Page 5 of Playing Rucking Hard

Sage doesn’t even look up.

By the time I arrive at the event room at McMillan Tower—home of Southern Mavericks’ owner and billionaire, Lloyd McMillan—I’m scrubbed, polished, and coiffed into the image of perfection. My uniform fits snugly, and hopefully the makeup hides my exhaustion. I’m becoming an expert at hiding the truth. Truthfully, most people don’t care enough to look beneath the smile.

The room buzzes with energy that I try to feed off. Reporters dart around like sharks in water, while players and staff mingle around food and drink tables, talking and laughing. I guess every team starts the season with high expectations, and I’ve never met an elite athlete who doesn’t think they’ve got what it takes to be the best. That includes the women here tonight wearing our cheerleading uniform. We are elite athletes. We work just as hard as any footballer, only we wear our body aches and pain in high heels and with a smile.

Okay, I need to snap out of my self-pity funk and remember that I’m lucky to have my sister, lucky to have an affordable sitter, and am extremely lucky to have a job doing something I love. The music fades, indicating the formalities are about to commence. I take my place with the other cheerleaders. TheMavericks’ publicists want photos of players walking through a guard of honor after leaving the stage. I’m all for cheering to pump up a crowd or to entertain fans, but cheering for men as they complete the complicated task of walking across the stage and down six stairs? It’s hard for me to justify a decade of dance lessons.Or, maybe, I’m cheering for the decade of training that got them onto the stage.

“Keep those smiles wide and natural,” one of the cheer captains says. “There are photographers everywhere. Believe me, you don’t want to be the glum face featured in tomorrow’s press.”

Her warning is the wake-up call I need. Sure, there is some money from my parents’ estate, but I haven’t touched a dime. It feels wrong to pay for rent or even Sage’s medical bills with money coming from their death.

I need this job. I want this job. So, if that means smiling for the next four hours, then I’m glad my teeth are white and straight.

The music changes again, and the emcee fist pumps his way through the players standing on the other side of the stage. The beat is electrifying, lifting my attitude and the crowd’s energy.Yes.This is what I love about music—the ability to change moods. Give me a good beat, and space to move, and my body becomes alive.

I’m in the back line of the honor guard, with views of the stage or the front row of cheerleaders. I can’t see the mingling players or the audience, but it’s not my job to see. It’s my job to smile prettily and wave my pom poms—and not to worry about how my sister is doing without me. What if she falls asleep early after her first day at school, and has a nightmare when I’m not there?No.I force a smile and realize I’ve missed the opening speeches, but at least I’m ready to tune in for the team announcement.

“Captain of the Southern Mavericks for their second season, Cooper Bradley.” The players’ cheers are louder than the crowd.Cooper takes the microphone, grinning like he knows half the room wants his autograph and the other half wants his number. Shame, because even I know he has a serious girlfriend. I cautiously look through bodies and find the petite bombshell, Kenzie Badley, standing off to the side, her face glowing as she watches her man being feted by hundreds of people who don’t want to be strangers.

I fix my smile in place, silently repeating tonight’s mantra.I am not exhausted. I am not living on a couple of hours of sleep. I am not waiting for the sitter to quit. I am serene and calm and …

“Playing in the same number one jersey he wore last year …” the emcee’s voice takes on a teasing edge as another player interrupts.

“… hope he washed it.” Another player continues the gag, “Doubtful, we all know Dylan likes itdirty.”

The crowd erupts, and I hope the rest of the introductions go quicker. Is it possible to pull a muscle from fake smiling for too long?

“You know him as the fullback who has everyone’s back. Welcome to the stage, Dylan Fleski.”

To loud cheers from the crowd and players, a tall man lopes up the stairs, turns, and raises his arms in victory, giving the room what they want and paid for.

I take a second glance—because I should be able to recognize the players in a lineup, and then freeze. No.No. No.Yesterday’s breakfast wants to come up.Just … no.

My Next Ex isDylan.

It can’t be. Just because I’ve been daydreaming about running into Mr. Perfect again doesn’t mean it’s him, right? It takes me a second to register,it’s really him. The sharp jawline, the dark hair that’s just the right kind of messy, the lazy smirk I thought I’d only see in my memories. He’s in full Mavericks gear now,cocky and milking his moment in the spotlight. He owns the stage, the room, and the whole damn female species.Except for me.

Have I lost my job?

Of course, my one-night stand is a Maverick. Of course, the planets weren’t going to give me a break. I only asked for one night to be young and free. Why did reality and karma have to kick me in the ass?

Amidst the adoring cheers, he scans the room like a king acknowledging his subjects. His eyes go up and down the lines of cheerleaders, before coming back to me.

Our eyes meet. I never understood how people could have electricity or chemistry between them—until now. We have it. It’s instant, forbidden, and undeniable. His smirk falters for just a fraction of a second, his light eyes narrowing in recognition, and he mouths, “You? My next ex, you?”

I quickly look away before my heart breaks through my rib cage and leaves a bloody mess on the Italian marble floor. It’s not fair. I can’t believe Dylan is my one-night stand. A Southern Maverick. Forbidden fruit—or should I say, a forbidden fuck.

We agreed on no names. We had an instant connection and one perfect night. Yes, I ran before he could ask me out again, but that was because no man wants a girlfriend with a teenage sister dealing with trauma. Why would I risk Mr. Perfect becoming an Mr. Asshole the minute he treated my sister as baggage? Running out on him was meant to stop any complicated conversations.

Dylan Fleski is Mr. Perfect.

No, no,nooooo. If the club finds out I’ve already slept with a player … Kareene’s voice rings in my ears:No flirting. No hook ups. No giving out contact info.

As much as I want to deny it, Dylan is here. There’s no room for him in my life. I can’t even acknowledge him as he jogs down the stairs and through our honor guard.

Last night we joked about him being my next ex-boyfriend.

Now, he has to be my nothing.

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