Hard As Steel: A College Sports Romance (The Treehouse Boys Book 1)

by McKinley May

  I take the slip before standing up to leave. “Will do, Coach. See you at practice.”

  I’m halfway out of his office when he calls out to me. “I don’t want to hear that you’re giving this girl any trouble, Steel. Listen to her and do what she says or I’ll let Coach Jones know that you’re in need of some extra conditioning. I hear you’re a big fan of ice baths.”

  I high-tail it out of there as fast as I can.

  3

  Is it possible to be burnt out four days into the semester?

  Because I’m already feeling completely overwhelmed and mentally exhausted as I sit in my living room Thursday night, surrounded by a bunch of articles to be annotated for my journalism classes.

  I rip open a new pack of multicolored highlighters, reminiscing on the past two years when professors would take the entire first week to go over the syllabus and expectations for the course. No homework or classwork would be assigned at all.

  This year, my British Lit professor plopped a syllabus on our desks, told us to glance over it on our own time, and jumped straight into an in-depth analysis of King Lear. Apparently there’s no time for messing around when you’re an upperclassman.

  Ah, Syllabus Week...What was once a sweet reality is now just a distant memory.

  I’m starting to highlight the first article when my roommate, Lexie, flings open the front door and rushes inside. Her eyes light up when she sees me.

  “Oh my God, Rayne! So glad you’re home. Drop whatever you’re doing and help me out here!”

  She slams the door shut and tosses her keys onto our coffee table with so much force they slide all the way off and crash to the floor.

  I catch a quick glance of her frazzled expression as she practically flies to her room. I follow behind, curious to see what’s up in LexieLand today. The second I step inside, I’m hit square in the face with a black tank top.

  Just as I peel it off my face, I see a pair of sequined leggings coming straight towards me. This time I’m able to put my Matrix skills to the test and maneuver out of the way.

  “What’s going on?” I question as I cautiously head towards her closet, hands up to protect myself from any more flying objects.

  All I can see is the back of her head, her waist-length blonde hair whipping back and forth so fast it makes the tips she dyed turquoise look like crashing waves in a storm. Her arms are flailing as she yanks clothes off the hangers at record pace, chucking them over her head one by one.

  “Lex?”

  She whirls around, kiwi green eyes filled with panic. “I just agreed to a date with Brian. I told you about Brian, right?”

  I open my mouth to say no, but she’s already moved on.

  “He wants to meet up in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes!” She runs her hands anxiously through her hair and lets them slap back down on her thighs in frustration. “I can’t get ready for a date that fast, dammit. Who the hell does he think I am? Wonder Woman?”

  When she turns her back and continues creating a tornado of clothing, I stifle a laugh.

  This is so typical Lexie. A little bit overdramatic and a lot bit hyperactive.

  And I freaking love her for it.

  I was so lucky to meet her at freshmen orientation the summer before I moved to college. We’d bonded over our mutual disgust of communal bathrooms while on the standard dorm tour they give all incoming freshmen. Nothing says instant best friends like agreement on bathroom cleanliness standards.

  Once we found out we were planning on living in the same dorm come Fall (one with ensuite bathrooms, thank goodness), we immediately decided to be roommates. After freshman year, we’d enjoyed living together so much we quickly signed a two-bedroom apartment lease just off-campus, and the rest is history.

  I gather up a pile of clothes from the ground and lay them out on her bed.

  I hear her mumbling to herself, most of it incoherent, but then I hear the words “twenty minutes” and call out to her.

  “Relax, Lex. Take a deep breath and come out here.”

  She steps out of the closet. She’s got a black leather boot on one foot and a strappy stiletto on the other, and her arms are overflowing with what appears to be her entire wardrobe.

  The girl is losing it.

  I walk over and place my hands on her shoulders, squaring her to face me.

  “Go pick out your outfit from the clothes on the bed while I plug in your straightener. You can do your makeup while I style your hair. We’ll get you ready in fifteen minutes tops. I promise.” I squeeze her shoulders. “Try to calm yourself. You look on the verge of passing out, and I’m not CPR certified.”

  She sighs and finally seems to relax as she heads to the bed to examine her options.

  This routine is nothing new for the two of us. She’s wild, fun-loving, and completely spontaneous while I’m relatively levelheaded, introverted, and a little too cautious.

  For every time she’s pulled out the crazy side of me, there’s a situation where I’ve had to bring her back down to Earth. We’re basically perfect complements.

  A few minutes later, Lexie emerges from her bathroom in a bright lemon-yellow sundress that pops against her olive skin.

  “What do you think?” She does a spin, the dress flaring out around her and showing off her long legs.

  I touch my index finger to her arm and do my best impression of bacon sizzling in a frying pan. It sounds more like an angry cat hiss, but whatever. She gets the gist.

  “Very hot,” I say approvingly. “Now sit. It’s primp time.”

  I drag her onto the white faux fur stool in front of her beautiful vintage vanity—a picture-perfect makeup and hair battlestation. She’d found it at a flea market last year, and it was nasty: dust-covered, broken mirrors, and paint peeling off of every edge. But with only one weekend of refurbishing, she’d transformed it into something unrecognizable and downright gorgeous.

