by Shandi Boyes
I’ll be honest, after our outrageously-fucking-fantastic (still one word) fuck on Elvis’s now buckled dining table, I thought things were going to get awkward very quickly. I cried. I’m not talking a few little tears I could blame on a lash in my eye. I’m talking cry me a river, I just watched My Girl for the hundredth time cry. It wasn’t pretty. Not in the slightest. But do you know what? Elvis handled it like a pro. He just held me, then when I stopped slobbering over him like a kid eyeing the latest electronic game, he wiped away my tears and proceeded to cook us dinner.
No, I’m not joking.
He knew I didn’t want to break down in front of him just as much as I believed my dad was coming back the night he perished. It took a crumbled house, seven firefighters, and a social worker ripping a pair of ballet shoes I had grabbed in haste out of my hands before I realized what was happening all those years ago. If it weren’t for the social worker trying to remove the last piece of my parents I had, I would have never left the footpath.
I haven’t been back to Melbourne since that night. I was shipped to Bundaberg, Queensland to live with my Aunt, grew an unhealthy obsession with dance, then the instant I was old enough, I moved to another country to pursue my dreams.
I didn’t realize how far I had strayed from my dreams until last night. It wasn’t the smiles on my students’ faces when they performed at the recital causing my turmoil. It was Elvis’s face when I danced for him. Last night was the first time I’ve danced for pleasure in a very long time. The moves came from inside of me, from a place I didn’t think I’d ever have relit again. I was dancing purely because I loved it, and not for what it could give me.
That’s why as much as Elvis’s invitation is tempting, I can’t accept it. With me finally gaining a work placement, and Elvis’s schedule keeping him on this side of the country the next six weeks, this afternoon is my last chance to enter and prepare for a competition I’ve been eyeing the past four months. Every time I was about to sign up, I convinced myself not to be stupid, that I am only a dance instructor, not a dancer. Last night proved I was wrong. I am a dancer before anything; my passion was just a little misguided the past two years. But it’s back now, stronger than ever.
I stop curling out of Elvis’s flashy ride halfway when he says, “Hey, Willow?”
My chances of peeling out of his car uninjured are cut in half when I peer at him over my shoulder. My god, he’s gorgeous. He’s got the casual, I’m made of money, but I won’t flash it in your face look going on. Designer jeans, nicely fitted shirt, recently showered hair, and a smirk that reveals he is the devil his eyes portray.
“One, can you wait for me to come to a full stop before exiting my car? You’re giving me a complex.” His smile doesn’t convey that. He loves my eagerness, as I’m reasonably sure he knows what it centers around. “Two, you’re never to leave my side without your lips first touching mine.” I grin when he taps his puckered lips.
“And three?” I murmur over his mouth after kissing him with much more feeling than a newly formed relationship should have.
He doesn’t seem bothered. He lashes my kiss-swollen lips with his tongue, enhancing their wetness before muttering, “Take it easy on your knee.” I pull a face like a child being reprimanded by a parent. “If your kneecap pops out under the strain, you’ll spend the next six weeks on the sidelines in crutches. Which would you prefer? Crutches or slowly easing back into competitive dancing?”
I hide my excitement that he already knows me so well. “I’d prefer neither.”
“And I’d rather have your backside heating my couch instead of Danny’s, but we all have to make sacrifices.”
I kiss him some more. “Don’t act upset. Danny could have arrived twenty minutes earlier, thus not only ruining your breakfast, but he would have also seen my kitty.”
I giggle against his mouth when he replies, “He would have died, and not just by my fists. He’s a platinum gay. He’s never been with a woman.” He runs his hand down my heated cheeks, doubling the energy teeming between us. “But I’m sure one look at your pretty pink pussy would have had him jumping the fence.”
After rolling my eyes, I kiss him some more. His compliment was delivered in a roundabout way, but at the end of the day, it was still a compliment.
