by Alley Ciz
“…have the potential to have a huge career. Being linked to me—a person who sometimes throws up at the mere idea of being the focus of media attention—I’m only going to hold you back.” Why the fuck do I feel like she’s not telling me everything? “Like I told you…I’m no good for you, Mason.”
Abruptly, she stands, brushing imaginary dirt off her delectable ass. Too bad it’s covered by the hem of her hoodie.
“So please just go. Kick Nebraska’s ass tomorrow and forget about me.”
Without giving me a chance to stop her, she turns and runs up the stairs, out of sight.
She wants me to go? Fine, I can do that.
Beat Nebraska? Might as well put the win in the Hawks’ column now.
Forget about her? Never going to happen.
This was my third attempt at talking some sense into her. It’s a good thing I play football instead of baseball and I have another down to play.
#Chapter22
UofJ411: What’s with the new seats? #MusicalChairs #CasanovaWatch #CasanovasGirl
*picture of Mason and Kay sitting in separate rows in class*
@Bellebookblog: I saw them talking before class so this confuses me #Confused #CasanovaWatch #CasanovasGirl
@Bestiesandbooks: Has anyone figured out what happened between them? #WhyTheDistance #CasanovaWatch #CasanovasGirl
TightestEndParker85: Aww @CasaNova87, I know you were able to hold on to the football this weekend, unlike when your little birdies played Iowa. Too bad you can’t hold on to the girl. #ShesNotThatGreatAnyway
*REPOSTED—picture of Mason and Kay sitting in separate rows in class—UofJ411: What’s with the new seats? #MusicalChairs #CasanovaWatch #CasanovasGirl
@UofJ411: Oh shit! #GrabThePopcorn
#Chapter23
“Hey, T, you cool to head to The Barracks early?” I call out to Tessa as I round the banister of the staircase at the Taylor home.
“Sure.” Her red ponytail swings around as she turns from the open refrigerator. “I’m good to go when you are.”
I take the water bottle held out to me and grab Pinky’s keys from the rack on the wall. “Let’s roll.”
T barely sits still on the drive to The Barracks, the excitement of me helping coach the Marshals’ practices these last couple of weeks not having waned at all. Getting to spend extra time with her is a side bonus of trying to keep my mind off things by picking up every extra shift at the gym that I can. Plus, her easy joy helps ease some of my heartbreak.
I thought the first week after the breakup was hard, but damn, it had nothing on this one.
Why can’t Mason leave me alone? Did he not listen to anything I said last week?
No, the stubborn fool keeps trying to talk to me, and Em says he’s come around our dorm looking for me more often.
Most of the school is still speculating on Instagram regarding the status of our relationship, and when I asked him if he could denounce us on his page, he responded by posting a picture of a red jersey-style t-shirt that read I have no life. My boyfriend plays football. In between the two sentences was a big cheerleading bow with a large 87 in the middle.
Mason laughed in my face when I confronted him about it.
“What?” He shrugs. “I didn’t post your picture, or say your name. Hell, I didn’t even write a caption. It was vague-booking at its finest.”
I slapped him across the face, and even now the memory of the sound being loud enough to be heard over the din of students hustling to class is enough to have my lips twitching. Then the jerk had to ruin it by chuckling when I stormed off. He even had the gall to wink at me when I chose to take a seat in a row different from our usual spot and between two other classmates so he couldn’t sit with me.
“Should I be afraid you’re gonna kick my ass from one end of the blue mat to the other tonight?” T points to the Repeat after me: YES COACH tank I have on.
Shoulder-checking my locker shut, I sit on the bench and tie my cheer shoes. “Remember how earlier, you were all gushy and calling Mason the ‘perfect book boyfriend’ like one of those romance novels you devour?”
T visibly swallows, and I can’t help but smirk, which only has her blue eyes widening.
Can we mess with her? Just a little bit? *pinches fingers together* She’s been bombarding us with all her lovey-dovey, hopeless romantic stuff—which I think you should listen to, but who am I, right? *holds hand up* Let’s have some fun with the little sister.
I ignore the dig about letting myself be with Mason but ultimately let T off the hook, jerking my chin toward the locker room door. She has been too crucial of a person in keeping the overwhelming depression and panic from winning and pulling me under fully like it did back in high school.
“Fine.” T slings an arm around my shoulder as we walk across the mat to find a space to stretch. “But while I’m icing whatever new bruises I end up getting tonight, we”—she bounces a finger between us, as if I could misunderstand who she’s referring to—“are watching A Cinderella Story.”
I groan. Of course she picks a movie where the hero is a football player.
“Kay.” Coach Kris steps out of her office onto the gym floor, and I’m instantly on alert because she didn’t use my nickname. Then when she turns to reenter the office, every hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
I hastily follow her in.
“A courier delivered that a few minutes ago.” She points at a black, white, and green Peter Pan gift bag with a stunning rendition of my tattoo on it. “Has your name on it.”
My breath catches at the sight. I don’t need to see the card to know exactly who it’s from, but Coach’s smile has me suspecting she has looked at it.
Mason strikes again.
Why can’t he just let me go? Did I not slap him hard enough?
