15. 15 Mae
15: Mae
“ M ae! You’re out of formation!” my mother yells above the booming music, shaking her head and tutting.
“I’m not,” I complain back, and she shoots me a look that says you better be quiet before I embarrass you in front of everybody.
It’s enough to make me click my teeth shut and nod. Daisy was the one out of line, but I’m not about to throw her under the bus when she’s busting her ass. She has sweat dripping from every part of her body, and I know she almost didn’t make the team because she can—apparently—be sloppy at times.
This is her dream.
Not mine.
So, who am I to stand in her way? She’s trying, and I’ll gladly take my mother’s criticism if it means her mistake doesn’t get noticed.
I’m stressing the fuck out. If I mess this up on game day, my mother will never let me live it down. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’ll kick me out of the house and disown me altogether.
“Let’s go again! Some of you looked like ten-year-olds at a school dance!” my mother calls, pressing pause on the music and starting it over, waving her manicured finger, lingering on me for a second.
The team feels different without Sophia. She’s a natural-born leader, and everyone just seems to fall into place whenever she’s around. And now I’m expected to take her place for the night—front and centre—something my mother isn’t best pleased with. But that makes two of us.
The beat sinks into my bones as I dance, each step precise and calculated. My muscles relax as I give myself over to the music, forgetting about all the shit going on in my life, just living in the now.
But then someone’s body collides with mine, and I land on the ground with a thud. “Shit,” I grunt. A sharp pain shoots up my ankle.
For a fleeting moment, the world around me blurs, and dizziness takes over before I shake my head and blink.
“Are you okay?” Poppy holds her hand out, and I inhale deeply, pushing the aching aside, taking her hand and dipping my chin.
“I’m so sorry, Mae. I was out of line,” Daisy says, biting her lip as Madison gazes down with worry. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My mom raises her eyebrows to her hairline and glares at me.
I glare right back. “I’m fine. Let’s go again.”
Putting weight on my ankle during the rest of practice causes me to grind my molars and clench my fists in pain. But I resist throwing in the towel. I summon every last bit of determination I have, forcing a fake smile as we repeat the routine over and over again until my mother finally stops the music and tells us to get going.
Once all the girls have filed their way into the locker rooms—with Poppy giving me a lingering worried glance—she juts her hip out as she stares at me.
I like to play nice with my mother. I honestly think it annoys her more that I don’t lash out. She wants me to react, but instead, I give her nothing.
“Want me to make dinner for the both of us tonight?” I offer. I already know the answer, but kill ‘em with kindness, am I right?
“I meal prep,” she responds, raising her eyebrows questionably.
“Doesn’t hurt to offer.”
She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. “Mae, this is very important to me.” Her voice—she almost sounds defeated.
“I know. I’m trying.”
Her eyes analyse me for a good few seconds, softening slightly before they calcify again. “Don’t let me down.” She flips her hair behind her shoulder and stalks down the tunnel, away from the field.
I make my way over to a bench on the sidelines and plop myself down, holding my head in my hands.
My mother showed a sliver of vulnerability just then, and I haven't seen that since Dad left. It was a rare moment. For a heartbeat, I almost saw the woman who’d raised me, not the one constantly wearing that mask of animosity.
But as quickly as that side of her had appeared, it’d vanished. Her walls are built high, and it’s evident my mother is far more comfortable in her fortress of emotional distance she’s spent years constructing.
I get why she cares so deeply about the Missarali Storks Cheerleading Squad—it’s the only thing she has left.
It doesn't excuse her behaviour, but I do pity her.
“Mae?”
The voice gives me goosebumps. I lift my head to see Nathan standing before me. His black T-shirt is tight over his muscular body, and the grey sweatpants he’s wearing cause my eyes to dip briefly before I blink and hope he didn’t notice.
“Why are you sitting here?” He sounds concerned—with a deep crease formed between his eyebrows, his mouth flipping downwards.
