Just Playin': Romantic Sports Comedy

by Shandi Boyes

They’re not even real fucking commercials! They’re going to be shown on those TV shows that pry people’s hard-earned money from their grasps at 3 AM when they’re as high as a kite or wanting their lives to end prematurely. Then, after embarrassing myself on national TV, I have to wear their company logo on a cap, shirt, and pants during the live broadcast before the preliminary final.

  That’s their money-maker. Advertising firms pay upwards of five point one million dollars for a thirty-second slot during breaks during the final game, but they’ll get my ass sitting in a chair for thirty minutes at the greatly discounted rate of ten million dollars only a week before.

  I got short-changed—in more ways than one.

  Hoping to get things wrapped up quickly, I’ve been working my ass off from sunup to sundown the past two days. I figured the quicker I got this part of my career over, the faster I could return to my post-Lillian life.

  If I still have one after what Willow saw.

  What Willow witnessed earlier today wasn’t as it seemed. Lillian and I were rehearsing a scene the advertising executives want filmed tonight before I spend the next three weeks on the road for away games. Since Delilah had a prior arrangement, she wanted to check our placements to ensure we understood her “vision.” She stepped out to take a call a mere minute before Willow arrived.

  The look Willow gave me just before she entered the locker room was exactly how my insides were feeling. Every time Lillian touched me, I honestly felt ill. That’s why I’ve been such an asshole the past two days. My temptation to drink is at its highest; I’ve not had a single minute to speak to Willow, and my opponents seem to have telepathic powers to read my subliminal thoughts. Tonight, they knew every move before I even decided which one to make.

  Stopping by my locker, I run a towel over my sweat-drenched head before heading for Willow’s cubicle. I’m not a fan of rubdowns after a match, especially not from Willow, but with my shoulder still aching like a bitch, I’m willing to face the embarrassment if she gives me a boner. Furthermore, any excuse to have her hands on me is the right excuse.

  I halt midstride when Danny unexpectedly steps in front of me. I really wish he’d stop doing that.

  “Amara is waiting for you upstairs.” His tone is clipped and firm, nothing like I’ve heard it before.

  “Thanks, but I’m good.”

  When I sidestep him, he darts back into my path. I’d shove him out of my way, but with my right arm needed to hold together my left arm, I’m not willing to risk it.

  “What’s going on with you today? You’re not yourself.”

  Air rushes out of Danny’s nose in a hurry as the sternness on his face grows. “I could ask you the same thing.” He holds nothing back when he slaps me across the chest. “When I find out what you did to make her leave, I’m going to. . .to. . .” His nostrils flare as he struggles to think of a threat worthy of his anger. He finds one two seconds later: “Release the images of you dancing with me at Mardi Gras to the media!”

  “So? I was there as your support person, and I wasn’t the only celebrity there.” I quit arguing when the entirety of his reply smacks into me. “My pissy attitude worked? Lillian got the hint we’re never getting back together?”

  “What? No! I’m talking about Willow. Coach James asked me to drive her home after she left here in near tears.”

  My brows furrow, certain I heard him wrong. It’s only after the movie of my night rolls to our exchange after she popped my shoulder back in does the truth smack into me.

  Fuck!

  I snatch my gym bag out of my locker before hightailing it out of the room. My heart is thumping as hard as my cleat-covered feet.

  “You have that final scene to shoot tonight.”

  Danny’s confession doesn’t slow me down in the slightest. “This is more important.”

  It could be my raging heart wreaking havoc with my hearing, but I swear I hear someone shout, “Damn straight, it is!” seconds before I break into a sprint down the hall.

  The fans I scared earlier part like a river when I race toward them, but one isn’t as eager to get out of my way. The fear on Lillian’s face when I continue charging for her standing firm halfway down the corridor increases my speed. I’d never hurt a woman, but I have no issues showing them how good my skills are.