Once I’m confident he’s been thoroughly farewelled, I slip out of his car and head toward my dorm. I make it three steps before he calls my name. I already have my playlists rolling through my head, prepared for the bump and grind routine he has requested every time we’ve seen each other or FaceTimed the past three weeks, so you can imagine my surprise when he simply asks, “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Don’t you have that thingy tomorrow?” “Thingy” is code for the numerous business meetings he attends at all times of the morning, day, and night.
“I’ll have that all wrapped up by four.”
He flashes me a flirty grin before jerking up his chin. There’s the request I was waiting for.
Acting like one of the many Neanderthals at my school, I bob across the concrete, dancing to my own tune. . . and perhaps the fire burning in Elvis’s eyes.
“IT’S A KNEE BRACE.” My voice clearly relays what I think about Dr. Peter and his request for me to remove the flesh-colored brace supporting my knee. “It’s barely visible, but even if it were, I don’t see the issue.”
Dr. Peter’s eyes stray from the road to me. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of his car, my assurance that I can drive myself to my workplace not confident enough to save me from a highly embarrassing situation. “This institution is extremely important to the athletic department at our university. With this being the first time a student has been granted a placement at this establishment, I want to ensure you don’t mess it up.”
“And a knee brace could be the possible cause of that?” When Dr. Peter nods, I screech, “How?!”
“The people you’re being entrusted with are gifted athletes. Their bodies aren’t like mine and yours. They’re conditioned to perform, to succeed, to have people like us marvel over them. You’re wearing a knee brace, which not only insinuates you don’t take care of yourself, but it means you’re not at the same level of fitness as the people you’re preaching peak physical fitness to. Some may say that makes you a hypocrite.”
Although our conversation started in regards to my knee brace, Dr. Peter’s glance down my body shifted our conversation. He’s not staring at my knee brace; his focus is locked on the bulge that will take months of dance classes to budge.
“I eat healthy—”
“I’m not saying you don’t, Willow,” Dr. Peter interrupts, “but this is about showing balance. Ensuring the output exceeds the intake. That you know the correct nutrition for your body type and size. You are a representation of my skills in sports management and nutrition.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s giving himself a big fat F for failure.
“I want you to not only represent yourself during your internship, but I want you to represent our university as a whole.”
“A whole bunch of assholes.”
If we weren’t entering the parking lot of a place I despise more than appreciate, I would have said my comment louder. Unfortunately, my lungs are too busy amassing air to force it out in anger.
“You got me an internship with a football team?” I don’t sound impressed because I am far from it. “I requested over two dozen placements; the 69ers were never listed on any of my forms.”
“Don’t worry, I was just as surprised by their call as you. “ He still sounds shocked, like all his Christmases have come at once. “I’m just grateful they granted my request to supervise your placement here. I’ve been looking for an in for years.”
“Great, so you’re using me to unleash your fantasy? I’d rather have you picturing my tits while you wank in the shower than be subjected to this.”
Dr. Peter’s eyes pop up from his wallet to me. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I
lie with a shrug. “I didn’t say anything.”
Can you smack a professor without punishment? I’m asking for a friend.
No? Well, you suck.
I remember how far I am down the totem pole of wealth when the guard hands back Dr. Peter’s license before directing him to park in the employee side of the parking lot. There are pricy rides stretching as far as the eye can see, and I doubt one of them is under a quarter of a million dollars to buy.
“Nope. Not happening.” I fire Dr. Peter a stern finger point when his spit-loaded hand comes within an inch of my face. I don’t care if I have vegemite smeared from one ear to the next, he is not licking and spitting my face clean. “They’re antibacterial wipes. Look them up sometime.” After snagging a wet napkin from the packet in my purse, I fling the packet into Dr. Peter’s chest.
I scrub my face like I’m scrubbing off any possibility of this nightmare being true. It does me no good. Even with my cheeks raw and my face sparkling, we’re still sitting in the 69ers’ parking lot.
Goddammit!
