"Thanks, I guess . . . for me, too," I say, and I know I'm blushing, but I can't help it. "I still don't know why you asked me out, though—I’m not going to be a booty call. There are lots of girls on campus who’ll be that, I’m sure.”
I'm surprised that, instead of denying it or playing it off, Duncan just accepts what I say as a fact. "There are, but I don’t want them. I’m done with that.”
I'm stunned, and I blink, making sure my ears are still working. "Say what?"
"I don’t want those girls,” Duncan says simply, giving me one of his heart stopping smiles. I know I'm too young and in good enough shape to be having a heart attack, but damn if it doesn't feel that way right now. "I want you. Especially after you came in that dress."
“Please. It's not my best look," I say, looking down, but Duncan stops me, his fingers lifting my chin. "I mean, it’s a nice dress, but I need to lose a few. I shouldn’t have worn it."
Duncan starts laughing, and at first, I’m a little pissed. "You really don't know, do you?"
I sit there in silence, unable to take my eyes from his. He shakes his head, his eyes intense, and I pull back, unable to handle it. “Don't tease me, Duncan.”
He reaches beneath the table and rests his hand on my thigh, just over my dress. "I'm not teasing," he says softly. “You’ve got the sexiest legs I've ever seen, beautiful hair, and don’t get me started on your eyes,” he says and starts running his hand up higher.
I don't know what to say, so I say nothing, but when the waitress comes back, he pulls his hand from my thigh. I can still feel it there, a ghost of it just about halfway up my leg, and I wish it had gone higher. It gives me confidence, and I order my Tom Yum soup without any reservations or trying to eat like a bird in front of him. Duncan orders a big plate of Pad Thai, giving me a grin. "We can share if it's more than I can handle, right?"
"I doubt there are many things you can't handle . . . if you put your mind to it," I reply, and I’m surprised that I’m flirting back with him as he reads the meaning of my words.
"That's more like it. You know, when you first started working with me, you were the first person outside the coaches to get in my face and not back down around campus. At least, I can't think of the last time someone called me a lazy bastard without catching a helmet in the teeth."
"It worked, didn't it?" I laugh, sipping at my water. "You know, you surprise me."
“How’s that?”
"Well, you have this public image—this cocky asshole, no offense, that is Duncan Hart. The guy who rocks the tatts, the motorcycle, the trash talker, on and off the field. That guy, by the way, I would never have accepted an invitation to dinner with."
"Yet you're here with me now," Duncan says, setting down the fork that he's twirling point-first on the tabletop.
"Because there's another Duncan Hart, I suspect," I say. "The guy who didn't go off like a child when I needled him during workouts, but just bore down and pushed harder. The guy who asked and listened when we were in the library yesterday. The guy who is taking management courses because he doesn't want to be just a dumb jock."
“Maybe,” Duncan says, his hand warm as it takes mine. "But remember, I could be just doing that as an act, trying to get into your pants."
I laugh and lean in until we're close. "Duncan, in case you haven't noticed . . . I'm not wearing any pants."
We're so close that I can feel his breath on my lips, and I want to kiss him so badly that I'm willing to let go of my nervousness, but before we can close that last little gap between us, a voice interrupts us.
"Well, Duncan, so nice to see you!"
We part, and I look up to see a lean redhead coming up with some other girl, both of them practically wearing a designer catalog on their fashion-model bodies, all tight jeans, pearled tops that hug their size-four bodies, and perfectly coiffed hair. They both are screaming sorority with their body language, and the disdain in their eyes when they see me is evident.
Duncan, however, seems happy to see them, and smiles widely. "Tiffany! Mandy! How nice to see you. What's got you here on a Wednesday night?"
“We were invited to a new club that's opening this weekend, but the owner's having a special sneak peek event," Tiffany titters, pointing down the block. "Since Mandy and I don't have morning class, we were going to check it out. What about you? You can even bring your . . . friend."
