Bedhead: A Romance

by Kayt Miller

  No one is very talkative at six in the morning, but by the end of the walk, there’s a lot of chatter. And laughter. The girls make me crack up. They’re all so different, but every one of them has a great sense of humor. We bumped into Jack again one day this week. There’s still no date set for the barbeque. No biggie. I haven’t been thinking about that at all. I swear.

  Day nine brought about a text from Cooke. I was happily surprised.

  Cooke: Tokyo. Ever been?

  Me: To Tokyo? As in Japan?

  Cooke: Aye.

  Me: No. I’ve barely seen the States.

  When he doesn’t respond, I send another text.

  Me: Are you in Tokyo?

  If so, it’d make sense why he hasn’t been texting.

  Cooke: Aye, it’s our World Cup. You should watch. We play your USA team tomorrow.

  The US has a rugby team? I’m not going to ask that question. I’m pretty sure he already thinks I’ve got something wrong with my brain.

  Me: I’ll see if it’s televised here.

  Cooke: Or online.

  Me: I’ll find it.

  Cooke: Good. Nighty night, Quinn.

  I look at the clock and blink. I wonder what time it is in Japan.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I know nothing about rugby.”

  “Me neither, Kat.” Well, I take that back. I know some things thanks to the videos Cooke has sent me, along with his sporadic rugby terminology quizzes.

  Patsy sighs. “I guess we’ll figure it out together, huh?”

  I nod as Robbi adds, “It’s cool we know someone playing, though. We’ve got skin in the game, as they say.”

  I think that refers to gambling, but it could work here too. “We’ll just have to watch and see what it’s like.”

  The six of us are all sitting around a large square table at a local sports bar in downtown Ames called The London Underground. When I called ahead, they promised they’d have the game—or as Cooke called it, the match—on starting at eight. That means it’s ten in the morning in Japan. Hooray for Google.

  So here we are, and we’re not alone. The place has a good crowd. Turning to the girls, I say, “I’m going to go get us a pitcher of beer.”

  Walking up to the front, I can’t help noticing how cool the bar is. It’s all dark wood and brass beer taps, just like the British pubs I’ve seen on television and in movies.

  I scan the bar and notice a large group of guys sporting Iowa State rugby T-shirts. I’m going to guess they’re the team that Bryant was referring to. It’s not just the shirts that give them away but their size. They’re all big guys. Not fat but thick, and some are quite muscly.

  When the game starts, the bar comes alive. The few rugby fans and the team make the experience more exciting. When the bartender slides the pitcher to me along with six glasses, I wince at the price quoted. I’m going to have to cut back somewhere to make up for this night out. Grabbing the pitcher of beer, I turn and see my spot at our table has been taken. I scowl when I see Kara. Great.

  I do my best to keep my scowl in check as I set the glasses down on the table. Because Kara took my spot, there’s no longer a chair for me. Sure, I could ask her to find another place to sit, but I’d prefer not to engage her right now. I look around for another chair and see none. Instead of lamenting, I take the pitcher and a glass back up to the bar. There’s an empty seat next to one of the big guys.

  “Hey!” shouts Susanna, “don’t take off with the beer.”

  I swivel in my seat. “Well, my seat was taken, so I had to find a new one. If you want some beer, you’ll need to come up and get it.”

  Several of the girls laugh, but I distinctly hear Kara say, “She’s such a bitch.”

  I’m ignoring it and her. I’m here to watch my friend Cooke play rugby, and that’s what I’m going to do.

  “Go, Cooke, go!” I shout at the television. He’s got the ball and is running down the field, weaving between and around opposing players. “Run, run, run!” I yell louder.

  “You’re really a fan, eh?” asks the mammoth guy next to me. I bet if we stood next to each other, he’d be a foot taller than my five feet five inches. He’s wearing the red and yellow rugby shirt, same as the other guys.

  Ignoring him until the play is done, I then turn to him. “Cooke Thompson.” I point at the screen. “Number ten for England is a friend of mine.”