Like a child being guided to the principal’s office after placing tacks on their teacher’s chair, I follow Dr. Peter through the underbelly of the 69ers stadium. It’s not as bad as I was anticipating. The adrenaline-laced sweat I expected is in abundance, but the rowdy players, half-naked cheerleaders, and the walls lined with photos of toothless, muscle-bulked players are missing.
Oops. Nope. Here they are. I jumped off the blocks too early. The cheerleaders might be clothed, but their outfits don’t cover much of their teeny tiny how the hell is it possible to be so small? bodies. And although the pictures lining the walls are most definitely filled with Hulk-inspired men, most also have their teeth.
I store each name and face into my memory bank for future use. Skylar will shit her pants when she finds out where I’m “working” the next six weeks—if I tell her. I don’t want to lie, but imagine the whining that will come with my confession? She’ll demand I accept her as a volunteer in a job I’m not getting paid at. If that doesn’t work, I have no doubt she’ll rig every button in my clothes with hidden cameras. She wouldn’t leave my side for the entire six weeks. That could be both a catastrophe or a godsend.
I lose the chance to work out which when someone calls my name. We stop down the wall of photos approximately four-fifths of the way, meaning I miss the last six faces. I guess it’s lucky I have a whole six weeks to memorize them. Six. Whole. God. Damn. Weeks.
“Coach James, this is Willow Underwood.”
That silly feeling I get in my belly every time my cell lights up with a message from Elvis tap-dances through my stomach when the man I’m being introduced to sinks himself deeper into his leather chair before dragging his eyes down my body. His prolonged gawk isn’t overly bothersome; it’s the way Dr. Peter introduced him. You’d swear I was sitting across from Barack Obama. Man—that would be cool.
“My friends call me Will. It’s nice to meet you.”
I thrust my hand over Coach James’s desk in greeting. He doesn’t accept my gesture. Instead, he nudges his head to a chair across from him, demanding for me to sit. I do, albeit wonkily. He’s got the stern, do you think I give a fuck you’re only a girl look down pat, and it has more than my heart rate quickening. I’ve got a sweaty mustache as well.
“It says here that your internship is for six weeks; is that correct?”
“Yes. . . if that’s what you want? I don’t mind either way.” Dr. Peter’s cough reminds me that without this placement, I’ll be without the credits needed to pass this semester. “Yes. Six weeks. Not a day more, or a day less.” I flash Coach James a grin that reveals my cheekiness. “Unless that’s what you want?”
He doesn’t appear to appreciate my humor. “You’ll work with Amara. She’s stern, but it appears as if you need a tight lead.”
Ah, there it is. I saw the glimmer in his eyes he tried to stuff halfway through his sentence. He might not be Mary Poppins, but he’s got a funny bone hiding in there somewhere.
“Amara will supply you with a uniform. You are to wear it every day. If it doesn’t fit, we can arrange to have it altered.” I’m about to snicker under my breath about him being an asshole when his next sentence snuffs my anger to a point of no return. “The seamstress the team uses is great at taking in dresses. Fixing ruined jerseys. . . not so much.”
I fold my hands over each other in my lap, feeling better about our arrangement already. “Okay. Thank you.”
Several painstakingly long seconds pass without a word being uttered. I can tell Dr. Peter is dying for the chance to speak; he’s squirming like a kid busting to use the bathroom, but his jaw is hanging too close to the ground to produce speech.
When the silence becomes too much to bear, I ask, “Anything else?”
Coach James flexes his fingertips together as he silently contemplates. After what feels like a lifetime, he murmurs, “My job here at 69ers camp isn’t just to have the best performance stats and highest win ratio in the country; I’m also here to protect my boys.” He stands from his seat, walks around his messy table, then plants his backside a mere inch from my shoulder. “In saying that, I think it’s important we establish a non-fraternization policy during your stay here. It’s nothing against you; I just want to protect both yourself, your university, and my players from any unnecessary heartache.”
