“Sure.” I smile even though the lady I’m interning with seems to have a giant embedded, spikey stick up her ass. I don’t think she knows what the term “being pleasant” means.
Her frail, praying mantis-like body travels down a dark hallway to her office where she shuts the door, closing her off from the rest of the library, and that’s when I relax. I like it best when she’s in her office, not hovering over me, watching everything I’m doing, and honestly, all she does is make me fumble my job responsibilities rather than help me learn.
I stack the returned books onto a cart and start to push toward the autobiographies when the library doors burst open and a group of men file into the library, jogging, looking sweaty and spent.
The baseball team.
At the front of the pact, Knox comes into view. They’re all wearing their practice uniforms, their baseball hats, and running shoes.
“Emory Ealson,” Knox whisper-shouts. “Front and center, Emory Ealson.” His voice gets louder, sending a shrill chill up my spine.
My legs move faster than my brain can communicate, and I’m standing in front of him, shushing him before he can make a scene, if that’s possible. The baseball team came flooding through the doors of the library, like a stampede with one thing on their minds, finding me. Pretty sure no one has their heads buried in their books right now. Instead, they’re taking in the show that is Knox Gentry.
“Knox, what the hell are you doing?”
Hands on his hips, catching his breath, he says, “We’re conditioning. We have five minutes to get back to the baseball field or we have to do the entire loop all over again.” He takes another breath and Holt grips his shoulder, encouraging him. “I told the boys I was feeling weak, incapable of finishing our lap around campus unless I got a hug from you.”
He’s got to be kidding me right now.
“Knox,” I scold. “This is not the time nor—”
“Shit, guys, hold me up,” he says as he dramatically falls to the side, Holt and Carson falling under his arms, give him support. Dramatically. “I’m so weak.” His voice rises again.
“Just hug him, Ealson,” one of his players shouts from behind. “We have four minutes and forty-five seconds.”
“I can’t move. I’m immobile. Just leave me here,” Knox says. Dramatically. Again. Good God.
“Never leave a man behind,” Carson says, holding on to his friend.
A larger guy who’s jogging in place, pleas with me. “I’ll never make it back if we get under four minutes. Please just hug the man.”
“Hug him, hug him, hug him,” his team starts to whisper-chant, the library joining in, and that’s when I fling my arms around Knox. The minute my arms wrap around him, he stands tall and reciprocates the hug, telling his team to fall out and sprint back to the field.
He stays a few seconds longer, keeping a strong hold around my body, and then he bends down to my ear where he whispers, “You look so fucking good in that yellow skirt by the way.” He pulls away, tips his hat and winks before taking off, out of the library where his long strides quickly catch him up with his retreating team.
I am going to kill him . . . after I stop swooning for one second.
* * *
Knock, knock.
I lift my head from my book and turn to see Dottie standing at the threshold of my open door. We’re all hovering over our books right now, at least I thought we were until Dottie showed up. We sprint study every night, setting a timer, and then we go out to dinner.
The timer hasn’t gone off, so what the hell is Dottie doing?
“Did I not hear the timer?”
She wrings her hands in front of her, looking almost nervous.
“So, I might have broken our sprint studying protocol.”
I remove my glasses and sit up straighter. “Were you on your computer?”
“Maybe.”
“Dottie, you know the rules.”
“I know, I know,” she sighs. “But a student chat popped up and I couldn’t help it.”
“Okay, well thank you for confessing, but let’s get back to work.” I turn to my book.
“It was Knox.”
Okay, maybe I need to take a step away from my book for a second.
“Knox messaged you? What did he say?”
“Well, at first he wanted to make sure this was the Dottie that rooms with Emory and he even quizzed me, making sure it was me.”
“Really?” I can’t hide my smile. “What did he ask you?”
“What you dressed up as for the jungle-themed party. What skirt you wore on Thursday, which I had no freaking clue. Apparently it was yellow.” My smile grows. “He also asked what kind of ice cream you like, where you transferred from, and who our third roommate was. It’s fascinating how much he knows about you.”
“He’s asked a few questions since I’ve known him.”
“Yeah, well the boy has it bad.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, he’s on his way up here with food.”
“What?” I jump from my chair, glancing at myself in the mirror just as there is a knock at the door. “Dottie!”
She cringes. “I’m sorry.”
What I failed to mention is during these sprint sessions, we also do self-care. Currently, I’m wearing a green mask that’s as hard as stone on my face, my hair is propped up in large rollers, toes separated and drying with a pretty purple nail polish, and I’m wearing a red terrycloth romper that does nothing special for my body but shape my rear end into the perfect mom butt.
From down the hall, we hear the door click open.
Shit.
Both of our eyes connect.
Lindsay.
I want to shout NOOO in slow motion, hurl my body down the hall and lock the door, but it’s too late, as Lindsay’s voice travels down the hallway along with a very familiar masculine one.
“What a surprise, Knox. Was Emory expecting you?”
No, no, she wasn’t.
