I Hate You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Coach Sanders, one of the wide receiver coaches, enters, and I hit the stop button on the treadmill.

  I grab a towel and dry the sweat off my face. I’m out of breath but manage to call out. “Coach, you got a second?”

  He looks back and pretends like he didn’t notice me when I’m the only one working out. Not a good sign.

  “Uh, sure. Let’s hit my office.”

  A big man in his early thirties with dark clipped hair and kind eyes, he’s one of the youngest, sharpest coaches in college football and the main reason I signed with Waylon. I still remember the night he came to my high school game and met me afterward then took me to dinner at a fancy steakhouse one town over from Alma, Mississippi. The waiter pulled out my chair, and when he draped the napkin over my lap, I barely kept myself from jumping up and punching him in the face. I legit thought he was trying to touch my cock. So dumb. Even the utensils on the table stumped me. I ended up just watching Coach to see which one he picked up. I mean, how many forks does a person need to eat? Apparently three. I’ve beefed up my knowledge these days to know that forks go on the left and the smaller one is used for salad. On the right—this is where it gets tricky—is the knife, the salad knife, the regular spoon, the soup soon, then a tiny little oyster fork. At the top of the plate is a dessert spoon and another freaking fork. I get overload just picturing it.

  Coach gestures toward his office down the hall.

  I follow him inside, anxiousness sitting heavy in my gut. I shut the door behind me and sit down in a chair in front of his desk. Clasping my hands in my lap, I try to feign nonchalance, but he has to know why I’m here.

  “Have you heard anything about the Combine? Am I invited to Indianapolis?”

  The Combine is a huge opportunity. It gives the NFL scouts a chance to look over the top college players and figure out how they compare, see if they want them on their team. It’s crucial if you want to be drafted. Ryker, Maverick, and Archer have all been invited. I haven’t. Dillon hasn’t, but he’s not ready to graduate like I am. He still wants to finish up another year at Waylon and rack up stats.

  “No word yet, son,” he says as he shuffles some papers, not making eye contact with me. “Even if you don’t get the invite to Indianapolis, you’ll have a shot here at our Pro Day workout.”

  Yeah, but hardly anyone important comes to Pro Day. It’s mostly for the fans.

  Swallowing down disappointment, I sit for a second, not sure how to react. My hands clench. I felt sure I’d get invited after how well I played late in the year. Inside, I start to panic, but I battle it down when I see Coach is staring at me with worried eyes. How many times has he had to have this conversation with players? It’s a rare man who makes it to the NFL.

  He must read my face.

  “Don’t lose hope, Blaze. They haven’t finalized the list. My advice? You need to focus on training hard. Do you understand?”

  My hands tighten around the armrests on the chair. “No one comes to Pro Day.”

  He lifts his hands. “It’s all you have, son. Take what you get.”

  Fine. It’s like that. I give him a sharp nod. “I’ll be flying around the gym like Superman, sir. I’ll be a Blaze blur every day, all day.”

  “Good. You always are, but level up for me.” He gives me a concerned look. “You need that degree too. You need a fallback.”

  My body tenses. “Right.”

  “What’s your major?”

  I’ve been staring at the floor. I look up at him. “History, sir. If the NFL doesn’t work out, I want to teach high school and coach.”

  He nods and gives me a small smile. “I did the same thing. I was planning on being a PE teacher until I got a college coaching position. You’d be a fine teacher, Blaze. You’ve got an outgoing personality kids would gravitate to. Fine choice.”

  “I failed a couple of classes last semester. I’m not the best student.” I try. I really do.

  He frowns, maybe because he knows how much I struggle academically. “I get it. You’re a star here, and it’s a fine line balancing athletics and classes. You know the drill: get a tutor, study, lay off the alcohol.”

  “Doing that already,” I say. “I’m dedicated, Coach. Any team would be lucky to have me.”

  “I know, but we’ve got to get them to notice you first.”

  My lips flatten. “If a national championship doesn’t get their attention, what will?”

  He frowns and scratches his jaw. “I don’t know. Truthfully, I thought you’d be talked about more.”

