by Shandi Boyes
I’m not stupid. I know how competitive dance is, so I’d never freely give away choreography I plan to wow the judges with. That’s why I’ve only ever practiced on a closed stage. . .
My inner monologue trails off as the truth smacks into me. No, he’d never.
When Francesca gives me a smirk, one I’m certain I’ve seen before, I storm out of her dance studio like a swarm of bees is chasing me. I don’t bother picking up the snacks I lose when I rip open my backpack in search of my phone. I don’t do anything but dial a number I know by heart and press my cell to my ear.
A player is about to be benched. It’s just not the referee calling a penalty. It’s me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Presley
A nother week, another loss, and that’s not even the reason my shoulders are hanging. I thought I knew Willow. I thought I understood what made her tick, and that stepping back and letting her make her own decision about our relationship was the right thing to do. Clearly, I fucked up. I haven’t heard from her in two weeks. Not a text. Not a voicemail message. Nothing.
It’s killing me. I can’t say it any more simply, but that’s exactly how I feel.
I could call her, but that’s another mistake I’m trying not to remake. Lillian played the defensive card any time she could, and I fucking fell for it like the naïve idiot I was. If I so much as looked in the direction of another girl, she called it quits.
If I were smart, I would have run for the hills the first half a dozen times she used it, but it’s rare to find a college student who thinks with the head on their shoulders. Every man within a five-mile radius of our college told me I was a fool to give up what Lillian was offering—every man except Dalton. He saw what the others didn’t. The antics that went on behind closed doors were enough to fill the most angsty romance book. It would just need to skip the romance part because there was none of that.
So why did you ask her to marry you? you wonder.
I didn’t.
We spent the weekend of Dalton and Becca’s wedding at Dalton’s family ranch. Lillian arrived at the reception with a large rock on her ring finger. With Dalton’s wedding being covered by a handful of press, rumors of my “supposed” engagement were also circulated. I should have set the record straight, but for some reason I didn’t. I don’t know why. It might have been the whiskey in my veins or a lack of maturity, but I let the story run, and Lillian started planning our wedding. You know how the rest of our story turned out, so I’ll save you the boredom.
“I know, Coach, I know,” I assure him when he gives me a look, one that reveals not only his disappointment but his worry. It’s lucky we started our playoff campaign so high on the leaderboard, because we would have been tossed to the curb by now. “I’ll play better next week.”
He wants to believe me. He just doesn’t know if he can.
Slumping on the wooden bench in front of my temporary locker, I drag my gym bag until it sits between my feet. I don’t need to look up to feel Danny’s eyes on me. I can feel them burning my skin. He’s still pissed at me. I understand. I’m still pissed at myself. I had wondered if I handled pressure well; my piss-poor performance two weeks ago reveals I don’t. I’ve always been a bit of a hothead who speaks before thinking, but I’m doing everything in my power to change that. Including accepting Danny’s anger on the chin like the man I’m supposed to be.
“Delilah sent over the script she wants you to use during the press conference.”
My eyes lift to Danny. “Script?” This is the first I’m hearing about a script. As far as I was aware, all I had to do was wear her company’s logo.
He thrusts a large document my way. “It’s all written down here. In the contract you signed the only night you remembered there was more to life than money and chasing a football around a field.”
I almost retaliate to his snapped comment, but I hold back, remembering my pledge to be a better man. “I’ll take a look at it later after I’ve hit a salt bath.” I thought I kept my tone neutral, but the flare of concern Danny couldn’t tuck away before I noticed it has me doubtful.
The reason for his worry comes to light when he asks, “Your back?”
“No.” While shaking my head, I stand to my feet. My shoulder is aching like a bitch, but since no one is aware I’m playing injured, I keep that information to myself. “I’ll be back in a few.”
