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Authors: Kerrigan Grant

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BOOK: #Score
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Chapter 10

R
amona

S
queak-squeak
. Squeak-squeak. I spray some more cleaning fluid on the cloth and get the last few tabletops cleaned off, ready to hang up my apron and head home. To say it's been a long day at the café would be an understatement. Between customers bitching about too much whipped cream to bratty kids knocking over stools while their parents screw around on their cell phones, I've just about had enough. People in general tend to suck, but it only seems that much worse when you work in the service industry.

I glance around the coffee shop, hoping that the last two customers will hurry up and finish their damn drinks so I can move on with my night. Not that I'm doing anything exciting or anything . . .

The bell over top of the door chimes and in walks Jasmine, already sweeping her long, inky black hair up into a bun. Ugh, I wish I looked that sophisticated when I try to do that. Jasmine has always had a way of doing things that made you look like you’re not dressed for the occasion, even if you're running into the grocery store. It's probably because her mom was a professional Bollywood dancer in India when Jasmine was a child, so naturally Jasmine moves like a dancer, in perfect rhythm all the time.

She strolls up to me and holds out a brown paper bag in front of her, gesturing for me to take it. I can already smell the sweet tang of bao buns from our favorite little take-out place in Chinatown. My stomach growls at the mere thought of biting into one of them.

"Whoa, you have no idea how much I need this right now. They need to get in my stomach, like right this minute." Opening the bag and letting out the steam only makes my stomach clench tighter.

"I thought you might like some. I just got out of class myself."

I think about it for a second and then grin at her. "Was this the last class of the semester?"

I follow Jasmine to one of the small couches but don't sit down, since I'm technically still on the clock.

"Yes. It's like I can see the light at the end of the tunnel finally, you know? After this next fall semester, you'll be looking at Jasmine Sharma, PhD."

I grin down at her. "Damn right. It's about time, too. It feels like you've been in graduate school for ages."

"Tell me about it. Anyway, how are things with you? I haven't talked to you in the past few days. It's weird, but I almost kind of miss you. I'm sure that'll go away soon though," she deadpans, earning a pouty face from me. Not too many people know how to get me to laugh without it being painfully awkward or just plain stupid, and Jasmine is one of the rare ones. "You're not doing the thing where you lock yourself in your room for days at a time just to paint, right? And you're eating too, right?"

The sad part is she's not even being dramatic or exaggerating in the least, since I've been known to do all of the above.

The usual answer is right on the tip of my tongue, ready to come out without hesitation, but I stop. This week has been way different than any of the weeks before it. And though I told myself that I was going to keep Benji a secret for only me to remember, my need to tell my best friend everything in my life overtakes it. "So the weirdest thing happened, now that you mention it."

"Oh yeah? Why don't you finish up here and I'll wait for you to get off work? That way your weird boss over there in the corner stops eyeing me like I’m stealing from him or something."

I know if I turn and look over at Chase, he'll give me one of those disdainful looks. And since I'm not a fucking toddler, I don't appreciate it and would rather just avoid the whole thing altogether so I keep a straight face and nod at Jasmine, picking up my spray bottle and cloth and walking to the back where the storage room is.

* * *

J
asmine turns
down the radio in the car when we pull up to her place. Every time I come here, I'm always amazed by just how big the place is. Like so many other people our age, she is living at home while finishing her graduate degree, but luckily for Jasmine, she has her own guesthouse to come and go as she pleases. And it doesn't hurt that her Auntie is a well-known interior decorator to the stars around here.

"I'm in desperate need of a glass of wine. What do you think?" she asks.

"I'm right behind you, girl. Whatever you've got will work for me." I push my heavy bangs out of my face, surprised at how humid it is for an evening in January, but in L.A. you never know what to expect from the weather.

A
fter we get all settled
in her living room with a couple glasses of Chardonnay, I tilt my head back and look up at the ceiling. "Let me preface this by saying that I'm pretty sure you're not going to believe anything I'm about to say."

