Root (Band Nerd Book 2)

by Danica Avet

  Terrible smiles at me, a full smile this time, and I’m actually taken aback by how attractive he is. I’ve spent so much time—okay, not really, this is only the second time I’ve ever seen him and I’ve had Anders to think about—terrified by the aura he projects, that I haven’t realized how handsome he is.

  But before he can ask whatever question has him tormenting me today, the doors of the auditorium open and students start pouring into the room, the noise making it impossible for him to be heard. He glances over his shoulder and turns back with a shrug.

  “To be continued,” he says ominously, giving me another wink as he walks away, leaving me and Anders in the corner.

  “Come on,” the giant says with a gentle squeeze of my knee. “Let’s get you to your next class.”

  I obey because, despite all the weirdness going on, I have to concentrate on school. I gather my notebook—with my side of the written conversation with Anders in it—and stuff it inside my Rocket backpack. Thinking Anders is waiting for me to go first, I shoulder the bag and start to pass him, but he stops me dead in my tracks.

  How?

  By grabbing my free hand in his. His palm is huge, his fingers long, and despite my own mannish hands—at least that’s what Nathan always said when he acknowledged my existence—his hand swallows mine whole. Like I see my wrist, the back of my hand, but the rest is lost in the massiveness of Anders De Groot, making me feel delicate and safe.

  “Where’s your next class?” he asks and I look from our hands to him. He’d been staring down at me so our gazes locked. His cheeks turn red, making my face heat up in answer.

  “I have English 101 on the second floor,” I whisper. “Room 248.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just sort of grunts and nods. Then Anders is towing me out of the auditorium, through the crowded halls, acting as a buffer as he leads me all the way to my next class. Several people watch us, some of them other band students and some of them—going by their fit bodies—football players. But Anders doesn’t speak to a single one. When he deposits me at the door of Ms. Dalyrimple’s class, he gives me a nod.

  I frown at him, not sure what happened to have him go silent on me again. I want to say something, but he tilts his head toward the classroom, silently telling me to go inside. Shaking my head, I do as I’m silently commanded, wondering, what the hell is going on now?

  Anders

  This shit with Terrible sets my teeth on edge. I don’t like the way he was looking at her, or how she almost trembled when he did so. And what was with the question he wanted to ask her? I’ve never heard that Terrible hurts any of the girls who flock to him. If anything, most of his bad reputation is based on his sex life, which yeah, I don’t want to go there. I don’t care who the boy fucks as long as it isn’t my girl. And I don’t think that’s what he has planned for her. Still, I don’t like him even talking to her.

  Where this possessiveness comes from I have no clue, but I imagine it comes from never having anything to call my own before. And even though she can stop my brain functions with a single look, I want Lena to be mine. It’s like a fire lit inside me from the minute I saw her. Logic tells me it’s all biology. Pheromones that say our genetics are compatible, that we’d create healthy, strong children together. And maybe that’s true, but when she looks at me… It’s like feeling the sun on my face for the first time after a long, hard winter. It warms me inside and out, excites me, calms me. Crazy.

  I sigh like a complete and utter sap over a girl I’ve only said a few words to. The other words were spoken to Terrible, which don’t count.

  I stand in the hall until the bell rings, watching as Lena takes a seat in the back of the class just like she did in Music Appreciation. No one sits next to her, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. I am though. Why is she so… Alone would be the word I’m looking for. I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she seems to shrink into herself, as though she’s trying to avoid garnering anyone’s attention. Or the way she stared at me in near awe when I asked her out to coffee, as though no one’s ever done that.

  Okay, part of me is glad she’s so visibly surprised because if no one’s noticed how beautiful and sweet she is, it means she’s free for the taking. I just need to talk to her. No, I need to text with her a while, then talk with her on the phone. Hopefully this tongue-tied bullshit won’t extend to conversations via the phone. Then, then I’ll probably be able to speak to her in person. Just need to get her to text me…

  I blink at her profile through the small window set in the door. She didn’t write down my number. I would’ve seen that. And I didn’t get hers in return.

