Page 78 of Only in Your Dreams

Without taking my eyes off her, I turn my chin out toward the field. “Irving, get your ass over here!”

When he’s within proper earshot, I toss him the ball and nod at the far sideline. “Get out there and throw that at your buddies’ girlfriends, won’t you?”

He’s immediately horrified. “Do youwantme to get my ass beat—”

“Just do it.”

With a parting bewildered look, he does what he’s told. Lines up the throw, and it spirals perfectly toward the girls, who go on chatting obliviously.

That is, until Melody shouts, “Heads up!”

They turn toward the field and immediately start to scramble out of the way as the ball comes for them and—

Holy. Fucking. Fuck.

The kid in the glasses leaps up like a real-life motherfucking Clark Kent, bouncing from row to row so gracefully he might be in the middle of a ballet recital. He throws himself in front of the girls and catches the ball—no, hesnatchesit right out of the air like he was the pole and it was the magnet. Crashes to the ground, and after one terrifying moment where he doesn’t seem to move a muscle, he gets up, shakes it off, and says something to the group of girls that has them instantly laughing.

Ahead of me, Brooks gives me the sameholy fucklook I’m surely wearing. And then he turns, hops the fence and beelines for the kid.

That might’ve been enough good to tide me over for a few days. Until the reality inevitably hits that we’re likely about to put a guy on the field who’s never practiced a day with this team.

But then I catch sight of the grin on Melody’s face. Big and bright and cocky as hell. Radiating self-confidence, proud as fuck of herself.

She tips back her head and lets rip a damn good Huskies Howl. And that might be enough to tide me over into the next century.

Chapter 19

Melody

Spending the day scouring investment trends for your boring-as-hell job at your ex-boyfriend’s investment bank: easy peasy.

Carry a serving tray loaded with three full English breakfasts, a stack of pancakes bigger than my head, and an inordinate amount of breakfast beverages across an overcrowded diner on a Saturday morning?

A real fucking challenge.

“Here we go,” I say, side stepping a couple kids racing toy cars down the aisle between table sections, to finally deposit the tray onto a table of visibly hungover college kids. They look up at me like they can’t remember what the hell they’re doing at Sheffield’s in the first place. “So, I believe you ordered the coffee, you the smoothie, and—”

If I didn’t feel solid ground beneath my feet, I’d think I was invisible. The suffering occupants of table fifteen reach for my tray and help themselves to their designated breakfasts before I can draw a fresh breath. The guy at the far end of the table downs his glass of water in one long gulp before dousing his pancakes in syrup.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

It’s one of the rare mornings Wynn managed to score me a breakfast shift, and four hours into it, I am already drained. Between my three weekly shifts at Sheffield’s and three days dialing into the office, I barely have time to think anymore.

“It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it,” I chant under my breath. The second I bank enough for a deposit on an apartment and land a new job that lets me afford that apartment, my aching feet will become a distant, worthwhile memory.

If only I could figure out what that job could be.

Parker and Summer knew off the bat they wanted to combine their love of sports with their frightening scientific abilities. They both ended up rehabbing athletes at UOB.

Zac, a people person since I met him, spends his days coaching college kids.

Connor’s ambition was always money—maybe a product of growing up with a rich mom—and there he was, becoming an investment banker. Taking me along for the ride when poor little Melody graduated with her math degree—the only thing I ever loved studying in school—and still no idea how to apply it.

I’d hoped moving away to the city, leaving the confines of Oakwood Bay and everything I knew, would spark some inspiration. But I’m just as aimless now, with my spray bottle and bar rag, wiping down this diner table that probably consumed more syrup than whoever was sitting here last.

I move to check on the next table, a much more wholesome scene than the stale vodka scented one I just served.

“Hey, Ingrid. How’re we doing over here?”

---