“Hi, Grace Turner. I'm Logan Rice. Nice to meet the new intern. Congrats. I've heard it's hard as hell to get picked for it.” His voice was gentle and reassuring.
I couldn't help but smile at him.
“Thank you. I hate to brag, but I worked hard to get it. Spent last year shadowing the volleyball AT and did clinical hours at the rehab center. Hence, why I'm in this dress hauling water coolers onto the field. You’re the defense coordinator, right? Started two years ago and could be credited for having one of the best defenses in the Midwest?”
“I like a woman who knows her stuff.” He winked. Aw hell. It was such an old-fashioned thing, but damn. “But yes, that’s me.”
“You're so young, though.” Hello, word vomit. “When I picture defense coordinators, I picture a bunch of old guys with beer bellies. You surprised me. That's all. Good for you.” I hope that saved me from more embarrassment. I’d had enough for the day, thank you very much. But, karma enjoyed messing with me.
He grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “You aren't entirely wrong. I am young, but, to quote you, I worked my ass off to get here.”
“Good for you,” I said again, awkwardly repeating myself. We shared a smile. I glanced at the players on the field working on kicks and plays. The combination of the sounds, smells, teamwork from every staff member flowed so smoothly. The sense of belonging helped fuel the void of not having a family left. This already feltlike home. “How long have you been working with the team?”
“Oh, a couple years. I played in college and didn't want to go through the draft. Loved the sport and knew the coach. Voila.” He held out his hands in a gesture I used often.
I laughed, my shoulders finally relaxing. “Well, I'm glad to find a friendly face here. I'm going to have my work cut out for me.”I sighed, looking around the field and found Asshole Anderson glaring, and I mean,glaringat me. His piercing stare hit me, hard. I forced myself not to flinch.
Logan followed my gaze and let out a slow whistle. “So you’re paired up with Anderson? How’s that going?”
“Yup.” I popped the ‘p’ at the end of the word.
He grimaced for a second. Thenhe ran a hand through his hair, scrunching up his face. “Damn.” He shook his head, this time smiling. “He's one of the best, but he's a real dick.”
I burst out laughing. “I'm not sureif this is a test or not. If I agree with you, you might tell him and I'd be fired. If I defend him, I look like a brownnoser. So, I'll choose this moment to make my exit. Nice meeting you, Logan.”
“You too, Grace Turner.” He winked at me again.
I bid farewell andfound Asshole Anderson walking my way. I tried to hide my wince. I refused to show him weakness. But damn, I needed ice. I began to ask him what else he wanted meto do, but he interrupted me. Rudely, crassly, and I wanted to punch him.
His jaw tensed as his hooded eyes narrowed into slits, his rough voice hardly more than a growl. “You can go now.”
That was all he said. No good job, or nice work. No critiques or directions for the next time to show up. He spun and walked away without a backward glance.
Screw that.
I strode after him, ignoring the awful sour feeling in my gut.
“Mr. Anderson?” I yelled.
He halted.
I walked over to him, fists clenched. Should I call him Mr. Anderson? Brock? I had no freaking clue. “I did everything you asked without complaint. When do I show up next?”
He whipped around, his teeth clenched for reasons beyond me. “Tomorrow.”
“Seven?” Excitement and dread poured through me. I would get great experience starting early, but I knew without a doubt, this was going to be hell.
He nodded, looking at me with disdain. “Wear more appropriate clothing tomorrow, and don't be late.”
I nodded, not willing to feel guilty about my outfit. He was a mean, unhappy man. Screw him—I was here for football and a potential career.
I checked my Fitbit app on my phone as I limped to my car. I walked over seven miles that morning. I groaned into my fist as I hobbled out the main gate.
Gilly called and I immediately called her back, telling her everything. She gasped, moaned, and cursed at all the right parts. She demanded we go pick out new clothing. Of course, I gave in. I had no choice. The extra money I made waitressing was going to go toward a new wardrobe, and although the job was a dream, I wasn’t wild about my new uniform. There was no cool way to wear polos.
Gilly assured me a push-up bra and tight pants would help, but I shooed her. I chose athletic yoga pants, reasonable khaki shorts, and five school football tees, polos, and tank tops. I was set clothing wise. Emotionally? I was a few tacos and margaritas short of a fiesta.
“I can't wait to see you kick ass,” Gilly said over wine later that night.“You earned this chance, and you’ll prove him wrong. I know it.”