I’m halfway across the away team’s locker room when the shrill of my cell phone halts my steps. I almost let it go to voicemail until a trickle of hope has me racing for the bucket Coach James is carrying into the room. Danny watches me with interest when I search for my phone. It’s most likely Lillian calling, but what if it isn’t?
The small bit of hope I’m clutching triples when I finally find my phone. With her face lighting up the screen, there’s no mistaking who is calling me. It’s Willow.
After exhaling deeply, I slide my finger across the screen, then raise my phone to my ear. I play it cool, hoping it will weaken the hammering of my heart echoing in my voice. “I was beginning to think you had lost my number. It’s good to hear from you.”
Her reply is nowhere near as flirty. “Why would you do that? Why would you take something so precious to me and treat it as if it’s meaningless?” Her words are as chilly as ice, but they have nothing on the coldness skating down my spine when she sucks in a shaky breath like she’s seconds from crying.
“What I said was stupid. I was talking out of my ass.”
Danny makes an agreeing noise, alerting me to the fact that he has his ear pressed against my phone so he can overhear my conversation.
After pulling away from him, I say, “I love the way your eyes light up when you perfect a move and how your lips itch to sing along to the tune when you get caught up in music. I love that you love dance so much you can see it all over your face when you talk about it.” But I doubt it will ever match the love I have for you.
“Then why do this? What benefit do you get from it?”
I wait for her to catch the sob her hiccup is barely holding back before replying, “Because I was being selfish. I wanted you to fight for me.”
“What?” She sounds truly confused.
I try to ease it. “The reason I walked away. I wanted you to fight for me—to fight for us. I needed to know you were in as deep as me. That you understand I want this to be long-term, not a college fling you’ll forget in a few months. I wasted nine years of my life trying to hold on to someone who never wanted me. I don’t want to do that again, Willow. ”
When she fails to respond, I drag my phone from my ear. Our call is still connected; she’s just as quiet as a mouse.
Just as I say her name, she whispers, “I wasn’t talking about our relationship.”
I lick my dry lips, confused. “Okay. Then what did you mean?”
Some of the angst in her voice is pushed away for anger. “My dance routine, the one I performed for you, the moves I created are now out there for the entire world to use.” I hear her throat work hard to swallow. “I know you think dance recitals are stupid, but this one was really important to me, and you went and ruined it.”
Before I can respond, she disconnects our call.
I immediately redial her number.
She doesn’t answer that call or the thirty-seven that follow it.
I SPEND the next week wading through my confusion. I’m honestly lost as to what Willow meant by her comment. Was she saying I stole her routine, or that she wasted a routine on a man underserving of it? Most of this week, my opinion swayed toward the latter, but now I’m beginning to wonder if that was the case. She said she was referencing us, so that means she was talking about the dance she was preparing for the recital. And that’s why I’m stumped. How could I have ruined things for her? Knowing how important the recital was to her was the sole reason I refused to let her cancel it weeks ago. Dancing is a part of who she is, and I don’t care if she never talks to me again, I would never take that away from
her.
My confusion gets a moment of reprieve when Danny enters the room. “Are you ready?”
I swipe my hand down my body while fighting the urge not to cringe. The advertising execs either misread the measurements Danny sent them for my clothes, or they purposely ordered them several sizes too small. Every bump on my body is on display for the world to see—I mean Every. God. Damn. Bump. This is worse than being photographed in my underwear, because not only does my dick want to hide in shame, so the fuck do I.
“Shut up,” I murmur under my breath when Dalton catches sight of me entering the press conference room.
I would glare harder, but I lose the opportunity when Delilah appears at my side. “Do you have the script?”
“Not on me.” When she glares at me, I hold my hands up in the air and spin in a circle. Dalton wolf whistles when I work my disastrous getup like a swimwear model showing off her assets in a swimsuit competition. “Where exactly would you like me to put it? It’s not like I have pockets.”
Delilah is quiet, but I swear she murmurs, “I can think of one spot.”
