After losing Ma, he changed.
When I went number one in the NBA draft, there was no one there to celebrate. When I tore my ACL two months into my rookie contract with New York, no one came to my bedside. Not my Pops. Not my sister. No one. So forgive me for not wanting to rush back to a home that harbors nothing but memories of Ma—who I didn’t spend enough time with—and the family who forgot to include me in the aftermath.
But it’s just like Lee to guilt-trip me. Growing up, she didn’t appreciate how different our folks were with her. She wasn’t pushed to her breaking point. Never forced to give up any semblance of a normal life to be the best. She has no idea what it feels like to have an entire town tout you as their superstar before you’ve even made it through high school. No clue how the shame threatens to swallow me whole anytime I think about showing my face there, now that I’m not able to play. The gash is barely healed in my heart, I’m not sure I’d survive having three-thousand folks pouring salt in the wound.
I’ll make something of myself here in Florida, though. I may not be on the court anymore, but I’ll work my way through the ranks—make a different kind of name for myself. Maybe then, the thought of facing my hometown won’t make me feel like I’m drowning.
Heading to the couch, I flip on the TV, hoping I’ll be able to fall back asleep. I ignore the way the halls of my new house mock me with their emptiness.
A couple of hours and a gallon of coffee later, I make my way to the shower. I don’t think there’s enough caffeine in the world to make me feel rested enough for the day, but luckily, the jitters in my gut make up for my brain’s lack of enthusiasm. Besides, I doubt today will be anything too intense. Preseason isn’t for a month, and the NCAA is strict on how many practices you’re allowed before the season starts. It’s not time to meet with the players, and I already know Coach Andrews. He’s the reason I got the job in the first place. It was barely an interview, to be honest. Andrews sang my praises. Told me how lucky he’d feel to have me on his staff after following my college career.
I’m flattered, of course, but I don’t feel the greatness seeping out of me the way he seems to think it does. I just feel like a missed opportunity. A seed that was watered to a bud, then left in the sun to fend for itself. But even though I wasn’t meant for the spotlight, some of these players will be. I’ll do everything in my power to help them blossom into the best damn baller they can be.
If I can’t live out my dream, the least I can do is help them live out theirs.
3
Becca
The meeting with my advisor doesn’t go as well as I hoped, even though I spent all morning visualizing the outcome I wanted. Sabrina tells me when you speak to the universe, the universe listens. So I closed my eyes and imagined Dr. Tooley saying there was an open position in the admissions office. Instead, he told me I’m shit out of luck. Said I’ll be lucky to find anything since the semester’s already started. My stomach sunk to the floor with every word he spoke, until I remembered what Jeremy said about the basketball managers, which is why I’m in Waycor Arena, ready to beg on my knees to work with the women’s team.
My knowledge of basketball is close to nil. The only experience I’ve ever had is courtesy of Lee’s older brother, Eli. He was known as the next big thing around Sugarlake, and always had a ball in his hands… unless he was throwing it at me. Dick.
But then he left for college and never looked back. Not even when Lee cried, begging him to come home. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him for the way he abandoned her.
A large woman walks by me in the hallway. She’s wearing a green and white tracksuit, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, a whistle hanging around her neck. Is she the coach? She stops in her tracks, turning around to face me.
“You the girl Tooley sent my way?”
“Sure am. I’m Becca. Nice to meet you.” I stand from my spot on the floor, straightening my tank top before grasping her hand in a firm shake.
She waves her arm. “Come on, let’s see what we can find for you.”
I follow into her office and sit down. There’re mounds of paper all over her desk, and I wonder how she finds anything in the mess.
I hope she doesn’t want me to sort through all that.
She sighs, the chair creaking as she leans back, steepling her fingers. “I’ll be honest, Becca. I know you’re here looking for some type of team management position, but all the spots have already been filled.”
My stomach sinks, matching the droop of my face. “Oh. Okay, I understand.”
Her lips turn down in the corner and she eyes the curls on my head down to the heels on my feet.
“Do you know anything about basketball?”
I cringe. “Not really.”
“Why’d you want to work with the team, then?”
“Honestly, I’m lookin’ for a job on campus so I don’t have to spend all my paycheck on gas money, and beg someone to work around my schedule.” I lock my gaze on hers. “I just need my foot in the door... to be given a chance.”
I’m feeling like I just made a mistake in admitting that, but after a few moments of tense silence, she surprises me. “You know what? Let me make a call to Coach Andrews. He usually waits until the start of the season to bring on students, so he may have something for you. It’s a little unorthodox, because you’re female, but there’s no rule against it.” She shrugs.
I perk up in my seat, my knee bouncing as I watch her pick up the phone. While she talks, I think about how I didn’t even realize basketball had a season, let alone that it hadn’t started yet.
What the hell am I gettin’ myself into?
She hangs up, her lips stretching in a thin curve across her face. “You may be in luck. He said you could stop by on your way out. I can’t promise anything, but I hope it helps.”
