She sips her tea, gives a nod. “You’re right. I’m not much of an observer.”
See? Everything works out in the end.
A smile breaks across her face, teeth white against her brown skin. “You seriously look like you stepped out of the Golden Girls.”
I huff a laugh, glancing down at my kitten-print sweater and boxy pants, compliments of the local thrift store. When I purchased the outfit last week, the cashier gave me a funny look at my choice of style.
“Costumes for a play,” I’d said, and a relieved smile touched her mouth, as if that was an acceptable reason for purchasing the atrocious outfit. Technically, these clothes are part of a costume. And I guess, technically, I’m the star of the play that is my life.
“Anyway, I better get going or I’ll be late!” Grabbing my vintage purse, I swing it over my shoulder and snag a banana on my way out the door. My last meal was a sandwich four hours ago. I was so engrossed in working on my thesis I completely lost track of time.
After inserting the address Mitchell gave me into my phone, I let Google Maps lead me to the correct address: a single-story ranch-style house located some five miles east of campus. It’s located on a narrow backroad lined with about thirty cars. The air is warm and sticky against my skin as I approach the front door and knock. Loud conversation drifts from the back of the house, the unmistakable clink of glasses. Inside, rap music thuds dully.
Clearly, the music is too loud for anyone to hear me knock, so I push open the door and am greeted by a wave of air that smells of weed, beer, and garlic. No one notices me entering the house. A small foyer opens into a living room on my right, which is currently filled with testosterone. A soccer game plays on the television. I’m guessing the volume is off, since there’s no way anyone would be able to hear the sportscaster anyway.
I spot Mitchell in the crowd, speaking with who I assume is one of his teammates. There’s a foosball table currently in use, a long table stuffed with chips and drinks and other snacks along the wall, and large speakers that blast the music, the floor shuddering from the deep bass. A few young women are present, but the ratio of male to female is probably three to one. I’m guessing they’re girlfriends of some of the players. Then I remember that I’m supposed to be a girlfriend too.
A few confused looks greet me as I make my way to Mitchell’s side. The guy he’s talking to trails off, eyebrows pulled inward as he takes in my outfit. “Uh—”
Mitchell turns and smiles at me. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey.” Before I can react, he pulls me in for a hug, his long, tanned arms hard with muscle. I suck in a surprised breath, then slowly release it when he lets go and leads me to a less crowded area.
He glances at my outfit, clearly uncomfortable. “You, uh, look nice.”
Ha! Judging from his body posture, he’s about as sexually attracted to me as a can of beans. His eyes wander no farther south than my face, and he’s facing me from a diagonal rather than the front. I file that information away for later. Body language is one of the first indicators of attraction.
I wince as the music shrieks from the speakers. Mitchell chuckles, saying, “It’s not that loud.”
I’m positive my ears are going to start bleeding any minute.
“I wasn’t sure if I should dress up more,” I tell him, fishing for additional evidence of his non-attraction toward me. Plus, I enjoy seeing him squirm. “Is this okay?” I pick at my kitten-print sweater. The kittens are white. The fabric is a bubblegum pink. I fight a laugh as his face contorts into a mixture of pain and guilt.
“Sure. You look great!” He pats my shoulder awkwardly, then seems to remember we’re supposed to be a couple and tugs me close. “Whatever I do,” he murmurs into my ear, “just play along.”
I am Rebecca Peterson, top-notch law student on her way to a top-notch law firm.
My father works for Apple.
Mostly a wallflower.
As we move through the house, the crowd parts, and the stares are curious and perplexed, humorous and pitying. They look at me and see a lump. They see the clothes, not the person. Which is the sad reality of our society.
“Who is that?” a girl mutters behind me, and the vehemence in her voice is so sudden it makes my back lock up. After months of wearing these clothes, I should be used to the hostility, but I’m not. I have to remind myself that I’m not who she thinks I am. Her perception is skewed. I’m in control. I’m the one deciding who everyone sees.
