Chapter 14
Fourteen
August
One of the benefits of playing for my team is that they charter private planes.
Not every team does. Some have their own, some simply go with a commercial carrier, but it’s nice not to have to go through TSA or cram myself into a regular airline seat—often only the top players get first class, and definitely not college players.
A hired car takes me from the hotel straight to the tarmac.
I grab my bag and head up the boarding stairs.
None of the other guys are around, which feels off, and I’m starting to worry I got the times wrong.
Jan has been on me to hire an assistant, and I’ve dragged my feet about it.
I had one in college, but he was doing it for credit, and it felt weird as hell at the time.
Sure, I needed the help, but part of me always felt two steps removed from other students as it was; having an assistant made it more so.
But this is my job now. I already have Gracie, my nutritionist, Hakeem, my trainer, and a fleet of team staff on hand. Might as well take the next step.
Such thoughts distract me enough that I don’t initially notice the plane is full when I walk into the cabin. Someone snickers. I stop short.
“What the fuck?”
Laughter erupts, giddy and gleeful as a plane full of big-ass man-children double over in their hilarity. The fuckos have veils on. Glittery tiaras that barely fit their big heads.
“The groom has arrived!” Jelly calls out.
Everyone cheers, or catcalls—it’s dead even. In the center of their chaos, Rhodes clutches a human-sized stuffed chicken dressed up like a bride. He wiggles enticingly as he does a little gyration of his hips.
“You’re all nuts,” I tell them, trying not to laugh.
Our coaching staff are hovering along the edges of the mayhem, snickering into their hands. Jay, my offensive coordinator, has a row of pink pearls draped over his thick neck.
I glance at Coach and arch my brow. “What, no crown for you?”
“Nah, son, that’s for you.” He looks downright evil as he holds out an oversize gold crown with fake jewels on the ends that looks like he raided from a Burger King.
“Oh, hell no.”
Jelly jogs over, a glass of champagne in his hand. “Damn, Rook, why didn’t you tell me you were getting hitched?”
“Because I don’t live in the 1890s?”
He slaps my shoulder fondly and thrusts the glass into my hand. “If I had known, I’d have given you some tips. Monica says—”
“Monica says,” everyone intones at once.
He doesn’t even look back as he flips them the bird. “As I was saying—”
“Jells,” I interrupt. “You getting married too?”
He blanches. “Hell no. Marriage terrifies me.”
“Then you can’t give me advice. Neither,” I say over him, “can Monica, as I know she’s never been.”
“Spoilsport.”
In truth, my pulse has kicked up in a powerful rhythm of sheer guilt. I’m lying to my guys. But someone might talk, and I can’t risk it. Still sucks balls. They did this for me, albeit to torture me as much as to celebrate.
Inadvertently, I catch Coach’s eye. I don’t know what he sees in mine, but he lifts his glass.
“To the groom-to-be and his lovely fiancée.”
Everyone cheers.
My insides clench, but I raise my glass as well and do a silent salute to Pen for sticking with me.
One corner of Coach’s lips curls and he raises his glass higher. “May this chicken be the last one you dance with.”
At that, Rhodes tosses me my feathered bride.
I catch it with one arm while the guys cackle and “Rocket Man” starts playing on the speakers.
Jelly produces a purple fur coat from somewhere and drapes it over my shoulders.
Up until now, they haven’t fully razzed me about the incident, and I suppose I’m due.
So I laugh. Because it is funny. It’s also expected of me.
I can’t let them see the panic stirring in my chest. I didn’t fully consider this end of my arrangement with Pen.
March is completely right on one account: When it comes to Penelope, I stop thinking clearly.
My focus has become her—being with her, getting to know these new facets of her personality.
She makes me forget my worries and responsibilities.
Even now, when I’m shepherded to a seat and plied with pink cupcakes—honestly who did this?
?—and treated with slaps on the shoulders, and good-natured jokes, some part of me is still thinking about Pen.
I’ll tell her about this, show her the selfies I’m taking with my crew—ridiculous crown tilted on my head—just to watch her smile, hear her laugh.
