Page 105 of Against The Rules

I pull up short in front of her door and knock twice, hiding my shaking hands in all my stuff.

“Come in,” she says, and I push the door open, beaming at her as I stand in front of her.

There’s no chair for anyone to sit in her office except for her.

She does it on purpose. I’m positive. It’s a power move, and frankly, it makes me grind my teeth.

“Why do you think I called you in here?”

“I was late on the Dua Lipa number,” I say automatically.

“You were, that’s true, but your dancing has overall improved since this summer.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. Like that crumb of a fucking compliment is enough to undo her psychological warfare.

“You were sloppy today, Savannah, sloppy. It’s not cute.” She blinks up at me, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.

I wasn’t sloppy, and she’s a bitch.

I bite my tongue.

“You picked up the rose that player gave you. Why did he bring you a rose, Savannah?”

“I would ask him, but I’m not allowed to.” I soften my petty tone with a smile.

Rebecca looses a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose, like I’m giving her a headache.

Oh, I’ll give her a fucking headache.

For a moment, my fear of her turns to something else. Rage. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of her; I’m sick of the microscopic scrutiny and the insane rules.

I blow out a breath instead, through my smiling teeth.

“You can’t encourage the players like that, Savannah.”

“At the beginning of the season, we were told not to leave anything on the field, pom fluffs, sequins, anything. I thought it would be disrespectful to the organization to leave it there.”

It’s bullshit, but it’s not a wrong answer.

“You know the rules. You aren’t to fraternize with any players.”

“I didn’t realize taking a rose off the field was fraternizing,” I say innocently. I did, however, know getting eaten out by a player was fraternizing. I smile at her, and this time, it’s real.

“A ‘yes, ma’am’ would be the appropriate response,” Rebecca tells me icily.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You do remember the handbook, right?” She points a finger at me across the desk.

“Our rules on ladylike behavior say that we should always appear well-groomed and that we should avoid pointing at others,” I tell her. Fuck. That was over the line.

I swallow.

She glances down at her hand, and her perfectly manicured eyebrows rise slightly. “Are you correcting me?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I thought it was a test.” I flutter my eyelashes. Sweat drips down my back. What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me.

Is it?

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