Blocked

by Jennifer Lane

  “Okay!” Coach hollered, drawing our attention. “They’re finally done. Once the men’s team exits, get in there.”

  Brad thumped Frank on the back. “Catch you guys later.”

  A gray-haired man emerged into the hallway—he must be the men’s volleyball head coach—followed by a few more tall guys. When the next player stepped out, I held my breath. Dane Monroe now stood ten yards away.

  He searched the hallway for a moment before he found me. Deep blue eyes narrowed into slits as he moved toward me.

  His tan face and broad shoulders would make any girl swoon, but what I liked best about him was that he towered over me—all six-foot-eight of him. It wasn’t often I had the pleasure of looking up at a man, but I definitely had to aim high to see his tousled blond hair.

  Why had I chosen this university? Sure, the volleyball team was top-ranked, they had a good business school, and Susie had recommended it. But the real reason? The reason I hadn’t shared with anyone, especially my die-hard Republican family?

  I was in love with Dane Monroe.

  Chapter 2

  I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE IT. I thought for sure Brad was shitting me when he said Lucia Ramirez was coming to play volleyball here. No way Hitler’s daughter would crash my world like that. But there she stood, behind Nina, Maddie, and a few other girls’ players I knew. Secret Service agents flanked her. Her big, brown eyes widened as I approached.

  “What’re you doing here?” I hissed. “It’s bad enough you play my sport, but now you go to my school, too? Couldn’t you choose another program?”

  It seemed like it took a moment for my words to register. Is she as mentally retarded as her dad? Then her eyes turned down as she took a step back. Crap, is that a look of…hurt? For a second I felt a twinge of guilt in my gut, but then I remembered all the things her father had said on the campaign trail. Accusing the disabled of mooching off the government? Calling women who got abortions murderers? The guy was a piece of work.

  “And now I won’t be able to move without the media hounding me,” I continued. “They’re all jizzed up about Adolf’s daughter.”

  A storm brewed in those shiny eyes as her tawny skin flushed. “My father’s name is Adolfo.”

  Her voice was higher than I’d expected from such a tall, muscular girl. Higher, and sort of breathy. Sort of sexy.

  I felt Brad come up behind me. “Dane, it’s time for practice, buddy.”

  I stared at her. “Why did you come here? Besides trying to torture me?”

  “This isn’t about you at all.” Her arms laced in front of her chest. “I had a full ride at Texas—”

  “Why didn’t you stay there, then?”

  “The coach resigned! My father wanted me to find a new school.”

  I shook my head. “This is my territory. I grew up here. You can tell Adolf he won’t win this state no matter how many of his kids attend Highbanks.”

  Her mouth popped open. She looked about to deliver a salty retort when Coach Holter called to her from the doorway of the classroom.

  “Lucia! Let’s go!”

  She jumped and gave a little squeak. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and glared at me, then jogged to the classroom as she muttered in Spanish.

  “Did you just call me a bitch?” I challenged.

  She spun around with a flaming blush on her cheeks and tugged on the hem of her shorts.

  “Mr. Monroe, it’s time to leave,” China ordered. She patted the shoulder of Lucia’s female agent and walked my direction. Shit. I could ignore Brad, but China tended to get her way. And now I was the one noticing my team had vanished. But I never backed down from a battle.

  I gave Lucia a smug smile. “Yeah, I speak Spanish. You got something to say, you say it to my face.”

  “Lucia!” Coach Holter barked.

  Ignoring him, she took a step toward me. Her long braid whipped behind her shoulder. “I have my reasons for being here, and it’s not about the election.”

  “What reasons?”

  “C’mon,” said the agent with blond curly hair as she put her arm around Lucia’s shoulders. Her voice lowered. “Your coach is having a cow.”

  “Oh, no.” Lucia closed her eyes, turned, and made a beeline for the classroom. At the door, Coach Holter grabbed her shoulder and jabbed his finger toward her chest. I couldn’t hear his words, but he was pissed. Lucia’s head lowered as she nodded, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  Her thick, black hair shone. She wore modest dresses on the campaign trail, but her volleyball practice uniform—a form-fitting gray T-shirt and black Spandex shorts—was far superior. The toned muscles of her arms and long-ass legs left no doubt she was a scholarship athlete. Whether or not she could really play—to earn that scholarship—was yet to be seen. She didn’t have much of a chest, but the luscious curve of her butt more than compensated. Talk about junk in the trunk. Damn. Why’d all of that have to belong to her?

