Lady Balls Page 8

  She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and met every pair of eyes in the room like she used to do on the soccer pitch with the opposing team. Even the one woman she’d not expected. Why the new national team coach was here, Kayla couldn’t imagine, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Baxter was trying to show off, to prove to her what he could do. And while part of her was doing a happy dance at the sight of her old coach, and this new wrinkle of Katrina Dawson, another part of her was steaming mad at what J.D. was doing.

  “Makayla, so nice to see you again,” LeeAnn said, her soft accent soothing Kayla’s nerves ever so slightly.

  Her face got even hotter as she attempted a weak smile. But LeeAnn’s face was kind so she clung to that, if for no other reason than she couldn’t bring herself to even glance at J.D. again. Rick and Katrina rose and held out their hands.

  “I’m sure you remember Rick Gardner. He was your coach for a while, right?”

  “Yes, for about ten seconds.”

  “And wasn’t Katrina an assistant on the national team that year you—?”

  Lost my boyfriend after I woke up from some kind of a nightmare thanks to a badly planted foot?

  “Broke my leg? Yes, she was. Hello.” She shook both sets of hands and tried not to appear as desperate as she felt. The other women were introduced to her as production assistants, both of them former soccer players in college, and one who’d managed a few seasons in one of the previous iterations of a women’s soccer league.

  Kayla became hyper aware of her body, and not in a good way. It didn’t help that J.D. was staring at her as if she were a dish of Crème Brule at the end of a steak dinner. She tried to tug the short jacket down over her hips, which suddenly seemed massive. Her thighs rubbed together under the too-tight skirt. Her boobs, unrestrained by her usual tight sports bra but instead highlighted, pushed up to fill the blouse, were disgusting and overblown.

  She was as far out of shape as she’d been since the minute she’d put on her first pair of cleats, that much was true. Despite her occasional runs around Detroit, she’d spent too many years of her life sweating, pushing, cursing her way through lifts, beep tests, sprints, and long, punishing runs post shitty practices to know when she was way out of shape.

  A drop of sweat formed on her temple. She brushed it away with a trembling hand.

  These people were here to showcase her, to shove her and her crappy story in front of a camera for their benefit, not hers. She took one small step backward, determined to escape.

  “And of course, you know J.D.,” LeeAnn said, her voice neutral.

  He rose, his smile bright, his hand extended.

  “Yes, we know each other,” she said, her voice doing that embarrassing crackly thing it had done earlier in the elevator. She slid her palm next to his.

  He enfolded it a few seconds, then released her. Nothing more or less.

  And there’s your answer, Kayla. Now get the fuck over yourself and agree to their TV show so you don’t ever have to sling beer in that slutty uniform again. J.D. has officially collected you and now he can officially ignore you. Just like you knew he would.

  As if reading her mind, J.D. buttoned his suit coat and bade his farewells, saying something about “another meeting to make” and “leaving this in LeeAnn’s capable hands.” He brushed her shoulder on the way past her, but that was the extent of it.

  Kayla sat before she fell down and looked across the table at the strange mix of people. “Okay, I’m here. Now what?”

  The group chuckled. LeeAnn’s lips twisted as if she wanted to smile but wasn’t willing to show it. One of the other women passed around folders. Kayla opened hers and saw the words “production schedule” printed at the top and her name listed as the “focus feature” for the already in-progress documentary called Lady Balls.

  “Seriously? That’s what you’re calling it?”

  “Yes. It did great in our online and in-person focus groups,” one of the women chimed in.

  “Okay. It’s your program, I guess.”

  “Indeed,” LeeAnn said. “Now if you would all please check the schedule and add it to your respective calendars, I think we can count on wrapping this up in a couple of weeks.”