  Blonde hair whips up around Lillian’s face when I sidestep her with the skill that led to me being drafted as the number one pick out of college. I’ve slipped into the seat of my car and torn out of the parking lot before the shocked expression on her face can subside. A man of my size shouldn’t be able to move with such agility, but you’ll be surprised how lithe someone can be when their movements are being commanded by their heart instead of their head.

  I pull into an empty space at the front of Willow’s dorm twenty minutes later. Not wanting to look like a complete moron, I swap out my cleats for a pair of running shoes and my jersey for a plain T. My pants will have to do.

  The hard close of my door gains me numerous sets of eyes, but with the locals as pissed about my performance tonight as I am, none approach me. Good, because I don’t want any witnesses for the groveling I’m about to do. I didn’t mean the words I shouted earlier. I was frustrated and tired, but instead of taking my frustration out on the person responsible for it, I lashed out at the only one available.

  While running my sweat-slicked hands down my pants, I climb the stairs two at a time. I’ve never been inside Willow’s dorm, but I know which room is hers. I doubt she shakes her ass in any random’s room.

  The whiteboard hanging on her door rattles when I bang my hand on it. I hear a commotion like feet scuffling before a loud shriek. “I can’t believe he found me!”

  Before my brain can decipher that the voice was missing Willow’s Australian twang, the door flings open. A pretty blonde with big blue eyes and a face full of 69er fan paint stands just inside the room. Her skin-tight 69er jersey and the number on her cheek is recognizable, as is her face. She’s Willow’s friend, the blonde who excited the fans alongside Willow when I let Lillian play with my emotions as much as she has the past two days.

  The blonde bats her lashes at me as her tongue delves out to moisturize her top lip. “What can I do you for, Mr. Presley Carlton?”

  “I’m looking for Willow. Is she here?”

  Her throat works hard to swallow, her face shocked. “Willow?”

  Shit, maybe I didn’t get the right room.

  I step back to gather my bearings. There’s another door a few feet up, but half of Willow’s building is covered by the thick shrubbery Mickey’s planted as an environmentally friendly fence, so this has to be her room.

  I return my eyes to the blonde. “Yeah, Willow Underwood. She’s around this tall. “ I hold my hand up to my nipples. “Has light blue eyes, crazy curls. She’s real pretty.”

  “I know who she is; I’m just wondering why you’re looking for her.” The blonde sounds more annoyed than she was seconds ago.

  “She’s my girlfriend.” I hope.

  My ears ring when she squeals, “Your girlfriend?! Willow Underwood is your girlfriend?! For how long?”

  Before I can answer, the blonde is pulled away from the door by her shoulder, and Willow takes her place. Her eyes aren’t red and puffy like Lillian’s got every single time she cried, but her cheeks are white, and her nostrils are red like she’s holding back the urge.

  I want to break straight into a grovel but her friend’s eager eye has me playing it cool. “Hey—”

  “What do you want, Elvis?”

  Her friend shoves her hand under her arms and huffs. I’m not as quick to judge Willow’s snapped tone because I know what I said to her, and I’m man enough to admit it. “I made a mistake—”

  My apology is cut short when she interrupts for the second time, “Yeah, you did.”

  She blinks excessively when I fill the gap between us. “But not in the way you’re thinking. Nothing happened between Lillian and me. I’m not intereste
d in her like that.”

  Willow takes a page out of her friend’s book by crossing her arms in front of her chest and huffing. She doesn’t need words to call me out as a liar. She’s happy for her actions to speak on her behalf. She thinks I’m being dishonest with my disclosure that I have no interest in Lillian whatsoever.

  “Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

  She contemplates for barely a second before dragging her hand down her body. “Because I’m this. . .” She thrusts her hand at me before doing the same gesture she did to her body. “And you’re that.”

  I feel anger rising from my gut to my cheeks. “That fire in your eyes better be there because of what I stupidly said in a moment of anger, but if it isn’t, and it’s what I think you’re trying to say, you better step the fuck back and take a goddamn hard look at yourself.”

  I can tell my words hit her like a ton of bricks, but she plays it cool, acting as if the last three months haven’t transformed us from strangers to something much more fucking complicated.