My stomach knots as I walk to Coach Andrews’s office, my heels clicking on the concrete floors and echoing off the walls. This is a gigantic building, but there’s no way to miss when you enter the men’s part of the arena. Where the women’s was modest and small, tucked away in a back corner, the men’s is damn near ostentatious. Rows of trophy filled cases line the halls, jerseys hanging proud above them. There are a few offices with their doors open, showcasing the floor-to-ceiling windows that look to the outside. Clearly, men’s basketball is where the money is.
I find Coach Andrews’s office and knock.
“Come in,” a gruff voice says.
The office itself, while extremely large, isn’t too fancy. It has a conference table with a projection screen at the head, and Coach Andrews’s desk sits on the other side of the room. He’s behind it, glasses on top of his buzzed brown hair, hunching over a stack of papers.
He snaps his head up when I take a seat.
“You Becca?”
“At your service.” I grin. “Nice to meet you.”
He straightens in his chair, peering at me from his muddy brown eyes. I hold his gaze. If I’ve learned one thing from Papa, it’s that not holding eye contact is the first sign of weakness.
“Luanne says you’re looking to be a student manager for the team.”
“That’s right, I sure am.” I nod.
His lips twitch and he drops his pen on the desk. “Southern girl, huh?”
“Born and raised in Tennessee, sir.”
He sighs, rubbing a palm over his face. “We’ve never had a female team manager before. It’s just not really done.” His hand drops from his forehead down to his chin, his fingers scratching at his jaw. “You know anything about basketball?”
My eyes grow wide and I straighten my spine, uncrossing my legs. “Yessir. I know the season hasn’t started yet. And I know there’s a hoop… and a net. I reckon there’s a ball somewhere in there, too.”
His head juts back from his loud, boisterous laugh. “So that’s a no, then.”
I grin, my cheeks tingeing with heat. “That’s a no. But I grew up workin’ for my old man in his church
. I know how to focus in and learn quick.”
“Well, that’s something, at least. You even know what a student manager does?”
“I figure I’ll find out once you give me the opportunity, sir.”
He chuckles. “Sure of yourself, huh?”
“Just hopin’ to nudge you into the right decision.” My smile grows.
“It doesn’t pay much.”
I lift my shoulders. “If it’s enough for rent and ramen, I’ll survive.”
His chair squeaks as he leans back, clearly assessing me. “Okay, here’s the deal. I usually have three student managers on staff. You can’t be in the locker room with the guys, except for before games, because frankly, you’ll be a distraction. But you can help with practices and anything else the coaching staff may need.”
I’m nodding my head, eyes wide and ears open. I’m grateful for the opportunity and I don’t intend to waste it.
He clicks the keyboard on his computer, his printer whirring to life. Swinging his chair around, he grabs the freshly printed papers, laying them in front of me.
“You still need to fill out the paperwork and turn it in so you’re official.” His knuckle taps the forms. “Practice doesn’t start for a month. In the meantime, I want you here, learning the basics. I can’t have someone working for me that doesn’t respect the game.”
“Got it.” I bob my head. “Thank you, sir.”
“And quit calling me sir. Coach will do just fine.”
“Okay, Coach.” I stand up, grabbing the papers and saluting him like a jackass. But I don’t care. I did it. It feels good to accomplish something without Papa in the background pulling the strings.
“Oh, and Becca?”
I swing around, my hand grabbing the doorframe.
“Get yourself some better shoes, yeah?” He looks down at my heels, raising his brows.
The grin cracks my face, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “Sure thing, Coach.”
I spin around, eager to get home and call Lee with the good news when my face smashes into a hard wall of muscle.
Sonnofabitch.
I back up, my hand rushing to cover my now throbbing nose.
“Whoa, you okay?” a deep voice rumbles. His breath whooshes over the strands of my hair.
My eyes are watering because seriously—ouch—so I don’t look up as I respond. “Other than a bruised nose and a broken ego, I’m fine. Sorry about that. Watchin’ and walkin’ is a learned trait I haven’t mastered.” Lifting my head, I attempt a grin.
My smile drops with a quickness when I see whose chest I greeted with my face.
Elliot Carson.
The man. The myth. The legend.
But to me… he’s just the asshole who got too big for his britches and abandoned my best friend.
4
Becca
“You,” I gasp.
Eli’s eyes bulge and he stumbles back a step. “Becca. How… what…” His hand runs through those honey-blond locks, so similar to his sister’s.
I hope he thinks of her every time his stupid ass looks in the mirror.
“What are you doing here? In Florida? I mean... in Coach Andrews’s office?”
I snort, both at his audacity to question me and at his posh, decidedly un-southern accent. “What am I doin’ here? What are you doin’ here?”
“I work here.”
Nausea punches my gut. Coach Andrews walks from behind me, slapping Eli on the shoulder with a gigantic smile on his face. The sick feeling grows, my breakfast teasing my throat.
Fuck my life.
“Becca, you know Eli? Our team’s been needing someone like him for a long time,” Coach Andrews preens. My eyes swing just in time to see Eli wince at his words.
My sharp tongue lashes out before I can stop it. “Oh, really? Might wanna hold on tight there, Coach. Eli has a nasty habit of runnin’ from the people who need him most.”
Eli tenses, his eyes narrowing as they darken to a stormy blue.