While I take a seat next to Dalton, Delilah gives me a rundown on how she wants our meeting to go down. It’s not about football or the odds of us winning a spot in the grand finale; it’s about her clients getting the most bang for their buck.
“No matter what is said or asked, never stray from our motto. Be the best you can be—”
“By being the slimmest you can be,” I interrupt.
“Good.” After tossing a cap with a giant fat-slimming logo plastered across the front, Delilah moves to a set of chairs behind the half-dozen cameras about to capture my every move.
I lower my cap to hide my flaming-with-embarrassment cheeks before swinging my eyes to Dalton. I realize not all the heat on my face is shame when I’m subjected to his furious wrath.
“Seriously? You’re endorsing a weight loss supplement?”
“It’s a ten million dollar contract.”
He backhands me. “I don’t care if it was a hundred million dollars. What’s your girl gonna think when she watches this? This goes against everything she believes in.”
Before I can seek clarification on how this affects Willow, the media contingent preparing to interview us enters the room in droves, twisting the nerves in my stomach into a tangled knot.
The first half of our press conference follows a similar pattern most press conferences do: are there any injuries? What do we think our chances are? And have we heard the rumors that Coach James will be axed if we lose tonight’s game?
The first two questions were easy to answer. The last one hit me hard. Coach James has been my coach since I was drafted. I don’t want anyone but him leading our team, but before I can work through that issue, something else pops up.
“Do you think your poor performance of late is due to influences outside of the game?” This question comes from Mason, a sport journalist who was a teammate of Dalton’s and mine back in college. He had the skills to make it far as we did, but his piss-poor attitude meant they never flourished. He truly is what Willow calls a wanker. “You’re a bit sluggish, like your mind isn’t on the right game.”
I lean my elbows on the table, preparing to answer his question, but Dalton beats me to it. “Carlton isn’t necessarily playing bad.” Mason huffs with as much disbelief as me, but Dalton keeps chipping away at him. “His fumble count is the lowest it’s ever been; he’s the passing yard leader in the entire league, and he also holds the passing touchdown record. There’s nothing wrong with his skills; it just appears as if our opponents are one step ahead of us. We’re planning to fix that error tonight.”
Happy Dalton has given them an answer worthy of a front page spread, we move on to another reporter. “So what’s with the getup, Carlton? Are we playing who stuffed the sausage? Or. . .?”
This question comes from Jeffrey. He’s the goofball at every press conference. I like him. . . when he isn’t comparing my package to a stuffed sausage.
I’m about to break into the script Delilah prepared for me when I’m interrupted by Mason, “He’s endorsing a weight-loss product he can’t even get his girlfriend onboard with.” He laughs as if he’s cracking a joke. I don’t find his type of humor amusing. “Bit of a hypocrite, don’t you think? Here, buy my fat-slimming products, but don’t look at my girlfriend while doing it.”
I scoot to the very edge of my chair, ready to charge at any moment. “I beg your pardon?”
I don’t give a fuck about him calling me a hypocrite, but dragging Willow into a fight she doesn’t belong in. . . I have more than a problem with that. And don’t even get me started on his insinuation that Willow needs to lose weight.
When Mason smirks a sly grin, I feel my anger reaching its boiling point. I’m not just mad at him, though. I’m furious at myself. He’s right. I am a hypocrite. I love Willow’s curves, and I’d be devastated if my endorsement of a weight-loss product encouraged her to think otherwise. I didn’t consider what she or any other curvy person would think when they saw my advertisements. All I saw were dollar signs flashing in front of my eyes, not the consequences of me telling people they’re not perfect because they’re not a size zero.
Willow is beyond perfect. I love her sassy mouth, beyond beautiful face, and upbeat attitude. Having all of that and something to grip while fucking her. . . Pure. Fucking. Heaven! I love her curves. They’re a part of who she is, and one of the first things I noticed about her. She and her luscious body are worth more to me than any dollar figure.
Even ten million of them.
