by McKinley May
I silently curse my stupid hormones. You can lie through words and actions, but physiological reactions refuse to hide the truth. My mind’s not falling for his shit, but my body is working against me here. Why oh why does he have to be so goddamn good-looking?
Shouldn’t he have some unsightly shinguard tan or something? Maybe a farmer’s tan so harsh it looks like he’s wearing a pasty white shirt? There’s got to be something unattractive about the guy.
I start to sweep my eyes down his body once more, searching for some fatal flaw. I realize this isn’t the best idea when my skin starts to heat up all over again.
“Damn, so turned on your speechless?” He lets out a deep chuckle.
I put on an innocent face and deny his accusations. “Don’t flatter yourself, Steel. You just caught me off guard.”
He runs a hand through his hair again, slowly and deliberately, maintaining eye contact and raking his teeth over his full bottom lip.
Oh man. I hate him.
“I did promise you a shirtless interview. This,” he points to his towel, which I swear has fallen even lower, “is bonus material.”
I avert my eyes and let out a quick laugh. “Not interested in you exposing yourself to me, but thanks for the offer. I respectfully decline.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” I say as pure annoyance finally takes over and rids me of my other thoughts and feelings. “What are you even trying to accomplish right now?”
“Nothing, Raynie.” He shoots me a slanted, entertained look. “Just letting you get your fill.”
“Get my fill?”
“Yeah. You won’t stop checking me out, so I’m letting you get your fill, giving you some more time to burn this image in your mind,” he sweeps a hand over his body and winks, “for your spank bank.”
Such a cocky bastard.
I tap my foot on the ground impatiently. “I’ve had my fill, Steel, believe me. I had my fill of you the moment we met, and I don’t want any more.” I wave him off. “Go put on some damn clothes so we can get started.”
“If you insist.”
I let out a sigh of relief as he walks over to his dresser and yanks out a t-shirt and sweatpants.
I think I’m in the clear until he suddenly reaches down to undo his towel right then and there, and I get the feeling I’m about to see way more than I want to.
I squeal in protest before his ass is on full display.
“What the hell are you doing?! Get dressed in your bathroom!” I cover my eyes with my hands.
The man is crazy.
It’s only after I hear the click of the bathroom door that I slowly spread my fingers, peeking cautiously through them to make sure he’s out of sight.
He is driving me up a damn wall. What is it going to take to get him to just sit the heck down and answer some questions?
I go over and sit in his desk chair, placing myself as far away as possible from his bed. Maybe this is his way of letting me know he doesn’t want to be involved with the feature. Maybe it’s his plan to annoy and tease me so much that I just refuse to do it and leave. A new tactic in his long line of media snubbings.
Well, if that’s what he thinks is going to happen then he’s dead wrong. I’m not backing down, and I’m not giving up. I will get some info for this article even if it means I need to tie him down to the bed and force it out of him.
Ugh.
Not like that.
8
I’m not even gonna deny that I thoroughly enjoyed seeing Rayne all flustered.
I barely know the girl, but it doesn’t take much to see that she’s a little high strung. And when I say a little, I mean a whole helluva lot.
I actually think I did her a favor by giving her some light-hearted teasing. God knows she needs it. She’s so damn uptight she makes someone as laid-back as me feel anxious. Girl needs to hit the spa and get a massage. Her blood pressure’s probably through the roof.
Plus, it’s not like I was really trying to hook up with her, though that’s not to say I wouldn’t want to. Despite her attempts to hide under baggy t-shirts, it’s not difficult to see she’s got a killer body under there: petite frame, muscular legs, and an ass so shapely no pair of shorts is gonna be able to disguise it. Yeah, she’s definitely hot.
But I know better than to mix business with pleasure. I’ve come across my fair share of crazies on this campus over the past few years. The type of girl who thinks one night of fun is equivalent to a marriage proposal and then acts absolutely distraught when I dare to say I don’t feel the same way. Some of these girls would stop at nothing to tarnish my image if given the chance. Rayne may be feisty, but luckily she doesn’t give off any weird, psychopath vibes.
Still, I’m not taking any chances when she holds my reputation in her hands. I don’t want her writing some ten-page hit piece on me. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already got one outlined considering how much I’ve pissed her off the last two days. If I want her to help me with my media problem, I should probably get on her good side. I don’t need any more reasons for professional teams to question my already-questionable personal life.
I pull on some black sweat pants and throw a faded gray Windhaven t-shirt over my head before strolling back into my room. Rayne’s sitting cross-legged in my desk chair, notebook and pen in hand, looking much calmer than before.
