Team Player

by Adriana Locke

  “Huh?” I cock my head sideways. She slaps my chest. Hard. I take a step back, looking at her like she drank from the crazy fountain, then ate a big dish of psycho.

  “You,” she points at me, her eyes narrowing, “are not focused on what’s important. I just lost our child, Poirier. Do you get what I’m saying? I’m mourning. I’m hurt. I don’t need to see you parading your new piece all over campus, telling people she’s your girlfriend. It’s so disrespectful.”

  What. The. Fuck.

  I straighten my back, shaking off some of my surprise.

  “I really have no idea what in the good fuck you’re talking about, woman. Jolie is not a piece. She’s my childhood friend and we’re dating now. It has nothing to do with me wanting to be there for you. When we hooked up, I said it was for fun. We had fun. The condom broke. Not so fun. Shit happened in-between. Fucking terrible, I know. Now we’re dealing with this. Together. Look, I’m still here for you, yeah? But this has nothing to do with JoJo.”

  Her lower lip is shaking. People are starting to stop and look. Stall with their phones. Pretend to mess around with their bags. Shit. It’s becoming a scene, and that’s a problem. I take Amber by the elbow and usher her outside, away from the hall and toward a tree overlooking the entrance of the building. It’s a gray day, and no one is out but us. I lean over her—not too close to give her the wrong idea, but close enough so that she knows that I’m serious.

  “Anything you need,” I say, “I’m here for you. I mean it.”

  “I need you to leave her.” Amber’s tears are now falling like a flood, and I want to stop them, I do, but I can’t. Not the way she wants me to.

  “Amber…”

  She throws herself at me, her fists curling around the collar of my jersey. She gets into my face. “Please, Sage. Give us a chance. You’re going away next year. Do you think Jolie will go with you? She’s not the kind of girl to leave her family. I know her type. I’ll do it for you, Sage. I’ll leave this place for you.”

  My eyes darken, and my thoughts jumble in my head. So when Amber seeks my warmth, burrowing into me for a hug, I give it to her.

  Because I gave her something else without meaning to.

  And now she lost it.

  Because I need to make this right for her somehow.

  And because I’m afraid that she is right about JoJo.

  Jolie

  You know the part in the movie where the couple gets together and everything works out and everyone gets their happy ending? Well, this is not what happens in real life. At least not to me.

  The day starts with Chelsea informing me that she and Mark are not going to the Christmas charity event in New York because she has a job interview for an au pair position in Canada. The woman is heavily pregnant and looking for a full-time nanny to assist her when the baby is born. Mark is going with her, and they’ll be flying back to spend Christmas with her family right after. They’re moving fast, and I’m happy for them, but at the same time, I wanted so badly to spend time with my best friend in the Big Apple.

  Then, I get fired by a text message. Travis, my boss, who apparently has the diplomatic skills of a swordfish, sends me the following message:

  Hi, Julie. Trish told me you had a falling out yesterday. I’m going to be completely honest. She’s been with us for a decade now and this could be a problem. I think it’s best for everyone if you just hand in your resignation tomorrow after your shift. Thanks for your service and stuff. – Trav.

  At first, I think about firing him back my unfiltered response:

  Hi, Gravis (oh? You’re not Gravis? Well, guess what, I’m not Julie. It’s Jolie, you prick!). No need to sugarcoat it. You want me gone because you and Trish meet at the kitchen three times a week before her shift and do some ungodly (and unsanitary) things on the counter. I am more than happy to offer my excellent services to someone who appreciates them. Have a nice life. –Jolie.

  But, of course, like the good Southern girl that I am, I settle for being agreeable:

  Travis, thank you for your message. I regret to hear about your firing me (because that’s essentially what this is), but I’m in no way going to argue with you about it. Since your response to my altercation with Trish was immediate, I think it is only fair that my resignation will be immediate, as well. I will drop by to pick up my last check next week at a time of your convenience. Thanks. –Jolie.