  “Do you want to know why I have no interest in Lillian?” Although I’m asking a question, I continue talking as if I didn’t. “Because she’s not you. She’s not a girl who’ll shake her ass like no one’s watching, or who is clueless about the number of admirers she gets when she enters the room. Everything I wished she could have been, you are. That’s why I have no interest in her. That’s why what you thought you saw isn’t close to what it actually was. And that’s why I’m going to step back and let you work this out for yourself. Because if you haven’t already figured out why I’ll always choose you, maybe I was wrong, and maybe we aren’t right for one another.”

  As hard as it is for me to do, I walk away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Willow

  I watch Elvis’s retreating frame with my heart in my stomach and tears in my eyes. I want to go after him. I want to pretend the words he yelled at me were just his way of dispelling built-up anger, but something stops me. No matter how much my heart commands my feet to move, my head shuts it down. I’m not in the wrong here, so I’m not the one who should be groveling.

  With that in mind, I close the door as tightly as I plan to lock down my heart. Resting my head on the door, I suck in several deep breaths, only spinning when the heat of Skylar’s gaze becomes too much for me to bear. Her eyes have narrowed into thin slits and her hands are on her hips. She looks as upset and as angry as me.

  “How long?”

  “I wanted to tell you—”

  “How long?!”

  Her voice is so loud, it rattles the first tear from my eye. This is the exact reason I didn’t want to tell her. I knew she’d be upset. She’s so infatuated with Elvis, she could sense his presence through the door. He didn’t even speak, yet she knew it was him by the way he knocked. Like, what the hell? So how wrong would it have been for me to shatter her dreams over something I didn’t even have a grasp on?

  I have feelings for Elvis—way more than I care to admit—but we’re on opposite ends of the spectrum. He’s moody, handsome, and successful. I’m eccentric, average, and poor. We’d never work out in the long run. I guess that’s why I stopped myself from chasing after him. This day would have eventually come, so why not get it out of the way before words are spoken that I can never take back?

  Furthermore, his comment about my dancing career cut through me like a knife. His words utterly gutted me. I grew obsessed with dance after my parents died because when I twirled really, really fast, I swore I could hear my mom’s giggles in the wind wafting into my ears. So for Elvis to treat it like it’s worthless truly devastated me. If it weren’t for ballet, I wouldn’t be half the person I am today.

  I’m snapped from my thoughts when Skylar storms across the room. Unappreciative of my delay in answering, she throws the doors of our shared closet open. My brain scrambles for a response when she yanks down her overnight bag to pack.

  “It didn’t mean anything. It was just a bit of fun.” Even if Skylar weren’t my best friend, she’d still hear the dishonesty in my tone. “I wanted to tell you. I toyed with the idea for weeks, but this, right here, is what stopped me. I didn’t want to hurt you, Sky.”

  My use of her nickname doesn’t weaken her frustration in the slightest. “Weeks? So it’s been weeks?”

  Having no plausible defense, I nod.

  “Jesus Christ, Willow. I thought we were sisters?”

  “We are,” I defend myself, stepping closer to her.

  I lose any ground I gain when she locks her eyes with mine and sneers, “Family don’t lie to each other.”

  Her reply pains my heart, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “This isn’t about me lying. This is about me finally getting something you wanted. Why can’t you be happy for me? For years, I’ve cheered you on from the sidelines.”

  “This is different, Willow, I didn’t place you on the sidelines. You put yourself there with that stupid ‘oh pity me’ excuse you just gave him.” She slings her arm to our dorm door. “You think your bubbly personality hides your insecurities, but guess what, it doesn’t! You’re just as insecure and self-doubting as the rest of us, but up until ten minutes ago, you did a better job of hiding it.”

  I don’t have a reply. Not one. She’s right. I didn’t have a personality before my knee replacement, much less the eccentric I love life one I have now.

  When Skylar moves to her bed to gather her electronic devices, I trace her steps. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sky. That was never my intention. I love you like the sister I never had. Look, I’ll prove it.”