  Coach Holter’s lecture appeared to gain momentum and his voice rose loud enough for me to hear. “Do you think you deserve special treatment!?”

  Lucia shook her head as she continued staring at her shoes.

  “Look at me when I talk to you!”

  When her head snapped up, I could see tears in her eyes. As she stared wide-eyed at her coach, her clenched fists shook at her side. La chica looked on the verge of meltdown, and I didn’t envy her. I’d been on the receiving end of my club coach’s ass-chewing too many times to count. Thank God my college coach, Phil, was as chill as they came.

  China’s stern face filled my line of vision. “Time to go, Mr. Monroe.” Her short brown hair, gelled into place, didn’t move an inch as she shook her head. “I know it must be a pleasure for you to watch Ms. Ramirez get reamed by her coach—”

  “Not really.” Sure, it was kind of fun to see Miss-Conservative-Know-it-All get her comeuppance, but I wasn’t made of stone.

  “But if we don’t leave now, you’ll be late for practice.”

  By the time I was able to step around China to check out the doorway again, Lucia and Holter had disappeared into the classroom. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “This way.” Brad pointed to the opposite end of the hallway. “If ya want to avoid the media.”

  I was all for that, especially now that Lucia’s arrival had spawned a mutinous star-fucker population. “Make sure you keep those Fox News asshats away from me,” I muttered.

  “No problem.” China grinned as we climbed into our vehicle. She cranked the A/C from the driver’s seat.

  Next to me in the back seat of the stifling-hot Hummer, Brad remained silent. He’d been a Marine, and I was pretty sure he would embrace the whole hoo-rah guns thing and vote for Adolf come election time. I tried not to hold that against him, but really? How could a badass like Brad want that egomaniac Ramirez as leader of the free world? My mom would be so much better. She will be much better, I corrected myself. Damn Lucia for giving me Adolf on the brain.

  Ten minutes later, I warmed up for practice with my teammate and best friend, Josh Williams. Amidst our game of pepper—back and forth volleyball bumps, sets, and spikes—he peppered me with questions.

  “Why didn’t she go to Texas like she was supposed to?”

  I felt a bead of sweat slide down my forehead as I spiked the ball to his left. It was a solid hit but he dug the ball with ease. “To make my life miserable.”

  Josh frowned. “That’s rough, bra.” His slow, southern-California dialect made me smile every time. He sounded stoned twenty-four-seven. “What’d your mom say about it?”

  “Haven’t talked to her.” I dug his spike and passed the ball to him in a perfect arch.

  When he set the ball back to me with stiff fingers, I stifled a laugh. “Good thing you’re not the setter.” The set was so bad I had to improvise with a roll-off hit that he dove forward to retrieve.

  “We can’t all have your pillow-soft hands,” he grunted after peeling himself off the floor in time to
zing a spike at my face. My defensive maneuver didn’t go quite as planned, and the ball dribbled to the gym floor, rolling toward our coach. Damn, Phil saw my screw-up.

  Josh grinned at Phil as he scooped up the ball.

  Phil rolled his eyes with a look that seemed to say, Touché.

  “So,” I conceded, “playing sand all summer did elevate your game, like you promised Phil it would.”

  Josh bounced the ball. “Dude, I just couldn’t take another humid summer here. The beach—she called to me. She wanted me back in her cool clutches, and we danced together in sandy synchrony.”

  Huh? I guess I’d have to take his word for it. When I glanced at Phil, he arched one gray eyebrow. After a year with him, I knew that look. It meant Less talking, more working. “C’mon,” I said as I wiped my elbow across my forehead, “let’s see if you can handle the moves I learned this summer.”

  “Bring it, Mr. Setter Man.” The ball floated my way, and I cradled it with my “pillow-soft” hands to launch the perfect set.