  Groaning, I spin away from the door, barely refraining from smacking myself in the forehead. How could I be so stupid? How’s she going to fucking text me if she doesn’t have my number?

  Fuck, I’m an idiot!

  Lena

  By the time sixth period came around, it started to rain. Frosty decided we just needed to work on the drills, sans instruments except for Crash, who has his snare on beneath his poncho. The steady beat of the drum is all we have to go by as we march in the rain, going through the formations. Oh, and humming our parts.

  Witnessing 300 students slogging through the mud, humming like their lives depend on it, has to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. Not a bad weird, just a strange kind of weird, and I’m glad. Making sure I don’t slip on my ass in the middle of the field keeps me from thinking about Anders and Terrible. For the most part at least.

  “Okay guys, final song and let’s call it a day; get out of the rain before we all end up with trench foot or something,” Frosty says through her megaphone.

  Crash counts off the start of “Uptown Funk” and we start humming and marching again. Everything goes just fine until we move to the last set. My final coordinates have me going ten yards in fifteen steps, which means I need to stretch my legs a little more than usual. That’s perfectly fine. I’ve done it at least a hundred times since we started practicing in the summer. But it just so happened this is also one of the few moments I allowed myself to think about Anders. Why? Because I swear I see him standing on the edge of the practice field watching us. Watching me.

  I blink the rain out of my eyes, trying to see better and yes, that has to be him. He’s wearing a poncho as well—it seems the athletic department got a big bundle of the damn things like the Music Department did—but it barely reaches his thighs, he’s just that big. And it might be raining buckets, making everything hard to see, but even at a distance I see those amazingly blue eyes of his.

  That’s when it happens. The one thing I pray every marching season doesn’t happen. I slip. It isn’t just a slip though, it’s a slide. My long strides, roll-stepping the way it’s been drilled into my head since I first started marching, has me hitting a patch of mud churned up by dozens of feet. At first, I just skid a little. If I’d just put my weight down, I probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere.

  But I didn’t. Instead, when I feel the sole of my sneaker slide an inch, I throw out my arms and overcorrect my balance. My foot goes out in front of me, the rest of me following behind as I slide along the sideline, my body creating a furrow in the ground that probably resembles the San Andreas Fault. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but I’m blaming that on embarrassment and pain because when I come to a stop a few feet down the sideline, my butt hurts, my tongue is bleeding from biting it, and I wish I would’ve just buried myself.

  There were a lot of gasps, a lot more laughs, and one horrified, “Oh no!” that I recognize as coming from Frosty. I lie on the ground, rain falling all around me, and pray to drown from the downpour. That doesn’t happen. Instead, the ground shakes beneath me, the splash of footsteps approach, then someone’s sliding through the mud next to me. Splatters of it go everywhere, my face, my hair, even in my mouth and I lift an arm to shield myself from more. I’d eaten enough dirt already.

  “Are you okay? Can you move?”

  The questi
ons come at me in the last voice I expect and I wipe at my eyes, probably smearing more mud over my face, to see Anders leaning over me, his blue eyes wide and concerned.

  “Lena? Can you move?” He starts… Touching me. Not like groping me or anything, but those big hands of his seem to be everywhere at once, leaving trails of heat through my clothes. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “Is she okay?” Frosty demands as she joins him at my side, her face pale.

  My friends and a few other band students run up as well, creating a huddle around me that reminds me of a shot you’d see in some movie around a gravesite. Embarrassment has fled in the face of mortification. I can’t even bite back my groan, which only makes Anders’ face harder, as though he’s trying to friggin’ X-ray me with his eyes.

  “I think maybe we should get her to Health Services.” I’m vaguely aware of Frosty looking around as though she expects an ambulance and gurney to appear out of nowhere.

  “I’ll take her,” Anders announces. “Edwards Athletic Complex. Trainers.”

  “I’m o— Shit!” I finish with a squeak. because he doesn’t even let me finish. He just scoops me up off the ground, the mud making an embarrassing squelching sound, and hefts me against his chest. “Oh my god!”