"Whoa-ho-ho. This has got to be about a guy.
Please
, Ramy, tell me this is about a guy," Jasmine squeals, her eyes going wide as she almost knocks over her glass.

I bite my lip because I didn't want to start thinking about him all over again, especially with how things turned out the last time I did. "All right. It's about a guy."

She sets her glass down on the table in front of us delicately before jumping up and doing some sort of goofy victory dance. "Oh my God, you met a guy. I want to know everything. All the things. And go."

I laugh. "Well, there's really not too much to tell. Unfortunately."

Jasmine doesn't let that stop her. "No excuses. Full story ASAP."

"I was painting a few nights ago, and Brie and Michael wanted to take me out."

At this, Jasmine rolls her beautiful almond-shaped brown eyes, already wearing the scowl that I knew would grace her pretty face. "Uh-huh. You can leave her out of this, if you don't mind." No one really knows why Jasmine and Brie don't get along that well, especially me, but I try to pretend that it doesn't matter. "Anyway . . . they managed to get me out of the house and we went to The Ruins. And of course I was not all about it, but I went along anyway for some reason. Right after I got my first drink, some idiot bumped right into me and knocked it all over my shirt, my white shirt. The one I like really well? Yeah, it's ruined now, so I had to throw it out, which sucks. Anyway, I was seriously about to tear this guy a new one but I looked up and I couldn't even breathe. It was so weird like . . . everything was just frozen, and all I could see was his face. He was strong, and that should've been the end of my interaction with the guy, but it wasn't. He started talking because he felt bad, so he bought me a drink, that kind of thing."

Jasmine is listening intently. "Should I pop a bag of popcorn for this? What did he look like?"

I smile to myself because I'm finally letting those small bits and pieces of what I saw Benji that night filter back in. "Blue eyes. Kind of tall, but not really that tall."

"Everyone's tall compared to you, babe. No offense."

"Shut up. So he wasn't super tall, but tall enough. He had a normal-looking head of hair I guess, Brown and sort of thick. I don't know what else to say. He was hot, you know? He has a really nice body though, I'll give him that. It definitely goes with his grin that I couldn’t get enough of . . ." Shit, now I've said too much.

My best friend raises a delicate eyebrow at me, leaning forward with her glass of Chardonnay perilously teetering in her hand. "You couldn't get enough of? Oh, this is getting
good
. Keep going," she says as she sips her wine. "I'm all ears."

I tell her about how our evening went, with the crazy shenanigans at the mini golf course and how we ended up in the back of some weirdo’s van. All the way up to the pier and what happened when we got to his hotel room. When I finish, I take a deep gulp of air, my throat tight from all the talking.

"I don't think I've ever heard you say that much in a span of fifteen minutes. And you said he's from out of town? So you're not going to see him anymore. Well, that fucking bites."

I nod, trying very hard not to actually let the words sink in. "That it does. But the whole thing was so crazy, so different from anything else I've ever done—"

Jasmine quickly nods her head too. "I still can't believe you popped in the van with someone you don't know. That's so
not
like you, Ramona. I mean not that I'm complaining, but it's just nuts. I'm kind of proud of you, babe." There's a softness in Jasmine's eyes, almost like she's hesitating to say something.

"What?"

She looks at me and looks down, pretending like she has no idea what I'm talking about. "What?"

"No. Don't do that what-what shit with me, Jas. If you have something to say, just get it out in the open." I'm steeling myself for whatever response she's about to give me.

Jasmine takes another sip of her drink before setting it back down, slumping against the back of the couch. "I don't know. Like I said, I'm just proud of you. You've . . . come a long way."

It hits me right between my eyes and down in the depths of my heart. Oh. That's what she's talking about.

"I'd like to think so. I mean nothing is good and maybe that's why I let myself experience it, you know? No need to worry about getting hurt or anything. I mean I really wish I would've been able to sleep with him, but I'm just happy for the crazy night I got to experience. Definitely outside my comfort zone."

