As practice ends and all the boys head to the showers, D walks up beside me and nudges me with his shoulder. The dick, of course, does it so his shoulder pads scrape directly against the bandage covering my healing tattoo. “Shit, man,” I hiss, keeping my voice low in case Coach happens to be near. Andy just laughs and opens the door to the locker room, letting the scent of the team’s hard work and football gear invade my senses.
It was disgusting. Sweat, blood and too much deodorant.
However, the smell makes me grin. Since starting Pee Wee football a year after my dad left, the odor of the locker room reminds me of the people who have showed me what being a man is really about. This smell forces me to remember my high school football coach and my long-time friends. The same friends who taught me that, no matter what, real men support and protect one another. Even if it means I end up sporting a tattoo I might regret when I’m eighty.
“Leyton and the boys are talking about hitting Lucky’s tonight, if you’re interested?” Andy says as he drops by his locker. “Can’t. Helping Maris move into her new place then going to touch base with Ma to check if everything is all good at home,” I reply, removing my practice uniform and getting my shit together so I can hit the showers and head straight to Marissa’s new flat. Sometimes I hate that Penmore is so far away from my hometown and from my mom. I love being here, but can’t help but feel selfish. By selecting to go to college, not only was I unable to give my mom the money a pro career would have enabled me to throw about, but I wasn’t even able to ensure that she was still okay living alone.
“Dude, please tell me you aren’t still hung up on Marissa?” Andy says as he drops to the bench and starts removing his shoes. Andy has this thing about Marissa; since they first met, they can’t seem to say a single nice thing to or about one another. But Maris and I are just friends. After meeting our freshman year, she had actually become my closest friend after D. She’s funny.
She’s constantly wearing vintage band T-shirts and ripped-up denim. She actually reminds me a lot of Ma with her strawberry-blonde hair, freckles and no-bullshit attitude. If I couldn’t be around to help my mom, I liked helping another girl who wasn’t looking at me to get laid or improve her popularity on campus.
“D, you know we’re just friends. You can stop worrying I’m going to run off with her to Vegas. Plus, she wants some banker or some bullshit guy with a nine-to-five that pays big. She is crazy upfront about that crap and her baggage.” After talking to Maris during a finance class, it wasn’t hard to work out that she’s got issues with making sure her future is secure.
He still seems pissy, so I remind him, “She also doesn’t like the fact that I’ve slept with most of the girls she works with.” And her believing my current career path could be over with an accidental injury means I don’t qualify for Maris’s boyfriend conditions. It did, however, allow her to slot me into the friend zone, which I was more than comfortable inhabiting.
“Then why the fuck you helping her move her shit?” D asks, looking at me like I’ve got some screw loose.
“Because, dude, like I said, we’re friends.” The fact that she isn’t afraid to say what she thinks and laughs at all the fanfare thrown my way makes me keep her around. There aren’t too many girls on campus who want to spend time with me and not Grayson Waters, the football star. So, I help her out, we hang out after practices and then I spend my weekends letting the girls who are always chasing me finally catch me.
D just shakes his head. “Fucking hung up.”
I ignore Andy’s bitching, because I know people don’t get our relationship. They’re all too used to seeing me with different girls and getting laid. The situation, however, seems pretty fucking perfect to me.
*****
I’m just about home free, thinking about swinging by the closest burger joint before heading toward Maris’s new place, when Coach signals me into his office. I like Coach Hardy; he was a big part of the reason I was excited to come to Penmore. He has ensured the Herons remain in the top ten highest ranked college teams in the nation for six years. If we make it this year, it will be lucky number seven. Even if I decided to go with writing instead of football I knew I could learn a lot from him, but I hated spending any time in his pristine office. The room is painted all white with a basic timber desk, old school laptop and two metal waiting chairs. Unlike the locker room, it smelled strongly of disinfectant. Every time I step through the doors, I feel as if I’m heading into a fucking doctor’s office, about to get a vaccine shot.
Not only did it smell like sanitizer, but every surface is completely sterile. Lacking in life, except for the single framed photo on his desk. It’s an old photo of Coach’s estranged daughter, on her sixth birthday. The small girl is smiling as she leans over, her golden ringlets in pigtails with yellow ribbons and her lips pursed, ready to blow out her candles. She’s cute.
But that eight-by-ten, slightly faded photo pisses me off. Mostly because it’s the reason he’s calling me in. Coach Hardy hasn’t seen his daughter once since his bitch wife took off following their separation ten years ago. I guess this makes him feel like he understands my life. Sure, I played like shit today, but Coach knows about my dad. He also knows that after ten fucking years of barely hearing from the bastard, last year when my name landed on ESPN College Football, my dad decided to get in my face about building bridges. It wasn’t hard to work out that the only bridge he wanted to build was one that landed in the deep pockets of the teams that kept coming to scout me. Dad didn’t know shit about me. He thought because I’m a jock I couldn’t work out that he’s a con artist. He was talking about ‘caring about my future and needing to meet the scouts to protect his boy’. When all he really wanted was to talk to anyone with money about his latest Ponzi scheme.
Dear old Dad had no clue that I have a perfect GPA and always have.
