Sure enough, just before the end of the first half, the first string quarterback gets an injury, and it’s my turn to shine.
“All right, Reynolds, you’re up,” the coach says, begrudgingly. “Don’t make me sorry I’m doing this.”
As if he has any choice, I think, but I can barely contain my enthusiasm as I run onto the field.
Within just a few minutes, it’s half time and I’m hoping that the first string quarterback’s injuries aren’t so serious that he’s really hurt, but that they’re serious enough to keep him out for the rest of the game so that I can really have a chance to play.
During half time, the cheerleaders do their thing on the field and of course I can’t resist looking, even though Coach Thompson is staring me down. All of them are at least decent looking— better-looking than most of the ones at my old school, I have to admit— and in the past I would be finding ways to hook up with most of them.
But now I can’t help but focus only on Chelsea. Not just because she’s forbidden fruit, but also because she’s that smoking hot. And she’s staring back at me too, almost the whole time she’s performing her routine.
She tilts her cute blonde head in my direction, as if issuing an invitation. And I smile back slyly, as if accepting.
I imagine her looking at me like that in bed, while I’m behind her and she’s on her hands and knees.
I like this game we have going. I want more of it. But I have to remind myself I have a real game to focus on.
Half time is almost over, and I’m pleased to find out that I’m still in the game.
The offense huddles, and Coach Thompson relays some tactics I don’t entirely agree with. I know my old coach would have run a different play, which I think would be better.
I consider running it even though Coach Thompson had ordered a different play. But I hesitate, knowing that changing it could put me at further odds with my new and apparently very cantankerous coach.
Finally I decide that the potential reward outweighs the risk. This team needs to fucking switch things up if we’re ever going to have a fighting chance. And I just can’t seem to stop myself from taking risks. There’s some part of me that hopes to impress Chelsea, and maybe even Coach Thompson.
Once my teammates are back on the field, I call for another huddle despite the confused look on Coach Thompson’s face.
“Look, guys, I know I’m new, and you have no reason to trust me. But I’m a winning quarterback from a winning team. And I have an improvised version of Coach Thompson’s tactics that I want to run. I really think it’ll work, if we can pull it off right.”
Everyone looks skeptical and a few guys voice their discontent.
“Wesley, Dude, are you sure?” Christian asks me, shaking his head. “I know you like to show off, but this could make or break…”
“I’m sure,” I tell him. “Just go with it. We have to do something to take the lead, you know? No offense, but what you guys have been doing the whole first half without me hasn’t been working.”
Some of the guys snicker in agreement, even adding comments like “What we’ve been doing for the last three years hasn’t been working either,” while others grunt their disapproval or shrug their indecision.
“I guess the worst that could happen is that we continue to lose,” Christian admits.
“Or Coach Thompson will make us run laps as a penalty for going against his call,” someone else says.
Most of us shrug, apparently agreeing that that outcome wouldn’t be so bad, compared to losing the first game of the season.
“Do what you need to do, man,” Christian says.
I appreciate his encouragement, although I don’t really need it.
Once I’ve made my mind up to do something, there’s no fucking stopping me— for better or worse.
“Now let’s do this,” I say, as the second half officially starts.
Luckily my teammates listen to me, and we begin the play. As expected, the opposing players react to counter our initial tactic they were expecting us to run, but my unanticipated pass grants our team the opportunity to score a touchdown.
My teammates go wild with the thrill of victory, but Coach Thompson isn’t impressed. He stomps around on the sidelines, yelling at us— and me in particular— about not listening to his leadership.
Once the offense and defense switch, I approach him, not wanting to stay on bad terms.
“Sorry, Coach,” I begin. “I just had a feeling that this other play—”
“I’ll deal with you later, Reynolds,” he says, tersely.
Shivers run down my spine as I get a glimpse of what Chelsea had to grow up with.
“And I’ll deal with the entire offensive team later. Everyone will be punished,” Coach Thompsons announces loudly. “But for now, let’s focus on winning this game.”
I detect a note of excitement in his voice that he can’t seem to hide even through his anger.
“He’s glad we scored, even though he hates my method of going about it,” I whisper to Christian.
“Shut up,” he hisses back at me. “Do you want to get everyone in even more trouble?”
His face is red and he’s glaring at me in obvious anger.
What’s up his ass? I wonder, but I just shrug.
Many other teammates come over to high five me and congratulate me on the call. I guess Christian’s just jealous. Even though he had told me to go for it, and it had worked.
Our team manages to hold the tie throughout the second half, and finally we end up scoring again and winning the game. My team members seem shocked, but ecstatic. Apparently they’re not used to this degree of success.
I turn to Christian as soon as the game ends, unable to resist gloating.
“Told you we’d win,” I brag. “And Coach Thompson is just upset at how I went about it.”
“Yeah but can you blame him?” Christian replies. “You couldn’t even wait to get on better footing with the coach before you just stormed in here and changed things up.”
He looks genuinely mad at me, and I feel a bit betrayed.
“So you really wanted me to just let us lose?” I ask him, incredulous.
