Campus Player

“You can set up a schedule directly with her,” he says, interrupting the whirl of my thoughts.

Well, hell. Maybe I should suggest working with Professor Peters. Except...he bores the shit out of me. It’s like my eyes are conditioned to glaze over as soon as he opens his mouth. Talk about being trapped between a rock and a hard place. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

I mull over my choices before finally mumbling, “Yeah, all right. Sounds good.” Decision made, I rise from my seat and trudge to the door. As I reach for the knob, I pause.

Don’t say anything, asshole. It’s none of your damn business.

Maybe not, but still...

Before I can stop myself, the word is shooting out of my mouth. “Coach?”

“Yeah?” He glances up from his desk to meet my gaze.

“It’s probably not a good idea for Demi to be walking through the locker room when the guys are in the middle of changing.”

Silence descends. I probably should have kept my big trap shut.

His brows furrow as he swipes his tongue carefully across his teeth. “You’re probably right.”

Relief floods through me as I slip from the office.

If that girl is going to be checking out anyone’s junk, it’ll be mine.

I wince.

Fuck.

Maybe Coach thinks he’s doing me a favor by having me work with his daughter, but all he’s done is the opposite.

7

Demi

Ten seconds remain on the clock. Time slows, and I feel the tick of every millisecond as I dribble the ball between my feet and race toward the goal at the opposite end of the field. The fans in the stands, the coaches on the sidelines, and the other players fade to the background. My breath comes hard and fast before echoing in my ears. There’s a UNC girl flanking my side, looking for an opportunity to steal the ball.

The game is tied, and it’s down to the wire. A kind of tunnel vision occurs, and my focus narrows on the opponent’s net. The goalie watches me with slitted eyes. She crouches, shifting her weight from side to side, waiting for me to make a move. Her gaze stays focused on my hips.

It’s just like Shakira claimed in her song—hips don’t lie. Although, in this instance, it’s the hips that will tip her off as to which direction I’ll move in, where in the net I’ll try to place the ball.

She knows it, and so do I.

The player at my side pushes into me as she tries to take the ball. With a grunt, I elbow her away to get a little more room.

It’s not going to be that easy, girlfriend. You’re good, but so am I.

As I close in on the goal, she makes another attempt, and I decide that it’s now or never. I’m running out of time. If the buzzer rings before I get a kick off, the game will end in a tie, and that’s no good. In a nanosecond, I assess the situation and try to place the ball where it has the best chance of going into the net. Time slows as I pull my foot back and send the ball flying. The girl keeping pace with me attempts to stop it with her head but she’s a tick off, and it hurtles forward. The goalie springs into motion. With her arms outstretched, she sails gracefully through the air.

My hands go to my head as I wait and watch. The goalie’s fingers graze the ball, but it’s not enough to stop the force of it from hitting the net. Time, once again, speeds up and the cheers from my teammates and the fans fill my ears, overloading my senses.

Yes!

We did it! We pulled off a win.

I glance at the stands. Dad is on his feet, clapping and whistling. There’s a humongous grin stretched across his face. Rowan is next to him, also cheering. As our gazes lock and hold, something warm spreads unwantedly through my chest. I tell myself it has nothing to do with Rowan or the obvious pride on his face. But even I know it’s a lie. Without fail, the football player has attended every home game since freshman year. And, depending on where our away games are, he shows up for them as well. I’m sure he’s there because it’s another opportunity for him and Dad to discuss strategy on the football field. I don’t want to believe it has anything to do with me. If I did, I’d have no other choice but to acknowledge there’s something between us, and I’m nowhere near ready to do that.

Eye contact is cut off as I’m swallowed up by my teammates, both the ones from the field and the ones from the bench. Twenty-five girls swarm me, patting me on the back as they jump up and down with excitement. There’s a jubilant feeling that permeates the air as we go through the line and shake hands with our opponents. A chorus of good game is repeated as we move down the field. Then we gather around Coach Adams for a brief talk before being released to the locker room to shower and change.