by Shandi Boyes
Lillian’s frantic head bob halts when I say, “And me? What would you like me to do?”
I should be scared walking into a room full of people trying to take me down, but I’m not. I’m pissed and hormonal, so if anyone should be scared, it sure as hell ain’t me.
When Delilah’s attempt to snatch my cell comes up empty, she stands in front of me with her brow arched and her lips in a flat line. “So you’re not just fat and ugly, you’re stupid as well. It’s three against one; how far do you think you’ll get?”
I could answer her with words, but I think my fists will do a better job. After sliding my cell into the back pocket of my skirt, I test out my theory.
“Oh my god, are you an animal?!” Delilah’s hand darts up to cover her gushing nose—the nose I just socked her in. “You can’t hit people.”
“Really? Then what did I just do?”
I take a second swing. This time, I aim for her eye. My hit has enough force, she tumbles down. Her fake ass hitting the floor is music to my ears, her pained wail the icing on the cake.
Pretending my knuckles aren’t throbbing, I shift my focus to her minions. My chest puffs with smugness when Mason steps back with his hands held in the air. His cowardice could be excused because he has a badly battered face, but I’d rather pretend it isn’t.
Lillian’s eyes bounce between her aunt wailing like a child on the ground and me for several long heartbeats. She makes the right decision when she mimics Mason’s movements. She bows out of our fight without words, her spinelessness inexcusable. It’s probably for the best, though. I don’t have time to dispel all my anger. Instead, I issue them a final sneer before pivoting on my heels and exiting the room.
I make it four steps before Lillian’s snicker slows my quick pace. Almost robotically, I turn back around and retrace my steps. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” she denies, her head shaking. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, I must have heard you call me a ‘fat cow’ by mistake. Silly me.”
I try to convince myself to let it go. I remind myself time and time again that reacting to bullies is as bad as instigating bullying, but I just can’t help myself. Lillian needs to be taught a lesson, and who better to do that than me?
“No, please, not my nose. I just had my deviated septum fixed.”
Her plea turns into a garble when I undo the hard work of her plastic surgeon with my fist. When she falls to the ground, holding her nose, I bend over her. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me, but I will hurt you if I ever see you near Elvis again. Do you understand me?”
I wait for her to nod before returning to my campaign to fix the injustices every person in this room committed—myself included. Adrenaline spurs on my steps as I race down the corridor. I make it within three inches of the field before I’m stopped by a security personnel.
“I have a ticket. I’m just trying to get to my seat.” I show him the ticket the attendant couldn’t scan.
He glances at it for barely a second before he gestures to a stairwell on his right. “Climb those and go three rows over. Your seat is just above my head.” He points up.
“Okay. Thank you.”
I kiss his cheek like he told me I’m pretty before darting for the stairs. I’ve climbed two steps when his rumble rolls through my ears, “I like your shirt.”
“Thank you!” I reply, my pace undeterred. “Me too!”
His laugh warms my heart, but it has nothing on the heat that hits me when I finish climbing the stairs. The crowd is on their feet, their anger not just visible on their faces. They’re fuming mad. I’d even go as far as saying steamingly angry. The heat bouncing off them on is so stifling, I can feel my face paint sagging off my cheeks.
“E!” I shout when I see him in the middle of the field.
I move to the very end of the bleachers before waving my arms in the air. “E!”
My shouts are overpowered by the boisterous boo of the crowd when Elvis’s throw is intercepted by the opposition. At this rate, he’ll never hear me. Recalling how shouted words can be as good as they are bad, I try a new tactic.
“Come on, Elvis! Show them why you’re the king!” My words barely float three feet away from me, but they are heard by the spectators surrounding me. “You’ve got this! You’re the number one quarterback in the country for a reason! Bring the magic! Show them why you’re the king!”
“Yeah, come on, Elvis. Show us the magic!” a 69er fan on my left joins in.
His words of encouragement are closely followed by another on my left. “We can still win this. We’re the 69ers. We don’t go down without a fight.”
Excitement slicks my skin when each roar is enhanced by another, and another, and another. By the time my eyes are close to breaking the damn welling in them, every spectator in my section is mimicking my chants. Our roars of encouragement not only gain us the attention of the defensive half of Elvis’s team, it gains us the watchful eye of the jumbo screen cameraman.
My eardrums are nearly blasted from the hive of activity around me, but I swear I hear Elvis whisper, “Willow?” when he spots me on the jumbo screen.
When he spins in a circle, looking for me, I wave my hands in the air like I’m landing a jumbo jet. I can tell the exact moment he spots me as the most blistering smile stretches across his face. It’s so large, not even his helmet can conceal it.
Coach James manically signals for time when Elvis starts to race off the field. His panicked demand is granted by the referee a mere second before Elvis crosses the sideline. He races my way, his helmet discarded at the halfway mark. The roars of the crowd dull to barely a hum when he climbs up the railing like King Kong climbed the Empire State Building. They’re as shocked by his arrival as me.
The delicious scent of sweat-slicked skin with a hint of grass hits me when Elvis stops to stand in front of me. He’s dangling a good twelve or so feet from the ground, and the strain from his climb is visible on his face.
