by McKinley May
My fingers tighten around my cup, back teeth grinding at the memories.
“Look, Rayne,” I say, seriousness laced in my voice. “I want you to know I'm not that guy anymore. That's not me. I just want to make sure you know that.”
There's an unreadable expression on her face, and for a moment I'm worried she's going to ask for more details. But when she opens her mouth to respond, all she says is “I believe you,” and I'm pretty sure she means it.
I give her a small nod in response and take a drink of my coffee, an uncharacteristically awkward tension lingering between us.
Thankfully, it's cut short when my phone begins vibrating obnoxiously on the table.
I reach for it—happy for the interruption—but when I see Weston's name pop up repeatedly on my screen, I let out an irritated grumble.
Weston: When you gonna be back? FIFA tourney going on.
Weston: I’m tired of kicking Collin’s ass. Get over here.
Weston: Bring beer. Running low.
Rayne's eyes flick between me and my phone, intrigued.
“Another lady fan?”
“Worse. It’s Weston.”
I quickly type back a response.
Me: Dude you text like a chick. A stage 5 clinger chick. I’m w/ Rayne. Be back soon.
Weston: I can’t help it. I just love you so much Steel Blue <3 <3 <3 Ur the One 4 Me.
Me: Fuck you
Weston: Bring Rayne. She’s more than welcome to join us. She can be on my team ;)
I grit my teeth and barely refrain from sending him another “fuck you” message. He’s such a pain in my ass, but I do agree with him on one thing; I wouldn’t mind having Rayne over tonight to hangout with us. Before I can extend the invitation, she checks her phone and starts to rise.
“I better head out. I'm going home this weekend and haven't packed my stuff yet.” I feel a rush of disappointment as she raises her cup at me. “Thanks again for the drink. See you later.”
She turns and walks off, veering for the exit. Before I realize what the hell is happening, I'm out of my seat and chasing her down, placing a hand on her shoulder when I reach her.
“When are we going to meet up again? Soon?”
Soon?
Jesus.
And was that...desperation in my voice? The fuck?
Real smooth there, buddy.
Lucky for me, she doesn’t seem to detect anything out of the ordinary with my question. Instead, she places a finger to her chin as she thinks it over.
“You know what? Yeah. You made me feel shitty for not knowing your major, so I think it's time we get a little more personal. Are you busy Monday?”
“Not really,” I say as we push open the doors and step outside.
“Sweet.” She swipes on her sunglasses. “I’m going to shadow you.”
I laugh out loud. “Shadow me? I'm not a doctor, Raynie.”
“Doesn't matter. Look, there's only so much I can learn about you from interviews. I need to see you in action, get a feel for what it's really like to juggle life as a student athlete. What's the first thing you do on Mondays?”
“Weight training with the team.”
“Great. I'll be there to observe. And I'll be following you the rest of the day, too, whenever it doesn't conflict with my classes.” I can see the wheels turning in her head, the far-off glint in her gaze as she enters full-on reporter mode and creates a plan of attack for Monday. “Also, I'm bringing a list of questions unrelated to soccer. You better brush up on your favorite things this weekend because ‘I don't know’ is not gonna fly with me. I expect actual, thought-out answers, and I won't accept anything less.”
Damn.
She's laying down the law here.
I rub the back of my neck. “Anybody ever tell you you're a little intense?”
She frowns. “I’m just covering my bases, Steel. I'm supposed to get to know you so I can write the best article possible, and that's exactly what I'm going to do.” She glances down at her phone again. “I really better go. I don't want to hit Friday traffic.”
“Alright, so, Monday morning?” I ask as we’re about to head our separate ways.
“Monday morning,” she repeats affirmatively.
“Weight room?”
“Weight room it is.” She gives me a confirmation nod.
“Five am?”
“Five am—” Horror passes over her face as the words soak in. “Wait, what?!”
12
When I drag myself into the student athlete gym facility on Monday, the first thing I see is Vaughn sitting on a bench beside the weight room entrance. As I approach him, I notice he's wide awake, bright-eyed, and waaaay too happy looking for five in the freakin' morning.
Gross.
He's a morning person.
Figures.
He lifts his head up, grinning as he takes in my zombie-esque demeanor.
“Morning, Sunshine!”
The second his much-too-cheerful voice assaults my half-asleep senses, I wince in pain, holding up a hand to silence him.
“I need, like, thirty more minutes to wake up. Then we can chat.”
I rub my eyes as he turns and grabs something next to him on the bench. When he swivels back around, he's holding out a styrofoam cup, the rich smell of espresso exuding from it already pepping me up a bit.
“This might help,” he says, this time at a much more tolerable volume. I eagerly accept his offering and thank him.
He grabs his gym bag, and I follow him to the entrance where he uses his ID badge to unlock the doors. We head inside, the motion-sensor lights flickering on to reveal the nicest weight room I've ever seen. The place is enormous and filled with state-of-the-art equipment, all personalized in Windhaven blue and silver.