  After getting fired—just when I think things cannot get any possibly worse—I land my butt in a library’s chair, trying to study for my next lit exam, and open up my MacBook. Five seconds into reading an essay about the history of the English language, I rub my eyes, trying to concentrate. When I feel something gooey and warm connecting with the side of my head, I freeze. It slithers down my hair and slaps my face, and my first reaction is to cover my face with both palms. After I hear the knock of whatever’s been thrown at me dropping to the floor, I raise my head and look to my right, where the thing came from.

  Amber.

  Sitting at the desk beside me.

  Smiling.

  I look down. It’s a Starbucks cup. I touch my hair, sniff around me, the shock still working its way to my system. It’s my now-cold pumpkin latte with marshmallow. Jesus H.

  Bitch.

  I know her reasoning behind it, and I get it, I do—it hurts. I can’t even begin to imagine how much. But it is also not my fault.

  My chair scrapes the floor as I stand up and make my way to her. She is sitting with her sorority friends, their army of cardigans, pearl necklaces, and mechanically straightened hair in full attendance. I look sloppy in comparison. My Chucks are dirty, my blonde is also red, and my clothes are too casual. And still, they can’t treat me this way. Ever.

  “You need to stop this.” I slap my hand on her desk, lifting my chin up to look down at her. She stares up at me with a conceited smile I’m dying to wipe off of her face.

  “No, I don’t. You have something of mine that I want back.”

  “And I suppose that’d be Sage?” I tilt my head sideways. She shrugs, snorting out an unattractive laugh she’d never allow herself in his presence.

  “And his money. And his future. And his status. Basically, everything. The best thing about being upfront with you about it, is that you’re too goody-two-shoes to even tell him I ever said it. Because you don’t talk badly of people, do you, sweet girl? I know all about you and your running-to-see-mommy-every-other-weekend tactics.”

  Tactics?

  Tactics?!

  She thinks I go through life trying to impress someone? My best friend? Is she nuts? I don’t even need anyone to answer this question. Of course, she’s nuts. No one of sound mind would ever think in this direction. I lower my body, lean into her face, and whisper, “I know what happened to you, and I’m sorry that it did. I am. But you cannot break us up, Amber. I suggest you move on, and while you’re at it, take a very long look at your behavior and priorities. Because you’re not being assertive or street-smart here, girl. You’re being a manipulative bitch.”

  The words slap her, one by one, and I see her cocky smile melting into a shocked, wide-eyed grimace. One of her friends—a brunette who is wearing a lemon yellow cardigan and a matching headband—crinkles her nose.

  “Wait, how do you mean after what happened to you? What exactly happened to you?”

  “I…I…”

  Another girl, who sits directly in front of her, bolts up from her chair and shakes her head. Her face is so red it is completely possible she might explode.

  “Jesus Christ, Amber! Tell me you didn’t go through with that stupid plan! Faking a pregnancy and then a miscarriage? Like, hello, newsflash! Your life is not a bad General Hospital episode!”

  I stagger backwards, gripping the end of my desk and staring at a very embarrassed, very angry Amber as her eyes broaden and her chest heaves up and down, the adrenaline of the lie catching up with reality.

  Everything turns red.

  Then black.


  Then white again, because the lie is not mine. Not mine to keep, to be burdened with, nor to carry.

  I turn around to collect my MacBook and my shoulder bag and dash outside the library door, making my way to the nearest bus station back home. Amber is after me. I hear her heels clacking against the floor. I don’t turn around, mainly because the notion that I can do something terrible to her—slap her, yell at her, or curse her out—is strong.

  She might be that kind of person, but I’m not.

  Just as I round the corner of the street, Chelsea’s blue Buick appears from the intersection. She stops in front of me with a screech and throws the passenger’s door open.

  “Need a getaway ride?”

  “That seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life right now.”

  I hop in, then I watch Amber’s disappearing figure through the side mirror as my heart finally returns to its usual rhythm.

  “More coffee stains?” Chelsea chuckles, her eyes scanning my blouse. I smile, avoiding the full story.

