The Cheat Sheet: A Romantic Comedy

by Sarah Adams

  “Mr. Donelson!” A voice calls out to me when I get out of my truck. I turn toward Bree’s dance studio and see a teenage boy standing outside the door that leads to the pizza parlor’s kitchen below the studio.

  “Who is that? Who’s yelling your name?” my mom asks from my phone, which I’ve been on for fifteen minutes now. I wouldn’t mind talking to her if she wanted to actually talk with me. Instead, it’s a long droning speech about all the ways she thinks I could enhance my image (I’ll give you a hint, a children’s golf day at her country club was mentioned) and then nitpicking every move of my last game. On the rare occasions when she does ask to hear about my week, I always get the feeling she’s really only fishing for ways she can comment on what I’m doing wrong. Bottom line, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut about my private life, and I’ll give her about ten more seconds before I end the call and avoid her other attempts at communication for another week.

  “Just a fan I think,” I tell her, squinting toward the teen about twenty yards away.

  “There’s a fan in the training facility?” Her voice is getting annoyingly high. She’s winding up to release a critical comment.

  I shut my truck door, raise my hand, and give the kid a quick wave. “No, I’m not at the facility right now. Practice ended a little early today because of a meeting our coaches had to attend, so I’m dropping by Bree’s studio.”

  There’s silence followed by her lightly clearing her throat. “Do you really think it’s wise to be taking extra time away from your training when you’re so close to another playoff game this weekend? Maybe you should have spent that extra time with your physical therapist, or—”

  “I’m a grown man as well as a professional athlete. I can handle my own training schedule.” Wow, that felt good to say. Also, it feels like something I shouldn’t have to voice out loud.

  She lets out an offended scoff. “Well, excuse me for trying to help you succeed.”

  “Cutting out an hour early one day out of the season to spend time with Bree is hardly going to interfere with my success.” Ever since Bree and I started “dating” (she doesn’t know it’s fake), my mom has been making lots of passive aggressive comments about Bree. She can make digs about my game or nutrition or looking pudgy in a magazine spread all she wants, but I won’t put up with a single word against Bree.

  “Oh honey, don’t fool yourself. That girl has been interfering with your success since you were in high school. I saw you almost throw it all away for her back then, and I won’t watch you do it a second time.”

  I stop walking and turn away from the teen—who is currently poised to intercept me with a napkin and a pen—so he doesn’t get to hear what I say to my mom next. “First, she’s a woman, not a girl. Second, yeah, if she would have let me, I would have stayed home for her in a heartbeat back then. I still would. Football will never be as important to me as she is, so you can either support my relationship with Bree or forfeit a relationship with me. Your call, but just know I won’t budge on this.”

  My mom makes a few sounds of disbelief, and then…hangs up. Yep, she ends the call without another word because Vivian Donelson doesn’t know how to react when someone puts her in her place. I’m sure I’ll get a call from my dad in about an hour demanding I apologize to my mom and telling me how she hasn’t come out of her room since we spoke because she was so hurt. She birthed me after all! Did everything she could to make my dreams come true! How dare I not let her micromanage my entire life! It’s why I usually avoid conflict with them. It’s just easier to go along with her and let her stampede over me than get into something with them that will eat up all my energy. But where Bree is concerned, it’s a fight I’ll take on every day.

  I turn back toward the studio and find the teen baring all of his teeth in my direction. The pen is shaking in his hand. I train my face into a pleasant smile even though pleasant is the least thing I feel. This mask I have to wear is just part of the job. Can’t let the fans down. Can’t let the team down. Can’t let anyone down.

  “Hey man,” I say, walking closer. “Sorry about that. Do you want an autograph?”

  He shakes like a leaf the entire time as I sign the napkin, thanks me profusely, tucks it back inside his canvas apron, and darts back into the pizza kitchen. I hurry up the steep stairs of the studio before the kid can tell anyone else inside that I’m out here.

