Fraternize

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “You start school tomorrow?” Her cheerful voice was back.

  “Yup.” I looked up at the ceiling. “I have a meeting with the football coach too.”

  “It’s going to go great!” I could feel her false enthusiasm through the damn phone. She was wrong. Nothing would ever be great again.

  Not without my mom.

  Not without my best friend.

  And damn if it wasn’t painfully true.

  I had no idea that when I hung up the phone it would be the last real conversation we would ever have.

  Then again, neither did she.

  Like death, sometimes life just happens.

  Chapter Four

  EMERSON

  Present Day

  My lungs burned as I pumped my legs harder, faster. The tempo of the music was relentless, and my head pounded from the exertion.

  “And five, six, seven, eight!” Coach called from the front. “Dip, step, clap, clap—Mary, I saw that. Keep your fingers pointed! And sway right, left—Mary! I said keep your fingers pointed! No sloppy hands!”

  I gritted my teeth and finished the routine flawlessly.

  Not that it ever mattered.

  I’d finished routines flawlessly all throughout college, and even now, two years later.

  And I’d still gotten cut.

  It didn’t mean I’d stopped trying; if anything, it had just pushed me harder. The worst part about trying out for professional cheerleading was the diet restrictions given to the girls, even the girls not yet on the squad. The team dietician often pulled me over and asked why I wasn’t following the list of approved foods.

  When I told her I was . . .

  I’d been accused of lying.

  And bless your little heart, her voice had crooned. The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders aren’t just America’s squad—but the world’s! We can’t have someone who isn’t diligent on the team, no matter how great your splits may be. Or my personal favorite, But chin up, you have a really pretty face.

  As if my face existed outside of the rest of my body.

  A body I had grown to love.

  Even though coaches everywhere saw it as defective.

  It was my third time trying out for the Bucks.

  I cringed to think what they would say this time.

  I had the collegiate experience.

  The voice.

  The skills.

  But I was lacking one thing.

  The ability to squeeze my body into a size two, four, six, or eight. Who do we appreciate?

  Food, damn it!

  I refused to starve myself, especially after everything that had happened. I shuddered and shoved the memory far, far away.

  “I promise,” he whispered.

  He lied.

  “You’ll be informed if you make the team!” Coach sounded from the front of the studio. “If you aren’t contacted, it’s safe to assume you haven’t made it, though a formal letter will be sent to your residence with your judging sheets and critiques.” She nodded. “Thank you, everyone. Good luck!”

  I swigged the rest of the water out of my bottle and grabbed my bag.

  “Hey, good job.” Mary, the one who refused to point her fingers, smiled brightly at me. I remembered her from last year. Neither of us had made it then. She looked like a shell of her former self, like what happens when you diet the wrong way and forget that food is nutrition and necessary to live.

  She let out a sigh that I knew too well, because I was just about to utter it.

  It seemed history was about to repeat itself.

  One of the girls who’d been on the team for the past four years shoved past us in tears, throwing all of her stuff into her bag before glaring at the rest of us and then stumbling toward the door. I frowned after her, then reached for my water bottle just as Mary shared a confused look with me.

  “Emerson!” Coach yelled my name. “In my office now!”

  “I think,” Mary whispered from the side of her mouth, “your luck’s just about to change.”

  Chapter Five

  MILLER

  “That hurts!” I roared, slamming my hands down on the therapist’s table. “Are you trying to kill me? Maim me? Show me how strong you are? Damn it! Stop punishing me!”

  Wendy’s eyes were steel. Just like her hands. She didn’t budge, but continued to roll out my IT band like she was trying to snap the thing in half.

  “Breathe.” She pushed harder.

  I clenched my teeth and tried not to pass out. “I’m trying!”

  “You’re tense.” Her soft voice was the reason I’d always loved working with her. She was four foot ten and ninety pounds of absolute terror.

  The first time she offered to work on me, I’d laughed at her.

  And left with a slight limp and four ibuprofen.

  She claimed her family came from a long line of ninjas, and since she’d been working for the Pittsburgh Pilots, we all believed her. Even our quarterback gave her a wide berth.

  “Almost done,” Wendy soothed, patting my leg one more time before digging in with her elbow.

  Sweat poured down my face as I closed my eyes and tried to go to that empty space in my head.

  Only, whenever I closed my eyes . . . I still saw her.

  No matter how hard I tried.

  I saw curves.

  Big blue eyes.

  And honeysuckle blonde hair.

  I inhaled that hair in my dreams. I let it slip through my fingers.

  And then anger spread through my veins.

  “Hey,” Wendy snapped. “I said to relax!”

  “Sorry.” I swore and took a deep breath. “Are we almost done?” I didn’t want to be around anyone.

  Hell. I hated being around anyone when I thought of her.

  I needed solitude.

  Or maybe just a really great game.

  Not that I wasn’t known for those. I was the best tight end in the league.

  It was my second year in the NFL, and I lived for it.

  “Miller.” Coach’s voice stopped Wendy’s torture.

  She nodded at him and left the training room.