I want that. I want that as much as I want to win the title.
Even as we take off, the force of it pushing me back in my seat, soaring up and heading home, part of me is already on the ground in LA. With her.
Logic tells me that should be concerning. But the only thing floating around in my head is: I can’t wait.
I can’t fucking wait.
Pen
Expect the unexpected. Isn’t that what they say? The phrase never made much sense to me, since how are we supposed to suspect something that never enters our minds? Or maybe it’s that we should always be on the lookout for surprises?
Either way, I should have expected attention after August’s postgame presser. He warned me my life would change. Tempting fate, I shooed that concern away as though it were a fantasy, something that would happen to other girls. Certainly not me.
Fate must be having a good laugh right about now.
It takes me a bit to notice. Ordinarily a walk across the quad on my way to class soothes me.
The Romanesque architecture of UCLA’s four original buildings are all a little different in style but share a similar fairy-tale beauty, with their soft pinkish bricks, mullioned windows, Moorish and Gothic touches.
I could be anywhere—a merchant’s stronghold in Milan, an ancient library in Spain, a basilica in Florence. It stirs my imagination every time.
It does today too. Only, while I’m strolling along, mentally prepping for my first day of class, others are turning their heads and watching me pass.
At first, I only notice on the edges of my consciousness, little prickles of warning that something isn’t right.
It takes accidental eye contact with a guy lifting his phone in my direction to take a picture for me to truly feel the change.
The first thought: What am I doing that warrants a photo?
Surreptitiously, I glance down at myself, the horror that I might have forgotten to put on pants making my heart thud.
But, the pants are on—soft drapey gray trousers paired with a burgundy knit sweater T because I like to dress professionally for class.
Maybe that’s it? I’m too dressed? But no, I always dress like this.
Why take a snapshot now? I can’t check my face, but I desperately want to.
Picturing a gargantuan zit on my forehead or perhaps lipstick that somehow migrated all over my face, I duck my head and hurry to class.
This is my final semester and I’ve taken it easy on myself, saving interesting classes to fill out my requirements for last. This class, History of Classic Film, should be fun.
Should be.
Only . . . as soon as I make my way to an empty seat, everyone—except a girl in back who hasn’t lifted her face from her phone—looks my way. Eyes follow me as I walk. I feel like Tippi Freaking Hedren creeping past a murder of crows in The Birds.
Holy crap, what is the issue?
August’s warning turns over in my head even as I sit and have a quick glance at my face using my phone’s camera. Face clear and the same as always, I know with the certainty of a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake that he’d been right.
A guy takes the desk directly in front of me and promptly turns in his seat to gape. “You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Her?” Playing ignorant will work, right?
“August Luck’s girl.”
Man, that sounds so strange.
“It’s her,” another guy says, holding up his phone like he has proof. I guess he does. I can see the flickers of August and me holding hands in the clip he’s been watching. He gives me a triumphant look. “I recognized you as soon as he said your name.”
This class is made up of seniors and juniors all in similar majors. I recognize most of them too. But I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t know their names. I’ve always simply attended class, listened to the professor, done the work, and left.
Phone guy, with his mop of brown curls and oversize Rams sweatshirt might be Brian or Brad. Definitely a B name. Doesn’t really matter. Mr. B and his friend . . . Dwight? Dwayne?—look at me expectantly.
“I . . . ah . . . I’m Penelope.”
“Ah, yeah, we know.” An eye roll of exasperation followed by another searching look. “So? Is Luck gonna buckle down now?”
“How’s he feeling physically?”
“More like mentally.” Dwight/Dwayne mocks a chicken, arms flapping.
I glare at him, but don’t answer.
“He’s not gonna do shit. First picks always fizzle out,” says a guy at the window with a small sneer.
“No, that’s what the ladies say about you,” Brian—it’s totally Brian!—snaps back.
“Not what your mamma said last night.”
“Boys.” A cute blonde, way more likely to be dating a star quarterback, scoffs at them then leans toward me with wide eyes. “God, August Luck! I can’t believe you . . . I mean, is he, like . . .” She makes a rolling motion with her hand. “You know? Is he?”
