Chapter Seven Ella
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ella
I stare into Hudson’s stormy gray eyes, brow raised as I wait for a response. This is a man who thinks he can do whatever he wants just because he’s attractive. A man who expects everyone else to fall in line. But looks and talent don’t make up for lack of consideration.
“Okay,” he finally concedes. He’s holding a full pitcher of beer in each hand, and is looking at me with a confused expression. “Let’s talk.”
It feels strange, like we’re pretending that night didn’t happen. We had a great time together, an awkward morning-after, and now he just acts like I don’t exist. Maybe I’m out of the loop on one-night-stand protocol, but isn’t this a bit childish?
“I’m over my jet lag now, and feeling a bit more like myself,” I tell him. “I wanted to clear the air between us.”
“Already forgotten,” he replies dismissively, brushing past me and turning back towards the table.
“You’re ignoring me,” I call out.
He turns back. “You’re perceptive.”
“But we had sex,” I remind him.
“Right, I was there,” he deadpans, his expression unchanging. It’s as if we’re merely discussing the weather rather than a night that’s been looping in my mind like a catchy song—one I can’t turn off no matter how hard I try.
For all intents and purposes, I’ve tried.
Tried to ignore it, to scrub it completely from my brain, to move on and focus on what I came here for.
I haven’t so much as mentioned it to my friends back home, and I’m almost certain I’ve told Molly everything that’s ever happened to me for the last ten years; from the disastrous attempt at baking my first cake (which ended up resembling a charcoal briquette) to the time I made the god-awful decision to try out a fringe two days before a school disco.
I told her so much about Jamie, too. How we whispered “I love you” for the first time at this little place in the Lakes, just us and the crackling fire in the hearth. How I trusted him, gave him everything, including that night we first slept together. Everything .
But this? The one night I shared with a handsome stranger I met in a bar? It’s like some scandalous affair. Our little secret. Not because I’m ashamed of it or particularly want to hide it, but it just feels … personal. Something meant only for me. And him, I guess.
I narrow my eyes, taking in the way his muscles strain against his shirt, the sharp angles of his jawline, and the intensity in his eyes. It’s hard to ignore the physical attraction, the memory of how he made me feel that night. His touch, his kiss, the way he moved.
I force myself to focus, to remember why I’m here. I’m newly single, surrounded by exciting, gorgeous American men. This is a simple physical reaction, right? Chemistry at its base level. Nothing more.
I purse my lips, smiling despite the frustration. “That’s your thing, then? Sleeping with a woman and then pretending she doesn’t exist?”
He sighs, long and heavy, setting the pitchers down on the bar and rubbing his hands together as if to brace himself. “No, not exactly.”
“So why are you doing it now? It’s … awkward for me.”
“Honestly, I thought it would be better this way,” he says, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Just to sweep the whole thing under the rug.”
“Well, I think it’s a bit juvenile.”
He gives a humorless snort. “So, not only am I too slutty for you, I’m also immature?”
I wrinkle my nose. “No, but you’re infuriating.”
One shoulder lifts in a careless shrug. “I won’t ignore you anymore if that’s what you’d like.”
“Great.” I tip my chin, accepting his begrudging offer. “It is.”
“Okay. Glad we had this talk,” he says, picking up the pitchers again, his nonchalance grating on my nerves. “While we finish our meal, should I bring up the way you looked spread out on my bed? You know, with your—”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” I cut him off, my cheeks flaming hot.
“I’m just teasing you, Davies.”
I blow out a heated breath, my frustration slowly melting away. “Sorry, I just—you got me all worked up there. I don’t want to start things off on the wrong foot. With anyone . Especially because we’re going to be seeing a lot of one another this term.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Are we?”
“I can only presume.” I swipe my hands down the front of my jeans. “Look, we don’t need to be friends. But just … try to be normal around me, alright?”
“Best behavior from now on.”
I scrunch my nose. “Don’t pull a muscle on my account.”
He kisses his teeth, tips both pitchers in a mocking sort of toast. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’.”
By the time we make it back to our table, I’m feeling strangely better, tension unfurling inside my chest. I sit back down, sliding into the conversation with the rest of the group as smoothly as I can, and feigning interest in Marcus’s account of his latest workout regimen.