  Her entire room is chock-full of impulse purchases from antique shops and rummage sales, all of which she placed her own unique touches on through paint and modifications.

  Because my own interior design skills are akin to a color blind ten-year-old, I gave her full decorative control of our apartment—my only involvement acting as an ATM to chip in—and it turned out freaking awesome.

  She reminds me of my mom in that they both prefer furniture and décor not found at your everyday home goods store. But while Lexie’s style is more farmhouse chic/French country, my mom’s is more...eclectic.

  I start to straighten her thick blonde locks, smoothing out excess frizz as she applies her makeup.

  “Any plans tonight?” She lurches towards the mirror to apply a fresh coat of mascara just as I go to straighten a portion of her hair. The straightener closes on air instead.

  “Hold still!” I playfully tap her on the shoulder before answering. “And oh yeah. Big, big plans. I have a date. Actually, five dates.”

  She glances up in complete confusion. “Huh?”

  “Yep. I’m going to do them one by one tonight.”

  She freezes, mascara wand halfway to her eye as shock colors her face.

  I put on a wide smile. “You want to meet them? They’re all in the living room, laying out on the coffee table.”

  She rolls her eyes as she realizes I’m referring to my schoolwork.

  “You are absolutely insane, Rayne.” She laughs and blots a peachy lip stain on her mouth. “For a moment there, I was actually excited. When’s the last time you went on a date? Better yet, when’s the last time you’ve even looked in the direction of a male?”

  I move my head to the side and blow my caramel hair out of my face, making sure she has a full view of my annoyed expression in the mirror.

  “Really? Are we going to have this conversation again? How many times a week are you going to pry into my love life?”

  “I’m not prying.” She gives me a devious grin. “Technically, your love life is nonexistent, and you can’t really pry into something that doesn’t
exist, can you?”

  I snap the straightener together a few times above her head in warning. “You know, insulting someone who has a scolding hot hair tool just inches from your face isn’t the best idea.”

  She ducks away from me and laughs. “Watch it, Psycho!”

  When she sits back up, a rare serious look crosses her face. I brace myself for the incoming lecture.

  “I want to make sure you’re putting yourself out there once in a while.”

  I frown. “I do. I mean, I’ve dated people during college. Greg, remember?”

  She gapes at me, unimpressed. “Uh, sorry, but your LDR high school boyfriend you broke up with two months into college does not count.”

  Yeah, bringing that up didn’t exactly help my case. Whoops.

  I shrug in defense. “So maybe it’s been a while since I’ve had a boyfriend or a random fling. But I don’t need any distractions right now. Especially this semester when I’ve got to be fully focused so I can snag that internship.”

  “But Rayne,” she grumbles as she dabs blush onto the apples of her cheeks. “There is a huge difference between striving for your goals and getting so caught up in them that you forget about the other parts of life, like letting your hair down and living it up once in a blue moon.”

  She finishes off her makeup with some setting powder as I grab a bottle of hairspray and give her ‘do a quick spritz. She stares me down through the mirror and continues. “Achieving your dreams and having fun aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

  That’s easy for her to say. Despite her comment earlier, Lexie is a Wonder Woman. Pre-med with impressive grades, outgoing and super social, and absolutely beautiful to boot, the girl has it all together.

  But me? I feel guilty if I spend any excess time or effort on something not related to my ultimate goal of becoming a sports reporter. Having tunnel vision is the only way I know how to operate when it comes to this. I block out all peripheral distractions like boys and parties so I can focus solely on the important things: my future and my dreams. Concentrating on my central vision is what i need to do.

  Lexie looks at her watch and pops off the stool. “Finished just in time. Thanks!” She gives me a quick hug before pleading with me once more. “At least promise me you’ll be a little more social this year. You used to come out every weekend when we were freshmen!”

  “Yeah, Lex. Because we were freshmen. Post grad life seemed ages away back then. The future is a lot closer now.”

  She pouts. “Come on, R. A few extra social gatherings this semester won’t destroy your chances at the internship. There’s no freaking way.”

  I consider it for a second. Honestly, she’s probably right. It wouldn’t kill me to have some fun, and taking a slight detour out of the tunnel every once in a while isn’t going to screw everything up. Chilling out a bit might do me some good.

  I let out a sigh as I concede. “Fine. I’ll go to a few more parties, but no boyfriends or hook-ups or any of that jazz. That’s where I draw the line.”

  She grins as she grabs her purse. “I’ll take it! See you later!”

  Before I can say goodbye, she’s scooped her keys off the ground and has already flown out the door.

  As I flop myself back onto the large white sofa in the living room, I grab my laptop. I open my inbox, checking my email for any assignments or reminders from my professors.

  Instead, I’m greeted with an email from Dani, the subject line ‘Expectations for the Soccer Piece’ eliciting a growl of frustration from my throat.

  I click on it and skim through the dozens of paragraphs of information.

