Page 2 of Heartbreaker
“For the love of all that is good and holy…stop pushing!” I smack away the dainty but strong hands shoving me through the parking lot of Ash & Thorn—the local dive bar on the outskirts of our college town. Crimson Valley is a small town in central Texas centered around Thornebrooke University, one of the largest and most prestigious universities not just in Texas, but in the South. Thornebrooke excels not only in academics, but also in athletics, having been named in the top five of D1 schools for the last twenty years. I used to cheer for the Thornebrooke Bobcats until I successfully tried out for the darlings of the NFL, the Alexandria Wildcats, two years ago.
“Then move your ass!” Cassandra gives me one final shove, and I jump forward to tug open the heavy wooden door. My best friend doesn’t waste a moment, taking hold of the door and pushing me inside, practically stepping on my heels so I have no possible way to escape.
Cassandra and Kingsley showed up at my apartment at seven o’clock on the dot, dressed and ready for a night out, ordering me to get up and get ready. I had only arrived back at my apartment two hours earlier, and I planned to spend the night watching some of my favorite movies with the company of two men named Ben and Jerry, but my best friends had other plans. I turned twenty-one four days ago, and with no cheer practice this weekend, I took advantage of the rare opportunity to go home for more than one night. It’s a pleasure I’m not afforded often, being a professional cheerleaderandcollege student. And while it was nice to see my family, the real reason I decided to make the two-hour drive was so I wouldn’t have to worry about running into my ex-boyfriend on my birthday. Before you start feeling sorry for me, my older brothers made sure I celebrated this milestone properly. Crew and Nash would never allow me to skip out on such a momentous occasion.
“You need to gethimout of your system,” Cassandra said earlier, meaning my ex-boyfriend, as she rummaged through my closet. She pulled out a pleather mini skirt and a black mesh long-sleeve shirt. That was an immediate no. After thirty minutes of going back and forth on different outfits, we compromised on dark denim jeans and a black crop top, with a black blazer and heels. The right amount of sexy, but kept things modest, and if anything happened to be shared, I wouldn’t get in trouble with the Wildcats. I had an image to uphold, and I wasn’t looking to find myself on the other side of Coach’s desk because Cassandra wanted me to “let loose.”
“You’re so lame.” Cassandra sighs when I order a beer, earning an eye roll from me and Kingsley. At least I know she has my back. Kingsley is also a Wildcat and knows that even when we’re not in uniform, we’re expected to maintain a certain appearance—something our friend doesn’t always understand.
And with only five days before the start of preseason, I’m not trying to have any marks on my record. Besides, I already had my good time with my brothers, in a safe space where I wouldn’t have to worry about the possibility of doing anything stupid that the team might find out about. Being a cheerleader for a professional football team is fun, and it’s been my dream for as long as I can remember, but it comes with a lot more rules than I expected.
“How was home?” Kingsley asks when we finally settle into a table. Her ruby-painted lips pucker before she pulls away from the rim of her martini glass. She glances back at the bartender. “Damn, they’re pouring heavy tonight.”
“And that’s why I got a beer,” I say, looking pointedly at Cassandra. “We have practice tomorrow, and I’d rather not feel like shit when they decide to kick our asses.”
“I don’t know how you guys do it. I would’ve quit after the first year,” Cassandra says.
“You would’ve quit after the first day.” Kingsley laughs, attempting to take another sip of her drink.
“Oh, give me some credit! I would’ve at least made it to the second day.” Sure, if that’s what she needs to tell herself. We’ve been friends since eighth grade, when Cassandra’s family moved to my hometown of Celestia, Texas, from San Diego, and if there’s one thing to know about my best friend, it’s that she doesn’t do sports. Doesn’t watch them and certainly doesn’t participate. Despite her hatred of physical activities, she has always been supportive of my dream to be a professional cheerleader, never missing a single one of my competitions. And while she hasn’t quite figured out what to do with her life, I’m here to support every one of her failed endeavors.
The rest of the night goes by without mishap, and it does exactly what they had been hoping for: it takes my mind off Conner. It’s not like I don’t know the breakup was my fault, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. The writing was on the wall almost from the mark of our first anniversary; the relationship wasn’t going anywhere. We barely saw each other due to the difference in our work schedules, and barely spoke because of them, too. The occasional text here or there, the quick phone calls in between appointments…it wasn’t enough. If I’m going tofeelsingle, I might as wellbesingle.
