The Cheat Sheet

“There’s a fan in the training facility?” Her voice is getting annoyingly high. She’s winding up to release a critical comment.

I shut my truck door, raise my hand, and give the kid a quick wave. “No, I’m not at the facility right now. Practice ended a little early today because of a meeting our coaches had to attend, so I’m dropping by Bree’s studio.”

There’s silence followed by her lightly clearing her throat. “Do you really think it’s wise to be taking extra time away from your training when you’re so close to another playoff game this weekend? Maybe you should have spent that extra time with your physical therapist, or—”

“I’m a grown man as well as a professional athlete. I can handle my own training schedule.” Wow, that felt good to say. Also, it feels like something I shouldn’t have to voice out loud.

She lets out an offended scoff. “Well, excuse me for trying to help you succeed.”

“Cutting out an hour early one day out of the season to spend time with Bree is hardly going to interfere with my success.” Ever since Bree and I started “dating” (she doesn’t know it’s fake), my mom has been making lots of passive aggressive comments about Bree. She can make digs about my game or nutrition or looking pudgy in a magazine spread all she wants, but I won’t put up with a single word against Bree.

“Oh honey, don’t fool yourself. That girl has been interfering with your success since you were in high school. I saw you almost throw it all away for her back then, and I won’t watch you do it a second time.”

I stop walking and turn away from the teen—who is currently poised to intercept me with a napkin and a pen—so he doesn’t get to hear what I say to my mom next. “First, she’s a woman, not a girl. Second, yeah, if she would have let me, I would have stayed home for her in a heartbeat back then. I still would. Football will never be as important to me as she is, so you can either support my relationship with Bree or forfeit a relationship with me. Your call, but just know I won’t budge on this.”

My mom makes a few sounds of disbelief, and then…hangs up. Yep, she ends the call without another word because Vivian Donelson doesn’t know how to react when someone puts her in her place. I’m sure I’ll get a call from my dad in about an hour demanding I apologize to my mom and telling me how she hasn’t come out of her room since we spoke because she was so hurt. She birthed me after all! Did everything she could to make my dreams come true! How dare I not let her micromanage my entire life! It’s why I usually avoid conflict with them. It’s just easier to go along with her and let her stampede over me than get into something with them that will eat up all my energy. But where Bree is concerned, it’s a fight I’ll take on every day.

I turn back toward the studio and find the teen baring all of his teeth in my direction. The pen is shaking in his hand. I train my face into a pleasant smile even though pleasant is the least thing I feel. This mask I have to wear is just part of the job. Can’t let the fans down. Can’t let the team down. Can’t let anyone down.

“Hey man,” I say, walking closer. “Sorry about that. Do you want an autograph?”

He shakes like a leaf the entire time as I sign the napkin, thanks me profusely, tucks it back inside his canvas apron, and darts back into the pizza kitchen. I hurry up the steep stairs of the studio before the kid can tell anyone else inside that I’m out here.

The moment I open the studio door, I hear Bree’s voice counting out beats in the main room. It’s hot up here due to the heat the pizza stoves give off, and it smells like yeast and dancer’s sweat. Not a great combo. Immediately my mind starts racing to all the ways I could improve this space for her, but even in my imagination, Bree won’t let me get away with anything. I feel a phantom pinch on my side and picture her leveling me with a glare. Don’t you even think about it, Donelson!

The studio is laid out like one long horizontal box. After stepping through the front door, I’m standing in the four-foot-wide hallway that runs the length of the entire studio. If I keep walking straight, the next door goes right into the actual studio. To my left is eight feet of hallway that ends in a single-room bathroom, and to my right is eight more feet of hallway that ends with Bree’s office.

I follow the music and sounds of dancers’ feet thumping the floor until my head is peeking into the studio. I find twelve teenage dancers doing some sort of hop-jump-foot-crisscross thing with Bree standing in front of them, back to me. She’s wearing my favorite strappy leotard today, the one that shows miles and miles of her toned back. Just as my eyes are dropping to my favorite curvy backside on the planet, the dancers begin to notice me one by one. Like a row of dominoes tumbling, the girls stumble into each other and hit the floor.

Bree yelps at the sight and turns the music off with a remote. “Imani! Hannah! Are you girls, al—”

She’s cut off when one of the girls points aggressively in my direction. “It’s HIM!”

I swear the sound of Bree’s head turning in my direction makes a wind-tunnel noise. Her eyes land on me and BAM, her attention kicks me in the heart. Her look of shock slowly slides off and a smile unfurls. I want to wrap my arms around her waist. I want to drop my mouth to her neck and kiss my way up and down it. She looks dangerously sexy in her leotard and dance shorts. I love when she wears that tidy ballet bun, because there’s something so satisfying about knowing what her hair looks like when it’s not wrapped up tight like that. There’s always a moment at the end of the day when she takes the pins out and all those wild curls fall down around her shoulders—kills me every time.

Yesterday on set, I felt something between us. It wasn’t one-sided. Bree was reacting to me, and every time I touched her, she blushed or leaned in a little closer. Although it was in the name of fake dating, there was some serious mutual flirting that didn’t feel fake. It was perfect.

Until she bolted.

The SUV was barely parked before she jumped out and told me not to follow her because she didn’t feel good. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “It’s…MY PERIOD!” she said and then ran out like that was an actual answer. Except, apparently she forgot she’s a notorious over-sharer and had already told me a week and a half ago she was on her period.

So, yeah, obviously she was freaked out after our first day as a couple. I’m here today to make sure everything is okay between us, and also fulfill number 18 on the cheat sheet. Surprise her at work to show her you care about her.

“Nathan? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” Bree asks, looking a little nervous as she glances back and forth between me and the girls all lined up gawking at me. I rarely get the chance to visit her at the studio, so I can see why she’d be concerned.

One of the dancers throws her forearm over her eyes dramatically. “Quick, someone get me some sunglasses—that man is so hot he’s burning my pupils off.”

The whole class giggles at their obvious ringleader, and Bree glares at her. “Cut it out, you! And don’t say pupils like that again. I

t’s weird.” Naturally they all start chanting the word pupils, and I’m struggling to not laugh.

Bree sees my smirk and walks slowly toward me, her lean lines looking as graceful and deadly as a panther. She stops right in front of me and narrows her big brown eyes up at me. “Something funny about interrupting my class and sending these hormonal teens into a fit of hysterics?”

I grin down at her. “No, absolutely not.”

She lifts a brow and hums. “I don’t think I believe you.”

Her gaze snags on my mouth and my smile slowly fades. We stand here like this for a few seconds, balancing on this tightrope of tension, unsure what to say or do next.