When Rodriguez doesn’t move—he probably wants to stay and gloat about the inevitable scolding I’m about to sack—Coach Williams shouts, “Now! You too, Leo.”
We like to joke that our strength coach must wear weightlifting shoes in the shower and eat only steaks from bison he catches himself with nothing but a knife and a loincloth. His yell certainly has the desired effect: Rodriguez and Leo sprint toward the lockers.
I brace myself for Coach Williams’ chiding as he turns his perfectly cylindrical body toward me, but instead, he only says, “We’ll forget about this, for now. You may join the others in the viewing room.”
A breath I didn’t even realize I was holding rushes out from my throat.
Thank heavens Coach Williams is reasonable and doesn’t let this outlying behavior influence his judgment of me.
Before I can rejoice about this turn of events, he adds, “After the tape session, present yourself in Coach Fielding’s office where your punishment will be established.” He accompanies his phrase with a somber glint that shimmers like a big fat screw you to any chance of this day having a happy ending.
Chapter 2
(Ellie)
After wiping my vanity clean, I arrange my toiletries in equal distances from each other then take a step back to study my work. My lipsticks are in a neat line, their spacings matching those of my nail polishes. Perfect.
Will my boss trust me enough to agree with my proposal? What if she doesn’t? And what if she does and I fail her?
Oh, no! Without my hands busy, my mind has apparently resumed its angsty loops.
While my fingers were moving, the worries tugging at the back of my mind were hushed, but now, my chest brims with nervous anticipation once more.
Should I ditch my planned talk and wait till my boss is back from maternity leave? Knowing Stephanie, her absence will be short, anyway. I can’t imagine her staying at home longer than a few weeks.
No, I can’t let this idle thought settle in my chest. It’s only an excuse to avoid doing what I know I need to do.
Tomorrow is my perfect chance.
Right now, Stephanie’s bound to be more receptive to my proposal due to her hormones. I need to use this opportunity to break out of my catch-22. It might sound exaggerated, but that’s indeed what I’m in.
I work my butt off, going way beyond what any other assistant does, yet my boss won’t allow me to take the lead on any of our cases. She claims it’s because despite the right qualifications, I still lack the practical know-how. But if I follow her reasoning, I’d need practical experience to be considered for a promotion, and I can’t have clients on my own because I don’t have enough experience.
Frustration bubbles up in my throat as I ponder my situation.
Not wanting to let the sensation invade me, I quickly scan my bedroom for something else to do.
The problem is that my dressing table was the last piece of salvation. I’ve vacuumed my floor, dusted my shelves, arranged my books, changed my sheets, wiped the windows and all possible surfaces. Twice.
My eyes drift to my bed, and relief floods me.
The pillow’s still sitting too much to the left. I scurry over and pull it toward the middle until it sits exactly on the rhombus-shaped pattern of my quilt’s fabric.
As I straighten from my task, my bedroom door opens.
My roommate, Cora, pops her head in. “Ellie, sugar, dinner is ready.”
Dinner? Is it that late? I started tidying up right after I got home from work. Could four hours just fly by like this?
While my glance flicks to the watch on my nightstand, Cora comes in.
Her delicate yet memorable perfume—the same she used in college when we first met—unravels in my bedroom’s tiny space.
Did Cora catch her hairdresser after work? It looks like it. Her thick, long mane, still a uniform light brown this morning, now fades from a rich chestnut into a delicate strawberry blond, creating a weightless effect.
“I like your ombre,” I say.
“Thanks, I like it, too,” she murmurs distractedly, studying my desk. “Louise said it should be a low-maintenance style, too.”
Not that this aspect should be crucial. Cora doesn’t shy away from the extra effort needed to achieve exterior flawlessness. She’s the most put-together person I know, which is either admirable or a tad intimidating, depending on your mindset.
While I wonder whether I should pay a visit to Louise and challenge her to tame my bouncy chocolate curls, Cora’s eyes drift from my bookshelves to my bed and then to my vanity.