  “That’s all?” She thumbed through the rest of the documents. They included a non-disclosure contract and some other legal stuff. When she got to a stapled together separate set of papers, she saw that Lady Balls was to be a treatise on the state of women’s pro sports, using soccer as its focus and her as the focus of that. Her history would be revealed—mostly uneventful growing up years with high school teachers for parents, her entire life consumed with soccer from an early age. Her parents, and all three of her brothers had signed on to be interviewed, as well as her high school, club, and college coaches.

  She glanced at LeeAnn. “Gee, you guys made a lot of assumptions about me doing this, didn’t you? I mean, how long has this been planned anyway?”

  “Over a year. But we couldn’t decide on the focus feature. J.D. suggested you.” LeeAnn’s eyes narrowed. One of the assistants handed her a computer tablet. She scrolled around a few seconds. “He emailed me three weeks ago with the suggestion. It was the only reason I left my broadcasting job in Atlanta, if you must know. My staff’s been working in overdrive ever since to meet with your family members and coaches. He requested that your family not tell you about it—that he’d be the one to ask you if you’d be willing to participate.”

  Kayla’s spine stiffened. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know why he’d floated into her orbit that night at The Grange. She had no business getting sniffy about it now. It was just… She glanced at the closed door where he’d exited, still amazed that it had only been six days since that wild, crazy, perfect, night. Syrup and all.

  “Of course, you’ll have a job here once we’re done shooting,” LeeAnn said. She handed Kayla another DSN labeled folder. “The terms of your employment, including salary, are in here. There are some forms to sign and hand in to HR. I suggest you do that first and get it out of the way. We have a lot to get done and not much time to do it.

  “Um … what?” Kayla said, as her vision narrowed to a pinprick and ears rang so loud she had to shake her head.

  Hired? A salary? Forms?

  What the ever-loving hell had J.D. gone and done?

  “Your skin tone truly is gorgeous,” someone said, distracting from the way LeeAnn had, apparently, just … hired her.

  Kayla turned and saw a man in his mid-forties or so behind her dressed in jeans and some kind of a safari vest, carrying a camera. He put it to his eyes and started snapping photos of her. “And I love that you’ve left your hair natural. Damn, the camera is gonna worship you. Well chosen, LeeAnn.”

  LeeAnn rose. Her minions followed suit. “We have a lot to do to get these segments shot and edited into the main film. I suggest we get started.”

  “Um … so wait. I’m a little confused.” But no one acknowledged her confusion, or anything else about her as they began filing out of the room.

  One of the flunkies handed LeeAnn the tablet again. She stared down at it, then over at Kayla. “It’s on your schedule, but you need to spend some time in wardrobe and makeup. We’re headed over to the new soccer stadium to shoot some B-roll before you get there.”

  The camera guy followed the group out, leaving Kayla alone with the two coaches who’d sent her home from her one shot at glory after the nasty leg fracture. She smiled at them. “So, do either of you know where I might find makeup and wardrobe?”

  “No, but I’ll bet someone around her does. Kayla, it’s so good to see you again. I hope we can open some eyes to what’s going on with women’s sports with this documentary. I’m glad you’re a part of it,” Katrina said. A smooth and politically correct answer. One that ramped up her long-buried hopes at a revival of her career. Sweat formed under her boobs. She made a mental vow to get her ass out for a run every day, hell, twice a day if she could work it in around the shooting sched
ule she’d just been given.

  “Yeah, well, it’s my sorry story that’ll tie it all together, huh?” She got up and tucked the folder under her arm.

  “Kayla, if you don’t mind, I’m going to come with you to your wardrobe check,” Rick said. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  “Oh, sure. Let’s figure out where it is first.”

  She turned and almost fell right over Matilde. “Jesus, you’re like, a Ninja or something.”

  “I’ll take you down to makeup and wardrobe,” the woman said. “And you can return your tax forms and stuff to me too. I’ll take care of it for you.” She smiled.

  Kayla tried to do the same when the new reality of her life smacked her in the face again.

  Hired. She had … a job. After this documentary thing. Doing what, of course, she had no idea.

