“Loosha?”
A feminine voice brought me back to the sports medicine waiting room, and I looked up to find a tiny, blond woman holding the door open. In Texas, nobody would mispronounce my name like that.
Speaking of mind games, now I had to deal with Coach’s mandated nutrition referral. I stood and blinked for a second to slough off my lightheadedness, then approached the nutritionist. “It’s Loo-see-uh.”
“Oh.” She blushed. “Botched that one. Sorry. I’m Whitney Randall.”
Doesn’t she know who I am? When she reached out to shake my hand, her iron grip surprised me.
I felt Allison’s presence behind me before she spoke. “I need to do a sweep of your office.”
Whitney’s elfin nose wrinkled as she looked up at both of us. Though Allison was a few inches shorter than me, she was still close to six feet, and we towered over the Lilliputian Whitney.
“I’m with Secret Service,” Allison offered.
“Oh!” Whitney nodded, though she still seemed confused. “Well, if Lucia’s okay with it, you can come back with us.”
It wasn’t okay with me—being forced to see a nutritionist was embarrassing enough without a chaperone—but I didn’t have a choice. I managed a thin smile (the only thin part of me), and we headed to her office.
As Allison’s shrewd gaze scanned the small space, I took in the clean desk, athletic posters on the wall, and food boxes on the bookshelf. But what held my gaze and twisted my stomach was the scale in one corner. I did not want to get on that thing.
“I can pull in another chair for you,” Whitney said.
“No, I won’t be staying,” Allison replied, and I let out a breath. Maybe this wouldn’t be as humiliating as I’d imagined. “I’ll be right outside, though.”
“Uh, okay.” Whitney seemed out of her depth.
After Allison left and Whitney had invited me to sit in the chair across from her desk, I asked, “You don’t know who I am?”
“I know you’re a Highbanks athlete.” She grabbed a notebook and sat in her desk chair. “I’m guessing basketball?”
She didn’t know my dad! I loved her all of a sudden. “Volleyball.”
“Got it. Why do you have a Secret Service agent with you?” When I paused, she added, “I probably should already know this, sorry. I don’t watch the news, though—too depressing.”
I certainly could understand. Sometimes I wished I could be oblivious to national news, but my dad always ranted about low-information voters. “Is it, um, is it okay if I don’t answer that question?”
“Absolutely! No pressure here.”
Her warm smile helped me relax into the chair. I liked being Lucia, the volleyball player, instead of always being Lucia, daughter of a presidential nominee.
“So, like I said, I’m Whitney, the sports dietitian for Highbanks. I was a diver here a while ago. Did someone refer you to me?”
“I guess my coach did.”
“Wyatt Holter?”
The sound of his name made me twitch. “That’s the one.”
She grinned. “He’s kind of intense, huh?”
“You know him well.”
“Yes, he’s sent me several athletes over the years.” She scribbled on her notepad. “So why does he want you to see me?”
I broke eye contact and looked around the room. My gaze landed on that damn scale. “He thinks I’m fat.”
“He said that?” Her blue eyes widened.
“Well, not exactly.” My fingertips brushed my cheek for a few seconds, then I yanked my hand down. A guy as handsome as Dane would never want a girl with a weight problem. “He says I need to get fitter.”
“Are you sure? You look quite muscular already.”
I dropped my head. Highbanks paid her to work with athletes, so she must have felt obligated to say something nice like that.
“What do you think, Lucia?”
I looked up. “About what?”
“Do you want to get fitter?”
“Yes. Coach says I need to get to the double block faster.”
“Do you agree with him?”
I paused. “I thought I was a good blocker, but…” I felt my face warm as she continued starting at me. Did she want me to admit that I sucked at my sport? “I’ll be better once I lose weight.”
“Hmm. I want to gather some data first, approach this scientifically. I’m sending you to get a bone scan, to assess your body composition, before we make any changes to your diet.” She picked up the phone and dialed while I receded into my chair and sulked.
