Rebecca waves to me and descends the steps. Seconds later, the bathroom door opens, and Bathroom Guy stumbles out. “She gone?” he asks.
“Who?” Even though I know who.
“That chick you were banging.” He nods seriously. “She was good, yeah? I heard you on the other side of the door.”
I shoot him a dirty look.
“Hey.” He raises his hands, palms out. “You were moaning loud enough for people in the next state over to hear you.”
Well, Rebecca gives good head. Who would have thought?
As if he can read my mind, Bathroom Guy nods. “It’s always the quiet ones.”
Chapter 18
rebecca
“Well, Miss Peterson.” Dr. Stevens, my thesis advisor, lowers the draft of my proposal to her desk and gives me a long, studious look. “You’ve certainly been busy.”
I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or a low-key insult. Dr. Stevens, a sixty-something woman with short, steel gray hair, wears an expression that suggests she sucked on one too many lemons in her lifetime. Her office reflects her demeanor—bare white walls, a monstrous wooden desk with a single metal chair for me to sit on, and one shriveled plant baking in the windowsill. While she’s rather terrifying, I knew after taking her spring seminar class that I wanted her as my advisor. To my surprise, she agreed. I was fully prepared for the rejection.
Leaning back in my seat, I offer her a wan smile. A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead. “Thank you, Dr. Stevens.”
“The introduction is a bit unclear, but it’s nothing we can’t work with.” She begins jotting down notes in the margins. “The last paragraph can be streamlined. The middle needs more clarity. I wasn’t sure if you were interested in measuring men’s initial reactions to your appearance, or their reactions once they began speaking with you. Oh, and there’s a typo in the final sentence.”
I can only nod as she lists mistake after mistake. Her voice comes as if from a great distance. I’m more concerned with staying awake. My eyelids sink lower the longer I sit in this cold, austere office. A little color wouldn’t hurt.
“Rebecca, are you listening to me?”
I jolt at the snappy tone. “Sorry. Yes.”
“If you’re not going to be present during this meeting, perhaps we should reschedule. I don’t want my time wasted.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind, is all. It won’t happen again.” Folding my hands in my lap, I straighten up in the chair. That only makes me wince as the pain in my lower back flares.
With a cool look, Dr. Stevens returns to the proposal. “As I was saying, your intent did not read clearly. What are you trying to accomplish? Initial attraction based on appearance? Or how one’s perception changes over time?’
I blink a few times, her words drifting through my mind like smoke. Originally it was the former, but now that I know Mitchell is attracted to me, I wonder if it’s better to shift my aim to the latter goal—developing attraction over time. Of course, in a perfect world this would all be completely objective. I still haven’t been able to put space between us. I’m drawn to him in ways I can’t explain. Our hook up at the house party last weekend certainly didn’t help.
“Initial attraction based on appearance,” I say. For now, it’s best to keep things simple.
She nods and marks down a comment. “You mentioned at the last meeting you’re recording your observations through a journal?”
“Yes. I’ve been keeping documentation. I include the time and place, the subject’s body language, the words used, the social setting, the topic of our conversations.” I stop, feeling uneasy about referring to Mitchell as a “subject,” even though that’s technically what he is.
“Do you have samples of your observations I can look over?”
If Dr. Stevens were to read my observations, it would never be more clear that I’m developing deeper feelings for the guy I’m supposed to be using as a research subject. She would read with painstaking detail about how I feel when he touches me, the spice of his breath, the ease of his smile. My observation journal has slowly transformed into a personal diary of my deepest desires and fears.
“I’m actually in the middle of reorganizing the entries,” I mumble, rubbing at a spot on my forehead where a headache begins to throb.
She nods, as if this is understandable, something she would indeed do herself. “Well, send them to me when you’re done. I’m interested in seeing what you have so far.”
Not going to happen. I’ll probably have to make up fake entries, which defeats the whole purpose of research. I’ve screwed up so badly. Even if I wanted to fix this situation, I wouldn’t know where to start.