  God damn J.D. Playing Mr. Fix It Man for her life now.

  She took a long breath and settled her face into non-shocked-to-her-core lines. “Good. Since I have no earthly idea where that is. Lead on.” She smiled, but her heart weighed heavy at her realization that the whole thing with J.D. had been precisely what she’d been afraid it was—a set up. He’d come to The Grange on purpose to find her and to rope her into this. Fucking her senseless and even going full nice guy on her at the diner was part of it all. Hence his casual dismissal of her presence today.

  Okay. Fine. Two can play at that game.

  It was about to net her some real cash. She took another peek at the compensation sheet in the second folder and was forced to quell the compulsion to jump into the air and click last year’s designer heels together like a leprechaun. Even though once she was done with this documentary her title would only be “production assistant for Ms. Thompson,” she’d be pulling down more money than her parents had made teaching high school. She allowed herself a tiny fist pump as she followed Matilde and the Detroit soccer coach around a corner toward the elevators.

  Until she realized that such a ridiculous amount of money was exactly that—ridiculous.

  Not only had J.D. Baxter collected her, he was going to pay her an outrageous sum of money disguised as “salary.” She was about to let herself be bought, filed away, likely to ease his conscience. She paused.

  Matilde and the coach turned to see what was keeping her.

  She took a deep breath, swallowed her pride, and caught up with them.

  “So, Kayla, I’m wondering if you’d like to rejoin the team.”

  She blinked and almost folded her ankle at the question the coach had lobbed at her out of the blue.

  “Um … I’m not … I mean…” Holy shit. This was happening right now? Her dream was about to be revived, right here in the hallowed halls of her never-to-be-boyfriend’s TV broadcasting company.

  “You’ll have to get back in shape, but if you’re willing to give it a shot, we’ll have you try out,” the coach continued.

  “Why me?” she asked, as she joined him and Matilde in the elevator. “Wait, did J.D. put you up to this?” She was within five seconds of tracking him down and stabbing him with something rusty if he had.

  “Of course he didn’t. You’re one of the best defenders to come out of college. You know that. Don’t be modest. You’re about to be featured in a major documentary from the hottest sports network on the block. That didn’t happen by accident.”

  She stared at him. When she felt a small poke in her side, she glanced at Matilde. The woman made a motion with her finger and chin, indicating Kayla should close her gaping mouth. She nodded, grateful for the reminder, then turned to face the coach again.

  “Hell yes, I want to.” She flushed hot at his wry grin. “I mean. Yes. Thank you for the offer.” She was trembling, all thoughts of J.D. and his purchase of her distance from him forgotten.

  She was going to play soccer again.

  On a legit pro team. With other pro players.

  Holy shit. She was going to faint. She sensed Matilde’s slight form propping her up on her other side and her own ridiculous, wide, goofy grin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Let’s go out and celebrate!”

  Kayla opened one eye when Marlo burst into their apartment. “I’m too damn sore for that.” She got up and limped to the kitchen for more pain killers.

  “What in the world happened to you?”

  “I’ve endured four straight hours of letting these people film me doing random soccer shit, up to and including running a scrimmage against some other chicks and a few members of the Detroit men’s team. Jesus, please-us I was so not ready for that. There’s not a part of me that doesn’t hurt right now.”

  “Huh. Yeah, you’re not exactly soccer-fit these days.”

  “Ya think?” She downed a huge glass of water then propped her hands on the counter and attempted to work out the kink in her lower back. “But since I get to try out for the team I don’t care. Even after my poor-ass showing today.”

  “Here, drink this.” Marlo shoved a glass of freezer-cold vodka into Kayla’s hands. “Cheers to me. I got a promotion today.”

  Kayla stared down into her glass a few seconds, then clinked and sipped. She wasn’t surprised Marlo had gotten promoted after two weeks. She was aces at social media. She wasn’t about to burst her friend’s bubble. She had the right experience for that job after all. Not like herself and her trumped-up “production assistant” make-work-bullshit-whatever job.

