I’ve been seeing Callie for a few months. She’s nice and we get along well enough. That’s really all I need. She graduated last spring and decided to stay home for the summer before joining the workforce. She comes with perks, meaning she’ll be gone soon, so no commitment pressure, with the added bonus of no baggage—win/win. I’ve been down the monogamy road in high school, and it was nice—while it lasted—but a relationship hasn’t been a priority with the amount of shit I have going on. The minute I stepped on Texas Grand University campus, I decided women had to take a back seat. I had enough expectations to deal with. I’ve kept that promise to myself for three years. With my focus solely on ball and saving the ranch, I refuse to jerk any woman around.
“Night,” she leans over, her hair tickling my face as she takes my lips in a parting kiss. “Damn,” she whispers with a grin, shaking her head when she pulls away. “It’s a good thing I know better about you.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” I can’t help the edge to my voice. I’ve dealt with enough judgment for one day.
“I just know if I catch feelings, I’ll be fucking up.”
“So, don’t.”
“Obviously, it’s never happened to you,” she sighs while sliding on her flip flops. She really is a beautiful girl. If I was in a better position to date, she’d be the type to consider long term.
“Not really.”
She laughs. “Oh, you’ll know.”
I sit up. “Have I treated you badly? Disrespected you? If so, I apologize. I’m shit at this, Callie. I told you from the get-go.”
She seems to read the sincerity in my eyes. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“Then don’t imply anything.”
“And don’t show me you’re different. You know, maybe it helps me to think of you this way. Have you thought of that?”
She grimaces. If she thinks she’s said too much, she has.
I grip her hand while she stares down at me with murky eyes. “Look, I’m just staying in my lane because we’re both about to make an exit,” I say simply. “There’s no point.”
“Right.”
“Callie,” I softly scold, knowing we’re done. She reads my posture, the tone of my voice.
“Shit,” she says. “Okay, let’s do this now.”
I nod, eyeing her. “If that’s what you want.”
She leans in and I kiss her, holding back. At the door, she glances back at me over her shoulder, a sad smile tilting her lips.
“Did you just manipulate me into breaking up with you?” She shakes her head and snorts. “Unbelievable,” her laughter tinged with incredulity. “You son of a bitch, you totally did. Lord help the woman you fall for.”
When she shuts the door, sleep comes easy and I know I’m a bastard for it.
Chapter Four
Harper
He’s everywhere. In my new gym, my new favorite coffee shop, and last week I spotted him leaving Jake’s apartment, no doubt in an attempt to get my gym privileges revoked. He failed.
Take that, asshole.
Jake and I went to high school together, but he was in the dorms with Lance freshman year. Jake said he’s rough around the edges, misunderstood due to his hermit ways, but deep down a good guy.
Jake’s advice? Stay out of his way.
I’m taking it.
I’ve dodged him twice to keep him from seeing me. He’s always alone when I spot him, which is odd because typically the giants rule together.
Athletes have always been a part of my life. I’d grown used to being around them from an early age. I was never wary of them until my body started reacting to the testosterone. But after years of watching athletes, I assume I was bound to develop a little hero worship. Not to mention these men are in the prime of their lives, it’s hard to ignore how in tune they are with their bodies—and how in tune mine has become with theirs. I’m a fan of the art of the human body and the beauty of movement; whether for sport or dance, anyone who can manipulate their physique in such a way has both my attention and admiration.
And Lance Prescott, even when throwing simple punches at a gym bag, is mesmerizing.
I wasn’t lying to Lance when I told him football is ingrained in me. My father and I have a mutual love for the game, he takes his far more seriously and with good reason. His legendary status at the school and the break in tuition is what keeps me here. The deal is simple, four years for a degree, and then I can actively pursue my dancing dream. I’m starting this year a sophomore, year two of a four-year sentence. But four years in a dancer’s life is an eternity. The next three years I’ve decided to look upon a bit like Olympic training. If I fail, at least I’ll have tried and have my accounting degree to fall back on.