With a shaky hand, I fan my overheated face. I’m wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a pretty, floral skirt. The air conditioner is set to sub-zero temperatures, yet my skin smarts with heat.
Dr. Stevens peers at her watch and stands. “From the looks of things, I’d say you’re on track with your thesis. Let’s agree to meet in, say, four weeks.” She leads me to the door, and I struggle to place one foot in front of the other and not stumble into one of the filing cabinets lining the wall. “You’re doing good work, Rebecca. Very good work. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Once the door shuts, I lean heavily against the wall, sucking in air. My eyes burn with fatigue. I have a class at three that starts in thirty minutes, but I don’t think I’ll be able to walk out of this building, much less cross the entire campus.
I stumble down the carpeted hallway to the elevator. As I pass the receptionist, she gives me a worried look. “Are you all right?” she calls to my back.
“Fine,” I croak, punching the down button to the elevator. This morning, I woke up feeling as if an elephant slept on my chest. I should have stayed in bed, but I couldn’t miss the meeting with Dr. Stevens. She’s a busy woman and doesn’t appreciate cancelled appointments.
It feels like a lifetime passes before the doors open, and another lifetime for the elevator to sink down two levels to the ground floor. I’m shaking uncontrollably at this point, chill bumps breaking across my skin even as sweat dampens my face. There’s no way I’ll make it out the door. Stumbling to an armchair in the corner, I collapse onto its soft cushion, my teeth chattering as I fish my phone out of my purse. I can’t walk, can barely stand up straight. I sincerely hope Katie’s free.
She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, Rebecca. What’s up?”
“C-can you—” I break off as a shudder rolls through me.
“Rebecca?” Her voice sharpens.
“I think I’m coming down with something.” The words are slurred. Kind of like how I sounded at the party last weekend. “Can you come pick me up from campus?”
She shuffles around for something in the background. “Where are you?” Keys jangle. A door slams shut.
“The psychology building. And Katie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Chapter 19
mitchell
I’m flying down the turf, mud flinging from my cleats as Thomas passes me the ball from center, sheets of rain pummeling my skin. The sky is a washed-out gray. Less than two minutes remain on the clock, and it’s a tied scrimmage. My team wears white, the other team wears black. We slip and slide on the rain-drenched field, but it sure as hell beats the sun.
The left forward, Jackson, pulls ahead, shouting, “Cross!” He’s wide open.
I boot the ball across field, putting on a burst of speed to slide around one of the defensemen. Josh, the backup goalie, is in the goal while Austin plays for the other team. The sophomore’s been scrambling, stopping shot after shot. I’m impressed. Compared to last season, he’s grown into a reliable goalkeeper. When Austin graduates next year, I know the kid will have no problem filling my friend’s shoes.
Unfortunately, that luck doesn’t extend to the rest of our team. I’ve been paired with many of the freshmen, and while there’s no lack of talent, they haven’t been on th
e team long enough to mesh with everyone.
This week, Coach has been hounding us on one-touch passing. Having possession of the ball for longer than one touch, and you’re asking for the ball to get snatched by the opposing team.
I’m more than happy to revisit the basics. Following our evening practices, I stay an extra thirty minutes to work on drills, and on the weekends when I referee, I arrive an hour early at the field to practice shots on goal. I still have months of hard work before I reach my pre-injury fitness level, but it’s progress.
The ball returns to my possession. I dribble once, glance around for an open player as the defensemen swarm, and send the ball arcing toward the center. Walton, a stocky black guy with wicked speed, traps the ball with the inside of his thigh. He shakes the mid-fielder, making a beeline for the goal where Austin guards, legs planted, eyes tracking the ball.
But Walton is quickly overwhelmed. “Back!” I call.
The ball returns to me. Tap, tap, tap—I fake to the left. Austin comes out to meet me. Their sweeper is hot on my heels, but it’s too late. One step, two, and my foot cracks against the ball.