She wasn’t going to help me with my diet? Then why was I fricking meeting with her?
“One o’clock next Thursday,” she said as she hung up the phone. “You can make that, right? It’s between morning and afternoon practices, and that’s still a few days before you start classes.”
“We start competing soon, though. I’m not sure we’ll be in town.”
She turned to her computer and brought up the Highbanks University Athletics website. A few clicks and she had the women’s volleyball schedule on the screen. “You’re right—your first games start next weekend. But they’re home matches, so you should be fine.”
Nausea stirred in my gut as I thought about my first college match. If I got any playing time, would I make a complete fool of myself out there?
“I’d like to get to know you better.” Whitney had picked up her notepad again. “Are you having regular menses?”
What the heck are menses?
When I didn’t answer, she chuckled. “Sorry to confuse you with the medical jargon. Are you having regular periods?”
¡Hijole! She didn’t beat around the bush. “Uh, yes?”
“Good. That’s a sign you’re eating enough to support all the exercise you do.”
I was pretty sure one look at me would tell her I ate enough.
“What are some of your favorite foods?”
“Um, salads, and bananas, and apples, and…” I trailed off when she glared at me. “What?”
“Nobody lists those as their favorite foods. Stop telling me what you think I want to hear, and start answering my questions honestly.”
She was half my size, but the fierceness in her eyes made me realize her pixie power. I sat up a bit. “But the foods I like are fattening.”
“Fat makes food taste better, but it doesn’t mean the food itself will make you gain weight. What do you like to eat?”
“Fajitas.” My mouth watered just thinking about my favorite Houston restaurant’s sizzling chicken and steak.
“Fajitas are a well-balanced choice with all three macronutrients. Tortillas and rice have carbohydrates, meat and beans have protein, and cheese and guacamole have fat. Plus, there are vegetables. What else do you like?”
She was saying fajitas were healthy? My head spun, and I said the first thing that came to mind: “Sopaipillas.” When she tilted her head, I cringed. Way to tell a nutritionist that you like to eat the most fattening food ever.
“I’ve never had those before.” She turned to her computer and pulled up a link. “Oh! Fried Mexican dough. Yeah, I’ve heard of these.”
I waited for her to tell me I could never eat them again.
“So, this is a nutrient-dense food that the average person should eat sparingly. Athletes might get by with eating sopapillas more frequently. How often do you eat them?”
“I don’t think I’ve had any since my birthday.”
“And when was that?”
“September twentieth.”
“Almost a year ago?” Whitney shook her head. “But it’s one of your favorite foods.”
I shrugged. “My mom said I shouldn’t eat it.”
Whitney kept writing, and I wondered how hopeless she thought I was. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Let’s see, it’s one fifteen. What have you eaten today?”
Ah. This was an easier question, since all morning I had calmed myself by repeating the small number of calories I’d consume
d: eighty. “I had a banana.”
“What size banana?”
“Medium.” Eighty calories, eighty calories.
“Okay, what else?” She smiled at me.
“That’s it.” If I could’ve gotten by with eating nothing, I would have, but Allison and had been in the kitchen this morning and had shoved a banana at me when I’d gotten my coffee. “Oh! I had coffee too.”
“Any cream and sugar?”
“Black.” Disgusting. I missed my favorite flavored creamer.
Whitney frowned. “Lucia. That’s not enough. You need to eat more.”
I pulled back, deeper into my chair. She was mad at me? I’d thought she’d be pleased with my self-restraint!
“If you like bananas, then add some peanut butter, maybe some milk. You need more to keep you going for a three-hour practice.”
Peanut butter? That would go straight to my butt. No way I’d eat peanut butter.
“Did you drink any water today?”
“Of course.”
“How much?”
“Uh, about one and a half water bottles.”
She jotted that down.
“Part of my assessment is to take your height and weight.” Whitney stood and stepped toward the evil scale.