  “Yeah, right.” He snorts, then chuckles.

  I shrug because it doesn’t matter if this guy believes me or not.

  “He is,” says Patsy from behind me. Pointing back at their table, she adds, “We were all there when she called him on FaceChat.”

  “No shit?” The big guy nods. “Cool.”

  “Yeah.” I nod back. It is cool.

  “That guy is the best ten I’ve ever seen.”

  “Really?”

  For those of you who, like me, are rugby challenged, let me explain. Each player’s number, from one to fifteen, tells us what position they play. So number ten is always the fly-half. Number two is called the hooker, and so on.

  So to hear that Cooke Thompson is “the best ten” means he must be very good at his position, which doesn’t surprise me. I am surprised Cooke hasn’t bragged about his skills. Sure, he’s joked about his talents, but he’d have to be good to be a professional. Now, after seeing him on television and hearing what this guy next to me has to say, maybe he should be tooting his own horn a bit more often.

  “Yep, the best,” says the big guy next to me.

  I smile at him, then hold out my hand. “I’m Quinn.”

  He places his giant hand in mine. “Mulroney.”

  “Your first name is Mulroney?”

  “No, it’s Dan. I thought Quinn was your last name.”

  “Nope. Quinn Maxwell.”

  “Hmm, cool.”

  I turn to the television and see play has started again. Cooke really is amazing. He’s got a C on his jersey, which I already know stands for captain because Dan told me so. I can see why. He’s the guy who seems to be organizing the plays. Not only that, he kicks the ball well, and he’s made some passes to his teammates that seem impossible.

  “He’s so good.” I’ll have to tell him so the next time he sends a text.

  Hell, why wait? I pull my phone out and shoot off a quick text.

  Me: At a local pub watching you kick ass on the pitch. You’re amazing, Cooke, and my new friend Dan thinks so too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cooke

  As soon as we’ve done our celebrating and our manager has said his “good job, lads” speech, I move to my locker and grab my phone. Unlocking the screen, I see the usual congratulatory messages from me mum and me baby sister, Saffron. I also see one from Quinn and smile. That is until I read it.

  Quinn: At a local pub watching you kick ass on the pitch. You’re amazing, Cooke, and my new friend Dan thinks so too.

  I feel my teeth grit and my nostrils flare because “Who the bloody hell is Dan?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I haven’t gotten a response from Cooke all week. I knew he had another match in Japan because I looked up his schedule online, so I’ve no doubt that he’s been busy preparing for that. The fourteen-hour time difference between Iowa and Japan makes chatting more complicated, and I don’t really want to call him since I have no idea what he’s doing.

  What the heck am I saying? Of course he hasn’t written back or called. I’m an idiot—just some stupid girl from the US who he called accidentally. He doesn’t have time for me now that his season has started. His life is much more exciting and interesting than mine. I was probably just a little distraction before his rugby stuff started for real. But I can’t help it. I looked forward to hearing from him. He made me laugh, and I think I did the same for him.

  Sigh.

  I need to accept that my little friendship with a rugby superstar, English dreamboat, and a very nice guy are over. Sadly.

  It doesn’t matte
r. I’m busy too, especially since I’ve added my daily walk at the ass-crack of dawn into my routine. So far, the other girls are still on board with our walks and have gotten up with Pats and me. It’s been nice to have everyone walk in the morning. I’ve gotten to know them much better because of it. It helps that they don’t put on any pretenses. They’re not awake yet, so to say my roommates are blunt at six in the morning is an understatement.

  Another good thing is we ran into our neighbor Jack again. He’s cute in a hipster kind of way. You know, with his perfectly trimmed beard, light brown hair cut short on the sides but longer on top that he puts product in, and his plaid shirts and colored jeans. Yeah, I’m making him sound like he dresses like an A-hole. He doesn’t. It’s too bad I weigh more than he does.

  As Susanna sips her breakfast smoothie, she asks, “What’re you doing today?”

