Matters to Me: A Football Romance (The Hart Series Book 4)

by M. E. Carter

  That part, I understand. Her sport may be different than mine, but the fact remains if you don’t have enough power behind your movements, ultimately what you’re trying to do will fail.

  “Today, when Con grabbed me…” I see red again, but she continues like it’s no big deal. “… I was so angry, ya know? Not that he grabbed me, although that was part of it. But more because he was upset that I was dating you.”

  “Dating me?” I interrupt. “I didn’t realize our love affair extended beyond Sunday night clubbing while that fucking Danny Zuko wannabe was watching.”

  “Neither did I. Until I realized exactly how upset the idea of us being together made him. Like I was the one who had thrown him out on his ass, not the other way around.”

  Once again, I’m beyond unimpressed with this guy’s lack of chivalry.

  “When I figured it out, I may have embellished our relationship level a wee bit.”

  Now it’s coming together. She needs to keep up the charade to keep him off her back. I nod in understanding. “That’s fine. I’ll back you up if he asks me. Although I doubt he’d be so stupid to confront me about it.”

  Lauren snorts a laugh. “I wouldn’t. You didn’t see how shell-shocked he was. Like he was being disrespected. And then for him to grab me?” She clenches her eyes shut, and I know she’s trying to get her emotions under control. “It made me so angry. I went out on that floor and channeled all that anger and chunked my skill better than I ever have. Did the entire connection including the front salto, just like I’ve been trying to for weeks.”

  “Atta girl!” I smack her lightly on the leg. I can’t visualize what exactly she did, but the smile on her face indicates it was a win for her. “All you needed was some rage to give you a little extra power.”

  She nods excitedly. “Which is why you need to be my boyfriend.”

  There goes my understanding. “You’ve lost me again.”

  “I need the rage to power my skill. Con’s reaction to you gives me rage. Therefore, I need you to be my boyfriend so Con stays upset and I stay ragey.”

  “So, you want him to keep assaulting you?”

  “No.” She rolls her eyes again and then looks at me like the cat that ate the canary—all mischievous and sly. And totally off her rocker. “I just need you to show up at a meet and maybe be seen around campus with me, so it gets back to him. I’m telling you, the look of disbelief on his face that I could forget him so easily was empowering. It pulled me right out of my mood and put me back on track.”

  I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “Girl, you are crazy. You don’t actually need me to execute this charade. Just let him believe I’m your boyfriend and you’re golden. Pretend to text me or something.” Using my good leg to pull the rolling chair forward, I move myself closer to the mini-fridge to switch out ice packs.

  “Are you injured?”

  The abrupt change in topic jars me. “What?”

  Gesturing to the ice in my hands, she says,” Your knee. Is it busted?”

  “Oh. No. Just tweaked.”

  “What’d the trainer say?”

  Only a true athlete knows the trainer’s word is basically law when it comes to injuries. I appreciate that I don’t have to explain not going to a doctor.

  “Just that. It’s a tweak. It’ll take a day or two to heal, but nothing I can’t play on.”

  Lauren nods and smiles. “Good. Tape it up nice and tight, and if it feels off, don’t push it.”

  Spoken like someone who knows what it’s like to push through those minor injuries we athletes refer to as inconveniences. Another interesting tidbit about the woman I’m starting to be less annoyed by.

  Flashing her an ornery smirk, I settle the fresh icepack on my knee. “What’s this? Are you… worried about me?”

  Pursing her lips, Lauren makes sure I know she’s not falling for it. “Of course. I’d hate to see the team lose their top spot in the standings. I’ve got money on your next game.”

  Her snark makes me laugh out loud. I don’t know how I never noticed Lauren’s wit. She’s pretty funny when she wants to be. Maybe it’s because I was never paying close enough attention. Or maybe it’s because we didn’t get to know each other until we were thrust into a stressful situation. Regardless, I’ve added yet another thing to my list of positive attributes.

