“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 againsteverythingshe 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 thatandsomething 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
Iadjust 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.