  “Are you going to try out?”

  “Hell to the yes. I mean, after I spend the next eight weeks getting my ass back into soccer condition, that is.” She slopped another helping of the vodka into her glass and downed it. “This is the last booze I’m drinking for a while. So cheers to me too.”

  “I thought you’d be working at DSN after you were done with production on the documentary.”

  “Please. It’s silly what he’s offering to pay for me to just … be in the same building as he is, or whatever. I have other plans.”

  Marlo gaped at her. “You … you’re not going to take his job?”

  “No. I’m not going to take his damn job, Marlo. Jesus. Way to support the sisterhood.”

  “But I wanted us to be able to go to work together, eat lunch in the cafeteria and gossip about all the bitches. You know.”

  Kayla shook her head. She’d decided that once the documentary wrapped, she’d make the pro team, take the fifty-five-grand salary plus medical and make that work. At least she’d be living on her own terms that way. The hard reality was that J. D. had only walked into her shitty bar for one reason that night. That he had his own agenda and one that didn’t involve her beyond a sticky, one-nighter.

  “I don’t get you sometimes,” Marlo said, finishing off her vodka and filling both their glasses with water. “But I’ll work out with you, if you want me to.”

  “Well, duh. Did you think I was gonna do all this on my own? Hardly.” She bumped Marlo’s shoulder.

  Marlo bumped her back.

  “Handily enough, there’s a workout floor in the DSN building we get access to.”

  “Well, you should at least use what perks you can while you have them.”

  “Whatever. I’m gonna soak in the tub, then do about a million sit-ups. Be ready.”

  “I’m always ready to smoke your ass with ab work.”

  Kayla smiled at her friend, thankful she’d come in when she had and distracted her since, despite her inner resolve to stay away as far away from J.D. as possible, it took more willpower than she wanted to admit to not text him to fill him in on how the documentary was going. Forcing herself to recall the way he’d dismissed her in that first meeting, how blank and even smug his expression had been, she set her jaw and shoved him out of her head.

  ****

  Every morning, she reported for whatever was required of her, per LeeAnn’s production schedule. Every day she was either run ragged doing “soccer stuff” for the camera or had her emotions scraped out of her chest and dumped onto the table in front
of her over the turn her life had taken. LeeAnn was the interviewer and she made Kayla cry every damn time they talked in front of the camera.

  “I’m coming across a stereotypical female,” she said after the day’s session—their last, thank the Lord. “I’m not sure it’s the image you want for your doc.”

  “You’re coming across as a human being,” LeeAnn insisted. “One who worked just as hard as any man in his sport, harder than some, and who had too few opportunities to do anything with it after college.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She was sick of the whole concept now and hoped that the documentary wouldn’t get laughed off the airwaves, with its Olympic-style back-story teary-eyed coverage of her. J.D. hadn’t shown his face at all, which suited Kayla fine. She had his number now. Seeing him would only make her want to shove him out one of the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows. Cocky playboy bastard. She couldn’t wait for the moment she could tell him to take his internship and shove it up his ass—his hot, tight, sexy ass.

  Shut up already, she commanded her libido when she overheated from head to toe yet again at the thought of Mr. Man and his ass. Every day after the shooting, recording, and editing wrapped for the day, she headed straight for the gym which took up the entirety of the tenth floor of the building. It had everything, up to and including personal trainers, a basketball floor, a saltwater lap pool, a hot yoga space, and a huge spinning class room. Kayla preferred to work out alone, but she’d made a few of the spinning classes to humor Marlo and had discovered she liked them.

  When she wasn’t selling her soul to the cycle, she was lifting, crunching, or running in single-minded determination to get herself back into game shape. Three nights a week, she spent hours at a nearby school’s soccer field, aiming balls and kicking her ever-loving heart out until she could barely breathe or stand out of sheer exhaustion.