With that in mind, I yank off my cap and toss it on the floor. If Delilah wants to sue me, she can go ahead. I’d rather be poor than have anyone think they’re not the best they can be because they’re not slim.
Dalton slaps my back in support, but Mason isn’t as eager to step out of the ring. “Bit late to back out now, isn’t it? They’re already paying you to endorse a fat-shredding product while dating a fatty, so why not keep running with it? Milk that cow for all it’s worth.”
When I spring out of my chair, Dalton jumps from his just as fast. He bands his arms around my torso, stopping my charge to Mason. Pain rockets through my shoulder, but it’s got nothing on the fire in my gut. Cameras zoom in on me when I give Mason my one and only warning: “You better shut your mouth before I shut it for you!”
He must have a death wish, because only a stupid man would rile another about a woman he loves. “Well there’s a solution. Slap a bit of duct tape over her mouth. That’ll shred her excess pounds in no time.”
“You’ll need more than duct tape when I’m done with you.”
My determination to reach Mason is so intense, I take Dalton right along with me. I don’t know what I’m shouting as I barge my way through the two dozen reporters recording my every move. I’m too high on the adrenaline to pay attention to the minute details.
It’s only once I’ve silenced Mason with my fists and am dragged into the locker room by Coach James do I realize what I’ve done. I just threw my career down the toilet to defend a vivacious, eccentric college student who is nearly ten years my junior, and I couldn’t be fucking happier.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Willow
I adjust my backpack when I enter the foyer of my dorm. The textbooks stuffed inside have my shoulders the lowest they’ve been the past three weeks. Tonight should have been filled with palpable excitement. Instead, it’s one of the lowest days I’ve ever had. I’m not performing at the recital or watching Elvis contend for a spot in the final game. I’m going to hide in my room and eat leftover pizza while pretending my fifth slice is my first for the day. It will be a great night—not.
My already sluggish pace slows when I hear a roar come from a group of people huddled around the only flat screen TV in the building. “Come on, Carlton! They’re reading you like a playbook!”
I naturally progress toward the disgruntled moaners, my heart moving my legs instead of my
head. My sneaky steps halt when a pair of big blue eyes swing my way. Skylar is at the side of the pack. She has on her standard jersey—three sizes too small. Her cheeks are donning her favorite player’s number—Elvis’s lucky number 11, and her hair is teased out like the cheerleaders’ pom-poms. Even though she should look utterly ridiculous, she doesn’t. She’s as adorable as she’s always been.
This is the first time I’ve seen her in three weeks. She’s either been dodging me as well as the opposition just sidestepped Elvis’s campaign for a touchdown or she hasn’t been around. I really hope it is the latter. I’d hate to think she’s purposely avoiding me.
After giving her an inconspicuous wave, I pivot on my heels and leave the lobby. My shoulders are hanging even lower now. I thought losing Elvis was bad, but losing my best friend at the same time is the second double-blow I’ve been hit with in my short nearly-twenty-two years. When my parents died I was too young to comprehend how much I had truly lost. I’m old enough now, and I confidently declare it hurts—it hurts really bad.
I jump out of my skin when a crackling voice shouts, “Willow, wait!”
My hands scrape my cheeks to make sure they’re dry before I turn to face Skylar. I swear I nearly blabber like a baby when she pushes off her feet to span the distance between us. “I’m still mad as hell at you, and perhaps a smidge jealous, but you need to see this.”
When she drags me toward our room, I dig my heels into the carpet. “I don’t need to witness the carnage firsthand. I got the gist of it from the moans in the foyer.” I can still hear their gripes now. They’re not impressed with Elvis or any of his teammates. “It’s nauseating.”
Although I’d love to use this opportunity to bridge the rift between Skylar and me, I honestly can’t handle any more drama tonight. My plate is overloaded. I’m full to the brim—and I don’t just mean from the pizza I gorged down like a fat piggy as I strived to forget what day today is.