I don't talk like this with anyone else, not my parents, not Brie, not Michael, no one. Only Jasmine shares my confidences and my trust. So when she leans over and wraps her arm around my shoulder, pulling me in for a hug, I just smile into her lightly perfumed hair.

"You didn't tell me what this guy's name is."

"Benji," I start, searching my memory of that night for his last name. "Benji Lundgren."

Realization slowly dawns across Jasmine's face, and she whips her head over as if she's looking for something on the other side of room before turning back to me. "And you said this guy plays football?"

I roll my eyes. "No, I said he plays soccer."

Jasmine rolls her eyes right back at me. "Soccer, football. Same thing to me. Is he like a big soccer star? Or was he still in college?"

“He mentioned something about a super draft, whatever that is. I think he graduated from college and now they're looking to draft him into the major leagues? I don't really know much about it."

Jasmine quickly leans forward and gasps. "Ramy, you know my dad's like a huge, huge football fan, right? He's been following the L.A. Universe for years now. He's met the whole team and has all these autographs across his office walls. I was just over there in the main house last night eating dinner with them, and he was talking to my uncle about the newest player for the Universe. I swear I heard him say the name Benji. You don't think . . . "

My heart squeezes. There's no way, it was just all a matter of bad timing and I had to just leave it at that. I wasn't about to put myself through any kind of turmoil that would lead to another broken heart. "Doubtful. I mean, what are the chances?"

Jasmine nods, but I can tell she doesn't believe me or even agree with me.

Even as we curl up beside each other and flip through old B-rated horror movies on Netflix, I can't help but wonder if maybe she's right and what exactly that might mean for me.

Chapter 11

B
enji

"
F
uck you
, dude. I totally made that shot."

Joshua banks the next one, and the little white ping-pong ball lands right in a cup. He lets out a whoop and thrusts his arms into the air. "Told you, motherfucker. Don't mess with the reigning beer pong champ and expect to win."

Reigning champion my ass. I roll my eyes, because what else can I do? I'm supposed to be worrying about nothing but getting ready for pre-season with my new team, yet here I am, losing at beer pong. "Oh whatever, I'm just off of my game. I’ll get you on the next round."

"Yeah, you're right, Lundgren. You're off your game. Better make sure to pick it up before you leave for L.A. next week," he says, giving me a pointed look. "It wouldn't have anything to do with a certain girl, would it?"

Shit. Like I'm going to admit to something like that. "No way, man. I don't stress over chicks like that. We just need a rematch." Whatever it takes to get this fool off my case.

Joshua takes a sip of a nearby red cup and turns it upside down, a single drop of beer dripping onto the floor. "And I need a better drink than this stale ass beer. Hold that thought."

He walks into our small apartment kitchen and I brace myself against the ping-pong table, trying to clear my head.

I haven't been letting any of these changes get to me. Not leaving my home behind, not being a legit adult all of the sudden, and not even being separated from friends like him. I've been able to keep it cool, not worrying about any of it. But when he brings her up, it just irritates something deep in my brain, pulling up all the cool-with-it roots and making me nervous.

I shake my head at myself, trying to beat the apprehension out. Who the hell am I? I need to get my shit together and quit messing around with these stupid thoughts.

“Hey man, you feel like going out tonight?” he calls out from the kitchen.

Ah. That might be the perfect answer to putting the brakes on all my issues.

* * *

I
think
L.A.'s spoiled me. Joshua springs for an Uber and we roll up to the only big dance club, and I realize what a difference there is between here and there. I don't want to seem like I've got my head up my ass or anything, but it's kind of sad that this place is the best we have here in Clemson.

"It's still hard to believe that after four years of playing on the same team, we're going to be on different ones."

I barely hear him over the music that's playing through the speakers right outside the front entrance. "Yeah . . . I guess that is kind of hard to believe. It'll be alright and everything though. I promise I'll go easy on you. At least the first game, anyway," I say, grinning over at Joshua.