She glances up, a look of relief washing over her face.
“See, was putting on clothes such a difficult task?”
I flop myself on my bed and stretch out, the familiar feeling of sore muscles already present from the game. “It was. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but I’m a nudist at heart. You should put that in your article, by the way. The world deserves to know.”
She ignores my comment, but I see the smallest hint of a smile tug at her lips as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a voice recorder.
“Okay, so—”
“Are you really gonna sit all the way over there?” I question. “You can sit on the bed.”
“No,” she blurts out quickly. “I’m fine in the chair.”
“Well, at least move it over here so I don’t feel like I need a damn megaphone to answer your questions. Feels like you’re five miles away.”
She frowns and drags the chair up next to the bedframe. “This close enough for you?”
I give her a thumbs up and she takes a seat.
“Alright, are you ready to focus and get this done? No more distractions, no more removal of your clothing, none of that crap. Do you think you can handle that?” She looks at me expectantly.
I nod. “I am fully capable of acting like a mature adult.”
“That’s highly debatable,” she mumbles under her breath.
I decide to let her snide remark slide and grab the blue Gatorade sitting on the edge of my nightstand. “So can you tell me more about this article? Like, what exactly have I gotten myself into here? Coach didn’t tell me much,” I say before taking a big gulp of my drink.
She brushes a lock of caramel hair out of her face. “Let me run my plans by you and make sure you’re okay with everything.”
I watch as she opens her notebook, flipping to a page completely filled with her orderly notes. I notice a little sketch of a cleat kicking a soccer ball on the bottom of the paper.
“I was thinking the piece would follow the timeline of the team’s season up to November, basically showing the journey from preseason to right before the playoffs. There will be pictures and scores from the games along with some commentary from you, your teammates, and your coaches. Just some little things like improvements to be made, highlights from the games, and things of that nature.”
She flips to the next page.
“Then within those game highlights, I was thinking about weaving in your story as a Warrior: the athletic success you’ve had, your workouts/diet during the season, thoughts on the College Cup. We could finish the piece off with your plans for your professional soccer c
areer and where you think you’ll be headed after you graduate.”
I think she’s finished, but then her face lights up and she quickly scribbles something down. This is the first time I’ve seen her in her element, and it’s like she’s in her own little world. I mean, shit, she's really into this.
“Oh! I’d love to add in some personal things about you, like a little 'Vaughn Steel’s Favorites' section and maybe a 'Day in the Life' type of thing. People eat that shit up.”
I must have a look of bewilderment on my face because she crinkles her forehead in confusion when she looks up at me.
“What? Problem?” she questions, twirling her pen in her fingers.
I shake my head. “Nah, it’s great. You’ve put a lot of thought into this. Sounds like a lot of work, though. I’m a busy guy, so I’m not sure I’ll have the time for it all.”
A cute, guilty expression passes over her face. “I promise I won’t let this get in the way of your games, or studies, or anything like that. I do realize it’s asking a lot of you, but I’m sure I can get all the information I need with three—maybe four—interviews over the course of a few months, and I’ll just text you a few questions after each game, and you can respond whenever you—”
I hold up a hand to stop her and laugh. “Raynie, I’m fucking with you. Of course I have time to answer some questions and do interviews. Hell, we can do twenty interviews if that’s what you need.”
Her eyebrows jut up, eyes widening as if she’s in shock by my statement. I can’t really blame her because I’m shocked at my statement. Those words felt weird as fuck coming out of my mouth 'cause I never would’ve imagined agreeing to something like that in the past.
But for some odd reason, I want to make sure she has everything she needs for the piece. And it’s not only because Coach will kill me if I screw up, but also because I can tell this means a lot to her.
“Just let me know what I can do and I’m game. Obviously this is important to you.”
She looks down at her notebook before muttering, “You have no idea.”
I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Instead, she presses a button on the recorder and a red button lights up.
“I figured we could start with some basic information: history about the team, your college soccer career, the role you play as co-captain.” She slants her head at me, waiting for my confirmation.
I sit up against the wooden headboard and raise my shoulders. “Whatever you want, babe. Ask away.”
“Let’s start with the Treehouse. I saw all the team photos and memorabilia in the hallway. What’s the history of this place?”
I take another swig of Gatorade before launching into the story of the property. I tell her how a rich alumni funded the construction of the place in 1990 as a gift after the team won its first College Cup and how he was really into unique, unexpected architecture, hence the treehouse theme.
Rayne looks fascinated. “How many players live here? And who makes the decision on who gets to call this home?”