There’s just one issue, I don’t want to be in a classroom when I could be dancing. At all. Every day is agony and the more that come to pass, the more I feel I’m missing out. It’s all about location when it comes to excelling in a career in dance, and College Station, Texas, is not prime real estate. Until graduation, I’m stuck here. I’ll bide my time, do my homework, hone my skills, ace the dance program, and avoid the jocks that seem to take up all the space in the street. Affirmation made with my daily pep talk, I turn the corner of the gym bathroom and run into a wall.
“Oof,” I tumble backwards before strong hands reach out to steady me.
“You okay?”
I feel like I just got run over by a truck, but I nod.
“Fine,” I reply, jerking out of his grasp before I adjust my clothes. I have on a ripped tank, and I don’t miss his eyes on the extra flash of skin.
He lingers and I patiently wait, staring at his Nikes. “Talked to Jake.”
“And?”
“Said you went to high school together. Anyway, the gym is booked up for the rest of the summer, so we’ll have to share it.”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m not the one who has a problem with it.”
“What do you say to an hour and a half each?” As he starts negotiations, I shake my head.
“I need more time.”
“I’m trying here,” he blows out a frustrated breath. His hands taped at his sides, his fingers tense as if he’s ready to spring and attack. It’s the only thing I notice as I keep my eyes down to avoid ogling him.
“It would probably help the conversation if you looked at me.” I hear the hint of a smile in his voice and snap my gaze to his. “Better.”
“I need more time.” There, simple. I don’t take note of the way his shorts hang from his hips at his narrow waist. Or the way his T-shirt clings to his biceps screaming, ‘look!’ Or the way his thick, dark-brown hair curves naturally away from his face. No, not at all. Satisfied with my attention, he smirks down at me. “Look, we’ll just get used to it, all right? I need all the time I can get.”
“Why?” he asks, “you have something coming up?”
No. “Yes.”
“Well, I do too. I want to be able to hit the bag as much as possible.”
“You’re going to box?”
“No. It’s a pastime.”
“Pity.”
“Why?” He crowds me and I swallow while the scent of him invades my nose. Clean, masculine, tempting.
“Because someone needs to knock the shit out of you.”
“Wow,” he chuckles, “you really don’t like me.”
“You made a bad first impression. Now, I’m indifferent. And you don’t really care if I like you.”
“I owe you an apology,” he takes a step forward. He loves his effect on me, it shows in the twinkle in his eye. Typical. “I just got…well, it was a bad day, so I apologize for the way I acted.”
“Accepted. But we don’t have to be best friends to share this space. So, let’s just divide the sandbox and go our separate ways.”
“What do you have coming up?”
“None of your business.”
He ignores my snark. “Is it like an audition?”
I wish. “Why?�
�
“Maybe I’m curious.”
“I’m not a pastime, so go find another to entertain yourself with.” I push past him and hear his gravelly chuckle behind me before he speaks up.
“You really should do something about that.”
I glance back at him.
“About what?”
“About that thorough fucking you need.”
My lips part as he stalks towards me before standing uncomfortably close. He bends down until we’re eye level with each other. “You get to assume shit about me, well allow me to join the party because clearly, you don’t accept my apology. That chip on your shoulder isn’t sexy, at all. There’s a tiny division of men who will jump through hoops to try and get past it, but they aren’t going to entertain your attitude long. Loosen up, Priss, or you’re going to find yourself with your own shitty reputation.”
“Says pot to the kettle. Stay out of my way, Prescott.”
“No problem, sweetheart.”
“Don’t bother with the pleasantries now, you basically just called me an uptight bitch.”
“If the Nike fits.” Like an idiot, I glance down at my solid hot-pink Nikes before I catch his smirk.
And with that, he makes his way towards his bag.