  “Anyway, back to our new relationship.”

  And the con list grows again.

  “I don’t understand why you need me for this ruse,” I say and then hiss when the ice shifts and a particularly cold spot settles in.

  “Because while this is a large school, it’s a small campus. Everyone knows everyone, especially you. If people see us together, word will get back to him.”

  “Who cares what he thinks? You can still hate him and use the rage.”

  Her face falls and I have a strange constriction in my chest over the idea of disappointing her.

  “You’re right. I can figure out how to stay pissed. I mean, I have to look at him every day, right?” She laughs lightly, but there’s no humor behind it. All the bravado she had a second ago is suddenly gone. It’s the same look she had on her face when I picked her up on the side of the road a few days ago. There’s something else going on, some other reason she’s trying to hang close to me. What is it?

  Standing up, Lauren grabs her sweatshirt off the floor, where she dropped it as she came in.

  “Lauren, wait.”

  She doesn’t. Instead, she yanks it on and pulls the hood over her head.

  “Lauren.”

  Again, no response, except to grab her backpack and swivel toward the door. I have a feeling if I don’t make a move now, I’ll never figure out why this is so important to her. Nor will I ever figure out why it’s so important to me to have that information.

  Ignoring the pain in my knee, I launch myself off the chair and follow her across the room.

  “Lauren, you came to me for help, remember? Talk to me.”

  She pauses with her hand on the doorknob but says nothing.

  “Explain it to me,” I say gently. “Please? Why is it so important to you? We don’t even like each other.”

  Lauren bristles but doesn’t turn around. “You’re wrong, Heath. I’ve never not liked you. I just didn’t do anything to change your mind when you made your decision about me. The same kind of opinion Con made.”

  With that, she pulls the door open, leaving it ajar while I watch her walk away, stunned by her own words, and my own pre-judgments.

  NINE

  Lauren

  I didn’t mean to run out on Heath like I did. Even at that moment, I knew how irrational it seemed. I’m not even sure how it happened. One minute we were joking around and the next I realized our camaraderie at the club was about Heath’s own issues with jerky men and had nothing to do with actually caring about me. After such a huge blow to my ego and being hyperaware of people looking at me, I had finally felt safe from the judgy eyes. The ringleader had been put in his place and everyone else would follow suit.

  But when Heath made it clear he had no interest in helping me beyond that, it hit me all at once that he isn’t my friend. One short-lived prank-like night doesn’t change that fact.

  Almost immediately, I felt the walls I’ve spent the last several years building start to crumble at that realization. I was going to spiral if I didn’t shift my thought process and staring at the man who used me to help settle his own agenda about his sister was making it worse.

  So, I booked it out of there with a parting shot and never looked back. I also never set anyone straight about the true nature of my and Heath’s relationship, or lack thereof. Assumptions swirled around me, and I just let them and spent the time focusing on my goals.

  The ruse worked for a while. For a couple of weeks, my responses to Con’s inquiries were limited to one- and two-word answers that he didn’t question. Mostly it consisted of phrases like, “Buzz off.” At least when my coach was listening. I added a li
ttle more sailor to my verbiage when no one of authority was around.

  It worked because Con didn’t have any reason to doubt Heath and I were together. He never came right out and asked, and I never corrected his assumptions, so the sham remained in place. That is, until Con started to realize he hadn’t seen us together since that one night. No one had. And that’s when things started to fall apart, just as I had predicted in Heath Germaine’s dorm room.

  The first indicator the jig was up was when Con stopped me on my way out of the gym and said, “I haven’t seen you and Heath together in a while. Are you still dating, or did he get tired of you already?”

  I rolled my eyes and very calmly responded with, “Contrary to what your ego likes to think, I don’t plan ways to flaunt my dating relationships in your direction.”

  It was all lies. I had tried very hard to flaunt it, but Heath wasn’t willing to play the game with me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  After that, Con was onto me and it became clear he was once again on a mission. The goal? Prove that Heath had used me and tossed me away just like Con had.

