The Southern Nights Series

by M. Never

  “I’m not that guy anymore,” I argue petulantly.

  “You sure?” she toys with me.

  “Yesss,” I cross my arms. “So, how did you end up my tutor anyway?” I’m completely invested in the story now.

  Laney looks guilty as she fiddles with the pen she’s holding. “I sort of stepped in.”

  “Stepped in how?”

  “I felt bad for Julius. He looked so uncomfortable. So, I told Principal Adams that I was your chem partner and was worried about my grade. And maybe it would be better if I was your tutor so we could stay on the same page.”

  “And he bought that?”

  “Yeah, Julius couldn’t bow out fast enough.” She giggles freely. Man, did I miss that sound.

  “So, now you have to put up with me?”

  Laney shrugs. “As long as you don’t try to give me a wedgie, things should be fine.”

  I laugh. I may not give her a wedgie, but I will definitely try to get as close to her underwear as possible. Ideally, pulling them off with my teeth.

  “I’m not making any promises,” I joke.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. I know your M.O.” She eyes me judgmentally.

  Ouch.

  “Let’s just get to studying,” I suggest. I don’t want her running for the hills before we even get started.

  “It’s what I’m here for. Start with history?” She sits back down in the chair at my desk and folds her feet under her legs Indian-style. She looks so cute sitting there, in my room, even though I wish she was in my bed. I shake the thought off—I can keep dreaming. If Laney wanted no part of me before, it couldn’t help my case that she found Darla pawing all over me earlier.

  “Let’s read the chapter and do the review questions at the end. That’s the request from most of your teachers. I’m supposed to bring tests to you on Friday. But according to the notes, they can be open book. You sure have the life,” she quips.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask defensively.

  “Nothing. You’re big man on campus and definitely treated as such.” Laney flips open her history book.

  “It’s not my fault I’m good at football.”

  “I never said there was anything wrong with being a good athlete. But you can’t deny you get the royal treatment.” She defends her statement.

  I sigh. “I can’t change that. It is what it is.” Unless I never play football again. And then my future, and my life, is fucked. “Weren’t there people in your old high school who were popular? Who got to slide on things?”

  “Sure, there were.” She smirks, still looking down at her book.

  “And it didn’t bother you?”

  Laney’s smile gets bigger.

  “What am I missing, Lemon?”

  She looks up at me with just her eyes. “It was me. I was treated just like you.”

  “You?”

  “My father is a celebrity chef. In New York that’s a big deal.”

  “You’re a total hypocrite.” I accuse.

  “I know. But you’re fun to play with.”

  “You have no idea how much fun I can be.” I insinuate.

  “You’re right, I’m deprived. I guess I’m a masochist.”

  I shake my head. She drives me nuts. And I love it. “Let’s just get to studying.”

  “Way ahead of you.” She flips a page.

  Laney and I read in silence. It’s a chapter on the Korean War, but I’m barely retaining a word. All my attention is focused on the hot brunette sitting across from me, wearing faded jeans that hug her body and a top that resembles a baseball player’s warm-up jersey. I wonder if she wore it on purpose. The shirt’s grey and black with the number fourteen stamped on her chest. I keep glancing at it, wishing it was the number seven. My number.

  “Done yet?” Laney looks up and catches me staring.

  “Yup.” I smile, trying to cover.

  “Good. Let’s answer the study guide questions then compare notes.”

  “Sounds good.” I agree.

  Laney picks up her pen and starts writing while I just stare at the notebook in front of me. Grabbing my pen, holding it awkwardly between my fingers, I read the first question silently. Why did North Korea cross the 38th Parallel and invade South Korea?

  I know the answer. Now I just have to get it onto the paper. I place the ball point tip of the pen on the blue line and attempt to write. North Korea . . . I’m not two words in when my hand starts to shake. The words become nothing but illegible scribbles. My heart hammers in my chest as I try harder and harder to control my hand. But it’s no use. Control is the last thing I have. I throw the pen and notebook across the room. “Fuck!”