Eyes wide, I run to my door, slam it right in front of Dottie, and run around my room, trying to figure out what to do. He can’t see me like this. Holey sweatpants are one thing, but avocado face and roller head is an entirely different image that should only be shared after marriage, when there is no escaping. From the back of my door, I snag my towel and start scraping my face with the dry fabric while simultaneously pulling out my rollers and dancing around my room to remove the toe separators.
“She’s in here.” I pause, eyes locked on the door, body still.
Holy shit.
I scrub even faster as my fingers get tangled in my hair. I step on my foot wrong while trying to remove the toe separators and lose my balance. I skid across the floor, one leg flying up just in time for Lindsay to open my door to Knox, who catches me flying, and then I fall straight on my ass.
There I am, lying on the floor, legs spread as an open invitation for God knows what reason—clearly not a graceful faller—hand tangled in the rat’s nest that is now my hair, and half my face scraped off from the lack of water used while trying to get rid of my mask.
In a word. Disaster.
I’ve had my fair share of embarrassing moments before, but I would have to say, this is a low point for me.
The only thing that would make this worse was if I farted as I fell.
Thank God for small miracles.
From the doorway, three heads stare down at me, two of which I’m going to murder once the third leaves. Unlike me, Lindsay and Dottie don’t have curlers in their hair or masks on their faces. Instead, they look like perfectly normal college girls, completely opposite to the beast they’re staring at.
“Hey, Em,” Knox says, so casually, as if I’m not a rabid gargoyle snarling on the floor. He walks into my room, gives it a courtesy perusal, and then lends his hand to help me up.
I’m tempted to army crawl away from the scene and slither under my bed with my towel tucked close to my side as my only remaining friend, but I th
ink otherwise and take Knox’s hand in mine, the one that isn’t stuck in my hair.
He sets a box to the side and reaches up to my hair where he carefully frees my hand. He then bends down and picks up my towel and smiles when he brings it to my face. I stand there, perplexed and embarrassed that he’s seeing me like this.
“You have something on your face.” He wraps the towel around his index finger and then lightly makes one small swipe across my nose. “There, perfect.”
I glance in the mirror and come face to face with a patchy green monster.
Oh my God.
Attempting to take a step back, he grips me by the waist and studies me, both Lindsay and Dottie still hanging out by my door. “You look mortified,” he says, observation and surprise in his voice.
That would be correct. He’s a smart one.
“That’s because I am. Don’t look at me. Close your eyes.” I try to cover his face with my hand but he’s too quick and too strong.
“No way in hell.” He looks down my bodice and then back up. “I like this little number. I think my grandma wore something like it back in her day.”
“Oh my God, things not to say to a girl.”
He chuckles. “And the hair, it’s different but it’s doing all kind of things for me.”
“Stahp,” I groan, trying to push him away. His grip on me only grows tighter. “You realize this is the last time you’re ever going to see me, right? There is no coming back from this.”
“The hell it is.” He glances down at his watch and grimaces. “I’d happily stay here and enjoy this visual feast, but I have to get to late-night weights.” Letting go of me, he grabs the box he carried in and hands it to me. “Cookies . . . for my cookie.”
Dottie and Lindsay both snort as my face flushes once again.
“I am not your . . . cookie,” I say, the word so vile coming off my tongue.
He laughs some more and pats the top of the box. “These are the best in Brentwood. I’m sure your girls can vouch for me. Fresh from the oven, just for you. Go ahead, lift the lid, you know you want to.”
I really do, they smell so good.
Giving in, I lift the lid and find one dozen of the thickest, most delicious-smelling cookies I’ve ever seen in my life.
Holy crap.
Cookies for his cookie indeed.
“Are those from Mr. Tom’s?”
“The only place to get cookies in town,” Knox answers Dottie, whose nose is sniffing the air. “And if Em’s a good friend, she’ll share with you two.”
“I’m not.” I slam the lid and place the box on my desk, eyeing my friends at the door with daggers. They could have avoided this entire embarrassment by remembering what I look like during power hour. But noooo, they had to let Knox in without even giving me a second to at least change out of my apparent grandma garb.
“I’ll leave you guys to settle this.” He takes a step forward and reaches for me, pulling me into a hug before I can retreat to the other side of the room. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He kisses the top of my head and then once again lowers his mouth to my ear where he whispers, “Remember this, Em. I’ll take you any way I can have you.”
With those parting words, he gives Lindsay and Dottie a curt wave and then takes off. I stand there, slightly breathless, and tingly from head to toe.
He’ll take me anyway he can have me. Well, boy oh boy, did he get a special part of me today.
“That seemed like it went well.” Dottie smiles.
I point my finger and yell, “Out, both of you.”
“But he liked your outfit.” Lindsay chuckles, scooting backward as I reach for the door to slam it.
“You’re both dead to me.”
“But . . . don’t you want to share those cookies with us?” Dottie asks.
“No.” I slam the door and flop on my bed where I can no longer hold back the smile that cracks the corner of my lips.
* * *
Knox: Party tomorrow night, are you coming?
I pause my movie on my computer and open the preview message from Knox’s student chat. Over the past two weeks, Knox has made it known how much he’s interested in me. It hasn’t been every day, or even every other day, but he keeps surprising me with gestures here and there. It’s sweet, and he’s slowly breaking down my wall, but not completely. Even though he knows the answer, every Monday after our class, he asks me to go to lunch, and I always tell him I can’t.
