And I realize what I said to Katie downstairs is a lie. I’m not falling for him.
I’m stupid in love with him.
I’ve never been in love before. I’ve had a few boyfriends, and I’ve been on a handful of dates, but I’ve never felt like this—like a piece of sheer fabric, delicate to the touch. Fragile. So, so fragile that I’m afraid one wrong move will tear it in half.
There’s no other way around it. I need to tell him. I’m not sure how to go about it though. Should I dress as the Rebecca he knows, or should I dress as Blue Girl, confident and poised? Should I tell him when we’re alone, at his place or mine, or maybe on campus so he’s free to ditch me should the need arise? There are so many things to consider. But first, I need to speak with my advisor.
Instead of driving, I walk the mile to campus, giving my head a chance to cool. I go straight to the advising office and knock on Dr. Stevens’ door. There isn’t any answer. I decide to wait until she gets back. Less than thirty minutes later, the click of her high heels echoes in the hall, and she draws up short when she rounds the corner.
“Miss Peterson.” She tilts her head in confusion. “Did we have an appointment?”
“No.” I straighten. Being under the scrutiny of Dr. Stevens’ gaze feels like I’m under a very intense, very aggressive microscope. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I really need to talk to you about my thesis. It won’t take long.” Well, hopefully not.
She walks the rest of the way to her door and unlocks it. “I can give you ten minutes, but then I have another meeting.”
“That’s all I need. Thank you.” I settle in the chair across from her desk, lace my fingers in my lap, and take a breath. My hands tremble.
Dr. Stevens waits expectantly.
“Um. It’s like this. I don’t think I’ll be able to complete my original research proposal.”
At this, her thin eyebrows snap together. “Why not?”
The truth. It should be the truth. “Everything was going as planned. I was spending time with Mitc—with my subject. But the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that I liked him as more than a friend.” My cheeks are on fire. “I started to develop feelings for him, and I think he’s developed feelings for me as well.” It sounds horrible calling Mitchell a subject, like he’s nothing more than a lab rat.
“I see,” she says, in that way that makes me feel small and insignificant. It’s the price I pay for having one of the leading faculty members in sociological research mentoring me. “That is a problem.”
A few moments pass in silence. Since Dr. Stevens doesn’t seem at all inclined to fill it, I say, “As you can see, the research I’m conducting is not at all objective. There’s too much bias.”
“Hm.” Leaning back in her chair, Dr. Stevens taps her fingers on the edge of her desk. “You’re correct in that your results would not be free from bias.” The tapping stops. “But I wonder if we don’t have to toss the entire thesis. The proposal has already been submitted. We might be able to tweak our purpose slightly so that it won’t interfere with this recent issue.”
I shift in my seat, suddenly uneasy. I guess I should have known Dr. Stevens wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily. She’s invested many hours into helping me, and from what I’ve heard from students and faculty, she clawed her way to the top of her field. I just hope her idea doesn’t involve Mitchell.
“What do you propose?” I ask.
“The thesis is along the same line: how physical appearance affects attraction. But I wonder what it would be like to go one step further. How does physical appearance affect initial attraction, but also how does it affect compatibility with another? It’s quite fascinating. Falling in love with someone who doesn’t exist. It’s like the heart, mind, and body are separate. Even if someone isn’t attracted to your appearance, can they still find your heart attractive? Hm.” She taps something out onto her computer.
The dread spreads through my limbs. This idea is worse than the previous one, because now the research would involve not only manipulating Mitchell’s attraction toward me, but his true emotions. Like love.
“Dr. Stevens.” I shake my head. “I don’t feel comfortable going through with this project. I don’t want anyone to get hurt—”
“Rebecca.” She leans forward, elbows to her desk. “Tell me. Where do you see yourself after graduation?”
The question gives me pause. There’s something in her voice I can’t read. “I want to go to graduate school. I’d like to become a sociology professor, eventually.”