  The moment I open the studio door, I hear Bree’s voice counting out beats in the main room. It’s hot up here due to the heat the pizza stoves give off, and it smells like yeast and dancer’s sweat. Not a great combo. Immediately my mind starts racing to all the ways I could improve this space for her, but even in my imagination, Bree won’t let me get away with anything. I feel a phantom pinch on my side and picture her leveling me with a glare. Don’t you even think about it, Donelson!

  The studio is laid out like one long horizontal box. After stepping through the front door, I’m standing in the four-foot-wide hallway that runs the length of the entire studio. If I keep walking straight, the next door goes right into the actual studio. To my left is eight feet of hallway that ends in a single-room bathroom, and to my right is eight more feet of hallway that ends with Bree’s office.

  I follow the music and sounds of dancers’ feet thumping the floor until my head is peeking into the studio. I find twelve teenage dancers doing some sort of hop-jump-foot-crisscross thing with Bree standing in front of them, back to me. She’s wearing my favorite strappy leotard today, the one that shows miles and miles of her toned back. Just as my eyes are dropping to my favorite curvy backside on the planet, the dancers begin to notice me one by one. Like a row of dominoes tumbling, the girls stumble into each other and hit the floor.

  Bree yelps at the sight and turns the music off with a remote. “Imani! Hannah! Are you girls, al—”

  She’s cut off when one of the girls points aggressively in my direction. “It’s HIM!”

  I swear the sound of Bree’s head turning in my direction makes a wind-tunnel noise. Her eyes land on me and BAM, her attention kicks me in the heart. Her look of shock slowly slides off and a smile unfurls. I want to wrap my arms around her waist. I want to drop my mouth to her neck and kiss my way up and down it. She looks dangerously sexy in her leotard and dance shorts. I love when she wears that tidy ballet bun, because there’s something so satisfying about knowing what her hair looks like when it’s not wrapped up tight like that. There’s always a moment at the end of the day when she takes the pins out and all those wild curls fall down around her shoulders—kills me every time.

  Yesterday on set, I felt something between us. It wasn’t one-sided. Bree was reacting to me, and every time I touched her, she blushed or leaned in a little closer. Although it was in the name of fake dating, there was some serious mutual flirting that didn’t feel fake. It was perfect.

  Until she bolted.

  The SUV was barely parked before she jumped out and told me not to follow her because she didn’t feel good. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “It’s…MY PERIOD!” she said and then ran out like that was an actual answer. Except, apparently she forgot she’s a notorious over-sharer and had already told me a week and a half ago she was on her period.

  So, yeah, obviously she was freaked out after our first day as a couple. I’m here today to make sure everything is okay between us, and also fulfill number 18 on the cheat sheet. Surprise her at work to show her you care about her.

  “Nathan? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” Bree asks, looking a little nervous as she glances back and forth between me and the girls all lined up gawking at me. I rarely get the chance to visit her at the studio, so I can see why she’d be concerned.

  One of the dancers throws her forearm over her eyes dramatically. “Quick, someone get me some sunglasses—that man is so hot he’s burning my pupils off.”

  The whole class giggles at their obvious ringleader, and Bree glares at her. “Cut it out, you! And don’t say pupils like that again. I
t’s weird.” Naturally they all start chanting the word pupils, and I’m struggling to not laugh.

  Bree sees my smirk and walks slowly toward me, her lean lines looking as graceful and deadly as a panther. She stops right in front of me and narrows her big brown eyes up at me. “Something funny about interrupting my class and sending these hormonal teens into a fit of hysterics?”

  I grin down at her. “No, absolutely not.”

  She lifts a brow and hums. “I don’t think I believe you.”

  Her gaze snags on my mouth and my smile slowly fades. We stand here like this for a few seconds, balancing on this tightrope of tension, unsure what to say or do next.

  “OOO,” squeals one of the students. “Call the fire department! These two are about to make this studio burst into flames!”

  Bree whips around. “Not another word out of you girls! I need to go talk to Mr. Donelson in my office for a minute. Continue your jumps while I’m gone.”

