I lose the chance to work out which when someone calls my name. We stop down the wall of photos approximately four-fifths of the way, meaning I miss the last six faces. I guess it’s lucky I have a whole six weeks to memorize them.Six. Whole. God. Damn. Weeks.
“Coach James, this is Willow Underwood.”
That silly feeling I get in my belly every time my cell lights up with a message from Elvis tap-dances through my stomach when the man I’m being introduced to sinks himself deeper into his leather chair before dragging his eyes down my body. His prolonged gawk isn’t overly bothersome; it’s the way Dr. Peter introduced him. You’d swear I was sitting across from Barack Obama. Man—that would be cool.
“My friends call me Will. It’s nice to meet you.”
I thrust my hand over Coach James’s desk in greeting. He doesn’t accept my gesture. Instead, he nudges his head to a chair across from him, demanding for me to sit. I do, albeit wonkily. He’s got the stern,do you think I give a fuck you’re only a girllook down pat, and it has more than my heart rate quickening. I’ve got a sweaty mustache as well.
“It says here that your internship is for six weeks; is that correct?”
“Yes. . . if that’s what you want? I don’t mind either way.” Dr. Peter’s cough reminds me that without this placement, I’ll be without the credits needed to pass this semester. “Yes. Six weeks. Not a day more, or a day less.” I flash Coach James a grin that reveals my cheekiness. “Unless that’s what you want?”
He doesn’t appear to appreciate my humor. “You’ll work with Amara. She’s stern, but it appears as if you need a tight lead.”
Ah, there it is.I saw the glimmer in his eyes he tried to stuff halfway through his sentence. He might not be Mary Poppins, but he’s got a funny bone hiding in there somewhere.
“Amara will supply you with a uniform. You are to wear it every day. If it doesn’t fit, we can arrange to have it altered.” I’m about to snicker under my breath about him being an asshole when his next sentence snuffs my anger to a point of no return. “The seamstress the team uses is great at taking in dresses. Fixing ruined jerseys. . . not so much.”
I fold my hands over each other in my lap, feeling better about our arrangement already. “Okay. Thank you.”
Several painstakingly long seconds pass without a word being uttered. I can tell Dr. Peter is dying for the chance to speak; he’s squirming like a kid busting to use the bathroom, but his jaw is hanging too close to the ground to produce speech.
When the silence becomes too much to bear, I ask, “Anything else?”
Coach James flexes his fingertips together as he silently contemplates. After what feels like a lifetime, he murmurs, “My job here at 69ers camp isn’t just to have the best performance stats and highest win ratio in the country; I’m also here to protect my boys.” He stands from his seat, walks around his messy table, then plants his backside a mere inch from my shoulder. “In saying that, I think it’s important we establish a non-fraternization policy during your stay here. It’s nothing against you; I just want to protect both yourself, your university, and my players from any unnecessary heartache.”
“That’s perfect; I think that is a fabulous idea.”
“You do?” Coach James’s voice is as high as mine. Shock is evident all over his face.
“Yes!” I jump up from my seat, more than ready to start my placement. “This is a place of business, not a frat house, so I have no qualms whatsoever about following your rules.”
“That’s very mature of you, Willow.” Dr. Peter’s praise isn’t needed, but I’m glad to be on his good side—for once.
ONCE WE HAVE ALLthe insurance forms filled out and a brand-spanking new non-fraternization policy signed, Coach James takes me to meet Amara. With her cubicle at the back of the locker rooms the 69er players are in the process of filling up, we take a shortcut down the corridor of photos. I don’t mind. It gives me the opportunity to take in the photos I missed earlier, including one I couldn’t miss even if I tried.
Presley “Elvis” Carlton
You son of a bitch!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Presley
“Great practice. We need to hit up a few plays Chester designed tomorrow, and you need to practice on your reach.” Coach James points to Mitch. “But other than that, we’re good to go.” He claps twice, signaling the end of our four-hour training session.
Thank fuck. I’m exhausted and have kinks in places I didn’t know could kink. Not all of them are from practice, though. I’m in a whole lot of pain for an entirely worthwhile reason.
Willow.
Willow.
Willow.
No other words needed. . . except perhaps these five:it’s time for a massage.
My sluggish steps into Amara’s dungeon of torture slow when the flash of a murderous pair of blue eyes stops me in my tracks. Willow’s backside is propped on the massage table Amara usually tortures me on. She has her arms folded under her chest, and she’s chewing gum like she’s crushing my nuts with every bite she takes.