My advisor nods, though she already knew this. We discussed my future goals at length before she agreed to mentor me. “The University of Chicago is your top choice, yes?”
My fingers curl into my jean-clad thighs. I really don’t like where she’s going with this.
Dr. Stevens smiles, though it’s more calculating than anything. “Did I ever tell you that I’m best friends with the Dean of the School of Sociology Sciences at the University of Chicago?”
“N-no.”
She makes a small sound in her throat. “We met as freshmen in our undergraduate program and remained friends after we graduated. On occasion we discuss the qualities she seeks in graduate students. Driven, dedicated, able to think outside of the box.” Her gaze is razor sharp, insistent. “This research, combined with your strength in writing, gives me no doubt that it could be published in a top scientific journal. Do you know how far ahead of the pack that would put you?”
It would put me very far ahead. This doesn’t feel right though. It feels like manipulation.
“If I call Andrea and tell her what you’re accomplishing, she’d be thrilled to speak with you. You’re the type of student she’s looking for.”
This is everything I want. But it’s not how I want to accomplish it. In life, yes, oftentimes success is about who you know rather than what you do, but I don’t want to ruin something good just to get ahead. It’s a lie. And I think I’ve lied enough these past months. I’m tired. I want to be myself again.
I suck in a breath. My chest feels tight. “Dr. Stevens—”
“Look, Rebecca.” The sharpness of her voice puts my back up. “I’m not going to let you throw this opportunity away for the sake of protecting some boy’s heart. You’ll find, as you go through life, that people will come and go, and you’ll only have yourself to depend on. It’s a harsh world out there. If you want to be the best, you need to fight with everything you have, and sometimes that means making sacrifices. Do you understand?”
My voice is frail, thin as ice. “Yes.”
“I’m doing you a favor. Chances are, this boy will break your heart anyway. When that happens, at least you’ll know you’re receiving a solid education, with the connections necessary to land a tenure position at a university. I can make that happen. But in order for me to help you, you need to help me. And to do that, you need to finish this research. The deadline is in three weeks. So.” She clasps her hands and leans back in her chair, studying me with a shrewd gaze. I never noticed how pinched her face was before. “What will it be?”
Everything in me feels shaky and unstable. What will it be? If I don’t go through with this, I might lose my acceptance into UC. If I do, I risk losing someone I love. Is success worth a lonely life? Inversely, is a relationship worth it if you have no accomplishments of your own?
Who knows if Mitchell wants to be with me. He could very well break my heart like Dr. Stevens said, and then I’d be alone. Perhaps I should finish the project. Then I can decide what to do once the semester ends and I’m free from financial woes.
With a wash of cold guilt, I say, “I’m open to changing the direction of the thesis.”
“Wonderful.” She stands and shakes my hand, which makes me feel lower than dirt. “Send me the updated proposal with the changes in, say, two weeks. I’m looking forward to it.”
Chapter 23
mitchell
Today, I feel fan-fucking-tastic.<
br />
We won yesterday’s game. It was an unexpected win against South Carolina. They beat us last year, but yesterday, we finally gave them a run for their money. Our defense is as strong as ever, our offense like a well-oiled machine. If we keep this up, I wouldn’t be surprised if we found ourselves in the playoffs.
Even more importantly, talk went well with the recruiters last night. They want me. Manchester United wants me, Mitchell Burns, to play for them next season.
Pinch me, I think I’m dreaming.
If that isn’t enough, my father not only hasn’t contacted me in the days since the fundraiser—which normally would be a red flag, but I have no fucks left to give—but he’s leaving town next week, so he’ll be too busy to yell at me about ditching the event.
Life is good. Better than good. Because Rebecca’s in it.