Coach clears his throat, shifting on his feet. “Right. Well… how do you two know each other?”
“She’s my little sister’s best friend,” Eli provides.
I snort. “Surprised you remember her.”
Coach’s brows raise. “You guys are from the same town? I never would have guessed.”
My thoughts exactly, Coach. I cock my head, fingers tapping my hip. “Yeah, Eli. What happened to that nice, southern drawl you used to beat my eardrums with?”
Eli shrugs, a painful smile gracing his face as he speaks through his teeth. “Time away from home makes you lose the dialect, I guess. I haven’t really thought about it.”
I purse my lips as I watch him lie out of his ass. No chance in hell his accent just up and disappeared. I’m sure it’s buried underneath the thousands of other lies he tells himself so he can sleep at night.
Coach claps his hands, rubbing them together. “This works well. Since you’re already acquainted, I’ll have her report to you for basic training.”
Eli turns his head, the line between his eyes creasing. “Basic training?”
“Becca’s our new student manager, and in order to keep that title, she needs to learn the love of the game.”
I force a grin, trying to hide the straight-up disgust that’s creeping through my insides when I think of having to spend hours with Eli. “I’m lovin’ it more every second, Coach.”
Eli chuckles, and I squint my eyes in his direction. “What’s so funny about that?”
He rubs his hand over his mouth, shaking his head slightly. “You might want to find a different girl, Coach. Becca here is known for a lot of things, but her loving nature isn’t one of them.”
Heat rises from my chest, scorching my cheeks. I imagine junk-punching him then watching him writhe beneath me in pain. The thought makes me smile.
Coach chortles. “Come on now, Eli. Let’s give the girl a chance to prove you wrong.” He points at me. “You got Monday morning classes?”
I shake my head. “Not until ten-thirty.”
“Be here Monday at eight then, and we’ll get you started.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. Eli’s head turns to watch me as I walk by, and when I’m sure Coach can’t see, I throw my middle fingers up, waving them in the air.
Driving home, my thoughts race. I don’t know the best way to process what the hell just happened. One thing’s for sure, I plan on having a stern talking to with Sabrina about her “universe” bullshit because this is not what I signed up for. I can’t believe Eli is at FCU. As a coach.
Oh my God, does that make him my boss?
I’m sick to my stomach, and a bit pissed off at Lee. What the hell is she thinking not telling me something like this? Maybe she didn’t know?
Once I hit my complex, I throw my car in park, ripping my phone from the charger and forcefully pressing send when I reach Lee’s name. She doesn’t pick up and I don’t leave a message. Instead, I send a text.
Me: You gots some ‘splainin to do!
Lee has a bad habit of avoiding confrontation, so I don’t expect a response. I sit in my car for a few more seconds, reflecting on my morning. The positives? At least I got a job. And for every ounce of asshole residing in Eli’s cold, dead heart—there’s double that of good genes. He’s a fine specimen to look at if there ever was one. I just wish I didn’t have to look at him.
It’s Friday night and I’m on the prowl. After a grueling first week of classes, Sabrina and I meet up with some friends and grace the downtown bars with our presence. I’m a shot of tequila in and a perusal away from picking my flavor of the night. I could really use a nice guy to dick me down and relieve the stress from the past week.
Our group is huddled around a table in the corner, and everyone’s lost in conversation except for me.
Standing up, I run my hands over my black bodycon dress. It’s tight, and with its plunging neckline, it does amazing things for my tits. I motion to Sabrina that I’m heading t
o the bar, but she’s deep in some philosophical conversation about women’s rights, and barely acknowledges me.
Fortunately, the bar isn’t too packed. Unfortunately, the bartender is ignoring me. I plop down on a stool and rest my chin in my hands, waiting to get some service.
“Odd to be sitting at a bar without a drink, don’t you think?”
I spin toward the voice, my eyes meeting the broad chest of a green-eyed devil. A smile creeps on my face as I assess the beauty before me. He’s tall and fit. Tousled dark hair and a black button-down that does nothing to hide his muscles. A tingle runs through my lady bits.
Damn, he’s fine.
I twist a strand of hair around my finger. “Odd you would think that’s a clever pickup line.”
The right side of his mouth lifts, showcasing a perfect dimple. “Yeah, well... my wingman’s supposed to be here to smooth out my edges, but I think he may be standing me up.”
“How awful,” I deadpan.
“Yeah. It’s a shame.”
“For you,” I say.
“For both of us,” he corrects.
“Is that right?”
“It is. My wingman’s a bit of a dick. An attractive dick, but a dick, nonetheless. If he were here, you’d realize just how charming I actually am.”
I lick my lips, leaning toward him. “Maybe I like dicks.”
He steps closer, resting an arm on the bar. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
The bartender finally makes her way over, interrupting our moment. I order a shot of tequila and a glass of water—my mystery man slapping a twenty on the bar before I have a chance to pay.
I grin, running my finger around the rim of the shot glass. “What’s your name, charmer?”
“Connor. And you, my sweet southern belle?”
Beneath the Stands: An Enemies to Lovers, Best Friend's Brother Romance (Sugarlake Series, Book Two) Page 2