Forgetting the Rules: A Second-Chance-Romance Sports Standalone

by Mariah Dietz

  “Thanks.”

  “Ian texted me,” she says.

  I start to fix my coffee in my commuter cup.

  “He mentioned you haven’t called or texted, and he wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  I nod. “I just need a little time.”

  “From Ian?”

  “No,” I say. “From my thoughts. You know me. I just need to be around some others to help drown out all the white noise.”

  Her gaze is watchful and patient as she searches over each of my features, likely seeing more than I’d like her to. “Should I tell him you’ll call him later?”

  “I’m sure he’s busy. I know they were recruiting.”

  “The coaches do that,” she says.

  I nod like her words align with my point. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait. I’m going with you.”

  I turn to look over my shoulder. “No. I need to get to the newspaper room, and trust me, the only person who might say anything to me in there is Anthony, and if he does, I’ve owed him a punch in the nose for several weeks. I’ll text you.”

  “Rose…”

  I don’t hear the rest of her objection. I hurry out to my car, reassured that she can’t follow me to school since she’s still in her pajamas.

  I park as close to the newspaper as possible. It’s early, and I’m hoping it will be buzzing with people who are too busy to notice me. I could go to the library or a coffee shop, but paranoia has led me here, finding comfort in the fact that I know everyone who works on the paper well enough that if they dare to mention the site, I’ll have no problem laying out the facts.

  I’m wrong, of course.

  It’s a freaking ghost town. There are only three people here—two are editors seated in the back, headphones on, noses in their work, and the third is Amita. Her shoulders bounce with surprise as she looks up from her laptop at me. “Hey,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Sorry.” She shakes her head. “You startled me. Apparently, I do have limits with coffee, and I’ve hit mine at four cups.”

  “Four?” I ask, making my way to my desk. “How have you been up long enough to have had four cups of coffee?”

  She cracks a smile. “I’m trying to balance too much. I’m sure you know that theme song. You’re here early.”

  I take a drink of my coffee and set it down before reaching for my laptop. “Yeah, I need to tweak an article I’d written and then submit it to Anthony.”

  “You’ve already completed Monday’s article?”

  I nod. “I have another set in the series I’ve been doing on the football team.”

  She cocks her head to one side. “Really?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “Well, I saw the site yesterday…” she says. “I thought after what they wrote about you and your … relationship with the team...”

  I pull my chin back like I’ve been slapped. Only I feel the burn far past my skin. I want to defend myself and tell her that I wasn’t—that I’m not sleeping with the team, and yet, telling her that only feels like I’m condemning the actions I’ve been accused of and justifying that slut-shaming is okay under extenuating circumstances, which it’s not.

  “Right,” I say. “My relationship with the team.” I slowly draw in a breath. “I don’t see why the rumors about me would change what I’d planned to publish. If anything, it only confirms that these stories need to be read.”

  I take a drink of my coffee and turn my attention back to my screen. Stubbornness or maybe fear keeps me glued to my seat. If someone like Amita could believe the rumors were true, is anyone not going to believe them? What about the other girls who date guys on the team? Alexis and Vanessa, Chloe, and even Raegan don’t know me that well. What if they think I’ve slept with their boyfriends? It’s not as if I have the shiniest reputation.

  A wave of heat rolls over me, making my face and body burn. My palms feel sweaty, and so does my hairline. The room spins, and my heart is racing so fast and hard that I can feel it in my fingertips and hear it in my ears. I try to take a breath, but it feels like a car is parked on my chest. I reach up and grab the collar of my shirt, tugging it away from my neck though there is a several inch gap already there. The sensation is overwhelming and reminds me of those months long ago when my mom was sick, and it felt like life was shoving me down a path I didn’t want to be on.

  Panic attack.

  That’s what my therapist had labeled these feelings that used to make me certain I would have a heart attack.

  Relax.

  Breathe.

  I recall the coaching techniques I’d been taught, the ones my therapist began each session with. I start with my feet, relaxing the muscles and climbing to my calves and thighs, and my abs and back, my shoulders and arms, all the way to my neck as I take measured breaths. I still don’t feel well, but my heart is marginally slower.

  I lift my hands and see the discoloration on the desk from the sweat on my palms, and the panic begins a new drum rhythm in my chest. I’m being treated like a pariah because I tried to change who I am, because I actually forgot about following me rules and looking for the next best time. Everything about these past several months has been uncomfortable and forced, and this only confirms I’m not the girl I’ve been trying to be. I’m not the pearl-clutching type of girl guys want to introduce to their parents and who volunteers to clean parks and becomes a role model for kids.

  Pop up clubs, nameless faces, pushing boundaries, freedom—that’s me.

  I close my laptop, shove my things back into my bag, and push my chair back too far. I leave it and head for the door. On the way to my car, I make eye contact with every person I pass, a suggestive smile on my lips.

  When I reach my car, I toss my bag into my car and peel out of the parking lot, driving too fast and aggressively as I make my way through traffic. I don’t know where I’m going until I pull into Chantay’s driveway.

  I ring the doorbell five times in quick succession, my nerves crawling, itching for a bad decision.

