Chapter Six
EMERSON
My perfectly rounded nails dug into my palms. I crossed my legs then uncrossed them at least a dozen times before the door opened. Coach Kay strutted in and sat behind a large black desk littered with pictures of athletes, friends, and folks who I assumed were family members.
Awards decorated her white walls.
I was really close to being sick to my stomach when she finally spoke. “You know why you’ve been asked here.”
It wasn’t a question. Was it?
I quickly nodded my head and spoke. “I believe you’re looking for a new replacement.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between us while her eyes narrowed in on me and very slowly inched down my body. She started at my head until she stood up and leaned over the desk, her gaze never wavering as she inspected me all the way down to my pink-and-black Nike tennis shoes.
“Hmm.”
It wasn’t a good hmm. Not like Hmm, that’s cute or Hmm, that’s different. It was more of a hmm that meant it wouldn’t work at all. I’d been on the wrong side of that hmm more than I could count.
Which probably meant she was either stuck with putting me on her roster . . .
Or she needed a towel girl.
My lips ached with the wide smile I kept perfectly pasted on my face. It was a practiced one, one that told her I couldn’t be shaken, no matter how rude her perusal of my body had been.
I was awesome.
I just needed to convince her of that.
I refused to accept responsibility for being part of the problem. People tended to think there was something wrong with me, and I had spent a lifetime convincing them that I was just bigger than the other girls, and that it was okay. It was their issue, not mine. I was finally happy with me, and damn her for trying to shake that confidence away.
She could go to hell.
Along with everyone else who’d given me that exact same look and patted my hand as if to say, But, chin up, you have a really pretty face.
“It will be hard work,” she finally said, leaning back in her chair as her long red fingernails tap-tap-tapped against each other. “Are you up for the challenge?”
“I believe you already know the answer to that question, ma’am.”
Finally, she cracked a smile. “You’ll need to be strong.”
“I can bench over—”
She shook her head, interrupting me by slicing her hand through the air. “Not that kind of strength.” A manicured fingernail moved to her temple. “This kind.” Her hand lowered to her chest and pressed flat. “And this kind.”
“I have those kinds,” I said in a clear, confident voice, “in spades.”
“Which is why . . .” She stood again and held out her hand. “I’d like to officially welcome you to the Bucks Squad. Practices are at five a.m. every morning and seven p.m. every evening until the first game.” She handed me a packet. “Give them hell.”
“Them?”
“See you tomorrow morning.” She ignored me and sat, then looked up. “Please close the door behind you.”
I had reached the door when she called out, “Oh, and Emerson, we have a very strict no-fraternization rule. Remember, the football players are off-limits, even the ones that are dumb as rocks. Got it?”
I snorted back a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, that won’t be a problem. Trust me.”
Once I was a healthy distance down the hall, I allowed myself to celebrate by way of jumping into the air and giving a little shout. I made it all the way to my car and burst into tears as I leaned my arms against the driver’s side window and full-on sobbed.
My dream.
It had been my only dream since my dad gave me that picture of my mom and told me I was beautiful.
It had been my dream since the only boy to ever tell me that I was pretty left me.
My dream since he took my heart with him.
And never looked back.
Since I was forced to pick up the pieces and glue them all back together.
Some days I still felt broken without Miller, but what do you do when the very person you want is the one who did the breaking in the first place?
“Didn’t make the team, huh?” A gravelly voice interrupted my mini sob fest.
Slowly, I turned around and looked up, up, up, and finally met a pair of gorgeous, twinkling green eyes.
Yeah, you’d have to live in a cave not to know who the man was.
Grant Sanchez wasn’t just one of the best receivers in the league, he was the best receiver in the league. I’d made it my job to know all the players, not because I loved studying football stats, but because they almost always made it a part of our test when we tried out for the team squads.
Lucky for me, I hadn’t needed to study much. The Bellevue Bucks were celebrities in our town—and most of them were also notorious man whores with way too much money and privilege. And Grant Sanchez was quite literally—the worst.
“Actually . . .” I finally found my voice. “I made the team.”
He held out his hand for a high five. Two of my hands could fit in his palm; it was almost comical. I slapped it and quickly pulled back, nervous that the coach would see me fraternizing, not that it would go anywhere. He was Grant Sanchez, for crying out loud. I might be confident, but I was very aware of my place on the totem pole, and it was midrange, while he only dated the top tier.
His full lips spread into a wide melting smile. “I’m shocked.”
“Oh?” I tried not to sound defensive, but it was hard not to as I took a step back and crossed my arms.
He moved in closer to me, nearly pinning me against my own car. “Well, typically they only hire bitchy girls with fake smiles—even faker tits—and celery addictions. God, please tell me you hate celery.”
“Celery tastes like water. Who actually likes it?” I countered, and received yet another offer for a high five. Noted. The guy was into high fives.
“I may have a little crush on you, cheer girl.” He winked and pulled back then called over his shoulder. “See you around, Curves.”
“Curves?”
“I’m big into nicknames, and yours . . .” He turned full around and shook his head. “Damn, they do you justice.” He chuckled. “If I hear you celebrated with celery, we can’t be friends anymore.”
“We aren’t friends now!” I called back.
“Yeah we are!” He kept walking.
“No, we aren’t!”
He acted like he ignored me and disappeared into the stadium.