Chapter Twenty-One #2
“So full of yourself, superstar.” A jaw-cracking yawn took over, tingling in her cheeks. It was a subject that made her uncomfortable, like an itch in the middle of her back she couldn’t reach. “We better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
She wished she could read his mind. Something flashed across his face before he rolled over to get the light and the room went dark.
“Good night, love.”
Anxiety stabbed through her gut.
“Good night,” she whispered, then turned away, tucking into the comforter.
It felt like they were on the start of a downward slide into the end of the school.
She loved him more than she’d ever loved anyone, but was it enough?
She kept secrets from almost everyone in her life to be with him, without knowing if he’d even choose her when it came time to go back to London.
If she lost her job in May, could she live with herself if she moved to London—assuming he asked?
Part of her recovery had been placing her needs over others because she’d been so damn bad at it in the past. Coaching was what she wanted to do.
If she gave that up for him… she’d be betraying herself.
Marcee watched moonbeams slash across the curtains as dust motes floated in the air. The room was silent, yet full.
Sleep was hard to find.
By dawn, Marcee was wide awake and a bundle of nerves, which only got worse as they got dressed.
“Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you later.” Remy pulled on a coat, searching the pockets for his scarf as they stood by the front door.
She zipped her own coat to her neck, anticipating the chill in the morning air. “Yes, that’s inevitable, huh?” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Have a good day.”
“Uh, yes, you as well,” he said quickly, words stilted. He clutched the scarf in both hands, fingers kneading the fabric. Marcee started to lean in for a hug but thought better of it. Another awkward touch might do her in.
She hauled ass out the front door, not bothering to look back, and jumped into her car, barely feeling the cold at all.
Part of her brain desperately tried to rationalize everything. It was their first time in this situation. Of course, there was going to be nerves! They’d figure out how to navigate game days better in the future. They just needed practice.
The other part of her brain was drowning in negativity. They’d never get better at it because by the end of the night, one of them would be a loser, and if it was her, she might lose more than just the game.
The day only got worse. Practice was discouraging as the girls dragged around, missing goals and goofing off.
She turned it over to Nicole toward the end and sought solace in her office, going over the plays she remembered Remy running at camp until she had them memorized. She had to anticipate his moves.
The game was scheduled to start at four thirty at Pemberton’s soccer facility. Alex sent her a text letting her know she’d be watching from the bleachers, cheering them on. It offered some comfort, but ten minutes before they were due to walk out to the field, nerves got the best of her.
Marcee jogged to the bathroom, flung open a stall and heaved the contents into the toilet. One gasp, then she heaved again, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
She had to coach these girls, but she’d never wanted to pass off her duties so much.
“Coach?”
She straightened and dragged her hand over her mouth. “Yeah?”
A paper towel appeared next to her. “Here.”
“Thanks,” Marcee muttered, taking it and wiping her lips. Disgusting.
Cope waited until she emerged from the stall, looking Marcee over as if to make sure she was still alive.
“Coach Giles said we need to walk over now.”
She had no doubt Nicole sent Cope in particular, hoping to build some sort of bridge between them and support Marcee’s efforts in helping her.
“I’m going to wash my hands then I’ll be there.”
Cope nodded and turned to leave. Before the door shut, she held it open and asked, without looking at Marcee, “Are you okay?”
The hot water burned her skin, but Marcee didn’t turn it down, welcoming the sensation. “Not really, but I’ll make it.”
“Okay.” She was gone as quickly as she arrived, her cleats clicking on the floor.
Not only did Marcee have to coach the girls flawlessly, but she also had to pretend like she didn’t just wake up in the opposing coach’s bed that very morning.
Ignoring Remy, who made every nerve on her body light up like a Christmas tree, felt impossible.
She tried that at camp and failed spectacularly.
She darted back into the stall and threw up again.
It was going to be a difficult night.
Marcee finished up and led the girls out of the locker room and across the parking lot to the field. Alpha Ridge Academy’s empty bus was parked next to the bleachers while dozens of cars with the ARA emblem were parked nearby.
“Looks like they brought their whole fan base,” Nicole said, an eyebrow raised as she looked over the shiny SUVs and sports cars that seemed to come with every private school event.
“It’ll be a disappointing night for them,” Marcee replied, looking straight ahead.
Nicole bumped against her, grinning. “Yeah, it will!”
There was an impressive number of spectators in attendance, including a line of reporters along the railing, cameras ready.
Two of the top teams in the state going head-to-head made for exciting news.
Marcee craned her neck, looking for Henry Taylor and his ever-present camera.
He was bound to be lurking around there somewhere. Wherever he was, he hid well.
Nicole got the girls on the field to warm up and Marcee caught her first glimpse of Remy.
He looked wonderful in black pants and a deep red polo shirt with his school emblem on the upper chest. Her heart pounded like a war drum, lust and nerves and a touch of sadness twisting her already wrecked stomach.
She wanted him so much she could scream. She wanted to beat his team so much it was a palpable ache over her body. The trouble was she didn’t know which was worse.
He probably wasn’t nervous at all. He’d played for hundreds of thousands of people. Their game was peanuts in comparison. Hell, she’d played for bigger crowds, but all she could think in the moment was it was enough people—enough of the right people—to watch her crash and burn.
Marcee smoothed her shirt and hair, then marched to midfield. He met her halfway, face solemn as he looked her over.
“Coach Ackerman.”
“Coach Lockley.”
They were two feet away from each other, but it felt like miles with their teams and all the expectations between them. She held out her hand, determination setting in.
“Good luck tonight.”
His hand was like ice in her grip. “Same to you.”
Marcee wanted to say more. So did he, but they didn’t. They couldn’t, and besides, what could they say to make any of it better?
That night, they were rivals on opposite sides of the field.
That night, they couldn’t be lovers.