He shrugs.
“You just have no concept of respect,” he blurts out. “You think you can just come in and take whatever you want.”
I just shake my head.
I’m over trying to figure him out. I just chalk it up to sour grapes.
I look over at Chelsea, who is finishing up leading a cheer along the sidelines.
Damn right, I think, as her curvy ass bounces underneath her short skirt.
I imagine it doing that as she gyrates in my lap, sliding on and off my dick.
No one has ever accused me of not pursuing what I want. I wanted to win this fucking game for the Wildcats, and I did, no matter what it took.
And what I want right now is that head cheerleader— coach’s daughter or not. And I’m going to get her no matter what it takes.
Chapter 8 – Chelsea
“All right, Ladies, that’s a wrap,” I call out, as our cheerleading squad exits the field after finishing our final congratulatory cheer.
“I’m so excited about the way our squad is shaping up this year,” Taylor tells me. “I think we have some really great girls.”
“I know!” I agree. “And it’s great to be able to cheer for a winning team for once.”
Taylor laughs, and I sneak a peek at the bench, where my dad is yelling at Wesley.
Wesley smiles at me with a sheepish grin on his face that says “What does he want from me?”
I shrug and roll my eyes, as if to tell him not to take my dad too seriously, and then I try to return the focus of my attention back on my best friend.
“I don’t know why my dad’s so mad at Wesley,” I tell her. “If it wasn’t for him, we’d still be losing like we always do.”
“It seems to me that Wesley’s the type to push limits,” Taylor says. “He totally ignored
your dad’s call and substituted one of his own.”
“Well, isn’t that what a quarterback needs to do sometimes?” I ask, genuinely baffled.
“Probably not during his first game, on his first day playing at a new school, for a new coach…”
Taylor looks at me as if I have three heads, for not being able to figure these things out. But I decide to ignore her. It’s obvious that both my dad and Wesley have big personalities, and they clash because each of them is so headstrong.
As I approach them, however, I can’t seem to help keeping my opinions to myself. My dad is berating Wesley, who looks embarrassed in front of the whole team, although he’s trying to keep his cocky demeanor in check.
I wait until my dad finishes yelling at him, and the rest of the team, and then until he dismisses them to the locker room. After that I walk up to my dad.
“Dad, please calm down!” I plead with him. “Can’t you just be happy that the team won for once?”
Sometimes nothing ever seems to be good enough for my dad. I appreciate that he raised me to value hard work and success, but he isn’t very flexible in his thinking.
“Chelsea,” he says, using the same stern voice I’ve heard since I was a little girl. “This really isn’t any of your business.”
“Why not?” I ask him, as a surprised look crosses his face.
He’s not used to me challenging his authority, but I feel that he’s being ridiculous.
“I’m a student here,” I continue arguing my case. “I cheer for this team, and I want to have some school pride. I want our team to win, and that’s what happened today.”
I resist the urge to add “finally.”
“And I need to break the new quarterback in and teach him some respect,” my dad mumbles, as if I’m not even here.
I know that when he’s in one of these moods, there’s just no reasoning with him. I decide to give up, for now.
“Well, why don’t you head home and cool down,” I suggest, knowing that he’ll be getting together with Taylor’s mom later, after Taylor and I head to the lake house.
He still hasn’t told me about their plans, which bothers me. I know he has no obligation to fill me in on his social life, but Taylor’s mom had obviously told her. And I don’t like to feel as if my dad is hiding something from me.
“That’s a good idea,” he tells me, almost in a patronizing tone. “Let’s just each head our own way, and mind our own business.”
Fine with me, I think, but I say, “Have a good weekend, Dad.”
“You too, Daughter.”
As I walk away, I can’t help but smile at his tone.
As much as I might fight with my dad, I never stop feeling grateful for his presence in my life. No matter our disagreements, we’ve been through a lot together, and there’s a special bond between us, knowing that both of us have lost her— my mom, and his wife.
I hate to stay mad at him for long, or to cause him any more grief. But I have a feeling that Wesley is going to cause a rift between us in more ways than one. Because Dad wants to teach Wesley to obey authority, and I want to let loose and go wild with Wesley.
Chapter 9 – Chelsea
Taylor and I go to her house to shower and change, and then we head out with some other cheerleaders to pick up alcohol and snacks before driving to the lake house.
Soon the party’s rocking and I’ve forgotten all about my fight with my dad. It’s nice to just relax and bask in the fun of a new school year and a new cheerleading season.
Except for the fact that Wesley isn’t here. I try not to appear too anxious as I look at the door every time someone comes in, but it’s never him.
I wait until the party’s been going on for a couple hours until I start to give up hope. Maybe he’s just not that interested, after all.
“Waiting for Prince Charming?” Taylor asks me, and I glare at her.
“Very funny.”
“Here, drown your sorrows,” she says, handing me some kind of spiked punch concoction in a red Solo cup.
“What is this?” I ask, crinkling up my nose.
“Who knows?” she laughs. “Mandy made it.”
“Oh great.”