  Her hand freezes halfway to her cell when I hand her the playoff finals tickets Elvis gifted me before he realized our clash in schedules.

  “I don’t want stupid tickets, Will. I want my best friend back, the one who’d never lie to me like this.” Her quivering words reveal she’s mad, but also hurting.

  Her hurt is amplified when she snatches the tickets out of my grasp and dumps them into the bin. After swiping her hands across her cheeks, she locks her moisture-filled eyes with mine. “I think we need some distance. I can’t think straight with you right there.” She thrusts her hand my way.

  “Okay. How long?” I adored solitude until a little firecracker with blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes stormed into my life. Now I’ll do anything not to be alone with my thoughts.

  Skylar shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe a few days, possibly a few weeks.”

  “Weeks?” I pace closer to her, my eyes begging. “Not weeks. I can’t do weeks without you, Sky.”

  She squeezes my hand, her words not malicious when she says, “You should have thought about that before lying to me. I’ll always love you, Will, but I don’t have to like you right now.”

  AS YOU CAN IMAGINE, the next two weeks are an extremely lonely time for me. Skylar is so mad, even with our RA rooming her with Michelle Lester, she’s maintained her distance. No one wants to bunk with Michelle because everyone over the age of six knows it’s gross to pick your nose, roll your boogers then fling them across the room—everyone but Michelle.

  Add Skylar’s distance to the dismal losses her beloved 69ers team has endured the past two weeks, and you’ve got the ultimate recipe for disaster. I’m hating life so much at the moment, dread fills me instead of happiness when I strap on my shoes.

  Some of my anguish could be fixed by answering one of my heart’s many pleas to make contact with Elvis, but with my inbox as empty as my heart, I’ve yet to give in. I want to call him—more to tell him to pull his head out of his ass than anything—but I won’t. I’m not stubborn. I’m too jealous to throw tenacity into the mix—and perhaps a little bit insecure.

  Elvis’s claim that what I saw two weeks ago wasn’t true was proven accurate early one morning nine days ago. While bunkered down with a hot water bottle and a bucket of cookies and cream ice cream, an infomercial interrupted the black and white movie I was watching. I nearly lost my cookies when Elvis and Lillian pranced acros
s the screen. The only reason I held them down was when I watched Lillian’s finger trace the exact vein she did in the storage closet days earlier.

  I was so relieved, I snatched up my cell in an instant to call Elvis. I didn’t care that it was 3 AM. I had made a mistake, and I was woman enough to admit it.

  Just before I hit the connect button, the product Elvis was endorsing flashed up on the screen while he murmured, “Be the best you can be by being the slimmest you can be.”

  A man without an ounce of fat on his entire body was selling a weight-loss supplement. It was stupid of me to do, and even now I’m angry at myself for doing it, but I pulled off the blanket around my shoulders and stood to my feet, then padded to the full-length mirror in my room. Like all paranoid girls do when they stare at themselves in the mirror, I pinched the roll in the middle of my stomach and shook it before spinning around to assess the love handles I thought Elvis loved gripping. I wiggled my ass and watched it wobble before flapping my arms like a chicken. I loathed everything I saw, but even more than that, I hated that Elvis’s commercial made me feel that way.

  So, as you can tell from my confession, my confidence isn’t just the lowest it’s ever been, it’s basically non-existent. If it weren’t for my upcoming recital, I doubt I’d leave my room. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m just too hurt to work through the confusion clouding me.

  The cloud thickens when I enter the dance studio in preparation for an all-night practice session. Francesca’s ballet class is thankfully void of a crying child being excluded from the activities, but its partially cracked open door can’t hide the travesty occurring inside.

  Not thinking, I throw open the door and enter Francesca’s domain when she’s in the middle of a pirouette. “It’s my choreography! I created it.”

  She lands her twirl with perfection before twisting her neck to face me. “Any routine performed in public is fair game.” She counts herself back into the beat.

  I’m not as willing to let things slide. “I’ve never performed my routine in public!”