“Just relaxing,” I say, jumping up but immediately regretting it. I feel my face falter, and my ankle complains under my weight. I can tell the injury isn’t anything serious, but it’s in need of rest.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I smile, moving past him. I can already feel my ankle beginning to swell. However, I attempt to walk as normally as possible, knowing I probably look like a zombie dragging their twisted foot behind them. All I need now is rotting skin and an intense desire to eat brains.
“Why are you limping?”
“I’m not.”
Nathan speeds up beside me, cocking his head and dragging his bottom lip into his mouth. “Mae, stop.” He holds his hand up to cease my movement, hovering a few centimetres in front of my breasts, and the action causes sweat to form on my upper lip. He looks fed up with my antics. “Don’t lie to me. You’re hurt. Why are you hurt?”
I guess the jig is up.
My tongue moves to press behind my teeth, but before I can reply, Nathan tells me to sit down. His face tells me there’s no room for defiance.
After he gestures to the bench I was previously sat on—tucked away in the corner—I huff and move back over to it. The icy metal bites into my skin, causing my body to shiver, but I’m not entirely sure it’s just because of the bench.
Nathan grabs a first aid box from a cupboard and taps my knee, signalling that he wants me to lift my leg as he crouches.
I roll my eyes. “Nathan, I—”
“If you walk on it without wrapping it, you’ll make it worse. Are you going to let me help or not?”
Why does he have to look at me like that?
I want to say no. To tell him I can do this myself. But his gaze is making my mouth feel numb. Like I can’t move it.
“Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to hear whatever snarky remark you have up your sleeve.”
My eyes slim. “I want to be a vet. I know how to wrap an injured ankle.”
“There it is.” He shakes his head and scoffs in humorous disbelief. Looking down at my foot, his fingers curl upwards in unison as he moves them in a “give it to me” motion.
I sigh softly, pulling off my tennis shoe and sock, watching as he pulls some wrap from the box and grips my ankle tentatively.
“And I didn’t ask you if you knew how to do it, princess. I’m aware you’re smart. I asked you if you were going to let me help you.”
My mouth goes dry.
He examines my foot before beginning to wrap it. I focus on the warmth of his fingers against my skin, which makes my skin twist. I’m fighting to keep my breathing steady, trying to push through the pain while concentrating on the fact that Nathan Slater is tending to my ankle, gazing up at me with a hint of emotion other than annoyance.
“How did you do this?”
“Fell over.” He eyes me up with a small chuckle, and I retort back, “We can’t all harness the grace of a gazelle, you know?”
“Hmm, I’ve seen you in practice. I beg to differ.”
My heart skips a beat, and Nathan’s tongue darts out and wets his bottom lip as he concentrates, manoeuvring my foot carefully so he can wrap the cotton all the way around my ankle.
He finishes and double-checks that it’s not too tight. “Keep off it for a few days. You’ll need to sit out of cheering for the next game.”
“I can’t. Sophia’s not here, and I’m filling in for her.”
“Well, you can’t cheer with your ankle like that, princess.”
My down-there region flutters. It literally flutters.
Am I starting to like the nickname?
What the fuck?
“I have to. There isn’t another option.” I glance down at my foot, slightly self-conscious. Feet are weird. “But thank you. I appreciate it.”
Nathan lowers his gaze. He’s not used to praise. He’s always facing criticism—whether from his father, the media, or even his own fans—and I can tell he feels slightly uncomfortable with the approval.
He doesn’t do good things for the applause.
I’ve seen it first-hand.
When he paid for my wine.
When he babysat Evan’s son.
When he butted in to make sure I wasn’t falling for Riley’s fake charm.
Those are the little things the world doesn’t get to see, and I know they wouldn't treat him the way they do if they saw who he really was.
A grumpy, guarded jock, yes. But he’s a grumpy, guarded jock with a heart. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it.
He’s been conditioned to brace himself for the storm, so when someone finally appreciates his efforts, his body wants to reject the commendation.
“No other option?” He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging.
“I’d be fine never cheering again, but my mom wants this.” I pause. “She needs this.”
Nathan exhales deeply, settling on the bench beside me and resting his elbows on his knees with his fingers laced together. His gaze is fixated on the ground below. “For someone who treats you like crap, you seem to care about her a lot.”