But with every no, his smile gets bigger. I know he can see right through me and can see the yes on my lips. He’s smart enough to know what he’s doing to me. He’s smart enough to feel the way I linger a little longer with each hug he gives me, or the way I lean into him more when he throws his arm around my shoulder. He sees the smiles I try to hide, the small touches I try to hold back, the way I dress up for him on Mondays, making sure I look my absolute best. He’s observant, and even though I’m still trying to keep him at an arm’s length, he is so close to breaking down the rickety barrier I’ve erected between the two of us.
I type him back.
Emory: I don’t think so.
Knox: Why not? Scared of the theme?
Emory: What’s the theme?
Knox: Topless.
Emory: Are you serious?
Knox: No. LOL. There’s no theme, just a beer pong tournament. I could use a partner.
Emory: Then you’re going to want to ask someone with skill. I can barely toss straight.
Knox: I’ll carry you on my back, Em. I’m a champion.
Emory: I think I’ll pass.
Knox: Then just come over to hang out. We can watch a movie in my room.
Emory: While a raging party is happening just outside the door? Won’t that be weird?
Knox: Nah, I’ve hung out in my room during a party before, and it’s not as loud as you think.
Emory: No, you have fun. I’m going to hang out here, get some work done.
Knox: Please.
Emory: Are you batting your eyelashes while typing that?
Knox: Yes, did it work?
Emory: I don’t know.
Knox: Envision this, you, me, on my bed—clothed of course, I’m a gentleman, after all—the latest trending movie on Netflix and a calzone to split from The Hot Spot. My arm draped around you, you curled into my chest, sodas, a sleeve of Oreos . . . how can you resist that?
Emory: It’s very tempting.
Knox: Then say yes.
Emory: How about an “I’ll think about it?”
Knox: I’m going to take that as a yes. Shit, got to go. Text me when you get to the loft (512-555-3452) and I’ll get you in the back way, avoiding all the partiers. I’ll see you tomorrow.
He signs out, the little green online dot goes grey. Wow, that was quick.
Calzones?
Oreos?
Snuggling with Knox Gentry? It does sound like a dream.
One I don’t think I can avoid much longer.
Chapter Thirteen
KNOX
I pound the inside of my glove, step up into position just as Coach knocks a ball in my general direction. I cut to the right, backhand the ball, jump into the air, and throw the ball across my body to the first basemen.
Executed perfectly.
I get behind the line and give Carson a high five as we continue to run through drills.
A freshman is up next, Ned Farkle—his parents didn’t expect him to become a major league baseball player with that name, that’s for sure. He’s damn good though, and Coach hits him a screaming grounder that he fields with no problem, but then takes at least five steps toward first before throwing across the diamond.
Quick release; it’s what Coach Disik lives by. Traveling across the field takes up too much time and it’s not the fundamental baseball Disik teaches. I know this because it was a habit he beat out of me. Dropping the bat, Disik jogs out to Farkle and gets in his face, talking about needing a quick release. I take that moment to fade in the back with Carson
who quietly turns to me and says, “Everything set for tonight?”
“For the party?” I mutter quietly from the side of my mouth.
“Yeah.”
“No idea, Holt was in charge. Emory is coming over and we’re going to do our own thing.”
“Really?” Carson looks surprised. If I wasn’t so damn confused over this girl, I would be insulted, but I’m just as surprised as he is.
“Yeah. She didn’t seem up to party so I offered to hang out in my room.”
“Hell, that’s better anyway since you barely get any time with her.”
Tell me about it. With my schedule, I haven’t really had a chance to get to know Emory like I want or give her as much time as I promised, but I’m making it work; little glimpses here and there are better than nothing.
We’re on the tail end of fall ball, which means we’re going to be getting heavily into strength and conditioning as well as technical and individual training. We have a pretty good squad of newcomers who need fine tweaking—hence Farkle and his prancing across the diamond—which is something we always take care of in the late months of the semester. What does this all mean? I’ll have more time to make Emory mine.
“Tell me about it. I pop in and out of her life, but I don’t think I’ve been able to do anything long-lasting yet.”
“Get low and then pop up,” Disik yells, showing just how agile the old fart is by showcasing what he’s talking about.
“She likes you though,” Carson says, nudging my leg with his glove. “You can see it in class. She does not stop smiling around you.”
“Yeah, I know the attraction is there, just need to seal the deal.”
“And you like her, right? This isn’t a conquest for you?”
“Yes, like that,” Disik cheers. “Again, but this time with a ball.” He jogs back toward the bat and hits another screaming grounder to Farkle, who scoops it up and takes two steps rather than five. Better, but not what was asked of him. Not happy, Disik yells, “Again. Do it right or the whole team does pushups.”
“Focus, Farkle,” one teammate mutters.
“You know I’m not a douche,” I say to Carson, just as another grounder is hit to Farkle. “I like her, and by no means is she a conquest.”
The Locker Room Page 10
