SPIKED (A Sports Romance)

by Harper James

  “Oh— no. I mean, it bothers me a little, when I can tell people are thinking shitty things about me. But it’s fine. No one that matters to me has said anything terrible.”

  “Good,” Jacob said, smiling. He was crammed into the far side of the booth, almost too large chested to fit in— the restaurant had crammed as many booths as fireside allowed into the space.

  “Alright. Ready?” Jacob asked, slapping cash down on the table.

  “Probably not,” I said warily. “Thanks for taking me here to eat something first.”

  “No problem. Meeting parents is always crazy. I’d rather you not go all hangry on them.”

  “I don’t get hangry,” I said.

  “No, but it’s not worth the risk,” Jacob answered, sliding out of the booth and offering me his hand. I accepted it, and left the grease-scented restaurant to head across the street, to the alumni resort— where Jacob Everett’s parents would meet me for the first time over an incredibly expensive meal at the resort’s fancy restaurant.

  Feta fries give me strength, I said to myself as we darted through traffic, crosswalks be damned, and to the resort’s front doors. I smiled, remembering how Jacob led me in here that first night. How badly I’d wanted him, even before I realized I could have him.

  “Mom!” Jacob called out, and waved an arm. I planted a pleasant smile on my face and smoothed the front of my dress, then allowed Jacob to lead me over to a woman standing near the check in table.

  Jacob’s mother— Mimi Everett, née Frazier, born in Texas, likes pearls, hates rubies, votes Republican, doesn’t trust women in politics— smiled, cherry red lipstick pulling across her teeth. She was a pretty enough woman, but in a very purchased sort of way; it was clear she’d had Botox, at some point, and her eyebrows were carefully drawn on. She slipped the designer handbag onto her shoulder as Jacob approached, then wrapped her arms around her son. She was tiny in comparison— the woman couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and fifteen pounds, even with the handbag— but she emanated size the same way Jacob did. Something about them both was larger than life.

  “Look at you! Darling, how’s the shoulder? Are you sure we can’t bring you home so Dr. Pritchard can take a look?” she asked immediately, reaching up to fuss with the shirt sleeve over Jacob’s injured arm.

  “It’s fine, Mom. Harton’s team is doing a great job. If I doubt them for a second, I’ll go back to Dr. Pritchard.”

  “He just always took such good care of you as a baby,” Ms. Everett said, dismayed.

  “That’s because he’s a pediatrician, Mom,” Jacob said, giving me an amused look. “Anyway, Mom, this is Sasha.”

  “Sasha Copeland,” Ms. Everett said, and even though her smile didn’t change, exactly, her eyes did. They went appraising and more than a little pitying. Not cold, exactly, but more like Ms. Everett thought she was looking at a very cute kitten, or one of those slow Loris creatures.

  “Sweetheart, how nice to meet you. We so rarely meet Jacob’s girlfriends,” she said, and reached forward to lightly hug me. I reciprocated, and was nearly blown over by the intensity of Ms. Everett’s perfume.

  “Let’s see, where’s Walter then,” Ms. Everett said, turning away from me and sliding her arm through her son’s. “There! Walter! Jacob is here!” she called. Her husband was at the concierge desk, but abandoned the woman manning it— mid conversation, from the looks of things— to walk over to us, hard soled shoes clicking hard on the floor.

  “Jake! Any shoulder updates?” Walter Everett— hedge fund manager, six brothers, smokes Cubans, two affairs, plays tennis, uses the non-word “conversate” daily— asked stopping short in front of his son. Walter Everett was clearly where Jacob got his height, but the father had the lean, almost gangly appearance of a basketball player rather than the rock-solid musculature Jacob sported.

  “It’s healing. I’ll be back in by Clemson,” Jacob said.

  “Well, let’s go get something to eat, keep your strength up,” Mr. Everett said, and ushered his wife and son toward the restaurant entrance without even looking at me— though to be fair, Jacob was probably blocking the view of me.

  “Wait— Dad, this is Sasha, the girl I was telling Mom about,” Jacob said. He unwound his arm from his mother’s, and placed it gently around my shoulders.