Here it comes. As my heart raced, I wished I hadn’t consumed any water at practice. “Can I go to the bathroom real quick?”
She studied me. “No need. We’re almost done here, once I take your weight.”
I slowly got to my feet and approached the gallows.
She extended a bar on the back of the scale toward the ceiling. “Let’s measure your height first.”
“I’m six-two.”
She laughed as she looked up at me. “I can see that. Just want to get the most accurate measurement. Please back onto the scale.”
I. Hate. This. I turned around and stepped backward onto the instrument of doom.
“Yep, seventy-four inches. Okay, stay right there, and I’ll get your weight.”
My chest squeezed around my galloping heart. “I don’t get to see it?”
“It’s just a number, Lucia. It doesn’t define you.”
Right. If only it didn’t define me. I heard the slide of metal across the scale, and when the sound continued, ticking up the pounds, I stopped breathing.
“Okay, you can step off.”
I whipped around as I stepped down, but she’d zoomed the metal piece back to the left before I could see the massive number.
“Schedule with me in two weeks,” she said, handing me one of her business cards. “We’ll review the results of the bone scan.”
Yippee. “Thanks.” I bolted from her office, and for once I was actually happy to see Allison.
Nina’s wilting set floated far to my right, and I had to sprint from the left corner of the net to reach the ball in time. There was no way I could make it to spike that ball with my left hand, so I made a split-second decision to dink it over the net with my right. Rolling off my fingertips with a light touch, the ball dribbled to the gym floor before Kaitlyn could dig it on the opposite side of the net. In a game, that would be our point. In a practice drill in which I was supposed to spike the ball down the line, it was our undoing.
“So many screw-ups with that play, I don’t know where to begin,” Coach Holter said in a tight voice.
I didn’t want to look at him, but I knew he’d get on my case if I didn’t make eye contact. The veins on his neck bulged, and I braced myself for his tirade.
“Nina, is Lucia right-handed?”
Once I saw her fearful expression, I actually felt sympathy for our team setter. Holding the most important position on the team, Nina had been forced to absorb much of our coach’s wrath. “No,” she finally said.
“Then why aren’t you pushing the ball out to her left side?”
She looked down. I chewed on my lip as I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead. It had taken my high-school setter a couple of years to perfect setting to a left-hander, and Nina had only been working on it for a week. Not that those details mattered to Coach.
“And Ramirez,” he said, his stony face turning toward me. “This is exactly what I mean about your weight holding you back. A faster hitter would’ve made it to that ball. But you—you lumber over to the set…” He made a big show of stomping one heavy foot in front of another, waddling forward as he puffed his cheeks out.
Oh my God. Did I actually look like that when I spiked the ball? I wanted to melt into the floor like a massive marshmallow. Eighty calories, eighty calories, eighty calories.
“And Kaitlyn!”
Phew. He’d moved on to his next prey. I clasped my hands together to stop their shaking.
“You asked me why you’re on the practice team? Why you’re not a starter?” He flung his arms in the air. “It’s not such a damn mystery, is it?” He paced the sideline. “I thought you were a defensive specialist! Play some actual defense then.”
I peeked at Kaitlyn, whose brown eyes blazed. She was a feisty one, and I bet she’d fly all over the court to get the next ball, just to prove Coach wrong. I wished I felt some of her fire inside. Right now all I felt was exhaustion.
“We’ll get the next one.” Maddie stood next to me as the middle blocker and smiled when I looked at her. How did she stay so positive in this hellish environment?
“Again.” Coach crossed his arms over his chest. “Turn your brains on this time, you airheads.”
I wanted to kill him. On the opposite side of the net, a sophomore teammate tossed up the ball to execute her jump serve, but the ball careened into the net. Uh-oh. I stole a glance at Coach, who appeared ready to stroke out.
“Jesus! You’re so undependable, Murphy—no wonder you’re not a starter. Serve the damn ball in play. Again.”