"Damn man, always ruining the moment, huh? Yet again you keep talking that mess. We'll see how far you get when you're playing with the big boys out there."

I punch him lightly on the shoulder and glance around, mentally check-marking the differences between this club and The Ruins. There's no long line here, no one waiting to get inside. If you want in, all you have to do is flash them your ID and you go right in.

It hits me. This is really happening. Next week I'll be officially moving to California. Whoa . . . time to play with the big boys for real.

"Ready to kick it?" he says. "One more go for old time’s sake?"

"Hell yeah." we both say at the same time, fist bumping before handing the bouncer our IDs.

I
t only takes
a few minutes before we’re on the dance floor. While some guys out there look like sharks in the water, me and Joshua are more like the happiest damn dolphins you’ve ever seen. The girls come to us when they see us dancing and having fun—it never fails. And even though they’re flocking to us, something feels off. Dammit, and I thought my beer pong game was bad tonight. Not wanting to party with my best friend and all these hella sexy girls? This is even worse.

T
here's
a beautiful looking woman trying to catch my eye, giggling and playing with her long black hair while she dances and usually that's my thing, I love that. But for some reason it’s just not working for me tonight. I watch as Joshua gets pulled deeper into the crowd of people by the girl he's dancing with, and it’s like déjà vu. But why?

All these nerves bubbling in my stomach are stressing me out for sure, but all I can do is chalk it up to being nervous for the move and pre-season beginning. It's a big change, I'm allowed to be a little apprehensive if anything. That's
all
it is.

But the rest of the evening I can't focus, can't concentrate on just having a good time. And let me tell you, that is the absolute first time that's ever happened to me. When I party, I party hard, and tonight should not have been any exception.

It’s sad, but I'm actually relieved when Joshua gives me the nod. He’s got his arm around his girl for the night, and I’m just ready to go back to our apartment for one last stay in it. In the morning, Joshua will be the first to pack up his stuff and go, heading back on a flight to Illinois to get the rest of his things before flying out to Oregon next week. Maybe I'm just being a sentimental bitch, but I’m going to miss the motherfucker. Will I tell him? Probably not, but I know he knows. It’s just an unspoken thing.

My plans are pretty much the same — move the rest of my stuff out of the apartment and into my car. Then I'm driving my baby out to California over the next week, moving into my brand-new place right outside of L.A. I’m not a millionaire yet, and even though I have plenty of money coming to me, in L.A. it doesn't stretch as far. Guess I'll have to be the next Beckham after all. No sweat.

* * *

I
kick back
on my brand-new couch, exhausted for the second week in a row. And I thought Clemson pushed hard – they’re nothing compared to the SLA. All these practices, and the two pre-season games too . . . I've never been more ready for a nap in my entire life. It's a good thing though, it challenges me and makes me even better than I was before. That's how you play when you get to the big leagues, and watching the other guys play is pretty damn cool too. I know I’m the rookie this year and I've been ripped a few times already, but I'll get used to it, and I’ll earn my spot just like everyone else does. Probably quicker because I've seen them watch me play, and I know they've never seen someone as tricky or fast as I am on the field. What can I say? It's a
gift
.

I
pull
out my phone to check the time, almost laughing when I see how early it is. Coach likes to get us out practicing on the field first thing in the morning, reminding me of the runs way back in high school where we had to run around the school block five times before we could even begin playing. Except now it's on the professional soccer pitch, and I'm running with guys who've been doing this way longer than I have.

"Fuck, I need some coffee." I don't usually make it a habit of talking to myself but there's no one else here, so why not?

And when I open the cabinets and realize I'm all out of the fresh stuff? "Fuck, now I need to go out and get some coffee." The first obnoxious thing I’m buying when I have the money is a goddamn maid. She can come clean the house and make sure there’s always a fresh pot of coffee for me every morning. I’ve read about plenty of professional athletes who have maids, crazy car collections, giant ass libraries, indoor pools, and those kinds of things. I plan on outdoing them all when I make it big. Bigger, anyway.