Still, I can’t help the pinch of hurt in my chest. These people don’t even know me, and already they’re judging me. I make a note to jot down the girl’s comment in my observation notebook later. When I smile at her, she turns away in disgust. I make sure to note that too.
We approach two teammates in the corner of the living room. One is a tall, attractive Asian guy, and the other is a few inches shorter, tats snaking up one arm, a piercing in his eyebrow, blond hair rumpled carelessly.
They study me curiously as Mitchell says, “Hey guys. This is Rebecca, my girlfriend.”
Their jaws drop.
And here.
We.
Go.
“Dude!” This from the tall, Asian guy. “Since when do you have a girlfriend?”
Mitchell slips his hands into his pockets. The music switches to something rock-and-roll, and people corral to the center of the room, bumping and grinding, drinks sloshing everywhere. “Since about a month ago. We’ve been keeping it on the down low.”
His friend blinks owlishly. “Well, shit man. Congrats.”
Mitchell nudges me forward, possibly a little too hard. Smiling, I offer my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Casey,” he says, his grip firm.
I turn to his other friend, who peers at me with a strange intensity, as if he’s able to see past the lies. “Austin.” Warm, deep voice. An observer, much like myself. I’ll have to watch out for him.
“Do you want a drink?” Mitchell asks me, a light touch against my back. We stand together with probably too much space between us. Everything feels so forced. I’m paranoid that people notice how awkward we act around each other.
“A beer is fine.”
He gestures for his friends to follow, and I’m alone near the dance floor. I’m ninety-nine percent certain they’re going to talk about me. Why wouldn’t they? They’ve never seen me before, and the fact that Mitchell looks so far out of my league as to be on a different continent makes me wonder how his friends perceive us together. I mean, I try not to judge based on looks alone, but when I see a couple of varying attractiveness, I wonder. Sometimes the attraction comes afterward, when you truly get to know someone.
I try not to look at Mitchell as he speaks to his friends, but when I hear the word, “Rebecca,” I abandon my plan, slipping around the crowd to wedge myself into a group of people. Eventually, I manage to pick out Casey’s voice, as it’s the loudest of the bunch. It’s also slurred from drink.
“I don’t know man,” Casey says. His black hair is pulled into a low ponytail that hits his shoulders. “She doesn’t really seem like your type. No offense.”
“I mean.” Mitchell shrugs. Since his back is to me, I can’t see his expression. “She’s nice.”
“Nice.” The word is flat.
“Looks aren’t everything.”
Casey glances at Austin, and I snort a laugh. This is definitely going down in my notes. Casey and Austin, while polite as they introduced themselves, think Mitchell and I don’t pair well on the attraction scale. Dressed like this, I’d have to agree with them. “Sure, Mitch. Whatever you say.”
Austin remains contemplative, and something clicks into place as his expression shifts. “If you’ve been together for a month, why did you give that girl from Ray’s your number a few weeks ago? Were you in a relationship then?”
The girl from Ray’s?
As in me?
“We weren’t exclusive yet,” Mitchell answers smoothly.
Austin raises an eyebro
w. “Whatever happened to her? Did you get in touch?”
The group I’m standing with begins to break up, forcing me to move to another group, this one slightly farther away. At least the music is softer, allowing me to eavesdrop without much trouble.
Mitchell rolls his shoulders, and it draws my eye to the muscles shifting beneath his shirt. He really does have nice shoulders—wide and tan and strong.
“Never heard back,” he replies, and I swear I detect disappointment in his voice. This is news to me. I thought he was only interested in hooking up. “I didn’t even get her name. Haven’t seen her around campus either.”
Something flutters in my stomach at the thought. The genuine interest in me. But also, the flutter comes from guilt too. Because he has no idea I’m that girl.
“I’m sure she’ll turn up.” Austin dips his chin. “You just have to stop looking for her.”
He’s been searching for me? Now I’m going to be paranoid walking around campus. The last thing I want is to run into him or his friends in my normal attire, especially now that they’ve seen me as this other persona.