I have no earthly idea what the hell she’s talking about. Surely, she’s not asking me about . . . ?
“I mean those eyes! That body just . . . slaps.” She sighs expansively. “He must be transcendent.”
I guess she is. My face flames. I’m part horrified and part outraged.
Thankfully, I don’t have to answer. The professor enters, saving me from further questioning. I like Professor Jackson. He’s always been professional and informative. Dressed in a rumpled brown suit and an argyle sweater vest, he plays the part well.
Rubbing his mop of gray hair, the professor sets down his leather bag, adjusts his wire rim glasses, and immediately starts class. I fall into the familiar comfort of reading lists, expectations, and upcoming assignments. And if the other students keep glancing back at me? I can handle it.
I’m fairly certain the blonde—who I learn via roll call is Jessica—has been texting her friend about me the entire lecture.
Her thumbs are tapping away like mad, only paused by intermittent looks my way.
Our gazes clash at one point, and she flashes a quick apologetic smile before going back to her phone.
It’s fine. I can handle this.
Class ends, and I tuck away my writing pad. Call it old-fashioned, but if I don’t physically write notes down, I forget them as soon as I’m done. I’ll go back and type them into my laptop, which adds an extra layer of memorization.
As I pass Jackson’s desk, he stops me.
“A word, Ms. Morrow.”
I halt, perplexed. Out of everyone today, I know I actually paid attention.
The chair Professor Jackson sits on creaks as he leans back and surveys me with a stern expression. “Are we going to have a problem here?”
“A problem?” My heart thuds hard and fast within my chest.
Jackson pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose before setting them back on. “Is Mr. Luck going to be a problem?”
“You mean is he going to pop up in class and offer to sign autographs?”
Watery blue eyes narrow in warning. “Don’t get smarmy with me, Ms. Morrow.”
Heat races over my skin and pulls it tight. My mouth goes dry. I hate confrontation. But, on the heels of that comes another thought. How dare he? Drawing in a sharp breath, I steel my spine.
“I was aiming for baffled, Professor Jackson. Because I truly am.”
“I fail to see how, when your mere presence disrupted the entire class.”
“I would say the entire class has a concentration problem, given that I didn’t utter a word during the lecture.”
“You know perfectly well it’s your connection to Mr. Luck that has them distracted.”
“With respect, Professor, this is UCLA. We’ve had Oscar-winning guest lectures, legends of film. Most of us have interned at studios and interacted with huge stars.” Well, at least seen them walk past. But still.
An incredulous scoff escapes him. “You speak of industry professionals. Not some . . . overpaid athlete.”
I’m so shocked my skin prickles. I can only stare as he goes on with scathing vehemence.
“The next thing you know, they’ll be arguing about who’s going to win what game and spitting out inconsequential stats, when they should be concentrating on film.” He slaps his palms on his desk. “No, I won’t have it.”
There’re many things I could say. I’m not sure where to begin. Or if it even matters. He’s not rational here. Prejudice rarely is.
Hauling my bag higher on my shoulder, I strive for calm when I’m anything but. “Are you asking me to drop this class, Professor?”
He pauses, mouth open, then snaps it closed with a befuddled frown. “That would be extreme.”
I nod in agreement. “I’ve taken three other courses with you in the past. Have you found me to be a disruptive student?”
“No . . .”
“A poor student, then?”
“That’s hardly the point.”
When I stare him down, he sits up straighter in his chair and links his hands on his desk.
“You are an excellent student, Ms. Morrow.”
I nod again. “I am an excellent student. Which means your line of questioning is not only unwarranted, it is inappropriate.”
It’s his turn to color. Before he can say a word, I forge on.
“I’m going to leave now and pretend this never happened. I look forward to your lectures, as I’ve enjoyed them in the past. Good day, Professor.”
I stride out, head held high. But on the inside I’m shaking. August had warned me. I hadn’t taken him seriously. It’s time I do.