  “Oh! Well, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” Mr. Everett said in a voice that was a half-degree from being inappropriate. Jacob grimaced, but I smiled— inappropriate was fine, so long as they liked me. I’d dealt with inappropriate rich men plenty of times waitressing in Tifton.

  You’ve got this, I told myself for the thousandth time that day.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, and extended a hand to shake. Mr. Everett took it lightly, like he worried he might break my delicate-lady-hand, then gave Jacob a conspiratorial glance that made me wrinkle my nose.

  “Sorry about him. Them. Us,” Jacob muttered down to me as we proceeded toward the restaurant.

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  “Make it up to you later,” he answered, and slapped me lightly on the ass. I jumped and laughed, quelling it when Ms. Everett glanced over her shoulder to see what the noise was about.

  I considered myself a pretty decent conversationalist— I struck up discussions of local golf courses, the latest Lululemon line, and the neighborhoods most likely to be sound real estate investment decisions in Atlanta, all topics I’d carefully brushed up on before the meal (except the investment decisions bit— I was already carefully watching various neighborhoods and constantly comparing the cost of my student housing to the cost of a mortgage). Try as I might, though, I couldn’t steer the conversation too far away from one subject: Football.

  “See, son, you should’ve considered doing the draft last year. I’m telling you,” Mr. Everett said, shaking his head.

  “Not as a quarterback, Dad,” Jacob said in a way that made me certain they’d had this discussion a million times before.

  “Why not as a quarterback?” I asked. Keeping myself in their conversation was exhausting.

  Jacob turned to me, looking relieved that I’d stepped in. “The quarterbacks that are successful in the NFL aren’t the ones who are fast or have the footwork or whatever. They’re the ones who are smart.”

  “They’re the ones who are there,” Mr. Everett said.

  “Walter,” Ms. Everett said testily, and rested her fingers on her husband’s arm.

  Jacob went on. “I want as much experience at the college level as I can get, so I’m not one of those punk kids who gets into the NFL and gets crushed by some four hundred pound defensive lineman.”

  “But plenty of people get that experience playing in the NFL. The year passes either way,” Mr. Everett said.

  “And once you’re in the NFL, every year that passes where you’re not stellar is a strike against you in a way it isn’t in college.”

  “But if you are stellar—“

  “Enough, boys, enough,” Ms. Everett said, sipping her cocktail and rolling her eyes. “Jacob, we just worry you missed an opportunity, especially now with this injury, is all. If this had happened while you were already in the pros, you’d be able to collect the rest of your contract. Now…”

  “Well, he will have a college degree though,” I pointed out. It was clearly the wrong thing to say; Jacob’s parents gave me a wary look.

  “Oh, honey. He will, and that’s fine, but you have to understand— Jacob just has so much potential. We hate to see it go to waste,” Ms. Everett said, pursing her lips a bit.

  “What’s your PT regimen like?” Mr. Everett said.

  “It’s intense,” Jacob admitted. This was absolutely true— I had seen him come back from PT looking like he’d been tortured for the hour-long appointments. Three times a week, with light training that couldn’t further injure his shoulder on off days. Jacob’s legs had gone from enormous to flatly insane, given the amount of legwork he was doing in the gym.

  Mr. Everett s
eemed pleased to hear the training was intense. “That boy Adams is hot on your tail, son. Get back out there, or this’ll all have been for nothing. Sitting on the sidelines is every bit as bad for you as an injury is.” He smiled a bit at me. “Forgive us, Sasha. He doesn’t ever tell us anything, you know. We have to hear it all from the news.”

  “That’s not true— he’s told us plenty about her,” Ms. Everett told her husband, motioning with her drink toward me.

  “How nice to hear,” I said, but I could tell from the firm line of Jacob’s mouth that wherever this conversation was headed wasn’t a desirable destination. This meant it was a huge relief when dinner arrived— Southern food gone high concept, like pimento cheese wontons and chicken fried in rendered duck fat. Jacob managed to steer the conversation to some surgery his grandmother was having, then to a talk about holiday plans.

  “Would Jenna like to join us in Vail this year?” Ms. Everett asked Jacob.

  Jacob answered in a calm, dangerous voice. “I can’t imagine why she would, Mom.”