  Chantay pulls open the door, squinting. “Rose? What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Tell me you have some pot.”

  She takes a step back, opening the door a bit wider. “It’s about damn time. God, where have you been?”

  Behind her, a guy in a pair of jeans appears, long hair mussed from sleep and things that weren’t happening while they slept. “Oh, shit. Sorry,” he says, looking from Chantay to me.

  “Don’t apologize on my behalf,” I tell him.

  Chantay laughs. “I think your shirt is on the closet door handle.”

  “Cool,” he says. His gaze travels over me, curiosity brightening his gaze. “Do I know you?”

  “Nope.” I pop the “p” and make myself comfortable on the couch.

  Chantay giggles again. “Well, you might.”

  An hour ago, her words might have felt like a dig, but right now, I don’t even care.

  The stranger turns toward the hallway that leads to her bedroom while Chantay grabs the tin she stores her weed in. She gets everything prepared and then hands a bong to me along with a Zippo.

  My thumb slips on my first pull, and Chantay’s gaze becomes more critical. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve smoked, and I’m sure if I cough and gasp, she’s going to cackle. I steady myself and flick the lighter on. I take a long pull and let the heat sit in my mouth as I close my eyes. I slowly blow it out and then light it again and take another drag. This one makes me cough until my eyes water.

  God, it stinks.

  I’d forgotten how bad it smells.

  Chantay grins. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got the best snacks for this.” She disappears into the kitchen and returns with several bags of chips and some gummy bears that she dumps on the couch beside me and then takes the bong and lighter and sits cross-legged on the other side of the couch and lights up. “Oh, yeah,” she says, leaning her head back.

  The guy exits her room and looks between
us. “Can I join you?”

  “No,” I say before Chantay can respond.

  He raises his eyebrows and blinks a couple of times.

  “You knew the rules,” Chantay tells him as she opens a bag of sour cream and onion chips that make my mouth water.

  He looks confused, but he doesn’t object again as he makes his way to the door and leaves us in our snack heaven.

  “I’m convinced,” I tell her, reaching for another chip. “Aliens exist. They have to. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” My fingers brush the bottom of the bag. “Shit. Where did the chips go?”

  Chantay giggles. “We ate them.”

  “All of them?”

  She nods.

  I groan. “Those were really good.”

  “We should go out,” she says.

  “It’s Thursday.”

  “I wasn’t talking about another lame-ass party. I’m over college parties. It’s all freshman, acting like a bunch of morons. Let’s go to a fucking club or a bar—I don’t care.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Nighttime,” she says, lifting the curtain behind her. Are you in, or are you going to give me another lame-ass excuse?”

  “Let’s do it. I just need to get a ride so I can go home and change.”

  She shakes her head. “My closet is your closet.”

  We scramble from the couch like we’re suddenly under a timer and head into the large walk-in closet in her room. “This one,” she says, shoving a hanger at me.

  I don’t question her. I simply peel off my clothes and slip the cool, black, slinky fabric over my head, and pull it down to where it stops at the top of my thighs. I unhook my bra and toss it to the floor with the rest of my clothes.

  “Yes!” she cries. “I’d do you.” She shoves a pair of black pumps at me.

  “Are these mine?” I ask.

  She laughs. “You left them here. I have like a corner of your shit.” She points to a messy pile of my shirts, jeans, a couple of purses, and a pair of sandals are shoved into a corner.

  “That’s Olivia’s,” I say, grabbing the yellow purse.

  Chantay rolls her eyes. “Has she been praying every night that it would be found?”

  “Why do you have to do that?”

  “What?”

  “Be rude. Olivia’s my friend.”

  “She makes you boring.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Chantay stops. “I’m not trying to fight with you. I’m sorry. You like Olivia, and that is your business. Let’s not let this ruin our night. Let’s go out and have fun.”

  I silence my objections with a firm nod. “Let’s do it.” I grab the pile of my things and the clothes I switched out of. “I’m going to put these in my car, so I don’t forget them again.”

  When I come back inside, I find Chantay straightening her hair. I pull my makeup bag out of my purse, touch up my eyeliner, and add a heavy hand of dark eyeshadow.

  I look at my reflection, the heavy makeup and skimpy dress, and in some ways, they feel like my true self, and in another, they feel like a costume.

  “A Lyft is on its way,” Chantay says, handing me a shot glass. “And Isla is going to meet us at Anarchy and Stilettos. It’s girls, night, and she said it’s packed on Thursdays.

  I take a final glimpse of myself and then toss the shot back, feeling the sting of the alcohol in my throat, burning all my reservations.

  Chantay cheers and takes my hand, pulling me back out to the living room where we only have to wait a few minutes before the car arrives.

  The club has a line that stretches outside the doors and around the building—all guys. Women are being allowed in first and without a cover charge. The guy at the door stamps our hands, and we head inside, where the darkness, quick tempo, and grinding bodies create the landscape of anonymity.

  “Isla’s at the bar, waiting for us.”

  I follow Chantay through the crowd, feeding off the attention of hungry and appreciative gazes.

  Isla greets us with a knowing grin. “So many hot guys tonight,” she says, passing filled shot glasses to Chantay and me. I’m still feeling a bit light-headed from the drink at Chantay’s.