  Now, in romance books the heroine frequently feels as though she has to grab onto the hero if he picks her up. But most of the time she’s a tiny thing, fragile, and it just happens. What the books never say is how friggin’ terrifying it is to be picked up and swung up against someone’s chest. Maybe that’s why the heroines always throw their arms around the hero’s neck? Maybe they were scared?

  I don’t know, but what I do know is that I do that exact same thing. I just know we’re going down. But that wasn’t the scariest part. No, I squeal as he hauls himself to his feet. With me. In. His. Arms. My heart feels as though it’s about to pound right out of my chest from a combination of the aforementioned mortification, awe, and terror. When he starts carrying me, I already see him falling, us both hitting the ground with me on top, breaking something important in him—like his spleen or spine—and he’ll end up in the hospital.

  But I underestimated Anders. Obviously he does strength training by pulling trains and Mack trucks, because not only does he not bend or break under my weight, he moves with surprising grace as he picks his way through the mud. I can’t seem to relax my hold on his neck, which allows me to peek over his broad shoulder to see Nessie, Jolene, and Becca following behind. Frosty is already trying to regain some semblance of order out of the gawking band students, but my attention quickly returns to the boy— No, Anders is clearly a man. I stare up at the profile of the man holding me, his face a study of concern and concentration as he carries me to the athletic complex.

  He isn’t even breathing hard. Yet.

  “I can walk,” I whisper. The last thing I want, well other than this whole situation to have even happened, is for him to hurt himself, or you know, start huffing and puffing from exertion. “I’m okay to walk.”

  He ignores me, but he flicks me a look that clearly says he doesn’t believe me. And if I thought I was going to prove I was able to walk by leaping from his arms, he tightens his hold on me, securing me against him until my boobs are intimately acquainted with his chest.

  Face blistering from my mighty blush, I stare at his cheek, at the rivulets of rain that streak over his skin. He smells good. Like Ivory soap and fresh laundry, with something even deeper than all that I can’t recognize. The scents are familiar, yet not.

  And if I keep thinking about that, I’ll probably lick him or something. So, instead, I try to remember the last time anyone carried me. I know it was Dad. I can almost feel the rocking of his strides as he brought me to bed. I must have been about seven at the time and I’d fallen asleep on the sofa while watching Lion King. The year before he left me for good.

  Closing my eyes against the tears stinging them, I rest my head on Anders’ shoulder. I concentrate on the here and now, on the movement of his muscles, the strong, steady beat of his heart, and the sense of security he brings to me.

  “Coach!” Anders bellows as soon as we hit the lobby of the complex.

  I’ve never been in here before, so I lift my head to look around, taking in the trophies that fill an entire wall, pictures of the coaching staff on another wall, a few chairs, and an unmanned desk. Two hallways jut off on either side of the reception area end in thick, steel doors, one of which opens with a clang.

  A man wearing a Sauvage State University Athletic Department polo emerges, dark hair sticking up as though he’s been running his fingers through it, a neatly trimmed beard covering the lower half of his face, and intense dark eyes taking in the sight of me in Anders’ arms. I feel my eyes widen in awe, in shock. Shaun “Steady” Decker. My teenage crush, the tight-end who singlehandedly won—and lost—Nathan fat chunks of cash over his professional career, and is now the Spartans’ Assistant Coach.

  And he’s looking right at me. If I were standing, I would’ve probably hit the ground since my legs go numb at having his attention.

  “What happened?” he asks as he comes toward us.

  Anders meets him halfway. “Slipped on the field.”

  Coach Steady nods and gives me a head-to-toe scan. “Let’s get her into one of the exam rooms. I can have Cody make sure she’s okay.” He glances over at my friends, then me. “Band students?” I nod like a bobble head and that’s when he smiles, the tanned skin around his eyes crinkling. I bite back a sigh. “Katie’ll be here any minute, I’m sure. Do you guys want to wait out here, or are you all going in the exam room with…”

  “Lena,” Anders grunts, already heading for the exam rooms.

  “We’ll stay here,” Becca says, causing me to peek over his shoulder again, aghast that they were going to leave me.