“That’s perfect; I think that is a fabulous idea.”
“You do?” Coach James’s voice is as high as mine. Shock is evident all over his face.
“Yes!” I jump up from my seat, more than ready to start my placement. “This is a place of business, not a frat house, so I have no qualms whatsoever about following your rules.”
“That’s very mature of you, Willow.” Dr. Peter’s praise isn’t needed, but I’m glad to be on his good side—for once.
ONCE WE HAVE ALL the insurance forms filled out and a brand-spanking new non-fraternization policy signed, Coach James takes me to meet Amara. With her cubicle at the back of the locker rooms the 69er players are in the process of filling up, we take a shortcut down the corridor of photos. I don’t mind. It gives me the opportunity to take in the photos I missed earlier, including one I couldn’t miss even if I tried.
Presley “Elvis” Carlton
You son of a bitch!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Presley
“G reat practice. We need to hit up a few plays Chester designed tomorrow, and you need to practice on your reach.” Coach James points to Mitch. “But other than that, we’re good to go.” He claps twice, signaling the end of our four-hour training session.
Thank fuck. I’m exhausted and have kinks in places I didn’t know could kink. Not all of them are from practice, though. I’m in a whole lot of pain for an entirely worthwhile reason.
Willow.
Willow.
Willow.
No other words needed. . . except perhaps these five: it’s time for a massage.
My sluggish steps into Amara’s dungeon of torture slow when the flash of a murderous pair of blue eyes stops me in my tracks. Willow’s backside is propped on the massage table Amara usually tortures me on. She has her arms folded under her chest, and she’s chewing gum like she’s crushing my nuts with every bite she takes.
I play it cool, acting like I haven’t just been busted for being a lying piece of shit. “Hey, Will, whatcha doing. . .?”
My question is cut short from her pegging a rolled-up towel at my head. She doesn’t stop when her hit has perfect aim; she continues pegging towels at me until Amara’s usually overstocked shelf is depleted of stock other than heated bottles of massage oil.
“Jesus Christ.” I duck, barely missing being smacked in the head by a missile filled with gel-like liquid. “Calm the fuck down and give me a chance to speak.”
Willow freezes with a second bottle midair. “Oh, you want to speak?”
When I nod, she squeals, “Like you didn’t have plenty of opportunities the past thr
ee weeks!”
She releases the bottle from her hand, not without first giving it a good flick for mileage. It hits me in the chest, adding to the burn stretching across my pecs. It’s a muscle burn, just not one I used at training today. It’s compliments of the hurt look in Willow’s eyes. She’s mad I deceived her, but not as angry as she is at herself for opening up to me. I understand her pain. I wanted so bad to fess up yesterday, but every time the opportunity presented, my head pulled rank over my heart.
That’s not happening today. She’s hurting too much for my head not to hear the pleas of my heart. “I was planning to tell you—”
She glares at me with pained eyes. “When, Elvis? When I worked it out for myself? Or via a text message after you fucked me then dropped me home?”
“Hey, that’s not fair.” I step into her path, blocking her only exit with my body. “I wanted you to stay last night; you’re the one who wanted to leave.”
“Only because you felt sorry for me.” She slaps my chest, seemingly more angry at herself than me. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? I tell you I’m an orphan, so you give me an afternoon pity fuck session before pulling strings so I get an internship with a team most sport therapists would cream their pants to get.”
I feel my anger festering. It’s bubbling in my gut, begging to be released, but I keep a cool head, understanding she has every right to be angry.
“For one, I didn’t arrange this. If I did, why would I walk into battle without adequate protection? I’m not a fucking idiot. If I knew you were going to be here, I would have entered in full defensive getup.”
There it is, the smile I’ve dreamed about more than I’ve seen in person. It’s only half her usual smile, but it’s better than the vicious snarl I was getting only seconds ago.
“Two, when did you get the call about this placement? Was it before or after you sucked my dick with more power than the world’s most expensive vacuum?”