“Yes, sir.”
“The usual rules apply. No leaving this hotel. No drugs. No alcohol. No girls in your room. You can make use of the pool and other hotel facilities until they close for the night, but I better not get any calls from the hotel about any of you causing problems. Is that also clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiles, and we pull up in front of the lobby of our hotel. “Well, then gentleman, enjoy your food and enjoy your win.”
If anybody in the hotel was already asleep, they most likely aren’t now. The noise we make as we leave the bus is enough to wake the dead. As soon as I climb off, Coach Cole falls into step beside me.
“Oz gave me your final stats. Eight catches for two hundred and eight yards in total. An excellent game, son.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I like Coach Cole. I know I can be a pain in the ass, and I rarely know when to shut my mouth, and he’s been cool about it. But we’ve not really had that much one-on-one interaction. It’s mostly just been him telling me to be quiet or calm down or quit dancing. He gives me a serious look now, and I don’t know how Carson doesn’t piss his pants every time he’s near Coach. I find him intimidating, and I’m not dating his daughter.
“You keep matching that level of play, stay consistent, and you’ll be in good shape for the draft when you graduate in two years.”
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, loud enough to drown out even the overwhelming noise of my teammates. Draft?
“That something you’re interested in?”
I stumble over the words because I try to get them out so fast.
“I—I am. Yes, sir. I am.”
“Good. Right now, concentrate on the next game, on this season. The best way to get you noticed is to get this team noticed as much as possible. But keep up the good work, stay serious, and we’ll talk in the off-season about what else we can do to get you ready.”
I’m still saying my thank-yous when Coach nods and turns back toward the bus.
It’s the kind of thing you dream about hearing. I can still remember being in high school and thinking that it was only a matter of time. I was going to get recruited, play some college ball, and then go pro. I was so certain that all I needed was a shot, and it would happen. Certain enough that I made it my everything. Then there were scouts and recruiters, but they weren’t the big schools I always expected them to be. The powerhouses. Instead, it was a mix of Division II schools, and a handful of Division I schools with less than stellar programs, like Rusk. Then suddenly things didn’t seem so certain anymore.
Lina had pushed hard then, tried to get me to admit that maybe deciding my life based on football didn’t make that much sense anymore. I didn’t listen. I buckled down and shut her out, shut everything out. But that didn’t stop her words from ringing in my head day after day. So that when I started freshman year here at Rusk, I was dragging the weight not only of a broken heart with me, but of Lina’s doubts heaped atop my own. And the only way to deal with it, the only way not to drown under it had been to pretend like it didn’t matter. I had to pretend that nothing mattered. That everything was a joke because if you can laugh about something, it can’t hurt you.
But now everything could be about to change. And I’m scared to think about it because . . . getting my hopes up over something like this? Over something that matters? That’s a hell of a lot of hurt I’m risking.
AFTER DINNER, a group of about ten of us end up in McClain and Moore’s room. We’re crammed onto the beds, the chairs, and anywhere else we can fit. I settle myself against an open spot on the wall. Last year, we would have been down at the pool or with the girls that somehow always know where the team is staying. But now half my friends are among the girlfriend-ed, and well . . . I don’t have much of an interest in flirting with groupies tonight. Before I can join the conversation, my phone buzzes with a text. I smile when I see it’s from Nell.
A pillow hits me in the face, drawing my attention back to the room.
“Dude,” Keyon says. “I called your name like five times. Don’t tell me you searched your name on Twitter again.”
I flip him off. “Yeah, that’s what I’m doing. So, leave me alone with my adoring public.”
I get nailed with another pillow. “Seriously, guys? What are we, children?”
“Wait. Hold up. Did Torres just accuse someone else of immaturity? Is the world ending?” Silas asks, and everyone bursts into laughter. I throw the two pillows back at them.
“Who are you texting?” Brookes asks.
“How do you know I’m not on Twitter like Keyon said?”
He just raises an eyebrow, and damn his creepy perception.