“Hey.”
Who knew one stupid word could cause an avalanche of emotions? I guess if you add his greeting to the excitement in his eyes, it can be easily excused.
“Hey.”
What? You aren’t dealing with what I am right now. I’m impressed I managed to get out a single word.
As the crowd hovers to eavesdrop on our conversation, Elvis’s eyes dance between mine like he’s convinced I’m going to disappear at any moment. When I don’t, he asks, “What are you doing here, Willow? I thought you had your dance recital?”
“This was more important.” Realizing my error, I correct, “You are more important.”
His eyes flare with relief as the most gorgeous smile spreads across his face. I swear to god it makes my knees weak and has several ladies behind me collapsing into their seats.
“But right now, we’ve got more urgent matters to take care of.” Pretending I can’t feel a million eyes on me, I yank my cell phone out of my pocket. “Your competitors aren’t one step ahead of you. They know your plays.”
As I log into the videos on my phone, I blurt out everything I just witnessed. Delilah’s scheme, how they added stuff into his contract after he signed it, and that Mason purposely goaded him with the hope of getting him benched, before closing with how Lillian secured the playbook from Coach Salter before every game.
The only thing I don’t mention is Lillian’s plan to play him for an idiot. He’s been hurt enough by her, and I refuse to subject him to any more.
“Jesus.” There are a thousand words in Elvis’s eyes, but he went for the easiest one.
“It’s okay,” I assure him when I see the bewilderment in his eyes shift to indecisiveness. He wants to update Coach James on what is happening before making his competitors pay for their underhandedness, but he doesn’t want me to think he is picking football over me. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right there when you’re done.” I point to my seat three bleachers over.
; “Are you sure?”
I nod without hesitation. “I’m sure.” I seal my hand over his before giving it a squeeze. “Now go and show them why you’re the king!”
While silently praying he has the agility of a cat, I place my phone in his hand before giving him a gentle nudge. He lands on his feet, but they remain planted on the ground.
“Go!” I gesture to Coach James who is seconds from bursting an artery. “Coach is about to bench you.”
Elvis’s grin does stupid things to my insides. “I’m willing to take the risk.”
My already brisk heart rate speeds up when he climbs up toward me. His pace is so fast this time around, a gust of air hits my face a mere second before I’m engulfed by the most delicious set of lips I’ve ever tasted in my life. Even with the cheer of the crowd strong enough to collapse the grandstand, he holds nothing back. He kisses the living hell out of me. Tongue, lips, teeth, you name it, it’s included in our kiss.
By the time he pulls back, I’m as woozy as a drunk after a night out on the town.
“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”
I think I nod, but don’t quote me on it. I can barely stand upright.
I gingerly lean over the railing when Elvis calls my name. When my eyes land on his, he smirks a wickedly devilish grin. “I like your shirt.”
“Why thank you.” I curtsy. “I made it myself.”
After a final wink, he spins on his heels and sprints to Coach James, picking up his helmet on the way. Coach’s face pales when Elvis hands him my phone, but he’s not upset for long. The natural beige coloring of his cheeks shifts to a vibrant red as he approaches Coach Salter standing on the sidelines.
Recognizing his game is about to be cut short, Coach Salter makes an excuse to leave the field. His hasty exodus is stopped by two security officers just before he enters the stadium tunnel. He should consider himself lucky. Coach James looks minutes away from turning this game of football into a boxing match.
My heart warms when Coach James shifts his eyes my way. He dips his chin, his gratitude coming without words. I return his greeting before accepting the seat the gentleman next to me is offering. I could find my own seat, but since I don’t trust my legs to keep me upright, I’d rather not.
“It is a cool shirt,” the fan praises.
With a smile as bright as a moon on a cloudless night, I drop my eyes to my shirt. I saw this slogan in a kick-ass reading group I’m a part of and thought it was highly appropriate for tonight. Its lettering is a little wonky since I painted it while we were in transit, but its message is imperative:
Unless I’m sitting on your face, my weight is none of your business.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Willow
M y lungs haven’t secured an entire breath the past thirty-seven minutes. Coach James had enough proof to force the opposition into forfeiting the game, but at the request of Elvis and his teammates, he allowed the game to continue as scheduled. Let me tell you, it has been a nail-biting thirty-seven minutes. It took everything the 69ers had to swing the game in their favor, but they did it. After a grueling twelve minutes in sudden-death overtime, Foster moonwalks across the end zone, and the crowd leaps to their feet.
“Yes!”
I hug Skylar, whose impressive rack saved her from prosecution, before turning my affections to anyone willing to hug a stranger. My excitement is too extreme to care that I’m getting friendly with football freaks. I’m one of them now, so I can’t exclude myself from the festivities.
I stop celebrating the team’s win as if it were my own when the crowd’s focus shifts in a different direction. They all turn one way, the joy on their faces changing to wonder. I discover the cause for their slackened jaws and wide eyes when I crank my neck in the direction they’re gawking. Elvis has once again climbed the railing, except this time, he’s on our side of the fence.