  “That’s right. I’m starting to believe they’re my sign for good luck.”

  Chapter 9

  Sage

  Four days before Christmas Eve.

  “You ready?” I ask, staring at the mirror as I fasten my cufflinks. The crisp dress shirt is a Prada, and it’s weird to wear Prada. It’s weird to be able to afford Prada, and I constantly have to remind myself that this is a one-off. I bought this suit for the meeting I had with the Raiders in California because JoJo made me. She said I needed to dress the way I wanted to feel. Well, today I feel like I’m going to fulfill my dream and become a professional football player as of next spring.

  That’s one of two dreams down, one more to go.

  “Just a sec!” my girl calls out from the bathroom at the fancy hotel room. Even though I’ve known her ever since we were kids, there is a lot I’m finding out about her, now that we’re dating. Like how it takes her literally two hours to get ready to go out, even though she doesn’t need more than two minutes to get ready for school when we leave for campus every morning, or that she is really (ironically) horny when she’s on her period, which makes us hella creative in bed (I don’t mind a little blood on my sword), but she does. Or that she is not actually that sensitive or sweet when she has a reason not to be—like that time she came back home and told me how Amber goddamn tricked me into babying her. I still haven’t recovered from that shit.

  Wait, that’s not true. I totally did. But still. What an asshole that girl is.

  “Okay! Close your eyes,” she says. My tie is still loose around my neck, and I frown, turn around, lean a hip against the dresser, and shove my hands into my pockets.

  “All right. Let’s see it.”

  “That’s the whole point, Sage! You can’t see it! Eyes closed, remember?” she squeaks. Squeaks. I make her squeak these days. I never did that when we were friends. She also does a lot of huffing, especially when I ask her if we can have sex in insane places like the plane or the beach. I think she huffs to let me know that the idea is insane, but we still end up doing it all the same.

  “Yeah, yeah, eyes as closed as your legs this evening,” I mutter, squeezing my eyelids together.

  “That’s right, mister. No Christmas quickie in the bathroom.”

  I hear her voice getting closer, and my cock jerks in appreciation. He always liked pretty things, and she is gorgeous eye candy. My girl, with the Chucks and the strawberry blonde hair who is not afraid to run in the rain for me.

  “I’d like to negotiate this part.” I lick my lips, my eyes still closed. I feel her closer. Her heat. Her body. The clack of her heels, which I’ve yet to see.

  “I’m sorry. I do not negotiate with terrorists.”

  I smirk. “Oh, we’ll see about that by the end of the night.”

  “Open,” she says, close enough to me that I can smell her flowery perfume, but not so close that I can feel her breath on my skin. I open my eyes, and she is standing there in a long red dress with a deep slit that exposes a shapely, milky leg. The dress is all velvet, prompting me to want to touch it. To tear it. To fucking eat her out on the floor. But I still want my balls intact when we get to the gala at the Met. She’s wearing minimal makeup—other than her red-hot lips—and a pair of heels where the soles are red. The expensive stuff. What I urged her to buy when I signed the deal with the Raiders, same day I got my suit. Her scarlet lips twitch into a timid smile.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you look perfect, but there’s one thing that’s missing. Accessories. Turn around.”

  Her eyes widen, but she does as I ask. She turns around, and I open the drawer behind me and produce my gifts for her. I pull her hair up to put her necklace on. Nothing too fancy. A pink gold necklace with one lonely pearl. It takes me a few seconds to fasten it—this is not the movies. It’s real life, and my hands are shaking like a motherfucker.

  “Now back to me,” I say. My voice breaks. She turns around. Slowly. So slowly. Super slowly. Why is she so slow? Is this a sign? Shut up, asshole. Just do it.

  Very nonchalantly, like it’s not a big deal, like I’m not shitting myself, I slide the ring onto her engagement finger. Like the necklace, it is simple and elegant. Thin, with one diamond sparkling in the middle. Lonely and rare, just like my girl.

  I don’t ask; I state.

