Diego grins, bending at the waist as he pretends to punch me three times in the ribs. “Aww. You guys are so cute.”
With a strangled laugh, I tug Rebecca to my side. “Well, you know how it is.” My hand rests on her shoulder, my palm sweaty. I hate lying. I already do it enough where my dad is concerned. I don’t want to lie to my teammates too.
Luckily, the music resumes, and when one of our defensemen calls, “Who’s up for foosball?” everyone yells, beers held high, and streams back into the living room, leaving us alone.
“Close one,” Rebecca murmurs.
I lift my beer to my mouth, then realize it’s empty. Setting the cup on a nearby table, I grab a bottle someone left unopened next to it. “You’re telling me.” I pop the cap and drink half the bottle in one gulp. My head is swimming. Everyone knows your level of enjoyment at a party is in direct correlation to how much alcohol you drink. I wink at her. “Becky.”
Her lips purse like she just sucked on a lemon. “Please. I hate that name.”
“Why?”
“It’s just not me. Would you like it if I called you Mitch?”
“Sure. My teammates call me that half the time anyway.” It’s obviously not the response she wanted, but maybe I like to poke and prod. I’m having a good time with this girl. Weirder things have happened.
“Your teammates are really nice,” she says, leaning against the wall. She holds the neck of her beer bottle, swinging it from side to side. That hideous pink sweater sags from her shoulders, and I can’t get a good picture of her body shape beneath the blob of fabric. She looks thin, but whether she has curves I can’t tell. For all I know she’s just skin and bones. The kittens splattered over the sweater stare back at me.
“They are,” I agree, and quickly lift my eyes. I can’t tell if she saw me staring at her or not, but she’s smiling at me in a way that makes the anxiousness inside me settle.
I take another sip, pondering this realization. “You seem to have won them over. Kicking their captain’s ass at pool definitely didn’t hurt your case.”
“You’re the captain?”
“The one and only.” I worked my ass off for this position. Long hours coordinating extra conditioning, drills, practice, and networking opportunities. It finally paid off my junior year.
Something shifts in her gaze, as if she’s looking at me in a different light than before, though I’m not sure how. “You must be a good leader then.”
The compliment takes me by surprise. I guess I’m not used to receiving compliments in such a straightforward manner, or at least a compliment that isn’t also an insult, the way my father sometimes does.
My shoulders lift, then fall. “I can’t deny I enjoy bossing my teammates around,” I say with an evil grin. I love my team. The guys look to me for decisions. They trust my judgment, respect me, and in turn, I respect them. “I was surprised they still wanted me as captain after my injury.”
Since my injury, I’d say their respect for me has increased. They’ve seen how hard I’ve worked to heal. It’s both empowering and humbling.
Rebecca licks her lips, and the motion of her tongue draws my focus. Her mouth is a lot fuller than I first thought.
“Um, hello. My eyes are up here.”
My head snaps up. “I wasn’t—” With all the beer I drank, my tongue is thick in my mouth.
“Yeah, sure you weren’t.” But the blue of her eyes sparkles behind her glasses.
The only thing I can do is laugh. Rebecca is chill. Who would have thought?
“Great food, by the way.” She nods to the table piled with fresh sushi, sashimi, and spring rolls. “Where’s it from?”
“Mako’s. You ever been?”
Now she’s curious. “Japanese, right? Off 34th street? I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to go.”
“It’s great.” I almost suggest we go for lunch sometime, but I stop myself. A lunch date might be too awkward of a hang out.
We talk for a while longer before returning to the living room to mingle. Hours later, the party begins to die down. A few people are passed out on various pieces of furniture. Cups and trash everywhere. I say goodbye to Rebecca with a brief, awkward hug, then wait until her car pulls out before heading to my own car. I’m nearly there when I hear Casey say behind me, “Mitchell, you asshole.”
My roommate punches me in the arm, and I whirl around to face him. “What?”