  …expected to be at every home game… blah, blah, blah… timeline of the season as they gear up towards another College Cup appearance… la di da… three major interviews with Vaughn Steel… etcetera, etcetera…

  I frown as I continue to speed read over the things we’d already discussed at the meeting. I’m about to exit out of the message, but the last few paragraphs catch my attention and I read them thoroughly.

  I know you’re not thrilled about Vaughn being the focus of the piece, but I think you’re looking at this the wrong way.

  He has a past—one that no other reporter has been able to get him to talk about. I’m aware you’re applying for the StadiumScore internship this winter. Imagine being the applicant who broke the Steel Blue story.

  I told Coach Hanson you wouldn’t be asking any personal questions about Vaughn's time in high school or why he lost his spot at UCLA, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get him to tell you about it. The best reporters are the ones to get the news without even having to ask.

  I scratch my head as I consider it. It sounds like a somewhat sleazy thing to do—butter him up to get the scoop on his past.

  But damn if she isn’t right about the internship. If I was able to get information like that? There’s no way in hell they wouldn’t choose me. And if I’m gonna have to put up with Vaughn for the next few months, I deserve to get something out of the deal. A job at StadiumScore in exchange for dealing with this arrogant asshole sounds like a decent trade-off.

  And do I really care about spilling his stupid secret?

  Nope. I really don’t.

  I don’t know why I didn’t come up with this plan myself, honestly.

  I type out a quick reply and hit send.

  I’ll do whatever it takes to get his story.

  I close my laptop and flip on the TV, searching through the channels to find something that will suffice as background noise while I work on my homework. I settle on a rerun of House Hunters and pick up my first assignment. Time to get some work done.

  A few hours later, my phone begins buzzing on the side table to my left. I reach for it absentmindedly, my eyes still focused on the paper in front of me, deep in concentration.

  I assume it’s my dad wanting to know how my first week is going, but just as I’m about to answer I glance down. A name I did not expect to see flashes across the screen.

  Incoming Call: Vaughn Steel

  I’m suddenly jolted out of my studying trance, all of my attention now on my phone.

  What the hell? Why is he calling me?

  When Dani gave me his number after the meeting, I’d been under the impression that I would be the one contacting him to set up the interviews.

  That doesn’t appear to be the case.

  I flip off the TV and answer, confusion riddled in my voice.

  “Hello?”

  Booming music and muffled voices blare through the speaker, but no words are spoken.

  I try again, louder. “HELLO?”

  No response.

  I frown and look down at the screen.

  Did he butt dial me? Am I screaming hello to his ass right now?

  Just as I’m about to hang up, a deep voice finally comes through.

  “Hey, it’s Vaughn. This the reporter chick?”

  Reporter Chick? Really?

  “Uh, yes. This is the reporter chick. Who has a name, by the way.”

  “Sorry,” he says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “The only info I have on you is your phone number, you’re doing some school article on me, and that you’re a girl.” He pauses for a second. “You are a girl, right?”

  “Obviously.” I frown, insulted by the question. “Can you seriously not tell from my voice?”

  “It’s difficult.” He starts laughing. When I refuse to join in, he must realize I’m not entertained. “I’m joking around, babe.”

  “Hilarious,” I say dryly, contemplating if hanging up on him would be in bad taste.

  “Okay, Reporter Chick. What’s your name?”

  “Rayne Everett.”

  An amused grunt echoes over the speaker. “Rayne? As in ‘rain, rain, go away? Come again another day?’”

  “That’s the one.” I roll my eyes, letting the annoyance I’m feeling seep through in my voice. Time to get to the end of this pointless conversation. “Did you have a reason for calling? I was
planning on contacting you next week to set up a time to meet and do a basic, get-to-know-each-other interview, but—”

  “Let’s do it now,” he interrupts. “Interview number one.”

  “Now as in right now?”

  “No, now as in tomorrow,” he says caustically. “Yeah, right now.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Why not?”

  I sigh. “I’m not really a fan of phone interviews.”

  “That’s nice, but I’m not talking about doing a phone interview. I’m at Rabbit’s Foot,” he says, naming a popular bar on downtown Dublin Drive that I hear referenced often on campus. “Meet me here and let’s fucking do this. Get to know each other.”

  His voice radiates cockiness, like there’s no way I would turn the great Steel Blue down, but dude’s crazy if he thinks I’m about to interview him at some trashy college bar.

  “I don’t think so.”

  I figure that’ll be the end of the conversation, but my rejection doesn’t seem to phase him.

  “You have other plans? Going out? Fancy date?”

  By the presumptuous tone of his voice, I can tell he knows what my answer is going to be. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, I try to lie.

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah?” He chuckles. “Where you going?”

  I quickly try to think of a place—any place—to name, but my brain chooses this exact moment to malfunction, and I draw a total blank.

  This is what happens when you never utilize your lying skills. You crack under pressure.

  “None of your business,” I snap out.

  Shoot. Worst thing I could’ve said.

  There’s nothing more damning than a snippy None of your business.

  And he totally picks up on it.

  “That’s what I thought. Get your ass down here, babe. It’s the first weekend of the semester, and nobody should be sitting at home alone.”