  I’ve showered and changed after our walk and am enjoying a delightful piece of toast with peanut butter. Yay, protein! “I’ve got to find a job.” I’ve put off the job hunt for long enough since I’m now seriously low on funds. My financial aid only goes so far. I’ve got just enough for rent, utilities, school, and books. That’s it. After that, I’m on my own. I shouldn’t have spent twenty bucks at The London Underground last week. I could sure use that today.

  “Have you tried the mall?”

  “I haven’t.” The mall is clear across town. My scooter would get me there, but in the winter, I’d have to take the bus. That’d be at least an hour each way. But it’s an option, at least. “I’ll check it out.”

  “Cy’s is hiring,” Robbi says, stepping into the kitchen. “My friend Chris works there, and he said they had to fire one of the bartenders.” She turns to face me. “They were stealing.”

  “Really?” That question is in response to both things, the stealing and a potential job. “I don’t know how to bartend.”

  Robbi shrugs. She’s been kind of surly this morning. “I’m just telling you what I heard. It doesn’t hurt to apply.”

  No, it doesn’t. I look up at the old brass clock on the wall. My grandparents had one just like it in their house. “It’s almost ten. I should go now.” I’m kind of excited about the idea of working at Cy’s Roost. It’s my favorite bar in Ames, and it’s where everyone goes to hang out.

  “No more going to football games or any other Iowa State event,” says Robbi with an arched brow. “You’ll have to work all of those.”

  “I don’t do that anyway. Too expensive.”

  “Then go for it,” Susanna chirps.

  “Robbi?” I look up at her. “Can I mention your name?”

  She snorts. “Sure. I’m quite important there,” she says sarcastically. “Mention my name and I’m sure they’ll hire you on the spot.”

  Wow, she’s grouchy. “Okay,” I say, smiling. “Thank you so much.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I look over at Susanna just as she rolls her eyes, then giggles. Ignoring that because I don’t want to make Robbi mad, I quickly run back downstairs to find clothes that are decent enough for job hunting.

  “This will have to be good enough,” I say as I slump my shoulders. All I’ve got to fit the job-hunting bill is a pair of black leggings and a long black shirt since wearing a dress is not a great idea on a scooter.

  I search the floor for my black flats, spying one near my closet. Slipping that one on, I lift items off the floor, hoping the missing shoe is there. I finally spot it underneath my bed. I shiver thinking about the creepy-crawly things under there that I’d rather not disturb, but it must be done.

  On my knees, I reach beneath the bed and grasp the shoe. Yanking it out as fast as I can, I jump up and peek inside the shoe, making sure there’s nothing hiding in there. When the coast is clear, I slip it on my foot. With a quick glance at the mirror, I grimace. My hair, in a low ponytail, isn’t very professional, but the alternative is my signature messy bun. That’s even less professional.

  “It’ll have to do.”

  “Hi,” I say to the irritated-looking male behind the bar. “I’d like to apply for your bartender position.”

  The tall, surly man throws a whitish towel over his muscular shoulder, then places his hands on his narrow waist, making his black tee pull tight against his chest. It’s enough to tell me the guy is built. I can’t help staring at the tattoo on his left arm until he says, “What bartender position?”

  I quickly stop staring and reply, “My… uh, Robbi told me there was a bartender opening.”

  “Who the fuck is Robbi?”

  Oh shit. I’m doing this wrong. “My roommate?”

  “Well, wow, okay, that’s all I need to know. You’re hired.”

  I quickly smile but then realize that was sarcasm. That’s okay. I’m feeling like I’ve got nothing to lose since the mall was a bust, so I keep the smile on my face and say, “Great. When do I start?”

  The guy’s hands fall to his sides, and his chin drops down to his chest. It’s moving up and down. Is he laughing? Yes, he’s laughing. I hope it’s a good sign.