  Why? Who knows? I’m not even sure I want to know. But that was several days ago and the subtle taunts and under the breath comments are back. It has been very disappointing, to say the least. Hurtful and degrading at most.

  I try to blow it off and not let the disgusting comments bother me. Logically, I know this is nothing more than petty, childish bullying and possibly some inter-squad sabotage, although I still can’t figure out that particular angle. And it helps that Ellery continues to seek me out and stays kind. One semi-friend is better than none, right?

  For someone like me, though, who already struggles with anxiety and depression, it’s hard to let the opinions of others roll off my back. I tend to hyperfocus on the negative, which can cause me to spiral and I never want to go back to that horrible place again. It’s why I created the false bravado I’ve mastered—so no one can see the pain underneath. It’s also why I wanted Heath to play along and give everyone a bit of a show. If Con were to continue making assumptions, I wouldn’t have to be on my guard as much. I would be “protected.” I could concentrate on important things in the gym and not be thrown off my game.

  But no. Just as I anticipated, the insults are back. And the snickers. And the whispers.

  Fortunately, my ability to complete my skills hasn’t suffered. I’m not sure why, but I suppose my rage and snark hung around long enough for muscle memory to finally take over.

  Today’s the day I get to finally show off everything I’ve mastered. And I’m pumped.

  Every year we have two intra-squad meets. We’re divided into “teams” of four people and compete against each other. It’s a good way to prep ourselves for the upcoming season and the stressors that come with staying focused when all eyes are on you.

  This first meet is also the only time the gym is open to spectators. Most of our practices are closed to the public. But today, there are bleachers set up against the far wall for anyone interested in seeing a preview of sorts.

  Glancing over at the stands, I concentrate on the task at hand and absentmindedly chalk up my hands for my first event—uneven bars. It’s not my favorite, but I’ve been working on some fun release moves I can’t wait to show off. Especially since Annika and Jaxon are here watching. It’s not the first meet they’ve ever attended, but every single time they act shocked by what I can do. It may be the only time I ever impress them.

  Coach gives the signal that the meet is beginning, and I step up to the mat. I’ve been paired with Ellery, Cassidy, and Layla Overton. I’m the weakest competitor on this event, so I’m up first.

  Saluting the judge, or who most people refer to as the athletic director, I step forward until I’m in my spot.

  Acutely aware that all eyes are on me, including eyes that would love nothing more than to see me fail spectacularly, I push back the nerves that are sitting squarely in my stomach and turn it into excitement. Feet together, I take a deep breath to focus my thoughts, reach my arms back, swing them forward and jump.

  The second my hands grip the low bar, my body takes over, every move second nature. Gliding my legs out, kipping up to a handstand, back hip circle to another handstand where I carefully step onto the bar and jump to grip the one above me.

  I concentrate on letting my muscles do what it’s been trained to do—point, straighten, stretch, release, re-grip. Moves I’ve been working on for months come like second nature. I love the way it feels like I’m in flight. Like I’m defying gravity. It’s an almost magical feeling.

  In the groove now, I swing forward, let go and flip my body around, add a half twist and reach for the bar to re-grip, my body bent in a piked gienger. Just as my fingers brush across the bar, I realize I’m too far back by a fraction of an inch. My fingers grip as hard as they can, but it’s no use. Down I go, landing face down on the mat with an “oomph”.

  I hear a collective gasp from people on the bleachers. My teammates, on the other hand, don’t even flinch. Falling is part of our sport, and this wasn’t an injury fall anyway. Just a frustrating one.

  Popping back up, I take a moment to chalk up my hands again before kipping back onto the low bar and finishing my routine.

  In what seems like a matter of seconds, I’m spinning around the bar again doing giants, building power for my dismount.

  At the exact right moment, I release my hands, tuck my knees in and double back my way through the air, landing on my feet and taking two giant steps back. Finally balanced, I raise my hands and “finish.”