I exhaled when her next serve made it over the net, and thankfully my teammate in the back row passed the ball perfectly to Nina. Maddie made a fast approach toward Nina, pretending she would execute a quick-hit to fake out the defense, while I waited for Nina to set the ball to me. Her set sailed to the left corner of the net—just where I liked it—and I took two steps then leaped up to snap the heel of my hand through the ball, slamming it down the line.
I heard Maddie’s voice. “Good job, Lucia!”
I shook my head. That spike was nowhere near as powerful as it could’ve been. I tried to blink away the dizziness I felt.
“Madison—get over to block,” Coach ordered, and Maddie hustled to face me from the opposing side of the net. Coach nodded at me. “Let’s see you try that same hit through our best blocker.”
Mierda.
Chapter 8
I WAS JUST ABOUT TO SLURP the leftover milk from my second bowl of cereal when Lucia entered the kitchen. With my bowl suspended in midair, I watched her stop in place once she saw me.
Shit. So much for avoiding her after my beer-goggle kiss a week ago. The girl confused the hell out of me. I’d hoped some time away from her would clarify things, but given the uptick of my heartbeat when she strolled in the room, that obviously hadn’t happened.
As I set my bowl back on the table, my eyes floated from her flushed face to the slogan on her hot-pink T-shirt:
Volleyball is my passion
and
Spandex is my fashion
I grinned. Thank God guys don’t have to wear Spandex. When she turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of the luscious curve of her bottom. And thank God girl players do.
“Wait, don’t go.” Why did I just say that?
She pivoted and nailed me with her suspicious gaze. “What?”
Feeling unnerved, I gestured toward the open box of cereal on the table. “Want some dinner? You don’t have to leave on my account.”
She stared at the cereal for a few moments. At first she seemed to give the box a longing look, like she’d discovered a deep cache of oil on a barren stretch of land. Then her eyes tightened into the same hostile look I’d seen so many times on her father.
Despite this, I noticed dark hollows beneath her eyes and felt a smidgen of concern for her. That level of exhaustion typically didn’t occur until later in the season, when Holter’s constant demands would inevitably wear down the girl’s team.
“I’m not hungry,” she finally said.
“But you haven’t eaten anything.”
She glanced up from the box of cereal with wide eyes. “Yes, yes, I have.”
When she stepped away from me, I took my time getting to my feet in an effort to avoid scaring her away. “Then why’d you come to the kitchen?”
“I…” Her eyes darted around the modern appliances. She backed up until her butt brushed the counter, which one hand gripped with white knuckles. “I came to get a drink.”
Why did she look so tortured? “Oh.” I shrugged. “I’ll get it for you.”
“No—”
I made it to the fridge in two strides and opened the door. “What’d you want? We’ve got cranberry juice, orange juice, Coke…hey, there’s even some beer hidden back here—”
“Water,” she said. I backed out of the shelf and straightened, wondering if I’d heard her correctly. “Just ice water.”
“That’s kind of boring.” I crossed over to the cabinet and snatched a glass from the shelf, then returned to the refrigerator door to fill it with crushed ice and filtered water. “Here ya go.”
She hesitated as she studied the drink in my outstretched hand.
“Relax. It’s not poisoned.” I grinned at her.
She grasped the glass. Her hand trembled as she took a sip. “Why are you being nice to me?”
Man, she had trust issues. All I did was get her a freaking glass of water! I performed a little bow and adopted an English accent. “The setter is here to serve the hitter, milady.”
Was that a hint of a smile? The subtle quirk of one corner of her mouth filled me with warmth, and I realized that was the first time I’d seen her even come close to a smile. Esa chica needed to learn how to chill if she wanted to last as a Highbanks varsity athlete. She set down her glass and seemed to take a deep breath.
“Have you always been a setter?”
Her question made me pause. Why does she want to know? “Yep.”
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