  About midway through our three-hour practice, Phil called me over. By now sweat had drenched my shirt, but it felt amazing to get back to work with the entire team. My individual sessions with the coaches and pick-up games with the guys had been somewhat satisfying this summer, but full-on team practice really scratched my itch. With that thought, I snuck a scratch as I adjusted my jockstrap.

  “Get your hands off your junk,” Phil said.

  My hand stilled.

  “You’re the setter,” he continued as he nodded toward the rolling cart of volleyballs. “Don’t want our balls to get sticky.”

  I rested my hands on my hips as I waited for him to get to his real point. He was old, so sometimes that took a while. His pale eyes observed the practice drill with detachment, but I knew how passionate he was about the game he’d played for more than forty years. And how wise he was, too. At first I thought he’d coached for so long that he didn’t truly have his finger on the pulse of the team. But after what happened last year with Nina from the girls’ team, I learned never to underestimate Phil again.

  “What do you see out there?” he asked.

  I swallowed and honed in on the drill. Jason, Phil’s long-time assistant coach, stood atop a platform on one side of the net and spiked balls at my teammates. The poor saps played defense, attempting to field Jason’s heat-seeking missiles. Jason was probably in his forties, but his spikes were just as strong as those from guys my age. Add a height advantage with the platform, and my teammates were toast. About one in five passes hit their target, and the rest shanked all over the gym. Phil and I had to duck as one ball careened off a guy’s arm.

  “Not a great passing game right now,” I said.

  The furry eyebrow twitched, and I knew he wanted more than a statement of the obvious.

  “Uh, Pete needs to get lower in his stance.”

  Phil nodded. “Tell him.”

  I gave my coach a questioning look. Pete the junior wouldn’t take too kindly to Dane the sophomore giving him tips. When Phil looked at me with a challenging stare, I remembered his advice all summer long: You’re the starting setter. You’re the leader on this team. This is your team.

  “Pete.” My voice halted the drill, and he straightened up to stare me down. “You need to get down in your stance.”

  As expected, he glared at me.

  “It’s interesting how much more you see on the sidelines,” I added, trying to diffuse the anger likely building after a snot-nosed underclassman had told him what to do. “Now I know why Phil keeps telling me my technique’s shit.”

  With Josh’s low chuckle off-court, Pete’s glare faded. He turned back to the net and squatted down so low his butt almost grazed the ground. His next pass wasn’t straight to target, but it was much better than the projectile shank that had almost beheaded us moments ago.

  When Pete rotated out of defense, he looked over at me and gave a slight nod. It was probably the most acknowledgment he’d given me since I started on the team.

  The drill continued, and Phil said, “That was diplomatic.” He turned to me. “Smooth and political. ’Course, it’s probably in the genes.”

  Where is he going with this?

  “Lot of stress this fall. Come November, your mother could be president.”

  Ah. We’d arrived at the real reason for this conversation. “She will be president.” I nodded. “And I’m handling the stress just fine.”

  He stayed quiet beside me, but I sensed there was more to come.

  “How are you handling the stress, then?” he finally asked.

  “Vodka. Bruce and China set me up with my own mini-bar.” My grin faded when he didn’t seem to appreciate my joke. “C’mon, Phil. My mom’s been Senate Majority Leader. This isn’t all that different.”

  His hard stare told me he didn’t believe me. I guess I didn’t really believe me either. I wished my mother’s political ambition didn’t have to fuck up my life, but that was a pipe dream.

  “You could meet with the sport psychologist,” he said.

  I laughed. “Good one.” When he didn’t crack a smile, my eyes bugged. “Seriously, Phil? I don’t need to see a shrink. Only the crazy athletes see her.”

  His mouth turned down, and I sighed. “Okay, I know I should be more open to the idea, with my mom being a psychologist and me majoring in psychology. But I don’t need to go. I’m very self-aware, and I’m doing fine, all right?”

  “Just think about it,” he said.

  Fuckballs. He’d planted the psychotherapy seed, and now he’d wear me down with his Jedi mind tricks until I caved. Sometimes I hated having such an intuitive coach. He could read me like he was my father. Actually, much better than any father I knew.