  My score isn’t going to be good with that big of a fall and two huge steps at the end, but like I said, bars isn’t my strength.

  A few minutes later the score is finally tallied.

  8.75.

  I’m disappointed in myself but also not surprised at the result. The fall alone was a huge mistake, but it also meant not completing a mandatory skill. I knew the point hit would be big.

  Ellery nudges me as I pack my grips and wristbands into the small carry bag and shove it all in my duffel.

  “You okay? That was a hard fall.”

  Being third up, she’s adjusting her grips and waiting for her turn. She should be concentrating on her own skills as she waits, but instead, she’s checking on me. I’m not sure if I’m endeared or annoyed.

  “I’m good. I landed straight so it didn’t hurt.”

  She nods her approval and turns her attention back to our teammate who just completed a full twisting Pak Salto. She makes it look easy. Everyone here does. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who struggles and why that is. Am I not naturally a gymnast and it’s only because of how hard I work that I can power through my skills? Or is everyone in the same boat, they just pretend better?

  I have way too much time to think self-deprecating thoughts like this. Only four competitors on bars means wait time until everyone is done on all the different events that take longer. And being that I was first, the extra three minutes of doing nothing isn’t helpful. Even wrapping my ankle for extra support is such a mindless activity and doesn’t keep my thoughts from reeling.

  This is what I was afraid would happen—that the dark place I pulled myself out of in high school would settle in again, only to have to claw my way back out. Sure, I put up a good front. Good enough that most people can’t see through the mask, but I know. I know I’m mentally struggling. I know I’m not performing at my best. I know I’m holding onto to my anxiety, terrified it’s going to spill over the edge of my tightly controlled emotions and end up in an anxiety attack for everyone to see.

  I can function on a daily basis. I go to class, I go to the gym, I go out with friends. I do all the things a normal, functioning person does. I just do it while always being aware of what others around me are thinking. Always questioning whether or not something I’ve done will be used against me. It’s not paranoia. It’s a constant understanding that the other shoe can drop at any moment, and I
need to be prepared.

  Finally, finally, we’re given the signal to rotate to the next station, and I can’t wait.

  Floor exercise is my favorite. It’s my jam. It’s where I shine.

  Dropping our stuff in the designated spot, we get in a line for a couple of quick tumbling passes to warm up. I’m thrilled to be going last on this event, which gives me extra time to mentally go through my whole routine again. That’s the other good thing about gymnastics. When I can get myself focused on a routine, nothing else bleeds into my thoughts.

  As I do a few quick stretches, I look over into the stands, hoping Annika is still here. She’s heard me talk about this routine enough. I want to make sure she gets to see what the big deal is.

  And that’s when I see him.

  His huge frame and broad shoulders. His dark skin and eyes that seem to see things others don’t. His large hands, clasped together as he rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to watch. I can’t tell for sure, but I think he’s watching… me. I can’t look away, so shocked that he came.

  What is he doing here? He didn’t think it was necessary to be seen around me. Now, I’m confused and trying not to lose focus.

  Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who notices the star football player in the bleachers.

  “I see I’m not the only one looking for another dip in your pool.”

  I vaguely acknowledge the sound of Ellery’s floor music beginning. Con, however, I hear loud and clear, his words like a punch to my gut. By the chuckles coming from a couple of his friends, I’m not the only one who is listening to him instead of focusing on the task at hand.

  “You should be concentrating, Con. You only have one shot on vault.”

  “I’m not worried,” he says with overwhelming arrogance. “One vault is all I need to clinch my all-around spot.” One day that ego is going to come crashing down. I personally can’t wait to see it. “Besides, watching you squirm is more fun. And seeing the guy you’ve been pretending to date sitting right there, flirting with another woman,” I quickly look over and sure enough, some beautiful brunette is getting awfully chummy with Heath, “...it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.”