I’m sitting on the bench following practice, guzzling water from my water bottle. Sweat slithers down my neck and chest and plasters my jersey to my skin. My legs burn from the arduous practice: suicides, circuits, drills. For once, my knee doesn’t pain me. I stretch it out, bend it. Not even a twinge. I can’t stop the grin. It feels like forever since I’ve been pain-free, able to run and jump and kick without fear. I thought I’d never get back to this place. I never want to leave it.
And Rebecca. Damn that sexy woman.
At the thought, I grab my phone from my bag and check my messages, anticipation a thrill in my blood. The last few days have been busy for both of us, so I haven’t seen her, but we’ve been flirting like crazy, and the texts have descended into indecent territory. Not that I’m complaining.
When I check my messages, I expect a response to my sexual innuendo. Instead, I read, Can we talk?
Those three words spear fear into my heart. Is she already regretting sleeping together? I don’t see why she would be. She enjoyed it as much as I did. Those moans didn’t lie.
I take a breath before texting back, Everything okay?
The response is immediate. Fine. I just wanted to tell you something.
I don’t know what to make of that, but from the way my heart trips over itself, I have a feeling it’s not so great. Practice just ended. Was going to shower and change before heading home.
I’m on campus. I can meet you.
Come to the locker rooms. They’re located on the west side of the stadium.
Will do.
After slipping my phone into my bag, I sit there for a few calming minutes. The worst she can say is that sleeping together was a mistake and she doesn’t want to continue the charade. We made no promises. We aren’t even officially a couple.
Lately though, I find myself wishing we were. There’s intimacy. Trust. Mutual respect. She supports me at my games. I listen to her vent about her frustrations, her dream about becoming a college professor. Somewhere along the way, this fake relationship slipped into something with more substance. Something a little more real.
The field is all cleared out, but Coach Michael still lingers. He approaches, the equipment bag slung over one shoulder. He drops it at my feet before settling on the bench beside me. “You excited for next month?”
I can’t help the grin. The recruiters offered to fly me out to Manchester’s headquarters the first week of December, which is in ten days. All expenses paid. I’ll get to meet with the coach, get to sit in on some of their practices. It’s a dream come true.
But as I study Coach, my smile fades. This man’s been by my side from the very beginning, back when I was nothing more than a gangly freshman, more ego than humility. He pushed me harder, faster, further. He never gave up on me, and he didn’t let me give up on myself. It means more to me than he’ll ever know.
“Coach,” I say seriously. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for what you’ve done.”
“You deserve it, Mitchell.” His expression is equally serious. “You deserve every bit of it. I’ve never met a harder working young man. And as for thanking me, all I want is for you to be the best you can be. As a soccer player, as a teammate.” He stops, nods. “But seriously, when you’re famous, make sure to get me some free box seats, yeah?”
I laugh and swipe a hand through my hair. This heart-to-heart is hitting a little too close to home. “Sure thing.”
After slapping me on the back, Coach heads to the parking lot while I head to the locker rooms to shower. Scalding water pounds against my back and neck, loosening the tension there. For a moment, I simply stand there, soaking up the feeling of having the future I’ve always dreamed of in my grasp.
The door to the locker room creaks open. “Mitchell?”
At Rebecca’s voice, my cock twitches. I hurriedly duck under the showerhead, rinsing the shampoo from my hair, and call out, “In the back!”
Her footsteps echo against the tiled walls. “Am I allowed in here?”
“You’re fine.” I finish soaping my body, the gesture reminiscent of the morning-after shower sex we had after spending the night in each other’s arms. “No one’s here but me.”
The locker room showers are communal, with waist-high walls separating each stall. Rebecca stands near one of the benches looking uneasy, which in turn makes me uneasy. I prop my forearms on the wall separating us. “Something on your mind?” My heart is pounding so hard I swear it echoes in the small chamber.
“You could say that.”
I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I keep my voice casual. “Anything I can do to help?”
A few moments pass, but she doesn’t respond. Her eyes are far away, tinged with a combination of confusion and guilt. I’m practically vibrating with anxiety. I wonder what changed so suddenly. Last week things were damn near perfect.