Austin jumps to the right, arms outstretched, but the ball slips past his fingers and sinks high into the upper corner of the net.
Coach blows his whistle as my teammates and I surge together, slapping one another on the back. My knee aches a bit, but it’s nothing compared to three months ago. I can feel myself getting stronger, week by week. The hope that I’ve been carrying all through the recovery process buoys me. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can play for Manchester.
Austin slaps me on the shoulder. “Nice shot,” he says, genuinely happy for my accomplishment. One of the things I love about Austin is how humble he is. He’s never one to gloat. There’s always a chance to do better, be better. And he always gives praise where it’s due.
“Thanks, man.” We grin at one another, blinking against the downpour. It doesn’t appear to be letting up any time soon.
“Next time,” he says, “I won’t go so easy on you.”
Yeah, right.
Once we’re huddled up, Coach gives us feedback. He points out areas we can improve on—namely, precision in passing, more communication on the field, and spreading out so we’re not clumped together, which we tend to do.
“That means trusting the other players to do their jobs,” he states, lingering on Sebastian. The cocky freshman thinks he’s God gift to man. Technically, his position is center mid, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he takes it upon himself to play both offense and defense. I’ve had to call him out a time or two, especially when I’m about to receive the ball and he robs me of possession.
“We’ll work on placement at tomorrow’s practice and strategy for next week’s game.”
My stomach jitters. Fordham. Exceptional offense, a nearly impenetrable defense. Oh, and their goalie is the fucking hulk. If we want any chance of winning, we’ll need to play smart. If we win, we’re in the running for the semi-finals. Another chance at the National Championship.
Coach spends ten minutes discussing pointers before clapping his hands together. The rain trickles off into mist. “Good work today. Now go home and get some beauty sleep.”
Grinning like idiots, we stack our hands like a thirty-pointed star.
“On three,” Coach says.
One, two, three: “Blue Devils!”
The players disperse. I turn to grab my soccer bag when Coach says, “Mitch, you got a minute?”
According to my phone, the fundraiser doesn’t start for another hour. Plenty of time to go home, shower, and grab something to eat. Austin and Casey have settled on the far end of the bleachers, talking. Since we all ride together, they’re going to have to wait for me.
“For you, Coach?” I send him a wink. “All the time in the world.”
He rolls his eyes and gestures beside him on the bench. “I wanted you to know that Burt, the recruiter from Manchester, is coming to your next game. I want to make sure you’re free to speak with him afterward.”
My stomach clenches. All at once, my insecurities rise to the surface. It’s amazing how ten minutes ago I felt confident in my recovery, and now all I feel is a painful stabbing sensation in my knee, the memory of fire tearing through my leg as the ligament was ripped from the bone.
Coach, unaware of my internal freak-out, continues. “He knows about your injury. Burt’s been following you since high school, as a matter of fact.”
I hear what he’s saying, but I don’t believe him. What if I miss a shot because my knee acts up? Or what if some asshole slide tackles me and ends my professional career before it even begins?
What if I’m not enough?
I’m not sure if Coach notices the subtle panic building inside me, but he says, “You know why I asked Burt back, right? It’s because you’re going places, and I want to give you the best possible chance at getting there.”
I’m floored. It’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me, or anyone on the team. “It’s my stupid knee.” I knock a fist against the knee cap. “I’m afraid they’re going to expect something more than I’m able to give.”
“Mitchell.” His eyes are serious. “Let me tell you a little secret about coaching. Believe it or not, we’re not always looking for the best player.”
I shrug, not really sure I believe him. “Okay.”
“It’s true.” He stares out at the field, contemplative. “A lot of times, the most skilled players are also too set in their ways. That’s why I prefer someone with potential and dedication over someone with exceptional skill, because a player with potential I can shape into someone the team needs. And that’s what Manchester’s looking for. They’re looking for players they can mold to fit the team.” His gaze returns to mine. “And that’s what I see—what I’ve always seen—in you.”
“Coach.” My heart clenches from his belief in me. “Are we having a moment?”