Not that it takes a genius to see that my dad is a dick. Thankfully, it’s been a couple of months since I’ve had to deal with him showing up at the stadium or lurking around the tunnel. Although Coach knew that my dad had a tendency for showing up when he was least wanted, with it being the start of the season and my playing like shit, I’m sure he thought Anthony Waters might be close by.
As I sit in one of Coach’s uncomfortable fucking metal chairs, I try to look anywhere but at his photo. “Waters, want to explain what that was out there today?” he asks, as he leans against his desk. He is looking at me like a father asking his son why he borrowed the family car without asking. His eyes are a little pissed, but mostly filled with compassion, concern and understanding. “Just a bad day, Coach,” I reply, trying to get him to end this shit quickly. The only thing I hate more than dealing with my dad is wasting my time talking about him.
“You going to be ready for the game against Florida State in two weeks?” he questions, still looking at me like he’s waiting for me to break down.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right then. But you play like you did today at our next practice and you’ll be riding the bench until you remember how to use your eyes again.”
“Understood.”
I wait until Coach walks around his desk and sits in his ugly brown leather chair, taking it as my cue to leave. I already know Maris is going to have a field day when I tell her about this conversation. I’m never fucking drinking before practice ever again.
PARKER
I have decided that, in order to successfully start my new life at Penmore, I want to get a job. Okay that’s not exactly true. I decided that if I’m going to start my new life, I need new clothes. Since I decided to relocate miles away from home, that means I have to get a job to purchase said clothes.
After exploring the campus with Keeley a couple of days ago and seeing all of the girls dressed in cute skinny jeans and tank tops, I suddenly felt the urge to rip off my entire outfit. Not in public, of course; I didn’t have a sudden urge to become a stripper. Well, at least not until I’ve had a look at the job market. I just r
apidly realized that I was really badly dressed. Now I’m looking at my entire wardrobe laid out on my bed. I don’t know how I ever managed to get dressed for an event without Millie or someone telling me that I looked like my grandma Mimi. Not that I don’t adore my grandma Mimi. She was the closest thing I had to a mother growing up. I love it when people talk about how we have the same golden-brown eyes and sharp wit, but my grandma isn’t stylish by any means. She always wears brown faded slippers, jeans that look as if she plans to dance to Saturday Night Fever, and large sweaters that often have pictures of cats on the front. Not that she likes or even owns a cat. She just thinks that everyone else believes cats are cute and by wearing photos of them, it makes her cute.
And I know she enjoys giving me kitten sweaters for my birthday. I just didn’t realize that over the last few years she was the only one buying me new clothes. Staring at the array of sweaters and dated jeans amassed across my bedspread, it seems like I may have accidently started to emulate her entire wardrobe. Just without the slippers. To say I am thankful that I forgot to return Millie’s little black dress before I left home, so I had something nice to wear to the only place I’ve seen Grayson, is an understatement. I might be ready to start living my average life and stop living in fantasyland, but I’m also pretty sure that didn’t mean I couldn’t dress well.
Next week, I plan on going to classes and meeting people, not just loving them from afar and hiding in stairwells, which meant I was in desperate need of a makeover. Unfortunately, all of my savings from the small Pizza Hut job I had during high school had gone to my very own beaten-up green Volkswagen beetle. It isn’t the sturdiest of cars, but it would help me get around town and find someone who might be willing to let me work for them. “Hey, want to go check out the new burger joint I hear all of the football players love?” Keeley teases as she leans against my door jamb.
Over the last few days, I slowly started to confide in her. Okay, that’s a lie. She hounded me until I broke about why I left the frat party early last weekend. I look between my piles of hideous rags and her stylish appearance. She’s dressed in her favorite pair of black skinny jeans, biker boots and a tight leopard print tank with sequin sleeves. Yep, I’m decided. I need a makeover right this instant. “Okay, I think before I can traipse around campus anymore, I’m going to have to find somewhere that will hire me. I’m pretty sure new Penmore me hates old high school me and is demanding money for a new makeover. Do you want to join me as I drive around and try to find a place to work? ”
“I think I might actually know of a place,” she says, smiling at me and reaching for her faux fur handbag.
I think I would have been relieved by her words had it not been for her smile.
I swear that smile, although friendly, also looked a little calculating.
*****
The club was a short drive from campus, and after meeting the owner/manager for fifteen seconds, I was already trying on their tight uniform in the back storeroom. A uniform that included a minuscule tank top, tight black leather pants and knee-high black suede boots. The outfit was kickass, if not a little risqué. Definitely not something someone like me, who just decided to embrace her banality, should wear in public.
I was freaking out.
“Lucky’s is awesome, and Nate works behind the bar. I know he’ll take care of you,” Keeley pitched when she first dragged me through the steel doors. And while her words were meant to reassure, I was too busy taking in my surroundings to hear anything she was saying. Before I had even seen the uniform, the place scared the shit out of me. Booths behind velvet ropes lined the back of the sprawling room. The dark ambience created by black-painted walls was only slightly broken up by small lights, which hung from the ceiling in silver birdcages. The entire place looked like somewhere I imagined Dracula would love to spend his time if he was at college. There were two bars, one directly in the middle alongside the dance floor and one right near the entryway, both covered in black reflective metals.