You should have kneed him in the balls. *demonstrates how to do the defensive move* Men tend to get the message loud and clear when you go after their junk.
“OH MY GOD!” T squeals in my ear. “It that what I think it is?”
She knows all about the shirts, but this is about to be the first time she’s witnessed me receiving one.
I dig my knuckles into the ridge of my brow. This is the perfect storm to bring out Tessa’s teenybopper side. I nod because I can’t seem to find my voice.
T traces the outline of Peter down to Wendy, captivated by the illustration. “Wow,” she says breathily. “This is gorgeous, PF. Maybe you should think about adding some green shading around your tat.”
“Funny, T. Can we focus on something else please?”
Dammit, Mason.
I bring a hand to my ear, rubbing over the area where I’m inked. I never even told him the full significance of the tattoo and yet he still knew to use it…what? Against me?
I think maybe he might be conferring with T on the side. His romantic gestures are only getting better.
“No way, sis. You have to open this now.”
Grrrr. I hate when she pulls the “sis” card, because 99.9% of the time it gets her what she wants.
“No.”
“Oh come on,” she whines, peeking through the tissue paper sticking out of the bag.
“No way.” I need to stand firm on this.
Unfortunately, she’s too used to dealing with me and continues to paw at the gift.
“OH MY GOD!” T screams then jumps up and down.
I’m almost afraid to ask what garnered such an animated reaction, but we all know I must.
“What…is…it?” I struggle to get the words out.
T turns to me, hands over her heart, stars in her eyes.
“There’s a ring box in there.” She whispers the words like she’s afraid the item will disappear if she speaks too loudly.
My brain shuts down, my whole world stopping like Zack Morris called timeout to the camera.
No.
No way.
Just no way.
There’s not a ring box in that bag. Even if there were
, there is absolutely no way it means what Tessa thinks it means. I need to shut this down—now.
“It’s just a ring box, T. No need for the dramatics.”
“But what if it’s—”
“It’s not.” I’m quick to cut her off before she can finish her thought.
“How do you know it’s not that?”
“I just do.”
“How?”
“Tessa.” My voice takes on a warning tone.
“Kayla,” she deadpans, crossing her arms. Dammit, why does hearing my real name from the Taylor siblings break me so easily?
I throw up my hands and huff. “You mean besides the fact that it’s crazy?” One of her perfectly sculpted red brows rises, as if saying Yeah, not good enough, so I try again. “This isn’t one of your books, T. Not everyone gets a happy ending.”
“Why not? Art imitates real life.”
A growl escapes before I can stop it. These damn Taylors are too stubborn for my own good. “Fine.” I cross my arms, mirroring her stance. “How about the fact that we only dated for like two months?”
“So? Doesn’t E say he knew Bette was the one the moment they met?”
Son of a bitch. This is the problem with being friends with people your whole life—they know everything.
“Fine. How about we’re still in college?”
“Again, so were Bette and E.”
Another growl. “It’s not the same, T, and you know it.”
“Fine. If it’s not an engagement ring, what are you so afraid of? Open the bag.”
I don’t want to—I so don’t want to—but as I look between Tessa and Coach Kris, I see curiosity from the former and concern from the latter reflected in their eyes. If I don’t open it now, it’ll only intensify.
Holding my breath on a deep inhalation, eyes closed, I reach into the bag. My fingers wrap around the box, my breath rushing out on contact. I pull it out and set it next to the bag, not ready for it quite yet, and reach back inside for the shirt I know is there.
There’s a piece of paper folded inside the cotton, but I put it aside to deal with later.
Pinching the shirt between my fingers, I see it’s not the one from his Instagam post, this one is a white long-sleeved scoop neck with black and red lettering and football elbow patches. I hold it up to read: My boyfriend SCORES more than yours. Bracketing the word “My” are two hearts, and the “O” in scores is a football. The lettering is black, and the hearts and football are red. And, obvs, the back bears a bold NOVA and #87.
“Oh my god.” T squeals and snatches the shirt from my hands. We are starting to reach critical levels here with the amount of Oh my gods she’s dropping. “Dude, this is like the shirt you had made for G.” She strokes the elbow patches.
“I’m pretty sure that’s where he got the idea from.”
I never did get to wear my basketball patch shirt since the day of the U of J/University of Kentucky basketball game was the same day everything changed.
“Enough stalling. Time to open the box.” T holds it out in the flat of her hand.
I shake my head. “I don’t wanna.”
“Come on, Kay. What’s in the box? What’s in the box?” she cries out, Brad Pitt in Se7en style.
I pick it up to shut her up.
My gaze flits from the box to T, back to the box.
With a deep, fortifying breath, my eyes squeeze shut and I flip the lid open.
Cracking an eyelid the barest of millimeters, I see something sparkly nestled inside black velvet.
Oh, thank god.
I was right. It’s not an engagement ring, but two new eternity bands wink back at me, one a deep emerald, CK’s birthstone—How the hell did he know that?!—and the other a gorgeous peridot. The light green gems of the peridot are an almost perfect match to Mason’s eyes.