She sighs then turns to me. “What’s wrong, sugar?”
The problem with living with your best friends is they can take one glance at your surroundings and get a sense of what’s happening to you. It’s almost freaky.
I deflect her concerned question. “Nothing, I just felt like cleaning.”
She gives me a knowing look then waves toward my books. “That’s not just cleaning, bless your heart.”
I follow her hand. “Fine, so my book covers are all grouped by color and ordered by thickness and height. So what? I still don’t think my internal turmoil is plastered on those shelves.”
“Huh, gotcha,” Cora says. She’s got a tint of small-town twang—despite her best effort to get rid of it—just enough to give her voice a charismatic husky lilt. “So you have some inner turmoil.”
I shrug. “I’m just a bit anxious. No, not really anxious. Excited, rather.” Yeah, flipping the word is a wise move.
After all, the buzzing in my chest and the sweaty palms could also be signs that I’m looking forward to confronting my boss. It all depends on what story I attach to it in my head. And I don’t want to tell myself that I’m scared, even if I might be. A bit.
“What’s ha-m-ppening-h tomorr-h-ow?” The muffled question seeping in through the open door belongs to my other roommate, Hope. Based on the chomping sounds, Hope must already be eating.
Cora rolls her eyes, confirming my hunch. “Hope couldn’t wait for my stew to be ready, so she’s stuffing herself with her usual poison.”
“I heard that!” Hope yells.
“I knew you would,” Cora shoots back then blinks at me. “Come on, sugar, tell me what’s on your mind.”
Before I open my mouth, Hope cries, “I want to hear it, too, but I need to finish my Fruit Loops. Come out here, pleasssse!”
I catch Cora’s eye. We exchange a smirk then march into our open kitchen.
We moved into our current apartment four years ago, and while all our bedrooms are shoeboxes, our kitchen is spacious and has floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s my favorite place in the house and often makes me forget the insane rent we pay. I especially love the large black-marble stone counter because it glistens soothingly after I polish it.
To be honest, I could do without the giant modern painting decorating the wall, but it was Cora’s thank you gift from a famous modern artist after a successful show she organized for him. She’s so proud of it, Hope and I had no option but to befriend the weird design. The debate about whether it shows a dragon, a forest, or just a bunch of green smudges, is still open.
Cora goes straight to the stove. “I’ll serve us first, then you can tell us what’s on your heart while we eat.”
She lifts the cover on the pot and stirs the reddish liquid. Spicy scent of Cajun seasoning spreads in the air, making me aware that part of my aching belly could be indeed due to hunger.
“Okay, I’ll get the plates,” I say, opening the cupboards.
I fetch one bowl for Cora and then run my fingers across the stacks of dishes to locate my lucky one. I always put it back where it belongs—the medium-sized, colorful pile on the upper shelf—but it’s not there.
Bummer, I could’ve used its good mojo. “Did anyone see my orange bowl?” I ask.
“I did,” Hope answers between munches.
I whip around to where Hope sits at our round dinner table. “Where?”
She gives me
a triumphant smile that makes her trademark smoky eyes, enhanced with lots of mascara and eyeliner at the lash line, drift into two half-moons. She lifts her cereal and milk into the air with a brisk movement. “Right here.”
“Watch out, you’ll spill it!”
My warning arrives too late. The piebald cereal rings sway like tiny boats on an angry pinkish sea, firing a fat drop of milk onto her elegant white blouse.
“Ah, fudge berries,” Hope murmurs, lowering the bowl back to the checkered tablecloth. She rubs at the spot, which makes the milk smudge fainter but larger.
Cora throws Hope a disapproving glance. “You’re only making it worse, bless your heart.”
“Why are you still in your work clothes anyway?” I ask.
Cora and I are in our homebody outfits. Admittedly, our tastes in comfortable clothes while at home are rather different. I’m currently rocking leggings with an oversized shirt I got from my brother, Devon, while Cora sports a raspberry flare dress that could come straight from The Stepford Wives.