  “We need to talk.” His face was pale.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “I fought it.” He slammed his hands down on the table near my legs. “Just know I fought it, but Smith needs to find money, and after last year’s loss in the playoffs . . .”

  My eyes narrowed. “Smith needs to find money?”

  “You’re the best tight end in the league.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You’re expensive as hell to keep.”

  My head snapped in his direction. “Say what?”

  “The Bellevue Bucks can afford you. We’re trading across, three players for one.” He balled both of his hands into fists and let out a violent curse. “You leave tomorrow.”

  “Coach!” I jumped off the table. “You can’t do that!”

  “I didn’t do it!” He yelled right back at me. “You know we’re still building this team. We just . . . we don’t have the money. It’s the only way to shape up our defense. Contracts have been negotiated. You’ll get the rest of your eighteen million for the next three years and get to keep your signing bonus, but they’ll take on the rest of your contract starting this season.” His look was as sad as it was helpless, and after a few more pats on my back he was gone.

  Silence descended as a hollow feeling spread across my chest.

  He didn’t understand.

  Nobody did.

  There was a reason I’d stayed on the East Coast.

  A very damn good reason, and when the Bucks had tried to draft me out of college, I’d said, Hell no, and turned down their offer for twice as much money.

  There was a freaking reason!

  I kicked the massage table, knocking it onto its side, and threw a chair against the wall.

  Chest heaving, I fell to the ground and let memories of her take over. The girl I loved.

&nbs
p; The girl who destroyed me.

  My best friend.

  My enemy.

  Because when I needed her the most . . . she’d abandoned me.

  When I had nobody . . . she’d walked away.

  Hate.

  Didn’t even begin to describe how I felt about her.

  I loathed her.

  Even though my body still responded to the memory of her, my mind knew she was trouble. My father had been right.

  Which was worse than her abandonment.

  I could still see his smug face once I told him that we weren’t talking anymore.

  “Yo.” Devon rapped the door with his knuckles. “Just heard the news. Is Coach for real? Are you leaving?”

  “Like I have a choice,” I said from my spot on the floor.

  “I’m going with you.”

  I burst out laughing. “They have a quarterback.”

  “Then I’ll play for Seattle, at least we’ll be close. Besides, what’s Wilson got on me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, two championship rings? A yacht? Pop star wife? Want me to keep going? No?”

  “Well, at least you aren’t crying like some chick.”

  “I don’t cry—” I bit down on my lip. Not since her. What use was it? It didn’t bring my mom back, and it didn’t bring my best friend back. “Ever.”

  “Not even last season when Jones snapped his leg in half? Because, no lie, that was some scary shit.”

  “Watt needs to rein it in,” I grumbled. “He’s gonna kill someone someday.”

  “I think he wants to.” Devon smirked. “Swear, that man wakes up with a smug-as-hell smile on his face and googles ways to kill men on the field.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Try not to get a bigger head in Bellevue. You’ll always be a Pilot.”

  “Bleed black and yellow.” I took his hand and stood. “Damn Bucks. At least send me somewhere I actually like.”

  He frowned. “You used to live in Bellevue, right?”

  I tensed and locked down the memories.

  “Something like that,” I finally uttered. “Let’s go get drunk.”

  “You don’t drink unless there’s a good reason.”

  “I just got traded to the Bucks, reason enough.”

  Devon crossed his arms across his bulky chest. “This ’bout getting traded?”

  Hell no. This was about going back to the only place I’d ever called home.

  “Yeah, it pisses me off.” That was at least true.

  “Yeah, okay.” Devon slapped me on the back. “I could go for some drinks. Besides, you look like shit. Oh, and you’re buying.”

  My smile was forced.

  And as luck would have it, when we finally made it outside to the parking lot, a few of the Pilot cheerleaders sashayed past us.

  One had blonde hair.

  I did a double take.

  And then mentally punched myself in the nuts.

  She didn’t exist.

  Not anymore.

  Maybe she never did.

  Chapter Six

  EMERSON

  My perfectly rounded nails dug into my palms. I crossed my legs then uncrossed them at least a dozen times before the door opened. Coach Kay strutted in and sat behind a large black desk littered with pictures of athletes, friends, and folks who I assumed were family members.

  Awards decorated her white walls.

  I was really close to being sick to my stomach when she finally spoke. “You know why you’ve been asked here.”

  It wasn’t a question. Was it?

  I quickly nodded my head and spoke. “I believe you’re looking for a new replacement.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence stretched between us while her eyes narrowed in on me and very slowly inched down my body. She started at my head until she stood up and leaned over the desk, her gaze never wavering as she inspected me all the way down to my pink-and-black Nike tennis shoes.

  “Hmm.”

  It wasn’t a good hmm. Not like Hmm, that’s cute or Hmm, that’s different. It was more of a hmm that meant it wouldn’t work at all. I’d been on the wrong side of that hmm more than I could count.

  Which probably meant she was either stuck with putting me on her roster . . .

  Or she needed a towel girl.