“You’re seriously dating that chick?” His eyes are glassy and he’s whispering loud enough for the next county over to hear him, but at least he’s not driving. That responsibility has fallen to Austin, who, rather than partaking in drinking, decided to watch everyone make an ass out of themselves. Including me.
I say slowly, “I thought we already established this.” The car is parked a few yards away.
“She’s—” A high-pitched giggle escapes, and my stomach suddenly bottoms out. Even though I barely know Rebecca, I don’t want to hear the bullshit about to spew from Casey’s mouth. She doesn’t deserve that. “She looks like a fucking old lady with those clothes.”
Heat creeps up my neck as the truth sinks in, and I wonder how I looked to everyone at the party, what they thought of my hand on her waist or shoulder. Most of the guys seemed to like her. Why should I care if they don’t?
Rebecca is ... well, she’s not the most stunning woman I’ve ever met. And sure, she dresses like a seventy-year-old, but beggars can’t be choosers. As far as I’m concerned, she’s all right. She’s helping paint a convincing picture for my team, my coach, and especially my father, who thinks I’m focusing all my effort on my studies and my brilliant, fake law-school girlfriend. Tonight, my dad thinks she and I are on a date. At the library.
But yeah, those cat sweaters have got to go.
“She’s nice,” I shoot back, heading to the car. Austin unlocks the doors and I slide into the passenger seat, leaving Casey to the back. He grumbles, as his legs are longer than ours, but he’ll just have to suck it up.
“Nice. Sure.” He’s sending me his famous What a load of bullshit look in the rearview mirror. “She must be hiding a sweet package underneath all that wool.” He snorts. “Could you imagine a rocking body under those clothes? It’s like She’s All That: The Sequel.”
“Casey.” My voice is quiet steel.
He flops onto the back seat with a huge sigh.
“Seatbelt,” Austin says.
Mine’s already on, but Casey yanks the belt over his body, the click loud in the cabin of the car.
“So where did you two meet anyway?” Casey wonders. “Bingo night at the senior center?”
Austin sighs and pulls out of the driveway, heading toward home.
“School,” I say, the word clipped. Music would be nice, if only to drown out Casey’s opinions. My roommate’s never been one for subtlety. Normally I let his bluntness roll off my back, but now that Rebecca’s the target, I’m feeling strangely protective of her.
“She said she’s a law student. There’s no way in hell you have classes with her. What, did you meet her in the library? Oh, that’s right, you never go to the library. What about a night class? Wait, you can’t do those either, since we have practice in the evenings.” Reaching up to push the strands of hair from his face, he glares at me through the rearview mirror. I pretend not to notice. “Come on, Mitch. There’s no way in hell you’re dating her. What, did you hire her as your date since no one wants to be seen with you now that you have a gimp leg?”
Ouch. That comment hits a little too close to home. I feel both Casey’s and Austin’s eyes on me. Austin, especially, has a gift for reading people. I wonder what he thinks of all this, but of course he, unlike Casey, keeps his opinions to himself.
“We’re dating,” I growl, curling a fist onto my leg. “You’re just going to have to believe me.”
“Must be a good fuck,” Casey mutters, bitterness sharpening his voice.
Austin whips his head around. “Watch it, Case.”
I go completely still. Austin never raises his voice. You have to really cross a line to upset him.
I can’t blame Austin though. For the past few months, Casey’s been acting broodier than usual. As in, more of a dick, if you can believe it. I don’t know what shoved the stick up his ass, but I’m pretty much over it. It makes me wonder if it has to do with his newfound interest in a relationship.
Muttering under his breath, Casey whips out his phone and ignores us for the rest of the ride.
Back at the house, we each go to our separate rooms. After showering, chugging a glass of water, and brushing my teeth, I flop into bed and send Rebecca a quick text.
Thanks for tonight. Sorry if my teammates made you feel uncomfortable. They’re mostly harmless.
It’s near midnight. I half-expect her not to respond, imagining her bedtime falling somewhere between seven and eight. To my surprise, my phone vibrates with an incoming message.