  I look at Bree with an antagonizing smile and lifted brows while silently mouthing, Mr. Donelson?

  She rolls her eyes then whispers, “Don’t egg them on. These girls are ruthless. They’ve been nagging me to date you for months now, and I continuously remind them we’re only friends. Since news finally broke about our…relationship, their taunting has become nearly unmanageable.”

  They’ve been trying to convince Bree to date me? This news only validates my instinct that Bree and I would be perfect together, making me feel even flirtier. “So I shouldn’t pinch your butt in front of them?”

  “NATHAN!” I love the way her cheeks go pink lately. Bree flashes me a Behave look before turning to address the class again. “Okay, line up and get into position. I better hear the sound of graceful jumps the entire time I’m talking with Mr. Donelson.”

  “Mhm, she’s going to go talk to Mr. Donelson,” says another girl, addressing the class with air quotes bracketing the word talk. These girls are trouble, and I totally see now why Bree loves them so much. They’re just like her.

  “Jumps!” Bree barks while clicking the classical music back on.

  Collectively, the girls all bat their eyelashes and singsong, “Bye, Mr. Donelson.” Okay, that makes me feel creepy.

  Note to self: Maybe surprising Bree at work when she has a room full of teen girls is not the best idea.

  Bree reads my thoughts. “Yep. And you should stop posing in so many shirtless ads! You should see all the photos they have saved of you on their phones.” That’s disturbing and also something I could have gone without knowing.

  Bree suddenly catches my hand and pulls me with her into the hallway. I wasn’t prepared for this skin-to-skin contact, and it triggers my whole body to zero in on that one point of contact. Bree stops when we are on the other side of the studio wall just outside of eyeshot. She lets go of my hand to face me, and I want to take it back again. I stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from acting on the impulse.

  “So what’s up?” she asks as classical music swirls around us.

  I swallow, suddenly feeling nervous to admit that I came all this way just to see her. That’s what the guys said to do, but…I don’t know that I can go that far out on a limb. I’ve never said anything like that to her before, and I’m not sure how she’s going to react.

  I shift from one foot to the other. “I, uh—had something I wanted to…”

  “Oh my gosh, is that giant man stuttering?! He’s so adorable.”

  Bree looks over my shoulder to where that whispered comment came from. “Back in the studio or you’re all doing ten minutes of push-ups before class is over!” Such a drill sergeant. I wonder if these girls find her threatening. I just want to kiss her.

  Bree turns away and motions for me to follow. Looks like we’re going to squeeze into her tiny office now. I’m so used to Bree not wanting to be in any sort of close quarters with me that as I eye the two feet of available standing room, I accidentally give her a look of hesitation.

  Her eyes widen with impatience and she waves me in. “Come on, hurry up. This is the only place we can talk privately, and I need to get back in there soon.”

  As I step into her packing-box-of-an-office, I’m reminded of the finally-legal sensation. You know? It’s that feeling when you order your first beer on your twenty-first birthday, the bartender studies your ID, and for a split second, you break out in a sweat because you’re so used to always having to sell the fake one. But this one is real, he slides a beer across the table, and you get to drink it without fear of punishment. That’s what being invited to stand in this minuscule room with Bree feels like.

  Her desk takes up most of the space, the backs of her legs pressed up against it to make room for me to shut the door. I can’t get it to close behind my back though; I have no choice but to step closer to Bree until we are touching. NO CHOICE, I TELL YOU! My chin is resting above her head. Now the sweet scent of coconut overpowers all the others. When we’re chest to chest, I’m able to scoot the door shut behind me. It scrapes my back as it passes, and I hope it leaves a mark so I can always remember this moment.

  The door latches, and for some reason, I don’t move away. Bree doesn’t push me back either. Instead, she looks up, eyes searching mine. A hair has fallen loose from her bun and is dangling by the side of her face. Without a second thought, my hand rises and I brush my fingertips across her cheekbone, tucking the hair gently behind her ear. She sucks in a quick breath, her lips parting. She’s so damn pretty. Soft and sweet, but also vibrant and sharp. Is that how kissing her would taste?