Still, none of us are dressed as if we’re about to head out on a usual morning.
“I need to drop by the office for a couple of files after dinner.” Hope nods, sending a few blonde strands of her bob shimmying around her stunningly high cheekbones—no kidding, think Keira Knightly high.
Cora snorts. “Well, either go and change, or else just cover the milk spot with your blazer.”
“Good idea.” Hope grins and immediately reaches for her navy jacket’s button.
Cora rolls her eyes. “Typical, always the easy way out.” Then her gaze settles on Hope’s cereal and she adds, “And you shouldn’t have used Ellie’s lucky bowl.”
“Sorry,” Hope mumbles to me. “I didn’t check which one I grabbed.”
Seeing her guilty grimace, I don’t feel like scolding her, so I shrug. “It’s no biggie. I’ll just use another.” I turn to grab a blue striped dish from the shelf. “It’s not like that extra bit of luck would change what she thinks of me.”
And it probably wouldn’t.
Still, it couldn’t have hurt to stack my chances before speaking with Stephanie.
When I pivot back to my friends, Hope’s staring at me with the same interrogative glare she must use at court. “Wait a minute, Ellie, are your heebie-jeebies work related?”
My brows jump up. “What gave me away?”
“You said she, and the only woman whose opinion you’ve been apprehensive about lately is your boss’s.”
Hope, though she doesn’t look the role when she’s gulping down her favorite snack, is a hot-shot lawyer on her way to making junior partner. I guess her wit of turning verbal slips around is the reason she’s as successful in her career as she is, despite being a bit of a mess when it comes to her physical surroundings.
Cora drops the wooden spoon she used to whisk the stew and steps over to me. “Is something special happening that we don’t know of?”
“Kind of. I decided to ask Stefanie to grant me my first real case,” I say.
“Hallelujah, sugar.” Cora throws her arms in the air.
“About time!” Hope exclaims, too.
Their reaction warms my chest. “You think I deserve this?”
Cora rolls her eyes, that, with her new hair color, glimmer in an almost arctic blue. “Of course you do. You should’ve asked your boss to let you fly solo ages ago.”
“But I’m the youngest assistant on our floor…” I mumble out loud one of the biggest doubts that has been plaguing me.
Hope slurps the milk from her bowl then lowers it to the table. She stands up, walks over to us, and hops up on our kitchen counter. “You might be young, babe, but you’re super talented,” she says, opening her arms. Her hand knocks over the napkin holder, scattering green papers on the black marble.
“Oopsie!” She gathers the napkins hurriedly, so that none of the corners match, and sticks them back into the holder.
“So I shouldn’t have any reason to feel like a pretentious cheat for wanting more responsibility?” I ask, while I pull the napkin holder in front of me to correct Hope’s hasty work.
Cora puts a hand on mine. “None. You’re a hard worker, loyal and insightful. You’ll do great on your own.”
Hope clicks her tongue. “I have a magic bullet against your imposter syndrome.”
My eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Hope jumps down to the floor. “It’s called ‘power stance’ and goes like this.” She strikes a pose that makes her look like a sexy female version of Harvey Specter from Suits.
“And this works in court?” Cora asks, doubtfully.
“Of course it does. Every flipping time.” Hope grins then throws me a glance. “And not just there. Also with guys. They find a confident woman irresistible.”
“I’m sure they do,” I say, without actually considering the possibility of using the posture anywhere else but with my boss.
It’s not that I couldn’t use a bit of help in the relationship department. I clearly don’t have the best track record with guys.
Especially one guy.
I quickly suppress the memory that threatens to surface. It’s unhealthy that, even after so many years, his face is the one that pops into my mind at Hope’s comment.
I’ve dated others, so why can’t I recall their dimples, dang it?
Cora bites her lip, probably to hold back a spicy comment about Hope’s new boyfriend, Mitch. My roomies love each other, but their take on what we should look for in an ideal man couldn’t be more different.
