Sighing, I tip my head back, letting it rest against the cold cement wall as I scour my brain for a distraction. I mentally review my homework assignments for the day. It’s Monday afternoon, and though it’s only the first day of classes, I’ve already got a crap ton of homework. Mostly reading assignments, but they’re also the most time consuming.
If only textbooks came in audio.
Then they’d cost twice as much.
Still, I make a mental note to check into it. The last thing I want to do is replace my pleasure reading with schoolwork, but it’s already shaping up to be a challenging semester and I can’t afford to fall behind. Coach requires a 3.2 GPA or better from all of her athletes.
If I’m even at risk of getting a C, she’ll bench my ass in a heartbeat.
And she definitely won’t make me a captain.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message and I pull it out of my back pocket and unlock the screen.
Maddie: Let me know what Coach says as soon as you talk to her! *fingers crossed emoji*
I hastily type a reply and then delete it, unsure what to say. Maddie’s the only one who knows I’m meeting with Coach, and I want to keep it that way, so I type a new message, downplaying my nerves.
Me: Will do, but don’t get too excited. It might be nothing.
Her reply is swift and full of confidence.
Maddie: It’s definitely something. I’ve got a feeling.
Oh, boy. Maddie’s “feelings” are notoriously unpredictable. Which means I could be the new team captain or I could get saddled with a freshman mentee.
Or worse, embarrassing choreography.
The office door opens and Coach Miller peers out at me. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her angular features on full display. “Come on in, Sutton.”
She’s got her meet face on, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing because the woman is impossible to read.
I lock my phone and slip it into my pocket as I follow her into the office, nerves taut.
Coach gestures for me to take a seat opposite her desk and when she steps aside, I realize we’re not alone. One chair is already occupied.
My stomach drops.
Mierda.
No good ever came from a surprise meeting.
The word you’re looking for is ambush.
I silence the snarky voice in my head. This isn’t the time to get tangled up in my thoughts.
Besides, it’s probably nothing.
I exhale and take the seat beside Coach’s guest. He’s Black, mid-forties with short salt-and-pepper hair, and, like Coach Miller, he’s wearing a Wildcat polo.
Maybe he’s a new trainer or something?
“Miss Cruz, I’d like you to meet Vincent Sharpe, the Spirit Squad Head Coach.”
“Spirit Squad?” I echo, losing the thread of the conversation before it even gets started.
Coach Sharpe smiles. “Cheerleading.”
What the hell does that have to do with me? I’ve seen those girls tumble. They don’t need my help.