You’re welcome. And it’s fine. I like your friends! They’re a very welcoming bunch.
I want to leave it at that, sleep off some of my drunkenness, but I add, You killed it at pool tonight. Who knew there was a hustler in our midst?
Three dots appear, showing that she’s typing something. They disappear, then reappear, as if Rebecca’s wondering what to say or how to say it.
I’m decent. This followed by a smiley face.
I smile in response, saying, She says as she shanks me.
That’s what you get for underestimating me.
My eyebrows lift up to my hairline. Well, well, well. It seems Miss Peterson has some fire in her. Who would have thought?
Trust me, it won’t happen again. Then I toss my phone onto the nightstand. Five minutes later, I’m out cold.
Chapter 8
rebecca
“Miss? Excuse me, miss?”
I pause on my way to the kitchen, my arms weighed down by two large serving trays, and grind my back teeth together to stop the waspish reply that unfurls along my tongue. My shoulders and lower back ache from the strain. My feet throb from standing for nearly eight hours straight, and my clothes smell like garlic and mozzarella, the fabric permanently infused with the scents wafting through Giuliano’s, the dimly lit Italian restaurant where I work. I want nothing more than to sit, but another hour of my double shift remains before I’m free to leave.
It’s worth it, I tell myself, trying to block out the man’s nasally voice as he continues to squawk like a cockatiel. The two hundred dollars I made in tips today will go toward my rent for next month. Anything left over will contribute to food.
My arms shake, pain flaring at my shoulder joints. I need to return these empty dishes to the kitchen, but the man amps up the volume, half-shouting, “Miss! Hello!”
Biting back a sigh, I plaster a borderline sadistic smile on my face and turn toward the older couple sharing the corner booth. A red and white tablecloth drapes the round table. “Can I help you?”
The man and who I assume is his wife both flinch at my disturbing flash of teeth. They appear to be in their fifties or sixties, empty plates and bowls littering the table. The man quips in a slow Southern drawl, “We ordered dessert nearly three minutes ago and it has yet to arrive. If this is the kind of service you give your well-paying customers, I can assure you we won’t be back.” Bushy gray eyebrows that remind me of extremely hairy caterpillars poke above his large glasses.
Oh, good Lord. This man is about two seconds away from getting his sweet tea dumped all over his head. I swear, where do people find this level of self-entitlement? Does he not see the restaurant is packed, with a thirty-minute wait to be seated? We’re slammed.
“I apologize, sir.” I bite out the words, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on my frustrations. “What did you order?”
He heaves a sigh, his large stomach pushing against the edge of the table. The dark green of his shirt matches the interior of the restaurant. “Two tiramisus, two cannolis, and a piece of cake.”
I barely hold back a grimace. And to think they had already feasted on two large pizzas, a calzone, two servings of garlic rolls, and a side of broccoli. For their health, the man had claimed.
“Let me check the kitchen.” Head held high, I drop off the serving trays with a grateful sigh before inquiring about the man’s order. One of the chefs rolls his eyes when he asks who the complaint is from. Apparently, the man sent back his pizza twice, claiming both times the steak topping was too rare. He was only satisfied when they served him pieces of burned meat, edges crispy and blackened.
“Here.” The chef hands me the desserts. “I just want him gone.”
You and me both.
After dropping off the desserts at their table, I make my rounds. All of my patrons are happy and content with their meals, which I take pride in. I go above and beyond to ensure customers enjoy their time here, because a happy customer means a larger tip for me. Most days, it works. I have many repeat customers that request me as their server when they dine at Giuliano’s.
My manager recognized my dependability very quickly, so I’m almost always given the shifts I request, which is basically Friday nights and all of Saturdays. She’s also flexible about rescheduling my shifts on the rare chance I can’t come in, which has happened a few times since Mitchell and I created the fake relationship. Last week there was a social I attended with him. We also spent one evening studying in the library with his teammates. It’s been a few weeks since signing the contract, and it hasn’t been that bad.