I sigh. “You guys are the worst, you know that?”
“Wait,” McClain says. “Are you implying what I think you’re implying, Brookes? Does Teo have a girlfriend? An actual, real-life girl? Not just a booty call?”
I glare at Brookes, and he shrugs.
My phone buzzes, and I stand up. Stretching, I say, “It’s late. I’m gonna crash.”
As I head for the door, I hear groans and prods behind me to stay, to spill about the girl. With my back turned, I wave and leave for my room. When I’m settled onto my own bed, I look at the text from Nell.
Chapter 19
Nell’s To-Do List
• Normal College Thing #11: Go on a date.
• Figure out how to reply to Torres’s text about whether or not I’m wearing panties without sounding like a complete idiot.
• Make sure to actually wear cute panties just in case he checks.
• Oh God. Stop freaking out. Stop it.
I should be studying. Mateo or Torres or whoever he is won’t be here for another hour, and I should be studying because even though he’s promised not to distract me, he’s just naturally distracting, and I’m not sure how much work I’ll get done tonight.
That’s what I should be doing. Instead, I’m putting on makeup. Real, actual makeup. On my face. Like a normal person. Or trying to anyway. I haven’t used my mascara in a couple months, and it’s gone all clumpy inside. I make a few passes over my lashes, but no matter how much gunk I wiped off the brush, it still comes out all clumpy and awful on my eyes.
When I find myself actually considering running to the pharmacy down the street to buy a new tube, I press my hands to my face in frustration.
I look at myself in the mirror and say, “Stop this. I don’t need this to impress him. I don’t need to impress him, period.”
Clearly he hadn’t needed me to wear makeup the other night. Granted, it was dark, and he could probably only see the outline of my face, but still. Besides . . . it’s not as if I’m trying to . . . I don’t know, keep him. This isn’t about that. It’s about experience and discovery. And yes, maybe I’m no longer envisioning a future spent alone, married to my job; maybe that’s not what I want anymore, but I’d be crazy to start picturing a future with this particular guy.
What if he goes on to play football professionally? I might not watch football on TV, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that all of those guys date supermodels and actresses and people much prettier and more interesting than me.
I don’t expect to have a piece of his future. I’m just going to enjoy the piece of him I have now.
After a quick trip to the bathroom to wash off the mascara monstrosity on my eyes, I decide to go ahead and start cooking. If I can’t be productive and study, I can at least do something useful. Originally I’d planned to wait to start dinner until Torres got here. I relished the idea of putting him to work. But it’s probably a good thing I’m starting now. Somehow I can’t imagine Torres doing anything in my kitchen except making a mess. An image pops into my head of my counter covered in ingredients, and the food burning, while he kisses me into oblivion.
I shake away that thought and begin prepping ingredients. One of the things I did love about growing up in and around a restaurant was learning how to cook. It’s not as big a part of my life as it is for my parents and the rest of my family, but it’s something that puts me at ease. There’s a science to it that has always appealed to me. Measurements and mixes and observation. It engages my hands and my mind, and at the moment I could use that kind of distraction.
I’m making tortellini Bolognese because I figure since he’s an athlete, his diet is probably pretty carb heavy. And Bolognese is a sauce I used to help my mom make all the time. She used to spend hours on that sauce, letting it simmer and steep in flavor. She’d be horrified to know that when I make it these days, I’m usually done in a little under an hour.
I focus on the vegetables first. Chopping and dicing my way through onions, carrots, celery, and garlic. It takes a little while, but eventually the motions of my hands and the concentration finally push the thought of Mateo (and his mouth and his hands) out of my head for the first time in days. By the time I toss the vegetables in the pan with olive oil and a little butter, I’ve lost myself in the task. I’ve made this dish often enough that I don’t even have to look at the recipe. I move on from the vegetables to the meat. Mom makes hers with ground beef, pork, and veal, but on my college-student budget, I’ve settled just for ground beef.