For a girl who usually spends her evenings doing extra-credit homework, working at a moody club wasn’t ever in the plans. I stepped out of the storeroom and tried to walk with confidence back to the bar, where the manager and Keeley were waiting for me beside the dance floor. The tight black tank top, which exposed half my chest and the leather pants riding up and sculpting my butt cheeks were making walking with poise a little challenging. I was focused on ensuring I didn’t fall over in the new hooker boots, which meant I was mostly staring at my feet as I walked toward them. I didn’t see half of Lucky’s cleaning staff stop and stare at my entry, or Keeley’s mouth drop open. Thankfully, after making it all the way to the bar without falling over, I knew I could handle this job. Well maybe I wouldn’t go that far but at least I knew I could handle walking in six-inch stilettos.
I knew that I needed a job quickly if I wanted my makeover to happen before classes started. Therefore, I was ready to smile and charm the manager, without fidgeting in their uniform. Then maybe she wouldn’t realize I was really out of my element.
“So, you aren’t twenty-one yet?” the manager asks, with what sounded a lot like skepticism as her gaze landed on my chest.
“No, I just turned eighteen. Will that be a problem?” I’m immediately worrying that I had just struggled to fit into these pants for nothing. There was a lot of jiggling and jumping involved. If it had all been for nothing, I would hide it, but I’d really want to throw a tantrum that included foot stomping and fist clenching.
“No, I doubt you’ll be questioned at all looking like you do but I’ll need you to do one of those online training courses on alcohol serving. Until you can give me your completed paperwork, you will have to stick to working the floor and booths. I’m pretty sure our VIPs are going to love you. Nate and Dan are our main bartenders, so they’ll handle most of the drinks. Once your training course is done then I’ll give you a shot behind the bar. You’ll work weeknights before I put you on game days. We’re so close to the university that usually game days can draw our biggest crowds. I will let Nate know of your age and limitations, just in case though.”
Listening to the manager go on about my age, my looks and my hours, I couldn’t help but start to feel a little worried about what I had gotten myself into. I went straight from being relieved that my jiggling had not been for nothing, to imagining myself having to walk up to strangers in these pants. Oh, God, strangers will be able to tell I buy my panties from Target in these pants.
Luckily she interrupts my crazy thoughts about going commando by stating, “It will probably take you a day or two to work in your boots, so how about you take them home today and we’ll see you on Thursday at 6pm.”
“Thank you so much,” I reply, focusing on my feelings of gratefulness rather than terror. I knew I was going to need every minute over the next few days to become comfortable in these shoes. The manager looks at me again with a weird appraisal of my hair and chest before she lets me know it’s, “No problem.”
She glances at her thin gold wristwatch. “Do you have any questions before I head off? Usually, we don’t open our doors until 8pm on weeknights and I have things I need to see too. The cleaning staff will lock up after you leave.”
“Did you want me to leave this uniform here, or do I take this, as well?” I ask, wondering if I would be able to successfully peel these leather pants off in the small storeroom again. It was definitely a feat getting my hips into these pants in a cramped space the first time. I also knew trying to pull them off, with my level of hand-eye coordination, would probably land my ass in one of the mop pails that was resting against the wall.
The manager smiles at me with her brilliant white teeth and sparkling violet eyes.
“I have tried to take those pants off in the storeroom before. I definitely wouldn’t risk it. Take the whole uniform home and I’ll see you Thursday. Also, if you and your girlfriends want free entry anytime, just tell Bo, our bouncer, that you work here. If he thinks you’ve made that up
—because honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time—tell him Marissa hired you and to give me a call. He knows the drill. Anyway, I have plans tonight, so I better get going. Welcome to Lucky’s,” she says before she grabs her snakeskin handbag from behind the bar and ducks out the front door.
It’s then, with the sound of the club door closing, that I decide to look at Keeley with both eyebrows raised.
She starts giggling straight away until she can no longer control herself then begins dancing on the spot. Her dance repertoire mostly involves going between the sprinkler and the running man. “You knew about the free entry thing, didn’t you?” I ask, trying to keep my face straight and not start laughing at her jerky celebratory dance moves.
“Hells yes! Do you know how long I’ve lined up to get into Lucky’s before? I feel like any wrinkles that might be on my face grew while I waited in that line. Girlfriend, I knew you would look fucking unreal in that uniform, so they would be stupid not to hire you, and we now have free entry into the best club in the area. Also, we aren’t stuck only attending the under twenty-one nights anymore. We’re winners!” she shouts as she grabs both my arms and makes me join her flashy dance moves.
Unfortunately, I have not yet worked out how to walk, let alone dance, in my new suede boots. So after one twirl, I’m on my leather-covered ass in the middle of Lucky’s dance floor with half of the cleaning staff grinning at me. “Okay, so maybe we need to get you home so you can practice walking around in those boots,” Keeley says, pausing from her dance to look thoughtfully at my new uniform. “You think?” I ask, trying not to laugh as I use both hands to push myself off the ground.
Stars (Penmore #1) Page 3