Since no one is requesting a refill or extra napkins or their check, I allow myself a five-minute break in the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen and lean against the wall. As much as I’m dying to sit down, I don’t. I’m not sure if I’d be able to get back up. The support on my black sneakers is shot, but I don’t have the extra money to pay for a new pair. At the moment, putting food on the table is more important.
I smooth back a few dark strands that have come loose from my bun, then push my glasses higher up on my nose. Usually I wear contacts to work but I was running late this morning, so I didn’t have time to put them in.
My co-worker, Tania, pops her head around the corner. “Table six is ready.”
Back to work.
Grabbing the small notepad from my black work apron, I wind my way around the room, skirting a few live plants. The scent of fresh garlic bread drifts through the warm, cozy space. This will be the last table for the day. I only hope they’re less demanding than the Southern couple, allowing me to clock out on schedule. I need to spend a few hours organizing the data I’ve collected so far on the fake relationship.
When I approach the table though, my footsteps falter. Only years of professionalism stop my mouth from dropping at who I’m going to be serving.
Mitchell and his father.
I begin to turn away, intending to ask my manager for another server to take my place, when Mitchell spots me, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Rebecca. I didn’t know you worked here.”
Mr. Burns, dressed impeccably in a stone-gray suit and tie, looks between us. His silver cuff links gleam in the soft light. “You didn’t know your own girlfriend worked here?”
Mitchell blanches, though his father is looking at me and doesn’t notice. I interject, saying, “I just got the job. I was going to tell you the next time I saw you.” Smiling, I quickly get down to business. “Can I start you two off with something to drink?” Mitchell is wearing a blue and black soccer jersey, black athletic shorts, and long black socks that stop below his knees. He must have a game later today.
“Water,” Mitchell tells me. His father orders a whiskey, neat. It’s barely four in the afternoon, but to each his own.
“I’ll be right back with those.” Smile still in place, I head to the bar and drop off Mr. Burns’ order, then head to the drink station to fill Mitchell’s water. The tightness in my chest eases in the hallway. What are the odds that Mitchell and his father—the man we’re trying to deceive�
�would show up during my shift? That they’d be assigned to my section, no less?
My only saving grace is that I look like the Rebecca he knows—uptight, conservative, wallflower. My hair is restrained to its bun. I’m wearing glasses, and I have no makeup on save a touch of mascara. The only wrench in this plan is that my black uniform isn’t as shapeless as the clothes I normally wear for my experiment, but that can’t be helped right now. Mitchell probably hasn’t noticed anyway.
Five minutes later, I return with their drinks and a basket of fresh garlic bread. Mitchell’s arms rest on the table, and I can’t help but notice the shifting muscles as he peruses the menu.
I tear my gaze away, heat prickling the back of my neck. Now is not the time to be ogling his forearms. “Do you need more time to decide?” I ask, pen and pad in hand.
Setting down his menu, Mitchell smiles at me, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Either he’s stressed or nervous. Or both. “Sure thing, Becky.”
Ugh. I roll my eyes, and he chuckles in response. Jerk.
“I’ll have the Caprese panini with a side of fruit,” Mitchell says, handing me the menu.
I turn to Mr. Burns. “And for you, sir?”
“The personal Greek pizza with a side Cesar salad.”
As I turn back to Mitchell, his eyes snap up, a twinge of guilt flashing across his features. I go still.
Was he—was he checking out my ass?
I mentally shake my head. No, he couldn’t have been. I’ve never given him a reason to look at me that way. Although, I must admit these pants are extremely flattering, hugging my body in all the right places. When I catch his eye, I lift a single eyebrow, as if to say, I saw what you did there.
When he sends me a grin, a lick of heat unfurls in my belly.
Oh, my God. He was totally checking out my ass!
“Wonderful.” My lips twitch. I don’t know why him checking me out gives me this pleasant feeling. I’ll need to note this down for research purposes later. If Mitchell is starting to view me in a sexual light, then something must have changed. “I’ll be back to check on you shortly.”
Playing the Field ebook final draft Page 6