  Laney startles and looks up. “What wrong?”

  “I hate the fucking Korean War,” I erupt.

  “What?” Her pretty blue eyes are confused.

  I’m falling apart inside. Every time I try to do anything with my right hand, it ends with something either broken or thrown across the room. The one part of my body I need to work most is being the most difficult, and I’m reminded every damn day that my dreams are slipping away. And I just don’t know how I’m going to handle it when the gauntlet drops and my life disintegrates. Five words will seal my fate: You can’t play football anymore.

  “Kam?” Laney is standing beside me now. How long has she been there? “You okay? You checked out for a second.”

  “I’m fine, Lemon. Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Just this whole healing thing is a little frustrating sometimes.”

  I wonder if she’s buying my bull.

  “Frustrating?” she repeats, like she’s testing the word. “I’d call it more maddening based on your earlier outburst.”

  Nope, not buying my BS for one second. Laney retrieves the notebook and pen from across the room. Watching her bend over makes me feel a little bit better.

  Laney looks down at the pad, and I know I’ve stepped in shit now based on her facial expression. It’s puzzled, and I think a little sad. She looks up at me with soft eyes. I have no idea what to say. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want face the truth if it’s real.

  Laney walks across the room, straight for me. I watch every soft step she takes. My blood heats up. It seems the closer she is to me, the warmer my insides become. And it’s not just from arousal, she also excites my heart.

  Laney makes no qualms about sitting next to me on the mattress. She positions my textbook in front of her and rests my notebook on her lap. Then she grabs my hand and places the pen between my fingers. I tense as she encloses her hand over mine, like how you’d teach a child how to trace. The feel of her skin is euphoric, and I’m at a loss to even come up with a word for the way she smells. I don’t need one; I’m fine just getting high off the scent. It has my cells pumping right along with the rhythm of my pulse. Laney starts to move our connected hands like one.

  “When I was a little girl,” she begins, never looking away from the notebook, “I wouldn’t eat anything but spaghetti. And, being the chef that he is, it drove my father crazy. But after a while, making spaghetti became our thing. He would hold my hand like this.” She squeezes my fingers. “And teach me how to stir the sauce. I wasn’t very good at it, at first. It took a lot of practice. I would flick it all over the stove. But the more spaghetti we made, the better I became at stirring the sauce.”

  Laney stops writing and I look down at the words we wrote together: Practice Makes Perfect.

  Such a simple statement, and maybe before I would have believed it. But now? It seems hopeless.

  “I’m not so sure, Lemon.”

  Laney glances at me, she’s sitting a little bit in front of me so she has to turn her head slightly. The look in her eyes is sexy as hell.

  “I am. You’re Kamdyn Ellis, star quarterback, on and off the field.”

  “What if I never recover? What then? Who will I be then?” My throat tightens with emotion from just the mere thought.

  She shrugs simply. “You’ll ha
ve to figure that out.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It is and it isn’t. I wondered the same thing when my father told me we were moving to Alabama. I thought my life was over. I was leaving everything I knew. My friends, my school, my boyfriend—”

  “Boyfriend?” I interrupt. “You never told me you had a boyfriend.”

  “I don’t. Not anymore. We broke up when I left.”

  “Sorry, ” I offer, although I’m not really sorry at all.

  “It’s okay. It didn’t really break my heart. He was nice, but it wasn’t love.”

  “So, what, now you’re stuck in Alabama totally miserable?”

  “See, that’s the thing. I thought I was going to be miserable, but I’m not. It’s different. Don’t get me wrong, I miss New York terribly, but the country is growing on me.”

  “I don’t think I’d ever be able to get past not playing football.” I look down at my hand, and squeeze it into a fist.

  “You’ll have to accept it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  “I’m not a quitter,” I argue, but there isn’t much fight in my voice.