Their talk turns to sports, so I make a beeline for the bathroom to wash up. When I’m done, I find Mitchell standing where he left me, two red cups in hand.
“Hey.” I come up on his right side. “Your friends seem nice.”
He hands me a beer, and I take a long swallow. He just stares at me.
“What?” I lower the cup, my hand going to my lips, afraid I have a beer-foam mustache. That would be embarrassing.
“Nothing.” He sighs. “They’re nice. And nosy. Well, Casey is. Austin mostly keeps to himself.” After glancing over his shoulder to make sure we’re alone, he adds, “I can tell they don’t really believe we’re together.”
“Well, obviously.” Now’s my chance to bug him for pertinent information. “I mean, look at me. And look at you.” I drop my hand, gesturing to his very in-shape form, then to my obnoxiously loud sweater. I think I must have been drunk when I bought this, because it seriously is atrocious. Once this research is done, I’m returning the clothes to the thrift store where they belong. “We’re in different leagues.”
I wait to see whether he’ll agree or deny it, and I’m surprised when, rather than saying, “Yep, you’re a six on a good day,” he says, “Looks aren’t everything. You seem like a smart girl.” He turns those killer eyes on me. I blink at him stupidly. “What are you studying, anyway? Besides law,” he adds with a playful grin.
Once I manage to tear my attention away from his smile, I respond, “Sociology. I’m heading to the University of Chicago in the spring for graduate school. I like learning about people and their social interactions and how things change depending on norms or trends. It’s fascinating to me.”
His mouth curves slightly. “That’s where the US Men’s National Team trains.”
“Really? Will you play for them after graduation?”
“Actually, my plan is to play for Manchester. If they’ll have me. But the US National Team is equally competitive.”
“You’re graduating this fall too?”
“Yeah. I stayed an extra semester because of an injury I sustained in the spring.”
I nod, wondering what his injury was. He probably won’t want to discuss it. “What about you? What’s your major?” Together, we wander into a game room dominated by a sleek pool table, the clack of the cue against the pool balls explosive.
“Business.” He peers into his drink. “At least, that’s what my dad wants me to do. He doesn’t think soccer is a viable career, especially after I got injured last season.” He taps his right knee. “Torn ACL. Set me back six months for recovery, but playing soccer is all I’ve ever wanted to do. One way or another, I’m going to make it happen.” His voice is sure, unwavering. I can’t help but admire his confidence.
When he turns to smile at me, my cheeks burn, because that smile is devastating. I feel it between my thighs. But I can’t look into it too deeply, because the smile, while it’s for me, it’s not for me.
Clearing my throat, I turn to watch the billiards game. “Do you want to play?”
He smirks at me. “You play pool?”
Oh, right. I’m supposed to be introverted, no-social-life Rebecca, not normal Rebecca.
“It looks kind of fun. I’ve never played before.” Liar, liar, liar.
He takes this at face value though. “Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you.”
Ha. Good luck with that.
We make our way to the now-vacated billiards table, the rich green felt bringing back memories of passing the time in bars while my father had a beer or two with his work buddies. I grab a stick while Mitchell racks the balls, doing my best to look clueless as he places the cue on the opposite side of the table. A few party-goers gather around to watch.
“I’ll break,” Mitchell says. “Whatever ball pattern goes into the pocket first—solids or stripes—that’s my pattern for the rest of the game. You’ll aim for the opposite. Each turn you have a chance to hit one of your balls into the pocket using the cue ball. That’s the white ball.” He rounds the table and sets himself up for the shot, bending over, arms stretched, mouth pinched in concentration. I do my best not to stare at his ass, but I can’t help myself. It’s a very nice ass.
The crack rings throughout the room before being swiftly drowned out by the music, and he gets a solid into a corner pocket. That leaves me with stripes.
“See the ball with the eight on it? If you hit that into the pocket, you lose. If you hit the white ball into the pocket, that’s called a scratch. Since I sunk one of the solids, it’s my turn until I miss a shot.”