  “I’m good.”

  “What?” Chantay cries.

  “It’s one shot,” Isla says.

  “We just had one at her house.” I point at Chantay.

  Chantay throws back her head dramatically, and Isla laughs. “Rose, where the fuck did you go, and how do I get the old you back?”

  I take the stupid shot glass and swallow the gin. “Oh, that’s terrible.” I cough and sputter.

  They cackle.

  “Come on,” Chantay says, taking my hand. We head out to the dance floor, where the combination of alcohol and anonymity pump through my veins, making it easier to dance—something that has always made me feel like a giraffe on roller skates. I dance with Chantay, and when Isla rubs her breasts against my back, gaining the attention of several guys, I can’t find a single fuck. I don’t hate it, I don’t like it—I feel completely indifferent.

  I continue dancing with faceless guys, hot flesh, grinding bodies until the alcohol begins to dim, and I realize how much my feet ache. The guy I’m dancing with grinds against my thigh and lowers himself, his zipper catching painfully on my skin. I move to cover the scratch with my hand and my dancing partner misreads the situation, closing his eyes and straightening as his hands settle on my hips. I barely turn in time for his lips to land on my cheek.

  Oh, God. What Am I doing?

  I shove at the guy. “It was just a dance,” I tell him.

  He snickers, and backs up, looking for a new girl to dance with.

  I look for Chantay and Isla, but I don’t see them nearby. I move toward the bar, craning my neck to see if I can catch sight of them and finally recognize Chantay making out with a guy near the bathrooms.

  “Want another shot?” Isla asks, appearing beside me. “Gin seems to be your drink.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m done.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to leave.” I coax my phone out of the small clutch I’d brought that had been left in Chantay’s closet. It’s tiny and only has room for my phone.

  “Your crown sure fell fast, didn’t it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She smiles cruelly. “You went from being on top of the world to…” Her eyes trail over my body, her grimace growing as she returns to my face. “This, overnight.”

  I move around her and struggle to get through the crowd until I hit the exit. I gulp the cool, night air as I fumble to ignore all the missed calls and messages and get to the app so I can request a ride and realize I don’t have to wait long. A dozen cars are waiting for idiots like me to crawl out of the clubs and bars. The driver closes the door behind me and then looks at the screen on his dash and recites my address.

  “Yes,” I tell him. I’d bet my inheritance that I’m sober enough to have him drop me off at Chantay’s so I could drive myself home, but Ian’s story and the loss of his friend make me unwilling to take the chance.

  I thank him and climb out of the car, my feet hurting so badly I’m guessing how many blisters I have as I stick my key into the door. Before I can turn the handle, the door flies open, and Olivia stares at me, her eyes wide, phone pressed to her ear.

  “Where in the fuck have you been?” she yells.

  I pry my keys from the lock and slip off my heels that I drop in a heap by the door as Olivia closes it.

  She maims me with another harsh look. “God, you stink. Where have you been? Are you drunk?”

  “I need a shower,” I tell her.

  “I have to go. I’ll call you back,” she says to someone. “I love you, too.” She sets her phone down and follows me into my room.

  “You ran out of here this morning, and you haven’t answered your phone or replied to a message all day,” she says, her Southern accent thicker with her anger. “I went to ca
mpus security. I called everyone I know. I thought you were hurt, but instead, you went out and did God knows what!”

  I turn around, facing her. “This is me,” I tell her. “This. Is. Me.” I point at myself. Tears build in my throat, and anger has a dozen soldiers of bitter words lined up and ready to be fired at her. I shake my head and disappear into my bathroom, where I close the door and crank on the shower.

  27

  Rose

  The spray turns cold, and still, I don’t move. The cold is a welcomed contrast to the hot tears that continue to slip from my eyes as I sit in the middle on my bathtub.

  The door opens, and I hear the curtain get pulled back a few inches behind me. I don’t look up, I know it’s Olivia.

  “Oh, Rose,” she says. The curtain shifts, opening all the way, and then she turns the shower off.

  Without warning, she wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me toward the edge of the tub. “I’m sorry I yelled,” she says, tightening her grip around me. She kisses my damp hair, and rubs by bare arm vigorously, like she’s trying to bring warmth to me there. Her grip loosens and then I feel a towel being draped around me which she secures with another tight hug.

  My cries echo in the shower, making my head and eyes pound painfully.

  “Shhh,” Olivia whispers, clutching me tighter. She holds me until my hair has nearly dried, and my tears stop.

  “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get some warmer clothes on you.”

  I shiver and tremble as I stand and cringe as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’m still wearing Chantay’s dress which is soaked and plastered to my body, my eyes are red and swollen, my cheeks stained with makeup.

  Olivia returns from my closet with a pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and underwear that she sets on the bathroom counter.

  “I’m a mess,” I tell her.

  “No, you’re not.” Olivia grabs a makeup wipe and swipes it across my face, rubbing gently at my cheeks. “It’s just makeup,” she says.

  I change out of the dress and toss it into the tub. It hits the fiberglass with a thwack. I quickly cover myself in the warm, dry clothes.