  “Well, she’s such a good skier, is all,” Ms. Everett said, carefully placing her cutlery at an angle across the top of her plate. “How is she, these days?”

  “And how does pro soccer even work for women?” Mr. Everett cut in. “Is there a draft for them too? Or is it more like a sign up?”

  “You’d have to ask Jenna,” Jacob said.

  “Well, you never bring her around anymore,” Ms. Everett said, like Jacob was being ridiculous.

  “Probably because she isn’t my girlfriend. Sasha is,” Jacob said. I smiled— I didn’t mean to, exactly, but this was the first time Jacob had called me that. To have him say it to his parents was—

  “I’m just saying that you and Jenna had so much in common— we wish you’d given her more of a chance. No offense, of course, Sasha,” Ms. Everett said, nodding my way then waving her hand, like the action literally wafted away her offending words. “I’m so very pleased you’re making our Jacob happy. What can I say, though? Walter and I are creatures of habit. We miss Jenna!” she laughed cheerily, and elbowed Walter, who joined in.

  Jacob sat stone-faced; I, however, affixed a thin smile to my lips and refused to look away from Ms. Everett. I’d dealt with enough rich people to know that nothing, nothing threw a rich person off their game like refusing to laugh off their shitty jokes.

  Ms. Everett’s laughter faded when she saw my expression. She cleared her throat, then unfolded and refolded her napkin. Jacob glanced at me, looked like he was about to say something.

  “So, Sasha, you’ve really never played a sport? What do you and Jacob even talk about?” Mr. Everett joked.

  “The cultural ramifications of the Brexit vote in various Commonwealth countries,” I said sweetly, then smiled. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I need to dash to the restroom.”

  Mr. Everett’s lips were parted a bit, and I felt mildly certain if I kept going, his mouth would be quite literally hanging open. Instead, I collected my purse and made my way to the restroom.

  I walked quickly to the bathroom and locked myself inside— sorry, other patrons. I leaned against the carved wood door for a moment, inhaled the essential oils being diffused from a fancy antique table, and tried my hardest not to wish eternal pain and suffering on my boyfriend’s parents.

  Jacob told me they’d be difficult. He told me they were like this, I reminded myself. And besides, he clearly doesn’t agree with the stuff they’re saying. His opinion is the one that matters, right?

  I exhaled, opened my eyes, and stared at my reflection for a moment. It was dim in here, a forgiving sort of light perfect for first dates or finals calls. I studied my reflection, the dress— Jacob had offered to buy it for me, the hair— a blowout that Jacob had paid for, makeup— I’d used Piper’s expensive stuff while she was out, my body—wobbly in places where Jenna’s was fit and toned.

  Jacob’s parents weren’t wrong— Jenna and Jacob had a lot in common. More in common. He and I were practically from different planets— our paths would never have even crossed had I not been assigned to be Piper and Kiersten’s roommate.

  I stared myself down in the mirror. I lifted my chin. But Jacob wants you, not her.

  So fuck them and their stupid opinions.

  “Sasha?” a voice called, and rapped gently on the door. “Honey? Are you in there?”

  “I am, Ms. Everett,” I called through the door. I pushed my shoulders back, gathered together my nerves and my confidence, and opened the door.

  Ms. Everett smiled. “Honey. Jacob worries we might have upset you. Are you alright?”

  “Perfectly,” I said coolly.

  “Oh, good, good— I suspected he was overthinking it. There’s nothing at all wrong with you darling, you know that, right?” Ms. Everett said, edging into the bathroom. The door swung shut behind her, and the mix of Ms. Everett’s perfume with those essential oils smelled deadly.

  “Oh, I know I have as many faults as anyone,” I said cheerfully. “Half the battle, though, is being aware that you’ve got them, isn’t it?”

  Ms. Everett lifted her eyebrows. “Of course! Right. And we aren’t saying we wish he were with Jenna instead of you, sweetheart. We just know Jenna better, that’s all. She’s someone who understands how focused Jacob needs to be, in order to really achieve his full potential.”

  I didn’t respond, but didn’t look down— didn’t even blink. It threw Ms. Everett off a bit; she rubbed her lips together, then seemed to have a sudden urge to freshen up her lipstick. She turned to the mirror and withdrew a gold tube, twisting it open as she went on. “We’re happy he’s enjoying his time in college, really, we are. We just want to make sure that nothing distracts him from his long term goals.”