  Jolie Louis’s heart belongs to me. It will always belong to me. It belonged to me the minute she decided to open her rusty window and sneak out of her room to meet me, uninvited, but all the same needed.

  She looks down at the ring, and I expect her to frown, maybe ask a question, but no. She doesn’t do any of those things. She looks back up, smiles, and uses her newly adorned left hand to cup my face and pull me close.

  Outside, a storm is making the newspapers and trash on the streets of New York dance in circles. Inside, it’s warm. We kiss. Like friends. Like lovers. Like everything in-between.

  “I love you, angry boy,” she says, and I answer her with the only thing that pops into my head.

  “I love you, brave girl.”

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  On the eighth beat of silence, she finally opened her mouth.

  It was dry, and numb, and painful from smiling all day, but she wanted to utter these words, even if they were the last she’d ever say.

  “I, Jolie Alexandra Louis, take you, Sage Albert Poirier, to be my best friend, my faithful partner, and my one true love. You’ll be my storm in the summer, my calm under the winter sky, and all the seasons in-between. To have, to hold, to cherish, and to comfort.” She slid the ring with shaky fingers, their childhood tree standing in the background, wrapped in red and white sateen bows. It was a small ceremony, with only their beloved family members and college friends as witnesses. No matter how much of a superstar the boy grew up to be in his career with the Raiders, they were still the same kids from twelve years ago. Humble. Quiet. In love. In love. So, so in love.

  “You may now kiss the bride,” the priest said, his words trickling down the two lovers’ souls, melting like the wedding cake behind them on that hot summer day.

  On the eighth second after the girl vowed to give her all to the boy, the boy smirked and said, “Don’t have to tell me twice, sir.” He pulled the veil off of her face, cupped her cheeks, and kissed her so hard he stole her breath away.

  People bolted up from their seats, cheering, whistling, laughing, and living in the moment. The girl smiled, reminiscing back to the very first time she summoned the courage to follow the broken boy, to follow her instincts, to follow her heart, and to talk to him.

  Their lips moved together in a dance of love and lust. They knew the moves by heart.

  On the eighth minute after the ceremony was over, the girl sauntered across the carefully cut grass to her best friend, Chelsea, putting her hand on her shoulder. Chelsea turned around, her date—Mark, whom she was now engaged to—decided to make himself scarce, muttering
his congratulations as he walked away. Sage appeared by his new bride’s side, his smile so big, it hit both women like a sunray.

  “What’s up?” Chelsea asked. She’d recently moved from Vancouver—where she lived with her fiancé—back to Louisiana, where they were both looking for jobs, eager to settle down.

  “What’s your schedule like in eight months?” the girl inquired, butterflies taking flight in her stomach. Chelsea lifted one eyebrow. Sage was on the verge of exploding from happiness. The girl moved her open palm across her white dress, sliding down her flat stomach.

  “Pretty clear. Why?” Chelsea probed.

  “Because you’re hired,” the girl said, as all three sets of eyes drifted down to her abdomen.

  The girl got a kiss on the lips from the boy who no longer howled at the moon and cried on a tree. On the forehead. Like friends do.

  Then he kissed her on the lips, like lovers do.

  Then he kissed the inside of her wrists, like soulmates do.

  The End (Zone)

  Acknowledgments

  This year has been an incredible journey for me. My readers, fellow-authors, agent, editors and friends took me places I never thought I’d reach. So much so, in fact, that I didn’t want to end this year without giving my readers a treat.

  The End Zone was never supposed to happen. I don’t usually write novellas. I love evoking my readers’ different feelings and there’s nothing I enjoy more than slow-burn romances. At the same time, I felt like I needed to give you something sweet and cute for the holidays, and I hope I did just that.

  I would like to thank the following people from the bottom of my heart:

  My beta readers, Tijuana Turner, Mia Sparks, Lana Kart and Paige Jennifer. Thank you so much for putting up with my crazy schedule and for your attention for detail. You make my books so, so much better.