I’m glad Cora doesn’t bring up Mitch. While I share some of Cora’s worries about him—I mean who couch-surfs on a constant basis at the age of thirty-five?—we’ve both expressed our concerns to Hope about Mitch and she’s been clear that his juvenile lifestyle doesn’t bother her.
Hope points her finger at me. “Okay, your turn. Show us some power.”
I try to imitate her stance.
Hope helps me adjust the angle. I tilt my hips and she shoves my elbows a tick wider as I fold my arms. I never realized it took so much muscle power to look confident. My back aches after only a minute of holding my pose.
I’m sure I don’t look half as good as Hope does, but my roomies applaud me on my efforts.
Cora notices that I’m getting exhausted and decides to rescue me from Hope’s zeal to perfect my posture. She claps her hands. “Okay, I think this is enough to polish her posture. Now, we need to move on to her words.”
I sigh with relief, dropping my arms. “Great idea. Let’s eat Cora’s stew and I can rehearse my pitch for tomorrow.”
Chapter 3
(Wyatt)
“It’s my way or the highway, Wyatt.” Coach Fielding’s coarse voice bounces off his office’s walls which, like a convent, are strictly undecorated.
His tone has the same domineering quality as when he hoots an order in the gridiron on a game day, leaving no doubt that he’s serious about this ultimatum.
Not that I’d ever suspect our head coach of joking.
The pot-bellied man is as charming on his good days as a bear poked awake from his winter hibernation, and he has only one measure in life—whatever helps his football team win the next Super Bowl is good.
Everything else is dung.
And the behavior I exhibited in practice today definitely falls into his second category.
I stare at the coach’s XXL trashcan-gray hoodie, his go-to attire, as sweat trickles from my nape to my spine. I bet he wears this thick sweatshirt for the same reason he turns his AC off in the middle of the summer—to show his team that he walks his “mind takes power over matter” talk.
Coach Williams throws me a warning glance, indicating that I need to cut it out and agree already. After the tape viewing, Coach Williams accompanied me to see our head coach. Based on our history, he likely recognizes my rebellious chin tilt and my resistant attitude for what it is—pure show.
I have no choice. I have to agree to any condit
ion Coach Fielding throws at me, however unreasonable it might be.
Our head coach knows this. That’s why he lifts a brow at me as if asking, “So what’s it gonna be?” but it’s clear from the faint smile tugging at his lips he’s glad he’s pinned me down.
I draw in a sharp breath and level his glance. “I’ll be glad to follow your advice, Coach.”
My wording aims to save face. We all know it’s not a piece of advice they’ve given me.
Coach Fielding slams his fist on his desk. “Finally. You’ve got three weeks before camp starts. Use them.”
He cocks his head toward the door to signal that my audience is over and I should get the heck out of his office.
I’m all too happy to comply.
Despite my calm facade, my blood is boiling. If I stay in the hot office a second more, I might confirm the coaches’ delusional verdict that I have pathological rage issues in need of immediate intervention.
Coach Williams stands up and follows me outside. Once we’re at a safe distance, he stops and says, “You made the right choice, son.”
I snort. “The only one, really.”
“Indeed.” Coach Williams sucks the air between his teeth. “Will you stay in Georgia for your program?”
I shake my head.
No way. I don’t need the guys on the team finding out what sort of punishment I’ll be receiving. Also, I’ve already told Mom and Devon I’ll be spending two weeks from my vacation in Phoenix.
“I’ll ask my agent to find me a place at home. That way, I can at least have the semblance of a holiday and catch up with friends and family in my wee free time.”
He nods and pats my shoulder. “Of course. Please, make sure your agent prepares a non-disclosure agreement. No press is the best press in these matters.”
“Exactly my thought,” I answer with a forced smile, but my voice simmers with repressed frustration.
I can’t help it. I feel betrayed by Coach Williams. He, of all people, should know what I’ve given up to be where I am. Even if he didn’t want to take my side, I expected at least a “You didn’t deserve this, but that’s how it’s gotta be” remark from him.
Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Page 2