Chapter Five
Lance
At the ATM, I enter my code for cash only to get rejected a second time. Slapping the side of the machine in aggravation, I lower my head and let out a slow breath, knowing the culprit.
“Hey man, you done?” I glare at the asshole behind me, who clearly decides not to give me the moment I so obviously need.
“Fuck off,” I grumble, punching in the numbers again, deciding to check my balance. Nineteen dollars minus the three fucking dollars it cost me to check my balance. I have sixteen fucking dollars to my name. Gaping at the total, I dial my dad as I walk away from the machine with my cell to my ear.
“Hey son, I was just talking to Pete about you.”
“Dad, where’s the money?”
“Yeah. About that, son, meant to call you. Pete gave me a good deal on a few heifers and I needed to borrow a little.”
“A little? You wiped me out!”
“I’m sorry, son. I couldn’t pass it up. I’ll put it back by the end of the week.”
“You can’t just take it, Dad, it’s my money.”
There’s a hesitation. I know I’ve embarrassed him, something I never want to do to the man who’s given me everything. “It’s a loan, son. Temporary. I swear, I’ll replace it. Just give me a few days to move things around.”
I pace the parking lot. “Fine. But a heads-up would have been nice.”
“It’s just temporary.”
“Yeah.”
“Let me just tell you about what I’m working with,” there’s an uncomfortable edge to his voice, one I’m all too familiar with. It’s the same tone I’ve dealt the majority of my life with when he wheels and deals, doing his best to make ends meet. He got us through those times and he’ll get us through this, I just have to be patient. But it doesn’t change the fact that my stomach is growling, and I have no fucking solution.
“I gotta go, Dad. I’ll call you back.”
“All right, son. Don’t worry. Leave that on me.”
“Sure. Bye.”
“I love you—”
Guilt shadows the anger knowing I’ve hurt him by cutting him off. I order an Uber, knowing the commute home is going to wipe me out. In the back of a white Taurus, the driver, Dave, makes polite conversation with me as I fume in the back seat. Though the ride is costing me, I need the bag right now a lot more than I need a meal. I need the release. Thanking Dave, I shut the door and approach the gym, knowing I just have to hang on a few more seconds. Opening the door, the smell of the sweat-infused pleather equipment brings me comfort the way it always has since day one.
“Mr. Prescott, we’re waiting,” Mrs. Sheffler prompts me expectantly as all eyes in the classroom dart my way. It’s the last thing I want.
“Lance, get up man, it’s your turn,” Chad mutters under his breath as I stare down at the gaping hole on top of my shoe, his new Nikes gleaming in my periphery. I shake my head, keeping it lowered.
“Freak,” I hear uttered behind me.
“Lance, I’m going to need you to come up and do your presentation.”
I kick at the poster board leaning against the front of my desk. I’d worked on it for three days, but it’s the hole in my threadbare shoes keeping me in my seat. This morning I’d tried to cover it with black electrical tape, but it only made it look worse. So I shaded my shoes with a permanent marker to try and match the tape, but I’d only fucked them up even more, and they’re my only pair. If I stand up in the front of the room, everyone will see what I’m attempting to hide.
“I’m going to have to pass, Mrs. Sheffler.” That comment earns me a few laughs and I sink in my seat, knowing this isn’t going to end well.
“This isn’t optional,” Mrs. Sheffler says, her fingernails tap, tap, tapping against the notebook she’s holding.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Knee bouncing, I reach for any excuse I can come up with to keep from standing in front of the room to be scrutinized. I can feel Chanah’s stare on me. Last night she’d helped me finish my board and as a reward, I’d kissed the life out of her. I should never have brought the board to class. It only makes my lie more damning.
“I didn’t finish mine.”
Mrs. Sheffler isn’t buying it. I wouldn’t either. “Lance—”
“Chickenshit,” I hear from the same voice behind me. Mark, it’s always Mark. I’ve already kicked his ass twice this year. Doesn’t change the fact he doesn’t have holes in his sneakers. He doesn’t have to worry about thirty sets of eyes judging his clothes.