I
'm tired
, but I know I want to be the best. Maybe if I practice running outside of practice and work on my endurance, I'll be better, stronger. Most definitely faster. In some weird sort of motivational push, I decide to throw my headphones back on and go for a coffee run, literally.

Luckily it's only the first week of March and it's not blazing out here in L.A. just yet. I know how super fucking hot it gets back in South Carolina, how the humidity makes it damn near disgusting to run outside, but this is nice. I gulp down some fresh air as I run, surprised to see that it doesn't take that long before I meet top speed, flying past people on their bikes and pedestrians walking by.

I have to grin when a car full of definite MILFs honk at me, whistling and waving. I give them a little wave back, stopping to check my pulse but really just showing off my muscles because come on, isn't that what they're looking for anyway?

I look at my time and realize I've already run three miles without paying much attention. Damn skippy. The farthest I've been out so far is to the gym and back, and I've just passed it on my right. I guess this is uncharted territory then. I slow my pace down, checking out the scenery around me.

I know there's a coffee shop around here somewhere, at least according to our goalie, Boyega. He's the one who lives closest to me since pretty much everyone else can afford to live closer to downtown L.A.

I smell it before I see it, the scent of fresh ground coffee beans pulling me in from around the corner even though I don't know where I'm going. The café has an old-time wooden sign hanging up outside of it, the name Doubleday Café painted in bold white letters. It's cute if you're into that kind of thing, with little tables and umbrellas that you can sit outside and drink your coffee under. From what I can tell so far from L.A., people are just way too busy to do any of that shit. They’re in and out with a quickness.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead, making sure I don't look like a complete mess, before heading inside. I pull my headphones off, glad to be out of the bright morning sun.

The coffee shop is not as small as it looks from the outside, surprising me by the amount of people already holed up inside. This must be one of those best-kept secret types of places. If I’m lucky, they’ll have a decent cup of coffee.

I stand behind the next two people in line, checking my phone while I wait. Nothing good going on my newsfeed, more chaos in the world that I would rather not read about. Scroll, scroll. Two more people I went to high school with knocked up. Boring. Scroll, scroll.

“Venti Chai latte, two shots of espresso. The name is Kevin.”

I cock my eyebrow up, not sure why everyone around here has been taught that it’s okay to speak like this to someone. Where I grew up, there are at least some sort of manners. Not everyone uses them, but Aunt Mel would always smack the shit out of us if we forgot. I make a mental note to be extra nice to whoever is at the counter.

“Keith?” the server asks. I snort because come on, of course she heard him right the first time.

“Kevin. My name is Kevin, K-E-V-I-N. Kevin.” He doesn’t seem too amused by her though.

“Right, Kevin. Got it. We’ll let you know once your order is ready,” the server replies, her voice dripping with faked enthusiasm.

Wait a second . . .

The guy huffs and stalks off, and I’m left standing at the front of the line, looking up and seeing
her
. Holy shit.

She looks just as shocked as I am but after just a split-second, she smooths over her face. “Hi, what would you like today?”

I’m confused, there’s no way in hell she doesn’t know who I am. “Cinnamon? I didn’t know you worked out here.” Good fucking job, Benji. You pure and total moron — why couldn’t you think of anything else to say?

But it probably doesn’t matter because she’s acting like she has no idea who I am. “I’ve always worked here,” she says pleasantly. It’s weird the way she gives me this look, like she wants to say more but can’t. Her voice has this weird syrupy sweetness that doesn’t match her at all. God, did she have to do this with everyone? “So what would you like to have?”

Well. She’s for real. “I, uh, just wanted to get a cup of coffee.”

“What size? And would you like anything in it? Sugar, creamer?”

I lean forward, completely aware that no one else is looking at us, even though I feel like I’m under some sort of spotlight. “Ramona. Are you going to at least say hi to me? How have you been?”

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