Rebecca fiddles with the strap of her backpack. Today, she’s wearing tights underneath a boxy denim dress. Same glasses, same hair. Lately I’ve been wondering what it would be like to unwind her bun so the hair tumbles down her shoulders, free from its restraint. In bed, she always wears a ponytail. Maybe she’s self-conscious about having her hair down?
When she doesn’t respond, my teasing smile fades. Something must really be on her mind. “Hey.” I wait until she looks at me. “What’s wrong?”
She heaves out one long sigh. “Can I ask you something?”
The shower continues to pound against my back. It’s a waste of water, but the heat feels too good on my aching muscles for me to turn it off. “Sure.”
“Do you think lying is inherently bad?” Before I can answer, she adds, “What I mean is, yes lying is bad, but do you think sometimes it’s okay to lie? Or if you’re mostly telling the truth, but a small part of you is lying to, um, protect someone important to you—” She grimaces. “I’m not making any sense.”
A million warning bells are pealing in my head right now, and I don’t know whether it’s in fear that Rebecca’s telling me in some backward way that she’s been lying about liking me, or if it has to do with something completely unrelated. The way she bites her lip tells me it’s the former.
I say, in a level tone, “I guess it would depend on the reason for lying.”
She looks at the ground. “That makes sense.” Then she lifts her head and smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve been stressed with my thesis, is all.”
“Understandable.” We watch each other in uncertainty. The water begins to lose its warmth. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
There’s a fraction of hesitation, but it’s gone so quickly I convince myself it was a trick of the light. “Yes. That’s all.”
Thank God she doesn’t think sleeping together was a mistake.
I tilt my mouth in a crooked smile. “You look nice today.”
Her eyebrows rise, and she glances at her outfit. “Thanks. I guess.”
I try for a different approach, hoping it’ll pull her from this strange, glum mood. “Why are you so far away? I don’t bite.”
“Oh.” She blinks, as if she hadn’t noticed the amoun
t of space separating us. She glances at the closed door. There’s no lock on it. “What if someone comes in here?”
“No one will come in. I was the last one left on the field.” My smile widens, a touch provocative. “Come play with me, Becky.”
As if against her better judgement, Rebecca steps closer. Water droplets dampen the front of her shirt.
It’s still too far. Reaching out, I snag her arm and haul her close, right into the hot spray. She shrieks and tries to shove me away, but that only makes my arms tighten around her. “Mitchell!” In seconds, she’s soaked to the skin.
“What’s that, Becky?” I want the shadows in her eyes to disappear. I want her to trust me enough to let me in.
She slaps me on the shoulder. “I don’t have a change of clothes!”
“You won’t need clothes for what I’m going to do to you.”
Her eyes close. When she opens them, her pupils are large in her face, cheeks red with flush. Shoving me away, she strips—shoes, tights, dress, undergarments. That expression, the one that tells me she’s about two seconds away from pouncing, makes my pulse surge.
My gaze rakes over her naked body. Hot water pounds against Rebecca’s beautiful breasts, streaming down her legs. My whistle sings against the tile.
“Well, well, well,” I murmur. “What do we have here?”
She presses her palm against my right pec. Steps closer until my erection juts into her belly. Rebecca captures my nipple in her mouth, tugging gently. I can’t help the groan that slips out.
“I don’t know,” she says around the tip. “What do we have?” Her eyes dance as she peeks at me through her damp eyelashes.
My hands clasp her waist, and I back Rebecca up against the wall. She hisses at the blaze of cold along her spine.
“Don’t worry.” My mouth latches onto her neck. “I’ll warm you up.”
My lips slide down to her collarbone, nibbling in a leisurely fashion. The touch is light, airy, teasing. Not enough pressure. Not enough teeth. She pulls me closer, demanding, “More.”
Playing the Field ebook final draft Page 18