Conner didn’t put up much of a fight when I suggested taking a break, and I think that’s what hurt the most. His reaction is what brought about this depressive mood I’ve been in since he and I made the time to sit down two weeks ago. There was no pushback. He simply agreed that ending things was for the best and walked out of my apartment without a second glance.
Kingsley finishes her third martini, and I can see the glaze coat her big, blue eyes before she leans across the table and begs Cassandra to go outside for a smoke. Kingsley knows better, but she’s a big girl, and I’m not here to babysit. Cassandra downs the final sip of her second martini before they rise to go outside, and she gives me a confused glance when I stand alongside them. I’ve never joined them for a smoke, not since my first and last cigarette at a house party our freshman year of high school. But her confusion dissipates when we part halfway to the door, and I turn left to the bar. Waiting for the bartender—who seems to have gotten slower as the night goes on—I notice someone else walks up to the bar, but he doesn’t seem to care about ordering a drink. His focus is on me, constantly shifting his weight, fidgeting against the bar, and looking my way every few seconds.
Stop flirting with those girls and get my fucking beer. I catch sight of the bartender at the other end, chatting it up with two girls in matching skin-tight dresses. If they lean over another half inch, their boobs are going to fall out of the top. Not that he, or half the population in here, would care.
“Your friends call it a night?” the presence beside me asks. Looks like he finally worked up the nerve to speak.
“Nope,” I say, popping the last syllable, holding my glare on the bartender. “They’ll be right back.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve been waiting for them to leave so I could work up the courage to come talk to you.”
Against my better judgment, I glance at him. He looks familiar, but not in a truly memorable way, like maybe I’ve passed him on the street or seen him in a class before. He has round features that remind me of the young boys who walk onto a college campus before they lose their cherub cheeks and the real world starts to hit them.
“I’m Jordan.” He extends his slim hand and smiles. “I’ve seen you around campus. You’re…Samantha, right?”
“Yes, Samantha.” I shake his hand briefly.Good, he doesn’t know my name.
His shyness, bit of avoidance, and trouble with names, paired with the round eyeglasses, remind me of the man I’m supposed to be forgetting about. My ex-boyfriend wears the same glasses because he thinks they make him look smarter, wiser. That feeling was exaggerated every time I did or said something he deemed annoying, or “not smart.” He’d pull the wire rims from his nose, wipe the lenses with the gray cleansing cloth kept in his pocket or desk drawer, and replace them with a slight huff before promptly telling me how and why I was wrong.
Finally. I sigh when the bartender returns, sliding my beer across the counter and turning on his heel in one swift motion. I swipe it before Jordan can. A glance around the room shows no sign of Cassandra or Kingsley. I’m going to kill them if I get sucked into a full-blown conversation with this guy because of a fucking cigarette.
“You wanna grab a seat? We can get to—”
“Sorry I took so long.” A warm voice comes from behind me, matching the weight that appears at my lower back. A hand comes around my left side, resting on the bar with a beer in hand. While I should recoil from the new intruder, I decide to lean into his warmth, and relief washes over me when I see Jordan’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “You okay? This guy bothering you?”
“I—I didn’t…I didn’t know. I just saw—”
“No, he’s fine,” I say, not bothering to hide my smirk, and lean further into mystery man’s chest. His hand glides from my back to my hip, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“I had no idea. I’m sorry, I—” Jordan stammers, stepping back a few paces before he turns and runs through the crowd back to whatever corner he crawled out of.
Even after Jordan has disappeared, the newcomer doesn’t release his hold on my side. Normally, I’m not into the whole male show of dominance thing, but there’s something about this man that brings me a sense of safety and security. Despite the intense draw I feel toward him, I know I should end this before my friends come back, but the least I can do is offer to buy him a drink.
Turning in his arms, I’m ready to thank him for saving me from the torturous conversation and having to break Jordan’s heart on my own, but the words get caught in my throat. Eyes the color of the cerulean sea stare ahead, locked on something, or someone, before they blink down at me. They have to be the prettiest color I’ve ever seen. This man is not from around here, and while he looks familiar—more familiar than Jordan—I can’t remember where we could have met. I’m about eighty (maybe seventy-five) percent sure I’ve seen him before, though. He’s handsome and towers over me, having to be at least six feet with broad shoulders and thick arms hugged by a dark gray Henley shirt. Light brown hair that is the perfect length to run my hand through, but not too long. His hand still lingers on my waist, and his thumb lazily moves against the exposed skin above my waistband. The touch ignites a spark inside me. “T-thanks…for saving me. Bad time for my friends to go have a smoke break, huh?”