  Ah, shit, so I wasn’t wrong. For some reason, they just don’t want me. My shoulders deflate as all that anger whooshes out.

  I’m not good enough.

  Never have been.

  Just the product of two meth heads from a nowhere place in Mississippi.

  He toys with a pen. “Let’s not dwell on that. Put the media behind you, get out of here, and get back on that treadmill. I need you in tiptop shape, you feel me?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m ready for it.” I stand, my legs heavy and tired as I face him. I don’t want him to see that he’s spooked me. I’ve got to bulldoze my way into the NFL; I just have to figure out how.

  I think about the quotes I have taped up on my bathroom mirror.

  Push yourself because no one else is going to do it.

  You are responsible for your success.

  You is all you have.

  And fuck, that last one crawls around inside me and sticks.

  5

  “Wake up and get me a cigarette, bitch,” cries Vampire Bill, the African grey parrot that’s in his cage on my nightstand.

  I ease up and glare at him from my bed.

  Ryker stayed over with Penelope, my roomie and best friend, last night, so I pulled the parrot from her room into mine. Nothing kills the lovey-dovey mood like a parrot telling them to “Get your bony ass down the road and get a job.”

  He was rescued by Penelope from a bunch of cigarette-smoking, belligerent, low-class morons. Our neighbors from across the street, they left him on the side of the road on their move-out day, and Penelope ran out to save him. She says he’s hers, and I guess he is, but I like to think of us as co-parents.

  When I stretch and reach out to pet him, he fluffs his feathers and rubs the back of my hand with his head. I study his misshapen right wing, the one that keeps him from flying, and hand him a cracker from the box on the table. Regardless of the things he says, he’s an affectionate creature, and I have a soft spot for him. He reminds me of, well, me—a little broken but still fighting.

  “Time to make this day my bitch, but no smoking for you,” I say, hopping up out of bed and putting on some new workout leggings and a T-shirt. Deadpool is on the front saying, Yeah, I’d do me. I sweep my hair up in a high ponytail and head out to the den of the house I share with Penelope. Her mom left it to her after she passed away, and it’s in a quiet neighborhood near campus.

  No one else appears to be up yet—thank God—so I bring up the YouTube channel on the TV for my yoga session of the day.

  Later, after several attempts at this ridiculousness, sweat drips off me while I push my legs as far apart as they’ll go and grasp my toes. I call it The Crotch Widener Pose, but I don’t think the trim girl in the video would approve. She moves into another position, and I fumble around on my mat, trying to get up. “What’s the point of this,” I mutter, weaving as I try to stand still on one foot, my arms straight and pointed at the ceiling, one foot tucked into the bend of my knee. “Look, I’m a rocket man,” I announce to no one. “Should have brought Vampire Bill out here so he could critique,” I say on a laugh. Then, I catch a glimpse of myself in the glare from the television and wince at the scrunched-up face and strands of hair that have fallen loose from my up-do. Ugh. Definitely not a Dani kind of girl.

  Ryker walks into the room wearing flannel pants and no shirt. He comes to a halt when he sees me and rakes a hand through his golden-blond hair. “Damn. Any clue how many capti
ons I could put on this image—”

  “Trust me, she can caption them herself,” replies Penelope as she follows him into the room and swats him on the ass. With her copper hair up in a messy knot and her red glasses perched on her nose, she looks slightly mussed and happy in her pjs. I’m not surprised considering the number of times I heard her calling out his name last night. I’m thrilled they’re in love and all that jazz, but dang, enough with the awesome sex already. I make a mental note to pick up some earplugs at the Piggly Wiggly.

  “Bedsides,” Penelope adds. “No one likes an audience while they’re exercising.”

  “Especially when they’re short and gravitationally challenged like me.” I laugh and continue into the next pose. “Be glad I wasn’t in downward-facing dog.”

  “Namaste, Charm. Please continue your workout,” Ryker says then gives me a broad grin as he heads off for a shower.

  I finish up just as my phone rings with a call from an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Charisma Rossi?” It’s a man with a distinct Boston accent.

