Page 55 of Just Playin'
“We’re very sorry to have interrupted you, and I assure you we’ll have no issues adhering to your rules.”
Willow waits for Coach James to dip his chin before dragging me out of the office as forcefully as I dragged her into it. Once we’re halfway down the hallway, free from prying eyes, she relinquishes my arm from her grip. She looks like she wants to smack the living shit out of me, so the last thing I expect her to do is give me an out.
“You’re right. You didn’t sign anything, so you don’t have to follow Coach James’s policy. You’re free to do whatever or whomever you want.” The anger in her eyes hides her devastation, but it does nothing to lessen the tremble of her lips.
“You’re giving me a free pass?”
“It’s six weeks, Elvis. To a guy, that’s nearly a lifetime.” She does her trademark half-eyeroll-twitchy-spasm thing. She’s so fucking cute when she’s riled with jealousy. “So if you can’t wait that long, yes, I’m giving you a free pass.”
Her eyes snap to mine when I murmur, “What if I don’t want one?” I move closer to her, crowding her between the wall and me. “What if I want to contest Coach James’s ruling on the terms that non-fraternization policies are supposed to minimize the impact of things going wrong in the workplace while maximizing positive employee relationships? I’ve been playing the best ball in my life since you entered it, so if anything, your introduction into the 69ers family should be a positive, not a negative.” When surprise crosses her features, I murmur, “Not as stupid as you thought, hey?”
“I never said you were stupid.”
“No, you just thought I was a dumb fuck who chases a football around a field for money.”
Having no defense, she groans. “I’m a cow.”
“A really pretty cow.”
The grimace on Willow’s face jumps to mine. That was not the best compliment I’ve ever given, but thankfully, she doesn’t seem too upset by it.
Well, not enough she needs to deliver her scorn via her fists. “Things could be worse.” She bobs under my arm and moseys down the corridor backward. Her swinging hips and blistering smile make it appear as if she has the world at her feet. I realize it isn’t the world she’s stomping on when she mumbles, “I could be rubbing out the Marshall players’ kinks instead of the men you class as family.” She air quotes her last word before spinning on her heels and racing down the hallway.
I stand frozen, unsure of my next move. Do I go back to Coach James and force him to not only rip up the stupid policy he had Willow sign, but to make Willow my private masseuse? Or do I re-establish my stance at the front of Willow’s cubicle so any man who dares to enter it knows what the repercussions will be?
I know, I’ll do both.
“Coach?”
Coach pops his head into the hallway too quickly for a man not in the process of spying. “Yeah?”
“Follow me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Willow
“No way. No. Fucking. Way.” Skylar’s big cornflower blue eyes shift from the front row, plush leather seats to me. “You got front row seats? How?!”
Although she’s highly doubtful I can afford such pricy seats, she shimmies past the handful of players’ wives and girlfriends who prefer to be up close with the action than have access to unlimited mini hotdogs, spring rolls, and beverages the skybox seats offer that come comped with their relationship. Two Barbie doll-looking, designer-clad,Botoxed within an inch of their liveswives eye us with suspicion when we saunter by, but the rest flash friendly smiles. They’ve seen me around 69ers’ bunkers the past three weeks, and know I’m no danger to their positions in the 69er family. As far as they are concerned, I’m only Presley Carlton’s private sports therapist. What danger could I be?
Although Elvis got his way with his demand I not touch any players bar him, nothing he said would convince Coach James to remove the non-fraternization policy from the table. He was adamant it needed to be implemented, and from what I’ve witnessed my first three weeks of my internship, I’m inclined to agree with him. There’s a very slippery slope between flirting with a team member and acting on it. Many of the players and a handful of the entertainment staff have yet to work out the difference.
The first week was pure torture. Elvis drove me home every day, kissed me as if he was dropping his daughter off to school before rocketing out of the parking lot like his ass was on fire. I thought we’d keep our distance on the weekends to save temptation, but Danny’s closeness has kept us on the straight and narrow. When the second week began, things got a little easier. Elvis’s exemplary stats on game night, and above-par training sessions made Coach James relax, meaning we got in lots of sneaky kisses and a handful of heavy-petting sessions.
This week, Coach James is turning a complete blind eye to our antics. He believes Elvis’s claims that I’m his lucky charm so it’s bought me a near empty front row with two tickets that cost the equivalent of a semester’s worth of schooling. Coach James is testing a theory—a highly stupid,he has no clue how much I despise footballtheory. For the past two games, I’ve camped my backside on the massage table Elvis refuses to use, turned on one of the many TVs around the locker room, eaten cheese and bacon ball Cheetos by the bagful, and pretended I wasn’t smiling every time Elvis’s mug flashed up on the screen. It was a routine that worked well for me. I was still mad at Elvis for not telling the truth, so I couldn’t let him think I enjoyed watching him play.
It all came tumbling down when Coach James entered the locker room second-quarter last week. He never leaves the sideline, so for him to abort his mission while the game was in progress didn’t just surprise me, it scared the shit out of me. I thought my college dorm makeover of his domain was going to get me fired. It had the opposite effect.
“You, with me, now.”
I jumped to his command, unladylike fumble and all.
“Ohhhh, no, no, no,” I stammered when he directed me to the corridor that leads to the field. “You don’t want me to go out there.” The last time I went anywhere near where he was directing me to, I knocked a man out cold, but considering I couldn’t tell him that, I made up a pathetic excuse. “I’m scared of crowds. Like poop-my-pants scared.”
I’m a terrible liar, but my acting skills aren’t too bad. Coach James didn’t force me onto the field, but he did make me stand just outside the bleachers. My view of Elvis was worse than what I got inside, but the atmosphere was electric. The crowd was eating up his performance. They loved his return to the game as much as Elvis did. It was a beautiful thing to witness; so much so, I wasn’t as quick to shoot down Coach James’s suggestion for me to sit closer to the action this week. He blocked out the two seats beside me and three behind to help with my supposed phobia, so how could I say no?
“No.” I grab Skylar’s arm when she waves it at the drink attendant. “You were right; you don’t want to touch anything he’s serving.”