“Each house has two bedrooms and two bathrooms, so six guys live on the property during the year. This is the main house with the huge ass kitchen and nice living room. The other two houses have mini fridges and microwaves, but if they want to do any real cooking they have to come up here.”
She jots down some notes in her notebook and I continue.
“As for who gets to live here, the main house is always occupied by the current co-captains: Cameron and me this season and last. The other four spots are voted on by the coaches and players after our season ends. This year it’s Weston and Liam in the Redhouse, Parker and Diego in the Greenhouse. You earn the spots based on your performance on the field and dedication to the team during the Fall. It’s a fair process, so people don’t get too butthurt about who’s chosen. Usually.”
She looks at me, captivated and eager for me to go on.
So I do.
“It’s not like the other guys don’t get to spend time here. They come over all the time. Too much if you ask me.” I grin, thinking how it feels more like twenty people live here sometimes instead of six. “We also have team dinners here, parties, you name it. Everyone gets to experience the magnificence that is the famous Treehouse.”
Rayne smiles. “That’s so cool. I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this place before.”
I cross my arms behind my head. “It’s one of a kind, that’s for damn sure.”
The next hour flies by as we spend the time talking about the team, my position, and expectations for the upcoming season.
My experiences with interviews in the past—the few I didn’t walk out on or lose my temper during—were always So. Fucking. Boring. When they'd realize I wasn’t gonna talk about the shit they wanted to hear, they’d get pissed and start asking the most generic questions possible.
So I’d throw back generic, sarcastic answers in response.
You reap what you sow and all that shit.
But Rayne is a great interviewer. She appears genuinely interested in what I’m saying, and it feels more like a lively conversation between friends than a series of stale, prepared questions. She’s a natural.
As she’s putting her supplies back into her bag and packing up to leave, I hear her stomach growl. Loudly.
I frown. “Shit, I’m the worst host ever. I never offered you any food or drink.”
She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s fine. I’m not that hungry.”
She barely gets the last word out before her stomach growls again. I arch a brow at her in disbelief, and her lips curl up in a guilty grin.
“Okay, I’m starving. But I’m about to leave, and I think I can survive the five minute drive home without food.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I can’t let you leave without feeding you. That would be a dick move. Come downstairs.”
I jump off the bed and start heading out the door, knowing she’ll follow me to the kitchen.
As we walk down the stairs, I hear the familiar sound of loud yelling coming from the living room.
We come up behind Weston and Cameron on the couch, both of them holding controllers and screaming at the TV screen. When they notice us behind them, they press pause on the game and turn around.
“Oh, you guys are still here? Thought you might’ve gone out with Diego and them,” Cameron says as he sets his controller down.
“Nah.” I gesture to Rayne. “We got caught up in the interview stuff. Did you guys pick up any food?”
Weston points his controller towards the kitchen. “There’s a shitload of fancy pasta Erika dropped off earlier. Go crazy.”
I start walking into the kitchen, but Rayne’s still staring at the paused game.
“Which one of you is losing by six goals?” A smile tugs at her lips as she tries to contain a laugh.
Cameron raises his hand and moans as he falls against the armrest in defeat. “Guilty as charged.”
Rayne walks around the front and takes a seat on the adjacent sectional, pointing at the screen. “Well, what do you expect? You should’ve chosen Real Madrid to put up a fight against him as Barcelona.”
Weston perks up, his eyes widening at her analysis. “You play FIFA?” His surprised expression mimics mine.
She bobs her head up and down. “I have little brothers and a dad who owns every game console ever invented. Our family bonding activities usually involve some sort of video game, FIFA being the game of choice the majority of the time. I’m not too bad at it, either.”
Weston grins at her. “When I finish creaming Cameron you should play against Vaughn. He’s the champion.”
“Champion, huh? I'm game if he is.” Rayne shifts her gaze to mine, a sly smile on her face as the challenge dangles between us. “What do you say, Steel?”
Poor girl. She doesn’t know what she’s just gotten herself into.
“I’m down, but I do have one rule: No tears allowed after I kick your ass. I’ll grab us some food, and then we can
watch these two losers finish their game.”
After filling up two bowls with a delicious smelling chicken linguini dish, I walk back into the living room and take a seat next to Rayne, handing her a serving.
She immediately digs in, letting out a satisfied moan as she tastes the food. “Oh my God. So good. Who is this Erika and how can I get her to cook for me on the daily?”
“Coach’s wife. She's bomb in the kitchen.”
She takes another huge bite. “I’ll say. Does she cook for you a lot?”
“She brings meals around constantly. Without her we’d be living off ramen and pepperoni pizza. She’s basically the team nutritionist at this point.”