The way she says friend lets me know that she’s jealous, but I keep my mouth shut. Girls like Tiffany have always intimidated me. They were the ones, back in high school, who were driving new cars while I had to ride the bus or hitch a ride with some of my teammates on the softball team if my parents couldn't pick me up from practice. They had the nicest clothes, the hottest guys, and all the perks, while I had a softball bat and calluses on my palms.
Now I'm confronted by not just one, but two girls like this, and I realize that I'm out on a date with a guy who is one of them. Duncan is a hot shot, one of those guys that every guy wants to be and every girl wants to be with. I'm looking at Tiffany, and she's practically got 'Fuck Me, Duncan' written on her forehead, but he’s sitting back and taking it in stride. He doesn't understand.
“We'll see. What's the name of the place?"
"Blowouts," Tiffany says, emphasizing the blow part. I wonder, if I wait long enough, would she get under the table and suck him off right here? "It's two blocks that direction."
“All right. For now, though, I need to fuel up from practice," Duncan says. "Check you girls later."
"Sounds good. Duncan, and . . . well, anyway, see you," Tiffany says, walking off before I can even tell her my name. Duncan watches them for a second, then turns his eyes back to me, where he sees that I'm not happy.
"What?"
"You didn't even introduce me, Duncan. That's pretty rude, you know?"
He shrugs and spreads his hands. "I figured you were going to speak up any second. You know, the way you stood up to me, I didn't think those sorority sluts would get you like that. Chill."
"Chill? You treated me exactly how they think of me—that I’m beneath them. And I saw Tiffany's face. You've given her the full effect, haven't you?" I shouldn’t be getting jealous, but I can’t help it.
"She's never had the pleasure of having a Hart Attack," Duncan says, and I gawk at him. He has a fucking nickname for his sex skills? What the fuck?
“You think that makes it all right?” I ask, standing up and folding my napkin. "No offense, but I'm not in the mood to play invisible good-time girl for your Hart Attack any time soon. I won’t be a side piece.”
"Carrie, come on!" Duncan says, getting up and stepping in front of me. "We were having a good meal, and I thought a good date. Let's go back to that, okay? Listen, I'm sorry that I didn't introduce you to those girls, but what's the point? They're not the kind to take a liking to you anyway."
“So you’d rather keep your playmates separated by social class?" I ask, now fully pissed off. "No thanks, Touchdown." I make sure to emphasize Touchdown to let him know how mad I am.
He recoils, his face darkening as he finally feels the anger I've been feeling for the past few minutes. "Carrie, I'm not like that, and I think you know it. Sure, I’m no saint, but a lot of my reputation is built on rumor."
"Whatever. I’m not sure I believe that, but maybe we should just keep it semi-professional between us. I'll tape you up and help you in science, but other than that, I don't intend to let myself be given the Hart Attack any time soon. Good night, Duncan."
"Do you want to talk about it, honey?"
I'm back in my dorm room, a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in my left hand while I have a huge spoon in my right. "What do you mean, Mom?"
Mom is on the other end of the Skype call, her own blonde hair pulled back and her face filled with concern. "Carrie, you never call on weekdays unless something is up, and you never eat cereal like that unless you're upset about something. In fact, the last time I saw you with a bowl that big was . . . well, I think it was when Dale James
broke up with you right before the prom."
"Yeah, thanks for that memory," I grump, unable to help myself even though I know Mom didn't mean anything by it. "Just . . . had a bad date tonight, that's all."
"So that's why your hair is still up." Mom chuckles. "Be glad your dad is out on the road tonight. He'd be more concerned than I am. He still doesn't understand that you're not his little girl that needs to have her scraped knees kissed away any longer."
Dad is a long-haul trucker, which is good money, but it meant he couldn't spend as much time at home as a lot of other parents. It makes him overprotective. "I'll get over it. Just a guy from the football team who thought he could play me."
"I see. He must be cute," Mom teases, and I have to laugh. Mom has always used humor to get me out of a funk.
"Mom! Okay, okay, he's gorgeous. But . . . we're just from different worlds, that's all."
She nods and goes to say something, but there's a knock at my door. "Well, honey, sounds like you've got a visitor. I'll let you go. If you need anything, give me a call, okay? And Dad should be home Friday night. He's excited to see the Western game. You guys are going to be on national TV—he's hoping that maybe he can see you on the sidelines."