The shock of what this means causes me to drop the box as if burned by it. Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! I don’t know if I can handle this; it’s too much. I need JT, and I need him now.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I tap on his contact in my favorites, and with a shaky hand, I hold it up to my ear. My entire body trembles as I wait for him to answer; when his voicemail clicks on, I mumble a curse and hang up.
T, having retrieved the fallen ring box, is bouncing in front of me in excitement. She’s also holding out the folded note I’ve yet to read.
“Here, don’t forget this.”
I stare as if it’s a cobra waiting to strike. It isn’t until Tessa forcibly places the card into my hands that I take it.
The rings are bad enough. I’m not sure I’ll survive the note.
Skittles,
I borrowed a little inspiration from the shirt you showed me you had made for Grayson to add a little flare to this one. Don’t tell him, but I think the footballs work better than basketballs.
Originally I was only going to get you a ring for me, but I remembered how CK gave you crap that first time you came to the AK house and figured I’d do my boy a solid, finally get him added to the fold. I know I’m going to need all the allies I can get to convince you we belong together.
I did do one thing to set mine apart from the rest, though that should come as no surprise. If you do decide to bestow upon me the honor of being added to the representation of those who are most important to you, know I had it sized to fit your left ring finger.
Why, you may ask?
Rings worn on this finger typically have a bigger meaning to them, and I’m hoping this can hold my place until I replace it with something more official down the line.
I love you, baby, so much.
<3 Mase
Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!
Shit! Now my inner cheerleader has officially turned into T. I’m done.
There’s absolutely way too much for me to process.
I whip my phone out again and text JT.
ME: 911!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Breathe.
I need to remember to breathe, because I am currently not doing so.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Okay, that’s better. It’s a fact that the brain needs oxygen to think, and I desperately need to think.
My eyes dart around the room in a frenzy, searching for answers.
The sound of a FaceTime ringtone cuts through my panic, and I pull it out to accept JT’s call.
“Hey, sorry, we’re warming up before the game,” he says in greeting.
Damn. I forgot he had a game tonight.
“Kayla, what’s wrong?” All the happiness bleeds out of JT’s voice, my face and lack of response broadcasting how hysterical I am.
Like always, my full name coming from a Taylor is all I need to snap out of it. Still unable to find my words, I shift the camera to show the open ring box in T’s hands.
JT blows a whistle through his teeth. “Damn. I take it one of them is Mase’s birthstone.”
Camera back on me, I nod, too in shock for the use of the short version of Mason’s name to have the usual painful effect it’s had of late.
“Wow. Ballsy.”
Another nod.
“What do you need, Kay?” my best friend asks, zeroing in on what he’s deemed the most important part to tackle first.
“You.” This is why I can’t be with Mason. I can’t handle drama without using my best friend as a crutch. I love my other friends dearly, but JT is the one I lean on.
“You have me. Any chance you can catch a flight down here?”
“I gotta check.”
“I’ve got you booked on the seven fifty-five flight out of Newark tonight,” Coach Kris calls out from her desk.
“What?” I look up, confused.
“Go home. Pack. See your person.”
See? Everyone knows JT is my person. Shouldn’t my boyfriend be the one to fill that role? Just more proof not getting back together with Mason is the right thing to do. Now if only I could convince my heart
.
“But…what about practice?” I ask the first thing that comes to mind while my brain tries to play catch-up.
“Please…” She waves me off. “You’re no good to me like this. Take the weekend. Get your head on straight, and we’ll get back to it Monday night.”
“I don’t understand.” I hate that I’m missing something. I feel like I’m trying to add two plus two but coming up with five.
Coach Kris comes around her desk, joining me at my side so she can see JT on the screen as well. “I bought her a ticket. She’ll be there in a few hours.”
T spins me around and starts pushing me toward the door. “I’ll have Carter pick me up after practice.”
I stop, pulling T then Coach Kris into a hug.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Always.”
#Chapter24
UofJ411: You forgot a caption @CasaNova87 #ExplainPlease #CasanovaWatch #CasanovasGirl
*REPOSTED—picture of a shirt that reads: “I have no life. My boyfriend plays football.—CasaNova87:*
@Cheril2412: What does this mean @CasaNova87 ? #WhatsWithTheVagueBooking
@Christyhearsbooks: Are you the boyfriend this shirt is talking about? #AreYouSingleOrNot
@Cmd427: Is this a cheerleader bow with your number in it? #KaylaDenningsIsACheerleader
TightestEndParker85: Oh this is cute @CasaNova87, but I have a better shirt I could show you if you want @UofJ411
*REPOSTED—picture of a shirt that reads: “I have no life. My boyfriend plays football.—CasaNova87:*
@TheQueenB: I feel like we NEED to see this. Don’t you think @UofJ411?
@UofJ411: I think I have to agree with @TheQueenB on this one
#Chapter25
A few hours after rushing around to pack and get to the airport in time for my flight, I’m standing outside of JT’s dorm with my fist poised to knock.
The whole trip here, I tried to focus on getting to spend three uninterrupted days with my closest friend when in fact that’s not what this is. I’m running—from my problems, from the drama, from all the things pushing me toward a complete breakdown. If only I could have left my broken heart behind too.