Page 82 of Just Playin'
I was so relieved, I snatched up my cell in an instant to call Elvis. I didn’t care that it was 3 AM. I had made a mistake, and I was woman enough to admit it.
Just before I hit the connect button, the product Elvis was endorsing flashed up on the screen while he murmured, “Be the best you can be by being the slimmest you can be.”
A man without an ounce of fat on his entire body was selling a weight-loss supplement. It was stupid of me to do, and even now I’m angry at myself for doing it, but I pulled off the blanket around my shoulders and stood to my feet, then padded to the full-length mirror in my room. Like all paranoid girls do when they stare at themselves in the mirror, I pinched the roll in the middle of my stomach and shook it before spinning around to assess the love handles I thought Elvis loved gripping. I wiggled my ass and watched it wobble before flapping my arms like a chicken. I loathed everything I saw, but even more than that, I hated that Elvis’s commercial made me feel that way.
So, as you can tell from my confession, my confidence isn’t just the lowest it’s ever been, it’s basically non-existent. If it weren’t for my upcoming recital, I doubt I’d leave my room. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m just too hurt to work through the confusion clouding me.
The cloud thickens when I enter the dance studio in preparation for an all-night practice session. Francesca’s ballet class is thankfully void of a crying child being excluded from the activities, but its partially cracked open door can’t hide the travesty occurring inside.
Not thinking, I throw open the door and enter Francesca’s domain when she’s in the middle of a pirouette. “It’s my choreography! I created it.”
She lands her twirl with perfection before twisting her neck to face me. “Any routine performed in public is fair game.” She counts herself back into the beat.
I’m not as willing to let things slide. “I’ve never performed my routine in public!”
I’m not stupid. I know how competitive dance is, so I’d never freely give away choreography I plan to wow the judges with. That’s why I’ve only ever practiced on a closed stage. . .
My inner monologue trails off as the truth smacks into me.No, he’d never.
When Francesca gives me a smirk, one I’m certain I’ve seen before, I storm out of her dance studio like a swarm of bees is chasing me. I don’t bother picking up the snacks I lose when I rip open my backpack in search of my phone. I don’t do anything but dial a number I know by heart and press my cell to my ear.
A player is about to be benched. It’s just not the referee calling a penalty. It’s me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Presley
Another week, another loss, and that’s not even the reason my shoulders are hanging. I thought I knew Willow. I thought I understood what made her tick, and that stepping back and letting her make her own decision about our relationship was the right thing to do. Clearly, I fucked up. I haven’t heard from her in two weeks. Not a text. Not a voicemail message. Nothing.
It’s killing me. I can’t say it any more simply, but that’s exactly how I feel.
I could call her, but that’s another mistake I’m trying not to remake. Lillian played the defensive card any time she could, and I fucking fell for it like the naïve idiot I was. If I so much as looked in the direction of another girl, she called it quits.
If I were smart, I would have run for the hills the first half a dozen times she used it, but it’s rare to find a college student who thinks with the head on their shoulders. Every man within a five-mile radius of our college told me I was a fool to give up what Lillian was offering—every man except Dalton. He saw what the others didn’t. The antics that went on behind closed doors were enough to fill the most angsty romance book. It would just need to skip the romance part because there was none of that.
So why did you ask her to marry you?you wonder.
I didn’t.
We spent the weekend of Dalton and Becca’s wedding at Dalton’s family ranch. Lillian arrived at the reception with a large rock on her ring finger. With Dalton’s wedding being covered by a handful of press, rumors of my “supposed” engagement were also circulated. I should have set the record straight, but for some reason I didn’t. I don’t know why. It might have been the whiskey in my veins or a lack of maturity, but I let the story run, and Lillian started planning our wedding. You know how the rest of our story turned out, so I’ll save you the boredom.
“I know, Coach, I know,” I assure him when he gives me a look, one that reveals not only his disappointment but his worry. It’s lucky we started our playoff campaign so high on the leaderboard, because we would have been tossed to the curb by now. “I’ll play better next week.”
He wants to believe me. He just doesn’t know if he can.
Slumping on the wooden bench in front of my temporary locker, I drag my gym bag until it sits between my feet. I don’t need to look up to feel Danny’s eyes on me. I can feel them burning my skin. He’s still pissed at me. I understand. I’m still pissed at myself. I had wondered if I handled pressure well; my piss-poor performance two weeks ago reveals I don’t. I’ve always been a bit of a hothead who speaks before thinking, but I’m doing everything in my power to change that. Including accepting Danny’s anger on the chin like the man I’m supposed to be.
“Delilah sent over the script she wants you to use during the press conference.”
My eyes lift to Danny. “Script?” This is the first I’m hearing about a script. As far as I was aware, all I had to do was wear her company’s logo.
He thrusts a large document my way. “It’s all written down here. In the contract you signed theonlynight you remembered there was more to life than money and chasing a football around a field.”
I almost retaliate to his snapped comment, but I hold back, remembering my pledge to be a better man. “I’ll take a look at it later after I’ve hit a salt bath.” I thought I kept my tone neutral, but the flare of concern Danny couldn’t tuck away before I noticed it has me doubtful.
The reason for his worry comes to light when he asks, “Your back?”
“No.” While shaking my head, I stand to my feet. My shoulder is aching like a bitch, but since no one is aware I’m playing injured, I keep that information to myself. “I’ll be back in a few.”