“Who said that?” Mrs. Sheffler barks, just as I snap with her and snatch up my poster board.
RIIIIIIIIPPPPP
I toss the pieces on the floor and grin up at her. “Like I said, I don’t have it.”
Her tone turns to ice. “Lance, you need to go to the principal’s office.”
Picking up my pencil, I study it as if it’s more of a fascinating artifact than a writing tool, wishing I could use the end of it to erase the last few minutes. Dad warned me if he or Mom gets called into Principal Hatter’s office again, he’ll have my ass. I’m not sure which music is worse to face at this point, but the decision has been made for me.
“Mr. Prescott, did you hear me?”
“Rarely ever do,” I mutter as laughter erupts around me.
I’m not moving; I don’t want anyone staring at me. Knee bouncing uncontrollably, I shake my head as my palms begin to sweat. “I’m pretty comfortable here. Have you tried this seat? You really should sometime.”
“Mr. Prescott. Right now.”
I ignore her, keeping my head down, clamping up tight in the hope she’ll give me a pass, just this once and deal with me later—no such luck.
“Lance, get your bag and go. Now.”
Eyes lowered, so I don’t have to see their judgment, I collect my backpack and leave the classroom making the trip to the principal’s office.
An hour later, outside her door in the bucket chair that’s been a second home since school started, I lean in, straining to hear the conversation with my parents, the principal and the school counselor.
“We can’t have this type of insubordination. He’s already been in two fights this year,” Principal Hatter says. My dad comes quickly to my defense.
“It’s normal for kids his age to get into a brawl or two. Testosterone is kicking in. He’s just blowing off steam.”
“Mr. Prescott,” Mrs. Eve, the school counselor chimes in. “There’s a big difference between ‘boys will be boys’ and this incessant, blatant display of disregard for authority. There may be more going on inside Lance than growing pains. Are there any issues going on at home we should know about?”
The sound of meta
l scrapes against the floor as my dad erupts. “Don’t you dare, lady! In my house, it’s family first. We’re getting along just fine at home.”
“Have you even asked him?” My mother interjects, “I know there’s a reason. Lance is a good boy. He never exhibits this type of behavior at home.”
Principal Hatter speaks up. “We feel, at this point, he should be evaluated, and you should consider counseling. Despite his punishments, he’s only gotten more aggressive.”
My dad is still standing; I can hear it in the way his voice is pitched. Temper flaring, I sense the accusation in his own voice. “He didn’t want to read a presentation out loud, and you call that aggressive?”
“Mr. Prescott, no need to get upset.”
“You’re right, just like there’s no need to go pointing fingers about bad parenting. We’re raising a man. He’s not some punk kid with an attitude problem. He has a lot of responsibilities at home, aside from his school-work. Maybe it’s catching up with him.”
I close my eyes, feeling the guilt of letting them both down. My shit just put them in the position to defend themselves as parents, and honestly, I couldn’t think of two better heroes.
My mother speaks up with evident heartbreak in her voice. “Maybe we’ve been working him too hard.”
“Don’t go there, Jeannie,” Dad erupts as my knee kicks up. “He needs a punching bag and a good talking-to, not a fucking shrink. And you can forget about meds. I’m not poisoning him.”
“Mr. Prescott, we don’t use that kind of language in these meetings. Is that understood?”
“Lady, I’m not your student, and my boy may have a little bit of an attitude problem, a temper, but it’s ours to manage. We’re his parents. Get on with his punishment. He’ll serve his time, both here at school and at home, I assure you. He’s not a threat to anyone.”
“Lance, please stop kicking your chair,” Mrs. Estrada, the school receptionist says, peering over at me while pulling me out of the conversation. I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I look down to see my hands balled into fists and stop the swing of my heel against the metal bar of the chair. “Sorry.”
Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology Page 2