  My lips ached with the wide smile I kept perfectly pasted on my face. It was a practiced one, one that told her I couldn’t be shaken, no matter how rude her perusal of my body had been.

  I was awesome.

  I just needed to convince her of that.

  I refused to accept responsibility for being part of the problem. People tended to think there was something wrong with me, and I had spent a lifetime convincing them that I was just bigger than the other girls, and that it was okay. It was their issue, not mine. I was finally happy with me, and damn her for trying to shake that confidence away.

  She could go to hell.

  Along with everyone else who’d given me that exact same look and patted my hand as if to say, But, chin up, you have a really pretty face.

  “It will be hard work,” she finally said, leaning back in her chair as her long red fingernails tap-tap-tapped against each other. “Are you up for the challenge?”

  “I believe you already know the answer to that question, ma’am.”

  Finally, she cracked a smile. “You’ll need to be strong.”

  “I can bench over—”

  She shook her head, interrupting me by slicing her hand through the air. “Not that kind of strength.” A manicured fingernail moved to her temple. “This kind.” Her hand lowered to her chest and pressed flat. “And this kind.”

  “I have those kinds,” I said in a clear, confident voice, “in spades.”

  “Which is why . . .” She stood again and held out her hand. “I’d like to officially welcome you to the Bucks Squad. Practices are at five a.m. every morning and seven p.m. every evening until the first game.” She handed me a packet. “Give them hell.”

  “Them?”

  “See you tomorrow morning.” She ignored me and sat, then looked up. “Please close the door behind you.”

  I had reached the door when she called out, “Oh, and Emerson, we have a very strict no-fraternization rule. Remember, the football players are off-limits, even the ones that are dumb as rocks. Got it?”

  I snorted back a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, that won’t be a problem. Trust me.”

  Once I was a healthy distance down the hall, I allowed myself to celebrate by way of jumping into the air and giving a little shout. I made it all the way to my car and burst into tears as I leaned my arms against the driver’s side window and full-on sobbed.

  My dream.

  It had been my only dream since my dad gave me that picture of my mom and told me I was beautiful.

  It had been my dream since the only boy to ever tell me that I was pretty left me.

  My dream since he took my heart with him.

  And never looked back.

  Since I was forced to pick up the pieces and glue them all back together.

  Some days I still felt broken without Miller, but what do you do when the very person you want is the one who did the breaking in the first place?

  “Didn’t make the team, huh?” A gravelly voice interrupted my mini sob fest.

  Slowly, I turned around and looked up, up, up, and finally met a pair of gorgeous, twinkling green eyes.

  Yeah, you’d have to live in a cave not to know who the man was.

  Grant Sanchez wasn’t just one of the best receivers in the league, he was the best receiver in the league. I’d made it my job to know all the players, not because I loved studying football stats, but because they almost always made it a part of our test when we tried out for the team squads.

  Lucky for me, I hadn’t needed to study much. The Bellevue Bucks were celebrities in our town—and most of them were also notorious man whores with way too much money and privilege. And Grant Sanchez was quite literally�
�the worst.

  “Actually . . .” I finally found my voice. “I made the team.”

  He held out his hand for a high five. Two of my hands could fit in his palm; it was almost comical. I slapped it and quickly pulled back, nervous that the coach would see me fraternizing, not that it would go anywhere. He was Grant Sanchez, for crying out loud. I might be confident, but I was very aware of my place on the totem pole, and it was midrange, while he only dated the top tier.

  His full lips spread into a wide melting smile. “I’m shocked.”

  “Oh?” I tried not to sound defensive, but it was hard not to as I took a step back and crossed my arms.

  He moved in closer to me, nearly pinning me against my own car. “Well, typically they only hire bitchy girls with fake smiles—even faker tits—and celery addictions. God, please tell me you hate celery.”

  “Celery tastes like water. Who actually likes it?” I countered, and received yet another offer for a high five. Noted. The guy was into high fives.

  “I may have a little crush on you, cheer girl.” He winked and pulled back then called over his shoulder. “See you around, Curves.”

  “Curves?”

  “I’m big into nicknames, and yours . . .” He turned full around and shook his head. “Damn, they do you justice.” He chuckled. “If I hear you celebrated with celery, we can’t be friends anymore.”

  “We aren’t friends now!” I called back.

  “Yeah we are!” He kept walking.

  “No, we aren’t!”

  He acted like he ignored me and disappeared into the stadium.

  Chapter Seven

  MILLER

  I hated planes.

  They reminded me of leaving.

  Which in turn reminded me of being left behind.

  I always envisioned myself as the one being abandoned. And any sort of travel always reminded me that I basically had been.

  I pulled my bag of shit over my right shoulder and took in the expansive practice facility. It was nice.

  Nicer than what I’d come from.

  Probably because the Bucks bled money, and it showed, from the pristine practice facility to the stadium for games next door. They had lap pools, Jacuzzis, steam rooms, and ice baths. It was like a freaking spa in the locker room. I’d done a double take when I saw my new jersey, my hand trembling when I tugged at the black and white mesh.