Fans slaps his back in congratulations as he spans the distance between us. I lick my lips, assuming his hurried steps are spurred on by his eagerness to reacquaint our mouth. They are, but that’s not the only thing encouraging his swiftness.
After returning air to my lungs with nothing but his mouth, Elvis shifts his eyes to Skylar. “How did you go?”
The love hearts bouncing from her eyes double under his watchful gaze, but she plays it cool. “We’re good to go.” She grimaces like she got a bit of vomit on her shirt. “If you can get her there in thirty minutes.”
“Challenged accepted.”
Stealing my chance to ask what the hell is going on, Elvis seals his hand over mine before hightailing it down the stairs. Skylar follows closely behind us. It’s lucky we’re fit, or we would have died from Elvis’s grueling pace.
I take a step back, squealing, when Elvis’s car comes shrieking to a halt in front of us not even a second after we burst through the back doors of the stadium. After tossing me into the back seat—yes, he tossed me in there—Elvis demands that Danny scoot into the passenger seat. While he does that, all legs and arms, Skylar drags a damp cloth down my painted cheek.
“That better be water.”
She giggles, loving the fret in my tone. She shouldn’t be laughing because I wasn’t joking. I don’t care how much I love her; if her spit is on my face, there’ll be hell to pay.
As Elvis zooms out of the parking lot too fast for his car not to become airborne, Skylar dangles a travel-size pack of wet wipes in front of my face. It eases the tension in my shoulders, but it does nothing for the knot in my gut. I’m as confused as hell and not ashamed to admit it.
“Will someone please tell me what is going on?”
They all talk at once, meaning I get nothing but blasted eardrums.
I swipe my hand through the air, silencing them in an instant. “One at a time.”
Skylar is the closest, so you’d think my eyes would go straight to her. They don’t. They seek Elvis’s in the rearview mirror.
Although I can’t see his mouth, I know he is smiling. His twinkling eyes give it away. “We’re going to your recital. Skylar had them slot you in for the final performance of the night. ”
My first thought is excitement, but it quickly switches to dread.
“Francesca has already performed. I’ll look like a copycat if I use the routine she stole from me.”
“Then do something else,” Skylar suggests, like it’s as easy as baking a pie.
“It’s not that simple. Finding the right choreography takes weeks. You can’t just throw something together and expect it to look good.”
My eyes stray to Elvis’s when he says, “You can, Will. Just listen to the music like you did in my condo.”
“That was different. That was a private performance for you, not in front of hundreds of spectators. . .”
My words trail off when Elvis suggests, “Then pretend you’re performing for me.”
When I huff, more in disarray than anger, he cranks his neck back to peer at me. I’m panicked we’re seconds from crashing, but Danny’s quick thinking saves us from getting friendly with the cars in front of us. He leans across Elvis to take control of the wheel. His lack of surprise makes me wonder if this is something he often does.
My eyes bounce between Elvis’s when he says, “You don’t need music or a routine. You need to listen to the beat inside of you. The one that would never lead you astray. You need to trust yourself.”
His words floor me. Excluding my parents, no one has ever had such faith in me before. Realizing he is getting through to me, Elvis strengthens his campaign. “A beautifully stubborn lady once told me ‘the only time someone fails is when they don’t try.’” Tears burn my eyes when he delivers my dad’s favorite Winston Churchill quote, “Success is not final; failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” Nothing but honesty rings in his tone when he says, “You’ve got this, Willow. You have too much passion not to have it in the bag. You just need to dance from your heart instead of your head.”
Now hi
s team’s decision to play tonight makes sense. They could have made it to the finals without any effort, but they wanted to earn it instead of having it handed to them.
“Okay.”
“Yes?” Elvis double-checks. My voice was only a whisper, so he could have misheard me.
“Yes,” I repeat, louder this time.
Skylar’s squeal will ring in my ears for the next twelve months. I just hope the favor I am about to ask her doesn’t take me as long to repay.
NERVES TAP DANCE in my stomach as I make my way to the wings of the stage. Elvis is already in his seat. The late hour of the performance didn’t hinder his wish to get the best seat in town. He has a prime position—as front and center as you can get.
The butterflies in my stomach settle the instant the drums start banging in Toni Basil’s one-hit wonder “Hey, Mickey.” As the song breaks into the first verse I clap in rhythm to the beat, encouraging the audience to follow suit. I can’t see them through the blinding light illuminating the stage when I dart across it, but I can hear the claps. . . and a handful of wolf-whistles from the dads in the audience when I leap, bound, and cartwheel across the stage in a super-short pleated skirt and Skylar’s beloved skintight 69ers jersey.
They cheer even louder when the spotlight following my gymnastics routine zooms in on Elvis in the middle of the stage in his full football getup. Just like he did during my performance in his house, he is sitting on a dining chair. The smile on his face when I use his thighs as a balance beam encourages my impromptu performance. I shimmy and shake my ass across the stage while using his body as a prop. I grind against him, pivot around him, and use his impressive height to wow the audience with how much leverage I get from the ground when I do leap splits.