  She grins like…well, like the maniac I’m starting to believe she is. Waiting until Coach Steady turns to follow Anders, she shakes her hand out in the universal sign for “hot”, Nessie and Jolene cover their mouths to keep their chuckles quiet. I glare at them all. The traitors.

  Anders

  I walk into the first open exam room we come to, striding over to the table to set my delicate burden down. Bunching the back of the poncho in my fist, I place her on the edge of the table, taking the damp material with me. I’m extra careful with her, or I try to be, not wanting to cause her any more pain.

  Yet as soon as her butt touches the table, she lets out a little whimper of pain that nearly brings me to my knees again. When I saw her go down, I swear my heart leapt somewhere into my throat, and I couldn’t seem to run fast enough to get to her. I didn’t care that it wasn’t really my place to carry her off that field, or that she thought she could walk on her own. My only thought had been to get her to someone who could fix her.

  She meets my gaze, little lines between her eyebrows, showing me her pain.

  Plucking at the wet poncho, I force myself to look away, needing my voice and the right words. “Need this off.” Now her eyes go wide, shocked. If I ever had any doubt she was the kind of good girl who didn’t let just anyone undress her, she just squashed it. “Poncho. Off.”

  Understanding gleams in those pretty eyes. I feel my face heat. I’d love to get her out of all of her clothes. Just not in the middle of the athletic complex with my coach in the hall and her friends in the lobby. Or you know, the trainer about to walk in any minute.

  I give her space to lift the poncho up and over her head, only reaching out to take it from her so she could—

  The raincoat gets crushed in my hands as I take in the wet T-shirt clinging to her chest and stomach. Up until now, I’ve been concentrating only on taking care of her aches and pains, but now I’m acutely aware of my own pain below the waist.

  Either the goddamn poncho was too big for her or it was defective, since the front of her white—of course it had to be white—T-shirt is nearly transparent from the deluge still pounding on the roof of the complex. The A/C
is on. I can’t feel it with the adrenaline and lust pounding through me, but I know she does. I can see she does because her nipples are standing at sharp attention. She shivers and I swear those little buds become even tighter, taunting me with what I can’t have.

  Before she realizes my dick is pointing right at her like a friggin’ compass finding north, I turn and rip off my own poncho, dropping both of them in the corner. God must hate me. This is the kind of torture I don’t need right now. I need to get her covered up. Need to hide those beauties before Cody the Cocksucker gets here to check her over. Don’t get me wrong; he’s a nice enough guy, a good trainer, but I’ve heard him talk about the women he’s been with so I don’t need to be a genius to know he’s going to enjoy looking at her breasts. And I’ll kill him if he does.

  Finally finding a stack of clean hospital blankets in the last cabinet I check, I haul one out, snap it open and cross the room to wrap it around Lena’s shoulders. She smiles her thanks and my heart trips.

  “Okay, Steady said you have someone who fell?” Cody says as he walks into the room, already tugging on a pair of nitrile gloves.

  “Me,” Lena mumbles, dropping her gaze to look at herself.

  Now that her breasts are covered, I do a visual scan of her. She has mud caked in her hair, down the backs of her bare legs, and smaller splatters as well as a large smear on her face. A small trickle of dried blood stains the corner of her lips, making my heart twist in my chest. I hate that she was hurt.

  “What happened exactly?” he asks as he starts to run his hands over her legs.

  I stiffen at the sight of him touching her. I must make a sound because he pauses with his hands on her knee—my knee—and looks up at me. “Root, you wanna maybe step outside for a few minutes?”

  I should. What if he has to like, take her shorts off or something? My hands clench at the thought. No fucking way. “I’ll stay.”

  Cody clears his throat and continues checking her legs, although he does it a lot quicker with me standing right over him. Lena tells him what happened, pausing now and then to answer questions he asks as he looks her over. He eases off her shoes and socks, leaving her bare footed, and even I can tell her right ankle is sprained. When you’ve had as many high ankle sprains as I have, you know what to look for and the way she hisses in a breath, her face paling when he touches it, is answer enough. Even knowing it most likely isn’t anything more serious than a mild sprain, I dart forward to take her hand in mine, as though that would help her get through the pain.