I shrug. “I don’t want to be the one who takes this away from her. It’ll just give her another reason to hate me. And as much as we don’t get on, I don’t want to see her fail.”
My father and I were extremely close, but I have to remind myself that Cam and I aren’t the only ones who lost someone. My mother also lost her husband.
She’s always been a sharp and rigid person, but ever since he left, her skin has thickened. She’s afraid of emotion. Of letting people in. It’s a coping mechanism that I can’t entirely blame her for.
Two wrongs don’t make a right, though, and watching her world crumble wouldn’t make me feel any better about mine.
Nathan shakes his head, chuckling slightly. “I can’t relate to that. I wish I could, but you’re just a better person than I am.”
“They’re different situations, Nathan.”
His expression shifts as I use his name, but then his gaze glides across my face and down my neck. “Mae, you’re pale.”
“I think I’m just nervous. I’ve never performed in front of such a big crowd before, and frankly, I’m fucking scared. I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t know how you handle all this pressure all the time.”
His eyes soften as I catch his gaze briefly glide to the white scar beside my eyebrow before he looks away. It’s something I’ve caught him doing a few times.
“You won’t mess it up. I’ve seen you dance. You don’t stand out at all.”
I cock my head at him, laughing. “Thanks, I think?”
“I mean, you blend in with the team. You look like you're meant to be there.”
His words bring a smile to my face. My mother’s never said anything like that to me before.
“Do you ever get anxious about playing?” I’m curious. Nathan always appears so confident. So sure of himself. I’m unsure if it’s all an act or if he is just that lucky to be so self-assured.
“Sometimes. But I don’t let it get to me. You can’t. Worrying about what could happen won’t change the outcome.”
Anxiety can twist your imagination, painting futures that haven't even happened yet. Small, insignificant little worries can quickly pile into a mountain of what-ifs, the peak impossible to reach. Yet, it controls so many of us.
“Worrying about tomorrow won’t make it any brighter. Coach Darrell likes to use that line,” Nathan says, and I blink, suddenly feeling oddly calm about the situation.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
He turns to me, his eyes intense. It isn’t until now that I realise how close we are, our arms brushing as we breathe. His eyes flicker down for a split second, hovering on my lips before he knits his eyebrows together.
My palms begin to sweat as he looks down at my chest. He doesn’t shy away. He doesn’t pretend not to be looking. He relishes in it for a few greedy seconds before gulping and standing up.
If this is how he looks at me when I’m clothed, how would he look at me if I were naked underneath him? Fingers gripping his forearm. Tits pressed into his chest as I arch my back. Legs spread.
“Bennett needs me to run through some media training with him.” Nathan stands, stretching his shoulders, face sullen.
I don’t want to get up. I’m afraid I’ve soaked through my spandex shorts. Why do I feel like some horny teenager around him?
“Thanks for patching me up.” I slip my sock and shoe back on, the fabric a little snug due to the slight swelling.
Nathan’s lingering and muscular arms hang limply beside him as he grinds his teeth together.
Would it really be so bad if he were to fuck me right here on this bench? Would anyone know? Do they have cameras in here?
“What are you looking for?”
I snap my head back to his, not realising I’d been searching the roof for surveillance without even realising.
“Nothing. I thought I saw a… bird.”
A chuckle falls from his lips as he nods slowly. “Right.” The word is long and drawn out.
“I’m gonna hang here for a bit. Take a breather, you know?”
He doesn’t look convinced, and it appears he's battling with himself on whether to object, but after a few seconds of deliberation, he nods. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I glance down at my ankle, placidity coursing through my veins.
Why is it that someone so anxiety-inducing can also chase it away with just one conversation?
Because now I’m looking at game day in a whole new light. I’m not scared shitless anymore. In fact, I’m looking forward to it, and the fact that Nathan managed to do that to me in a matter of minutes is redirecting my worry to a whole new place.
How the fuck am I supposed to survive being around him for the rest of the season without fantasising about doing things we can’t?