  “I’m not saying you are. And I’m not saying you won’t fully recover and go on to become a Heisman Trophy winner. I’m just saying that if that doesn’t happen, there are other options. Don’t box yourself in. You might find happiness in unexpected places.”

  “Are you happy, Lemon?” I ask genuinely.

  Laney bats her eyelashes. “I’m getting there.” I don’t know why, but that statement makes me feel the first burst of hope in three weeks. I let go of the pen and turn my hand over, entwining her fingers tightly with mine. She analyzes the gesture.

  “Kam—” she sighs.

  “Laney,” I cut her off, “I’m really glad it’s you and not Orange Julius who’s here.”

  She smirks at me but doesn’t have a chance to respond as my mother chooses that moment to appear with dinner.

  “Homemade mac and cheese like the patient requested.” She halts when she walks into the room and sees me and Laney holding hands on my bed. “Hope I’m not interrupting something?” Oh, crap, she has that ‘you’re in trouble’ tone.

  “No, nothing.” Laney springs up. “Kam was just having some trouble holding the pen. I was trying to help.” She goes over and sits back down at the desk.

  “Oh.” My mother’s face falls. Laney couldn’t have spoken a more perfect sentence. She just got us off the hook big time. My mother knows how hard this recovery is for me. She’s seen the depression take hold and try to drag me under. She isn’t going to blow a little thing like hand holding out of proportion, especially if it preceded an issue with my control.

  My mom places the tray of food on my bed then picks up the extra dish and glass of iced tea and serves Laney. “The deal was I would feed you dinner while you were here. It’s not gourmet like you’re probably used to, but I’ve never had any complaints.”

  Laney smiles up at my mom. “I’m sure it’s amazing. And trust me, sometimes gourmet isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Oh? Your daddy is a world-renowned chef. I can’t imagine you’ve ever eaten a bad meal in your life.”

  “Bad? No. Weird, yes. He tried to put dandelions in the salad when I was twelve.”

  “Really?” I chime in. “That is weird.”

  “It’s only the tip of the iceberg.” Laney shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

  “Well, you must have had a very educational upbringing. Probably nothing like the one we had.”

  “Do you know my father?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Before he was a famous chef, he was just another guy trying to survive home ec.” My mother laughs.

  “You went to high school together?” Laney asks, surprised. “He didn’t say anything to me when I told him I was tutoring Kam.”

  “He probably doesn’t even remember me. He left right after graduation and never looked back.” My mom’s voice sounds sad. “Anyway, eat up. I don’t want you getting home too late.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Laney grabs the bowl and scoops some shells into her mouth. “Wow. This is delicious.”

  My mom smiles. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment, coming from you.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll trade you dandelions for macaroni and cheese any day.” Laney strikes a deal.

  “Done.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say as she leaves the room.

  “Anything for you, dear,” she drawls from the hallway, causing me to smile.

  “Your mom is pretty cool,” Laney comments as she munches away on her dinner.

  “Yeah, she’s the best. I don’t know what I would do without her.” I scoop some macaroni into my mouth with my left hand. It’s so yum.

  “You’d probably have to learn to do your own laundry,” Laney remarks.

  “You’re so funny,” I snark, “I’ll never do my own laundry.”

  Laney snickers. “I believe you.”

  “Hope you know how to sort.” I leer at her.

  Laney pauses with the spoon by her lips, her mouth slightly open. “I’ll never do your laundry, Kam.”

  “We better hire a housekeeper then.”

  “Keep dreaming, all-star.” She smiles and then continues eating. Cock-blocked every time.

  After a small conversation reprieve, I ask, “So, the country is finally growing on you?”

  Laney shrugs. “I guess. I can appreciate the open landscape and living by the lake.”

  “The lake is definitely a bonus.” I agree.

  “I also like that my dad is happy.”

  “He wasn’t in New York?”