We both groan.
Mandy fancies herself a bartender because she’s hung out with them at the country club to which her parents belong. She’s been drinking and supposedly learning how to make cocktails and other mixed drinks since practically middle school.
Somehow Mandy can party all night but work hard all day: she always makes the dean’s list and she’s one of our most talented cheerleaders and by far the best gymnast, with great acrobatic moves I always make used of in our routines.
And it’s cool that she likes to tend bar before she gets too sloshed to stand up straight. But her drinks are always way too strong, like they’re straight out of some high school party that lasts way too long into adulthood.
Tonight, though, I don’t care. A little alcohol will do me good. Hopefully it will take my mind off of Wesley’s absence.
I down the drink and then Taylor heads to get us a refill, as Jeff Milton approaches me.
I do my best to return his warm smile. He’s been hitting on me since orientation of our freshman year, and he just can’t seem to take a hint. He’s an oversized defensive tackle, and completely not my type, although he’s nice enough. So nice, in fact, that he’s failed to notice that he’s been friend zoned, and continues to keep trying unsuccessfully to make us into more than that.
“How’s it going, Chelsea?” he asks, handing me another drink.
I start to protest that Taylor is already bringing me one, but I think better of that idea, and start sipping from this one, too.
Why not?
Tonight’s a lost cause and I’d better plan on getting drunk and playing beer pong or some other mindless activity to pass the time, without Wesley.
“Not bad, Jeff. How’s it going for you?”
“Great,” he says, nodding his large head up and down. “It’s nice to win a game for once.”
“Cheers to that,” I say, and he meets my cup with his, for a toast.
“I love your nails,” he compliments me, reaching out to touch the school color themed polish and glitter I’d had applied at my manicure with Taylor yesterday.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and as he’s practically holding my hand, inspecting my nails up close, I feel a strong arm encircle my waist, almost possessively.
I turn to my left to find Wesley Reynolds peering down at me with a happy grin on his face.
I can’t help but return the grin. My night just got a whole lot better.
Chapter 10 – Chelsea
Right after Wesley grins at me, he turns to Jeff with a snarl.
“Chelsea, let me get you a real drink,” he says, leading me away from Jeff, as if the two of them are mortal enemies.
“Well, hello there, Wesley,” I say, and happily follow him, much to Jeff’s obvious dismay.
Christian’s with him, and looks a bit annoyed.
“Where’s Taylor?” he asks.
“I don’t know but maybe you should go find her,” I tell him.
I want to be alone with Wesley, obviously.
“I know I’m a bit late, but you had to go slumming in the meantime?” Wesley asks, with a flirtatious glint in his eyes.
“Very funny,” I tell him. “Jeff and I are just old friends.”
“That’s what you think,” he says. “I saw the way he was pawing at you, desperate for any excuse to touch you.”
I laugh, secretly happy that he’s jealous, even though I know that Jeff has never stood a chance, even before Wesley transferred to Calton. And no one stands a chance now that Wesley’s here, although I’m not going to tell him that.
“Sorry we’re late,” Wesley says. “Christian got us lost on some crazy turn he thought was necessary but clearly wasn’t. It took us forever to find our way back to the main road.”
“Dude, not cool,” Christian prote
sts. “Who’s the one who has lived here forever? Me. Whereas you just moved here, and had some hair-brained idea that you had some better way to find this place, so who’s fault is it that we got lost…?”
“No,” Wesley insists, shaking his head. “The only time I mentioned that maybe we were going the wrong way, we were definitely going the wrong way. Before that, I was happy to let you navigate, because you’re fucking right— I don’t know my way around these dark country roads.”
“Now, now boys, stop fighting,” I chide them. Then I call out “Taylor!”, as we approach the kitchen and I see her scanning the crowd with two Solo cups in her hand.
I’m happy to spot her and to break up the little tiff between Christian and Wesley. But I’m hoping she’ll entertain Christian so I can get some one on one time with Wesley.
As if reading my mind, she winks and says, “So look who finally made it!”
She hands the drink to me— now I’m double-fisting it— and takes Christian by the arm.
He looks all too eager to follow her. I wonder if Wesley and I have started something contagious. Maybe we’ve accidentally set up each of our friends together.
It’d be surprising, since neither of them have ever shown an interest in each other, and Christian tried to get with me last year. But stranger things have happened. And it would definitely be convenient.
“Let me show you the fine selection of drinks we have to offer,” I hear Taylor say to Wesley, just before they pass out of earshot. “Just make sure Mandy doesn’t make any of them.”
“Ha,” I laugh at my best friend’s humor, even though she isn’t here to hear it.
Then I pass my second drink to Wesley and say, “Take this. It sounds like you need it more than I do.”
He laughs and thanks me and then takes a drink.
“Christian was the first person to welcome me here, but he sure can be an insufferable jackass.”
I laugh so hard I nearly spit up my drink.
“That’s definitely one way to describe him,” I agree.
“I like the guy enough, but there’s something… off about him, maybe,” Wesley continues.
Perfect Fit Page 72