  I grip the phone tighter. The only people I know who’d be calling me from that area is the design firm I signed my graphic design internship with. “This is she.”

  He clears his throat. “Ah, yes, this is William Connor. We met a few months ago when you came up for an interview at Prescott Designs.”

  I nod even though he can’t see me. “Yes, hello! It’s great to hear from you. I’m so excited to see you in May.” I let out a nervous laugh. Getting that prized spot was the highlight of my year. “I even already have a place to live. My cousin has a great apartment near downtown and she’s setting up a room for me. All I have to do is graduate and move—”

  “Ah, well, I have bad news. We’ve had to make some cutbacks here at the firm, and we’re canceling.”

  “Oh.” I take a seat on the couch. “Why? Was I not right for the program? I mean, I know the competition was tough, but I’m one of the best. Are you—are you sure there hasn’t been a mistake?” I nailed that interview. I know I did. My GPA is stellar and my portfolio is kickass. Ma even bought me a pale gray power suit from Barney’s, and my makeup was demure but stylish, my pink and black hair slicked back in a tight bun—

  “No mistake, and I’m sincerely sorry. It’s not you. We’re cutting the program entirely.” A long sigh comes from his end. “I’m in the process of calling several interns and letting them know, Ms. Rossi. You aren’t alone.”

  My hand rubs my forehead. Boston was the only thing keeping me going, knowing I’d be out of here soon. “I see.”

  “I’m aware it puts you in a bind, and I’d be happy to suggest a few places that may have openings for interns. I’ll email them over to you. My advice is to apply immediately.”

  What he isn’t saying is that all the spots at the best firms have been filled. Shit. Boston was the perfect city—close to home yet far enough away that Ma couldn’t pop in and surprise me.

  “If you want to take a gap year and reapply next year, we may reopen it then.”

  A gap year would mean moving back in with my parents. NIAMY. Not in a million years.

  We end the conversation, and I stare down at my phone for several seconds, resisting the urge to throw it across the room. Instead, I head to the kitchen for some much-earned coffee.

  “How was Cadillac’s last night?” Penelope asks a few minutes later when she comes into the kitchen. She’s changed from her pjs into jeans and a Wildcats shirt—another one. Nice.

  I sit down at the table near the bay window. “Margo, Connor, and the chess champs were there so I hung with them.”

  “Did you see him?”

  My hands tighten. “He had two girls with him. Looks like he’s expanding his harem.”

  She frowns and takes cinnamon rolls out of the oven. She must have put them in earlier. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I decide to not dwell on Blaze and give her the rundown from the phone call. She listens, her head cocked, eyes studying me. I see worry in her gaze.

  “Dang. Sorry, Charm. I know this isn’t how you wanted to start off the new semester.” She pours sugary icing on the rolls and brings me one. Like Ma, she thinks food solves everything.

  I look down at it, mentally tallying up the carb points. “I shouldn’t eat this.”

  Her hands go to her hips and she gets a little scowl on her face. “Are you on this diet thing again?”

  I snort. “I’ve been on a diet for seven days, but all I’ve lost is a week. Heck, all my cardio consists of is walking to the fridge—hence the attempt at yoga.”

  “You’re talking crazy.”

  “No, I’m serious. Ma is short and curvy, and I got the gene. My muffin top is a three-layer cake!”

  “Why do this to yourself?” She exhales a breath and sits down across from me. I sense a lecture coming.

  “Pen, you don’t get it.”

  Her eyes are kind as she takes my hand. “Stop comparing yourself to others. That isn’t the Charisma I know.”

  “I know…but I keep thinking about those horrible nicknames—”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “But,” I remind her, “you never heard people call you those things.” I run my fingers over the rim of my cup. “And then Trevor…” I blow out a breath, my head going back to the popular, crazy-good-looking guy I was in love with back in high school, the one who admitted at prom he’d only asked me because his friends dared him to take the chubby girl to the last big party of the year. Most of the time I don’t think about him or the horrible, awful feeling that crawled inside me when he pulled that, but I’m slipping. I’m losing my confidence. My mojo is MIA, probably hiding in a corner eating a bacon salad.