It's completely empty and eerily quiet, the echoes of our feet on the floor the only sound. I take a seat in a fold-out chair against the wall as Vaughn heads for the opposite corner. He pulls out his phone and plugs it into a cord hanging from the wall. After a few seconds of him thumbing the screen, the soft beat of country music fills the room.
He glances over at me and nudges his head towards the speakers, silently asking if I'm okay with the music. I nod and give him a thumbs up, extremely relieved he's not a heavy metal fan.
I spend the next twenty-five minutes sipping my coffee, the warm liquid slowly but surely bringing me back to life as I quietly observe. Even though I've yawned about fifteen times and this place reeks of dirty gym socks, I can't really complain. Watching Vaughn work out is surprisingly entertaining.
He's in the zone, so focused and determined with each set of exercises it's like a whole new side of him. The carefree jokester who walks around with a big, charming smile plastered on his face is nowhere to be found. Instead, I'm viewing someone who's dead serious about this work, putting maximum effort into every single set.
I watch as he does leg work, powerful quads flexing beneath golden skin and strong calves tightening and relaxing with each calculated movement. He completes so many sets my own muscles want to cry out in pain.
Now I can truly understand how he has a body carved by the gods; he works his freaking ass off for it.
When the coffee has achieved its intended purpose, I head over to him. He's taking a quick break, chugging a sports drink as tiny beads of sweat roll down his temples.
“How's it going?” I question, sitting down next to him.
He finishes his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before smirking at me. “She's back from the dead.”
“Barely,” I admit, watching as he reaches down to retie one of his shoelaces. I notice a big purple-blue outline of a hexagon pattern above his knee—the beginnings of a deep soccer ball bruise forming.
“How was your game last night?”
I realize I never got the chance to check the score or text him about it yesterday during my drive back to campus.
One corner of his mouth turns down as rage simmers in his eyes.
> “Rough. Lakeside’s dirty as fuck, and the refs were pansy-ass bitches who refused to do anything about it. When a team's had twenty fucking fouls in the first thirty minutes of play, you throw out a damn card or two, get them under control.”
Vaughn catches me eyeing his bruise and laughs. “You think that's bad? Weston took a sucker punch straight to the face and looks like a one-eyed raccoon. Side-ref saw the guy do it, too, and he still wouldn't call shit.” He drags a hand through his hair and an exasperated breath escapes him. “Whatever. We managed to scrape by with a 1-0 win, so fuck them.”
I nod sympathetically before noticing something. “Where are your teammates, anyway? Didn't you say this was team weight training?” I swivel my head, glancing around the barren room.
“Team weight training starts at six-thirty. I like to get here a little early and do some extra reps beforehand.”
My eyes go wide as saucers. “A little early? An hour and a half is more than a little early.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I like having the place to myself so I can really focus and get shit done.” He glances at me and grins. “But since you're here distracting me, I could use a spot. Might as well get some use out of you.”
He lightly bumps me with his shoulder and I not-so-lightly bump him back.
“Ass,” I mumble before quickly shaking my head at his suggestion. “And I'm not spotting you. I can't take on that kind of responsibility. What if the great Steel Blue gets injured on my watch? They'd put a warrant out for my arrest. The student body would probably burn me at the stake.”
“Damn, you're melodramatic as fuck.” He lets out a low chuckle. “I’m not gonna get injured, babe. I promise. It's just a precaution. I'll lower the weight if that makes you feel better.”
I sigh and he takes that as concession. Standing, he grabs the hem of his sweaty, cobalt blue t-shirt. He rips it over his head in one swift motion to reveal his sculpted chest and torso in all their glistening glory.
Startled, I take a cautionary step back.
“Is it really necessary to take that off?” I demand, flashbacks to the towel incident running rampant through my mind. At least this time I manage to keep my face from flushing red.
“No worries, you can thank me later.” He tosses it to the side and shoots me a haughty smile. “Ready?”
He gets situated on the benchpress, and I assume the position above him. As he works, I try to focus solely on the bar and not the way his pecs and abs contract or the strained, heavy breaths he's taking with each rep.
But the way I'm standing directly above him, the unwavering eye-contact he's making with me as he lets out habitual groans of effort, a sheen layer of sweat building on his brow...
Yeah, it's a little more intimate than I expected.
I forgot that weight lifting could be so…erotic.
I clear my throat and avert my eyes for the remainder of the workout.
Finally, he finishes and I'm off the hook; he’s injury-free and I kept myself from getting too hot-and-bothered by his stupid physique.
He's toweling off when he turns to face me.
“My favorite food is steak,” he states matter-of-factly, as if blurting out your food preferences without prompt is the most normal thing in the world.
“Okay... that's really...nice?” I remark, unable to mask my confusion.
Laughing, he explains himself. “You said you wanted me to be prepared with my favorites. You haven't started asking me any yet, so I took the initiative to get the ball rolling.”
“I didn't want to interrupt your workout,” I protest.
He nods towards the free weights. “I’m gonna do some high rep/low weight shit, so I can answer some stuff during that.”