I laugh. That's so him. "Okay, but the most he’s going to get is a half-second side shot if he's lucky. See you later. Love you."
The knock at my door comes again, and I get up, already calling out, "Hold on, hold on!"
I open the door and see Chelsea Brown in the hallway, a smile on her face. "Hey, Carrie. What's wrong?"
"What is it? Do I have a sign over my head that says I had a bad night?" I ask, stepping back into my room.
"Your hair is up, you're wearing a pajama t-shirt even though it's barely nine o'clock, and to be honest, I didn't even think I'd find you here. I was coming to drop off some notes from Coach Taylor. I was gonna leave them on your desk. Guess your date didn't go very well?"
I give Chelsea an only slightly surprised look, then just shake my head. Fuck it. I'm just not used to this level of social scrutiny. "How'd you know?"
"Duncan was happy as hell about it during practice," Chelsea says, and I remember she worked football practice today while I was running a rehab session with Rita Smothers of the tennis team. "He even shut down a couple of the guys who tried to give him shit about it. I figured you'd still be out for another couple of hours. What happened?"
"Tiffany and Mandy happened," I say. "Couple of sorority row girls who came by with dismissive looks for me and open legs for Duncan. They practically begged him to go to some new club with them. He . . . he didn't exactly stick up for me."
Chelsea nods, as if she's seen it before. “I know what you mean.”
"You too?"
“Not with Duncan, but yes, I know what you mean. It's in the past, and I’d like to keep it that way, no offense. By the way, here are the notes. See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I say, taking the notes. "See you, Chelsea."
It's about twenty minutes later that I hear a motorcycle rev its engine outside, a Kawasaki, I know for sure, and I finally let a tear trickle down my cheek.
Chapter 7
Duncan
I can't believe it.
"Dad?" I ask, seeing the familiar silver-streaked hair and broad shoulders that I hadn't seen in at least six months. "Dad!"
My father turns around, and there's a look of surprise on his face. "Duncan? What are you doing here?"
I shake my head and approach him. We're outside the team hotel, and everyone is getting ready for breakfast, but I have a few minutes. After the past few days, I could use some good luck. "It's the team hotel. We're going to have breakfast before heading over to the stadium. You know, the Clement game is today?"
“Oh, no, I didn't," Dad says, and my mood immediately darkens. Why else should it be any different? He hasn't been at any of the other forty starts I've made for Western over the past three years. "I'm in town on business. Meeting with investors, you know. New project upstate."
That's Dad, always looking for a new angle. I see he's wearing a wedding ring again. I hadn't been notified.
"So, what's her name?" I'm cold, my mood going from glum to black, and I can hear the excitement draining out of my voice as I look him in the eye. "You know, you didn't send me an invitation."
"I didn't? My mistake. I remember telling my secretary to send out the invitations."
“What's her name, Dad?"
"Tawny," he says with a leer that tells me exactly what Tawny Hart looks like. My father has very consistent tastes: tall, long hair, and a body you could bounce a quarter off any part of it, even if it is surgically enhanced. In fact, to him, a girl just isn't a woman without a little silicone somewhere.
"Where'd you meet her?"
"She was a massage therapist at a club I frequent," he says, and I try not to roll my eyes. Great. He met her at a rub-n-tug. Wonder how much she charged for a handy. "She and I just clicked."
"Uh-huh. Well, if you have a chance, think you can make it to the game? I'm sure I can get you in if you don't have tickets."
Dad shakes his head and looks at his watch. "Don't think so. Meeting's going to run all day, so . . . another time. Really, though, I've gotta go. See you later, Duncan."
"Yeah, Dad . . . bye."
The reporter is in my face, and it's not the day that I want to do any of this shit. The past two days have been terrible, and it’s only because the Athletic Director insisted that I'm doing this.
