Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(8)

Just because I’ve never particularly had that talent doesn’t mean I can’t suddenly develop it, over dinner, in a high-stress situation.

My smile felt brittle as we sat down at an elegant circular table. I recognized Jagger instantly, he winked at me and then looked ready to swallow his tongue when he locked eyes with Willow.

I watched the exchange with interest mainly because I wondered how Matt could have such a gorgeous little sister and not realize that every athlete that worked for him would probably do anything to get into her pants.

Huh.

Matt ordered a bottle of wine just as Slade Rodriguez walked in and sat across from us with a stunning woman on his arm. I’d read he’d gotten married.

I hadn’t read that she was a supermodel.

Her smile was warm as she introduced herself to everyone.

Lastly was some guy from the Bellevue Bucks that I’m pretty sure could eat everyone at the table and still have calories to burn. He was gorgeous in a cocky way, and the woman on his arm had the most attractive curves I’d ever seen in my life.

As in, give-me-your-entire-workout-plan-so-I-can-find-my-ass sort of curves.

“So . . .” Slade gave Matt an amused look. “I heard you have new roommates.”

Matt sighed and reached for the wine. “They can hear you. For the record.”

“I know.” A grin stretched across his face. “This pleases me more than it should.” He nodded to Willow. “You still planning on following in his footsteps?”

She giggled. “You know it.”

“Brave woman.”

“And smart, don’t forget smart.” She pointed her wineglass at him as the table fell silent. All eyes moved to me.

Great.

Just don’t yell.

Or insult anyone.

I forced a smile and waited while Slade’s eyes narrowed and then widened in shock.

Oh no.

This was bad.

This was going to be very, very bad.

“Parker Speedman?” he said in a rich, deep voice.

“Uh, present?” I laughed lightly.

“Wow.” He tossed his napkin down on the table. “Didn’t you punch your own coach last year before the championship—”

“Yeah,” I said quickly and reached for my wine, took two long gulps and then changed the subject. “So, Matt works for all of you?”

“Aw, I think I love this girl. She actually realizes we’re the talent, not you.” Jagger winked at Matt. “And yeah, we’ve been together a while, plus we make him money.”

Matt snorted. “You’re actually causing me to lose money when your racist grandmother tries to attack members of the media with a fork.”

“Can’t say I didn’t warn ya, man!” Jagger laughed and shifted his focus to me. “So you punched your coach?” He leaned in. “What was that like? Invigorating? Powerful? What the hell was she doing that she deserved a punch?”

“He,” I corrected, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. “And we don’t need to talk about it. Water under the bridge.” Sweat broke out across my forehead as I tried to keep it cool on the surface while I was dying a little bit on the inside.

“Parker?” Matt said my name softly, but it was jarring, so I jumped in my seat and nearly spilled the water in my hand.

“Hmm, yes?”

“Are you okay?”

I swallowed and looked down at my lap. I tried to force a smile and look unperturbed. It had been a year of forced smiles and trying not to react, hadn’t it? If this past year had taught me anything it was that all I had was myself, my dreams, and Willow. My dad had never wanted me to go pro, he put huge value on education and had always looked at soccer as a hobby. I swear he was relieved when my coach all but said he would blacklist me.

And that was the final nail in the coffin of my relationship with my dad.

Because I was his only daughter.

His flesh and blood.

And he never asked me why a coach would threaten his own athlete.

Never asked why I flinched when my coach touched my arm.

Maybe he knew.

Maybe he didn’t want to know.

In my mind that made him just as bad as my coach, just as guilty.

“I’m fine.” My voice sounded weak to my ears but I smiled at everyone around the table. I put on a show like I always did. I tried to make everyone believe I was great when inside I felt exactly the opposite.

I really needed to find a new therapist. One I could trust. One who didn’t work for the college—one who didn’t sleep with the very coach who sent me to see her in the first place.

“You look fine.” Jagger frowned at me and then looked at Matt. “So, three months, huh? Nothing but estrogen floating around your house. You think your balls are going to shrivel up any smaller?”

“The real question is, can they get any smaller?” Slade piped up.

I smiled like everyone else.

And ate my food.

I nodded when people spoke to me.

I didn’t cry when they talked about the game I loved so much.

It was like standing outside my body, watching the performance, coaching myself on all the right things to do so that I didn’t mess up my last chance. It was emotionally and physically exhausting trying to keep that smile in place.

So when dinner was over, I slouched a bit in my chair before standing.