Following him over there, I grab my recorder and notebook with my questions out of my bag. I stand next to him as he begins doing overhead presses and read the first question on the list.
“Favorite movie?”
“Easy. The Shawshank Redemption.”
“Favorite—”
“Yours?”
“What?”
“What's your favorite movie?”
“Why?”
“Uh, because this is a two-way street, Raynie. You said we need to get to know each other, yeah? Well” —he presses the weights into the air—“I think I deserve to know a little bit about you, too. It's only fair.”
I’m slightly taken aback by his interest in getting to know me, but also strangely flattered? This is the first time I’ve gotten this request during an interview, so I decide to give it a shot.
“Titanic,” I answer.
“Classic.”
“And sushi. For the food one,” I add.
“Raw fish? No thanks,” he says with an exaggerated shudder.
“I didn't ask for your commentary, Steel.” I roll my eyes before reading off the next question. “Favorite color?”
“Blue,” he answers without hesitation. He raises his cerulean eyes to mine and winks. “But you probably could've guessed that one.”
And so it goes for the next ten minutes—me battering off questions followed by both of us answering. He switches from overhead presses to bicep curls just as I switch from “favorites” to “this-or-thats”.
Although I'm not planning on using even half of this info in the feature, I'm glad I decided to do this. The longer we go back-and-forth, the more I get to see the kind of guy Vaughn is; I learn about his personality, his pet-peeves and can't-live-withouts, and what we have in common. It allows me to see there's more to him than being some hunky super jock—it humanizes him, in a way.
When I come to the end of my list, I don't want to stop, so I start winging some questions. Most are admittedly lame, and Vaughn doesn't hesitate to softly snicker at some of them. But it's not until I ask “apples or oranges?” that he stops mid-curl to make a remark.
“Seriously? Apples or oranges?” He quirks a brow as he puts on the most sardonic voice he can muster. “Hard-hitting questions over here. Truly ground-breaking stuff.”
“Hey!” I snap, batting him with my notebook. “Don't question my questions. Now answer.”
“Apples. But only the green ones.”
“Yuck,” I mutter, jotting his response down with a shake of my head.
“Raynie…” He pauses for a second before giving me the world’s biggest shit-eating grin. “Did I ask for your commentary?”
The next few hours go by quickly. Their assistant coach shows up around six am, and he’s more than willing to answer some questions I have for him about the team. Players start arriving in small groups over the next thirty minutes, and although they’re battered and bruised from last night, they get to work right away. I wave hello to Cameron, and Weston strolls over to show me his eye, which is black-and-blue and completely swollen shut.
I finally get introduced to the other two Treehouse boys: Diego, a wild child who immediately plugs in his phone to blast Bachata music on full volume, and Parker, the only one of Vaughn’s roommates who doesn’t have an ego the size of a hot air balloon.
After they finish up, I wait for Vaughn to shower and then we head to one of the on-campus dining halls to eat breakfast. It’s only 8:30 am when we finish, but I’m already exhausted and ready for a long, cozy nap. I have no idea how he works out for two and a half hours, goes to a full day of classes, and then ends the night with another two hour practice without dying. I’m practically comatose just thinking about it.
As we’re walking out of the dining hall, I stifle a yawn before turning to him.
“Alright, where to next?”
He shifts his backpack from one shoulder to the other and looks down at me with a sly grin. “Accelerated Multivariable Calculus.”
“Oh.” I crinkle my nose. “Want to meet up afterwards?”
He frowns. “What? You’re not coming? Do you have class?”
“No,” I answer truthfully. I don’t have my first lecture until noon, but the thought of sitting throu
gh something called Accelerated Multivariable Calculus makes me wish it was right now.
I mean, seriously?
It sounds like my own personal version of hell.
Vaughn laughs. “Then come to my class. It’s not that bad, I swear. You want to see what a day in my life is like, right?”
“Did I say that?” I tap my finger to my chin. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“Rayne.” He levels me with a pointed stare.
“Fine,” I mutter reluctantly. “I do want to observe what a ‘normal’ day for you looks like.”
“Well, a Monday in my life includes Multivariable Calc. So let’s go.”
He grabs the crook of my elbow. I grudgingly allow him to lead me through campus, but not without voicing my displeasure at his degree choice the entire way there.
He drags me into a large lecture hall I’ve never been in before. It’s got comfy, auditorium seating and a massive white board with complicated math problems scrawled all over it. We’re fifteen minutes early and the room is fairly empty, giving us our choice of seats.
I follow Vaughn as he walks down the steps, but when we’re about five rows from the head of the room and not showing any signs of slowing down, I yank on his shoulder.
“What are you doing? Why are you going to the front?” I question and he spins around to look at me.
“I’m going to teach the fucking class, Raynie,” he deadpans before letting out a sigh. “I’m getting a seat. What the hell else would I be doing?”
“But why the front?”
“Best seat in the house,” he says, tilting his head at me curiously. “What? You’re not a front row student?”