  “Sweetheart.” He looks up at me and smirks. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  I’m going to keep trying. “What doesn’t? You hired me, I accepted. It’s all good.” Keep in mind that the smile is still plastered on my face. I’m not giving in. I need a job, and since the mall produced zero job prospects….

  “Fine,” he huffs. “Hop up and sit at the bar. Let me ask you some questions.”

  Oh holy hell. Is this actually working? I do as he asks. As gracefully as possible, I lift one thick thigh onto the bar stool, then pull my body up until I’m seated, mostly. I use the edge of the wooden bar to help with my ascent. In the end, my ass is hanging off more on one side of the small stool than the other, but no worries, sheer will should keep me seated. I place my hands on the old wooden bar, one on top of the other. “I’m ready.”

  I watch as he drops the towel somewhere next to him. Placing his palms on his side of the bar, he leans forward. It makes his arm muscles bulge a little more, and I can’t help staring. “What’s your name?”

  I nod. I’m ready for this. “Quinn Maxwell.”

  Hesitantly, I ask, “What’s your name?”

  “Luke.” Without missing a beat, he asks, “How old are you?”

  Luke fits him. “Twenty-one.”

  “Good. Where have you bartended?”

  Shit. I knew this was coming. “Um, nowhere?” I make it sound like a question, then add, “But I love to drink.”

  It must have been the right thing to say, because he laughs again. His entire body rumbles when he does it. “Wow, that’s a great answer. I can’t believe I’ve never heard it before.”

  “You haven’t?” I smile with pride.

  “Have you done anything in the hospitality industry? Waitressing? Food service? Anything?”

  “I worked at the ice cream shop in my hometown one summer.” I gained nine pounds and vowed never to work near ice cream again.

  “That’s something, I guess.”

  “I was a receptionist at a dental office in high school, and I’ve worked at the state fair selling tickets at the Midway for the last two years.” Then I remember, “Oh, and I detasseled corn once, for one day.”

  He chuckles again. It’s rich and deep. “For one day?”

  “Um, well, I’m not really very outdoorsy.”

  “You don’t say?” He says it sarcastically again, but this time it isn’t funny.

  My smile vanishes and I nod. Stop it, Quinn. He was just teasing. Don’t take it personally. Feeling the need to clarify or maybe defend myself, I explain, “There was only one day left of work.” That’s part of the reason. The other is I got lost in the field. The foreman had to hunt for me, and I missed lunch, which sucked because detasseling is hard work and I was super hungry. But I’m not going to tell him that part.

  “So, you have customer service experience but that’s it.”

  It wasn’t a question.

&nbs
p; “I’m smart. I learn quickly.”

  Luke rolls his eyes. Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he stares down at me. I’m not sure if I should be speaking—you know, doing more to sell myself so I can get this job—or if I should just get up and walk out. I’m seconds away from sliding the rest of the way off the stool when he says, “Fine. I’ll give you a shot. Two weeks. If you can’t handle it, you’re done.” He turns away from me and starts to load bottles of beer into a tall fridge. I’m about to leave when he turns back with a pad of paper and a pen. “Here. Write down your shit, including your class schedule.”

  “Okay.”

  I begin to write my name, address, and phone number when he asks, “Can you come in tomorrow to train?”

  It’s Sunday. I’ve got nothing planned other than walking. “Sure. What time?”

  “Noon.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  I quickly write out my class schedule and am about to ask him if he needs anything else when he reaches for the paper. “This is fine for now. You can fill out the other shit tomorrow.” He tosses the pad of paper down onto the counter next to the register and then continues to load the refrigerator. I sit for a minute or two, wondering if I should leave, when he answers for me. “We’re done. You can go.”

  Wow, I’m pretty sure Luke is an asshole. But he’s an asshole who just gave me a job, so there’s that. Sliding off the seat, I smile. “Thanks. See you tomorrow, Luke.”

  He mumbles something, but I ignore him. It’s best to get out while the getting is good. He may not like me now, but I’ll change his mind because, damn it, I’m awesome.