  “No. Toward the end of my parents’ marriage, things were really bad. I’m probably the only kid in the world who breathed a sigh of relief when they told me they were getting a divorce. I just didn’t know my father had plans of leaving the state once it was over.”

  “Where’s your mom? Why didn’t you stay with her?”

  “What’s today’s date?” she muses, “I think she’s in Bangkok. She travels a lot, like all the time. That’s why I’m with my dad. He has full custody. All those spaghetti dinners? It was just the two of us.”

  “Do you get along with your mom? Even though you don’t see her?” I don’t know if I’m prying, and I’m sure Laney will let me know once I step over the line, but she seems comfortable enough talking about her mother, so I’m going to push it as far as she’ll let me go.

  “Yeah, actually, she’s great. We talk all the time. I wish I saw her more.” She stabs her spoon into the bowl a few times.

  “Damn. I couldn’t imagine not seeing my mom. I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “I think we established you’d have to learn to do laundry.”

  “Smart-ass.” I would fling some macaroni at her if I could.

  “Yup.” She twists the spoon in her mouth and drags it over her tongue. Damn. Her little gesture just made my dick twitch. “You ready to finish?”

  “Finish?” I ask awkwardly. My pants now have a pulse.

  “Yeah, with studying. You tell me the answers, and I’ll write.”

  “How about you help me write?” How about you just touch me, in general?

  Laney cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “Come on. What happened to practice makes perfect? You can teach me how to stir the sauce.”

  “Oh, using my own words against me. Nice.” She places her bowl down.

  “I’m a competitor. What I can I say? I’ll do anything to win.”

  “I bet.” Laney relents, and comes and sits next to me. “No funny business. We’re studying.”

  I make an X over my heart. “I solemnly swear I’m up to no good.”

  “At least you’re honest.” She grabs my hand, and my senses charge like electromagnetic energy. Her touch feels like the sun brightening a whole new day.

  Maybe recovering isn’t going to be so bad after all.

  I’M UP TO eight mph on the treadmill.

  It
’s been nearly two months, and my body has bounced back with a vengeance. I’m lifting close to what I was before the aneurysm and running almost as far and as long. I feel good. I feel energized, but I’m not out of the woods yet. And that’s frustrating as hell.

  “Nice job, Kam.” Dylan brings my speed down to a brisk walk. I’m panting and sweaty.

  “Thanks. That felt great,” I huff. Dylan laughs his cool, nothing in the world bothers me, laugh.

  “I wish more of my cases said that after a thirty-minute run.”

  “I’m not most cases.” I remind him.

  “No, you’re definitely not. I’ll be bragging about you for the rest of my life.”

  I roll my eyes. “Only brag if I end up becoming someone to brag about.”

  Dylan frowns. “Still having trouble with the coordination?”

  I punch the off button and the treadmill dies. “Yes. I can write and eat now, but I still can’t regain my accuracy. I picked up a football the other day and tossed it at the tire swing a few times. I could barely hit it, let alone get it through the hole.”

  “It will come,” Dylan assures me. Glad he is so confident because I’m freaking out. Spending the last two months with Dylan nearly every day has built our relationship significantly. His laidback attitude annoyed me at first, but now I know it’s just what I needed. When I was battling through reps I used to be able to do in my sleep and on the verge of a meltdown, Dylan kept me calm. He encouraged me, talked to me, and I soon understood the method to his madness. Although, he would argue it isn’t madness, and that I’m the only crazy one in the room. Being on the verge of losing all your hopes and dreams can do that to a person.

  “Yeah, well, it better come soon. The head coach from Alabama checks in on me once a week. And the fact that all I can tell him is ‘I’m working hard, sir’ isn’t really sitting well. I’m afraid I’m going to lose my spot—my chance.”

  “You’re not going to lose anything. Sometimes recovery is as much mental as it is physical. You’re in limbo right now. It will all come together, trust me. It’s just going to take a little time.”

  “A little time is all I have.”

  “You know what you need?”

  “No, do tell,” I respond cynically.