Despite the sarcasm from both sides, my conversation with Hudson was reassuring in a way. I wanted to speak to him, to set the record straight, and I did. I’ve resolved to be more straightforward this year. To be a good communicator when it comes to my relationships, or the lack thereof.
It’s a way to protect myself from being knocked off balance like I was with Jamie. He’d obviously been on a completely different page from me for a while, and that isn’t something I’m willing to experience again. The heartbreak, the confusion, the feeling of being discarded. It’s too distracting.
So, for the time being, I’m going to feign confidence.
To be bold in places where I was scared to be in the past. Much like how I’ve approached cheerleading: steady, sure, daring.
I want to apply that same fearlessness to life outside of the mat.
It’s a tall order, considering the chaos of my personal life, but it’s necessary.
I refuse to let the confusion of one messy night dictate how I interact with someone, especially when our paths are bound to keep crossing.
It’s the second week of August, and we’re an hour south-east of Nashville at another university in our division. We pull into the car park, and the sun is high and scorching. It’s a red-hot American summer, but there’s also a thick layer of anticipation in the air.
Or maybe that’s just me—desperate to calm the swarm of butterflies in my stomach.
Gabi and I are sitting outside a week-long cheer camp.
Most of Whitland’s team is here, too, which means I’m buzzing with nerves.
I’ve had a nice time bonding with the small Skyline crew, but my Whitland practices have been lackluster.
They stuck me with the spirit team—rather than the higher-level comp team—in order to prep for game days.
Once the regular season starts, I’ll be able to do both. But for now, I’m playing what feels like an endless game of catch-up. While I’ve done some sideline cheer at Oxford, I have to admit that my crowd skills could still use some work.
Gabi turns off the ignition, and we sit in silence for a moment, staring out at the crowd, a colorful blend of about fifteen uniforms from various colleges. “You have nothing to worry about, El,” she murmurs. I try my hardest to believe her, mostly because I don’t have room for doubt.
From tomorrow, the schedule dictates a marathon of morning warm-ups, designed to ensure we’re limber and ready for our version of a boot camp.
Afternoons will be a deep dive into choreography and stunt classes.
And then there are the evenings, reserved for competitions that are friendly in theory but fierce in practice.
It’s full-on, and I’m nervous. Eager for the challenge, grateful for the opportunity, but tense with the pressure to keep up and prove I belong.
Stepping out of the car, the heat envelops me. Gabi, bounding ahead like a golden retriever, turns back with a beaming smile. “I promise you’re going to love this,” she says for the umpteenth time, her enthusiasm undimmed by my skepticism.
I’m not so sure. Back home, cheer was serious business, sure, but it was also … cozier. Less about being flung twenty feet into the air and more about precision and, well, not dying. Here, though, it seems like stunts are choreographed by someone whose motto is “Go big or go home.”
And then there’s me, trying to recalibrate my compass. If cheerleading back home was riding a bike, then cheerleading here is like riding a bike if the bike was on fire and you were also on fire.
But it’s not just the cheer that’s different from my life at home—it’s everything.
The food (why is it all so sickly sweet?), the slang (I’m still not entirely sure what “y’all” encompasses), and the sheer, overwhelming bigness of everything.
It’s like I’ve stepped onto another planet, one where everything is dialed up to eleven.
But I suppose a different sort of pressure is a good thing. It might be exactly what I need to push me further out of my comfort zone. To prove to myself that I’m capable of more than I ever thought.
“El, come on! We’ll miss the pep talk if we don’t check in now,” Gabi calls as she leads us to our meeting spot. “Morgan will ream us out.”
Coach Morgan Wells. Now there’s a reason to brave the fires of American cheer.
The woman is a legend, winning national titles for Whitland’s squad three times in the last five years.
She’s the pinnacle of uni cheerleading—flawless in her routines, commanding in her presence, and inspiring in her leadership.
After briefly hyperventilating, I hurry after Gabi, and firm my resolve. Yes, this is new. Yes, it’s terrifying. But it’s also exhilarating.
I’m here, at an actual NCA camp, being coached by one of the best in the business. The National Cheerleaders Association (NCA) is the gold standard for collegiate cheer, hosting the most prestigious competitions and camps in the country. This is what I wanted—what I’ve worked for all these years.