All set up.”

  Coach’s eyes stray to mine then, and though they stay there for several long seconds, I see nothing in them.

  He leaves, and I take that as my cue to wrap up my additional workout. I use my towel to wipe off the machine first, followed by my face.

  “Thanks for the spot, man,” I tell Ryan. I don’t thank him for the company too, even though I am grateful.

  “Sure thing.”

  He disappears to do whatever it is managers spend their time doing, and I head for the locker room. It’s half-full when I enter, with more players streaming in by the second. I stand at my cubby, rubbing at my face with my towel. My muscles are fatigued, and I think maybe I should have taken it a little easier today. My shirt is already soaked with sweat as I pull on my shoulder pads.

  I’ve been tuning out the conversation in the room, but raucous laughter draws my attention.

  “Dude, she shot you down so hard I felt it out in the hallway.”

  There’s a group of guys gathered around Levi Abrams as he razzes his friend Silas about something. One of them pipes up to add, “Yeah, Moore. I was downstairs, and I felt you crash and burn.” Silas slugs the guy in the shoulder, but doesn’t seem too bothered by it.

  “I would have had her if it weren’t for Abrams. She hates you so much, she blew me off just for talking with you.”

  Abrams shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a heartbreaker.”

  “Could you get her back?” one of the other guys asks. “Before Moore, that is?”

  Silas laughs so hard, he sounds like he’s on the verge of choking. He pulls off his shirt, following the rest of the team as they change from street clothes into their workout gear. “No fucking way,” he says to Abrams. “That girl is likely to break your dick off if you come within two feet of her.”

  “You, my friend, underestimate the power of first love.”

  Silas shakes his head. “You’re just asking to get your ass handed to you by Coach, man. You got lucky first time around when she didn’t say anything; no way you’ll get that lucky a second time.”

  “It has nothing to do with luck,” Abrams says. “Coach loves me, and so does she, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.”

  “When I sleep with her, and trust me, I will, QB, you’re stocking my fridge with beer for a month.”

  Abrams surveys his friend, and then shrugs. “Sure. I’ll take that bet.” Silas grins and a few of the surrounding guys laugh and cheer, egging him on. Abrams adds, “Because it’s never going to happen.”

  “What if one of us gets to her first?” another guy joins in, blond and heavyset, one of the defensive linemen.

  Abrams surveys the bulky guy and says, “Carter, if you somehow manage to work a miracle and sleep with her before either of us, I’ll stock your fucking fridge for a year.”

  The locker room descends into laughter, and the topic falls away, and I wonder which poor coach’s daughter they’re targeting. We’ve technically got nine coaches on staff. I don’t know any of them well enough to know which ones have kids our age, but I’m fine being left out of that particular piece of information.

  In fact, I wish I were in a different part of the locker room. It would be better for my focus if my cubby weren’t so close to Abrams and Moore.

  Coach comes in not long after, and I wonder what would have happened if he’d come in a few minutes earlier.

  “Listen up!” He doesn’t really need to yell. The team has a sort of sixth sense for when Coach enters the room, and everyone was already quiet. But his loud voice echoes around the room, and it makes him that much more intimidating. “As you know, we’re cutting practice a little short today.”

  Some idiot behind me has the nerve to cheer, but from the “Oof!” that follows, I’m guessing someone already shut him up.

  “Hot date tonight, Coach?” Abrams asks.

  “Shut your mouth, kid,” he growls, but I can tell there’s no heat behind the words, not like there would be if someone besides his QB had said it.

  “I might be giving you all the gift of a shorter practice, but I still expect there to be some blood, sweat, tears, and vomit left on my field today.”

  Damn. I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m going to regret that extra workout I just squeezed in with Ryan. When he tells us to wear our pads, I know we’re in trouble. When we head out onto the field, a groan cycles back through the team as they spill out of the hallway.

  Mat drills.

  Or as they like to call it at Rusk, a bleeding day. I know they have them a lot during spring training, but the only time I experienced it was during my tryout f
or the team. Split into smaller groups, the team rotates through a series of stations, each one with a specific drill designed to make us miserable. If any group is too slow moving to their next station, the entire team starts over.

  After my taste of it at tryouts, I didn’t stand, sit, walk, or sleep without aching for nearly three days.

  Coach’s smile is the stuff nightmares are made of.

  “Well then, gentlemen. Let’s get started.”

  Chapter 8

  Dallas

  It’s Dad’s birthday, and we’re going out to dinner to celebrate. I had planned to wait for him in my car, as I had no desire to venture into practice, but here I am heading off to find him anyway.

  I skipped lunch to squeeze in some extra time in the studio, and even though Dad said he’d be wrapping up practice early, I don’t trust him to actually stick to his word. My grumbling stomach pulls me out of my car, but my stubborn pride is what keeps me walking into the athletic complex.

  As Levi said at the party, I’m here; he’s here. We definitely won’t be starting fresh, but I won’t be falling all over myself to avoid him either. College doesn’t have to suck because I’m sharing it with my ex and my dad—that frat party taught me that. I just have to take the good in with the bad and hope the good comes out on top.

  That’s my plan for the meeting tonight with Carson, too.

  So he pissed me off. (And made me confused and annoyed and self-conscious and a little bit hurt.) That doesn’t mean I have to completely shut down. That’s how the old me reacted after everything with Levi. That’s how I’ve always reacted with anything emotional. I can’t feel pain if I don’t let myself feel anything at all.

  But I promised myself that things would be different in college. I’m starting over. And that means I can’t keep living the same way, afraid that everything is going to break me. I survived growing up without a mom. I survived a broken heart. I survived my first frat party and a stupid football player’s attempt to get me into bed just for kicks.

  That’s why I’d decided in my little lunchtime dance session after my run-in with Carson that whatever he had to say, I could forgive him. Or understand. Or whatever. I’m not going to run away from the first real connection I’ve felt in years just because he didn’t text me back for a couple days.