  “Are you worried I might be distracting him, Ms. Everett?” I asked.

  She looked appalled at the suggestion. “Why, I wouldn’t know, honestly. But his reputation, and his skill, and his future…they’re quite a bit to handle, aren’t they? I can understand why it might be tempting to pull him away from all that, especially when an injury is keeping him from being his authentic self.”

  “You think I don’t know the real Jacob?” I asked.

  Ms. Everett applied the lipstick, then smiled at me in the mirror. “Well, honey, who can say? I suppose my point is just this: At some point, he’ll return to playing. When that happens, I hope you’ll let him return to the life he built for himself long before you entered the picture.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I understand.”

  “Good,” Ms. Everett said, smiling harder. “I think you really are a lovely girl, Sasha. But I become something of a mama bear with my boy!” She laughed.

  “Of course,” I said. I reached for the door. “But don’t worry about Jacob. He can protect himself from all sorts of bad influences.”

  Ms. Everett smiled again, but there was something cold in it. “Well. Good.”

  16

  “You know, Jacob, I’m beginning to think you’re brainwashing me,” I said that evening, staring out the window of Jacob’s apartment. The thud of bass from one of the other player’s rooms rattled everything on his bathroom counter, and I could see the spotlights of the various nightclubs swooping through the sky. It was dark in here though— Jacob felt the overhead lights caused him to sleep poorly, and they were rarely turned on, even if it meant leaving the room shrouded in shadow.

  “Why’s that?” Jacob asked from behind me He was leaning against the little kitchenette’s counter, watching me.

  “Because when I got to Harton, I didn’t give a damn about football, but now I’m looking at the stadium and it’s sort of…beautiful,” I said, motioning out the window. A handful of the stadium’s lights were on tonight so the flawlessly manicured grass could be tended to. The grounds crew walked back and forth across the field, each person a tiny speck in the stadium. Seeing so few people on the field made the space look overwhelmingly large, the huge walls of bleachers like green and gold mount
ainsides, the few lights turned on like suns on concrete horizons.

  Jacob walked toward the window and stood beside me, watching the grounds crew work. He was silent for a moment, then said, “Playing on it feels like that. I mean, there’s that huge crowd and everyone’s screaming and there’s all those fucking vuvuzelas that people bring, but you don’t really hear any of it when you’re on the field. It’s weirdly silent in-between plays, right before the snap, and then it’s just crashing. Helmets and people and pads and then a whistle blows and it goes quiet again.”

  “You really can’t hear any of the fans?” I asked.

  “Nah. They’re more like white noise,” Jacob said, still staring at the grounds crew. They were marking off the design that would be painted in the center of the field for the homecoming game that weekend; the Ram was slowly coming to life as they sprayed its outline in white.

  “What’s the point then?” I asked. I turned to Jacob, an eyebrow lifted. “All the screaming and face painting and whatnot? What’s the point?”

  Jacob laughed. “Have you never been to a football game?”

  I blinked.

  “Oh my god. You’ve never been to a football game. Ever?”

  “Our high school team lost all the time. No one went to their games,” I said.

  Jacob shook his head in disbelief. “Thank god you didn’t tell my parents that.”

  “Ha. Your parents had plenty against me anyhow,” I said quietly.

  Jacob gave a sympathetic smile. “Well, you’ll come to the Clemson game, right? When I’m back on the field? Or are you going to sell the tickets again?”

  I smiled. “I might. Playing hard to get worked out well for me last time.”

  “You weren’t playing anything. You just were hard to get,” Jacob said, and reached down, putting his arms around my waist. I felt small between his arms, small like the people in the stadium looked, and it felt equally as beautiful to be so.

  “Not anymore,” I said wryly. Jacob looked down at me, then reached for the hem of my dress. I lifted my arms over my head so he could lift it off me. He did so, then tossed it aside, holding my eyes hostage in his all the while. The stadium lights licked at my skin, illuminating my right side and leaving my left in shadow. There was something incredibly pleasing about being lit by the same lights that almost sixty thousand people would be cheering under soon.