Full, belly-aching laughter bursts from his mouth. I can’t help it. I laugh too. This man is all sorts of ridiculous.
“You’ll be fine.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Just you wait.”
On the way home, Austin, Casey, and I—or rather, Casey and I—discuss tonight’s fundraiser. It’s a black-tie event, and we raise a shit ton of money for kids with cancer, so it’s not half bad. Plus, all you can drink.
Unsurprisingly, I don’t have any messages from Rebecca. It seems I’m the one reaching out more times than not. I shoot her a quick text, just to make sure she hasn’t forgotten the event.
Hey, Becky. You still coming tonight?
After I press send, I realize the question can be interpreted as a sexual innuendo.
Coming as in attending the event, not coming as in ... you know.
I cringe at my follow up, then decide I’d probably be better off throwing myself into moving traffic. I don’t know what it is about Rebecca that makes me so crazy, but when I’m around her, I just feel. It’s like all these dark places in my heart are illuminated. I never want to go back to the darkness again.
Thirty minutes at home gives us enough time to shower, change, and grab some leftover pizza from the fridge before we pile back into the car and head to someone’s multi-million-dollar home where the event takes place. Austin is driving tonight. Casey sits in the passenger seat scowling down at his phone, which he seems to be doing a lot lately. More so than usual.
I have my own problems. During the fifteen-minute drive, I don’t receive a response, and Rebecca is usually pretty good with responding on the nights we attend events.
Releasing a drawn-out sigh, I settle back and stare out the window as we head to the more affluent part of town. Old plantation houses line the old, lamp-lit street, their sprawl and presence illustrating an older, more prosperous time. The moon is just beginning to rise, round and white atop the tree line. My thoughts wander back to Daniel’s party a few weeks back. I’m a little bummed I wasn’t able to talk to Blue Girl, but honestly, my thoughts of her
pale in comparison to Rebecca. What happened in that bathroom will forever go down as the best damn head I’ve ever received. Twice this week I jacked off to the sight of Rebecca’s lips wrapped around my cockhead, the push and pull suction of her tongue. Two seconds is all I need before my body starts to tighten.
Down boy. My only qualm about that night was that it wasn’t enough time, not even close. I want Rebecca in my bed.
I want her.
I nudge Casey in the shoulder. “What are you growling about up there?”
Casey’s head snaps up, and he slips his phone into his pocket. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“Just some girl.”
“Who?” Leaning forward, I brace my hands on both headrests.
Casey turns on the radio. Rock music blasts from the speakers. “None of your business.”
Interesting. I’ve never seen my friend this wound up about someone. On any other day, I’d be busting his balls over it, but my mind is too full of Rebecca to care and, judging from Austin’s resigned look, the last thing he wants to do is listen to us bicker.
A few minutes later, we turn into the driveway. Sprawling oak trees line the dirt lane that cuts through the perfectly manicured lawn and curves in front of the plantation house, with its massive white wraparound porch and open French doors.
The valet takes the car and parks it with the others behind the house. Inside, people gather in the foyer, chatting and nibbling on appetizers and sipping from flutes of Champagne. It’s all polished shoes and tidy bow ties and long swaths of silk. I pass through a cloud of perfume, drawing nearer to the small ensemble performing background music in an alcove just to the right of the wide, sweeping staircase that takes up the center of the cavernous foyer. I recognize a few coaches from other men and women’s collegiate soccer teams, as well as my father, currently schmoozing a group of men near the bar.
At least Austin and Casey know what’s important in life. They make a beeline for the buffet while I hold back, scanning the crowd.
The house is massive. It seems like everyone and their mother is in attendance. I wander through the open rooms, searching for someone dressed in fifties attire versus the twenty-first century. Juliet, one of the players on Duke’s women’s soccer team, glances at me beneath lowered lashes, a clear invitation to approach, but I simply nod and continue on my way, eventually returning to the central foyer.
Playing the Field ebook final draft Page 14