"I'm telling you, college football fans, what a game we've got for you today. The Western University Bulldogs host the Clement Golden Spartans, in what a lot of folks are calling the biggest game in the first half of the season. Western and Clement have traded the conference championship back and forth over the past few years, with whoever wins this game normally going on to clinch the conference title."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Last year, we took Clement, and two years ago, they took us. Big fucking deal. The yapping announcer goes on.
"Things are a little different this year, as the Pacific Football Conference has followed in the footsteps of many of the other major conferences and implemented a championship game system. That doesn't make this game useless, of course. There are still major impacts for the national championship at stake, as well as the fact that whoever wins this game holds the edge for the conference championship, as the team that finishes the regular season as the conference champions will host the championship game."
Will this guy hurry the fuck up? I need to get taped. I need to see Carrie. The past two days, she's barely said anything to me, and I'm not able to focus. I can't get past Wednesday night, and I want this to be over with. Then there was my Dad . . . fuck this. I need outta here. Now.
"With us now is Duncan Hart, the star tight end of the Western Bulldogs. Duncan, thanks for joining us. I know you're going to be getting ready to play soon."
"I'm always ready to play," I say into the mike, just letting my mouth go. I don't care any more. "But what's up?"
"Well, Duncan, in pregame analysis, it's going to be a tough battle between Western's spread offense, and Clement's vicious defense. In speaking yesterday with Nick Hostler, the Clement defensive captain and linebacker, he says that he's looking forward to it. It seemed very interesting. He was quite interested in you, in particular. Any idea why?"
Because last year, I smoked his ass . . . not that I would use those exact words in an interview. I know I’m a trash talker, but I try to be smart about it. “Nick's the sort of player who wants to test himself against the best. It's one of the things I like about him."
"You say one of the things. What's the other?"
"He keeps testing himself against me, and he keeps failing the test," I say with a smirk.
After the interview is over, Coach Bainridge pulls me aside. "Really, Duncan? Did you have to bad mouth the other team two hours before kickoff?"
"Don't sweat it, Coach," I reply, brushing him off. “It wasn’t that bad—ju
st a little gamesmanship. If anything, it should get the fans riled up. Hostler knows I hate him, and he hates me. Some kiss-kiss words before the game won't change that. Besides, I need to get ready."
"You’d better," Bainridge says, giving me a look, "because your practice the past two days has been garbage. Get your head right."
I'd like to get my head right, but it seems that I've got everyone and their fucking brother trying to stop me from doing it. I go to the trainer's room, where Carrie is finishing up taping Tyler's ankle—he rolled it a little on Tuesday—then she turns to me. "You know, you don't need the elbow tape anymore. That thing's stronger than it was before your injury, by this point."
"Just give me my security blanket and let me have some peace of mind," I reply, holding out my arm. Carrie goes to work, wrapping the first layer of pre-wrap around my elbow, totally silent. I fume for a moment, then launch in. "Well, Duncan, why yes, I have had a great morning. In fact, I was just enjoying a wonderful conversation with my friends about whether to have granola or pancakes with breakfast tomorrow. How's your day been? Oh, I'm doing fine, Carrie. I saw my father before breakfast, where he blew me off, and I've just completed an interview with a national cable network, where I probably came off as an asshole, pissed off Coach Bainridge, and now, the one person I really want to talk to won't even speak to me. Other than that, my day's going to hell!"
"And that's my fault?" Carrie asks softly, looking up at me. "It's my fault that you treated me like shit on our date and came off as that cocksure asshole that I just got finished telling you I didn't like? In case you didn't notice, you're the one causing your own problems by not being able to think about what the hell comes out of your own mouth. Before our date went south, I was having a good time, because I told you, there are two of you. There's the you who’s intelligent, one hell of a ball player, and a guy I happen to like. Then there's the you that, like you said, is an asshole. Your choice, Duncan. I hope to see the first guy more."
Carrie leaves the training room, and I'm left alone, steaming in my own anger. Finally, in frustration, I punch the supply locker next to me, putting a dent in the metal side, but doing nothing to relieve my frustration. I head into the locker room and get strapped up, still not sure what's going on inside me.
Over the Middle: A Sports Romance Page 6