Nodding, I watch him hit two more balls into the pockets before he misses a difficult shot that requires him to position the stick at an awkward angle. I can’t help but think he misses it on purpose, perhaps thinking he should go easy on me. The way he plays is both confident and fluid. Mitchell’s good.
But I’m better.
I scan the table, looking for a ball to hit. “I hit the ones with the stripes, right?” Someone snickers to my left. They see my clothes and think so little of me
His smirk is a bit gloating. “That’s right.”
A smile breaks across my face, and Mitchell blinks in a daze. “Sounds good.”
The best part about this, I think as I land my first shot, is how people’s perceptions will change based on the outcome of this game. How will they treat me differently, knowing my skills don’t align with my wardrobe? How will they look at me, speak to me? How much more respect will I gain simply because they underestimated me, which had nothing to do with me and everything to do with their preconceived notions of my skills?
I sink the second ball, then a third. Rounding the table to reach the fourth, I shoot for the corner pocket.
I sink that one too.
Slowly, Mitchell’s smile disappears.
The music goes quiet.
Keeping my eyes on the felt, I examine the remaining striped balls still in play. For my next shot, I can either attempt to use the cue to hit two balls before the striped ball I’m aiming for, or I can perch on the edge of the table and make the shot behind my back left-handed. In the end, I attempt to shoot behind my back, because my left-handedness isn’t terrible, and lo and behold, I make the shot.
Five balls down, two to go.
I spare a glance at Mitchell, who gapes at the realization that he’s just been duped. It takes a monumental effort to contain my laugh. The satisfaction brims inside of me, threatening to spill over.
Casey whistles as the remaining two balls disappear.
Lastly, the eight-ball.
Now only solids remain.
With a happy sigh, I turn to face Mitchell. “Well. That was fun!”
No one speaks.
Mitchell stares at me like he’s never seen me before, arms slack at his sides. “Who are you?” he whispers.
I am Rebecca Peterson, future summa cum laude graduate, part-time
fake girlfriend.
And he has no idea what’s coming.
Chapter 7
mitchell
I keep a close eye on Rebecca for the remainder of the party. She’s not what I expected. Actually, she’s kind of the opposite of what I expected. Namely, an introverted homebody who would prefer sitting alone in the corner over chugging beer. But damn, this girl can break it down.
After kicking my ass at pool, about ten of my teammates swarm her, some patting her on the back, one—a freshman named Diego—even being so bold as to pull her into a hug. She bursts out laughing, eyes bright behind her glasses, and hugs him back. He offers her a drink, which she accepts. One by one, my teammates line up to give her high fives. She goes along with it, slapping their open palms.
Standing in the doorway with my hands in my pockets, I watch her accept congratulations from the guys. Perhaps one-upping the team captain is enough for them to permanently accept her, because with every other girl I’ve dated it took weeks before everyone was at ease with one another. Not that our relationship is genuine, but my teammates’ approval is.
“Hey, Burns!” Diego turns, one arm slung over Rebecca’s shoulders. “Come congratulate your girlfriend!”
A shrill whistle pierces the air. I remain standing by the doorway, suddenly unsure of where this is all going. One of the guys slaps my ass in encouragement.
“Kiss!” someone shouts, and I’m pretty sure it’s Denny, a fellow senior who has the weirdest obsession with the color green.
Soon, the entire room is egging me on, saying, “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!”
My stomach drops as I’m shoved forward. I meet Rebecca’s wide gaze across the room. This wasn’t in the contract. Rebecca is a nice girl, but I’m not attracted to her. And, yeah, I’ve kissed unattractive girls before, but those were times of desperation.
We now stand only a foot apart. The team surrounds us, their cajoling making my panic spike.
Rebecca laughs. It’s a bit forced. “All right, if you insist.” And she rests a hand on my chest, rises onto her toes, and kisses me on the cheek sweetly. She pulls back, her cheeks flushed a deeper pink, and avoids my eyes.
Playing the Field ebook final draft Page 5