  I drop my hand from her ear to skim down the side of her arm. Her lashes fall to watch the path my hand takes until it lands right beside hers, knuckles touching lightly. Her deep brown eyes pop back up to mine, and it’s like time stands still. We’re frozen together. Something about the way she’s looking at me tells me if I bent down to kiss her right now, she’d let me. I don’t know who initiates it first, but our fingers shift and climb toward the other’s until they’re loosely intertwined.

  My heart is in my throat. No, it’s in my hands. I’m holding it out here for her to take.

  Suddenly, the air fills with the opening notes of “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye, and giggles erupt beyond the wall.

  Bree lets out a high-pitched growl and steps to the side so she can bang the side of her fist against the wall. Our hands unlink. “Hey! Turn that off!”

  They don’t obey. More giggles.

  I bite my lip to keep from smiling, and Bree doesn’t appreciate it.

  “It’s not funny!” she says in a sad, defeated tone.

  “Come on? It’s so funny,” I say, giving in to a full smile.

  Bree relents with a smile of her own and shakes her head. “Fine, it’s a little funny.”

  I’m not willing to let our moment end quite yet. And if these girls are going to help me out, I’m not going to turn up my nose at the gesture. I stretch out my hand toward Bree. “C’mere, let’s dance.”

  Her brows twitch together and she eyes my hand like it’s moldy. “What?” She lets out a nervous, breathy laugh and looks around like she’s expecting to find hidden cameras. “In here? No way. That’s silly.”

  I take her hand and tug her up to me. Get over here, woman. She doesn’t fight it. Instead, she snaps into my arms, and I pull her up close—one hand on her low back, the other holding her hand beside me, palm to palm, chest to chest. She blinks a few times and tentatively slides her free hand up onto my shoulder.

  “You’re being weird,” she says, even though her thumb is brushing a tender movement up and down the base of my neck.

  “Yeah. Really weird.” I put a little more pressure on her back and sway us side to side. Being this close, I’m steeped in her shampoo, and thanks to the way her leotard dips in the back, I can feel the soft, velvety texture of her skin against my hand. She is heaven in my arms. Nothing exists outside these walls for me.

  “Nathan, why are you here right now? I have a class I need to be teac
hing.” She says this while snuggling a little closer. A strong revelation is growing as I see her words and her actions are in direct conflict with each other. Which one is fake?

  “I wanted to ask you if you’re free tomorrow night.”

  “You could have done that over text,” she says, fishing for more of an answer.

  “I could have.”

  She casts her eyes down briefly, like she doesn’t want me to see her expression, her soft grin, and the side of her face skims across my chest. “Yeah, I’m free.”

  “Great. Pro Sports Magazine is having their big ten-year birthday bash. It’s a red carpet event, and I was hoping you’d go with me.” In the past, Bree has always said no to attending any career-related event with me. She always tells me to take a date instead. Friends don’t go with friends to fancy events like that.

  She keeps her gaze low. “Well, I guess I sort of have to go, right? As your official-fake-girlfriend.”

  “No. If you don’t want to go, I’ll plan something else a little more low-key for one of our contract-mandated outings.”

  “Oh,” she says, and I hear a little disappointment in her voice. I think she wants me to tell her she has to come with me. She wants me to take the choice away from her, but I need to see if she’s willing to come with me on her own or not.

  “So what do you think?” I ask, stopping our swaying so she’ll look up at me. I dance my thumb in a circle against the skin of her back.

  “Okay,” she says, her lashes lifting. “I’ll go with you. But I don’t have anything to wear.”

  My heart rams into my sternum. I want to wrap my arms all the way around her and squeeze. Instead, I settle for a subtle press of my fingers. “Leave it up to me, and be home by five tomorrow.”

  “I’m nervous about what that means.”

  I reach back and open the door, reluctant to let her out of my arms but knowing she needs to return to her class of hellions. As I step away, I try to check one more item off my cheat sheet.