  “Trevor was an asshole, a stupid immature boy. I’ve never met him, but if I do, I will slay him for you. Heck, I’ll sic Vampire Bill on him. His claws are sharp.”

  “I know life is too short for self-hatred and carrot sticks every day, but damn, have you seen Dani up close? She’s practically a supermodel.”

  “Enough of that.” She jumps up, opens a junk drawer, and comes back with a compact mirror. Flipping it open, she holds it in front of my face. “Look at you. Your eyes have these little golden sparks, and…come on…your boobs are amazing—much better than my titlets.” She smirks. “Hey, remember those two tennis guys who got into an argument over who was going to buy you a drink at Caddy’s once? They nearly came to blows over you, Charm, and you dissed them both. You have something about you, a little extra sparkle that makes men nuts.”

  I laugh. “Pretty sure it was those kickass shoes I had on that night—you know the ones, the four-inch leopard heels.”

  “Those are great shoes, not denying it, but…it was you. You’ve got sass, baby.”

  I sigh. “My sass packed her bags and left three months ago.”

  Her lips tighten, and I figure she’s remembering how I moped around the house and refused to go anywhere he might be. “I know, I know. You haven’t been your usual confident self. Don’t let seeing Blaze with her—”

  “Blaze?” asks Ryker as he waltzes into the room, fresh from a shower.

  I arch a brow. “No offense, QB1, you’re my boy and all, but you are the last person I want to talk to about him."

  He holds his hands up. “Message received. Don’t talk about one of my best friends in front of you ever.”

  There’s an awkward silence, and I frown. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be the friend everyone walks on eggshells around.

  “I know he’s your friend,” I mumble. It makes things even harder. Normally, I never would have chosen Blaze for a hookup—too hot, too aware that every girl in the room wants him—but we were thrown together in the same friend group, and things just happened…like his cock inside me.

  Whoa. Don’t even think about him and his—

  See, there I go.

  I take a sip of coffee as Ryker exchanges a long look with Penelope and then glan
ces back at me. “He’s my friend and you are too, so don’t sweat it.” He shrugs then moves to the sink to wash out his mug and tells Penelope he needs to check in with his advisor.

  My ears perk up. “I thought you senior studs would be focused on the draft instead of classes.”

  He nods. “Some are. Blaze and I are still working on our degrees—” He gives me a sheepish look. “Shit, there I go again. Sorry, Charm.”

  I clear my throat. “Pfft, it’s fine. So you might be the number one draft pick, right? Some kind of NFL superstar?” Yes, I’ve been keeping up with the media coverage even though I haven’t let on.

  His blue-green eyes gleam. “Right, but I don’t want to be an NFL superstar—I want to be THE NFL superstar.” He says this with a lilting Game-of-Thrones style accent and places his hands behind his head, flexing as he preens.

  I snort.

  “I’m so proud of you, baby.” Penelope sashays over, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and kisses him.

  “PDA much?” I consider tossing a cinnamon bun at them, but it looks too pretty.

  They ignore me.

  My hands curl around my mug, and I stare down at the table, thinking about Blaze.

  I let myself get sucked in by a player, and I should’ve known better. I know how guys like him operate.

  Thoughts of my father creep in. Frank Rossi’s the kind of man women have always gushed over. Even nuns blush when he walks in a room. A tall, strapping, handsome man with a wide smile, he and my older brother Paulie own a successful plumbing company back home. And Ma? She knew he was a cheater. I heard the whispers about him in the neighborhood and even from my friends. He can unclog my pipes anytime. Can’t keep it in his pants. I recall a morning when I walked in on her in the laundry room with my dad’s shirt clutched to her chest as she picked at the lipstick there. But the biggest, most awful part? I watched him come out of a former teacher’s house and give her a passionate kiss once. He never saw me, and sometimes I wonder if I’d said something, maybe things would have changed. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I was only twelve and terrified my parents’ marriage was over, but that same night he sat down to dinner with us as if nothing was amiss.