  “And stay away from Lucia Ramirez,” he added.

  I clenched my jaw. I thought Phil had left the hallway before I’d exchanged words with her. “Why? It’s not my fault she’s invading my space.”

  “You know the media’s wet dream is conflict between you. They pick up on any of that, and you’ll get hounded all year. Your tenuous focus will flush down the toilet.”

  “My focus is fine.”

  A blur of white caught my eye a second before Phil’s fist zoomed in front of my nose to bat down the errant volleyball. I flinched, then glanced at the teammate who must’ve shanked the ball in our direction. He winced. That one could’ve broken my nose.

  “You were saying?” Phil asked.

  Just then my assistant coach’s screams filled the air. “You guys suck!” Jason jumped off the platform, ducked under the net, and got in my teammate’s face. “If we were still in the arena, I’d have you running stairs for the next hour!”

  That threat elicited a silent prayer of thanks to the demolition gods. The school was tearing down our old arena, and we had to share this smaller gym with the girls’ team until the new one was finished—hopefully by the time our season began in January. Running stairs in the old arena was my least favorite memory from freshman year.

  “On the line,” Jason said, and my stomach clenched.

  When Phil’s nod dismissed me from our powwow, I sprinted to the baseline along with the rest of the team. I hadn’t screwed up on the passing drill, but I would have to endure the running punishment anyway. That group mentality was what defined our team. There was no “I” in team, but there was meat in team. And we were all dead meat.

  A shrill whistle launched me on a crusade to reach the ten-foot line first. My fingertips grazed the line, then I shot back to the baseline and reached down to touch the gym floor. I spun around and sprinted to the centerline, lunged to touch it under the net, then returned to baseline. I set off for the ten-foot line on the other side of the net, tilting my body forward to shimmy under the net before touching the gym floor. Next was the far baseline—the longest sprint yet.

  Sharp gasps for air filled my consciousness as the suicide drill continued. Suicides…what an appropriate name for this inane fitness sprint. My r
acing heart and burning chest would surely give me a heart attack one of these days. But when I realized I was ahead of my teammates, I felt a zing of energy propel me forward. Phil was right. Because the previous starting setter graduated a few months ago, I was now the leader of this team.

  Josh was a little behind me, and as I passed him on the start of my second suicide, I managed, “Let’s go!”

  He was too winded to respond but grinned at me the next time we passed each other. Though my lungs were on fire, I bore down and refused to let Josh or Pete catch up.

  Jason was freaking merciless today, and I think I was on my seventh suicide when his whistle finally blew. My chest heaving, sweat splashed from my forehead onto the gym floor as I bent over and sucked in air. The trickle of perspiration had morphed into a downpour—now I’d have to wipe the floor down to prevent an ankle injury.

  I heard a female voice say “Gross,” and I looked up to find Nina wearing a look of disgust as she stared at me from across the gym. I could see her teammates hanging out on the bleachers. When the hell had the girls’ team arrived? My gaze landed on the girl at the far end of one row, whose face turned away from me.

  I know you saw me look at you, Lucia. The wall seemed to fascinate her.

  Phil walked up to Coach Holter and his assistants—there must’ve been some screw-up with scheduling the temporary gym for our practices—and I looked back at Lucia, who still avoided my eyes. Besides Nina, she was about the tallest girl on the team, and her height combined with her fidgeting drew my attention. Had she seen me beat all my teammates on the suicides? Did she know I was the fastest on the team?

  Wait a minute. Why did I give a flying fuck what Hitler’s spawn thought about me?

  “Grab some water,” Jason told us as the dialogue between the head coaches seemed to heat up. Well, actually only one side intensified, I noticed as I headed toward my water bottle. Coach Holter appeared tense, but Phil maintained his relaxed stance. Nothing could ruffle my cool coach.

  Jason patted my shoulder as I passed him. “Good job, GD.”

  “Thanks.” The cool water slid down my hot throat. I felt Lucia looking at me as I grabbed a towel and wiped my forehead, and I tried to stand a little taller. For some reason, I liked her staring at me.